Chapter Text
Nine months after Chuuya’s recruitment to the mafia, his phone rings in the middle of the night. He picks it up without looking at the caller ID, having learned that it can’t be anyone but his workplace anyway and that the faster, the better. “Yeah?”
“Chuuya-kun, it’s Ozaki.” That wipes the sleep out of his system. If Ane-san is personally calling Chuuya, instead of letting a grunt do it, it must be something important. “I’m sending you an address. Go there and pick up Dazai-kun. Get him to your suite. There will be a car waiting outside. Understand?”
“Yes, Ane-san.”
Only after the line goes dead does he frown into the darkness. Fetch Dazai and keep him here? What the hell did the bastard do now? There’s no time to pick his head about it because, on the rare occasion that Kouyou actually sounds urgent, he’s not planning to sleaze off.
In his hurry, he almost trips over the clothes that are scattered around his floor, which he meant to pick up about two weeks ago, but — but. The last months have been hectic. Mori has been chasing him and Dazai from one assignment to the next on top of the work they already have to do in their own branches. It’s like he’s testing their limits — not that Chuuya’s complaining, though. Working around the clock with only occasional breaks, physically exerting himself, and being useful for the organization leaves him no time to think about other things, and certainly no energy to feel the anger that’s constantly burning in his veins.
Just as promised, there’s a car waiting for him outside. The entire ride Chuuya’s legs itch with the desire to break out of the damningly slow vehicle and reach the destination over the buildings and rooftops. No matter how much he’d like to dropkick Dazai’s face sometimes, the situation seems urgent. And the car is too fucking slow, damn it.
Finally, after what seems like a hundred years, they reach the destination — a shabby motel near Yokohoma’s red-light district, one of the glowing neon letters flickering on and off. He leaves the car without a word, heading straight for the second floor because that’s what the message on his phone said — room B9.
The door opens after he twists the latch a few times, and the stench of blood that greets him nearly makes him gag. Covering his nose with a hand, Chuuya forces himself to walk inside, though. It’s not like he’s unfamiliar with the smell of death. His first memory is waking up in a pile of rubble and a fine pink mist. But there’s something chilling about walking into a scene he wasn’t responsible for. About a scene, he has to get Dazai out of…
Dazai isn’t in the bathroom — though Chuuya gets a glance at a bathtub covered in blood — but in the main room straight ahead.
He’s lying on the couch, head lolled back, the bloody mess of his arms cuffed together like he’s some sort of animal.
“Fuck.” Chuuya crouches down next to him, touching the pulse point on his neck. “Dazai,” he says. “Hey, you with me?”
His eyes flutter open, but barely.
“What the fuck did you do?” he asks but doesn’t expect an answer in his current state. Instead, he considers the chains around his wrists, which inevitably make Chuuya look at his arms. The usual bandages that Dazai wears are ripped open at places, drenched in dark blood. Chuuya wonders how the hell he hasn’t bled yet. Why he wasn’t immediately brought to a hospital and checked into a suicide watch. Why the hell they sent Chuuya over here, instead of professional help. Port mafia has their own underground doctors — hell, the boss is a fucking doctor, for fuck’s sake!
A muffled groan from above jerks him out his anger, and Chuuya makes quick work of the cuffs, before returning to Dazai. “Hey, asshole. Can you hear me?”
“Y-yeah,” Dazai croaks out, “shut up.”
Chuuya lets out a small sigh. This is as much of a good sign as he’ll get. Standing up again, he considers how to best move the prick without hurting his arms more than necessary. It will look awkward as hell, but bridal style is the best solution to this problem. Even though his ability will disable the Tainted Sorrow, Dazai’s scrawny ass isn’t going to be a problem.
He slides his hands under Dazai’s back and knees, and as expected, it’s not hard at all, although Dazai seems to think otherwise. “Noo. You —” he mumbles “— too tiny. Chuuya too small.”
