Chapter Text

Chapter 23

"June, is it? How about we have a little chat?"

Osamu Dazai had a habit of starting his interrogations almost conversationally. Concsiously or not, he'd approach his target, backing them into a corner and pick them apart bit by bit— all with the tone of a long-missed acquaintance. Though only in the beginning, of course. Once he'd picked and picked and picked to his hearts content— his voice turned cold. That was if he hadn't gotten what he'd wanted.

That's what one would think. What Chuuya would think. What Koyou would think. What the entirety of his subordinates would think— but everything Dazai did was done with a purpose. Even the smallest of pricks and prods got them spewing out facts and clues that they didn't even realise were in any way relevant.

Most of the time, he didn't need to break them all the way in order to get what he wants. They may feel like they're completely broken, the may think that they're beyond breaking— but there's always another limit for Dazai to break. A line for Dazai to cross. Dazai always got what he wanted. One way or another.

No matter how much blood had to be shed, how many bones had to be broken— actually… neither of those were deal breakers. They were quite endearing, actually.

As he looked at June— small, fake and cowering— all that cycled through the forefront of his brain were different mentions of torture… waterlogging… hanging… maybe even—

He cut off those thoughts as pondering them was futile and would only end up as wasted time. He'd have no chance to put his June-torture-related thoughts into action, for Chuuya was looking at the girl like she was a puppy left at he side of the road in a cardboard box.

Whatever.

He can taunt that little puppy as much as he pleases, right under his dogs nose.

That would only double the fun.

The girls eyes glazed over with a quick-change of blue yellow green before they returned to their usual burgundy.
Interesting.

She sickeningly reminded him of Elise.

Her fingers glided over disgustingly marble-white sleeves, smoothly and neatly— as if in the absence of the concept of friction.

Except to compare Mori's crafting of Elise to this girl's mirage would be an insult to the Boss' capabilities.

June looked left and right. Her hair remained stationary, straight and unwavering.

It was clumsy. Childish…

…and Chuuya was talking to it like it was an honest-to-God teenage girl— in a routine Dazai was unfamiliar with.

Firstly, he offered her a smile. Not a grin, not a smirk— a smile, with it's edges dulled with disuse.

Secondly, his shoulders were looser than normal. Not relaxed by any means, but not locked up by Chuuya's neck. He appeared nervous— nervous!— for reasons unbeknownst to Dazai!

Chuuya had changed dramatically since he last saw him.

This guy was not the Chuuya that Dazai sacrificed his dignity for.

"June, come on, sit down for a sec…" Chuuya said, much like he was talking June down from a ledge. "We don't mean ya any harm!" Though perhaps that comparison wasn't totally accurate, as Chuuya has talked Dazai down before, and it was not as… gentle… as this!

This was so not worth Dazai's time.

He stalked forward a few steps, back straight and his hands clasped behind his back. "Yes, yes, June! Do sit down, will you? This'll only… take.. a second…" He offered it the friendliest smile he could give it!

June stared at him like he told it he was going to pull off her fingernails one by one and make her eat them. Quite literally— her face goes white and her eyes bug out of her head. It was kinda comical, really. The visceral reaction didn't match her porcelain doll style face.

"Dazai—"

"Chuuya."

A beat of silence.

Dazai's head clunked to the side. "That little ability of yours is just so fascinating, don't you think?"

June shrinks in on itself. "I— my what?!" It squeaked.

"Dazai—"

Chuuya just needed to fuck off and let Dazai get on with things.

Dazai blinked in a manner that read as innocent. "Oh! Excuse my poor phrasing, I just admire your ability to wield your quirk in such a way! It's such a shame that you ended up in the General Course, isn't it?" His lips turned downward in a pout.

It's eyes dart between Chuuya and Dazai and Chuuya and Dazai and Chuuya and Dazai with its mouth agape. "I— who are you?!"

"Sit down and find out."

Chuuya's body tensed in a slouch and his hands balled up in his pockets. The bones in his neck cracked as he snapped his head round to glare at Dazai. "Shut up!!" He hissed. "Shut the fuck up!" His voice climbed to a yell as he bit Dazai's head off.

There was the Chuuya he remembered.

Brash, loud Chuuya, who has just sent June running.

After flinching like a kicked puppy, June takes off, running and sprinting and disintegrating into the backdrop of the hallway.

Chuuya appeared to wish he could follow in the thing's example, but not before wringing his neck and leaving his corpse in the nearest brown bin. While the death aspect was endearing, Dazai'd much rather leave his forlorn body to sink down into the depths of the ocean past the fishes and crabs than become compost surrounded by worms and maggots.

