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Chuuya sits with his feet planted on the concrete ground, wrists trapped against a cold metal table. It takes a lot to layer indifference over his expression. Not only because he’s always been a very energetic and colorful person. But he’s seen a lot of people, dealt with different types of filth. There’s nothing quite like the person in front of him. Something tells him that showing a strong reaction will not be to his best interests.
And so, his voice is low and flat when he asks, “…You’re my lawyer?”
“That’s me!”
A cheerful grin and a jaunty wave. With a tan coat draped over the arm that’s not busy waving ‘hello’ at him, the other man is in striped blue long-sleeves, dark slacks. Cheap leather shoes, judging from the click of his heels against the floors. Bandages peek out from the other’s sleeves and collar. Brown hair all fluffed out, as though the other’s rolled directly out from bed. A small leather satchel instead of a briefcase.
All in all, he looks like some post-grad student meeting someone for coffee.
And it’s that kind of casual lightheartedness that raises Chuuya’s hackles.
This is, after all, the deepest bowels of Yokohama Prison. Even if one lived under a rock, there’s no way that anyone could miss news about the serial murders. There’s no way one can miss Chuuya’s numerous ‘wanted posters’. His face is practically plastered all over the city.
And yet, this lawyer of his takes one look at him, and smiles at him so brightly like they’re childhood friends who’ve been reunited after years of separation.
“Rejected.” He twists his lips. “You look like some conceited brat.”
A tilt of the head. It jostles a pair of glasses that hangs on the other’s chest pocket. “You’re saying that you don’t think I can get you out of here?”
Chuuya rolls his eyes. Doesn’t bother pointing out that there are surveillance cameras focused on each corner of this room. No such thing as lawyer-client confidentiality, not for the most fearsome serial killer in Yokohama’s history. Doesn’t bother mentioning that there’s several men standing guard just-outside the room. The entire world clamoring for Chuuya to be given the maximum sentence.
“There’s overwhelming evidence of my crimes.” He doesn’t feel guilty for them, not exactly. Sure, he would have preferred that he didn’t get caught—prison food is abysmal and the solitary isolation room stinks. Shirase and the others are long gone. Randou is long gone. It’s only him and the bloodthirsty creature deep inside him. And now, there’s this smiling bastard. “You look like a sore loser, so this isn’t going to be fun for you.”
Another tilt, this time to the other side. The man doesn’t take the seat directly across Chuuya’s. Instead, he parks his ass over the edge of the table, maintaining an increased height disparity between them. There’s a certain look in the other’s eyes that remind Chuuya of snakes that have woken up from a long hibernation. A cock of an eyebrow. “You think I’m here to have fun?”
Blatant posturing. Chuuya rolls his eyes again, squares his shoulders against the chilly metal back of his chair. He’s all languid grace—like this, slipping his hands and feet out of their respective manacles is easy. But there are way too many layers separating him from the outside world. It should be easier to escape during the hearing—not that he’s all that interested in planning an escape.
Right now, he kind of wants to kick this brat’s teeth in. Because his gaze is itchy to the skin. Because his smile is annoying. Because his limbs are all shackled, kicking or punching is currently out of the question. He’ll settle for peeling off the other’s skin with his gaze, forcing him to molt off, like the snake that he is.
“You’re what, some spoiled brat who wants some thrills in life?” Possibly from a rich family—even if his clothes don’t exactly reflect wealth. Definitely from a powerful background. The blatant cheerfulness can’t quite disguise the other’s hollowness. “And what, because nobody else wants to take my obviously doomed case, you’ve volunteered?” He clicks his tongue, and tucks in a sarcastic, “Out of the goodness of your heart, I’m sure.”
Brown eyes blink at him. They look darker now—oh, it’s because the other has leaned in further, closer. A slow lick of lips, as though tasting the air. Really like a snake.
“…Mm, I usually don’t accept such blistering character dissections from people who don’t even know my name.”
“Don't worry, I’ve been addressing you as ‘slimy snake bastard’ in my head,” Chuuya offers with a raised eyebrow.
“Dazai Osamu.” A finely-boned hand extends towards him. Wrist wrapped in bandages, up until the jut of the wrist-bone. Slight calluses, but the fingertips don’t look to be chewed clean. Pale pink nails. Healthy and well-groomed. A light scent of perfume that calls to mind smoked apples.
“Most displeased to meet you,” Chuuya growls out, tapping his hands against the metal table. He’s not interested in returning the handshake anyway. Something tells him that doing so would be like agreeing to a deal with the devil.
Dazai’s smile grows teeth. “Now, now, Chuuya, is that the attitude you should show to someone who can take you out of here?”
“Getting awfully familiar, huh?”
“I studied your case for an entire night.” This is said with an air of an aggrieved student forced to cram for a pop-quiz. “I believe I deserve to call you by your name, ne, Chuuya?”
“You believed wrong.”
“How cruel, you’re going to make me cry.” There is nothing on the other’s countenance that suggests he’s anywhere near tears. Unless one counts crying from laughter.
“You can go cry far away from me then.”
“Mm? You don’t want to see me in tears?” Fluttering eyelashes. “How sweet of you, I’m blushing.”
“I don’t want to see you, period.”
The annoyances that he’s encountered in his life have all been resolved by his fists or his knives. This shitty Dazai who’s masquerading here like he’s on some sightseeing trip… something about him boils his blood.
“Say, you’ve managed to be active for four years,” Dazai suddenly brings up, tone conversational even if the topic is anything but. And then his tone changes to something almost soft and fond, “Despite the violent methods of killing, you’ve managed to stay under the radar for four years.”
