Chapter Text
Illustration by Angella (tumblr/twitter)
In such a large and bustling town as Yokohama, there seldom existed an opinion that could be considered universally shared among those who called the port their home.
Owning the distinct privilege of being the subject of one such shared opinion, Dazai Osamu seemed to luxuriate in the whispers and sharp looks that followed him from the parties of upper society to the rookeries of the slums. If one were to step into any given tavern or bar, they might find a number of individuals who claimed to have been entertained by the young nobleman, and perhaps only one out of twenty would be lying. It was in universal agreement that the low-born heir of the Mori Estate was clever beyond necessity and shameless beyond reproach, his name infamous both for the respect his works garnered and the rumors that hung about him on any given day.
Where there was no small desire for notoriety among many of the upper class, the infamy enjoyed by the young man was such that only he, among his family, had cause to enjoy.
“Does the reputation of this family mean nothing to you?”
Rolling his eyes, Dazai continued to stare out the window of the sitting room, content to observe the business of the street below him rather than to meet his adoptive father’s glare. “If the reputation of this family can be destroyed by the actions of a single man then it is not much of a reputation to begin with.”
“I did not come here to play word games, Osamu.”
Dazai turned from the window to fix his father with a dry look. Perhaps, if Mori Ougai had taken the young orphan under his wing out of the kindness of his heart rather than from a desire to appear charitable, Dazai would be more concerned with the man’s approval.
As things stood: “Please enlighten me, father, why did you arrive unannounced at my door?”
Getting to his feet, Mori moved toward the door to the sitting room, pausing to lift his jacket from the stand by the door. “Clean up your act, immediately. If I do not hear of significant improvements to your behavior within the fortnight, you will no longer be able to finance your frivolities with my purse. Understood?”
“Would it not reflect poorly on the family if you let your heir live in anything less than luxury?”
“With your reputation, not a single contemporary would judge me for it. They may only question that it took me so long to rebuke you,” Mori replied without turning. “Good day, Osamu.”
Scowling after the man he somewhat ironically referred to as his father, Dazai turned the seriousness of the threat over in his mind, loathe to admit that he found it unlikely that Mori was bluffing at all in the matter.
Even as highly sought after a writer as he was, he would never make enough to maintain the lifestyle he was afforded as the Mori heir. It was… more credible a threat than Dazai would be willing to admit, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth as he considered his options.
He didn’t have many, and the idea of “cleaning up his act” was made only more unpalatable by the fact that he would be doing it at Mori’s command. As if the entire point of cultivating such a reputation was not to get underneath the man’s skin and demonstrate just how little Dazai thought of the lauded Mori Estate.
Still, Mori had given him a fortnight, and Dazai himself couldn’t quite imagine the amount of trouble he could get himself into over the course of thirteen days before “miraculously” turning over a new leaf. Which meant there was no time like the present to get started.
Striding across the sitting room, he grabbed his coat and plucked a pair of clean white gloves from the drawer in the entryway.
It was time to see how much of Dazai Osamu Yokohama could handle.
By the time Dazai stumbled into the shipping warehouse well-known among low society for the intensity of its boxing matches, he had a young lady on each arm and was well more than a quarter of the way to complete inebriation.
While the towering sailor standing guard at the warehouse’s entrance did not look pleased to let the women into the event, it merely took a few clever words and a few more yen notes to convince the doorman to look the other way as the young—heiresses? Noblewomen? Prostitutes?—'whatever they considered themselves' accompanied Dazai into the crowd of rowdy and drunken spectators.
It was stiflingly hot; unbearably noisy; the room stank of liquor, smoke, sweat, and blood; and it made Dazai laugh at the familiarity. For the few fleeting hours of the night, he felt more human than he did at any other time of day, and the fact that his presence was clearly being noted by those around him, and would no doubt make it back to his dear father’s ear by dawn, only made it all that much sweeter.
The crowd was too riled up and too inebriated to part a path for him but Dazai paid it no mind, tugging the giggling ladies further into the fray until they were standing just feet away from the ring sectioned off with thick rope. In the front of the crowd, he could easily see the two fighters preparing for the match.
