Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

"Are you sure you don't want to go back home?" Odasaku asks for the hundredth time. "You don't look too great, Dazai. It's okay to rest if you've had a bad night." 

"Are you calling me ugly?" Dazai is so tired he smiles a second too late. Odasaku notices, and starts frowning even harder. Any more and they'd get kicked out of the supermarket for disturbance of the peace. 

Dazai pushes the cart along. He narrows his eyes at the cereal options before him, because none even moderately resemble what he ate back in Yokohama. Why are so many peanut-butter-flavoured? And why do all of these boxes have to be coloured with the brightest fucking yellows, Dazai's going to die right there, his headache is ridiculous and he just wants his normal neutral regular beige sugar minis, thank you very much. 

He dumps two boxes into the cart and ignores the—frankly offending—look on Odasaku's face. His hand hovers around the Reeses Peanut Butter Cups. The nutrition label glares back at him as he grabs a pack. He'd like to say he's too burnt out to care, but the truth is the Reeses will probably just rot under his couch as part of his ugly little sugar hoard and be forgotten about just as soon.

"I didn't know you liked those," says Odasaku.

"I don't." 

Dazai makes his way over to the milk & milk-made products. There he grabs two pots of fat-free Skyr yogurt, one carton of almond milk, and a huge parcel of children's strawberry milk boxes because there was a minus thirty percent on all YAZOO products. 

Does he have a fever? He decides he likely has a fever. Everything is blurry and ugly and making-him-want-to-vomit-y. After so many years of sleeping ten plus hours a day, breaking the routine is like a death sentence and a half. Dazai's body screams for release from this cruel and unfair world. When an old lady with a beer belly bumps into him he almost cries. 

At least Odasaku lets him grab everything he sets his mind to—doesn't even protest once. Either he realised Dazai's in a bit of a predicament or he's just that used to orphans milking his credit card for all it's worth. They follow each other through alleys of dusty white shelves and too-bright packaging. Fluorescent overlights have always been his enemy, but even that has to take a backseat to just how unfathomably awful everything appears to Dazai right now. The fresh produce aisle? Too cold. The crowd? Too dense. Then there's the fact the prices don't mean shit, because of additional taxes or whatever, and Dazai's gotta pull out his phone every two seconds to calculate what this plus that minus this equals to. 

All in all: miserable experience. By the time they're checking out, Dazai feels like a very wet, very pathetic alley cat helplessly trailing after the promise of hope. The woman behind the counter is young, with long black hair and a cutesie little cardigan. At some point a red-haired boy around her age comes up to ask for help, and she bats her eyelashes and juts out her chest like it's a hoedown. Dazai never wants to hear the words big brother said in such a drawn-out, flirty, excruciating way ever again. 

"Is this normal in America?" he asks Odasaku once they're out of the supermarket. 

"I don't know," says Odasaku, very sincerely. "Some states are okay with it. But hopefully not Nebraska…?" 

As they push the cart back into place, three full-to-bursting bags on their arms, Dazai realises he is being watched. It's hard to focus through the sleep deprivation-induced fever: nevertheless Dazai knows it's coming from behind. One… no, two rows of cars behind. Odasaku doesn't notice, too busy sorting the groceries out, the lovable idiot he is. Three years living in the Wild West and he's already forgotten his mafioso habits. Dazai changes his stance, angles himself right. He'd rather not get shot, but if it has to happen, then it might as well be in defence of his only friend. 

Dazai feels the presence behind shifting. Hesitation? He glances behind his shoulder. 

"You've got to be kidding me," is what comes out of his mouth. Fucking shit hell fuck fuck shit hell, is what he meant to say. 

Chuuya startles when he realises he was caught. A little flinch, nothing big, but enough for Dazai to think, there's no way this guy is mafia. Even from this far away his blushing is lovely. Dazai wants to fall to the ground. 

"Huh?" Odasaku looks him over. "Is everything alright?" Then, because he's not entirely stupid, shifts his gaze over to what Dazai can't tear himself from. "Who's that? Are you two friends?" 

Dazai snaps his head left and right. "I don't have friends."

"Okay, Shadow The Hedgehog. Do you know this guy?" 

"Hu uh," he says, "something like that."

There's nothing he wants more than to go up to Nakahara, grab him by the shoulders, and scream at his face. Fuck the freckles and the blue eyes and the Soul Ties. He wishes he could squeeze his skull till there was blood dribbling from his nose—why are you with them? Why are you with him?—and then kiss his red-stained lips, maybe, just once, with a Chuuya too out-of-it to remember. Something just for him. Another of those little selfishnesses Dazai just can't help but indulge in. 

He shakes himself out of his fantasies. "Let's get going." 

"Um," Odasaku says, "I mean, he's coming our way." 

Dazai blinks. Yes, he is, isn't he? A little ginger-haired man stomping up a storm, making his angry little way over to them across asphalt and beeping cars. Dazai just can't seem to catch his breath. 

Chuuya's wearing more innocuous clothes this time—a white tee, red jacket, dark jeans. The choker hasn't left his neck but the shiny buckle is nowhere to be found. What kind of weirdo owns more than one version of the exact same choker? Dazai's eyes follow the line drawn under the white t-shirt, the dip and rise of his collarbones. It might be inappropriate to wonder just how far down the freckles go. Dazai wonders anyway. 

"Hello," he says. 

"Hello," Dazai says back. 

He leans against the car a little because his knees might buckle if he doesn't. Odasaku looks back and forth between them like he's not sure what to make of them. Are they friends? Acquaintances from college? Even—acid rises in Dazai's throat—lovers? 

Odasaku clears his throat. He's smiling a tad awkwardly when Chuuya finally stops staring Dazai down into a grave. "I don't think we've met." 

"I'm sorry, I forgot my manners." Chuuya steps forward. They shake hands. Gloves? Dazai frowns. Since when does Chuuya wear gloves? "My name is Nakahara Chuuya. Me and Dazai met a couple days ago." 

"Ah," says Odasaku. "You're the one with the coffee." 

Chuuya scratches his cheek, embarrassed in this good-natured, effortlessly graceful, haha I'm so hot right way that makes Dazai want to bash his brains in. "That's me. Can I just borrow him for a second?" 

