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Sudden downpours have become the norm during this year’s mercurial summer. Even the tail-end of spring has been filled with bursts of rain, and it seems to be an indication of quite a wet and humid season.
Of course, someone with the ability to manipulate gravity isn’t exactly in trouble during such situations. Plus, a chauffeured car is only one brief call away.
Something stills his hands though. Relying heavily on his Ability isn’t good; he’s in an area where there’s not a lot of Ability Users. He’s not looking forward to hearing some passive-aggressive warnings from the government about lessening the use of his powers in certain areas of the city, especially during peaceful times.
He’s even less willing to be carted around the city like some pompous asshole.
So, his remaining course of action is to wait out the rain.
His just-finished mission has brought him to this area. His initial report has already been emailed to Gramps. This being a solo mission, he doesn’t have to deal with debriefing others. He could go back home directly, maybe drop by somewhere for some takeout.
He’s just-about thinking of dashing towards the nearest bus stop, when his eye catches hold of something. Yokohama is on the forefront of modernization, with a lot of heavy investments on new technology. A signboard that proclaims a 1000% reliable fortuneteller is pretty out of place.
He frowns, nose scrunching at it. The signboard is crudely made, speaking of a lack of budget and creativity.
Still, it’s not as if he’s in a hurry to go somewhere else. Plus, his hands are itching to do something, raring to expel some dismal air building up in his chest.
He follows the sign that leads to an old café, one that still reeks of wet wood. Obvious signs of disuse and disrepair are present all over the place. Any other time and he would suspect it an ambush, but he doubts that any of his enemies would deign to wait for him while in such a shabby place.
There’s a thick blanket that serves as a ‘tent’: hanging from the ceiling with some hooks that are seemingly stolen from a kid’s art project. The inside of the tent is dimly lit, making him suspect that the fortuneteller is really suffering through dimwittedness.
A small table in the middle, with just-enough room for a cloudy crystal ball and the fortuneteller’s hands folded atop it.
“Welcome, lost child,” the fortuneteller greets him with a croaky voice, like he’s just one kick away from croaking for real and keeling over. He’s also covered in blankets, head bowed so that his only visible features are his hands. “You seem like you’re carrying a lot of troubles.”
There’s one chair in front of the table. Sitting on it, he could smell rain, like the person in front of him has soaked under the torrents for a long time.
“…Not really,” he says, somehow seesawing between annoyance and curiosity. “I’m feeling peachy right now.”
“You have deep eyebags, child.”
“Some people just have them naturally,” he fires back. It’s not as if he’s been losing a lot of sleep recently. He’s just busy with work, that’s all. At least, that’s what he tells himself.
“You don’t seem like the type to lose sleep over minor matters.” Still with that throaty voice, of someone who has a cold, or has chainsmoked for several hours in a row. "Would you like to hear my divination about your matters?”
He raises his eyebrows, itching to raise the covering on the fortuneteller’s face. “Are you going to shut up if I say I don’t want to listen to it?”
“Some problems require both parties to communicate well. If your solution is to have the other party shut up, that wouldn’t help you out in the long run.”
At the prim and proper tone, Chuuya can’t help but burst into laughter. “Not gonna lie, hearing such a hearty chicken soup for the soul isn’t what I was expecting when I went to this dump.”
Curiously, “Do you disagree with my assessment?”
“Some problems do require proper communication. But the guy that I despise—the only type of communication that would work with him are the ones spoken by my fists.” To prove his point, he even shakes his hands in front of the fortuneteller’s crystal ball, one that looks so cloudy it looks as if it’s been rolled all over mud.
“And if you’ve used your fists, it’s no wonder nothing got solved.”
“Nothing? Oh no, I’ve solved everything.” He shrugs. “I kicked that guy out of my house because he was so annoying, and now I have the peace that I wanted.”
“And that peace includes you losing sleep so that you have eyebags?” There’s a knowing tone, but that doesn’t completely disguise the odd hints of frustration. “You’re even taking on work that you normally wouldn’t do, just so you could run away from your problems.”
“There’s no such time for running away,” he corrects the other man. “I’m simply being kind, because I know that bastard is happily swimming around my usual haunts. If I see him, I’ll just end up beating him up.”
The fortuneteller sighs deeply. “Is that your way of showing affection, lost child?”
“Keep on calling me a ‘lost child’ and I’ll kick your ass,” he huffs, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Always resorting to violence… that’s an odd way of showing your affection.”
“It isn’t good, but it’s not as if ‘annoying me deliberately’ is any better.” He briefly closes his eyes, his mind filled with memories of the previous fights he’s had with a shitty mackerel, ones that have made him wonder multiple times if he’s been driven crazy from anger.
With the tone of someone selling a grand scam, “Different people have different ways of showing affection.”
“Yes, and with me and a certain shitty man, those different ways clashing could spell the end of this city. It’s better to just break up and spare everyone all the property damage.”
“Breaking up isn’t something that can decided unilaterally by some idiot hatrack with hat for brains,” is still a bit hoarse, but less exaggerated. “Or are you too stupid to realize that?”
He rolls his eyes. “You’re sure you should be insulting the only customer who’s willing to go to a dump like this to see you?”
“Weren’t you just here because your doggy nose can’t resist curiously following a new trail, while hiding from the rain?”
“For someone who’s talking about different ways of showing affection, you are quite blind to it, huh.” He takes out cigarettes from his pocket, then scrunches his nose again at how they’ve become wet from the rain. It really can’t be helped. He stretches a hand out towards the shitty fortuneteller. “Oi, bastard, give me some smoke.”
“And why would I have some? I absolutely hate that smell.”
“Because the only alternative is that your voice has become that hoarse because you cried yourself to sleep over getting kicked out of my place.” He taps his fingers on the table, impatient. “Or that you tried to drown yourself during heavy rain, and got a cold out of it.”
“Tiny man can only have a tiny brain.” It’s also quite aggressive, and the blanket that the fortuneteller is using to hide his face is starting to slide off, presumably from the bastard shaking in anger. “My voice has become like this because I had to tell everyone tales of how you’re a stupid shorty!”
Another eyeroll. “Then you’ll have to trouble yourself and tell everyone again how you’re wrong and you’re overthinking and that we aren’t actually breaking up.”
“………We’re not?”
“We’re already married, so it’d be called a divorce instead.”
The fake crystal ball flies towards his face, but given that it’s done by a mackerel with insufficient physical strength compared to him, it’s easy to dodge such an attack.
“You’re the stupidest chibikko in the world,” Dazai says, eyes glaring at him. It’d achieve a more terrifying effect if his hair hasn’t been messed up by that blanket cosplay that he was doing earlier, or if his voice is more solid.
What an idiot, really. They say that idiot’s can’t get colds, but here he is, still managing the impossible.
“You’re not fit to become a fortuneteller,” he says instead. “Earlier you said that I’m carrying a lot of troubles. That’s wrong.”
“My words are always correct,” is still strangely haughty, even when his shitty disguise is already dismantled around him.
“No,” he insists. Then, he moves, lightning-quick, just as lightning pierces the sky outside. He punches his stupid tantrum-throwing husband in the stomach, then carries him over his shoulder like a sack full of nonsense. “See, I’m only carrying one big load of troubles, right now.”
Dazai screeches at him, then starts to kick him, but it’s all so performative and more like tickles against him.
Of course, he isn’t worried, even when they’ve fought for a few days. After all, he believes that they’d make up easily anyway.
(The next day, when he doesn’t show up for work so he could spend some time dealing with Dazai’s revenge and extra-clingy annoyingness, nobody at work even bats an eye. After all, it’s something that happens on a weekly basis for them.)
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