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‘Mori left that new kid in the Dazai’s care.’
‘Ain’t Dazai-san a kid himself? No offense, of course.’
‘Shh! ‘Aven’t ya heard the fuckin’ rumors about him? Value yur life? Keep your fuckin’
mouth shut
.’
Care was a severely poor choice of wording. You could say what Akutagawa was to Dazai was what Dazai was to Mori. Tutelage was more fitting. Cruel tutelage. The Executive’s hand was disciplinary at abusive levels, and his kindness was as non-existent as the praise he deprived his pupil. The ultimate goal was to mold Akutagawa into a fearsome weapon for the Port Mafia’s personal gain, and well, Dazai wasn’t the most patient person. He had already orchestrated an intense regime and strict schedule when Akutagawa was sworn in. Now, the brunette wasn’t a perfectionist, but as long as his plans went unhindered, the better. When things didn’t go as planned? That was fine; Dazai had ways to work around road blocks. Some things that he did not tolerate?
‘I can’t do that.’ ‘That’s too difficult for me.’
Excuses.
What excuses lead to were punishments, and those could vary depending on the offense. The more tame being a punch or three. The extreme being death. The in between details could be spared, but Dazai’s morale was not above torment despite Akutagawa’s age.
Disobeying commands was another thing the brunette wasn’t thrilled to be met with. It didn’t have be an outright denial of the demand either; simply tiptoeing around executing the order to the exact detail was another form of disobedience.
“Perhaps if Oda were the one to have found you first, he’d have the forgiveness to offer you, but I am not him.”
His bandaged hand was hot from slapping his subordinate across the face - a strike hard enough that it drew blood.
“Yes, Odasaku ,” Dazai continued as he ignored any further protest or shock. “Someone you could never beat even if you trained for a hundred years! For fuck’s sake, he’s out here taking care of orphans right now! Are you telling me you’d rather live an easy life with them? Throw away the little progress you’ve made?”
The gun he drew to his hand didn’t need to have a click resonating between them; the appearance was message enough: This is the only way you leave.
“If you’d let me-”
A knee bolted into Akutagawa’s abdomen to send him backwards.
“I thought I made it clear that I’m tired of hearing excuses.”
A coughing fit emerged. Given the teen’s poor set of lungs as is, it was a wonder that all he could do was cough. His mouth was colored red by this point, chin dripping with blood and saliva as it made tiny ponds onto the ground. All Dazai did was glare down at him, still waiting to hear a proper answer.
When at last Akutagawa could form coherent sentences again, he went with simplicity. “No, Dazai.”
“No, what?”
“No, I will not throw away my progress.”
Slowly, he managed to get back up onto his own feet, albeit hand clutching his stomach and he was still inhaling gulps of breath and coughing on each exhale. There was a newfound resolve, hatred, humiliation, all of it burning into his eyes that was believable.
The Executive made no comment on what he saw. “Cover your mouth when you cough.”