Odasaku—not all that gently—pushes Dazai forward. "He's all yours." 

And so Dazai follows his soulmate a little distance over, like kids in recess saying we're gonna talk for a bit but it's totally not about you I promise. From behind Chuuya looks even smaller than he does face-to-face. He's not wearing any hats either. His hair is a bit wild around his back, like he hadn't had the time to style it properly—or like he hadn't cared.

Dazai's so caught up in his observations he nearly jumps out of his skin when Chuuya spins around. "Hi," he squeaks. 

"Hi," Chuuya repeats. "Can we talk?" 

"Isn't that what we're already doing?" 

"Shut up." Chuuya's tone is light. It's the only thing that makes Dazai obey. He hates being bossed around. "You've been stalking me again."

Dazai blinks. "Pardon?"

"I saw you like an old post of mine from 2018," sighs Chuuya. "And then another from 2020." 

"That's not," Dazai starts, then falters. "So what? We're in America. The land of the free. The constitution says I can." 

Chuuya stares wordlessly. Something in his eyes is asking, why the fuck are you the way that you are? And Dazai wishes he had a good answer. Unfortunately he's just as infuriated with himself as the rest of the people around him. In the end, Chuuya just shakes his head, sighs again.

"Listen, I just think we should have another talk. We never even agreed on what our Ties mean to us." 

Dazai snorts, feeling his chest seize with palpitations. "I think we did. And it's somewhat self-explanatory, isn't it?"

"No, like." Chuuya makes a sound of utter frustration. "Fuck, I'm not good at this shit. Are we friends? Are we—"

"Easy there, tiger. A bit too soon to have the what are we talk, don't you think?" 

Chuuya squints. "No." Amidst the car smoke and the gasoline and the mopey grey weather, he's like the Second Coming of Christ. All golden and scintillant and terribly, atrociously fucking annoying. 

"Okay," says Dazai, "so you're like that." 

"Yeah, I'm like that. I don't appreciate ambiguity, in case you haven't noticed. I like to know where I stand with people." 

"Right. So, you know, I've got this friend waiting for me, I think I better—"

Upside, inside out!

She's livin' la vida loca!

She'll push and pull you down,

Livin' la vida loca!

Dazai stares down at his hoodie pockets. Nestled against his stomach, his phone buzzes and shakes like himself on a bad trip. It's Mori's ringtone: which means Mori's calling. 

He gives Chuuya his most innocent smile. "I'm so sorry, I really have to take this. Let's raincheck this fantastic conversation. I'll text you!" 

And just like that he slips away, Chuuya's narrowed eyes drilling holes into his back. A frazzled Odasaku awaits him by the car. Dazai practically leaps into the passenger seat. Fishes his phone out of his pockets. 

Beep. Call accepted. He holds it to his ear and waits. 

"Helloooooo?" 

"You're in a mood," comments Mori, and isn't that just like him, to guess how Dazai's feeling without even looking?

Dazai keeps the smile on his face—Mori'll hear it and hopefully think he just finished a difficult Super Mario 64 level or something. "Quite! What's up, boss? Or what's down?" 

"As I told you, the Black Lizards were sent to investigate last night. They've come back with news. I'm sure you'll be interested to hear what they had to say."

"Ohoho," Dazai croons, waggling his brows at Odasaku as he sits. "This better be good." 

"Well," says Mori, thoughtfully, "it's certainly something."

Someone is shaking him awake. It's completely unnecessary. Dazai never sleeps. And even if he did, the armchair is digging into his side, his knees are bent because the seat is much too tiny for him, and the fat man next to him is snoring like a beast. Planes are terrible creations. Why Mori decided to send him on a public trip like a regular, boring person, Dazai can't figure out. It's not like the Port Mafia lacks the finance, the body guards, or the private jets.

Nails dig in his skin. Dazai wrenches his arm away. He opens his eyes and glares openly at the woman on his left — because, of course, if he couldn't get the window seat, he wasn't allowed to take the corridor one either. 

"Sir, we're here," says Higuchi, and if Dazai cared to hit women, he'd be sending her flying. Even the sound of her voice is grating. 

"I know, I know, I heard the flight attendant when he said it a singular minute ago." 

Dazai rubs a hand across his face like it'll help him sober up. He knew he shouldn't have downed all of these bottles so quickly, but just a quick glance towards the window had sent all of his reserves flying out the aircraft. Height is one of his very, very few weaknesses. He chalks it up to his biology. Human beings are mammals. Mammals don't fare so well a hundred of metres above ground.

He gestures for Higuchi to move. She grabbed their baggage when he wasn't looking, and that's pretty alright for him. Dazai hates carrying luggages. His suitcase is almost twice his size — he'd noted that down with no small amount of satisfaction — and he'd rather not have to bother with it. That's what Higuchi is for, anyway. 

An assistant, Mori had said. Well, Dazai knows what he needs assistance for, and it's definitely not the mission he's been entrusted with.

Higuchi follows him out of the aircraft. Dazai supposes he must look important enough, because when they walk down the aisle, people part and let them move ahead. He shoulders a couple people on the way and has to shove a kid back onto their seat, but it's relatively uneventful all things considered. 

Now that he thinks about it, there hasn''t been many attempts on his person in a while. Either it's the sign something big is coming, or France does not care for Port Mafia executives going on overseas trips. Dazai can't stand the idea that he may be too unimportant to kill. He decides it's the first option.

Dazai goes through the jet bridge like his legs aren't shaking. He stares right ahead the entire walkway. He thinks, any gust of wind could bring this entire stupid structure crumbling down. He thinks, that'd be a slow, painful death. Crushed by air tube debris. Now that'd look stupid on a tomb.

Higuchi is struggling behind him, encumbered by three large suitcases, but she doesn't complain. Dazai would credit her for it if he didn't suspect she only kept her mouth shut to keep her livelihood. Not that Dazai would kill her himself. Maybe she's just afraid to have her paycheck cut. Which Dazai, for the record, definitely would make happen.

At the airport terminal, two men clad in dark business suits bow to him and seize the luggage. They seem reliable and serious enough, so Dazai lets them. They don't introduce themselves. Dazai doesn't ask about their allegiances, wouldn't even know how to start. He doesn't speak a speck of French.