“Shut up,” Chuuya replies softly and makes his way back to the door, noticing the white powder on the desk along with several bottles of gin, but choosing to ignore them. Outside, he makes quick work of the stairs before placing Dazai in the backseat and getting in the front.
The car is terribly silent except for the sound of soft rain splattering on the windows. Chuuya texts his subordinates to organize a cleanup. They don’t need the authorities on their backs just because he wasn’t careful enough and let a motel owner find a blood-stained tub and couch, and a bunch of drugs.
Thankfully, they’re already back at the hotel when Chuuya finishes with the formalities. He picks up a delirious Dazai that keeps letting out soft whines and murmurs and then gets them to his suite through the special entrance made for situations like these.
Inside his suite, he puts Dazai down on the couch before going through his kitchen and bathroom and returning with gauge, disinfection, pain killers, bandages, and any other medical supplies he could stir up.
He squeezes himself on the free spot next to Dazai and gets to work, getting Dazai out of the blood-stained shirt he’s wearing — not surprised to find his entire upper body covered in more bandages, removing the dressing around his right arm and having to take a few deep breaths at the sight of wounds running along the length of it. It looks deep, but thankfully not deep enough to kill him.
He shakes some of the disinfectant on it, which must sting enough to wake Dazai up with a violent hiss. Chuuya doesn’t stop.
“Ouch,” Dazai complains, voice weak. “I knew I should have chosen a less painful and more secure method.”
“This isn’t funny.”
“I’m not joking.”
Chuuya grits his teeth. He wants to deck the idiot in his stupid face but saves the thought for when he’s recovered. “How did Kouyou know?”
“I assume it was one of Mori’s lit— ouw!” Dazai tries to glare at him but just ends up going crosseyed. “Chuuya needs to be more gentle.”
“Dazai needs to stop doing stupid shit.” He finishes cleaning the wound and starts dressing it. “Mori’s little what?”
“Mori’s little spies. Those snitches ratted me out. If it weren’t for them, I’d be —”
He doesn’t let Dazai finish the sentence. “Boss has spies on you?”
The snort he lets out sounds more like a cough. “And on you. Do you believe Mori trusts us in anything other than eliminating whatever threat he tells us to?”
Instead of answering, Chuuya starts the same process on Dazai’s other arm. After a few moments of silence, he asks, “Why did they tell me to get you? Why not call a doctor?”
Dazai tries shrugging, winces as he does. “Probably as my punishment.”
“Hey,” Chuuya means to bite out the words but ends up saying them without any heat, “I saved your dumb life.”
“Is that supposed to make it better?”
“I swear, as soon as you’re back on your feet, I will kick your ass.”
“You can try, little cheeto.” But with that, Dazai’s eyes go bleary. He yawns. “I’m sooo tired.”
Chuuya finishes the rest of his arm in silence, listening to the steady rise and fall of the bastard’s chest. Dazai’s pants have specks of dirt and blood on them, too, and don’t look quite comfortable on him, but Chuuya’s not about to attempt to change them. He does look for the biggest sized clothing he owns, though, and leaves the stretched out pair of sweatpants and an oversized hoodie on the coffee table next to Dazai.
Once he’s finished cleaning up, he has an internal battle whether to go back to his room or stay here. Chuuya doesn’t think the bastard will wake up and try it all over again, he seemed his usual self, but he also doesn’t want to find out he was wrong, so. The other couch it is. He grabs his pillow and bedsheets from his room and then gets comfortable on the couch a few feet across from the one Dazai’s sleeping on. If the asshole even tries to move, Chuuya will hear it. A childhood on the streets made him into an extremely light sleeper. But when he’s settled down, his mind and body are still racing from the latest events.
Dazai could have died.
In the last six months, they spent a lot of their time together on missions. Wiping out enemy organizations. Bribing authorities. Watching over shipments at the dock. Finding mafia members that have gone missing. Chuuya wouldn’t go as far as saying that he has come to like Dazai — he’s still an annoying prick that plays people like they’re puppets, but. Port mafia members either treat Chuuya like he’s their personal killing dog and use him, or they fear and avoid him, both because of the infamous double black stories making their rounds. Dazai’s the only one who treats him remotely normal these days. Probably because he’s the only one who spends so much time with him anyway.