On one end was a boxer he knew quite well from previous fights, the giant standing easily at six feet and muscled heavily to match. If Dazai wasn’t mistaken, and he rarely was mistaken, the man was the current champion of the city, riding high from months of consecutive wins.
In the other corner was the champion’s opposite in every way: a man who stood shorter than either woman Dazai had brought with him and just as slender as both. His blue eyes were bright even in the dim lighting as he studied his opponent, red hair tied back in a horse’s tail to reveal quite the handsome face.
Curious, Dazai pulled several yen notes from his wallet and held them in the air, only having to wait mere seconds before a booking fellow was standing before him. “What can I put you down for, mister?”
“Who is the newcomer?” Dazai asked, nodding to the redheaded man currently stretching his arms across his bare chest, seemingly oblivious to the taunts of the spectators around him.
“Name’s Chuuya,” the booker replied, “it’s his first fight here, but he claims he did boxing while abroad in the service.”
“His odds?”
“Fifty to one, in favor of Tatsuya. He’s got Chuuya outmatched on all fronts.”
Dazai grinned and pulled out more notes, “Perfect. Put me down five thousand yen on Chuuya.”
The booker’s eyebrows flew up and he stared at the money before accepting it and taking down the amount in the (noticeably) empty column under Chuuya’s name. “And your name?”
“Dazai.”
Recognition flickered on the booker’s face but he didn’t comment on Dazai’s identity other than to put it down on his slate. “Good luck, mister.”
Waving the booker away, Dazai turned back to studying Chuuya, taking in the defined muscles that rippled across the boxer’s chest and torso. He had seen Tatsuya fight, knew the man’s strategy was boorish in its simplicity, relying solely on his heavy punches to land often and hard. A quick and sure-footed fighter, with an eye for what they were doing, could topple the champion from his perch without much trouble.
Something about Chuuya made Dazai believe the newcomer was that very type of fighter.
The bell for the first match rang not even ten minutes later and the two fighters moved a meter apart, separated by the respective umpires as the sparse rules were discussed and agreed upon by both men. Then, the umpires were backing away and one was raising an empty pistol to the warehouse ceiling.
The gunshot cracked through the noise of the crowd and Chuuya moved so quickly that one blink at the wrong time might have caused you to miss him. He darted in low, swinging underneath Tatsuya’s predictable left hook and bringing his elbow up to clip Tatsuya underneath the chin.
Tatsuya dropped like a stone.
Silence spread through the room so quickly that Dazai tore his gaze away from the pint-sized boxer to make sure he hadn’t missed some cataclysmic event. The other spectators were stunned, their punitive expectations shattered within mere seconds by Chuuya’s speed.
Smirking to himself, Dazai looked back to the ring where Chuuya had already turned his back to the downed Tatsuya to return to his corner, accepting a can of water from the waiting boy and draining it in one gulp as the night’s officiant hastily stuttered out the round one victory to the newcomer.
Tatsuya pulled himself to his feet, rubbing at the angry red welt underneath his chin and glaring at Chuuya before turning to his own corner, sitting heavily on the waiting knee man (who grimaced considerably at the sudden weight on his outstretched leg).
The thirty-second respite between rounds was over quickly and then Chuuya and Tatsuya were once again standing a meter away and the pistol was being aimed toward the ceiling.
When the pistol fired, there was no sudden flash of movement from the redhead. Instead, he seemed to wait for Tatsuya to make a move, his expression blank but something akin to amusement in his eyes. It took no time at all for Dazai to understand: the speed of the first round had been a warning to Tatsuya and a statement not to underestimate Chuuya, now the slender boxer was toying with the giant.
Grinning unabashedly, Dazai watched the newcomer play cat and mouse with the larger boxer, though only Chuuya and Dazai seemed to truly understand which fighter was the cat and which was the mouse.
The stunned silence from earlier was quickly destroyed, spectators yelling and jeering as Chuuya weaved around each punch Tatsuya tossed his way, never staying in one place long enough for the champion to land a hit. As Chuuya pivoted on the ball of one foot, slipping underneath Tatsuya’s outstretched arm and sliding behind the giant’s back, he lashed out with his other leg, catching Tatsuya off-guard and sending him sprawling on the warehouse floor to the screams of the onlookers.
