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“Nakahara Chuuya has sacrificed his life to stop Paul Verlaine, end of report.”
He doesn’t linger on the whys and the hows, as this is simply an end-of-mission debriefing at the end of the day. There’s no inflection in his voice, aside from the haunting fatigue. Running all over Yokohama while keeping his wits and commanding the chess pieces to push the enemy into a checkmate—it’s mentally taxing.
And to think, that he doesn’t even get a worthwhile compensation in the form of getting to die peacefully and cheerfully, even with all that commotion. It really is quite the dismal business.
In the distance, there’s still leftover plumes of black-red smoke, ambulances and firetrucks buzzing about like bees who’d like to drizzle honey over the wounded, to keep them in a stable state while they’re being transported to the necessary care.
Mori’s face is half-enshrouded in shadows. The line of his mouth is stern, nearly melding along with the scarf looped around his neck. There’s a thin slice of a blade over his jaw, too-large to be considered a shaving accident. There’s a fading bruise over his left cheek, someone has backhanded him with all her might and has even used the Golden Yaksha on him, before withdrawing with dignified grace.
In the mafia, hierarchy is important. The Boss issues the orders, and the subordinates follow them. The Boss makes the plans to ensure that the organization survives without losing all of its legs, individual identity comes not even secondary in its considerations.
He steps backward and watches Mori pick up the folder over the wooden desk. Five pages, summarizing the conflict in its entirety using cold, neutral words stitched together a fifteen-minute window.
“Good work, Dazai-kun,” is the weary appraisal. “What do you suggest we do for Chuuya-kun?”
He doesn’t flinch when the shorty’s name is mentioned. He’s always been bristly, like a tiny dog wearing a porcupine’s coat full of spikes. But that’s only towards him. He’s a docile sheep to those he considers friends, regardless if they think of him a pawn or a boss.
His eyelids don’t tremble. He swallows hard. “Does it matter? That chibi is dead, it’s not like he can protest even if he dislikes the arrangements.”
“As his partner, you do know him best.”
He grimaces. “Isn’t it just your annoying arrangements at work, Mori-san?” He shrugs, even if his shoulders are heavy with exhaustion.
…Ah, come to think of it, his body and his clothes are heavy too. That chibi is tiny, but he could eat an entire restaurant menu in one go, and he exercises regularly. That chibi is so heavy for his size, even his blood and his corpse are very heavy.
Mori gives a glance to his arms, to his chest. There’s something like pity and loss in those eyes. It’s probably the dismay of the boss in losing such a powerful piece.
Still, it chafes a bit, getting subjected to that gaze. His mouth curls into a sneer as he puts forth his suggestion, full of sarcasm and bite, “Why not appoint him as an Executive posthumously? The youngest, shortest Executive in Port Mafia history. That should inspire others with his foolish bravery.”
He does know him best, after all. Death has been in the cards, given how powerful the opponent was. Even with all of the calculations, gods don’t fall under human purview, after all.
He doesn’t bother with further pleasantries as he exits the office. Guards open the door for him, eyes obviously straying to his arms and chest, despite the shade offered by their black eyeglasses.
Near the end of the corridor, he spots Kouyou, several strands of her hair out of the usual neat bun. Her sword is drawn, acting as an checkpoint to block the elevator.
“Kouyou-san, I wouldn’t like to fight you.” He shifts his arms slightly, showing off the stiff fingers that are clutching at his coat. “If you’d like to blame anyone, blame this chibi for holding onto me so tightly.”
Chuuya is possibly the bloodiest Sleeping Beauty ever. His gloves are gone, and his fingers that have been blackened are gripping his coat like claws. When he caught him earlier, falling down from the sky with a sluggish heartbeat and the last few moments of his life, he’d clung to him, demanding that he get the hell away from the place that’s about to explode.
“If you die here, you’re going to haunt me because it’s not a painless death, shitty Dazai,” that’s what he said, eyes glassy. His body has been overloaded, he doesn’t have any of his senses with him. He only knew that it was him who caught him in his arms, that it was him who ran forward to catch him.
“Shut up, Chuuya,” he replied, and he only received a disdainful chuckle in response, before Chuuya followed his order. Chuuya hasn’t woken up since. Chuuya hasn’t let go of his coat since then, Chuuya hasn’t opened his eyes since then.
He hasn’t been Dazai Osamu since then.
And now, he carries Chuuya’s sleeping body, heavy and bloody as he weighs him down with each step, with each breath.
Now, Kouyou reaches out with fingers full of chipped nails.
He takes a step backward, drawing Chuuya closer to his chest. “I will take care of all the arrangements,” he says coldly, his voice not wavering. If his eyesight blurs a bit, it’s just because of fatigue. If his face feels wet and cold, it’s just because he’s sweating from the exertion.