They’re not friends, but when other people feel like a burden to Chuuya, Dazai feels like relief.
So there. Chuuya’s secretly grateful, he’s still here, sleeping on the couch next to him. That’s the last thing on his mind before he slips into the welcome embrace of darkness.
—
When he wakes up the next morning, the sun’s already filtering through the vast windows and — and there are two voices murmuring words in the room. Chuuya jerks up and is surprised — really, that’s a light way of putting it — that Mori is in his suite, inspecting Dazai’s arms on the couch across from him.
“Look who decided to finally wake up,” Dazai chirps when he notices him staring.
“Shut up.” Chuuya tries rubbing the sleep of his eyes. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”
“You were drooling so peacefully. Snoring even,” Dazai chuckles, “that we didn’t want to wake you.”
So much about being a light sleeper. Living in a safe location really must be already rubbing off on Chuuya. He scowls. “I do not snore.”
Mori finally turns his attention from Dazai’s wounds to Chuuya, offering a smile. “I’m here to check on Dazai-kun. I assume you’re doing well, too then?”
There’s really no other answer than, “Sure, boss.”
“Splendid.” Mori brushes dust off his pants before getting up and looking from Dazai to Chuuya. “Well, I did come here to discuss something else.” Chuuya frowns. Dazai’s face remains a blank canvas. “I want Dazai-kun to live with you, Chuuya. Of course, only for a certain time, but you’re both young and work together most of the time, anyway.”
His first thought is to activate corruption and blast a few black holes at Mori. Because no way in hell is he going to spend all of his damn time with Dazai now. Before he can do that, Chuuya glances at Dazai, though. At the hollow look in his eyes. At the bandages around his arms. He remembers the smell of blood. The bathtub.
“Okay,” he says slowly.
Dazai finally looks at Chuuya, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “Not okay.” Both Chuuya and Mori look at him, but Dazai doesn’t cower under their gazes if not even gets grumpier. “That’s a horrible idea.”
“I’m not asking, Dazai-kun,” Mori says — no, reminds him.
With a huff, Dazai kicks the blankets aside and stands up. “I don’t want to live here. Our deal was —” he cuts himself off before finishing the sentence, straightens his shoulders and stares up at Mori. “I’m perfectly capable of living on my own.”
“Do you now?” Mori’s smile doesn’t falter, though, it takes a razor-sharp edge when he turns to Chuuya all of a sudden. “Chuuya-kun, something is waiting for you downstairs. Check it out.”
It’s not hard to guess why he’s being sent away, but Chuuya nods and leaves anyway. He feels silly riding the elevator and crossing the lobby in his PJs, although that thought vanishes when he sees the motorcycle standing outside. A copper-red bow with his name on it.
It’s beautiful. Shiny. Flashy. A mix of black and pink that makes Chuuya’s mouth water with the urge to hop on and take it for a ride.
The reminder of why he was sent here in the first place stops him. Mori must really want to keep an eye out on Dazai if he’s willing to buy Chuuya’s cooperation with it.
Funny.
They spend several days searching for the trickster girl and the friends that keep her alive, but they come up short. It shouldn’t be this hard. Not when the two of them are working together and against a few young amateurs, at best, and yet. Day four of being stuck on the same day, and it’s starting to feel like a hopeless case.
The sun is starting to descend in the sky, sending rays across Chuuya’s face as he sits on the roof of the last apartment building they looked through. Dazai’s next to him, on his back, eyes closed.
“What if never find them?”
“They will end the time loop someday anyway. It’s just a matter of speeding things up.”
Chuuya frowns. “And let their friend die?”
“There are worse things than death. I imagine having to explain to your friend that they are dead every single day is one of those things.”
“So… we just give up? And wait ’til they realize this isn’t a forever solution?”