This person… there’s zero disgust. There’s no obsessive, fanatical glee though. Unlike the other two people who’ve visited him, offered their expertise as psychological counsel. One with a strange clown make-up. One Russian guy who describes his crime scenes with an almost-reverence. Chuuya has banned both of them from his visitors list.
Dazai’s attitude is somewhere in the middle, no, somewhere on another plane entirely.
That doesn’t mean that Chuuya’s going to allow himself to be swept into whatever he’s planning. They’re strangers, but there’s something familiar about him. Like Dazai’s someone that he’s seen whenever he looks into the mirror and sees a yawning darkness. “You’re supposed to be my lawyer and you don’t even know that?”
“Haven’t you ever wondered how the police managed to track you down?”
Of course he’s wondered. He’s not been particularly careful about clean-up of his DNA, because he knows that he doesn’t have a record, given that he’s someone who’s been dumped somewhere and picked up by a local juvenile gang. But he’s always managed to destroy security camera footage, and he’s always been able to silence witnesses. With Sheep gone and with the only parental-figure he’s ever known lost to sickness, there’s nobody else around to know about his plans or his movements.
He deliberately did not follow a pattern in choosing his victims. He’s strong enough to follow-through his random attacks.
So of course he’s fucking wondered. But it’s not like they’d tell him about it, would they? There’s no damn point in asking.
But then, there’s Dazai, leaning even closer, until they’re nose-to-nose, the other’s body twisted like a nimble snake atop the table. “Want me to tell you?”
“And what the fuck do you want in exchange, huh?” The only thing he knows is that there’s an anonymous tip involved.
“Oh, you think I’m the sort who only operates in deals?”
“You’re saying I’m wrong?”
Dazai’s smile becomes tender, like a beating heart suddenly exposed after he opens up a person’s ribs using his bare hands. His exhale is warm against his mouth, a sure sign of life when the rest of him looks like a statue desperately trying to pass itself as human. “I’m saying I’m amazed that you’re able to read me so well.”
“You reek of assholery, that’s why.”
“Would an asshole offer to trade you such valuable information?”
They’re strangers who’ve known each other not even a full hour, but it’s with conviction when he retorts, “You would.”
“I would,” Dazai agrees. “One kiss, and I’ll tell you.”
Chuuya takes a moment to consider it. This person’s mouth is surely poisonous and kissing him is such a bad idea. Then again, if the recordings show that this person has behaved in a manner that requires him to be stripped of his privilege to represent him, then that’s also a victory for him.
Said moment is apparently too long for Dazai, who jeers, “Oh, don’t tell me this is your first k—”
—He kisses him, plunging his tongue inside in a forceful stab to halt the stream of grating words.
Further proving his suspicion that the other is a crazy person, Dazai moans in delight at this, and tangles their tongues further in particularly filthy kiss. Definitely not something traded between two strangers. It’s even more passionate than an embrace shared by war-torn lovers. Chuuya gives as good as he gets, nipping at the other’s mouth as though to punish it for its owner’s irritating behavior. Given that Dazai has the advantage of having two hands that aren’t shackled, he runs them through red hair, following the curve of his scalp and then curving like a manacle over his nape and neck.
Strangely enough, the guards don’t rush inside to separate them.
Both of them are panting by the time they separate, Chuuya’s back arched off his chair. There’s a red flush over Dazai’s cheeks, and there’s undeniable shine painted over his eyes and his mouth. While it’s not Chuuya’s first kiss—there were those fumbling practices with Shirase; the stiff, stilted ones with Yuan; that time he’s kissed a band-aid-wearing mafia member to distract him—it’s definitely the strangest and filthiest that he’s ever had.
He’s still rather dazed from it, that it takes him several moments to understand Dazai’s next words.
“Your murder methods were interesting so I wanted to hire you to kill me.” Dazai says this with a dreamy look on his face. “But I couldn’t get your contact information, so meeting you this way is my best option.”
Chuuya blows up the moment he gets it. The chains rattle sharply when he tries to lunge at Dazai, snapping his teeth at him. For his part, Dazai is quick to slither away, just-away from biting distance. “It was you?! The one who provided the anonymous tip?!”
“Yup, that’s me!”
“I’m going to fucking kill you!”
“That’s music to my ears,” Dazai says with a satisfied grin. “Though if you wish to take me out on a date first, I certainly wouldn’t mind.”
Such a shameless response reduces him to inelegant spluttering, and he can only shake in his seat, filled with barely-constrained rage as he snarls, “You—!!!”
Clapping his hands together like everything’s just peachy, Dazai then hops off the table and starts picking the lock on Chuuya’s chains. “Now that that’s settled, how about we get out of here, then?”
Chuuya looks at the door, and still doesn’t see any guards hurtling inside. “You planned all of this?!”
“Because it’s our first date,” Dazai says simply. “You can take care of planning our second.”
“You—!!”
“But, if you’d like to have our second date be all about hunting down Fyodor-kun—oh, the rat-faced one who wanted to make you plead insanity defense?—I also wouldn’t mind.”
“…You’re fucking crazy,” is what eventually leaves Chuuya in a deflated sigh. Damn it, he knew his instincts were spot-on when they sensed Dazai being troublesome.
“Fufufu. You do find me interesting this way, right?”
Chuuya stares at the way Dazai’s hands wrap over his wrists as he unclasps the cuffs there. He clicks his tongue and says, “You’re very annoying”, but doesn’t refute the other’s words.
Dazai beams at him, like he understands him fully.
It’s an addicting prospect, one that the dark beast inside him longs for. To be seen and understood. To be accompanied in this path. And so Chuuya’s first action upon getting freed is to punch Dazai in the face. His second action is to kick the other’s shins. His third is to accept the other’s hand as they move forward.
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end