Higuchi clings to his side like a pitiful runt. 

"Sir, do you know these men?" she stresses. 

"They must be our guides to their mafia headquarters," Dazai says, waving off her concerns with a flick of the wrist. "Mori must've sent them for us."

"How are we certain that's the case?" 

"Ask him yourself, if you care."

Dazai throws her his cellphone. She shrieks and nearly falls over trying to catch it. Higuchi's face falls as she realises Dazai is utterly serious. The black-clad men haven't moved an inch.

"Sir, but these men, they haven't even said a word to us!" 

"You speak French, now?"

Higuchi flushes up to her roots. "The French mafia deals with international exchanges, not us! And it's such a complicated language to learn…"

You know English, don't you? Dazai thinks, relatively bored. Everybody does. 

Dazai shrugs, and, nodding at the black-clad men' s attention, follows them out the airport. There are so many people, Dazai can barely keep up the pace. People hurrying about to their terminals, walking all over his feet, bumping into his shoulders. He puts on his coat properly so it doesn't fall off in the traffic. Dazai's only advantage is his height— and even that isn't so useful when there's such a large mix of people that everything blurs together.

The January breeze doesn't sting as much as it would in Japan. Dazai is definitely in favor of kinder weather. Winter is feisty in the East. Europe is milder, or so he's heard, and much more humid. Dazai isn't sure what's worse: itchy skin or drenched clothing.

The two mafia men guide them into a limousine. There's drunken screaming of ces putains de riches, j'vais vous niquer, vous faîtes chier le monde entier. It's easy to ignore insults when they're screamed in a language you don't understand. Dazai gets into the sleek black car and plops down on the long stretches of banquette seating. 

Higuchi does the same. She's meek; squishes her thighs together and keeps her hands on her knees, taking as little space as possible. Dazai has no such reservations. There's liquor on the little glass table in the centre. He takes the flask and drinks straight from it. It's quite good, sweet, and very French. 

The trip lasts a good half an hour, which Dazai resents, but understands. Tokyo Haneda isn't exactly a next door location, either. He supposes it must feel different because he's not in his homeland anymore. Though, looking out the door, France is as similar to Yokohama as any other developed city would be. It's got tall, obnoxious buildings, and prettier rural areas, and parks and restaurants.

Something like nervousness settles in his stomach eventually. Maybe the reality of it all has finally sunk in. Dazai presses his nose to the tainted glass; the landscape shifts from metropolis to something unassuming, regular, average. He knows that where they're going is near the sea, but it still feels unreal. Despite living in Japan, Dazai's never been a fan of the beach. He's never really tried visiting it, either. Here, he sees glimpses of a limitless deep blue, and it sends pinpricks down his spine. Dazai can almost taste salt on his tongue.

The car is parked. There are oaks boarding the roads. Cars drive in and out of view, innocuous. This looks nothing like mafia territory. Dazai hasn't even seen a single ability user since landing. Yokohama is so full of magic, Dazai forgot how rare abilities are outside of it. Without the low hum of No Longer Human, he could've almost believed that he was brought to a completely different world— one where all of humanity is born equal.

All this to say: Marseilles sucks.

The limousine doors are opened; a plump man with a beard is waiting outside. Curious, Dazai steps out, and takes the man's hand when it is offered. He looks like a grandpa. God-forbid France provides him with any actual excitement. Even the mafia members are about as intimidating as the snails they eat.

"Welcome to France, my boy," says the man in heavily-accented Japanese. It's so bad Dazai has to pause to process it.

"Thank you." 

"Marseilles, what a wonderful city, eh? Home to many good things. But you have not come here for the good things. Bless you. Come along, now, so I show you the headquarters."

Dazai nods along. Higuchi finally comes out of the limousine, dusting off her suit. At least she's given up her complaining on the way. 

"Is it very far?" Dazai dares to ask. He hates walking.

"No, non, no, not very far at all. Come on now."

Well. Dazai can't possibly refute such enthusiasm. He follows the man through large streets, where every building is painted white and every roof is made of pink-orange tile. It's such an odd architectural choice. Japan was nothing like this. Still, Dazai can't pinpoint whether he hates the countryside feel of the city or not. He hates change. He hates everything that isn't industrial and clean and modern. But then there's this, and the scent of the sea, and the fact that literally everyone is wearing flip flops. 

There's a little wine shop that catches his eye. Trinkets dangle from the overhang, swept around by the sea breeze, chiming a little tune that's surprisingly pleasant. There are cheap glasses and tacky mugs presented on a spinning display that looks just about ready to fall over and die. Dazai makes a split-second decision, tucks out the most ridiculous-looking pair of glasses he's ever seen, and skips back to Higuchi's side.

Higuchi watches him warily. "Sir, please don't tell me you just stole these."

Dazai plops the glasses on his face. They're so big they almost fall off, plastic yellow, with the vague shape of a soft ice cream on top. The lenses are tinted neon pink. 

He offers Higuchi his first smile of the day. "I won't, then!"

"Sir, you could've at least ripped off the etiquette!" Higuchi calls out as he leaves.

The man with the long white beard grins at him when he approaches; it's a dopey grin with lots of missing teeth. Dazai can't help but shudder. 

He understands they arrived at their destination when he sees it— the headquarters. It's nothing like Yokohama's Port Mafia, far from it, but there's something about the darkened walls, colored window pans, the men standing in front of the door… that, and the dark-furred beasts stalking the walkway. At least they don't look like German Shepherds—Dazai's worst enemies. 

He glares openly as he walks past. They do not growl, and their tails even start to wag, but Dazai isn't fooled. Dogs are hellspawns. Their mouths are cruel. They're rude as hell.

"Ce sont des Beauceron," the plump man tells him.

"The dogs?"

"Yes. Yes. It's the race. Beaucerons. Do you like dogs?"

"Not particularly, no," Dazai mutters.

"Ah. That is okay. They are trained. Very well-behaved, these boys."

Dazai can't tell if he's being pacified or distracted. He hates having his time wasted. He resists the urge to pull his gun out and cause a second Dragon's Head Conflict. 

