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There are pros and cons to various things in the world, and that includes operating alone as a hired killer.
Being alone means more freedom and flexibility, since he doesn’t have to account for another person’s tastes and movements. It also means that he would solely shoulder all of the responsibilities from tracking down the target, setting up an alibi, the actual killing, all the way to a properly disposing the corpse.
After being kicked out of his first mercenary group seven years ago, he has always operated alone.
The pay is good, even if the schedule could sometimes be a pain in the ass. Some of his clients suffer through delusions of teleportation being feasible in this era, expecting him to cross an entire hemisphere and kill someone in four hours. Sometimes, he’s tempted on running a dagger through his clients’ throats instead. Sometimes, he embraces temptation.
Tonight is one such night. Of course, he has accomplished this man’s commission first. Ridding of this guy’s political rival is peanuts to Chuuya; ridding this guy for being a worse scumbag doesn’t require much mental gymnastics and moral quibbling.
He’s methodological in his ways. As someone in the business for nearly a decade, he has picked up his routine, preferring to reserve his creativity on the actual kill itself.
This man’s bones are brittle, his rigid body dwarfing him. Even so, Chuuya’s barely sweating by the time he dumps the twelfth and final bag of chopped remains at a disposal center two cities away. The night wind cools the sweat entirely by the time he hops off his bike at his designated parking spot, pushing the button to send him up from his apartment building’s underground parking.
His other hand is busy scrolling through his phone, bookmarking some recipes that he’d like to try, retweeting the promotion for his current favorite anime’s next episode, replying to Ane-san’s query about his workload, blocking Dazai and his barrage of spam yet again.
“—Chuuya! Where have you been!”
He looks at the man haunting his doorstep. Considers going back down and driving into a backpacker’s hotel and spending the night there instead of dealing with this nuisance.
He’s already losing money because of this guy—so many things in his pantry keep on going missing, and he’s consuming more painkillers and antacids from increased stress—so why should he lose even more? He instead stomps forward and kicks the other’s shins.
“You’re cleaning those shit up,” he jabs a thumb against the other’s chest when his kick is evaded. “And then you’re fucking off away from here.”
“Mm, did you bring me souvenirs?” Unsurprisingly, Dazai ignores his edict to vacate the premises. He also sidesteps the pile of empty snack wrappers, the tiny pillows, a fleece blanket, a large bottle of cola, a phone still plugged to a powerbank. His doorstep has been transformed to an illegal camping spot, courtesy of a fish.
He attempts another kick to stop his nosy neighbor from trying to follow him inside his apartment. “Why the fuck would I bring you souvenirs?”
“Didn’t you say that you’re driving around tonight?” Dazai is all lanky limbs, fluid with his smiles and his movements as he successfully slinks past his defenses and jabs. “You must have passed by some convenience stores, saw some snacks, and thought of me, right?”
“I did think of you,” he concedes with a loud exhale, deliberately puncturing the swell of giddiness on the other’s face. “I thought of how annoying you are and how I don’t wish to be disturbed by you.”
It’s not as if he hasn’t considered it. Plenty of people in his line of work find people to date, for the sake of having a better cover. Some of the more successful killers that he knows have a whole image packaged for the general public: a gentle demeanor, with an equally gentle spouse. A lot of times, kids are involved. There’s less chance to suspect someone if they present the image of a healthy, nuclear family. He knows that Verlaine has approached that artist with that kind of plan in mind, it just so happened that Rimbaud is the same, and so the two idiots ended up dating for real.
But that kind of development is one in a billion. It’d either be a loveless relationship, or something that would end in tears once one’s career catches up to them.
…In any case, seeing Dazai for the first time has made him consider it.
Dazai’s face is handsome enough, and his figure is passable enough despite the obvious abhorrence towards gyms. Even his voice is enough to make one’s heart flutter. Of course, the moment that he’s heard his voice is immediately followed by the moment that he removed this guy from consideration of a possible relationship cover. After all, Dazai’s first words to him are to insult his height, only becoming more impolite and more annoying the further he talks.
In other words, Chuuya would rather hire someone to assassinate him than consider dating this guy for cover.