…

Oh, and on his own terms, not by Chuuya's accursed hands, which were clenched into claws and trembling.

"Dazai." He growled, ready to throttle him. "Did ya have to do that?! For fuck's sake, man! We needed that to go well, and ya screwed it up in seconds!"

Dazai's brow raised. "Why?"

"I— to talk to her! We need to scope out her abili— quirk!"

"Why?"

Chuuya's hand shot out and grabbed Dazai by the collar of his blue half-zip. "Because— don't deflect!! We lost her!"

Dazai shrugged. "We can get it back. It'll be easier now, because perhaps we can herd it into a remote location."

Chuuya pursed his lips. "And if she runs again?"

"I have my gun."

Chuuya slackened his grip. "You brought shit from home?!" He hissed, eyes skittering from side to side, almost paranoid to be caught with someone who possessed a form of contraband.

Dazai smirked— an uncomfortable sense of disgust shivering up his spine— and took Chuuya's wrist in both of his hands, removing it from his clothing and letting it drop limply to his side. "Oh Chuuya, do you think of me as some brute? Where would I ever get something like that? I'm talking about a litle gadget your little friend cooked up for me!" He sung every word, but each and every one dripped with something sinister, something Dazai knew Chuuya picked up on.

I've got your friend right under my thumb. I've got your friend willing to do my bidding.

I've got your friend in the Port Mafia.

Chuuya gritted his teeth and his clenched fists glowed a crimson hue. Dazai almost snickered at how his face brightened to a matching shade, so caught up in his sheer rage that he was forgetting to breathe. How funny.

Chuuya stared, seething, his teeth grit and mouth prepared to spew venom, to lash out and burn and tear Dazai down. Dazai knew it was coming, and he would welcome it.

The tiniest of squeaks escapes his mouth as his plans of a tirade fell through— words failing him as Pro Heroes Present Mic and Eraserhead turned the corner into the open space. Dazai didn't miss the way Chuuya both deflated and gained a twinkle in his eye. He smoothed both hands over his eyes before he stood up straight and cracked his knuckles. Dazai didn't miss the heavy rise and fall of Chuuya's chest as he composed himself with a deep breath. Dazai didn't miss how he bounded over to the heroes like a child to their parents.

How revolting.

You lost your humanity long ago, how have you not realised that?

Do you ignore those fucking dead eyes every time you look in the mirror?

…not even human anymore!

His nails dug into his arms, sinking fabric into the angry wounds marring his skin.

Wide eyes— dead eyes— bore into the familial image in front of him. Present Mic's hand tousling Chuuya's hair, Eraserhead's fatherly eyes scanning Chuuya for wounds. Such a domestic thing, truly a sight for sore eyes. Did they know how many have fallen at Chuuya's hand? How the last sight of many was Chuuya standing over them? Did they know how much Chuuya has lied to them? Would they still treat him so tenderly if they knew they had been housing a mafioso under their roof?

"—Dazai?" Present Mic beckoned him over.

His hands slid up to his biceps. His arms were simply crossed now.

Dazai strolled over and choked out a giggle. "Are you here to admire my excellence in person?" He inquired, arms flying out to press a hand to his chest with dramatic flair.

Eraserhead shook his head with a sigh. Present Mic laughed. Chuuya shot him a glare.

"No, no!" Present Mic said, much louder than he needed to be, in Dazai's opinion. Too loud.

Eraserhead elbowed his husband softly. "Hizashi, volume."

The blond man blinked before he cleared his throat. "No, no." He repeated, this time at a more acceptable volume. "We just stepped out for a quick break to congratulate you guys!! First place is fantastic, especially since—" Present Mic falters—"yeah!"

Fantastic, especially since Dazai's 'quirkless'. The hero was doing a great job of preserving his self esteem. He could almost laugh.

Eraserhead nodded. "It's no easy feat, winning an event like that. Your strategy was incredible, considering your age."

Dazai exaggeratedly placed his hands on his hips. "Of course it was incredible! I made it, after all! I guess one could say that our win was all thanks to me-ee!" He sung the last word as he spun around with a flourish.

Chuuya slammed his fist into the back of his head. "Uhm, that's bullshit!? Ya might've made the plan, but it's Tetsutetsu an' me that won it for us!"

"Tetsutetsu and I." Dazai corrected.

Chuuya's teensy-weensy little body tensed and shook as his ears brunt a deep red. "You—"

"Me!"

Chuuya lurched for Dazai, only to choke after he took one miniscule step forward— Eraserhead had grabbed the collar of his t-shirt!

Dazai snickered, content to watch Chuuya be humiliated.

"Chuuya, calm down." Eraserhead lectured.