La Belle Étoile is written in golden letters above the building. Dazai doesn't know what it means, but the letters are long and full of swoops and curls, and it's surprisingly pretty, though it might be the only pretty thing about the entire place.

They climb up a series of nugatory stairs. There are dusty paw prints all over the sleek beige stone. Dazai hears the entrance door being pushed open before he sees it: it makes a pitiful squeak. He was told the South of France, being very popular with tourists, was well-preserved. He's beginning to doubt it. Marseilles feels like a port city, smells like the countryside, and looks like slums.

A tiny freckled face peeks out the building. An even frecklier body follows suit. It's a child, possibly a preteen, red-headed and collared like the dogs in the street. Dazai has never seen a Mafia grunt so unbothered with clothing. The boy is clad in a bright yellow tank top, knee-length shorts, and purple-spotted sandals.

Dazai's tour guide greets the boy with a kiss to the cheek. Dazai stares and tries not to heave.

Taking in his shock, the bearded man laughs. "Ah, I see, you do not know about our customs yet. You have to donner la bise to say hello. It is appropriate! "

Is it? Dazai feels vaguely disturbed. He hopes no one will expect that of him. Isn't this exactly how people catch every disease on the planet?

"I realise I have never introduced myself. My name is Victor Hugo. It is a great pleasure to meet you, my boy." There's another dopey grin.

Dazai is no one's boy, lest of all Victor Hugo's, but he accepts the handshake dutifully. He is led inside, followed by the redheaded boy and his horrible purple slippers. He is told the boy's name is Karma Rouxbois—who names their kid Karma?—and that the French mafia is nicknamed Le Milieu. He asks what it means, and receives a laugh in response. Higuchi has this blank look on her face that tells him she doesn't get the joke either.

"Le Milieu is not like in Japan, your mafia," Victor Hugo tells him, like Dazai is stupid. "We are not commonly accepted. We lay low. We stay silent, very silent. We regroup in different locations. Here is one of them. Bars are good for this sort of thing. People are too drunk to remember hearing anything suspicious."

La Belle Étoile is the textbook definition of a bar. The lighting is dim even though it's still bright outside, artificially intimate, amber like the whiskey on the rocks Dazai used to tear through at age twelve. Old detergent and sea salt taint every chair, every tiny round table, every inch of marbled walls. 

Book in hand, a woman lounges in one of the velvet-plush seats by the large windows. She's slender as a raven, and hair that looks the part, too. Upon seeing them enter the bar, her expression lights up with curiosity. 

Victor Hugo leads him into a corridor that's hidden behind a flowy stretch of brown fabric. The two bodyguards that have been following him since landing on the airport finally seem to remember themselves. They split from the group towards another hallway, and Higuchi shoots nervous looks their way.

"What are they doing? Why are they leaving with our baggage?"

"Depositing everything to your rooms," Victor responds. "We want to make our Port Mafia associates feel very welcome."

Despite his diplomacy, the hint of reluctance in the man's voice speaks for itself. Dazai isn't too afraid. It's exactly why he's been sent here anyway. 

Down the hallway is a carpet so thick and fluffy you could sink into it. It's one thing to keep shoes on inside, but another entirely to walk all over carpet with them. Dazai cringes as his business shoes rub dirt all over tan fur. 

Furthermore, there's something strange about the carpet, the sound of it. Each of Dazai's footsteps ring strangely hollow. He wonders what might hide under it: a trap door, a hole? Victor Hugo has no such qualms and treads forward like a man on a mission. 

It's a meeting room, that much is clear. A huge U-shaped table spans out the entire width of the room, open near the entrance. A silver-lined vitrine stands against it. Inside, Dazai sees replicas of World War Two artillery and similarly deadly objects in various states of decomposition. 

At the apex of the U sits a man with eyes like coagulated blood, caught between brown and red. Dazai is instantly vividly aware of himself. He straightens under that gaze, feeling like he's twelve again, like Mori Ougai is the one sitting in the chair, like he's not sure what's expected of him but it can't be good. 

Still, Mori Ougai does not have blonde hair, and Mori Ougai would never wear a porkpie hat—or any hat at all.

"Osamu Dazai. Welcome." The blonde man's Japanese is perfect. His voice is deceptively quiet. Every noise seems muted in comparison. 

"Paul Verlaine." Dazai should bow. He can't bring himself to. He nods, curt, instead. 

Victor Hugo makes a sheepish expression, says a few words in French. The three men at the table must've been discussing important matters before being interrupted. It'd explain the electric tension in the room.

On Verlaine's right is his soulmate partner, Arthur Rimbaud, who Dazai remembers for having met in Mori's office several times before. He's always appeared as someone reserved and polite, and it's startling to see him now, clearly pissed, fists straining on his suit. His long black hair looks messier than it's ever been before.

The last man present, sitting two chairs away from Verlaine, Dazai cannot pinpoint. The only notable thing about him are his glasses, which Dazai realizes must have been bought at the same shop he stole his own. Unlike Dazai's pink lenses, the man's are orange. Dazai decides his ice cream-glasses are far superior to this nobody's stupid palm trees.

"What brings you here?" Verlaine says.

Dazai smiles without joy. "The letter you received two months ago must still be inside your desk, sir. It details the reasons for my presence here."

"It currently sits amidst the ashes of my fireplace, I'll let you know." Verlaine sits back in his chair. "I thought I made it clear Le Milieu seeks no partnership with Japan."

"That would be a great error on your part, sir. This agreement can be greatly beneficial to both of our organisations. France and Japan have been exchanging for years now. Why bring this peace to an end?"

"It's very simple, Osamu. I chose it so."

He feels his eye twitch. "It's Dazai."

Verlaine inclines his head. "Dazai. You'll understand, one day, when Mori Ougai finally kicks the bucket. He makes abilities seem like the best thing in the world: they're not. We can't keep our country safe by allowing your goons to walk around breathing fire and turning into beasts."

"None of us breathe fire."

"How long until you do? No. My decision is final. Mori Ougai can continue his trades without us. I recommend aiming for Italy, Greece—Croatia, perhaps."

Dazai smiles tightly. "I'm sure I'll be able to convince you eventually."

