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“—It’s not me,” floats a voice from the swath of darkness that is his apartment, untouched for four days due to a massive multi-prefecture operation that has him nursing a slight limp. “You do know that, right, Chuuya?”
He rolls his eyes and flicks the light switch on. Somehow, the motion sensor has been deactivated; it should have flooded the hallway with light by the time he steps out of his leathers and into his house slippers. “You do know that trespassing is also against the law, right?”
“I’ve already done so much worse.” It’s a flippant response, something that fits the upturned lips and the easygoing shrug that lifts his shoulders, drawing attention to the fact that he’s wearing an oversized striped shirt and nothing else. Even his usual bandages are nowhere to be seen. His hair drips to the collar of his shirt; the pink flush to his cheeks speak of turning the water heater up high like he’s in a hot spring resort.
He raises his eyebrows. “You still have self-awareness?”
“I did oh-so-accidentally eat up all the pudding in your fridge,” Dazai admits, spreading his hands, as if to say that it’s not his fault that free food just taste so much nicer.
That makes him barrel past the lanky beanpole, throwing an insult on the way, so he could inspect the sorry state of his apartment after the mackerel has spread used his fishy paws to mess everything up. Frivolous laughter trails him on his path around his home, the other’s footsteps sure and certain, as if he’s also a permanent tenant.
Calling their relationship ‘delicate’ is a massive disservice to the word, that Chuuya suspects he’d be kicked in the ass if a dictionary could gain physical form. Calling it ‘intimate’ makes him suspect that he’d grow hives, but it’s not entirely false.
“It’s not my fault that you haven’t been home to cook food for me for so long.” It’s a complaint that would sound like it comes from a housewife playing at coquettishness. That, or a professional mooch, shameless enough to demand homecooked meals from other people when he doesn’t contribute anything to the household spending.
“Last I checked, you don’t actually live here.” He completes taking stock of his kitchen, finding that only snacks have been decimated, while anything that requires more than three minutes of simmering in hot water is left unscathed. “And my job is not to be your live-in on-call chef.”
His job is a private investigator who has earned enough clout and achievement to be taken as a special consultant for certain high-profile cases. The Assassin King Incident, the Dragon Head Incident and the Apple Suicides Incident: those are only some of the cases that he’s tackled that have graced the national headlines.
He likes doing his job and he does his job well. He thinks that he has perfectly balanced the need for being a detective who broods over clues, and a detective who can arm-wrestle hooligans into surrendering within three seconds.
As a consultant to Yokohama’s Serious Crimes Division, he’s not tasked to report there every day. His official office remains the one at Suribachi Island, even if he’s unable to report there recently.
“Is it not your job to make me happy?” Dazai asks this like he’s genuinely curious about a response that could only be one thing.
He doesn’t bother looking back at the abomination haunting the doorway connecting the kitchen to the rest of the apartment. “If you’re already this delusional, maybe you should have your brain checked.”
“I don’t like hospitals, unless it means I could flirt with a lot of pretty nurses.”
He washes the rice in preparation for the rice cooker. There’s still some leftover greens and chicken, so he could toss a quick stirfry and eggs for a simple meal. There’s none of the seafood that the bastard prefers, but he couldn’t care less if the other starves from his pickiness. “Isn’t that because you’ve been banned from it, since you do keep on asking those poor nurses to a double suicide?”
“Maybe you should wear a nurse’s outfit instead,” is a casual suggestion, followed by an even more casual arm winding around his waist to disturb him in his cooking.
“Maybe I should hit your face with a pan,” he deadpans, and stomps on the other’s toes when the other’s hands start toying with the buttons on his shirt and pants, grazing fingernails over the lines of his muscles and the swell of his bruises.
“The operation is that difficult?” It’s not actually a question, since there’s no way he’d sustain this much bruising if it’s a regular desk job.
“Some brats from Narcotics wanted the full blazing glory, blah blah blah.” The chicken sizzles in the oil, mixing well with the aroma of garlic and onion. “I had to save their sorry asses from being blown sky-high.”
Of course, there’s such a thing as confidentiality agreements. Most of those who work in certain cases would already be used to living a life where their mouths can’t be pried open, even in the amiable atmosphere of home. Chuuya would never consider Dazai amiable, but he also knows that the other man is capable of unearthing information, so he’s just cutting out the middle part.