Dazai shrugs and murmurs, “I mean, you can continue your hunt for someone you’ll probably never find, chibi, or… you can look at it as a gift.”
Scoffing, Chuuya turns around. A gift? Really? Being stuck living the same day over and over isn’t a fucking gift, it’s a curse, damn it. Especially if the only person that knows what you’re going through is a selfish bastard.
“Ouwah, chibi, I can feel you thinking from over there,” Dazai’s annoying voice interrupts his thoughts. “You were always so bad at having fun.”
“Shut up. I wasn’t.”
“Always thinking about work, work, work,” the bastard goes on, “and What will Mori say and Kouyou will be pissed. Unclench.”
Chuuya grits his teeth. “You unclench you bastard. I’d appreciate this vacation more if it wasn’t for you being here, too!”
“Ehhh, so this is all my fault now?” Dazai sits up and throws him a look. “You loathe me that much?”
Yes, he wants to scream, I hate you with the strength of a thousand suns, but admitting that would only bite him in the ass. Chuuya wishes — god, he wishes he could simply stop caring. Get Dazai out of his life once and for all, but for some reason, it feels like the universe keeps pushing them together over and over again. No matter how much Chuuya tries, what kind of path he takes, Dazai is always there at the of the road.
Chuuya’s chest rises and falls as he pointedly looks into the distance instead of the bastard’s face. “You’re annoying,” he forces out, “that’s all.”
“Really? Nothing else like —”
He shoves Dazai away with his hand before he can say anything more. “What are you going to do now?”
“Ouw.” Patting his face, Dazai scowls. “A lot of things. I could rob a store. Walk through the city naked. Fly a plane. But why bother telling you all this when you’re not going to like it either way?”
Chuuya narrows his eyes.
Dazai continues, “You’ll just go to your apartment and drink your wine and wallow in misery, while I’m going to have the most fun I’ve ever had —”
“Shut. up.”
“— because Chuuya’s sooo boring!”
“I know what you’re doing,” Chuuya snaps.
Dazai stops, raising a brow. “And is it working?”
Damn it all to hell. He jumps up. “Yes, you bastard, it’s working. I’m not boring!” he yells. And maybe it’s just the competitive streak in him that has never been able to resist Dazai’s taunting, or perhaps it’s the fact that they are stuck together ultimately. It makes everyone else in this world seem unreal in a certain way, there but not really. It’s just Dazai and him.
The smirk on Dazai’s face lights Chuuya’s chest on fire. “Prove it then.”
“What do you want me to do?!”
For the first few weeks, Dazai’s insufferable, even more so than usual, making it his mission to make living with him as terrible as possible. Loud, annoying music at eight in the morning, an empty fridge even when Chuuya just did the groceries, dirty ass socks, and underwear scattered on the floor, switching out Chuuya’s shower products. It’s like he’s actively trying to make Chuuya run crying to the boss — well, it’s probably exactly what he’s doing. Still, if he thinks he’ll win that easily, then he gravely underestimates Chuuya’s endurance. Chuuya is a badass. He’s hardcore. If he can survive to have a god ravage his body every few weeks, then a living fish in his soup won’t kill him either.
That doesn’t mean it’s any less annoying, though.
It’s his first free day in what feels like months, and he spends it on the couch. Never in his life did he own a TV before — especially not of that gigantic size — and it would be a shame if he never even used it for a lazy day.
That’s when he hears the doors open and fly shut with an unnecessarily loud bang. A few moments later, Dazai strolls into the living room. “Are my eyes deceiving me, or is that Chuuya lying down for the first time in his life?!”
“Shut up,” he replies and looks back at whatever is running on TV, “just because I’m not a lazy bastard like you, doesn’t mean I never sat on a couch.”
Dazai doesn’t retort anything. Instead, he approaches him and plops down on Chuuya’s legs.
“Get off me, you bastard,” he yells, trying to kick him off, but the mackerel is surprisingly heavy when he wants to be. “There’s another couch right there!”