"I'm sure you will," says Verlaine. A flick of the wrist and Dazai is surrounded by men, dressed in black slacks, sunglassed like a 1990s movie, and the red in Verlaine's eyes seems even deeper than before. "I will see you around, Dazai. Until then."

"Until then," he repeats. The conjured figures wrap their hands around him.

Then he is gone.

"I didn't know you had a crush."

"Funny coincidence. I didn't know either!" Dazai's voice comes out muffled. He's been plastered against the couch for nearly two hours now. Getting off seems more hassle than it's worth. Odasaku hovers around him like a mother hen, tries offering strawberry milk or a Reeses cup. Dazai bats them all off with his hands. Maybe if he sinks his nose deeper into the couch it'll cut off his airways and he'll die. 

"That boy," Odasaku tries, "he seems nice."

"Ngljjhg," says Dazai. 

"Right. So what's the matter?" Oda sits by his side on the couch—at the very corner, so as to not disturb Dazai's moping, because he's considerate like that. 

Well, there's the fact he's a ginger. The fact he's mafia. The fact he's a lure. Dazai lets out a strangled little laugh. What isn't the matter would be a better question. After losing a helpless fight with gravity, he ends up sprawled on his back, feet in Oda's lap. 

"Remember Black No.12?" 

Odasaku's frown says he does. "The…" 

"There's a million ways to call him, really," Dazai scoffs. "The King of Assassins. Paul Verlaine. May Uprising's little baby." 

"He's a monster."

"That he is."

"Could've gone a few more years without hearing about him again," mutters Oda, shaking his head, "what's he got to do with Nakahara?" 

"Well, you know what made him so monstrous?" Dazai sits up. He feels light-headed and dead and kind of insane. Something in his chest pulses and he's not sure it's his heart. 

Odasaku gives a deep sigh. "I don't know if I could forget. He murdered Ango's siblings in 09. He almost murdered you. And you were, what, fifteen?"

"Fourteen."

"Jesus."

Dazai takes his feet off of Oda. Curls up in a ball, knees up to his chin. He's still trying to wrap his mind around what it means for Nakahara—hell, what it means for him. Them? No, not them. There's no them. There's no Dazai and anybody else. Mori has Fukuzawa, Oda's got Ango. Even fuckass Verlaine's paired up. Soul Ties don't mean shit. Not when it's Dazai's.

He shrugs. "Just realised I might have to pay him a visit." 

It's the wrong thing to say. Maybe he misjudged the lightness infused in his own tone. Odasaku's head snaps to the side, gaping like Dazai just announced he might start wearing little pink tutus. "You're kidding."

"Nothing's wrong," Dazai says, if only to ease the worried crease in between Oda's brows.

"Osamu, last time you were face-to-face with Paul Verlaine, Ango and I had to stitch your skin back together at the seams. Your throat was split open." 

Dazai pats his friend's shaking shoulder. Exasperated fondness softens the curve of his mouth—though he can't quite bring himself to smile. "Sure. But that's what us mafiosos do. We get hurt. We protect our country. We win." 

"We don't seek out danger just because!" Dazai waltzes off the couch, hearing Oda padding after like some lost pup. "At least let me know what's happening so I can tell Ango why I'm going to have to borrow his Audi in the next twenty-four hours."

Dazai sighs, leans against the doorway. "Of course he has an Audi." 

"Really not my point," Oda says.

"I have a dog that needs picking up."

"You don't own a dog."

"No, not yet," he concedes, shuffling into his old sneakers. "It's a work in progress." 

Odasaku's disbelieving gaze burns holes into his middle-aged-high-school-teacher sweater. In another life, one where Dazai wasn't raised by a sociopathic maniac, he'd bound forward and squeeze Oda in his arms. I'll be fine. But there is something I need to do. The words are right on the tip of his tongue.

Unfortunately for Oda, Dazai would rather puke than allow himself an ounce of sincerity. He blows him a kiss. "Keep your phone close."

"Update me," says Oda at last, looking terribly tired. Pushing forty, his paternal instincts are stronger than ever. 

"I will." Maybe. If he remembers.

Dazai grabs his coffee-stained coat. He's out the door like clockwork. Outside, the air is heavy and humid and tastes like bad decisions. It's the kind of weather that's perfect for nighttime partying because it gives him an excuse for his terrible drinking habits. Reminds him of those indie Italian movies with unpronounceable names, staring Boy Number One—who nobody knows—and Boy Number Two—some slightly underground micro-celebrity—sharing some moody, sequoia-filtered, sweaty summer filled with loads of homoerotic tension that'll probably end with the death of one or both protagonists.

Chuuya would die first, Dazai thinks, walking up to the bus, squinting to protect his eyes from timid spitting raindrops. If only because of how much more striking he is. If Dazai died in a movie, then that'd be it. He's not the kind of person people cry for. In another life he probably kicked babies in their cradles or something. Chuuya's the kind of person who grips you. He digs his way into your heart like a worm with an apple—and by the time you realise what's happening he's already nibbling your core. 

He sends Chuuya a text. 

Two minutes and thirty eight seconds later, he receives one back. 

    > sent just now

    u cant be serious

Dazai settles at the back of the bus and hums the time away. 

Atsushi has spent the last fifty-two days burrowed within the confines of his campus library. That is to say, he evades the August sunshine better than any vampire or ghoul he's ever had to read about. Edward Cullen and Damon Salvatore have got nothing on him. He wakes before sunrise to avoid queues at his local coffee shop. Packs his lunches—every day the same, to avoid unnecessary anguish, as Atsushi runs on routines and predictability—to avoid having to buy them. Stays after closing times. Only speaks if strictly necessary. 

It's a good, steady, manageable life. The library—his refuge. Nobody screams, throws fits, throws hands. People don't stand out when they're all nose-deep in their screens or their books. Atsushi just has to hope quote-unquote customers gravitate towards Lucy for questions instead of his sorry ass. And usually, they do. People don't stand out when they're always curled up in their chairs, facing away from the counter. 

That is to say, when on August twenty-third, at five p.m. on the dot, a man dressed like a fancy  Regency goth stomps into the campus library, racking up a storm, yelling and all, Atsushi takes notice.

That is to say, he panics.

