Chapter Text
When Dazai wakes up in the morning, there’s a letter on the table.
In his arms, Chuuya’s still asleep. Dazai plays with the ends of his hair, content to bask in the glow of the morning. Chuuya’s one of the few people his touch has comforted and it’s nice to think that it could do so even when he’s not in the midst of bleeding to death. Dazai hums, looking up at the ceiling, comfortable. The warmth tugs at his desire to go back to sleep, even if his neck is stiff from falling asleep on the couch. But, there’s still the letter on the table and though Chuuya’s tears have dried, their imprint is still present on his face. Dazai takes the letter before Chuuya can see it, getting up and stowing it away in the pocket of his coat. Chuuya stirs and stretches, sitting up.
“What time is it…”
Dazai checks his phone. “Seven.”
Chuuya yawns, “we should get up.”
Dazai pulls Chuuya back down, groaning, “two more hours…”
Chuuya blinks at Dazai blearily. “Don’t you have work?”
“Ehh, Kunikida-kun won’t mind if I’m late.”
Chuuya sighs, getting up, “I pity him. Breakfast?”
Dazai sighs, missing Chuuya’s warmth. “Sure.”
“I’ve got some leftover rice, want some tamagoyaki?”
“Sure.”
Sitting across from one another, they eat in silence. The air between them isn’t tense, nor is it filled with petty arguments and teenage-like banter. It’s not cold, either. It’s simply peaceful, though it’s a delicate peace, like the yolk of a sunny-side up egg that you don’t want to break for fear of it running everywhere. Dazai scans everything in the apartment as he eats—the living room, the kitchen counters, the potted plants that were very likely a gift from Ane-san. He traces patterns on Chuuya’s kitchen table, picking at his food slowly.
They finish eating. Chuuya’s washing the dishes. The letter burns a hole in Dazai’s pocket.
Okay, Dazai figures, he’ll poke at the egg. He’ll have to do it sooner or later, anyway.
“Your window’s open, Chuuya”
Chuuya shuts the water off, drying his hands. “What?”
“That one,” Dazai points to the large window over in his living room. It’s slightly ajar.
Chuuya glances at the window before turning to Dazai. “What about it?”
“It’s open,” Dazai repeats, staring at the window.
Chuuya crosses his arms, leaning against the countertop. “Okay, what’s this actually about?”
Dazai leans forward, resting his chin on his hands, looking at Chuuya. “Why did you take a job you so clearly hate?”
For a moment, Dazai worries that he’s asked the wrong thing. That he’s pressed too hard somewhere. That he poked a little too much.
Then, Chuuya lets out a breath. “There’s a lot of reasons. Proving I would dedicate myself to the Mafia, severing all my ties to you, honouring Lippmann’s legacy, remembering my friends, challenging myself, and…“
Chuuya pauses. Dazai looks at him. Chuuya fidgets with the edge of his sleeve.
“You don’t have to tell me-” Dazai starts.
“No,” Chuuya interrupts him, “I want to. I just… Remember that detective guy from when we were sixteen? The one Verlaine killed.”
“N’s brother. Murase, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah. He said once, that he could take me to a normal life, without the Mafia and jewel smuggling and crime and that I could be a normal kid, and I—I…” Chuuya looks up at Dazai, speaking softly, “I said no, obviously. I think I swore at him. But, when Mori offered me this job, I couldn’t help but think, ‘hey, maybe it’s time to give this a try.’ I knew I wouldn’t be any good at it, but it felt like the closest I could be to having a normal life. After you left, I wasn’t really alone, per se, I had my subordinates, Akutagawa, and Hirotsu and Kouyou and all of them, but I didn’t really have anyone who really knew what to do with me. I guess I wanted to prove to myself that I could do something completely out of my usual environment.”
Chuuya uncrosses his arms and looks down. He picks at the tips of his fingers. Dazai thinks if Chuuya still had his gloves on, he’d be tugging at them. The air is still. The type you think of when you look at a photograph of a kitchen with no one in it—that kind with the dusty air full of lost memories.
Chuuya finally continues, albeit hesitantly, “And, well, no one remembered them.”
Chuuya drops his hands at his sides, still. He’s looking Dazai in the eye now, and like a deer in headlights, Dazai doesn’t move.
