Chapter Text
So Dazai left. The damn bastard got the better of him, and somehow he was unsurprised. Between the heat gripping at him from under his four layers of clothing and the way his muscles didn't want to move with the commands of his body. He had to let Dazai go. He had to give up. Going upstairs, he felt seriously pissed. He'd let the bastard go. And now he probably had information to bring back to the Armed Detective Agency. He grumbled under his breath, "Ruined my whole day," kicking at a loose piece of concrete. He'd probably been the one to break it in the first place. Seemed like something he'd do.
He walked up to his office and slouched in front of his desk. He had a fancy plaque and everything. It had his name on it. It was done in bronze. Dazai's had been done in gold, despite both his own protests and Dazai's. Chuuya put his hands on the keys of his laptop. How does one make a report on this.
I managed to capture and chain my rival to the wall in the dungeon, and when I went to go and torment him, he just matched the attitude and he let himself go using blackmail as a means of escape.
Pathetic. Chuuya decided that the entire day didn't happen. He'd sat in his office uselessly all day and then went for a random motorcycle ride and that's why he was done. Anyone could check the cameras, but why would they? He was an Exec. If they questioned him, they'd get released from service, it was as simple as that.
Chuuya went through the rest of the day drumming his gloved fingers on his desk. He didn't have anything better to do anyways. When it was time to leave, he picked himself up on oddly shaky legs and left to go home. He dreamed of the food he'd eat on his expensive couch that he'd bought himself when he'd upgraded his living arrangements. Maybe he'd treat himself for not killing Dazai today. Make light of the whole situation. Half a glass of wine seemed treat enough. Break open a less expensive bottle. When he's dead, he'd break open a big expensive one, drink the whole thing within an hour. Dazai dying would truly be something worth celebrating. Even if it left a pit in his chest to think about.
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Whoever said that waking up was the hardest thing to do seriously knew their stuff. Chuuya pried himself from his bed feeling oddly out of breath. He gave a small grimace as his head swam from the sudden movement. Making his way to the bathroom, Chuuya debated whether or not he wanted to just tell Mori to suck it and that he wasn't coming in, or if he wanted to go in and mope on his couch all day. One involved insulting his boss over the phone, and the other involved putting on his four layers worth of work clothes. Both sounded like bad options. Chuuya looked up at himself in the mirror. His face was pale and flushed. Typically not a good sign. He gave a long sigh, staring his own lifeless expression down. "Well, shit," he murmured.
He decided, against his own better judgement, to go to work. He took a cold shower, brushed his hair, got dressed, and then went to the Port. Unfortunately for his plans to lay down for many hours on end alone in his office, he was needed for some bullshit. Something something Detective Agency. He was half listening when he was handed a letter from Mori. Every part of him wanted to open it, to see what the contents of the paper he was delivering was, but he was not willing to risk his job or life for it. Especially when he honestly wanted to lay down on the cement flooring and cry.
"I would like for you to get it to Fukuzawa without any tears in it," Mori said with a small smile playing at his face. It was the same smile he always wore. It tugged at his features, twisting them crudely to show he meant business.
"Yes, boss. I'll get it done right away."
And without another word, Chuuya made good on that promise. He left the room. Chuuya looked down at the letter in his hand, wondering what it could be. A call for war? Possibly a truce. A plea for help in a time of need? Chuuya sighed softly. He rubbed softly at his face, the warmth of the skin and the sweat that clung to it seeping in through the fabric of his gloves.
Why couldn't he have just said no? That he didn't want to and he felt bad and wanted to go home. It would have been a one and done conversation. And now he was out running errands.
He could pass it off on some poor person that works for him... but he isn't like that. He hates being like that for any reason.
Chuuya steeled himself and walked out into the streets of Yokohama. He thought about taking his motorcycle, the one that he left at the Port Mafia for quick transportation when everyone else was being far too slow. He decided against it, getting onto a bus and paying his fair. If anyone bothers him, he might just lose it.