As the officiant shouted the victory to Chuuya once more, blue eyes locked on Dazai’s and, quite suddenly, it felt as if the rest of the room faded away. Not even the women hanging on either arm so much as registered to the young noble as he stared, reading an intelligence in the blue gaze that Dazai would not have anticipated from a fighter in an illegal boxing ring.
One eyebrow quirked up, curiosity coloring Chuuya’s expression as if the fighter could tell that Dazai, and Dazai alone out of the hundreds of spectators, had seen Chuuya for the threat that he was and gambled accordingly.
And then the moment was gone, Chuuya breaking eye contact to walk back to his corner and drain another can of water before the third round.
All told, it took twenty rounds for the match to be called in Chuuya’s favor, Tatsuya only winning one of the twenty with a wild punch that had just managed to clip Chuuya round the side of his head. Smugly, Dazai accepted his winnings from the astonished booker, and breezily made excuses to his company, urging them to go on without him.
The warehouse emptied quickly as Dazai skirted the edge of the ring to where Chuuya was letting the outfit’s doctor examine his head. As he got closer, and as the noise began to die down, Dazai could make out Chuuya’s voice.
“Honestly, it looked like a harder hit than it was, and I’ve taken worse. I’m fine,” Chuuya snapped as the doctor prodded. A harsh poke to undoubtedly tender skin earned the medic a snarl and Chuuya stepped out of reach to jerk a thumb at Tatsuya. “He needs your services more. Go on before I lose my temper.”
Looking considerably offended, the doctor picked up his bag and crossed the ring to the scowling former champion. Chuuya waved off both his knee and water men and Dazai watched at a respectable distance as the fighter accepted his winnings and stuffed them into his pocket.
Only when Chuuya was alone, shrugging on his shirt, did Dazai approach, a lazy smile curling on his lips as he said, “That was quite the match.”
Blue eyes flicked up and Chuuya let out a snort, “Should’ve guessed you would be the one to actually talk to me.”
“Oh? And why is that?” Dazai asked, stepping closer.
The fighter shrugged, finishing the buttons of the plain shirt and grabbing the worn jacket that had been folded underneath. “You were the only person in this entire joint who didn’t look surprised when I knocked him on his ass.”
“I did bet five thousand yen on you, I don’t make it a habit to bet on the person I anticipate to be the loser.”
Chuuya paused, one arm in the sleeve of his jacket while the other sleeve dangled behind his back, his gaze returning to Dazai’s face and scanning it: searching for a lie. When he found none, the man finished putting on his jacket, “Well, you’re welcome, then.”
“How gracious of you to say when I haven’t yet gotten a chance to express my gratitude.”
“I could’ve sworn you had a pair of ladies to entertain. Won’t they be missing you?”
Dazai waved a hand through the air in dismissal, “I sent them on their way, you’re much more intriguing. What do you say, Chuuya, can I buy you a drink?”
There was a long pause as Chuuya finally turned to face Dazai completely, his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes slightly narrowed as he considered the offer.
Belatedly, Dazai remembered the booker mentioning that Chuuya had just returned from service abroad and, given how skilled Chuuya had been in the fight, it was likely he had returned from active combat abroad. It would explain why Chuuya was so hesitant to go anywhere with a near stranger or take any kindness at face value.
A soldier, Dazai certainly wasn’t. Most people who knew of him would probably laugh at the very idea of him in the army, much less taking orders from a commanding officer. However, he recognized the hard glint of a life full of harshly-learned lessons in Chuuya’s stare, and it was that recognition that kept him from trying to persuade Chuuya to join him. Instead, he waited, keeping his expression open and patient.
After several minutes of silence, Chuuya nodded slowly, “Have a name?”
Offering his hand, still covered with a white glove, he said, “Call me Dazai.”
There was no spark of awareness at his name as Chuuya shook his hand, that alone confirming that the fighter hadn't spent much time in Yokohama as of late. “Fine, Dazai, you can buy me one drink, as long as it isn’t someplace stuffy.”
Dazai laughed, “I have just the place in mind.”
The pub was small and well-frequented without being too rowdy. It was the work of minutes for Dazai to pick out a table and lead Chuuya to it, and the moment they sat down a server was beside them ready to take orders.