With their height difference, it’s easy for Dazai to rest his cheek against the top of his head. His words are muffled against his hair that hasn’t seen a shampoo in three days. “What a busybody dog you are. You could just leave them be.”
It’s an argument that has spanned the years that they’ve had the misfortune of knowing each other. Dazai would always begrudge Chuuya of his desire to protect people, especially those that he considers to be either under his wing or weaker than him. Chuuya would always loathe Dazai for his dark view on life and humanity.
But at the end of the day, they shed those things at the doorstep, and meet each other like this.
“Shut up if you want food today,” he grumbles, and it earns him a few moments of blessed silence, all the way to when he’s bringing two plates’ worth of food to the dining table.
The dining table is fine in itself, but the floor beside it is like a warzone. Even the second of the two chairs is not spared, also housing several stashes of notebooks and papers with various scribbles and doodles on them.
It’d have been better if they’re evidence of a budding artistic talent, but instead—well, Dazai would argue that it’s evidence of artistry.
“It’s not me,” Dazai repeats his greetings from earlier. “You should know that, right, Chuuya?”
“…Let’s eat first,” he says, sighing deeply.
To call their relationship ‘delicate’ is to downplay the fact that they’re on opposite sides of the law. A prized detective, Yokohama’s worst serial killer in its history. Not only does Dazai like the melodrama of staging the scenes of his crimes like real-life paintings, he’s also able to do so in a busy port city that’s not shy in its use of street surveillance. His known body count is past a dozen, but that’s only the ones that the police has been able to discover. Given Dazai’s capricious nature, it wouldn’t be strange if he has several kills that haven’t been displayed to the public.
Chuuya knows this, because he knows Dazai.
He doesn’t have evidence beyond a strong feeling in his gut. The Yokohama Ripper’s crime scenes are not only ostentatious, but also very clean when it comes to DNA or traces that could be used to identify the killer’s identity.
The victims span a range of demographics, but there’s one thing that ties them together: they’re people who are able to skirt the law and cause trouble to society. Yokohama Ripper’s infamy is partly due to this vigilante style of killing, earning him applause from certain sectors and those who feel as if society needs to be changed drastically.
But, Chuuya knows that Dazai only targets them because they’re more of a challenge to kill. Most of those who have the ability to hide their wrongdoings are backed by power and wealth, and are therefore more difficult to whisk away in secrecy.
He knows this. He knows Dazai knows that he knows this.
And yet, at the end of the day, they meet up like this. A casual trespassing into Chuuya’s apartment, with a closet that’s already half-overrun with bandages and clothes two sizes too long on him. A weekend trip to the next city to attend some festival or take pictres at some tourist attraction or review a restaurant raved about by the internet. An unintended visit to Dazai’s apartment to see if his editor has locked him up there for not managing to make progress on his novel manuscript.
Chuuya’s job is to send criminals to justice, but he can’t do that without solid evidence.
It’s only because of that.
It’s only because of that, and not because they’ve known each other for years, for so long that it’s as if Dazai has already wormed into the deepest point of his marrows.
They finish dinner quickly. Chuuya doesn’t trust Dazai to not juggle the plates out of boredom while washing them, so he takes care of the cleanup too. When he returns to the dining room, his cuffs are faintly wet, even when he’s carefully rolled them up his forearms. He finds Dazai seated cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by various papers. His laptop is showing several maps that are marked with stoplights and surveillance cameras: intel that the police force would probably faint if they know that a ‘civilian’ is in possession of it.
“You’re not allowed to murder them,” he says, even though he knows that the bastard never listens to him on important matters.
“But they’re trying to copy me and my tastes,” Dazai says, skirting from the outright confirmation of murder. He taps his hands against a photo of the crime scene that has caused sensation abuzz. “See, they’re even fond of using little chibis!”
It’s a copycat of the Yokohama Ripper. However, Chuuya can’t exactly go up to the task force and claim that he’s certain it’s a copycat, because Dazai would never kill any other blue-eyed red-haired person aside from him.