Surprisingly, Chuuya complied.

Dazai's hands fell limply to his sides.

The dark haired Pro Hero pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh. "Well, it's good that you boys are making friends, but your bickering has left us with no time to talk. You should head back to the changing rooms now."

Chuuya frowned, checking his watch. "Why? We've got five minutes left 'til the next event."

Dazai sighed, heaving a breath heavier than was necessary. "Were you listening at all Chuu-ya? Or were you too busy snuggling with your new pal Tetsutetsu?"

Chuuya opened his mouth to retort, but a sharp look from Eraserhead shut him down.

Present Mic simply shook his head with a smile. "I don't blame you for not hearing, little listener! But the next event is the traditional one v one battles! The match-ups should've been posted by now."

Chuuya suddenly stood up straight, bouncing on his feet. "OH, for real?" The enthusiasm dripped from him like sewage from a broken pipe.

"Go. If you're late this time, you won't be so lucky." Eraserhead sternly informed them.

Chuuya nodded, Eraserhead wore a little smirk, Present Mic flattened a stray hair on Chuuya's head.

And Dazai stood, and he watched.

An automated chime played through the overhead speakers— the official five minute warning.

"Go, now!' Present Mic urged, hands making a shoo-ing motion. "We'll see you later. We'll get something nice for dinner, 'kay?"

"Right." Chuuya replied, turning around with a glance sent Dazai's way.

"Is—"

Dazai was cut off by an abrupt decision on Chuuya's part. He turned his head to look at the heroes, tenatively pushing out a quick little "…bye."

Any response the men could have offered was drowned out by the speakers coming to life once more. "All students participating in the third event should now be in their changing rooms. Again, all students participating in the third event should now be in their changing rooms."

Thank goodness, the sooner they could get the fuck out of there the better.

"Let's gooooo, Chuuya!" Dazai whined. "Don't make me break out the lead!"

That got Chuuya back to normal. "Oh, fuck off with that!"

Dazai rolled his eyes. "Whatever. Race you back to the changing room?"

Chuuya grinned. "You're on!"

The two picked up into a sprint, runners squeaking on the polished floor.

For a brief moment, Dazai felt as if things were back to normal. Him and Chuuya, against the world.

A moment passed in a racing silence.

"Dazai." Chuuya called out from, admittedly, ahead of Dazai.

"What?!"

Chuuya fell back, just a bit, and looked Dazai in the eye. "I need you to cop the fuck on and be more open with me. Tell me what the fuck's going on, what the fuck you've got planned. Not just for this, for gettin' home. Our chat earlier wasn't enough."

Dazai almost gagged at Chuuya's confession. What was with this sincerity?! What was this— this— this wasn't Chuuya.

His face hardened into a cold, hard frown as he picked up the pace, passing Chuuya out.

Maybe 'normal' wasn't possible anymore.

Dazai should've stayed in Yokohama.

You'll always be Mori's puppet, you'll never change!

The stadium's atmosphere buzzed with ecstatic anticipation while Chuuya buzzed with rage. He doesn't dare glance even a centimetre to the left, lest he catch sigh of 'best buds' Hatsume and Dazai.
Fuck June, fuck Dazai and especially fuck Mei Hatsume! Absolutely nothing has been going his way as of late. His mission was failing, the mafia sent backup that was totally useless and not living up to what Chuuya needed him to be— not even including how he lost both his friend and his lead!

What would come next? Would Aizawa and Yamada discover his real motives, his real identity, his real capabilities, and leave him to fend for himself? Would they stop caring about whether he was dead or alive?

Clenched fists left his pockets and he shook some energy back into them. Whatever the hypothetical worst-case scenario, the complications were something to ponder later, for it was not the time. It would be much better to focus on the roar of the crowd, the wind in his hair and his opponent in front of him.

The speakers crackled to life and the show began.

"Aaaaaaaaaaaalriggggghhhhht listeners! Are we ready for the first 1v1 battle? Everyone say yyyyeeeeeeaaaahhhh!!!"

The crowd responds with a resounding scream of joy and excitement. Yamada's comfortingly familiar laugh booms over the intercom.

"That's what I thought! Now, our first match should be an interesting one; it's classmate versus classmate, both from Class 1-A— the hero course!"

The crowd cheered and whistled.

"This'll truly be a testament to pro hero Eraserhead's teaching— oof—!" the announcement was cut off by indistinguishable scolding before it returned— "Ahem. On one side of the field we have the winner of our first event, the boy who can bend gravity, Chuuya Nakahara!!"

Chuuya shook off whatever funk he was in and cocked his head back with a smirk. He relished in the audiences' screamed praises, and tuned out the boos.