Lucy is on him in a second. She shields him with her body, hands around his arms, repeating it's okay, it's alright, just breathe. Atsushi tries. He fails. The lack of oxygen in his lungs only further accentuates his panic; flailing about, his head hits a bookshelf, and he squeaks out curses. Tears are running down his face. Snot, too. 

In the background, below the static in his ears, Atsushi hears shushing noises.

"Not so loud!" scolds a girl. 

"Have a smidge of human decency for the people working, will you?" scoffs another. 

Lucy rubs him up and down. Up and down and up and down. Her hands make the nicest sound against Atsushi's sleeves. He can feel his own blood rushing along her motions. 

"You're okay," she promises, softer than she usually acts, because she'll always have a soft spot for him no matter what she might say. "You're alright. It's just some bad-mannered guy. You know how people can be."

"Hu uh," he says. 

"Not at the orphanage," she whispers.

Not at the orphanage. He's not at the orphanage. 

A shadow looms over them. Atsushi flinches, looks up. It's the gothic man, leading over their counter, all sharp angles and charcoal-black hair. His eyes are so deep you'd think you were falling into them. They stare Atsushi down with no emotion to speak of.

Lucy lashes out before Atsushi can say a thing. "Go away! Can't you see he's not feeling great? What an ass," she adds, grumbling under her breath, so close that Atsushi hears her like she's yelling it. 

"I wished to apologise for my misbehaviour," says the black-eyed man. "I did not realise where I was."

Lucy blinks. Frowns, because she can't help but be suspicious of people she does not know. "How the heck did you not realise? There are signs just about everywhere in the hallway."

"I cannot read," says the man. 

His eyes fall down to Atsushi's snot-riddled, tear-streaked face. All at once, Atsushi feels heat rushing to his brain. The tingling sensation in his arms and the static in his brain falter. He is alive again. 

Atsushi tries to smile and fails disastrously. "Don't apologise. You, um. It's okay."

The man shakes his head. There are two strands of hair framing his face, the tips white as though they'd been dipped in chalk. "Allow me to repair my wrongs. How do you take your coffee?" 

Atsushi can't believe what he's hearing. Shaking all over, he scrambles to his feet. Lucy presses her palm to his back to keep him upright. His knees are so wobbly they're like knocking teeth. 

"Um," he says.

"Unless you do not like coffee." The man's staring is so flat. "Hot chocolate? Tea?"

"Tea is good," Atsushi blurts out, "it's actually a main ingredient in the composition of my favourite food. Haha." Lucy shifts her gaze to him. Oh God. He's rambling again. "You know? Tea on rice? Have you ever tried it before?"

The man blinks slowly, cat-like. "I'm afraid I haven't."

"Well, that's, um, that's…" Atsushi wants to die right here. "That's my favourite food."

"I see." Suddenly there's something different about him. Those endless black eyes shift. Then they're not like chunks of ore but two blades, wicked-sharp, dyed iron. "Do you know of the man they call Dazai Osamu?"

Atsushi fiddles awkwardly with his sleeves. "Um, yes? We've met. Hung out. I think we're friends."

The man nods. "Come have dinner with me."

"What?" Lucy yells. Atsushi would've done the same if he wasn't stuck in place. Mouth open, he just stares back and hopes his neurons will connect once again.

"Tea on rice," the man insists. "I will pay."

Atsushi stammers out, "I don't even know your name."

A graceful tilt of the head. "Pardon my manners. My name is Akutagawa Ryuunosuke. I have come a long way from Japan to find your friend. Because in forty-eight hours," he adds, soft as rain, "he will be assassinated." 

Before Dazai gets to pay his mutated pomeranian a visit, he must put an appropriate amount of time researching what it's like to be a dog owner. Which is why he ends up walking along a family neighborhood of bush fences and pink roofs, humming, hands in his pockets, eyeing the numbers on the houses. Frankly, the things one does for love. 

Number 151 does not stand out from the rest. There is a kiddie pool in the front yard; three round pots from which are sprouting very tiny green stems. Fairy lights—turned off—are strewn from one window to another. It is, all in all, a perfectly normal, perfectly charming family home.

Dazai knocks at the door with a beaming smile. After a minute or two of muffled yelling, an elderly lady opens, squinting bright purple eyes up at him.

"Yes? How may I help you?"

"I'm a friend of Yuan's," Dazai says, "could I talk to her?"

The old lady seems startled for a second. "Ah? Issat so?" Eventually she softens, staring at Dazai's very sincere, very kind I-am-a-good-boy face. "Well, in that case, come on in. It's raining cats and dogs out here. You'll catch your death, honey."

Only serial killers dislike being called honey by a nice floral-wearing grandma. Dazai allows himself to be herded into the house and out of the cold. Yuan's grandmother's house smells like cookie batter and warm, earthy things. 

"She'll be down in just a second," the old lady says, taking Dazai's coat right off his shoulders. "How do you happen to know my darling little Yuyu, anyway?"

Dazai bows his head in gratitude. Then, lightly, "we were in the Sheep together."

"Oh!" Yuan's grandmother lights up like Christmas lights. "Oh, yes, I see, I recognise you now. Akira Yamada, isn't that right?"

He smiles. "That's right. We haven't seen each other in a while. I wanted to check up on her, see how things have been."

The old lady takes him by the hand, leads him to the couch. She nods empathetically. "Of course, of course. What a darling you are. Times have been hard on my Yuyu. She had a hard time adjusting after…" As the woman anxiously rubs at her hands, Dazai thinks, so something did happen to break up their little band. Must've been something big. A King-Of-Assasins kind of big, maybe. "Well, I'm sure you can imagine, Akira. She was not visited by many of your old friends. She did not visit very many people, either…"

"Grandmama, why the hell are you—" Down the stairs Yuan comes, eyes widening as she zeroes on Dazai's form. "Uh, who are you?" 

"How impolite! Don't you recognise him?" The old lady clicks her tongue. "This is your good friend, Akira Yamada, from the Sheep. He's come to visit you!"

"I don't…" Yuan falters. Her eyes narrow. "Oh. I see. We'll talk upstairs, Grandmama, alright?"