Dazai sighs. not bothered in the slightest by the attempts to make him go away. “But I don’t wanna crane my neck.”
“I don’t give a shit! I was here first!”
“Eh, if you want to place this game, then I was first on earth, so…”
He manages to wiggle one leg away from under Dazai and uses it to boot his hips. “Hah? How would you even know that?!” Not even Chuuya knows how old exactly he is. He looks around fifteen, he guesses, but he only remembers half of those years, so what age does that make him?
Dazai’s eyes flash before his face splits into a goofy grin. “You’re so small. Of course, I’m older.”
“You’re not,” Chuuya emphasizes it with a kick, “so fuck off!”
“Hah, but you’re soooo comfortable and cozy.” To Chuuya’s horror, Dazai completely flops down on him, with his entire body and all, pointy joints digging into his skin. “Like a plush bear.”
“You —” He doesn’t finish the sentence as he tries wrestling Dazai off him who clings to him in return, which eventually leads to both of them rolling off and falling to the floor.
“Ouch,” Dazai complains under him, rubbing his elbow. “That’s not very nice of Chuuya.”
Chuuya, who landed with his upper body on Dazai’s chest and his legs, straddling Dazai’s right thigh, scowls as he lifts himself up and comes face to face with the bastard’s pout. “I’ll kill you someday,” he mutters.
“Hmm, sure,” Dazai says, his lashes fluttering as he blinks up at Chuuya in a daze.
“I swear, I will.”
“Somehow, I doubt that.”
“You’re only trouble.” And if that isn’t the most honest thing, Chuuya has ever said… because Dazai is undoubtedly and one hundred percent trouble, especially now, lying there, pouting, and looking like a daydream made flesh. Chuuya has sworn to himself to never go there but sue him. In the end, he’s just a teenager with eyes and hormones, too. Denying that Dazai isn’t more handsome than the average human being would be fruitless, damn it.
Distracted by the sight, Chuuya doesn’t notice Dazai sneak hand up to his arm immediately, and then it’s already too late, and the bastard flops them around, their positions reversed. Chuuya curses under his breath.
“You can try,” Dazai gloats above him, looking impossibly smug as he’s basically sitting on his crotch.
With a growl, Chuuya grabs the mackerel’s neck, shoving him away, which results in a chaotic and pretty painful wrestling match that only stops when someone’s — no, Dazai’s phone rings somewhere nearby while Chuuya has him in a headlock.
Dazai slaps the floor like a drunk seal. “Ouw — ouw — Chuuya’s — so — mean—!”
“You’re lucky work saved you,” Chuuya tells him smugly, and let’s go, watching Dazai crawl to the jacket that’s lying on the floor and get his cell phone. As he said, trouble.
Dazai accepts the phone call, and it feels like a punch to the guts — worse than whatever kick he just felt or got from any of his enemies trying to hurt him — as the bastard’s face transforms from carefree and relaxed to the stoic mask of the fifteen-year-old right hand of the mafia boss.
Chuuya expected robbing people and chaos, not getting dragged into a ramen shop downtown.
“Really,” he says, watching Dazai slurp on his noodles, “that’s your idea of fun?” And he had the audacity to call Chuuya boring! How typically Dazai to talk big words only to end up doing something totally mundane.
Dazai offers him a sheepish grin. “But Chuuya, first we have to get full, so we can have the energy to do everything we want!”
Eating. Another thing Chuuya has Dazai barely seen doing when they were teens. It was either canned crab or sugary drinks that didn’t make up for all the healthy meals he missed. Never something nutritious like ramen with veggies, eggs, and pork.
“And since we’re in a time loop,” Dazai adds, “this is technically free.”
Chuuya rolls his eyes. Of course. “What the fuck are they paying you lot at the agency that you can’t even afford ramen?” Chuuya could buy the whole shop — hell, the entire fucking line.
“Oh, enough.”
“Yeah, clearly not.”
