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He’s in the middle of a good book, curled atop the pillows piled against the arm of his couch. An open balcony at the top floor of a residential building means that sunset streams into his living room, providing impeccable lighting. Beside the couch is an end table with a half-full glass of Romanée-Conti, and a wooden board with various cheeses, cured meats and fruit slices.
A comfortable way of spending his afternoon, that he’s in a good enough mood to not be too annoyed at the sudden intrusion.
Turning to the next page, he raises his other hand and catches the dagger that targets his nape. He flicks his wrist and uses the caught dagger to sweep away three needles that rain down from his ceiling. He throws it back to block a knife that goes for his temple. It’s all smokescreen for an attack coming from his open balcony, a remote-controlled sniper rifle sending two bullets to his forehead. He catches both between his fingers, the heat of them barely dissipating even through his gloves.
“That rug is vintage,” he reminds without turning his head. “Don’t use your dirty shoes to step on it.”
“A good host would at least turn around and look at me,” is the reply, genteel tone at odds with the precise assassination attempts that have just occurred.
He clicks his tongue, turning to another page. “I’m at a good part.”
“The culprit is the butler,” the assassin spoils the plot for him without any warning. “The plot twist is at page 379.”
“Bastard!” He flips immediately to that page, gets blinded by the reveal, and slams the book against the couch. This time, he does turn around, middle finger pointed to the intruder. “I was looking forward to reading it!”
“I’m a better assassin than the one in that book.” It’s a simple-enough statement, and it’s backed by facts. The attacks just now are well-calculated, and if Chuuya isn’t Chuuya, the target would have been dead many times over. “So, you should pay attention to me instead.”
It’s hard not to pay attention to the other man, if only because he looks like an escapee from the depths of an Egyptian tomb. Assassins have their eccentricities, but this one is so eye-catching, it’s as if he’s challenging the common sense that assassins should be as lowkey as possible. There’s a charming smile on his face, the type that could be an ultra-efficient idol in deceiving hundreds of people at once.
That said, there’s no hiding the bloodthirst shining in his eyes. A palpable thing that it’s almost a whole other creature that occupies the room they’re in.
“Given the techniques that you’ve shown, you probably are as sturdy as a twig.” Avoidance of close-combat attacks means zero confidence in his physical skills. He lifts the glass of wine, sniffs at its contents, before taking two more sips. “Were you the one who developed the poison?”
The mummified assassin raises an eyebrow. “It’s a shame that it didn’t make you keel over. I gave a dose that could down an elephant in less than five seconds.”
“Good attempt, but I’ve trained my body to be immune to poison.” At best, he has felt some tingles after drinking it, but it could be attributed to the rare blossoming of excitement at the prospect of meeting someone formidable.
Ane-san has started to watch more dramas involving weddings. Chuuya’s instincts are impeccable—and he knows that it’s his sister starting to look forward to marriage. Unfortunately, she has no lover at the moment, so he has taken it upon himself to introduce people to her. Not just anyone would do, of course. Whoever they are needs to at least be strong enough to be interesting.
That leads to his idea of opening up an assassination commission.
“What a surprise, the same goes for me.” There’s no surprise whatsoever on the bandaged mummy’s face. He blatantly looks around the room, but it’s obvious that his eyes are magnetized on Chuuya’s form. A deep sigh. “I was expecting that you’d have good taste, given how you’re wasting money on an expensive commission… but aren’t you too fond of tacky hats?”
He gestures to the open balcony. “You can get the fuck out of here if you have the shit taste to insult my hats.”
“Eh, I’d rather not jump.” A shrug. “Plus, aren’t you supposed to warm me up on the idea of dating your sister?”
He raises his eyebrows too. “Your information network isn’t bad.”
“I’m the information network,” is sufficiently confident. “It’s not that difficult to follow a shorty’s train of thought.”
While his initial plan is to use this commission to filter the strong from the useless, it doesn’t mean that he’s unwilling to fight back against the annoying ones. “My commission is for someone to try and assassinate me, but I haven’t mentioned anything about not retaliating.”
