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Becoming an Executive surprisingly brings him more free time, if one ignores the tumultuous period of one overtime rolling into another after a certain event. Despite that two-year busy period where Chuuya has practically lived in his office or in his missions, Dazai’s defection has netted more positive than negative.
After all, he doesn’t have to worry about getting sabotaged by an asshole, nor does he have to spend time worrying about ulcers and bald patches from the stress of being near a mackerel.
Life in the mafia is one of rapid turnover. He still hasn’t managed to grow numb to the constant body bags that have to be ushered out of the headquarters after a particularly harsh affair. He still invites his squad members to celebratory drinks after a successful mission; he still cares to ask about their family and their loved ones.
Still, there are more and more members who has only heard of whispers of the demon prodigy without actually having experienced the mackerel. They’ve only heard about the youngest Executive in Port Mafia history, who has somehow defected, all details grown blurry over time.
…Tsk, thinking of that bastard is bound to attract doom to himself.
He shakes his head and rolls out of bed, squinting at the sunshine that peeks from the horizon. His current apartment is at a high-enough floor that there isn’t anything blocking his view of Yokohama Bay glittering in the morning. His current apartment is also new and unused enough that it doesn’t even take him more than two hours to do the year-end cleaning.
Most of the people important to him have already been greeted during the year-end party last night. As he slowly goes through his morning routine, he forwards electronic greeting cards to CEOs and politicians that they share business interests with.
He opts for stuffing yakisoba into bread for breakfast, alongside a cup of steaming coffee. He idly checks his social media and emails, marks things for his attention once he returns to work. He replies to a message from Ane-san, asking him if he’d like to join her and Kyouka in their hatsumode.
Come to think of it, this would mark the first year that he could remember that he’d be alone for the first shrine visit of the year. He’s always either been accompanied by members of Sheep, or by that shitty mackerel, or joining Ane-san. But this year, he knows that she has her hands full with taking care of her ward, so he wants to give them space to spend time together.
It’s just a shrine visit. It’s not as if he’s not used to doing things alone—he’s a one-man squad, after all.
That’s how he finds himself at the foot of the long set of stairs leading up to the hilltop shrine, the one nearest to his place. “Has it always been this busy,” he mumbles to himself, thinking about how he should have bought a hot drink to help keep him warm throughout the wait.
The queue moves slowly, a long procession of people decked in traditional clothing and warm coats. Most of them come in groups, the air abuzz with chatter between neighbors, friends and family.
Perhaps the queue has always been this long, it’s just that he’s always gone to this shrine with someone annoying by his side, so he’s too busy arguing with him instead of noticing the queue.
Then again, the memory of his arguments with that fucker also reminds him of the fact that Dazai somehow manages to always exchange his omikuji slip from something that says [大吉] to [犬吉], transforming his ‘great blessing’ to a ‘dog blessing’.
He’s never been able to figure out how the bastard’s able to do it, given that they’ve never gone here on a set time, and he sincerely doubts that Dazai’s that much of an asshole to bribe the shrine’s staff to change those paper slips just to prank him.
He feels his blood boiling at the memory, that he fails to react in time to an old lady barreling to his side. Something hard hits him in his ribs, causing him to frown.
“Grandma, you shouldn’t cut the line.” Not that she’d be able to, given how the queue is fairly packed like sardines in a can.
Her back is hunched, the thinness of her clothing obvious. She isn’t even wearing any gloves or handwarmers, no extra coats either. “Oh my, I didn’t see you there, little boy,” she says, throaty like she’s nursing a cold.
His frown deepens. It’s unfortunate, but instinct makes his body move faster than he could second-guess himself. He’s removing the scarf looped over his neck—crimson cashmere, something that he’s specially ordered—so he could drape it over the hunched back. “Should you be going up these steps alone?”
“I’ll leave it up to you to help me, little boy,” she says, utterly shameless in recruiting him as a living crutch.
“You’re lucky I’m in a good mood,” is what he replies with after a moment of contemplation. He lets her hold onto his elbow as they follow the flow of movement upwards. The stone steps are in good condition, but they’re a bit slippery from leftover snow from last night.
