Chapter Text
Chapter Seven–Monkey Wrench
A thin figure walks through the barren halls of the Port Mafia building. There is no need for a compass for direction; the executive has the path to his direct superior’s office memorized.
The boy has fluffy brown hair as well as a pout on his face as he reaches the boss’s door and knocks, hearing the voice of the Port Mafia boss telling him to enter from the other side of the thick, wooden doors.
The executive enters, shutting the door behind him as he stalks over to Mori’s desk.
“Dazai-kun,” the greasy man says from his desk, his thin, bony fingers clasped together as he peers at the brunette boy.
“What.”
“You’re spiralling,” the man simply states, as if talking about the weather.
“But you were the one who told me to ‘Cause some ruckus, acting as if you lost your favorite plaything. Be sure to make headlines in the newspaper’. I’m not the one to blame!” Dazai counters, crossing his arms.
“But you did too much damage, Dazai-kun. You have to be smart about following orders. You can’t misunderstand them, like you just did. I said do ‘some damage’, not ‘destroy parts of the city’,” Mori explains, turning to his subordinate, a dangerous glint in his eyes.
“You’ll be receiving punishment, Dazai-kun. No exceptions, whatsoever.”
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The yellow light shines on the reflective countertops of a bar. In the reflection is a young man, with cropped blue hair and a… being… with a weird, smoke-like head.
A knock sounds through the musty and moulded bar, interrupting the hours of silence that had been both comforting and painful.
“Kurogiri, go get it,” the young man mutters, scratching his neck warily as he turns around in his barstool.
The smokey figure sets down the foggy glass that he was absentmindedly cleaning with a stained rag and cautiously walks over to the door. He opens the door and the sight that meets him is a large crate, with a large sticker on top that reads: ‘FRAGILE. From: The Port Mafia, Yokohama. To: Kamino Ward, Yokohama.’
Kurogiri's eyes, which resemble two yellow slits, widen as he opens a portal, transferring the crate to the young man on the other side of the room. The smokey figure shuts the door and walks over to the blue haired man.
“Kurogiri. Get me some damn scissors,” the younger mutters, hopping off of the aged barstool, staring down the crate as if it is infected with the black plague.
“Of course,” Kurogiri mutters, grabbing a pair of shiny red scissors and handing them to the young man’s open hand.
The blue haired man holds the scissors with his pinky up as he precariously snips open the binds on the crate. He removes the crate lid and sets it on the dusty floor, peering over the edge of the mangled crate.
Just as his red eyes are going to view the inside of the crate, purple glitter explodes from the inside of the box. Kurogiri steps to the young man’s side, his eyes narrowed even more as the younger flinches, a thick layer of glitter covering his face.
“Don’t fucking tell me we got glitter bombed again!” he shouts, wiping the sparkly shards off his face with the rag the smoky man was previously using to clean glasses.
“Tada~! It’s me!”
A thin, brunette boy rises from the crate, his hair covered with glitter and a wide grin on his face. The blue haired man narrows his eyes and puts his hand on the teenager’s face. When nothing happens, the young man removes his hand from the bandaged boy’s face and tries again.
After the fourth attempt, the blue haired man drops his hand to his side, seething. “Who the fuck are you and why the hell won’t my quirk work on you?!” he wheezes out as the teenager grins, stepping out of the box.
“Your ‘quirk’ won’t work on me because my ability nullifies all powers. And the name’s Dazai. Osamu Dazai.”
Kurogiri’s eyes widen as the young man beside him scoffs. “What a lame ass power. And my name’s Shigaraki Tomura- wait… Dazai Osamu… as in the- the Demon Prodigy?”
“It’s almost as if you’re smart, Shigaraki Tomura. But I know better not to think so. Although, as someone who never graduated from kindergarten, you seem to be… decently smart,” the teenager replies, his thin hands held behind his back as he walks circles repeatedly around the smokey man and the blue haired man, his gaze accusatory and almost… fascinated?
“What are you doing…” Shigaraki mutters, scratching away at his flaking skin, the dead skin cells falling to the floor and joining the purple glitter.
“Come take a walk with me, Tomura. And you can’t object-” Dazai suddenly pins Kurogiri to the floor of the bar, his hand dangerously close to the smokey man’s hazy face “-because if you do, say goodbye to your little friend.”
The blue haired man continues to scratch away at his neck for another minute or so before responding, clearly fed up with all the shit the mafioso was pulling. “Fine. But don't you dare hurt Kurogiri.”
Dazai smirks, his visible eye devoid of emotion as he releases Kurogiri. “Come along now, Tomura. We wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to your new recruits either.”
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The dark clouds of the Yokohama sky hang over the empty alleys as two figures walk through the streets.
The clouds look as if they’re begging for release. Either death or to become nothing; the wind, the sky. Yet the clouds are neither. Different. It was a feeling Dazai was all too familiar with.
“Are you alright?”
Dazai snaps out of his thoughts at hearing Shigaraki’s semi-worried words.
“I just miss my partner…” the mafioso says, the earlier playfulness in his voice now gone as he sighs.
“You’re dating someone?!” the blue haired man asks, shock clear on his crusted features.
“I’m not dating anyo-”
“Wait, is it the other half of soukoku?” Shigaraki inquires, interrupting the bandaged teen.
“That slug?! Fuck no. Ew. We’re just… acquaintances, nothing more,” Dazai quickly says, avoiding the blue haired man’s gaze as a light blush spreads across his pale cheeks.
An awkward silence hangs over the two of them as they continue to walk down the streets, Dazai continuing to stare longingly at the sky.
“Do you ever wonder what it’s like after death?” he inquires, breaking the tension filled silence.
“No,” Shigaraki responds, kicking a pebble, which hits a metal pole and bounces once before settling down on the ground.
“Just me then,” the teen mutters, glancing down at his feet, a purple, glittery hue shining on the black, shiny void of polished slacks that are securely tied to his feet.
“What happened to the other half of Soukoku anyways?” the blue haired man inquires, standing still in the streets as the cold breeze lightly blows his matted and gnarled, greasy hair. “Is it because he’s too weak-” a bony fist collides with his cheek, interrupting his speech and sending him flying to the cold, harsh pavement of the alley.
“Don’t you ever say he’s weak,” Dazai mutters, grabbing Shigaraki by the collar of his hoodie and slamming him down into the pavement. He lifts the man and slams him again and again, grotesque cracks sounding through the barren street.
The teen bends down and kicks the blue haired man’s teeth in as he attempts to remove himself from the teen’s grip, to no avail.
“Stop…” Shigaraki mutters, a begging edge to his shaky, cracking voice as Dazai continues to bash his head in. Blood spills from the blue-haired man’s now cracked skull, pouring onto the pavement and forming a puddle around the two.
“You insulted Chuuya. No one insults Chuuya,” the brunette hisses, spitting in Shigaraki’s bloody and beaten face.
“Please… I beg of you, don’t kill me…” he mumbles as Dazai presses a revolver to the side his head, the soft moonlight glinting off the silver barrel and onto the sticky, slick with blood hair of the man the mafioso was threatening death with.
“Too. Fucking. Late,” he mutters through gritted teeth as he pulls the trigger, lodging the bullet into Shigaraki’s skull.
Blood splatters everywhere, staining Dazai’s pristine dresshirt, coating his previously polished and glittery slacks with a thick layer of blood; the harsh reality of what just happened.
He pulls his phone out of the pocket of his stained coat, crouching down on the ground, angling his phone above him. He wipes the blood and chunks of brain off his pale face, quickly snapping a selfie with Shigaraki’s corpse. The man's head is nothing more than a mangled mess; splintered bone, flesh, hair, and pulp splattered all over the dark, barren alley.
Dazai goes to contacts, Shigaraki’s blood smeared across the screen as he scrolls down the list of contacts. He presses send.
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Chuuya wakes up in a cold sweat, his body shaking as he pushes away his covers. He stands up and checks his phone, pulling it out from under his pillow.
No new messages.
He should’ve expected that. Is Dazai mad at him? He doesn’t know. Chuuya brushes a strand of hair out of his face, glancing at the time.
10:42, Saturday.
His eyes widen slightly as he double checks the time, a bit shocked at how late it is. He’s never slept in this long. Ever.
