Chapter Text
III - find
It felt grossly familiar.
Like the old days—the days Dazai smelled of death.
Today, he smelled of whisky. Whisky and depression.
Despite the pushback and fully-justified protests, when push came to shove Chūya seemed to have no problem carrying the semi-conscious detective towards his home in his arms.
“I knew this would happen. Not like he could walk on his own anyways…” he grumbled at Yosano’s slight expression.
Truthfully, the walk wasn’t long, no more than 15 minutes in the chilled winter air.
Dazai shivered in Chūya’s arms, the only one of the group who was cold. In an unintentional gesture, Chūya pulled the younger closer to him, allowing a frigid Dazai to snuggle deeper in the warmth of wool peacoat and soft scarf.
They walked.
“This is going to be weird.”
Yosano’s remark was light, casual.
“Why.”
Chūya’s was bitter, annoyed.
“The agency doctor bringing ex-mafia to the home of current mafia? Of an executive, no less.” She shook her head, a sly smile, “No matter how you put it, it doesn’t sound good.”
He grunted.
“Thought you said those agency colleagues of yours were good and shit? Doesn’t that mean they trust you?”
She contemplated.
“Yeah, they do.”
They walked.
“If anything, they’d be more concerned for my well-being than of me spilling secret intel or anything like that. I can’t expect anyone under Mori’s control to understand what that’s like.” The latter half of her sentence was unexpectedly hostile, as if the more she spoke, the more she thought, the more her anger grew.
“Yeah, yeah, let’s save the fighting for when I’m not carrying a bag of bones and bandages.”
Arriving to the penthouse of one of the mafia’s most feared executives was tragically unceremonious. Though the building lay on mafia territory, it was tucked away in a somewhat private location. Chūya liked it as such.
A marble entryway, attendants in formal garb, and a glass elevator. The building was lavish.
Compared to Yosano’s quaint agency dorm, it felt like a mansion.
In the elevator, Dazai stirred, regaining strength and squirming uncomfortably in strong arms.
“Hey, would you stop that!” Chūya yelled, “At least wait until we’re out of the fucking elevator.”
“I can walk~” Dazai trilled, annoying higher-pitched tone back with a vengeance.
Feigning irritation, Chūya masked relief.
“FINE! Stand then.”
A thud, then, a shaky, pitiful attempt to stand, bearing an uncanny semblance to Bambi’s first time walking. The detective staggered, leaning heavily on the glass walls to maintain balance.
“Ew, you’re seriously getting fingerprints all over my elevator? Can you not?”
Yosano smirked as the bell rang, signifying they reached the top floor.
“Hatrack is so loud. Your neighbors must really hate you.”
They arrived in front of a massive mahogany door, one of great familiarity to Dazai, as was foreign to Yosano.
Entering Chūya’s apartment stirred feelings of perplexity within her.
She expected discomfort, the feeling of being out-of-place, guilt, or disgust at the thought of seeing lodging surmised of blood money.
She felt none of those things.
Instead, she was met with warmth in an unpredictably welcome atmosphere. Excessive and opulent, but lived in. Inviting.
On one end of the decadent kitchen lay an exuberant wine rack, filled with at least 10 illustrious bottles, all of which she assumed totaled more than a month of her meager agency salary.
Things were organized neatly, but not to a point of perfection, though it could have been if only a few more minutes spent tidying.
She wondered if he cleaned when he was under stress.
She wondered what Dazai’s apartment would look like with more than a single book and some clothes.
She wondered what her own apartment would look like, had she stayed.
As if she could have survived that long with him looming over her.
She shuddered, sights and thoughts and imaginary voices mimicking his chiding disposition burned the frays of her tethered insides.
The sound of arguing was a welcome distraction.
“TAKE OFF YOUR SHOES FIRST SHITTY-DAZAI!”
“Oh désolé ma petite mafioso, I can’t exactly bend down without toppling over, so manners aren’t at the front of my mind. My sincerest apologies.”
“You’re such a brat! I carried you ALL THE WAY here—”
“And you could have just left me there. Like I wanted.”