She passes him a still-warm paper cup. The scent of milk with a drizzle of honey enters his nose. There’s a too-kind smile on her wrinkly face. “You look like you need it.”
He reminds himself that there’s no reason to suddenly smack a grandmother, even if she’s way too fond of height jokes. He gives a critical glance at her hunched back, one that makes her slightly shorter than him. “I think you need it more.”
“I’m already satisfied with my height,” she replies sweetly.
He rolls his eyes, then takes a sip from it. It’s a familiar taste—which should be strange, because there’s a certain ratio of milk to honey that he prefers. Or maybe not so strange, if he thinks about it.
“Is that so?” They move up in tandem. They’re barely halfway through the queue. Clouds have covered the sun, making it quite cool. “You shouldn’t have come today. The weather forecast says that there’d be intermittent snow until tomorrow.”
After all, first shrine visits usually take until the 3rd day of the new year. For most people, there’s no need to make the trip on January 1 immediately, especially if the weather isn’t so good.
There’s a smile in her tone. “It has to be today.”
He glances at the lack of deep laugh lines in her face. “Is that so,” and he doesn’t ask further.
“Young boys like you should be sleeping in and making merry today,” she nudges him with her elbow. “Why bother to make the visit today?”
“It has to be today,” he returns her words from earlier.
Tomorrow, he’s slated to go on a mission to Hokkaido. Plus, for the past few years, he’s always done the hatsumode on the first day of the year. In some ways, he’s truly dedicated to honoring routine. Things that don’t need change don’t need to be changed. There’s something comforting about some things staying the same, like a stalwart lighthouse amidst turbulent seas, a beacon that would remain permanently strong and in place.
“Working hard at such a young age,” she shakes her head as she says this, like she’s truly aghast at how capitalism robs people of free time. That, or she’s just really lazy and allergic to the concept of hard work. “Haven’t you heard that working too hard would make one shrink?”
“You should stop believing whatever nonsense you see at social media, grandma,” he retorts wryly.
Her smile remains sweet. “Oh, it’s something I’ve seen from personal experience.”
He rolls his eyes again and reminds himself that it’d cause a commotion if he ends up throwing the cup of hot milk at her face. “You should eat healthier so that you wouldn’t be so senile then,” he quips, and takes the initiative to guide her with an arm over her shoulder.
With this motion, he could squeeze her to pieces if he wishes to. She doesn’t tremble, and even shuffles closer so that they’d appear as some conjoined three-legged alien from an outsider’s point of view.
“It can’t be helped, grandma doesn’t have enough money to buy healthy meals.” She affects a look of great despair.
But she has enough money to buy his favorite brand of milk and honey, which is more expensive than others in the market. His lips twitch. “Isn’t that because you’re allergic to working hard at a young age?”
“An old lady like me prefers to spend time playing games on my console,” she says, shamelessly bypassing his accusation.
He picks up his phone, hands it to her so she could enter her username. “Motorcycle Racing VI?”
She doesn’t even blink when she says, “Little boy, you need to unlock your phone so I can type in my username.”
“You sounded so wise, I thought you’d be able to guess my PIN easily.”
In front of her eyes, he enters 0619 as the PIN, something that nobody sane would be able to guess. Having Dazai’s birthday as his passcode should be able to trip anyone who’d try to hack into his phone, it’s just a matter of disgusting the person who’d most likely want to steal his phone to begin with.
“Oh, young people do like to make their faces their wallpapers, hmm?”
“That’s a picture of a dog, grandma,” he resists the urge to smack her again. “I think you’re in need of new eyes.”
She hands his phone back to him, after typing her username so they can play later. “It can’t be helped, grandma doesn’t have enough money to get prescription glasses.”
He looks at how her two eyes are visible. “Maybe you just need to spend more time in the light,” is what he eventually says, bringing her up again, as they’re finally the next pair in line to pray in front of the shrine and make their wish.
“Perhaps that will cure my eyesight,” she allows. “What will you pray for, little boy?”
He raises his eyebrows. “Is there a point on telling you my wish?”
“You don’t strike me as the type to leave your goals to the gods,” she shrugs and slips her hand into his pocket, so she can blatantly pickpocket five yen from him.
“You don’t strike me as that either,” he points out. He shrugs back and reminds himself to not break her wrist for the obvious theft. “But there are things that I can’t control—that I don’t want to control.”
And for such a thing, he doesn’t mind paying five yen to the shrine, for them to listen to his wish.
Good health and fortune to his friends and colleagues. He hopes that shitty Dazai would stub his toe against a wall, and that he’d get a chance to pay him back for all the transgressions he’s done to him.
And maybe, just maybe—
If he’s in a good mood, maybe another chance to meet again like this.
Grandma—Dazai in his shitty disguise—waits for him, and they make their way to the queue to buy fortune slips together. Her voice is light when she tells him, “I prayed for all the tiny dogs in the world to have such a terrible year ahead.”
He sneers. “That kind of wish would merit you getting struck down by lightning.”
“Mm, but I could sense myself about to have excellent luck for the year ahead.”
At those words, Chuuya’s struck with a blend of memories over the years. Dazai somehow rigs the source of omikuji slips, but he knows that between the two of them, it’s Chuuya who always manages to grab [great blessing] and Dazai has to tamper with the results so that he wouldn’t be stuck with the worst [great misfortune].
It’s come to a point where Chuuya just draws for both of them, so they’d both have great blessings.
After all, in the past, they’re always together. He’d rather not have his missions be affected by Dazai’s terrible luck.
Of course, Dazai pays him back by changing his fortune slip to [dog blessing] anyway, urgh.
Three years isn’t that long, all things considered. But that practice has long been engraved into his instincts, so that even after Dazai’s defection, he still makes it a point to draw two slips.
Two years isn’t that long either, but even if Dazai is disguised now, he could still see the other too well. “Then, are you going to draw the slip on your own, or do you need me to draw it for you?”
“I already have a good luck in meeting you today,” Dazai says, fingers rubbing the scarf that’s been given to him. “I’m confident I can draw a good one this year.”
Strangely enough, that kind of nonsense makes his heart skip a beat. “I think it could be considered terrible luck,” he mutters, but it doesn’t feel very honest.
There are two lines for drawing the omikuji, so they draw it at the same time. He looks at his slip, then he’s unable to help himself from dragging Dazai by his elbow towards a more secluded area. “What the hell is this,” he hisses as he shakes his paper slip at the other.
Instead of a [大吉] that means ‘great blessing’, his omikuji says [太宰治].
As if that isn’t bad enough, one’s omikuji usually tells of other fortunes that can range from business dealings, travel, health and others. But the ones under his fortune are just [one’s desire], [romantic relationships] and [marriage]. And under those fortune categories, it’s also filled with Dazai’s name! Isn’t this just cursing him for an entire year?!
“It seems that my luck is similar to yours,” Dazai tells him without changing his expression.
Because this is Dazai, the one that he shows him is a slip that says ‘small blessing’, with an underline emphasis on ‘small’. His fortune categories are similar with his tampered one, with his name [中原中也] printed under [one’s desire], [romantic relationships] and [marriage].
“…I think you’re a harbinger of terrible luck, grandma,” he says dryly, after several moments of working hard to clamp down on the urge to do a German suplex on this disguised old lady.
Dazai shrugs, shameless as always. “The new year should be quite exciting.”
One hand on his pocket, “I think you should start running away now while I’m still thinking of the best way to gut you for this nonsense.”
They’ve never been a pair who’s reluctant to part. They’ve never been the type of partners who wouldn’t be able to sleep if they’re not aware of each other’s movements. They’ve never had the need to have formal goodbyes, because they’re always certain that they’d be unfortunate enough to see each other again.
This time isn’t any different. Dazai simply snickers, then disappears like a magic trick, slipping away like slippery fish in the crowd.
Chuuya breathes in deeply, then picks up the thing that Dazai has shoved against him during their first contact earlier. A metal key with a dog tag acting as its keychain. On the underside, there are small embossed patterns, one that spells out the Morse code of ‘to my dog’. On the dog tag, there’s a bunch of numbers—ones that seem to be coordinates for a place matching Hokkaido’s longitude.
He wouldn’t be surprised if it’s linked to his upcoming mission.
“An exciting new year, huh,” he says, looking up at the sky and feeling so much warmth amidst the snow that starts to fall.
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