“The usual for you, Dazai-san?”
He nodded and glanced at Chuuya out of the corner of his eyes, quite curious as to what type of spirits the boxer favored. If he had to guess, Dazai might have ordered the darkest beer the pub had to offer.
Instead, when the server looked at Chuuya, the fighter asked, “What wines do you have?”
Dazai blinked as the server rattled off a few options, getting stopped only four types into the list by Chuuya nodding and saying he would take a glass of the last one mentioned. As the server left to get their drinks, Dazai found himself abandoning any expectations he had of the redhead seated across from him and he shifted to meet Chuuya’s gaze.
“The booker mentioned you’re recently back from travel abroad,” he commented, keeping his voice idle despite his intrigue.
Chuuya shrugged, looking away to study the pub, blue eyes skimming over the other patrons with something too sharp to be idle observation. “Just came into port two days ago, from Europe.”
“Two days? And you immediately throw yourself into the boxing ring?”
Another shrug. “Just for something to do.”
“Did you fight abroad?”
A single eyebrow quirked upwards, “I was abroad fighting in the damned war, there was plenty of physical labor so boxing wasn’t of interest to me.”
Dazai was prevented from having to verbally navigate the minefield he apparently stepped into with his question by the arrival of their drinks. (Though he was slightly disappointed to be deprived of the chance to poke at Chuuya a bit more.)
Blue eyes scanned the room again, Chuuya tapping his fingers on the table next to his glass of wine as if the movement was more subconscious than anything else. There wasn’t anything casual about his study of the tavern, Chuuya’s gaze was assessing, much the same way it had been in the boxing ring when he had sized up his opponent. It was the type of stare that Dazai normally saw in the mirror (or on his father’s face) rather than in another, and an idea started turning over in his head that was as insane as it was brilliant—which was quite normal for him, in all honesty.
“So, if fighting is a new hobby for you, what brings you to Yokohama?” Dazai asked as he lifted his tankard, voice careless as if Chuuya’s response didn’t mean much to him either way.
“Family affairs,” Chuuya replied, voice just as airy even as his eyes flicked back to Dazai with the same assessing weight that they had given the rest of the room. “Have to set a few things in order, then I suppose I’ll have to find something more respectable to occupy my time.”
“Not interested in going back to the war?”
Chuuya sipped his wine, giving a thoughtful hum as he swallowed before he said, “The only people interested in going to war are fools.”
That pulled a smirk out of Dazai, “I agree, though I find that few people share that sentiment, much less are bold enough to say it to a near stranger.”
“You don’t strike me as the moral upstanding member of society type.”
“Oh? Why not?”
“You bet a significant amount of money on an illegal boxing match, for one,” Chuuya said, voice dry.
Dazai’s smirk widened, “That is true.”
The fighter took a longer draft from his alcohol, his own expression quite blank. After a moment, he nodded, “And what is your story?”
With a shrug, Dazai leaned back in his seat, “By profession, I am a writer. Novels and short stories, mostly, though I do script the occasional play when I’m asked. Nothing quite so harrowing as being a soldier, of course.”
“A writer,” Chuuya repeated, sounding skeptical.
“Not quite what you expected, I gather.”
“You strike me as a spoiled heir more than a well-respected author.”
Quirking an eyebrow, Dazai mused, “I wasn’t aware the two were mutually exclusive.”
Blue eyes rolled as Chuuya managed to look both annoyed and slightly bemused at Dazai’s responses. “I would classify you as a spoiled heir first and a writer second.”
“Chuuya,” Dazai’s voice dripped with mock offense, “we’ve only just met, I’ve been so kind as to buy you a drink, and you’re so dismissive of my work. You know they say artistic types are sensitive.”
“Is that what they say?”
“Ceaselessly.”
There was a pause as Chuuya eyed him over the rim of his glass, as if trying to decide if Dazai was serious or merely ridiculous. After a moment, the boxer snorted and shook his head. “You’re something else, Dazai.”
He lifted his glass in a mock toast, voice rising and dipping with an actor’s dramatic cadence, “Thank you. I do believe there is nothing quite so difficult to accomplish in society than to truly be yourself.”
