Chapter Text
Chuuya Nakahara was not one to question authority.
In fact, he didn’t question much at all. He did what he was told, no matter the immorality of the order. Murder, torture, it didn’t matter. He was mafia and mafiosos don’t say no. He lost the ability to discern his actions the moment he entered the cruel underworld that was the Port Mafia. Morality was a thing of the past.
And up to now, he never thought twice about it. Never had a reason to.
“Chuuya-san! The doctor you called is here to see you.”
Chuuya was sprawled all over his leather couch with his hat covering his face in rest. His arms lay limp at his side, heavy from exhaustion and his clothes were tattered, the seams of his jacket barely managing to not rip apart.
Blood and mud were splattered on his shirt, yet the stains were somewhat faded as if they’d been there for days. He only had one shoe on, the other nowhere to be seen. Paperwork was scattered all over the floor with dirt footprints smudging their ink.
“Chuuya-san, can I come in? Chuuya-san?”
Stop being so goddamn loud, for fuck’s sake.
He had gotten a grand total of one and a half hours of sleep last night which, considering the night he had, wasn’t too bad. Not enough to function but still, not too bad.
“Chuuya-san, it isn’t polite to have guests waiting like this! I’ll come in if you don’t answer soon.”
He groaned as he sat up, his hat dropping into his lap.
“Let ‘em in.” he muttered.
To anyone walking in, it would look as if he was dead. The blood painted over his heart and his completely still figure exuded the notion of death. Yet those who knew him would simply sigh and fetch a glass of water to help him with his hangover.
However, alcohol wasn’t his problem today. Sure, his hangover gave him a headache straight from hell but strangely enough, he could barely feel it over the weight of his psyche.
An existential crisis at 22, huh? What a joke.
After a few moment’s silence, the guard hadn’t let the doctor in yet.
“Oi, did you hear me? Come on in,” Chuuya shouted, with no answer.
“Come to think of it, I never called a doctor.” he thought to himself.
Perplexed, Chuuya got up, picking his hat off the ground, and opened the door. Right at the entrance, one of Chuuya’s people, the one responsible for guarding his office, was on her knees with her head to the floor.
“B-boss, you have my deepest apologies! If I had known it was you, I would have gotten Chuuya-san’s attention immediately! Please forgive me.” she begged for clemency, near tears.
Mori was angled on the doorframe, watching her with muted amusement. He had his casual doctor attire on, a stethoscope loosely dangling from his neck.
He loosely held a blackened shoe, pinching the heel in an effort to not stain his hands. Elise was by his side, sticking her tongue out at the guard.
“It is quite all right, you were not wrong in your deduction of me being a doctor,” he replied, gesturing to his white coat, “I am still a practicing medical professional.”
The guard swallowed loudly in relief and immediately rose to her feet, feverishly bowing in gratitude.
“Thank you sir, thank you,” she repeated erratically, with sweat dripping down her brow.
She bowed deeply one last time and turned on the balls of her feet, eager to be anywhere but there.
“Actually, could you do me a favor,” Mori called her back, with a thin smile as the guard halted, “Take Elise-chan to the circus for a bit. I promised her I’d go but alas, running a mafia is hard work.” he shrugged apologetically and sighed.
The guard nodded hesitantly and rushed over to Elise-chan, taking her hand and leaving Mori and Chuuya to talk.
Turning his attention to Chuuya, Mori tossed the shoe to him.
“I believe this belongs to you.”
Mori looked Chuuya up and down indifferently, noting his disheveled appearance. Blood was slowly spreading across his lower back, getting up had reopened the wound. Chuuya’s hair was grayer than it was red, ashes clinging to his head.
Yet Mori did not point any of this out and walked past him, taking a seat on Chuuya’s couch.
“Boss, is something wrong? You never show up without warning like this, no wonder my subordinate was half scared to death.” Chuuya asked with arms crossed, still standing at the door.
Mori chuckled and placed his hands on his lap intertwined, looking Chuuya dead in the face. The twinkle of madness resided in Mori’s eyes as the corners of his mouth turned up in a mildly sadistic grin.
“Aw, Chuuya-kun. Am I not allowed to talk to one of my favorite subordinates just because? I just wanted to see how you’re doing, where your head’s at.” he said as he leaned back into the couch, his voice dripping with insincerity. “I know you’ve had a rather draining last few days.”