His tone slid between joking and serious, like a child’s restless over-exhaustion.
“MAYBE I SHOULD HAVE—
“Enough boys!”
An unamused, reluctant silent spread.
“Food. Now.”
Her voice reigned with command, a tone no normal person would challenge.
“No thanks.”
Dazai, was not a normal person.
“Too fucking bad. You lost that right after your friends had to clean up your vomit and haul your ass across town.”
The detective moved to protest, but was silenced by the sound of a plate being slammed down in front of him.
“Enjoy, extra shit that comes with bandages.” Dazai glared. He felt cornered, gained up on.
The food before him was nothing special.
More plain rice, more canned crab.
Canned crab.
His safe food.
Chūya remembered his safe food.
Though his face remained numb, his heart smiled the teeniest amount.
He picked up the chopsticks, hesitating.
It was an unspoken knowing, how hard this was for him.
That sometimes, he would get like this.
That sometimes, food was hard.
Sometimes, he couldn’t.
Sometimes, it hurt.
And it was hard.
So hard.
Even if he wanted to, he would just stare at the food and think.
He would think and think, calories and nutritional facts, what he had before what he would have later what people would think what they would think what he would think
what he would think
what he would look like if
if he
if he ate it
and he would stare at this stupid piece of mango
or bread
or anything
for minutes at a time.
Minutes that felt like hours.
What was the difference?
It felt the same, to go minutes without food, to go hours without it.
It felt exactly the same to him.
But in front of him now, wasn’t a mango or slice of bread. It was rice, and canned crab.
Canned crab was safe.
It didn’t matter what the hell was in it, he was always allowed it.
Well, almost.
But mostly always.
“So, doc, tell me about your stupid agency job?”
A distraction. Dazai recognized it right away.
Yosano did too.
Chūya knew they both knew.
He knew they both knew, that Dazai knew he knew both knew and felt that he should be embarrassed but also felt touched and suddenly better.
The pressure was removed and it became slightly easier to breathe. No watching eyes.
No red-violet gaze. Glare. Suffocation.
Just, bickering colloquialisms.
“Like I’m gonna tell an executive of all people the kind of shit I do for my job. You do realize I can kill you as many times as I want, right?” The smirk she wore was undeniably fitting.
It made Dazai feel better. Lost, but a little better.
“Like you could even if you tried!”
Dazai took a bite.
“Oh I could totally kick your ass carrottop. You better not let your guard down.”
“You agency brats are so cocky. What do they put in your tap water? Arrogance?”
Dazai took another bite.
“Better than that shit they must put in the mafia waters. Lethal doses of apathy and murderous intent.”
Chūya’s mouth dropped open at her comment, though he quickly worked to resume composure.
“Woah, woah, woah. I resent that! What kind of apathetic person carries their drunk-ass enemy, clothes them, feeds them, helps—”
“Chibi hasn’t clothed me?”
The voice was small, speaking up for the first time since the food was placed in front of him.
Two bites wasn’t much, but progress was progress and Yosano would take she could get.
“Considering how badly you were shivering outside, I’m not sending you home without a scarf or something,” though Chūya’s nose was upturned in disgust, his heart vibrated like a hearth, “you may want to freeze to death, but I’m not about to cure your stupid hypothermia.”
“I mean, you wouldn’t do much ‘curing’ that’s sort of my job,” Yosano shrugged. As Chūya turned to face her, Dazai took another two bites.
Everything about Chūya surprised her. Enticing.
His movements were abrupt and aggressive, until his arms were full of friend in need.
His voice was harsh, until his words were better-served in comfort than threat.
His actions were cruel, until they weren’t.
She smiled.
Dazai took another bite.
He wasn’t about to admit it, but he was hungry.
He’d been hungry for the past 3 days.
“But,” she continued, giving in with a slight smile, “you make a fair point. I take it back, not everyone at the mafia has apathy-infused water. Yours is filtered.”
Chūya nodded in agreement, “I’ll take it.”
Yosano chuckled to herself.