It’s just that Dazai’s thick face is apparently too thick to be penetrated by reality and by Chuuya’s multiple rejections over his self-assured, self-issued invitations to mooch off his pantry.
Case in point, Dazai barely deflates at being called annoying to his face. Somehow, he manages to interpret his words in the most incorrect way possible. “Oh, you’ve thought of me a lot, huh? That’s so embarrassing, Chuuya.” He doesn’t miss a beat as he avoids another swipe to his knees. “If you give me a key to your apartment, I’d generously allow you to think of me more often!”
“You keep on picking the lock anyway.” The security of his apartment is a race between buying the sturdiest locks and Dazai picking through them. Chuuya has stopped leaving any tools or evidence of his work at home for that reason; with Dazai’s level of unabashed snooping, it’d be akin to surrendering to the police.
In a tone so reasonable that it’s a shame he never says anything of worth, “Having the actual key is a different matter.”
They’ve had this conversation thousands of times, over the three-year span of Chuuya living in this apartment building. Multiple times, it has crossed his mind to simply not renew his lease and move to another place. A part of him is aghast at the possibility that Dazai would simply follow him, sticking to him like goldfish shit drifting behind. He doesn’t even consider the likelihood of Dazai somehow losing steam and deciding to leave him in peace.
He waves a hand dismissively, removing his biker gloves and shrugging off his leather jacket. He’s confident in doing such a thing, because he knows that he has cleaned up well after disposing the body.
Maybe not as well as he thinks, because Dazai suddenly captures his right wrist in a punishing grip. Uncharacteristically strong for a man who bombards him at two in the morning because he’s supposedly too weak to open his ‘midnight snack’ of canned crab, one that has a pull-tab on it.
“You have a bruise here,” Dazai breathes over him, voice dark. “Did you end up having an affair? Is that why you’re out late today?”
He makes a face. That guy’s corpse was so heavy so it probably gave him a bruise while he’s lugging him along. Of course, it’s not as if he could use that as an explanation. Not that he owes this mackerel any explanation—they’re neighbors, nothing more.
“I meet people every day,” is how he answers, raising his eyebrows. “You should do your own groceries too, so you’d know how that feels.”
As far as he knows, Dazai is some mix of a blogger and a writer. Something about having a lot of followers on social media because of his supposed beauty and supposed charm, blah blah blah. Chuuya has honestly tuned out those parts of the other’s speech. All he knows is that Dazai is too lazy and too broke to get his own food most days, and it’s Chuuya’s wallet who suffers in result.
“My hands are too delicate to carry shopping bags,” is the utterly shameless claim. Letting go abruptly, Dazai hops to a frog-like pose over his couch, occupying so much space with his bony limbs. “Plus, if I go somewhere public, who knows how many ladies would faint upon seeing my beauty? It’d cause a public disturbance, and I’m too nice to inflict that upon anyone!”
He rolls his eyes, rubs his wrist that still retains phantom heat from the other’s grip. “Your existence is a public disturbance.”
“Mm, you agree that women would faint upon seeing my face?”
“Understandable. I also feel like keeling over when I hear your bullshit.” Thankfully, his experience as a hired killer has molded him to be made of stronger stuff. In a way, it should be amazing, how he’s able to step over strewn guts without batting an eyelash, but his stomach churns whenever he has to hear about Dazai’s nonsense.
“I understand. Ladies and one tiny dog would faint upon seeing my beauty.”
“You understand absolutely nothing.” It’s nothing new. When he’s left in just his pants, shirt with top two buttons undone, and fluffy bunny slippers, it’s just in time for the kettle’s whistle. Chamomile tea with honey, two cups of it. He’d eat a big breakfast tomorrow to replenish his energy. Even if he’s a little peckish now, it wouldn’t do to cook anything—Dazai would just take that as a sign that he could linger longer. “Go away as soon as you finish that tea.”
“You’re kicking me out?”
Blithely, “You weren’t welcome to begin with.”