“You opened the commission for someone to try and assassinate you,” the man says with a lilting tone, “so isn’t it just right that I accepted this in hopes that I’d get killed in the process?”
More than getting flabbergasted at his book getting spoiled, now Chuuya’s jaw really does drop in surprise. It doesn’t take long until he picks it up in anger, his middle finger making a comeback. “You’re that suicidal brat! Dazai Osamu!”
As someone who works for the mafia, he has enough familiarity with those who work in the underworld. One of them is infamous enough to be considered an urban legend: the top assassin in the field, who happens to be longing for death. Given the other’s reputation for being a top-class assassin, Chuuya really isn’t expecting him to be so… he’s not even sure how to describe it, other than being so annoying.
“Hmm? The chibi knows me? I’m really flattered,” he says, insincerity rolling off him in waves.
He clicks his tongue. “Only because you’re famous for being a weirdo.”
“My, what a lovely compliment.”
“I’m not praising you!”
“No?” Dazai smiles, reeking of bloodthirst. “But you’re looking at me with so much interest, my heart is racing in my chest.”
“It’d be best if you race yourself out my place,” he suggests. “You may be the best assassin that has accepted the commission, but you’re so fucking annoying, I don’t want to introduce you to Ane-san.”
“I understand, I truly do.” With his hands clasped behind his back, he has the image of someone on his best behavior. “You want me all for yourself instead, hmm?”
He shudders, feeling like he’s been poisoned by the other’s self-important words. “You understood nothing!”
“Were you not hoping I’d show up?” Complete shamelessness, as if juggles three scalpels idly, before throwing them at him. There’s no actual force behind the throw, so it’s easy to deflect them back while they continue conversing. “You must have heard about how gorgeous I am, so you hatched this plan in hopes of piquing my interest, and in hopes of meeting me. Aren’t I nice, granting you this chance?”
Nobody in their business hasn’t heard about ‘Dazai Osamu’. Someone strong enough that all factions could unanimously agree that he’s the best at assassination—it’s practically unheard of. As someone who enjoys fighting, there’s no doubt that he’s eager to pitch his skills against him. That said, “Whatever interest I had in meeting the top-ranked assassin has been thoroughly doused when I heard that you’re a suicidal brat.”
“Someone who works with death should have a healthy appreciation for it,” is how Dazai justifies himself. “In my opinion, it’s weirder to see Port Mafia’s top Executive crying at children’s movies about dogs.”
This time, Chuuya throws a dagger of his own, flying forward with his fist outstretched. “Bastard, you were stalking me?!”
“Learning about a potential employer is part of the job,” Dazai snickers, dodging his attacks. “I have to say, watching you cry is pretty entertaining.”
They continue trading blows, none of them landing fully because of how well they could read each other and dodge accordingly. There are barely any ripples across the surface of the poisoned wine, and they eventually find themselves on the balcony, buffeted by the evening seabreeze wafting in from the nearby bay.
“It made me want to see you cry even more,” Dazai whispers after a few moments, when their hands are locked on each other’s necks. A crude way of murder, and both of them are glaring at each other. “I think you’d look very interesting, Chuuya.”
“I’d sooner cry out of happiness once you finally fuck off,” he retorts.
Dazai laughs, utterly delighted. “Is that so? I look forward to seeing it,” are his parting words, before he kicks off from the balcony, jumping down to a waiting trampoline several floors down.
Chuuya frowns, then decides to never, ever let Dazai meet Ane-san. That bastard is so weird, he’d just sully his sister’s time.
It totally isn’t because he wants to keep him for himself—or at least, that’s what he tells himself as he stomps back to his living room, body tingling all over.
(The tingling is because of the poison’s delayed effects, or so he claims.)
-
end
(chuuya, not knowing that ane-san already has a partner, and that she’s watching those shows to hint at chuuya to find someone for himself: