Chapter Text
Those who knew Dazai didn’t dare come near his home—not even his Port Mafia subordinates—and not because of how eerie the area was. Rather, nobody knew how Dazai would react when someone invaded his private space.
Perhaps he would tear off their limbs and kill them, or perhaps he would welcome them with open arms and a cup of tea. Nobody could understand how Dazai worked.
The black wraith of the Port Mafia: That was what people called him.
The speed of his achievements was extraordinary, even when compared to past Mafia executives.
And yet no one trusted him. Because the darkness lurking within his eyes was deeper than the ink black nights that hung over the dumping ground he inhabited"
- Asagiri Kafka, Stormbringer
The harsh wind blows through the boy's dark overcoat, yet it does not hinder his movements, nor does it knock the fedora perched neatly atop auburn curls. The soles of dark leather shoes sink into fresh layer of snow with every step he takes.
It was the beginning of a snowstorm, the savage torrent of wind and snow will only get worse from here on out.
Sleet rains down upon the boy like hail, sharp against his face like shards of glass, hindering his sight like a swarm of angry bees, forcing the boy to squint as he mutters a curse under his breath.
"Stupid bastard"
He grumpily trudges forward when a sudden sharp cold sensation pierces the back of his neck. Living the life he's living, it was not an unfamiliar sensation, rather, the boy's well acquainted with it.
A murderous intent.
A heavy one at that.
Yet it felt quite different than the ones he usually received. It felt somehow colder, dangerous. It pricks the back of his neck, coursing electricity all over his body, prompting a knee-jerk reaction to turn around and put on a defensive stance, or for the fainter of heart, to turn heels and run.
But the boy wasn't born yesterday, and his opponent was no opponent at all. Still, he was expecting a degree of hostility, albeit honestly not to this extent.
The boy sighed as he relaxed his muscles, barely suppressing the temptation to pinch the bridge of his nose, waiting.
He didn't need to wait long.
A lone voice pierces through the deafening symphony of the upcoming blizzard. It was not a shout. Rather, it was barely above whisper. Yet, it was as clear as the snowflakes twirling in the wind, like the whole world paused just to listen to the voice. The cold voice, colder than the snow beneath his feet, sharper than the continuous torrent of ice shards that pelts his skin, was low but hadn't broken. It was the voice of a young boy.
Along with it, a click of a gun's safety being removed. Click.
"Most people wouldn't dare make it past the fences"
The boy rolls his eyes as he turns around slowly and looks up to face the 'spectre' that haunts this forsaken plot of land. The presumed 'lord' of this wasteland.
"I am not most people."
A single dark eye, as lifeless as a dead fish meets the boy's azure.
"Let me reiterate, most people wouldn't live past the fences"
There, on top of a mountain of junks and scraps the taller of the two sat, dark mop of mahogany hair tousled by the harsh wind, pristine white bandages covers the side of his head, obscuring his right eye. Black suit and coat clad the boy, the mafia's standard uniform. The single visible dark eye glints red, promising bad omens for those who crossed the so-called demon. The barrel of a black glock pointed towards the trespasser's hat-clad head.
Some people would say the sight was taken right out of a horror story, or a blood-curdling nightmare. More would say the boy's glare looks menacing, sinister, a demon in human skin. Most will run for the hills, wetting their pants as they flee from the 'Black Wraith', the 'Demon Prodigy', of The Port Mafia".
The boy thinks the other looks absolutely ridiculous.
"Yet here I am." He responded.
The dark-eyed boy looks baffled, mouth hanging open in disbelief. Mockery thick in his voice as he replied, arms crossed, gun forsaken.
"Did that hat actually eat your brain? Or did you not have one in the first place? Are you stupid? Setting your little paws upon demon territory and think that you'll be sparred? Who do you think you are?"
In passing, the dark figure looming over on top of the pile of garbage with a gun in his hand may seem intimidating. Yet if one dared, or had the chance to pay attention long enough, one can see the excess fabric hanging loose around the teen's lanky frame. Looking close enough, one can see his scrawny figure shaking lightly under the heavy torrents of snow and the malicious wind, like a single leaf about to be torn off a branch and blown away. Under the darkness of the moonless night, he looked pale, almost grey, like a corpse.
The boy thinks that the self-proclaimed 'demon' looks like a runaway hospital patient who stole his father's suit and gun, considering how the oversized clothes would drown his frame were it not for his height. He looks frail, pitiful, the boy dare say if he doesn't know any better. But he does, so the word he'll choose to describe the pompous asshole is; pathetic.
He looks stupid. Perched on top of a stained, deformed, piece of porcelain jutting from the pile of scraps that if the boy had to guess, used to be a toilet bowl.
He shot the idiot a deadpan look.
"I'm your partner."
The boy proceeds to look around, taking in his surroundings—or what he could of it —with almost no lighting, with snow pouring like hail, and the wind beating against his face.
A desolated illegal dumping site in the middle of nowhere. It looks exactly how it should look, with piles of random scrap metal, corroded frames of who knows what, rotting old mattresses and couches, along with other heaps of broken and discarded random garbage, surrounded by rusty, half-deformed—but somehow still standing— chain-link fences.
Azure eyes squint as they landed upon a row of abandoned shipping containers stacked on top of one another way in the center of the yard.