Dazai squints at him, the darkness returning to his gaze. “Are you having an affair? You’ve been avoiding me a lot recently, and you’re almost-never home.” He looks like a concerned friend, instead of someone behind a glass panel inside an interrogator’s room. That doesn’t make his question easier to answer.
“Work has been busy,” he offers as an explanation. On paper, he’s a freelance photographer who offers his works for various magazines on a rotation basis. It makes for good cover for traveling all over the world, allows him flexibility when it comes to juggling his scheduled assassinations.
Dazai’s expression softens. Seeing the other man grow happy makes his stomach cartwheel strangely, but Chuuya reasons that it’s good that he gave out an explanation, even if it’s a lie; at least, this means that Dazai would stop hounding him.
-
…He should have known that Dazai would never stop hounding him.
Over the past few months, his phone is permanently on do-not-disturb mode. Sometimes, he shuts it off for some peace and quiet, going under the radar and only contacting his clients to state that the job is done. His inbox is bombarded by various spam mail, while his LINE is full of emoji packs and eye-burning message from Dazai, ranging from shameless to downright unhinged.
Things such as “I can’t sleep without seeing you” and “I’m pouring vinegar over your wine” have tempted him to wring the other’s neck more than once.
In fact, it’s downright a miracle, how Chuuya hasn’t received a request to assassinate Dazai yet. With how much of a menace the mackerel is, there should be a long queue waiting to see him dead.
But the targets that he receives are of people who don’t possess the same eyes or the same awful bandages. Election season means booming business for hired killers. He’s had to flip coins several times, in cases where two opposing parties contact him simultaneously. That’s not even counting the regular disagreements born out of purchasing company shares, or the usual drama amongst the ultra-rich families. That’s also not accounting for the kills that he makes for free, like that one asshole who wanted his new wife dead because she’s had premarital sex.
Between Dazai constantly terrorizing his phone and his front door, as well as the workload, Chuuya’s spread rather thin.
He doesn’t get sloppy, he still maintains a perfect rate on all his jobs.
He’s been limiting his foreign missions lately, and he resolutely thinks that it’s because he wants to avoid jetlag after jetlag. It’s definitely not because he’s worried that he’d find Dazai languishing on his welcome mat—a very cute design of a sheepdog with a flock of sheep—if he’s gone for too long and fails to feed him regularly.
Also, all of the accusations about him being afraid of losing when they play PvP games are full of lies. He’s not afraid of anything, especially a beanpole who only knows how to cheat by tampering his gaming console!
…That said, there are some hits that he can’t pass up on.
His next target, codename Ace. A cutthroat businessman heavily involved in gem trade, owning a newly discovered topaz mine. Has the irksome taste of making all of his workers and subordinates wear jeweled collars. Has too much blood money that he’s funneling to someone running for parliament, headlining extremely unpopular policies. Even if it’s not an assassination request, Chuuya would want to kill this guy on principle.
However, with great money comes great paranoia. Ace is practically wearing his extensive security detail like second skin. Aside from the two-dozen security detail flanking him and guarding him even when he goes for a bathroom break, he also has an entourage of snipers who are ready to out-snipe anyone targeting his life.
“I do not ask for a tight timeframe.” His client tilts his head, biting his fingertips in a display of anxiety that doesn’t match the cool ice inside purple eyes. “I have been assured of your reputation and prowess, A5158.” Fyodor Dostoevsky calls him by his codename, something that everyone in their business uses. Chuuya hasn’t changed his since joining and subsequently leaving Sheep.
He drums his fingers against the tabletop. An empty coffee cup, a camera placed atop a notebook full of notes and sketches, to complete his cover. Onlookers would assume that he’s simply having coffee with an acquaintance, instead of someone accepting a large assassination job. “Just give me a timeframe so I know what to work with.”
“Fifteen days,” Fyodor says, smiling. “That is a generous timeframe, no?”
It’s generous if one is measuring the possibility of failure. But that’s for others. Chuuya narrows his eyes, clicks his tongue, and extends a hand for a handshake. “Send the downpayment.”