He must have looked sufficiently exhausted, because Kouyou swallows hard, before drawing her hand back. She lets him—them—pass, gaze deep with pity.
He ignores it.
He’s so very tired. He’s so tired that he barely even notices giving orders, making the arrangements. He chooses the coffin with the gaudiest color and design. Bright red paint. He orders a thousand red roses, all in their stems and all filled with thorns. He builds Sleeping Beauty a briar coffin.
“It’s your punishment for dying ahead of me,” he singsongs as he carves out crude stars into the coffin’s body. He can’t be bothered to polish the artistic quality of his carvings, so the stars end up merely as [太]. If it’s a little too much like the character in his name… well, it should be fitting. He’s the one supervising this affair, after all.
Because it’s a punishment, he has to make this process as unpalatable for Chuuya as much as possible. Instead of resting with his friends, he’s currently resting in Dazai’s bed, wrapped up in his sheets and clothes.
“You’re so popular with your subordinates and colleagues,” he murmurs as he dips his hands in a bowl of expensive wine. He rubs it all over the coffin, as if varnishing his carvings. “So, they’re not allowed to see you before you’re buried.”
Chuuya’s a person full of life, so it really is too odd that he doesn’t even jump up like some flea right now. Even when he pats his face and his hair with his wine-washed hands. Even when he pinches his cheeks and rubs his lips. Even when he cuts off the hair that he likes to comb into place.
“You’ve always scoffed at my desire to find a perfect suicide, so who gave you the right to die before me?”
Time flows in slow drips and fast torrents. Before he knows it, Chuuya’s already in his bed of roses and thorns, already buried beside Randou, facing the sea and sunrise and sunset and all the stars.
Mori took his sarcastic advice and made Chuuya into an Executive, posthumously. It’s vexing to be defeated by a chibi when it comes to such a thing, so he locks himself inside Chuuya’s office and works and works and works.
He takes over Chuuya’s squad and he takes over both of their work, so there’s no doubt that he’d be promoted swiftly. That chibi already took death away from him, he isn’t going to let him take this achievement away from him too.
Sometimes, when he can’t sleep, he thinks of plans and pranks to make Chuuya yell at him. Sometimes, he makes plans that call for a gravity manipulator to finish the job. Sometimes, he looks at the brat that he picked up and asks, “Why can’t you do something as simple as this? If this was Chuuya, he’d be able to complete the mission in five minutes.”
When he gets promoted, it means that his workload explodes too. It really is too troublesome, too exhausting. Akutagawa is too weak, his squad is too unreliable.
“Things would have been so much easier if Chuuya’s here,” he complains to Ango and OdaSaku, drinking hard enough that even the whiskey pours into his eyes, until he has no other choice but to squeeze them out of his eyelids.
His friends look at him with pity too.
He twists his mouth and ends up drinking right in front of a headstone that he’s deliberately asked to be made short enough to match how tiny its owner is.
“I hate you so much,” he says directly against the headstone, scratching at it weakly with gloved hands. It’s a cold night and the strong breeze by the cliffside threatens to whisk away the hat on his head. His entire head is sweaty, to the point that even his eyes are squeezing out sweat. The back of his neck is wet too, and the hair that he hasn’t bothered to cut in so long clings to his nape. “I hate you so much, Chuuya.”
He hears about a Book that could rewrite reality. Mori tells him that it’s merely an urban legend, an Ability that’s strong but faulty. His mission is merely to secure it, and deliver it straight to the mafia’s vault.
He smiles and nullifies Alice with one hand, while driving a scalpel past the other’s scarf. It’s unthinkable to not use it, upon getting his hands on it.
He joined the mafia so he could learn more about death, not so he could be worked to the bone. He’s not here so he’d become the most productive employee. He’s not here so he could train subordinates into accomplishing his plans perfectly.
“Chuuya must live,” he murmurs as he finally manages to find the Book. “He must live, because someone needs to deliver soba to me when I’m hungry. He needs to scratch my back whenever it’s itchy. He needs to punch away my enemies if I’m in danger. He needs to give me entertainment whenever I’m bored. He needs to be here and be my dog for life.”
When he opens his eyes again, he’s back to being eight. He sneaks into Suribachi Island, and he runs past a pair of spies that are also on their way to sneak into a certain military facility.
He’s eight when he places both of his hands against a cylindrical tank.
He’s eight when it breaks against his nullification ability.
He’s eight when he feels the sensation of Chuuya’s weight over his arms once more.
He’s rewriting his fate and destiny.
Chuuya opens his eyes again, and the voice and existence that has haunted him for so long finally speaks. “…Who the hell are you and why are you crying like an idiot?”
Sleeping Beauty has awakened and time flows back once again.
“I’m your owner, Chuuya. In this lifetime, if you dare leave me again, I’m going to haunt you forever.”
And in that moment, he finally is back to being Dazai Osamu once again.
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end