His eyes widened in disbelief and vivid animosity, Arahabaki tugging violently at Chuuya's carefully maintained restraint. It took every ounce of self control that Chuuya had to stop himself from cutting Mori down where he stood, reducing his flesh to ribbons.
Draining? He really has the guts to call last night draining?
He could barely maintain eye contact with the doctor without fantasizing about his hands around Mori's neck, strangling the life out of him.
After a quick thought process, he assessed his condition and decided that he wouldn’t be able to kill Mori, not with the wounds he had.
Even if he could and successfully did, the mafia wouldn’t be able to handle the loss of their leader, especially not during this conflict with the Guild. Only Mori could successfully maintain an alliance with that shitty Agency and without them, the Mafia was screwed.
But god, was it tempting. Like his neck was just asking, begging, to be snapped.
With Mori eying him cautiously, Chuuya cleared his throat as a weak attempt to conceal his abhorrence for the man and compelled himself to look as indifferent as he could. He thought of how Dazai would relax his face offhandedly when he had something to hide. A lopsided grin and eyes betraying nothing. He'd seen it so many times that replicating it was as easy as drawing breath for Chuuya.
"Chuuya-kun?" Mori inquired, frowning slightly in his confusion, "Is something the matter? I asked a question and expect an answer."
Chuuya, taken aback, internally facepalmed at his own stupidity. A poker face wasn't enough, he had to actually talk.
How does that bastard Dazai do this so easily? Fuck, what question did he even ask me?
Frantic to remember what Mori had asked, Chuuya replayed the last few seconds of their conversation while struggling to keep his face as impassive as Dazai's. It wasn't easy to think under his boss's harrowing stare. Chuuya could feel Mori's eyes dissecting every inch of his face, burning holes into his skin.
How I'm doing, Chuuya remembered bitterly, That was his damn question, wasn't it?
He had two options: one, tell his boss that he's doing fantastically, never better, to end the conversation. Or two, tell his boss that he hated his job, hated the Mafia, and hated him so very much. Because Chuuya did hate being a mafioso. And by connection, he hated his life.
He’d come to this conclusion last night, and it was becoming increasingly apparent now, as he stared down the psychopath he called a boss. The hum of recent memories echoed throughout his core, his body and mind rejecting them wholly.
Mori had sent Chuuya and his men to attack a Guild stronghold, to deter their advancements and to ‘reduce’ their army size. He’d called it reducing as if that made the act of senseless violence somewhat ethical, somewhat alright. Yet Chuuya had obediently received his order and went to carry it out.
Chuuya loved to fight. He thrived in the moments of solidarity that came in a clash of strength. But this wasn’t fighting. This was slaughter, plain and simple.
There were mutilated corpses as far as the eye could see, some still clutching their firearms. Most were from the Guild, but bodies dressed in mafia black were scattered among the defeated. The ground was sprinkled with large craters, each of which containing a corpse crushed to death under gravity.
Harsh rain fell, diluting the puddles of blood seeping into the soil below. Chuuya was palming the head of a high-ranking Guild member, ignoring their desperate screams as he clenched his hand in a sickening crunch.
Chuuya didn’t know how many he killed, he lost count in the heat of battle. Yet he killed enough to know that if there is a heaven, there is no place there for him. Maybe there never had been, being a vessel for a god of destruction. Maybe he never had a chance in the first place.
The scent of blood carried heavy in the air, as if the mangled bodies that decorated his wake were not enough of a reminder. Chuuya couldn’t remember anything between announcing the order to attack and watching a dagger lodge itself in his most trusted subordinate's throat, it was all a fever dream with hazy edges fraying the memory. Yet he latched onto a single thought as he eradicated the last of the enemy with For The Tainted Sorrow, one that made his vision tinge red. Mori planned for it all to happen.
Why else would the stronghold be surrounded by double its capacity, all readily equipped for combat? All of them with knowing smiles on their faces, smiles that Chuuya had no qualms about ripping out of their jaws.
Even their escape route, out of dozens of possible paths, was the only one covered by Guild soldiers. It didn’t take a Dazai to figure out that Mori had sold his soldiers out, had sold him out.