“He’s probably the admirer of the Yokohama Ripper.” Because of the previous high-profile cases that he has handled, most people have come to associate Chuuya’s existence to being an elite detective. There are also several press conferences where he appears to discuss the recent Yokohama Ripper murders, effectively making him the ‘face’ of the task force handling the serial killings. “And he wants to threaten me, since I’m the main force in the task force hunting the Ripper down.”
“I think it’s more likely that he despises the Ripper.” Dazai’s fingers follow the flowing lines of crime scene: an ‘angel’ at the middle, with wings made of thinly-sliced ribbons of his own hair and flesh. “He wants to claim that he could defeat the person chasing the Ripper, which means that he’s at a level above him.”
“What he needs is to be locked in the underground level of the prison, so that he couldn’t cause more terror to society.” He looks at the victim’s face, mostly unrecognizable because of how many feathers and flowers have been stitched to his skin, as if to forcibly beautify him in death.
Dazai hums and looks at the picture closely. “There’s one way to ensure that he can’t cause further trouble.”
“Being locked up safely,” he says, refusing another answer.
“Mm, there’s that.” It’s noncommittal, while also attempting to appease him.
It’s a futile endeavor, because he’s pretty sure that peace would never reach him for as long as they have this inseparable relationship.
So, he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “Urgh, this is a headache. Make sure you clean your shit up once you’re done here,” and his voice shows just how tired he’s been. To the point that he could actually close his eyes against the plans that Dazai is actively drafting up, in order to catch the copycat. To the point that he sits down on the floor, and leans his entire weight against a bony beanpole, and savors the scent of his own body wash and detergent surrounding the other man.
-
When he wakes up, it’s to discover that his dining room has been cleaned up, in exchange for his kitchen becoming a mess.
Various pots and pans are piled in the sink; one would think that several meals have been cooked for a banquet. The dire reality that awaits him is three misshapen sandwiches on a plate, with burnt toast and even more burnt ham, cheese that looks like they’ve been pinched by someone’s fingers, soggy tomatoes and wilted lettuce. There’s a bowl of milky scrambled eggs with too much salt and pepper. The only thing that’s not an outright abomination is the still-hot cup of coffee so dark it might as well be battery acid.
This kind of breakfast should be considered a violation of the Geneva convention.
But, it serves its purpose. When he goes to work, his stomach churns because of the meal, and his head is dizzy from too much caffeine. He’s at least spared of feeling even more violently ill when he sees the spread of images in the conference room.
If only he isn’t aware that Dazai would never allow himself to perish in a painful manner, he’d suspect that the current victim of the supposed copycat is the mackerel himself. There’s an uncanny likeness that requires one to look so closely and ignore the blood and viscera in order to discover the points of difference in their faces.
“Forehead is too wide,” he manages to say once he forces down the bile. “The length of his neck looks off too.”
His eyes are focused on the crime scene photos of the staged Ophelia, polluting the artificial lake of Midori Park. Because of this, he doesn’t notice that his colleagues look at him with awe, as if they would love to tip their hats over to him for somehow retaining his sanity. Most of his coworkers are aware that he’s in a relationship with the famous romance novelist Dazai Osamu; their first thought is that the Yokohama Ripper is angry at him for pursuing his case and is instead lashing out at his lover.
They’d probably look at him in horror if he tells them that the reason he could play ‘spot the difference’ so calmly is because he knows who the real Ripper is. They’d probably be even more horrified if he claims that he wants to personally cuff that bastard, just as much as he wants to break him out of a future prison, so they could run away somewhere where only the two of them would matter.
“It’s not Dazai, but it’s highly likely that Dazai’s with the murderer.” He takes a deep breath. “I know that protocol dictates that it’s best I’m not part of the investigation, but I would like to volunteer.” With clenched fists, he bows down in a perfect 90-degree angle. “Please allow me.”
No faults can be found on his demeanor. With his bowed back blocking the view of his face, nobody could see the turbulence swirling in his gaze.
-
The facts are like this: it’s somewhat both easy and difficult to classify a crime as a Ripper murder.
Dazai is the sort of genius who could copy a technique after several tries, so his cuts are surgical even if his main link to the hospital industry is to be a flirting menace to the nurses. Devouring countless books, novels and paintings is part of his job as a novelist, so knowledge about various paintings that he recreates is easy to come by. The meticulous nature of his murder tableaus is visible to everyone who takes one look at it. If one could ignore the blood, it really does look like an art installation.