Chuuya sighs and plugs in his phone, exiting his room and walking down the stairs. He looks at his reflection in the glass of the hanging photos, readjusting his oversized pajama shirt and striped pajama shorts.
Aizawa and Yamada sit on the couch, watching the television as the teen enters the living room. Chuuya notices that the same broadcaster from the prior night is on the television.
“What's happening…” he mutters, sitting down next to Yamada.
“There's reports that the Demon Prodigy has killed a villain. We're waiting for the exact details and the supposed photo,” Aizawa explains, his gaze focused on the television.
‘Now what exactly did Dazai do this time? Probably something idiotic…’ the mafioso thinks, watching the pink haired broadcaster moves animatedly as she speaks.
“Now, at 03:54 this morning, we received a text,” she explains, a photo popping up on screen, the photo depicting Dazai taking a selfie with a corpse at night.
“At first, we thought this was a prank,” the broadcaster continues, “but there was also a message. ‘Don't mess with Dazai Osamu. #Soukoku.’ After some investigation, it has been revealed the brunette boy in the photo is indeed Dazai Osamu, or the Demon Prodigy.”
Chuuya instantly pales, his blood cold. It's all fucking Dazai’s fault. Why did he do this to him?
He's snapped out of his thoughts as Yamada waves a hand in front of Chuuya’s face, a worried yet cautious expression on his face.
“What is it,” the teen snaps, his anger and panic not fully gone.
“Jeez, no need to be so pissy,” Aizawa grumbles, his eyes narrowed as he looks at the redhead. “The Demon Prodigy. His name is Dazai Osamu, or should I say, Tsushima Shuuji?”
Chuuya feels sick. Fuck Dazai. Fuck him and forcing him to do this shitty mission and completely jeopardizing it.
“Chuuya-kun, what are you doing being friends with the Demon Prodigy?” the blonde hero asks, curiosity, panic, sadness, and… almost betrayal in his eyes as he looks expectantly at the teen.
“I… It’s complicated…” Chuuya mutters, avoiding the two heroes’s gazes. He doesn’t want to out himself. He doesn’t want to go to prison. He doesn’t want to be on this mission. He hasn’t even technically started his mission and he wants to join Dazai in a double suicide. It’s all his fault. Maybe if he stayed in the lab, if he stayed with the Sheep, if the Flags didn’t die, if he hadn’t met the other half of Soukoku; his partner. Maybe he’d be a normal boy, going to a normal school, with a normal life. Maybe he’d even be a hero. But he’s not. He’s a cold-blooded, ruthless mafioso. And he’s not going to go all soft and back out of a mission just because Dazai fucked everything up.
Chuuya tries to steel his nerves, sighing as he looks up at the two curious (and slightly suspicious) heroes.
“I’m going to say it bluntly. The Demon Prodigy and I have met a few times. But I’m nothing like that shithead,” he says, all traces of previous emotion gone. Gone like his humanity; gone like the flags. Hot, salty tears start to spill out of his eyes, running down his cheeks, which are reddened with fury and… fear?
Then it hits him faster than a freight train.
He’s crying.
Actually crying.
Not those crocodile tears he was feeding them yesterday.
Real, actual tears.
Tears that humans cry. But he’s not human; anything but one. That’s why he and Dazai work together. Neither of them are human. And they never will be.
So why exactly is he crying?
He looks up as Yamada wipes the tears off his cheeks with his thumb, quietly shushing the boy, the concern and worry apparent on his face.
“Hey hey, please don’t cry, Chuuya-kun. We won’t let the Demon Prodigy near you again. Ever,” the blonde man says, pulling Chuuya into a tight hug as Aizawa sighs next to them.
The black haired man stands up, beginning to pace around the living room. “But that doesn't explain how you’re in contact with the Demon Prodigy. If you have met a few times, as you say, then why do you still have his contact, let alone referring to him by an alias as well as him sending you photos?
“Furthermore, how do we not know you were lying about him shipping you in that crate? You haven't given us any solid proof you currently aren't scheming with him. I mean, the only proof we had was the fact that you were scared after last night's broadcast, but that theory has been debunked with the fact you were perfectly fine when texting him and receiving that photo of him...
“It's as if your excuse was too convenient; too practical. Too innocent.” Aizawa stops pacing, walking over to the redhead. “Tell me, Chuuya-kun, are you truly who you claim to be, or is this all a façade? Did you really grow up in the slums?”
“I wouldn't lie about that! I grew up in the slums; I even joined a gang!” Chuuya exclaims, rising shakily into his feet as he places a hand on his chest. His stomach sinks as he realizes he slipped up, his heart starting to race.
“Y-you were in a streetgang…?” Yamada asks, standing up as well. “How come?”
The mafioso takes in a deep breath, his thin hands pale as they shake with emotions he's never felt before. “It's not that simple! I can't explain why I did that, exactly! It's not the matter of a ‘why’ or ‘how’, you know?! It's not that simple. Nothing's ever simple! The years in the lab-”
“Lab? What lab?” Aizawa interrupts, stepping closer to him.
A sob rips through Chuuya's body, a fresh wave of tears spilling out of his azure eyes. “That's none of your business! You have no right to question me! We barely know each other!” he manages to gasp out as he crumbles to his knees, curling into a ball.
Chuuya squeezes his eyes shut, trying to block out the flickering light, blurred from the tears in his eyes. The broadcaster’s annoying commentary about Dazai rings in his ears, coupled with Aizawa and Yamada's worried words.
It's too much.
It's always too much.
Why can't he be normal?
“Chuuya-kun, are you okay?” Yamada says quietly as he crouches down and rubs the mafioso’s back in a comforting manner.
“Don’t coddle him, Hizashi. He’s a gang member, not a toddler,” Aizawa mutters as he stands further away from them, his arms crossed and a stern expression on his face.
“But he’s clearly panicking!” Yamada speaks quietly with desperation as Chuuya continues to gasp shakily for air.
“He’s lying, like last night,” Aizawa says calmly, his posture strict and cautious, as if scolding a misbehaving child.
“But he still needs our help! He is still a kid for fuck’s sake, Shota!” the blonde hero shouts as Chuuya covers his ears, clearly overwhelmed.
“I know. But we should be very cautious,” Aizawa answers with cold determination, glancing cautiously at the mafioso on the floor with one final assessing look and leaving the room
“...” Yamada looks at the place where his husband was standing, shocked. His knuckles whiten and when he finally looks at the panicked teenager before him, he hesitantly reaches out to him, searching in his mind how to bring someone out of a panic attack.
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Shota’s an open-minded man. Okay, not really, but he cares for those around him, even if he doesn’t express it. But the last thing he expected was the traumatized kid he and Hizashi were caring for to have contact with the Demony Prodigy and to be a former gang member.
He cares for Chuuya. A lot at that.
But does he care for a façade?
No.
Was he caring for a façade all this time?
…
Yes.
Shota opens the door to his and Hizashi’s shared bedroom and sits down on their bed, not caring to turn the lights on. He puts his head in his hands as he sighs.
“What am I doing…?” he mutters to himself, his ears picking up the sounds of Hizashi trying to comfort Chuuya in the living room. Shota is suddenly aware of the fact that he’s alone, his husband busy with the kid.
Was he too harsh on Chuuya earlier?..
…
He doesn’t know.
He’s never been in a situation similar to this.
Shota stands up, rummaging around in his bedside. He finds a few small cameras that he got a few years ago, left unused, after a robber broke into their house.
He exits his bedroom and walks over to Chuuya’s room, entering. He looks around, registering how little personalized his place has become, searching for a place to hide the cameras.
After searching for a bit, he finally finds amazing places for them, and after making sure they work, he quietly exits Chuuya's room, leaving everything as it was, except for the newly installed cameras.
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Chuuya sits at the table, staring down at the pattern of the wood as Yamada quietly sits next to him.
“Sorry about that…” the ginger mutters, awkwardly playing with a strand of his hair.
“Don’t worry about it!” the hero says, his smile strained. Chuuya looks closely, noticing the way Yamada’s lips quiver slightly.
“...Are you sure?” the mafioso mutters, trying to keep up the facade of the poor, traumatized teenager, despite the large cracks that have already formed.
A beat of awkward silence passes, Yamada fidgeting with his hands.
“C’mon, are you hungry? I can make breakfast,” he says, his voice shaking as he stands up.