“I guess my money spending tendencies can sometimes... be somewhat reckless,” Dazai admits and waves his hand through the air. “We’re not here to discuss that, though, chibi. Stop distracting me. And eat your food!”
“Ugh, whatever.” For once, he listens to the bastard and digs in. “What exactly do you wanna discuss then? How you want to burn down the city?”
“If you’re interested in that...”
“I’m not.”
“Okay, so how about karaoke?”
“What?”
“Karaoke,” Dazai repeats. “I bet you could deliver a stunning performance, chibi. Don't you think so as well?”
“I mean, I guess...” Chuuya’s brows furrow tightly as he imagines the two of them in a karaoke bar of all places. It's weird, yes, kind of cheesy but they've been in weirder situations throughout their years together and it's not like it matters when they're stuck in a time loop. Still. “That’s so mundane.”
“We are humans,” Dazai says with a shrug, “even you, Chuuya. Arahabaki is only a part of you.”
Sometimes, it feels like the god inside him is more than that. It feels like Arahabaki is the one in control, and Chuuya just the empty vessel carrying out his orders. Sometimes.
“Yeah. Okay. I’ll pick the songs, though,” he tells Dazai with a warning finger. “Your taste in music sucks.”
“Aww, Chuuya wants to sing with me?”
“No! I just assumed — you know what, nevermind.”
Dazai hums with a stupid grin on his face. It doesn’t look cute or anything — why would it! — but Chuuya can’t deny that the sincere smile, the one that reaches his eyes and isn’t born out of manipulation and blank amusement, suits him.
“So, what else you got?”
“Hmm, let’s see. There’s a baseball game in Tokyo on this day that we could watch. If we get up early, we could catch the train in time, and maybe take a stroll through the city afterwards. Remember that one mission we had there? We could relive some of the memories. What else? Let's see... I’ve always wanted to visit Cosmo world...”
The thing nobody ever tells you about wiping out several enemy organizations and a few buildings along with it is that it leaves you utterly drained and breathless from the pain that settles in your bones.
Everything burns. Even when corruption stops.
Chuuya lets out a whimper when he collapses on something soft and warm and instantly passes out.
When he opens his eyes again, Chuuya finds himself in their bathtub at home. The only light coming from the moonshine outside the window illuminates Dazai’s vacant gaze as he turns on the showerhead. He looks down and sees his bare chest covered in torn bits of clothing and splatters of blood. Whose exactly, Chuuya doesn’t know.
“It’s getting worse every time,” Dazai says above him, apparently having noticed his consciousness, “isn’t it?”
Chuuya doesn’t bother telling him something he already noticed himself. Closing his eyes, he momentarily loses himself in the firm pressure of water raining down on him, on its warmth, on the quiet but steady presence sitting at the edge of the bathtub. It doesn’t take long for the faces to appear, though. People he worked and fought with side by side, all of them gone now. Chuuya and Dazai ended the conflict, but how many young kids had to die before that?
It feels like everything comes crashing down on him at once — his bone-deep exhaustion, the fire in every cell of his body, all that blood and death from the last few weeks — and Chuuya barely gets out the gasp that rips itself free out of his chest. He starts coughing violently — breathing — or maybe they’re sobs, after all, when he feels a hand wrap around the back of his neck.
Chuuya looks up to see Dazai crouch in front of him, holding his gaze. In the wet bathtub. With his socks and all. “You’re still here, Chuuya. That’s what matters. You want to survive. You want to live, don’t you?”
“I…” His breathing stabilizes slowly, air getting back into his lungs. “I do.”
“Then, isn’t everything else unimportant?”
But life’s only so much worth if you’re alone. Sure, Chuuya was always ready to do whatever was necessary to survive, day for day, week for week, but now he isn’t on the streets anymore trying to come by. Port Mafia might not be the safest workplace, but it does offer him opportunities. Chances. A life worth living. And yet the people he cares about are still as fragile as glass. But just how do you tell that to someone who doesn’t even want to live?
Chuuya shakes his head and drops his gaze. “Yeah. I guess so.”