"And on the other side is the electric, the energised, the jolting Denki Kaminari!"

Kaminari couldn't seem to decide between pumping his fists in the air or clapping, and settles for an awkward mix of both. The audience cheered anyway.

The microphone crackled as it shifted into the hands of the second, more exhausted, commentator. "You know the parameters already, so here's one last thing. This goes for all matches today; make sure to have a clean, fair fight, and Pro Hero Cementoss will be serving as your referee, and will ensure to put a swift stop to any dangerous moves."

The mic switched hands again. "Anddddddd with that! Let the first battle commence!!"

Battle, fight— same thing! Chuuya'd been itching to get into a real fight, instead of whatever mental gymnastics he and Dazai were engaged in. He'll admit, it wasn't the fog of annoyance that came as a result of Dazai's shenanigans that dulled his mafioso instincts. No, the reason why he'd struggled with reading what Dazai wasn't disclosing out loud, with analysing him was because he was just genuinely rusty.

But rust could be scraped off if you paid attention to it. It wouldn't be a bad idea to use Denki Kaminari as his analytical guinea pig as his first stepping stone.

Like two cowboys in a stand off, Chuuya and Kaminari stood opposite each other, their hands still at their sides. Chuuya's eyes trail from his opponents head down to the beat-up runners on his feet. He was going to take a minute to watch and wait.

Denki Kaminari— usually "chill" and a bit of a blockhead, but tends to perform somewhat well in regards to physical activity. He was no match for Chuuya, of course, but it'd be good to use this opportunity to note his strategies for later. In order to actually see his approach at work, he had to give the guy a fighting chance.

"Come on, Chuuya, dude!" Kaminari called, his fist hitting the palm of his hand. Visible jolts of electricity dance about upon the collision. "Let's give it our all!"

Chuuya pulled his gaze away from Kaminari's hands as he swallowed the unease that climbed up his throat. He made sure his gloves fit nice and snug, with no risk of flying right off. He cleared his throat.

"No holding back on me, alright?"

"Oh, I don't plan on it!"

Feet scuffed on the ground as the two boys threw themself into the fight, Kaminari on the offense, Chuuya on the defense. Kaminari's arms go flying every-which-way— up, down, left, right— and Chuuya dodged them accordingly.

The guy was fast. Not as fast as the mafia's trained operatives, but at the speed he was pursuing Chuuya, he surpassed some of their more skillful cannon fodder. His grin hardly faltered as Chuuya evaded every blow as he kept on trying in an adrenaline-fuelled frenzy. No matter how many energy drinks Kaminari consumed, he was no match for Chuuya.

Chuuya continued to back back back away, edging closer to the fields' boundary, prepared as Kaminari thrusted a hand aimed at Chuuya's shoulder. A lackluster gust of wind passes by his face as Chuuya threw himself to the floor. Rolling to his left and seamlessly transitioning to his feet, he took advantage of Kaminari's brief confusion to brush his foot against Kaminari's. Before he could recover, he was yanked to the floor, courtesy of gravity.

He bounced on his heels as he allowed Kaminari to scramble to his feet, a ripple of crimson flashing over him.

"Is that all ya've got?" He taunted. "Hasn't even been a minute yet."

Kaminari shook himself out with an awkward laugh. "I'm only getting started!"

The look of exhaustion in his eyes said otherwise.

Chuuya shifted from defense to something between that and offense as Kaminari unleashed a torrent of hurried, sloppy movements. It wasn't the most… poised, or electric fight he'd ever had, but it was something— something with a comforting ease and lack of emotional charge.

The crowd seemed to be enjoying the fight, so there was no shame for dragging out a few seconds longer. The excitement could last a few more seconds— he knocked another blow away with his wrist— and perhaps a reckless look into the audience would make it all the more thrilling!

He let his body fall back on muscle memory as he scanned the audience. The harsh lights meant for television prevented him from seeing past the first few rows, but the front was all he needed to see. Non-hero staff, heroes on standby as well as all the other first years were on the edge of their seats— his classmates all yelling unintelligble words.
Dazai and Hatsume were notably missing.
His field of vision pans left— it's about time he ended things— when a glinting sparkle caught his eye. Stood directly in the sunlight, flanked by Officers A and B, is Doppo Kunikida. His hair was a tad scruffy and his glasses a bit crooked, but he was undoubtedly the same stunning guy from earlier.

Chuuya's movements faltered and breath hitched with a foreign feeling, locking eyes with Kunikida from forty metres away. He swallowed a shaky breath and offers the boy a wink, and eagerly awaits how he'll respon—

Until he's reminded that he's mid-spar with a zzzzzzzzzzzzzz-pop!