Dazai smiles at her discomfort. She's changed a great deal since the photo she took celebrating the New Year with her friends. Her hair is shorter, less vividly pink, and her roots are obvious on the crown of her head. She seems paler; clearly she hasn't gone outside much since whatever wrenched the Sheep apart. 

"Ah, of course, of course," says her grandmother, patting Dazai's hand. "Forgive me. Go on, make yourself at home, Akira." 

"Thank you for your generosity," Dazai purrs.

Yuan stares him down, still as a hunting dog, as he makes his way to the staircase. Her hands are slightly shaky as they grip the railing. Dazai wonders. She can't possibly believe he is who he claims to be—so why is she letting him? Up the stairs, her steps falter. A bit afraid, then. But not all the way: her squared shoulders and lowered face say as much. 

Dazai is led into a typical teenage girl's bedroom. Band posters on the walls, stickers on every piece of furniture, fuschia Post-Its plastered on the mirror. Yuan might seem different but at her heart, she's still a little girl. Dazai keeps this in mind as she closes the door behind them. He'd resent having to scare her any more than necessary. 

"You're not Akira," is the first thing she says.

Smiling, Dazai leans against the cold wooden door. "How can you tell?"

Yuan scoffs. "I grew up with these assholes. I think I'd be able to tell if you were the same kid who put glue in his ears because he thought it'd be a good substitute for earplugs." 

He blinks. "How cute."

"Not so much when you have to hold his hand at the doctor right after," Yuan says, and she doesn't sound nostalgic, exactly, but there's a fondness in her voice that'd be hard to miss. "Whatever. You know about the Sheep, I heard you say it. What's your business with us?" 

"I'm curious," he says. It's not even a lie. "I'd like to understand."

Yuan laughs resentfully. "What's there to understand? We were all best friends since middle school. Shit hit the fan. We're not friends anymore. The end."

"You haven't been in contact with any of them?"

Sighing, Yuan sags onto her bed. "If you came here because you wanted dirt on any of them, I'm not the girl for you. I can barely remember what all of their favourite colours were." 

So she's like that, huh. Dazai tilts his head. "It's not dirt that I want."

"Then it's info on what happened with Chuuya," she says, a little heavier, "and in that case I'm not saying shit." 

With Chuuya? Dazai nibbles on the inside of his cheek. He was in the center of all of their group photos, always surrounded, grinning and throwing heart signs like the leader of some ridiculous hippie group. In any case, he was certainly adored. Even five years later, Yuan remains loyal to the memory of their friendship. What could Chuuya possibly have done to lose them the way he did? 

"What's it to you, anyway?" Yuan asks. 

"I'm part of the Student Council of our university," he says, "and recently Nakahara's been seen struggling. I figured I might as well try to find out what's been bugging him so I can help." 

Yuan looks him up and down. "No offense, but you don't look like Student Council." 

"I've been told not to judge books by their covers."

"Hah. Maybe you do know Chuuya after all." Yuan sighs through her nose. "He used to say the same thing all the time. Really angrily and all. You know."

"Because he's so short," Dazai guesses. 

"Right," Yuan says, "well, sorry, bud, but you'll have to dig in somebody else's garden. I haven't spoken to Chuuya in years. And what if you were, like, a stalker, or something? I don't want to mess up any more than I already have. So… just go." 

"One last thing," Dazai says, and pulls out his phone. He taps into his gallery. "Do you know this man?"

Yuan squints at the screen. "Pablo Herlan? Yeah, obviously. He's Chuuya's brother. If you're actually a stalker, you're doing a shit job, dude."

His brother. 

Dazai hums. "They don't look much alike," he says, "don't you think?"

"So what?" Yuan scrunches up her face. "Are you some kind of cop? You know what, just—just leave my house. I don't know what you're doing and I don't want to be part of it. I won't even tell Grandmama you lied to her. Just leave. Okay?"

Five minutes later he is out in the rain once more. 

And Dazai has never felt so cold.

It takes him a while to get back to the bus stop. Goodbye, lovely little neighborhood. Goodbye, dreary soupy weather. Dazai feels heavy and rugged by the time he sits his ass down. A quick check of his phone—which turns into a long check because the water on his screen keeps clogging the sensors—tells him he's twelve minutes late. Not a great third impression, but it'll have to do. 

    > sent 9 minutes ago

    you can't be serious rn

    if u just stood me up i'm going to find you

    and i am going to kill you

    go ahead screenshot me for the police

    pussy

Being so angry all the time seems exhausting. Dazai's glad he chose to be numb and dull to the world one day at eleven. At least he's got no cases of classmates assault on his primary school records. 

Well. Maybe because he only went to primary school for a month.

      i will be here Soon

    get me a hot cocoa w/ whipped cream pls

    seen

Warmth is the only thing on Dazai's mind. He nestles against the radiators and feels joy again. Frankly, there's nothing more society needs. Who cares about equal rights and child molesters? If everyone could just get their own personal radiator to take with them anywhere, world peace would be much more attainable. 

Chuuya is practically buzzing with anger on the other side of the table. If Dazai unfocuses his eyes, he's glowing a faint red. 

"Remind me again," he growls, "why you are twenty minutes late to a date that you orchestrated on the very same day?" 

"I honestly don't see why this is such a big deal," Dazai sighs. 

"I'm sure  you'll feel much more enlightened when I slam my fist against your frontal lobe."

"Easy there, cowboy. I prefer my hot chocolate without any brain juice in it." And therein lies the source of Dazai's utter and complete tranquility. The fact Chuuya bought him the hot cocoa. With the whipped cream. And not only that: with a pastry on the side. He's grinning when he brings the croissant to his mouth. It's never been easier to eat something that wasn't crab in his entire life. 

They're at a new coffee shop, since apparently it's tradition now. A little less moody than the one Chuuya recommended for their first official meeting, but with none of the pink, bows, and sparkle of the first. There's a faint scent of cherry blossom swirling about the place. Against the light woods of the walls and gentle cerulean accents, Chuuya looks like a portrait given life. Only a tad more red and a lot more tinier. 

"Stop smiling at me," Chuuya says. 

"You'd think me smiling on our date was a good sign," he mumbles in between mouthfuls. 