“It’s hard to believe someone else under his care could make it out so…” she carefully considered, “kind.”
“What do you mean? Under whose care?”
Yosano popped her cheek with her tongue, taking a short breath, “Mori’s care.”
“Oh. I mean, I’m only sorta under him. He’s just my boss. Ane-san raised me.” Yosano wrinkled her brow.
“I see. Sorry, I just assumed…” she wore a look of forlorn, “you, Dazai, and I—I don’t know. We just, it feels…” she trailed off, looking realms away, “nevermind. It’s stupid.”
A hand gently touched her shoulder, so gently, she expected it a child’s.
Not a Port Mafia executive’s.
“It’s not stupid. What were you gonna say?”
She sighed, closing her eyes and continuing.
“I feel like we have something in common? Something ingrained, harvested within us by that monster.”
Pulling back, Chūya looked between Dazai, who was slowly working through the crab, and Yosano, whose eyes shook with each second of contact.
“You were part of the mafia?” Confusion seeped.
“Uh, no. Not exactly,” she scratched her head, cheeks pink and gaze suddenly averted, “he uh, back when he was in the military. During the Great War. He learned of my ability and ‘hired’ me.” She released a tense exhale, “I was 11.”
Chūya thought of 11-year-old Yosano.
The childlike Elise.
A 14-year-old Dazai.
It made him sick.
“Shit.”
His voice was low. She nodded.
He knew the implications that came with being raised by Mori.
Dazai remained quiet, pushing the rest of his food around with his chopsticks.
“Were you… were you there long?”
She shook her head, solemnity gracing her tone, “No. A year or so. But when you’re just a kid, in the midst of this neverending war, feels like a lifetime.”
Chūya nodded. It held weight.
He knew all too well what that looked like.
Felt like.
Tasked with saving your friends and found-family, knowing no matter how hard you try, they wouldn’t make it.
Watching everyone die.
Everyone you love.
Just a kid with too much on your shoulders.
That’s what they all were.
“You’ve been with the mafia since you were a teenager, right?”
Kids with too much on their shoulders.
“Yeah. 15. Some brat in bandages cornered me into it.”
“Silly chibi, you were the one who chose to stay~”
Though he fought to keep it down, the crab seemed to perk him up.
Relief slowly permeated the atmosphere, followed steadfast with this sense of knowing the doctor mentioned moments before.
It wasn’t the same atmosphere as a place like the agency, or even the mafia for that matter.
It was different.
Mutual territory, understanding in a way empathy alone couldn’t quite reach.
“Please—I only chose to stay because I had nowhere to go! No thanks to you.”
A laugh, gentle, harsh, uncomfortable, Dazai’s gaze averted.
“The Sheep would have stabbed you in the back the minute you made your own decision, even if it wasn’t for the mafia. Not my fault everyone’s so easy to manipulate~”
“Cruel bastard.” Chūya emphasized the last word of his insult, punching Dazai’s arm not-so-playfully.
The longer she spent time with them, the more confused she grew.
Their dynamic—
It was—
“Besides, you had Ane-san! She’s basically the Cool Mom of the mafia so stop complaining short-stuff.”
Unusual.
“Stupid fucking waste of bandages…”
Very unusual.
“What was it like, living with Koyou-san?”
She was struck with sudden intensifying curiosity.
She never actually knew Koyou back then, having worked with Mori before he officially took over in the Port Mafia.
But she wondered.
Not frequently, but enough.
Would her life be any different, had she a woman to lead her? A mother to come to when the man with red eyes put his hands on, around, in.
Someone to tell her everything would be okay, to tell her he’s wrong, to stop him when a tiny 11-year-old body couldn’t.
“Hm. From what I’ve gathered, leagues different than being stuck with Mori. I never really had a mother but, if I had to imagine what having one would be like, I’d imagine Ane-san.” Chūya’s response was honest, which she appreciated.
Does Dazai ever think about these things?
“That sounds nice.”
Does Dazai envy Chūya?
“Yeah, it was. It is. She’s still there for me. I guess she’s one of the reasons I stuck around so long.”