The boy shoves his hands into the pockets of his coat, a red glow similar to the one enveloping his hat begins to spread around his coat, preventing the wind to blow it off of the boy's shoulder. Now the coat hangs stiff, the fabric doesn't even sway with the boy's movement as he turns on his heels.
"And you're not a demon"
The boy said as he walks away.
The 'demon' blinks, before coming back to his senses.
"Wait—Chuuya! Hey! Where do you think you're going?!"
The dark eyed boy chases over his partner, stumbling and landing on the snow in a ridiculous heap of dark fabric as he tried to slide down the pile of junk.
The boy shakes his head lightly as he continues his journey without slowing his steps.
The ground beneath was covered in a greyish sludge courtesy of the pouring sleet, riddled with dark, oily, presumably toxic puddles. He scrunched his nose in disdain as he carefully steps around them.
Behind him, his partner trudges through the dirty snow, trying to catch up to him, albeit not with ease he presumes. Not with the malevolent wind and the absurdly enormous coat he donned around his gangly limbs.
The boy, Chuuya, made his way toward the row of shipping containers.
With visibility down to several feet, the containers' various degree of rot grows clearer the closer he gets. Some of the containers were well under the weather, with doors hanging off of their hinges and brittle corroded walls that crumble upon touch. Two of them look newer than the others, with all the parts still intact and only a slight degree of rusting.
He made a beeline towards a more worn-out one, with rust covering almost all of its surface one can barely tell its original color, but was mostly in one piece with the doors still intact. It looks abandoned for the most part, but there was a smaller amount of snow pilling in front of its doors compared to the others, a sign of it being used not so long ago if not regularly.
"Oi!"
His partner's irritated shout only further solidifies his guess. He steps closer and yanks open the metal door. It creaks loudly in the lonely night, as high-pitched and eerie as a cry for help.
"Gee slug, you're really respecting my privacy here. Sure, come on in~. Go ahead and pour yourself a cup of tea while you're at it, why don't you?"
His partner had caught up to him, bending over with hands on his knees, breathing heavily. His dark coat was riddled with questionable grey sludge, brownish-yellow crusts, and a handful of wet splotches which Chuuya gladly assumed he got when he tripped several times during his chase.
"You broke into my place like multiple times already, mackerel. And it's not like you'll have anything as decent as tea in here."
"Excuse me?"
Chuuya steps inside, taking in the bare interior. A desk, a chair, a fridge, and a bed. A single lightbulb hangs overhead and an exhaust was bolted to a wall. Next to the exhaust, behind the chair, was a torn-off piece of cardboard taped sloppily to the metal wall, apparently to cover a hole, with how the cardboard caves inwards occasionally as the wind beats down on it, ominously akin to a beating heart.
He doesn't bother hiding his look of disdain.
"They say a home projects the soul", he nearly sighs. "Guess that's true. This shithole's depressing as fuck. Not that I would expect much from a slimy mackerel."
"Why thank you chibi, it's not like I invited you here", came the dry remark.
Chuuya ignores the slimy mackerel and steps further inside, well, as further as he could considering there wasn't a lot of ground to cover.
He opens the fridge finding nothing there except a bottle of water, a half empty can of crab, and a bottle of sake.
"Seriously?"
Silence accentuated by the brewing storm outside greets his remark.
The brunette had stayed on the doorway, not following his partner inside. His entire expression and body language is closed off, unreadable. The black glock still in his hand, presumably, safety still off.
Chuuya turns around slowly, reminding himself that his partner can be difficult some—most— if not all the fucking time. He raises an eyebrow, prompting the brunette to speak.
Expression still unreadable, the bandaged boy asks coldly in a deep voice.
"What are you doing here Chuuya?"
He scoffs, rolling his eyes. "The question is what are you doing here Dazai?"
Dazai blinks, downright incredulous.
"Uh, hello? I live here?"
"Exactly!" Chuuya gripes, gesturing wildly at his surroundings. "It's like a goddamn freezer in here, how're you gonna get past the storm? You'll freeze to death!"
"That, was kind of the point. Now if you'd be so kind as to leave.." Dazai merrily replies as he steps aside from the doorway and gestures at the way out like a well-mannered host.
The redhead pursed his lips, shaking his head minutely in disbelief, gaze sweeping over his partner's living arrangements one more time. He expected a hole in the wall, but this..?
"Let's go", he said, voice turning grievous, stern.
"What?"
"I said, let's go. Take what you need and hurry up. I wanna make it back before the worse of this storm hits, or I'll fucking hurt you if you make that happen."
With that Chuuya made his way toward the door where Dazai is still standing.
"Wait, hang on, make it back where...? Is there a mission that we're supposed to do that I missed the memo of? Cause I'm pretty sure—".
Chuuya looks at his partner as if he's stupid. Dazai, the acclaimed prodigy slash genius, looks utterly offended. They were face to face now, Chuuya having reached where Dazai was standing.
"My place, bandaged brain. Is that not clear enough?"
"Now hang on, since when did I even agree—"
"It's warm, there's food, and to top it all, it's not a wasteland in the middle of nowhere."
With that, the redhead brushes past his partner out the door and proceeds to walk on without even checking if the brunette is following him.
As if expecting that Dazai will follow him just like that.
As if that's a given.
"How'd you even find this place?" The brunette asked in a quiet, small voice.
The answer came back to him obnoxiously loud and absurdly clear amidst the wailing wind.
"Isn't it standard procedure for partners to know where each other lives in case something happens?"