There are several patterns that have not been disclosed to the public, such as the precise way of his cuts and the consistent way he severs one’s carotid: placing him at a height of around 180 centimeters. His victims are rarely drugged or poisoned, so he’s able to subdue them using a combination of strength and surprise.
Chuuya knows that it’s a matter of sly tactics. Due to the identities of those victims being quite delicate, their contacts would only report them missing once it’s already too late. He wouldn’t put it past Dazai to be able to develop a drug that could leave the victim’s system during that time difference.
…In any case, using one’s brain on analyzing the Ripper’s scenes would allow a copycat to take on other kills and then push them towards the Ripper’s long list of sins.
Chuuya’s task is to bring them to justice—Dazai has done a lot of misdeeds, but he shouldn’t be blamed for something that he hasn’t done. He already has way too many things on his list, there’s no need to pile up bogus charges.
So, he studies it in reverse, pouring over the copycat’s first known crime scene.
The Chuuya lookalike’s pose is that of an angel’s, but the imagery is mocking, since the ‘wings’ are made of his own flesh, as if to say that he’s simply propping his ‘worth’ up on his own. And then now, Dazai is missing, just as another murder surfaces, one that’s dealt to Dazai’s lookalike.
He rolls down his car window, after reaching a dead end on a lead he’s chasing. A street camera has captured someone looking like Dazai’s lookalike in this alley, but it’s a bust. A long drag to his Goldenbat, as he mulls things over.
Things would really be so much easier, if he could just arrest Dazai and lock him for eternity. He could just lock him inside the deepest cell, and he’d always have the comfort of knowing that he’s right there whenever he wants to see him, while also knowing that he can’t harm anyone else in the world.
Dazai would probably agree to that too. Not only would he be a celebrity amongst all inmates, he could make incessant demands about dealing with Chuuya and Chuuya alone. He’d have free ‘housing’ and food, and he’d probably earn a lot of money if he agrees to do tell-all interviews about his grisly crimes.
He’d definitely enjoy being the center of attention, knowing that he may not be able to harm anyone else, but he’s definitely harming Chuuya by being a glaring reminder of an inseparable relationship.
He sighs, letting out a long smoky exhale. Yeah, Dazai would really—
—Wait.
If there’s one thing that would always hold true in their relationship, it’s that Dazai would never pass up the opportunity to cause him trouble. His childish possessiveness too, is very glaring. He’d never allow have anyone act as Chuuya’s ‘substitute’ in his crimes. In that same vein, he’d also never let anyone aside from him cause heartaches to Chuuya.
And even though it only lasted for a moment, seeing a Dazai lookalike murdered like that did give him some pain.
Dazai would know that such a sight would be a blow to him, even if momentarily.
Therefore, the culprit behind this morning’s case is none other than Dazai. Which means that he’s not really captured by the copycat—or at least, it’s because it’s according to his plan.
“You’re not allowed to murder them.”
To anyone else, that sounds like obvious common sense. But to Dazai’s ears, to Dazai who’d never followed any of his advice, because he’d prefer to annoy him, to Dazai who’d be delighted at personally causing him headaches—
“There’s one way to ensure that he can’t cause further trouble.”
“Being locked up safely”
“Mm, there’s that.”
There is indeed one way to ensure that the copycat can’t cause further trouble, while also being punished for his ‘crime’ of wishing harm upon Chuuya, while also helping ease Chuuya’s headaches of how to balance his relationship with Yokohama’s worst serial killer.
For the real Ripper to pretend to be an impending victim of the copycat, manipulate him into insanity, and then push all the crimes to him.
As expected of a prized detective, Chuuya does manage to lead the team to the place where Dazai is captured.
The first thing that he says upon seeing the tied-up mackerel, with an expression full of grievances and eyes full of cunning, is this: “You are such a crazy bastard, shitty Dazai.”
Tilting his head a bit, Dazai smiles. “Yes, that’s me. But you know that and love me for it, don’t you?”
There’s no need to answer, because they both know it’s the truth that will be there for the rest of their intertwined lives.
-
end