“When the Flags passed, everyone moved on so quickly. They got a funeral the day after they died, but it went by so fast. And then all the other shit happened right after and, well, the only one people seem to remember anymore is Lippmann. And that’s just because he’s an actor. No one remembers Albatross’ stupid aviator sunglasses, Doc’s medical breakthroughs…people were saying Piano Man would be the next executive of the Port Mafia—do you remember that?”
Chuuya’s eyes, Dazai notes, aren’t filled with tears. They’re anything but, in fact, his steely gaze is resolute, like he’s fifteen again and proving that he isn’t just a kid, but a leader with a deadly ability. Dazai figures Chuuya’s gotten over the crying a long time ago.
“I remember,” Dazai breathes into the air, his words having the weight of a dandelion seed, “I remember you and Albatross had the same taste in shitty rock music, for one. And honestly, Chuuya, do you really think I could forget Iceman? He always looked at me like I was about to kill him.”
Chuuya smiles softly, looking towards the window. “He looked at everyone like that.”
“So he did.” Dazai matches Chuuya’s smile.
“I didn’t think you’d remember,” Chuuya confesses.
Dazai shrugs. “I remember a lot of things.”
“If you did, you’d have remembered to do your mission reports.”
“Bold of you to assume I forgot.”
“Yeah, I figured you were doing that on purpose. Anyway,” Chuuya straightens his posture, and Dazai gets that feeling you have when you think it’s going to be the end of a phone call, “you’re now incredibly late to work.”
“So I am.”
“So,” Chuuya waves at the door, “shoo.”
Dazai makes an exaggerated affronted expression, his hand on his chest. “You can’t be rid of me that easily! What do you think I am!”
Chuuya smirks. “A shitty mackerel. Seriously though, you have work.”
“I do, but I also have this.”
Dazai pulls the envelope out from his pocket.
Chuuya’s face falls. “I thought I was finally rid of them,” he groans, “where did you find that?”
“On top of the bedside drawer.”
“Well,” Chuuya visibly tenses, “hand it over."
Dazai obliges. Chuuya breaks the wax seal. Dazai pokes around Chuuya’s apartment as Chuuya scans the letter. There’s a few trinkets on the counter next to the entrance: some keys on a keychain of a cute dog, a sticky note with a couple of fancy restaurants jotted down, a fancy-looking wooden box with a strange pattern engraved on it, another sticky note—this time in Kouyou’s handwriting—with a couple of what he assumes are luxury stores, and a small calendar with events jotted down on it. Dazai flips through the calendar before he grows bored looking at all the fancy gala times, though he does note some down just in case they’re important for a case. He traces the pattern on the top of the box lid waiting for Chuuya to finish reading the letter.
“Ugh,” Chuuya slams the letter down on the desk.
Dazai gives him a look.
Chuuya looks up at him, a little sheepish, “it’s just the same old stuff. I’ll burn it later or something.”
Dazai raises an eyebrow, though he says nothing.
Chuuya frowns, “what are you doing?”
“Looking at your rich person stuff. I hope Ane-san recommended some non-hat stores. Who gave you this box?”
Chuuya frowns, “I’m not sure, it was some guy at a work party I think.”
“Some guy?”
“Yeah, he was obviously important though, about Hirotsu’s age, a cane, and this really weird haircut—it was black and brown, split right down the middle.”
Dazai has a feeling he knows who Chuuya’s talking about.
“And this man…just gave you a box?”
“Yeah. He said something too, but I can’t remember what he said,” Chuuya glares at Dazai’s questioning look, “I wasn’t drunk! There were just too many damn people at the stupid party.
“You didn’t question it?”
Chuuya gives him an affronted look. “Of course not. It was one of those public parties Boss likes to host sometimes to keep up the disguise of being a real company. I didn’t want to insult the relative of some hot-shot politician or something.”
Dazai bursts out laughing.
“What?!” Chuuya responds, an offended look crossing his face.
“I could see you doing that.”
“Shut up,” Chuuya grumbles, “I went through too much training from Ane-san for that to ever be a possibility.”
“Says the one who got caught yelling at me in a public park.”
“Your fault,” Chuuya says, smiling slightly.
Dazai beams back at him.
“Whatever you say, Chibi. But,” he waves his hand at the box, “I think we’ve got a new lead.”