"This isn't a date." Hilarious, coming from him, the man who keeps on insisting for each and every one of their encounters to be just that. Dazai was fine just calling this a hangout. But Chuuya's way more of a cheesy romantic than he appears. "If it was a date, you'd be fucking dining and wining me. Do you know how many people would kill to go out with me?"

The worst part is Chuuya isn't even bragging. Dazai knows, because he noticed the following to followers ratio in all of his social media accounts. In modern day terms, Dazai is out of his league. Only fate doesn't seem to think so. Unfortunately, the issue with the invisible red strings tightly coiled around both of their souls is that they're invisible. 

"Spare me the lecture," Dazai says, because soulmates or not he'll be an asshole either way. "I pwooomise I won't be late to our dwates any mowe if it's that impowtant to you, Chuwa."

"Fucking ew," Chuuya says, rubbing a hand over his face. "We cannot be Tied."

Which brings them to the point. Dazai grins. "Speaking of, I have a request to make." 

Chuuya glances back at him warily. "I knew you had ulterior motives when you asked to meet me here."

"No such things," Dazai says, waving the comment away. "Simply I thought it'd be better to speak about this in person."

"Okay… don't ask me to marry you."

"I won't." Yet. No. Fuck. Not yet. Never. Get a grip, Osamu. "I would like to register ourselves in the next Soul Ties Census." 

Chuuya's expression is comical. His eyebrows are so far up they could disappear behind his hair. Peeking out from auburn curls, the tips of his ears gradually turn a hot chemical pink. "What?" 

"You said it yourself. You're a sentimental little man. And as it appears… so am I."

"That's bullshit," Chuuya says, though he hasn't stopped blushing. "I thought you thought Ties were useless." 

"That is not what I said." Dazai pouts, draws patterns in the whipped cream with the tip of his spoon. "Am I not allowed to change my mind?" 

Chuuya considers him. All of the sudden his brows furrow. "You're being all strange and conniving, and the fact I can recognise this after knowing you for a grand total of a week is weirding me out. What's there for you to gain from getting registered?"

"Plenty of things!" Dazai exclaims. "Like freeing up space in my email inbox. And my mailbox. And the brains of every single one of Odasaku's coworkers." 

"Odasaku?" Chuuya tilts his head. "Who's that?"

There's a pang of something unnamable in Dazai's chest at the sound of Oda's name in Chuuya's mouth. It saddens him, a bit. Like it's something he missed. "A friend. You met him this morning."

"Ah, that was him. I noticed the thread on his finger." 

"Yes, yes," Dazai sighs, "he is Tied. And officially registered, mind you. So is it that strange that I would want the same for my dear old self?" 

"I don't know," Chuuya says. The honesty in his tone bugs Dazai out. "Getting registered is pretty final. We'll have threads on our fingers we can't take off. Any girl you meet that's into you will know she'll never be the one." He leans back into his chair, eyes glinting by the honeyed lights. "It's commitment, is what I mean."

Dazai sputters around the leftovers of his croissant. "I'm perfectly fine with commitment."

"Are you? You couldn't even get here on time."

"A simple misjudgement on my end," Dazai mutters.

"Clearly."

"It's because there is someone else, isn't it."

"That's—" Chuuya huffs, shakes his head. "You're ridiculous. Think about it seriously tonight and ask me again tomorrow. Then we'll talk. In the meantime, just finish your stupid croissant."

Dazai bites into his pastry angrily. Fucking orders. Nobody ever dares to give him orders. Him, the Demon Prodigy, the youngest executive in the history of the Port Mafia, the—

"Mori," says Chuuya, mild, and at first Dazai knows he misheard him, "is that your father?"

Dazai feels bile build up in his throat. He sits up straight. Tries to compute what Chuuya knows, what he should be wary of. "Who?"

"I did some digging of my own." Chuuya blinks up at him. "Dazai, calm down. I don't know what's the relationship between you two; I won't ask any more if you tell me to."

"How did you find his name?" he says very quietly. 

Chuuya shrugs in one pretty, fluid motion. "I'm not letting you in on my secrets. I just wanted to be transparent with you. But, well, I saw that he's registered as your legal guardian."

How could he know? How could he find out? 

Verlaine. The answer is right there. Verlaine dug up intel on me the same way Mori did on him. But if Verlaine is the one who told Chuuya about me, how come Chuuya doesn't seem to know who Mori is? 

"He adopted me," Dazai says, because that much Verlaine knows and cares very little about. "I was four when my parents died. He took me in."

Chuuya bows his head. "I'm sorry for your loss. I know what it's like. My parents passed when I was young, too."

He was twelve, and it happened right after school. Dazai knows and suddenly hates himself for knowing. It wasn't Mori's story to tell but, more than anything, it wasn't for Dazai to know. 

"He is my dad. We aren't very close."

Chuuya lets out a sigh. "Don't say anything else. I can tell it makes you uncomfortable. I shouldn't have sprung this on you, honestly."

"I know more about you than the name of your dad, Chuuya," he says, and laughs a little as he says it. "It's fine."

"Alright." Chuuya grins a little. It looks like a crescent moon, just as white and just as scintillant. "Wanna get out of here?"

Dazai doesn't think about it. "Yes."

He holds Chuuya's gaze for a moment longer. Chuuya is a person so full of emotion it dribbles out of him like a too-full glass of wine. Dazai can read most people he meets; he reads Chuuya like a middle-grade picture book. It's easy to tell when he hesitates, when he lies. When he says something that isn't entirely the truth. And this time wasn't it.

It's not Verlaine who tattled on me, he decides, watching the curve of Chuuya's face as he twists to look for a waiter. Chuuya didn't know about the death of my parents. And given how it happened, Verlaine wouldn't have hesitated to tell him.  

Did Chuuya cut Verlaine off after the fall of the Sheep? Or, maybe, he's just too prim and proper and righteous to seek out a mafioso's help. Dazay smiles to himself, amused now, still openly staring but too light-headed to care. Yes. Seems likely. 

When was the last time anyone told Dazai they wanted to be 'transparent' with him? 

I need to have a chat with the Black Lizards, he thinks.

Chuuya brushes his leg with the tip of his foot. "You okay?" he asks, all soft, when Dazai comes back to life.

"Yes," Dazai says. 

And he finds that to be true.