“I wish I had someone like her,” Yosano voiced her inner thoughts, shivering at the truth behind them, “Mori had no interest in kindness.”
“Ha, what an understatement~” Dazai laughed humorlessly. His face had regained some of its color and though he still shook, the tremors weren’t nearly as noticeable as before. “Mori’s a strategist, first and foremost. More than he’s a doctor, more than he’s a mafia boss, he’s a war strategist. Each move he makes is dictated by logic. There isn’t a single thing this man does that hasn’t first been thought through.”
“Yeah, sure, but he still acts rash. Makes decisions he shouldn’t, right?” Chūya’s question startled Yosano. It didn’t quite make sense to her, why he felt the need to prove Mori’s irrationality when he himself clearly admired the leader.
Unless…
“Everything he does is part of a plan. Every fucking thing, good or bad. Moral or immoral. Emotions occasionally dictate his options, but for the most part?”
A dark glint overtook Dazai’s suddenly hollowed eyes.
Chūya wasn’t expecting to see this side of his ex-partner.
“Everything is a calculated, conscious decision.”
The shell of Port Mafia’s Demon Prodigy.
Blood boiled as Chūya felt fury sneak up into is chest. It’s not that he wanted to defend Mori per se, but he wanted to understand how such a good leader could hurt people—children—like Yosano and Dazai without remorse. Without some mental instability. Without being sick.
Because being sick wasn’t an excuse, but a reason. A context.
And he could live with that.
Right?
“I get it, but he did some fucked up shit. You can’t tell me the shit he put you through wasn’t the product of some sick fantasy. Yeah, he’s incredibly intelligent and cares about supporting the Mafia, but how the fuck—”
Dazai shot daggers Chūya’s way, the conversation approaching lethal territory.
He spoke over Chūya in an attempt to redirect.
“Nothing that bad happened to me—”
Chūya continued speaking, as if the interruption never occurred.
“the fuck was what he did to you, in service of the mafia—”
“Chūya. Shut the fuck up about things you don’t understand.”
Dazai snapped. His tone an eerie calm, the one Chūya recognized, the one he loathed.
The one that meant you wouldn’t make it out alive, no matter how hard you begged. No matter how much you divulged.
But Chūya wasn’t interested in entertaining delusions today.
“Actually, I do understand. I saw the way he treated you—how he still treats you! The things he did, God you were a fucking child—”
“I was an executive.”
“That doesn’t mean anything! Not when you’re 15 and throwing yourself off every bridge you see.”
Pale bandaged fingers flexed. He clenched a fist. Unclenched. Clenched again.
“What does being suicidal have to do with any of this?” The reply through grit teeth was strained.
“I don’t know, just maybe if you were raised by someone other than a pedo, you might… you might—”
“I might what? Have found a reason for living? What a fucking joke. You’re so funny Chūya! That’s the joke of the goddamn century.”
“I’m just saying—”
“STOP!”
The shout was louder than he intended.
Frantic.
Like on the verge of something.
Like calling out to someone walking to their own death.
Someone like Odasaku.
Fuck.
Odasaku.
“Just stop,” his breathing quickened and for a moment he felt panic he wasn’t sure he could avoid. “Everything he did, everything Mori does is part of a plan. Manipulating children? They have a place in his scheme. Killing Odasaku? Drove me out of the mafia. Forcing you to become an executive to get any information at all about your origins? You do realize that was pre-meditated?”
“What the fuck do you mean?” This time, Chūya’s voice held animosity, an animal lurking its prey.
“I mean, he could have given you that information whenever the hell he wanted. He didn’t because he needed you to respect him. To build ties to the mafia. To find people you would call family.”
“Why the fuck would he care about all of that!?”
“God, you’re so fucking stupid,” Dazai was at wits end, “because you’re stronger than him! He knew from the moment he sent me on that stupid mission, that you were the strongest ability user he’d seen in years. If he didn’t have bait looming over you, didn’t have a way to tie you in place, you could have killed him whenever you wanted.”
