Work Text:
The news of Mori’s sickness spreads like a summer wildfire through Yokohama’s underground network. It’s quick, unexpected, and nothing but lethal. Following a trail of gasoline, the flames branch out through every grimy alley, and into all the corrupted jazz bars Chuuya’s so used to spending his weekend nights at.
It takes no more than two days and a half for the news to be engraved in burning letters in every room Chuuya enters. Once he steps through the door, he can feel the words sticking to his skin like humid air floating around him as they quietly wait for the first thunder of a storm that’s already tattering the sky.
He can't breathe.
He has to take his beloved leather choker off as soon as he slumps onto the driver’s seat of his red Lexus, throwing the accessory in the empty passenger seat. He watches as the impact scatters around some documents he had left in the morning, and only then does he manage to take what feels like the first breath of the entire day. It’s hot, It stings like a shot of alcohol down his throat.
He breathes in, dread filling his lungs and planting seeds in his alveoli.
He breathes out, vines obstructing his throat.
He does it again.
And again, again, again-
‘Just one more’ he tells himself for the umpteenth time. One more breath, and he'll be alright. He'll straighten up and drive home, out of the Port Mafia's reserved parking lot, out of this nightmarish city district. Just one more breath. That's all he needs. Gloved fingers knead the eco-leather of the steering wheel with enough strength to leave a mark.
When he puts the gear shift into reverse and presses the accelerator, he almost crashes into one of the pillars of the underground parking lot.
—
Dazai realizes something's wrong after the food in the pan has long turned cold, and his phone is still sitting quietly under the TV. He shoots it a glance, the display not showing any intention of lightning up soon.
Chuuya getting home late from work usually would be nothing to be surprised about. The Port Mafia is not any regular nine-to-five job. All one can do is guess when they'll be able to step back into the genkan of their house.
Hell, just a week prior, Chuuya spent forty-eight hours in a row at work. Blame it on the gang that thought sneaking into the warehouses owned by the Port Mafia and stealing firepower would’ve been a good idea. Too bad for them, it wasn’t, and Chuuya had to spend fifteen of those hours arranging funerals and covering up for their sudden deaths. It's kinda hard, especially when it consists of convincing the government that the five people whose only remains are nothing more than a few bloody limbs and guts scattered on the concrete, died in a work accident.
So, there’s nothing to worry about Chuuya not being home at 1 am. Who knows, if luck is on his side, in a few hours, he'll get a fantastic tale about the eventful night, narrated by the best narrator a pretentious man like him could ever ask for- a tipsy Nakahara Chuuya sitting at the kitchen counter, untied hair, glass filled to the brim in one hand and his dagger in the other.
Sunrise will slowly peek through the curtains. Chuuya will gradually lower his voice, easing himself into the comfort of the kitchen counter, and by the time he’ll have finished recounting the shitshow, fallen asleep on the marble surface, it'll be morning. Dazai will call in sick for the day, much to Kunikida’s dismay, to spend the morning doodling all over Chuuya’s face as he drools on his sleeve.
He can stand Chuuya being late if it means he’ll get him right where he wants him- under the tip of his black permanent marker.
Usually, Dazai would relax on the couch and put up some tv show he enjoys, waiting for his flatmate to get home. It’s not like sleep comes easy to him anyways.
Although, there's a fatal flaw in Chuuya’s temperament. One that he’s always found irritating just as much as he found it honorable- alright, now he definitely finds it annoying since it’s making it challenging for him to just lay down on the couch and do nothing. The irritating, bothersome, stupid thing about his roommate is that, no matter how late he is, whether it's five minutes- he's awfully meticulous when it comes to being on time- or hours. No matter how angry he is about the situation that’s holding him back. He'll always leave a text on Dazai's phone.
[Monday - 08:56 pm] I'm gonna be late. 1 hour. Don't you dare drink my wine, mackerel.
[Tuesday- 08:48 pm] Late again. I won't come back tonight. Feed the cat.
[Friday - 07:06 pm] Stuff came up. Don't watch the movie without me or I'll cut ya head off.
A deadly flaw called loyalty. And since he gives it to the wrong people, that makes it even worse. Dazai could be fast asleep or immersed in a documentary about sea life if his partner had a better choice in the people he trusts. Instead, he’s now pacing around the room with worry due to the silent phone.
Dazai scrolls through the text messages he and his partner exchanged over the past weeks. The screen is so bright it scorches his eyes, and the pad of his finger is quick on the glass screen.
Those are the only texts they usually exchange, other than trifles and a few pictures of their cat. Their cat, even if Chuuya keeps insisting it's not his and acting like Dazai is too blind to see him staring in absolute awe at the feline. The odd comfort he finds in watching Chuuya sleepily play with the cat, half tipsy and half asleep as the credits to some film roll on TV, is not as terrible as he initially thought. It feels normal.
He scrolls through a few grocery lists until the messages stop flowing on his screen, to the last text they exchanged.
[Monday - 09:34 pm] Two fucking idiots tried to blow up a container at the port. I’m gonna be late.
But that was three days earlier. It’s 1 am, and Chuuya’s fateful text bubble has yet to deliver the announcement that he'll be late.
Something is awfully, terribly wrong.
—
There are hills West of Yokohama.
Laurel forests, thin and lanky logs, and undergrowth made out of fallen leaves. The tales surrounding the thousand pathways and shrines scattered around the hillside are so numerous he’s prone to thinking that, if he could count the stars, as many as you can see from there with your head tilted up high and away from light pollution, he’s sure he'd find enough stories to outnumber them.
Dazai doubts someone has memorized those tales better than he has.