Releasing his grip, Dazai settles on the edge of the tub again, leaning on his side. “They all die. The little ones, the powerless ones.” Chuuya rests his face against his bent up knees because yes. They all die. He knows that better than anyone. “The only ones that might have a shot are the Akutagawa siblings, but even the boy with his power… he’s weak.”
“He’s only thirteen,” Chuuya murmurs. “Give him time.”
There’s a sigh. “Time won’t help him, but I might have a few other ideas on how to make him stronger.”
“Yumeno will survive. They’re strong.”
“Oh, I’m sure about that. Mori wouldn’t let that ability go to waste, so he’ll take the necessary precautions to protect them. Ours, too.”
Chuuya could laugh. “Why doesn’t it feel like he ever tried to protect us?”
“Because we don’t need it.” Raising his head — with much effort, Chuuya lifts a brow. “We’re undefeatable, chibi.”
“For the love of god, how many times do I have to tell you to stop with the nicknames?”
“You don’t like them? I never noticed.”
“I hate you.”
“There, there, I’ll stop. From now on, you’ll always be, chibi.”
“Hah?! I didn’t mean it like that!”
“It’s what you said, chibi, now no more complaints!”
They do not end up doing karaoke.
They’re on their way there, but Dazai insists on making a detour to another bar to get a drink that’s supposedly only served there, and of course, that idiot walks out without paying, so the stale-faced security tackles him to the ground. Chuuya has to deal a few blows to get Dazai out of there.
So they end up running through the night crowd, adrenaline cursing through their veins, because of a fucking thousand yen drink. God knows how many times they’ve been in this situation before — running from someone or something — but it’s the first time Chuuya can take it all in. This isn’t a life or death situation. This is just… harmless idiocy. He’s pretty sure Dazai is laughing, and it sends his whole world spinning with the absurdity of it.
When they round the corner into a smaller alley, Dazai stops and bends over, panting like he just ran an entire marathon instead of a few blocks.
“You’re an idiot,” Chuuya feels the need to tell him.
“And you’re repeating your words over and over,” Dazai replies cheerily once he gets his breath back. “Don’t you have anything else to tell me?”
For a moment, it feels like the question holds more meaning than their current situation requires, a question that’s filled with history and years of brutal survival side by side. Then Chuuya blinks, Dazai looks up at the night sky, and the tension drains out of the air.
Chuuya’s phone buzzes like it has been doing all day long. His team is most likely losing their mind over his disappearance just like they did yesterday and the day before when he finally answered one of the dozen calls at the end of the night, curious to hear what exactly would be on the other side. He ignores them now, though. Hell, they can send boss after him. It doesn’t matter if tomorrow is going to restart with a clean wipe anyway.
Dazai notices that because, of course, he does, offering Chuuya a mock-gasp. “I don’t think I have ever seen Chuuya ignore calls from work! How rebellious!”
“Oh, shut it,” Chuuya murmurs as he takes a peek around the corner, checking if there’s still someone chasing him. The coast is clear, though, so he turns back to the idiot of an ex-partner and ex... ex something. “You don’t regret it all, do you?”
Dazai’s expression doesn’t falter. “Port mafia?”
“Yeah.”
“Why would I?”
Right. It’s been so long already that Chuuya shouldn’t still feel his ribcage tighten at the implication, feel the bitterness at Dazai’s attitude. It’s so simple now. Dazai being in the agency, helping people, and once in a while cooperating with the mafia like they’re just his old friends from his hometown, but four years ago, his defection felt like a ruptured organ in the whole organization. The safety protocols got ten times more severe. There was an electric current of distrust at all times, making it incredibly aggravating to work in peace. Not to mention, that the three years Chuuya been at the mafia got turned into irrelveant dirt just because he had the misfortune of having been Dazai’s ex-partner — the person he was closest to... well, aside from Oda. Dazai left behind shambles, and Chuuya had to walk on them for the next two years.
Dazai doesn’t care about that, though. As he said, why would he?
Chuuya lets out a breath, ignoring the onslaught of memories and feelings. “Do you still want to go to the karaoke bar?”
“Neh, let’s move that over to another day. How about taking a walk?”
“Now that’s boring, shitty Dazai.” Chuuya kicks off the pavement and lands on the roof of one of the buildings in the street, making Dazai crane up his neck if he wants to look at him. Ha. Who’s the short one now? “Your ideas of fun are turning out to be awful,” he calls down. “How about you let me show what’s really good?”
Even from up here, Dazai looks unconvinced. “I don’t trust chibi.”
“Too fucking bad. As you said, we’re stuck here. Together.”
“Are you going to make climb?”
Chuuya takes a look around, neon lights flickering on and off, busy crowds walking down the main streets, reckless teens doing shady stuff in dark alleys. Yokohama’s an excellent city to have some innocent fun. Then he hears the roar of a car tearing down the street in the distance, and his chest fills with thrumming excitement. He smirks. “What do you say about a little street race?”
Dazai’s quiet for a moment, then he tilts his head. “I want a car.”
“Use whatever the fuck you want. Race in a helicopter for all I care.”
“Be careful what you wish for, Chuuya!”
“I’m not wishing for anything,” he snaps. “So. Meet in front of the headquarters one hour from now?”
Instead of an answer, Dazai gives him a two-finger salute and then disappears into the shadows. Chuuya heads home over the rooftops to get his bike because his baby is already the best one out there.
This should be fun.
—
Judging by the date on his too bright phone screen Chuuya slept for nearly two days. With a groan, he sits up in his bed, every muscle and bone in his body aching. He doesn’t remember walking into his rooms. He doesn’t remember much of anything aside from small scraps of bloody knuckles, streets full of corpses, and sitting in the bathtub, crying.
Chuuya closes his eyes for a moment, letting the gulf of grief wash over him one last time before pushing it all into a dark corner and focusing on now, on surviving, on not letting something like that happen again. There’s a bottle of water standing on his nightstand that he downs. It doesn’t help much with the way he wobbles standing up, but it quenches the thirst.
Slowly, he makes his way past his bedroom threshold, his insides buzzing like insects as he walks into the living room where he finds Dazai, sitting on the couch and going through a stack of papers on the table in front of him, a cup of coffee in his hands.
He looks up, and Chuuya sees that Dazai doesn’t look much better than Chuuya feels, dark rings under his eyes that stand out on the sickly pallor of his skin. “You woke up,” he says.
“I did.” Chuuya remains next to the wall — partly because he’s not sure whether he should force himself to eat despite the nausea, or collapse next to Dazai and watch him work for once, and partly because his legs are still way too unsteady.
“Feeling rested?”
“Hardly.”
“Yeah.” Dazai lets out a small sigh and glances at the files in his lap. “Mori officially announced me as an executive.”
Chuuya blinks. “Huh.” Silence reigns over his mind, wiping away every thought he might have on this. “Congratulations?”
“You don’t need to sound so enthusiastic. It wasn’t my idea to give me all the credit for ending the conflict.”
Rolling his eyes, Chuuya wobbles over to the table and flops down on the floor. “Shut up. I don’t give a shit.” If anything, the decision to make Dazai an official executive at that age is tightening the leash on him. He’s bound to Port Mafia in every way there is. It would be nearly impossible to lose the collar Mori put around him at this stage, though Chuuya doubts Dazai would even entertain the idea. He’s perfect for this job.
“Hmm.” Dazai hums and then shoves his cup of coffee towards Chuuya. “Here, drink. You will get your strength back.”
He takes a sip but immediately regrets, making a face. “I swear, Dazai, the thing that will kill you, in the end, will be diabetes.”
“Oh, suicide by diabetes? I wonder if that’s as lovely as it sounds…”
“Please, shut up.”
Chuuya’s smiling, though. Not really sure why because it’s Dazai and now that he’s wearing an executive title things are bound to get even more hectic, but at least, they’ll go through that together.