“I—” Chūya tried to speak, but his voice felt suddenly frail. Fragile. An uncalled-for scarcity.
“I don’t—No, that’s not it. That’s not—”
“He couldn’t get away with—” a pause, “there’s a reason he never tried—” An implication. A nauseating implication. Dazai’s voice grew quiet, childlike, “You have a combat ability. Yosano and I don’t.”
The mood shifted.
Less hostile.
Less angry.
Sad and only sad.
Grieving.
Mourning lost childhoods the way he mourned Odasaku.
Lost freedom.
Stolen freedom.
Stolen chances at normalcy. At love and kindness for the sake of love and kindness.
“He didn’t just hurt me and Dazai, Chūya,” Yosano spoke with glassy eyes.
Saying his name felt weird on her lips. Using it informally. But he didn’t seem to mind.
She had a feeling honorifics didn’t mean much to Chūya when spoken by those for whom he cared.
Is this care?
“He hurt you too. Even if he didn’t…even if he didn’t...”
God, why was it so hard for her to say the words?
“I know I’m just learning all of this for the first time and my opinion probably doesn’t mean much to you, but he obviously held things over your head. Manipulated you.” Her eyes closed, opened, closed again, “You have a right to be angry and hurting just as much as we do.”
Instincts screamed protest.
Push her to the ground and yell
you’re wrong you’re wrong you’re wrong
nothing happened.
Threaten and throw graviton after graviton at the implication his boss was merely using him.
He’d been used by the Sheep
by scientists
the government
by everyone except the mafia.
What a fucked-up world.
Sometimes he wondered,
did Dazai use him?
But Dazai gave him choices. Defended his right to choose the Mafia over the Sheep. Patched him up and acted like nothing happened after nights of breakdowns too embarrassing to share with the world.
Never, did Dazai doubt his humanity. Yet, he wondered.
But he never wondered if Mori used him.
The thought didn’t cross his mind, not once.
Mori did what was best for the mafia.
Chūya was part of the mafia.
Mori, by extension, cared about Chūya.
That’s how it worked.
He had to.
He hadn’t driven Chūya out of the mafia.
He could have.
He could have found something near and dear to his heart and ripped it to shreds without a second glance.
He could have.
But he didn’t which means—
except
except what Dazai said
what Dazai said about
about the why
about why he didn’t
because had he done that
would Mori have lived?
He didn’t like the answer to this question.
Or the asking of it.
Didn’t like the direction his thoughts traveled.
Didn’t like the idea that there was a very real chance he was more similar to Dazai than he ever wanted to be.
That his mind and Dazai’s mind both agonized in the same pain and suffering.
Mori shattered Dazai’s nothingness.
To be nothing, is still to be something. Nothing is a form of something—
a form of suffering
a form of empty
a form of torture of bliss of numb of
and Mori broke that part of him.
Mori mutilated the nothing back into more of a something.
Away from quiet and into loud
No longer empty but filled with hate
The way Dazai looked at people, at subordinates and victims and even friends—
Eyes of hatred and distrust.
Had Chūya been wearing those same eyes?
Perhaps covered with rose-tinted shades.
.
.
No, he wasn’t like them.
He couldn’t be.
“I need a minute.”
He left. The bedroom door slammed shut.
She eyed the door and hesitated. She looked to Dazai for answers.
He shrugged.
“Give him space. He won’t do anything stupid unless you push him.”
“I didn’t…I didn’t mean to, to insinuate—”
Another shrug.
“I don’t care. I don’t see what the big deal is. Mori’s an asshole, whatever.”
Her eyes burned her lips burned her teeth burned
the feeling of hands
of touch
the scathing inability to be alone, even when alone is your only craving
it burned.
“Fuck!” she yelled, kicking the dark wood of the kitchen counter hard, not even flinching at the radiating vibrations that wracked her body.
“I hate him! I hate him I hate him I fucking HATE HIM.” Rage quickly dissipated from fiery red fury to a liquified blue of desolate.
Sad.