He never doubted Mori’s orders before. He was the boss and the boss’ authority was not to be questioned, it was absolute. But never has Mori ever sent him to die, to watch those he held close to his heart die.
Chuuya lost over half of his subordinates in that fight. The anger he felt was red hot, threatening to swallow him and his entire being up.
He still clung to his friend’s corpse, the blood from his wound slowly bleeding out onto Chuuya’s shirt. Rain trickled down his cut ridden face, turning the drops red as they dripped onto his lap. Chuuya had been so tempted to use Tainted, to let go of all his inhibitions and to be true to himself, letting all the rage he felt out for all to see. Arahabaki had been rhythmically knocking on his skull, quietly soliciting Chuuya. Whispering sweet words of twisted comfort, imploring him to lay waste to all he could see. To damn them all to an end by his hand, crushed under gravity. To end it all. Right there.
Yet somewhere, in his battle fazed mind, laid a single ounce of rationality. Without Dazai here, he would end up killing what was left of his people as well as the Guild since Tainted did not discriminate against his victims.
Chuuya would keep endlessly raging on until Yokohama was a wasteland.
For being the most powerful gifted in the city, Chuuya was unequivocally powerless. He was as weak as he had been in his Sheep days, being exploited by people who couldn’t give less of a shit about Chuuya or the people he loved. He was no better than the dog Dazai said he was, mindlessly following obscure orders under the guise of helping his own.
His knees buckled and he knelt in the grass, his hands pressed to his ears as if that would somehow stifle the noise around him.
Everything after that was a blur. He staggered over, wounds and all, to the nearest bar he could find. Alcohol usually made Arahabaki shut up for a while and silence was all Chuuya wanted in the moment. Yet it did nothing to silence him that evening. The incessant demand for carnage gnawed away at his psyche, gradually expunging his train of thought.
And for the first time in his life, he wished Dazai was there.
With one touch, he could quiet Arahabaki and give Chuuya peace of mind, peace of mind that Chuuya desperately craved. But that bastard never was there when Chuuya needed him anyways.
And so, with nothing else to do, he drank. And drank and drank until he couldn’t hold on to his consciousness any longer and fell asleep.
A crash awoke him minutes later. The itch of Arahabaki had subdued and his head was back to normal, to his relief. Chuuya looked up to see a terrified bartender, on all fours at Chuuya’s feet pleading for mercy. Confused, he looked up to find the bar demolished.
The roof was entirely gone, and rain filtered in, dousing Chuuya. Two legs that belonged to a woman were crushed under a piece of rubble, her high heels sticking out at different angles.
The world seemed to be moving in slow motion as Chuuya looked down into his palms, now stained with blood. Arahabaki had taken advantage of Chuuya’s mental weakness and activated his ability in his sleep, bringing the bar down by gravity.
His heart dropped into his stomach. Since when did Arahabaki had control over his ability? Tainted was the only time Arahabaki was given control, only when Chuuya let it.
Chuuya had much better control over his ability during his time with the Mafia but even so, this had never happened before he joined. His control was slowly slipping, and he was taking everyone around him with him.
With a shaking hand, Chuuya reached for the bartender. The man’s left leg had been sliced clean off, the limb laying under a piece of rubble near the bar counter. Chuuya could see the man’s femur poking out of what was left of his leg, the flesh angry and mottled.
The old man screamed in horror at Chuuya’s extended hand, perceiving it as a threat, and recoiled, moving madly to put some distance between him and Chuuya. Though without his leg, it was more of a squirm than anything.
He said something incoherently in his panic along the lines of ‘the devil’ and cried into his lap, mourning his life’s work.
“Let me die. Please, no more. No more.” the man croaked, writhing in hysteria.
Chuuya falteringly backed away as the world started to blur. He was a mindless puppet, bred and exploited for destruction. How many times had he left piles of corpses in his wake without being told why?
“It wasn’t that I wasn’t told,” he thought solemnly, “It was that I didn’t want to know. And if I did, I’d lose my mind.”
Chuuya quietly walked over to his desk and opened his drawer. He took out a box of cigarettes and pulled out a single one, pocketing the rest. He looked through the drawer for a lighter and found none.
“Boss, got a light?” he asked as Mori shook his head.