Chuuya's muscles locked.

His heart stopped.

And so did his defense-to-offense tactic.

Kaminari, caught off guard, paused, too. "You okay, dude?"He asked, half-heartedly.

"Why wouldn— Why — wouldn' I be?"

When had he started breathing so heavily?

A shiver wracked up his spine. Fuck fuck fuck. What the fuck's happening whatisthis?

Kaminari's hands hovered mid-air, a neon yellow string of light rippling around his fists. Chuuya's eyes locked on and he couldn't look away. He shouldn't look away. Who knows what he'll do to him if he did.

Chuuya shook his head hard enough to hurt— he could feel his brain rattling in his skull— and attempted to swallow the lump in his throat. What was he worrying about? What could Kaminari do to him that would be so awful? The speakers roared with commentary that went unheard.

"Man, you're shaking like a leaf!"

He was?

Bringing a hand to his face, Chuuya noted the visible shake of his it. He steadied it as best as he could before playing it off as a collected move to smooth frizzed-up hair.
Hair that stood up on its' ends, as if it were affected by static—

"Electricity."

The fucking guy's quirk is electricity.

Chuuya's stomach churned.

He blinked, but his eyes wouldn't focus.

"Let's just—"' he cleared his throat— "let's get on with this."

Yet he couldn't get on with it.

Time seemed to slow.

Chuuya's body was heavy.

He blinked.

Sterile room, sterile bindings, sterile air.

He blinked.

Cold, blunt metal impaling his skin, buzzing in wait.

He blinked.

Blinding, searing pain. The scent of burnt flesh makes a home in Chuuya's nose. His throat burns, too. Odd, since nothing was shoved down there. His body jolts and shakes and jitters, and he doesn't realise, in the moment, that he's screaming.

After seconds— minutes? Hours? — of pain in his mind, he is yanked out by fresh agony blooming across his chest.

Kaminari had placed his palm right against Chuuya's sternum, and gave it everything he had.

Electricity unleashed with a flash and a bang— sending Chuuya crashing, heading straight for the little arena's border.

Someone, somewhere, let out an anguished cry bone-chillingly close by. His feet had the dignity to dig into the sand, anchoring himself just in time. He needed to regain his grip on the reality of the situation, he needed to get back in the saddle and just knock Kaminari out so he could get on with things!

So why couldn't he? Why were his eyes fuzzy and unfocused? Why were his ears ringing?

Heartbeat pounding in his ears, an aftershock wracked through Chuuya's body.

A man stands over him, watching Chuuya writhe and scream as volts and volts of electricity enter the puncture wounds defacing his body. The odor of burning flesh and helplessness chokes the room. The man does not mind.

Someone was approaching from afar. Their features are blurry. Chuuya's mind was blurry. Who was that.

He managed to stand up straight— as best as he could—, singed chest pressed out with faux confidence. He swayed on his feet, maybe he wasn't as steady as he thought.

The figure came closer. A bigger, fuzzier, figure appeared at the edge of Chuuya's vision, ready, waiting.

Chuuya blinked again, a sudden wave of nausea overcoming him.

His arms hurt. His hands hurt. His feet hurt. His body hurts. He's sick of the sterile room, the sterile walls, the sterile air. He wants to go home, but where even is that?

Suddenly, Chuuya keeled over. He heaved. He said goodbye to his breakfast, which spilled out all over the field's floor.

A trembling wrist wiped his mouth. You know what? He was feeling better already—

Something warm settled on Chuuya's back, something static. Chuuya lurched forward, and he could've sworn that his flesh was peeling back, the holes in his appendages were reopening in little bloody spurts, and a man stood over him overseeing it all.

"Nakahara…" A voice called.

Who was that? Chuuya's ears hadn't recovered.

The hand pressed firmly into his back, shocking his spinal cord with the teensiest bit of electricity—

Which was the teensiest bit too much.

His eyes flew wide open and the floor beneath them cracked, Chuuya latching onto everything that he could with Tainted.

A cry of shock from the figure behind him— one that Chuuya chose to ignore— was the cue for his ability to hear to come rushing right back to him.

The crowd yelled, cried, bood as the speakers screamed—

"Kaminari, MOVE!!!"

Chuuya's hand pressed into the figure's sternum, gripping it's blue shirt, and forced all the power he could muster into his shaky fingertips—

—and sent the figure crashing past the field, past the boundary, hurtling straight for the wall.

For a moment, just for a second, the crowd was silent, with nothing to say. They were as stunned as Chuuya was— Chuuya, who was left with his knees bucking, and a warm liquid dripping down his face.