“I hate him. I hate what he did to you, to Chūya, to me.”
“He didn’t do anythi—”
His protest was immediately shut down.
“Don’t fucking start Dazai,” the hiss of her reply as loud as the screech of a car crash, “if you two boneheads want to be in denial, I can’t stop you. But you don’t get to tell me I’m wrong. Not about this.”
Silence.
silence,
silence.
--
Chūya needed a drink.
He had felt too many things with too many people and was ready to dive back into the depths of himself.
To hide and camouflage his feelings, perhaps not with the antiquity of Dazai’s childhood skills, but enough to avoid.
To avoid
to be void
he wanted to void and be voided.
Chūya needed a drink.
--
The creaking of a door.
Footsteps.
The ruffling of fabric
sliding down the wall
a head laying down on a shoulder
a tanned calloused hand gripping a pale bandaged one.
Dazai let him rest there.
Dazai let the executive feel things he himself could not—would not feel.
Dazai let Chūya cry, wiping each tear away as if it never happened.
He eyed Yosano. She joined them on the ground.
They sat.
Silence,
silence,
the kind that speaks.
That tells you secrets about the universe.
That pushes you deeper and deeper into the unknown.
Or even, the known.
--
They sat in the silence of grief and fragile companionship well into the night.
From golden rays of sun to pink hues and midnight sky.
To stars twinkling and wishes being made.
Not by them, though.
They didn’t make wishes.
Their prayers to non-existent Gods weren’t answered then, they certainly wouldn’t be answered now.
A whisper in the dark of the unlit kitchen.
“It’s over, but he’s still dead.”
“I know.” Yosano said.
Chūya didn’t know what to say.
He didn’t know what to say when it happened.
He doesn’t think he knows any better now.
“This fucking sucks.”
It was better than nothing.
Gently shaking Chūya off his shoulder from the position they’d been resting in for hours, Dazai shakily stood.
“Now that Oda’s day is over, I’m gonna drink some bleach.”
Instant glares from both seated parties.
“Idiot. You know I don’t keep that shit in my place anymore no thanks to you.”
“Should I be surprised? Somehow I’m not.” Yosano’s voice was light with the slightest hint of laughter.
“You’re no fun! Besides, I know where you keep your steak knives. I know how to use your bathtub, where you keep your rope, your handcuffs, your—”
“Oh my God. Handcuffs??”
“Yeah, Chu-chu’s reeeeal kinky. One time he—”
Before the detective could finish, he was tackled to the ground.
“SHUT UP YOU STUPID MACKEREL BEFORE I MAKE YOU”
“Owwwwww Chu-chu’s so mean to me!! Yosano-senseeeeeei,” Dazai whined, fake crocodile tears streaming.
“You two are ridiculous. I’m going to make tea, anybody want some?”
Strangling Dazai’s neck, Chūya’s face morphed into a pleasant expression completely misaligned with his physical motions.
“Chamomile please.”
“Coming right up.” Yosano turned to the stove, then paused and re-examined the sparring pair. “Is he… smiling?” She gestured at Dazai’s twisted mouth.
“You bet your ass he is. Sick fuck.”
Chūya tossed the gangly man to the ground, sending him off in a laughing spree.
“That was so fun!! I swear I felt the life leave my body for a second—do it again Chibi!!”
“NO! THAT WASN’T SUPPOSED TO BE FUN”
“BUT IT WAS!”
“BUT IT SHOULDN’T—”
Water filled the tea kettle and Yosano couldn’t help but grin.
Boys.
She closed her eyes, preserving the moment for her collection of memories.
Her arsenal of proof.
Proof that feared mafia executive Chūya Nakahara could cry.
Proof that the master of emotional hide-and-seek could laugh, even on days born of tragedy.
Proof that she could talk about Mori and feel fine.
Proof that she was okay.
That they were okay.
So that, days, weeks, or even minutes from now, when the inevitable feelings of despair of trepidation of aching hearts and minds and spirits loomed like shadows of doubts in cumulonimbus filled skies, she could remember this moment.
She could trust everything will be okay.