“Let me guess… you know that firsthand?” Chuuya almost sounded bored but his gaze was sharp on Dazai’s face, searching for something. “You’re stuck with the family rules and expectations and you drown in booze and women to prove to yourself that they don’t control you?”
The words caught him off-guard and, for just a moment, he merely blinked at the other man. All at once, Dazai thought he understood the stunned expression that had been on the face of Chuuya’s opponent earlier in the night because he too (albeit it in a starkly different manner) underestimated the boxer. Had merely assumed a man who took to violence as a sort of sport wouldn’t be able to see through the facade so many in high-society wore like well-fitted gloves.
This man was intelligent.
Making note of the fact and tucking it away for further examination later, Dazai shrugged, switching right back to nonchalance in the middle of the movement. “I see Chuuya can already read me like an open book~.”
“I’m familiar with your type.”
“Oh? Then dazzle me: what else can you tell about me?”
Chuuya swept his gaze over Dazai’s face, expression nearly piercing. There was a hint of thoughtfulness in the stare. “I can tell that you wanted to buy me a drink for some other motive besides vague curiosity.”
“To think you’re making money on your fists when you could be a scholar!”
“Are you going to stop deflecting and tell me what it is?”
Briefly, Dazai entertained the idea of making Chuuya work for the answer. Of pushing the man’s buttons more pointedly than he had before, a counter to the way Chuuya was prodding at him. Instead, he offered Chuuya his most charming smile, “I would like you to pretend to be my fiancé.”
Chuuya blinked, staring at Dazai as if he had grown a second head, before laughing. “The truth, Dazai.”
“I’m being extremely serious.”
Slowly, Chuuya’s laughter died down as he met Dazai’s stare and realized that Dazai was, in fact, being serious. He shifted from amusement to disbelief with considerable speed. “Why the hell would I do that?”
“It would be for considerable compensation, for some mere months, at most.”
“I’ve no need for your money.”
That earned a raised eyebrow from Dazai. “Connections, then? You would be invited to all the gatherings I attend, there will be no shortage of people with influence and, considering you’ve been abroad, such connections would go a long way.”
From disbelief to unimpressed, Chuuya leaned back in his own seat, “Another thing I don’t need.”
“Name your price, then.”
“Tell me why you’re searching for a fake fiancé and I might consider it.”
Unable to resist a melodramatic sigh, Dazai asked, “Are you familiar with Mori Ougai?”
“Largely by reputation.”
“For lack of a better, more accurate, word that is fit for… moderately polite company, he is my father.”
“Ah.” No less than a dozen things managed to be conveyed in the single syllable and Chuuya looked more willing to entertain the request than he had mere seconds previously. “I assume the point of this is to annoy your father rather than a ruse to actually get married.”
Unable to resist the urge to scoff, Dazai drained the rest of his liquor. “If I actually wanted to get married there are more than enough options for me to choose from.”
“And eventually breaking off the engagement? That can ruin a nobleman’s reputation.”
“I don’t have much of a reputation to ruin in that regard—”
“Fine.”
“—after all, it’s not as if Chuuya is…” he trailed off mid-sentence. “You’re agreeing to do it?”
That hint of bemusement was back on Chuuya’s face and Dazai itched to wipe it off despite not exactly knowing why he’d like to do so.
“Yes, I am.”
“Why?”
Finishing his own drink, Chuuya got to his feet with a shrug. “It seems like a decent way to integrate myself back into civilian society, and I’m curious what a conversation between you and Mori Ougai looks like.”
All things considered, Dazai supposed that was decent enough reasoning and he left payment for their drinks on the table, getting to his feet as well. “My most recent script is premiering on stage at the theatre in three days with a party to follow. That will be the perfect time to announce our engagement.”
“Three days? I suppose I could do that.” Offering a hand to shake, Chuuya said, “I will see you then, Dazai.”
Accepting the hand, Dazai adjusted the grip with the ease of much practice, bringing the back of it to his lips for a kiss. The motion wouldn’t go unnoticed by the other patrons of the bar and, even if no one would currently take it for anything other than Dazai being the flirt he was known to be, it would be remembered when Chuuya made his appearance at the opening.
Not to mention, it was oh so amusing to see Chuuya caught off-guard. Dazai released his hand with a wink, “Until then, Chuuya.”