When he returns to his apartment, Dazai is already inside, trespassing like always. He also hisses like a rain-soaked cat upon trying to steal Chuuya’s gloves, and then accusing him of touching other men because his smell is different than usual. At this point, Chuuya’s had enough experience fielding this kind of crazy talk, so he simply swats the other’s face away and focuses on researching Ace.
-
Exactly fifteen days after he has accepted the job, Chuuya is ready to kill his target.
The killing itself is bound to be the easiest part. The difficult part would be squeezing into that window of opportunity, and then making sure that the other’s death wouldn’t be considered as having any evidence of foul play.
He doesn’t have a lot of time, given the strict security detail. He needs to be fast in sneaking into this party, luring Ace to a blind spot near a rose garden, and then—
—for the first time in his life, someone else beats Chuuya to the punch.
It’s also the first time that he’s frozen, struck speechless and motionless, while in the middle of a job.
Or maybe he isn’t in the middle of a job anymore, because his job is currently very dead.
“I was so worried, you know?” There’s a truly worrying grin on Dazai’s face, a splash of blood on his cheek. It’s nothing compared to the red spreading over ill-fitting gloves on his hands. “I thought you were sneaking around in order to meet other men to replace me.” He says this as if they’re in an actual relationship, and Chuuya’s the bastard boyfriend with wandering eyes. His relief is palpable when he adds, “I’m so relieved that you’re just sneaking around to kill people.”
He has thought that he’s seen his share of crazy, extraordinary things, but this tops all of them.
“…You’re relieved.”
There’s a dagger in Dazai’s gloved hands. Stolen from Chuuya’s stash, just like the gloves. Dazai’s grin is the same as when he celebrates his rigged victory over a racing game. “I really just wanted to talk to him at first,” he explains, driving the dagger further into Ace’s bloody form. “I wanted to warn him that my Chuuya might develop a crush on him, since he keeps on staring at him and looking at his social media and websites.”
Surreal situation it may be, he still finds it in himself to protest, “Remove the ‘my’, oi.”
“I was really sad and worried that Chuuya would prefer him over me,” Dazai continues, pouting like he’s just been told that he can’t just trespass into someone else’s apartment and steal pudding from their fridge. “Thankfully, he cleared up the misunderstanding. He told me that Chuuya’s probably just an assassin who wants to kill him.”
He raises his eyebrows. “So you stabbed him.”
“I’m a lot cuter than him.” It’s a line that makes no sense whatsoever, but Dazai drops it like it’s gospel truth. “And Chuuya spent days thinking about him, when he should be thinking about me instead!”
“So you stabbed him.” Strangely enough—or maybe not that strange, given his instincts—the bewilderment fades away quickly. Like this development makes no sense, while being inevitable at the same time.
He really should have known that there’s nothing normal about a troublesome neighbor who’d invite him on a double suicide within the first five seconds of their first meeting, and then mock-retching upon realizing that while he has long curly hair, he’s not a ‘pretty lady’ in the slightest. This is then followed by Dazai stating that he looks cute enough to be his dog, so he’s allowed to pamper him, which has earned a punch to the face.
“I suspected that photography isn’t your main job,” Dazai adds, shrugging. “After all, if that’s your real job, you should have taken thousands of photos of my face.”
He takes his phone out of his pocket and raises it so he can capture the other’s blood-splattered figure, with moonlit roses in the background. “The only time I’ll take your photo is when I’m making a ‘Wanted: Dead or Very Dead’ poster of you.”
Dazai makes a bloody peace sign, smiling brightly. Very photogenic. Unfortunately ruined when he leers and wiggles his eyebrows and opens his mouth. “So you admit that you want me, Chuuya?”
“I admit that I’m interested in you,” he says, prolonging his syllables and watching Dazai bounce with joy at the thought that he could lord this over him, “and how you’re able to get yourself out of this situation.”
Then, without missing a beat, Chuuya yells loudly, in order to get everyone’s attention about a murder that has happened right under their nose.
There are pros and cons to various things in the world, and that includes agreeing to date an unhinged mackerel, who simply laughs out loud at this, accepting the challenge that he’s tossed his way. As he prepares to watch an interesting show, Chuuya adds one point in favor of dating someone without it being for the sake of cover.
-
end