“Chuuya-kun, you should know better. Those things will turn your lungs pitch black, you know!” Mori scolded disapprovingly; the previous tension broken.
Chuuya pursed his lips and reached into his jacket pocket, finding a decrepit lighter that, despite its ruined appearance, worked just fine. He lit his cigarette and took off his filthy jacket, as if just realizing how dirty it was.
“If this is about yesterday, I’m fine, Boss,” Chuuya replied casually as he threw his jacket over his desk chair, “Only true leaders are ready to sacrifice everything, you did what you had to.”
Even if it wasn’t yours to sacrifice.
Mori smiled at the praise; it wasn’t often that Chuuya complimented him so forward-like.
Then, Mori’s compassionate front disappeared, leaving a businesslike expression in its place. He crossed his legs and loosed the stethoscope around his neck.
“That’s good to hear but alas, that is not what I came here for,” he said, reaching into his pocket for an envelope, “I have a job for you.”
Hostile resentment washed over Chuuya. He didn’t expect an apology but nor did he expect a job so soon after yesterday. And judging by the scarlet stamp on the letter reading ‘CLASSIFIED’, it wasn’t an easy one.
He took a deep drag of the cigarette, the taste bitter in his mouth. Mori clicked his tongue as Chuuya exhaled slowly, accepting the false alleviation the smoke offered.
“You can read over the details of the mission later, but it is frankly rather straightforward,” he disclosed as Chuuya turned over the envelope in his hands, “You are to cooperate with Dazai-kun tomorrow evening in order to retrieve Q from enemy hands.”
Mori observed Chuuya’s reaction, waiting for fierce protest that was characteristic of Chuuya, yet it never came.
Chuuya’s eyes darkened at Dazai’s name but remained mute, distantly beholding Mori as if seeing him for the first time.
“Q was… taken?” Chuuya probed absent-mindedly. He didn’t like the kid, he despised them actually. But they were somewhat of an ace to the Port Mafia. More like a legend, seen by few but known by all. Feared but not respected.
Their abduction would have been well known throughout the Mafia and Yokohama as a whole.
Mori nodded, “Yes. They failed their mission to incapacitate the one known as Lovecraft, a member of the Guild essential for its offensive warfare. Without him, the Guild loses quite a bit of power.”
“Perhaps I was too confident with Q, eyewitnesses say that Q was instantly defeated,” Mori assesed regrettably, “But that’s where you and Dazai-kun come in.”
Chuuya flinched at Mori’s words and their distinct implication. He expected him, since Dazai had next to no offensive capabilities, to defeat the monster that defeated Q.
The prospect of battle, which he once reveled in, made him nauseous.
Images of split skulls and mutilated corpses flashed in front of his eyes. Chuuya could still hear the crack of ribs, the shredding of flesh.
He tried to find the words to answer, to say anything but they never came, his voice escaping him.
“The legendary duo Soukoku will be revived for a sole night, not for a moment longer. Fukuzawa-dono was quite hesitant to agree but we eventually reached an agreement, as unstable as it is.” Mori said excitedly, sorely missing Dazai in his plans.
Chuuya remained silent and fiddled with the envelope, tracing a finger down each red letter. Chuuya could feel Arahabaki lurking on the surface waiting for Chuuya to lose his cool, his skin prickling at its presence.
Mori glances at him curiously, as he was unaccustomed to a silent Chuuya. Especially when it came to matters concerning a certain Dazai Osamu.
“I understand you are tired. I did not mean to awake you, but this simply could not wait, you see.” he expressed apologetically as he made a move to get up.
“The fate of Yokohama rests in your hands, Chuuya-kun. Failure is not an option.” he repeated with finality, as if the gravity of the mission had not already been established.
When was it ever?
“Oh, and go get those wounds looked at. We need you in top shape tomorrow evening, we cannot underestimate the Guild as we have again.”
As perfect a subordinate as ever, Chuuya bowed respectfully to Mori. His hair fell over his face, covering his expression contorted in shame.
Arahabaki taunted him darkly in his submissiveness and disappeared into the depths of Chuuya’s mind. Yet its presence lingered, like a dark cloud that he would never be truly free from.
“I expect only great things from you, Chuuya-kun. You are indeed the perfect executive.”
Chuuya bit his lip to hold back a remark, drawing blood.
“Yes, Boss.”