High white socks and polished brown loafers on, as ruled by his family’s wealthy dress code he always had to respect. He used to walk those paths daily, hopping on and off musky rocks, playing the tightrope walker on massive roots and fallen trees. Satisfaction wasn’t a thing unless he had at least one little colored bandaid on his knees.
There amidst the trees, lying on the naked, cold rock and a creek that used to keep him company at night, was the summer house his parents had confined him in during all those warm months of his youth.
Sculpted in elegant traditional architecture, the inner garden- with a little wooden bridge over the creek,- patio and all, that was Dazai’s only pleasant memory of his younger years and his only inheritance. He musters up the word in his head, molding and pressing it through the turning gears of his brain.
Inheritance.
The word is metallic and stings unripe on his tongue. It doesn’t feel right to use it.
Inheritance usually implies someone's demise… but it’s not like a “parting gift” is any more suitable. Hell, that’s even worse. But he doubts there’s a nice way to tell people that his parents simply cut off all their ties with him and left him a house because they couldn’t find anyone willing to buy it. He’ll stick with inheritance, keeping the reminders of where he went wrong to himself.
The dismal uphill roads run under the tires of one of Chuuya’s cars. Dazai knows he’s usually not allowed to drive them, but what can he do? It’s not like crashing into the mechanic’s office and fetching back his car is an option. Not if said car had been brought there just the day before because he had somehow burned out the car's clutch. It’s not like he’s ever listened to Chuuya’s threats anyways. Still, to prevent further, mysterious damage from occurring, he drives uncharacteristically slowly up the hairpin turns. He even stops, tapping his fingers on the red leather steering wheel to the beat of the music, and waits for a bunny to cross the road. Call him a true gentleman.
Chuuya should consider himself lucky if you ask him. He was lucky to have such a considerate man driving his car and even more fortunate that the place he was supposed to stay tonight was their shared apartment and not his current girlfriend's place.
Dazai likes her. Responsible, good sense of humor, she never complained once about the baggage of human flesh and bandages that inhabited her boyfriend’s apartment. Long ebony hair curled at the tips, thick-framed glasses, and tan skin, she was a history teacher at a private Yokohama high school despite being only twenty-six, one year younger than Chuuya.
She and Chuuya had met what, eight months earlier? Considering that the slug’s relationships usually lasted no longer than a few months, that was a lot. Dazai had actually been considering the possibility of it becoming something serious, breaking a tradition of brief affairs…well, until this whole thing happened. Not bad timing since it saved him from moving and finding a new place to live. Still, he likes her. She is a great companion for Chuuya, with all her quick remarks, sarcasm, and competitiveness.
Nevertheless, the good qualities don’t cancel out that she is just a civilian. If Chuuya had skipped the roll call at her place, her quick wit would’ve suggested she’d have the police called out on him, probably fearing a car crash or a sudden illness.
She couldn’t have known that Chuuya is parked in the unpaved parking lot of Dazai’s parting gift or whatever house. She shouldn’t known that and would’ve ended up causing a mess bigger than needed. Having the police called on you when you’re a mafia executive might not be one of the wisest moves.
Dazai parks the car on the opposite side of the little open space in front of his inherited house and turns off the engine. If Chuuya ever asks him no, he doesn’t hear the rock bumping on the car's underside. He closes the car and shoves the keys into his front pocket.
Just as he imagined, Chuuya’s red flaming Lexus is parked there with the windshield facing the view of a distant Yokohama made up of thousands of shining lights. He lets the quiet night breeze of warm, early September caress his skin.
A glance at the house is all he needs to confirm that Chuuya isn’t inside but is probably still in the car. Just like he expected, obviously. He walks towards the passenger seat door, opens it, and throws his coat on the empty seat over Chuuya’s choker and scattered pieces of paper. He then shuts it and walks around the car, whistling carelessly, to open the backdoor on the left side of the car. Unsurprisingly, Chuuya is there, lying down with his legs folded to allow him to fit in the backseat
Dazai props against the top of the car with his hand and leans forwards, taking an eyeful of his partner. No answer comes, so he squats down and tries entering the cockpit. Chuuya doesn’t budge even when Dazai prods at his head with one knee.
“Move a little, won’t you?” Dazai merrily says, leaning down and patting next to Chuuya’s head with one hand, “I’m trying to sit here, if you haven’t noticed~”
Chuuya keeps his eyes closed, hair untied and sticking to his sweat-clad forehead. The first buttons of his shirt have been opened, and his dearly loved and taken-care-of vest has been discarded somewhere on the car’s floor. He might look asleep to a newbie. Maybe, if instead of Dazai, the police had found him, they’d have thought he was passed out or under the influence of substances.
However, the unlucky discoverer is Dazai. And that is what a twelve-year-old partnership does to you. He can feel Chuuya being awake. He feels the thoughts roaming in his head, no matter how good he is at playing the dead slug. It’s clear he’s trying to slow down his breathing too, and struggling at that. Quite a lot even. If the choker being thrown away from his neck means anything.
There are a few seconds of silence between them. A lullaby of cicadas in the distance and the sound of the wind in the trees.
Then, a wobbly sigh. Chuuya sits up, and Dazai leaps on the opportunity, nimbly slipping into the cleared seat with an amused chuckle. Dazai makes himself comfortable, and Chuuya plops his head back on his lap. He does it with a ferocious grunt like the dog he is. Dazai would even laugh at the pathetic display of repulsion if only he could do anything but feel a sort of satisfaction blooming in his chest at the gesture.
He doesn’t close the car door, letting the cool breeze flow into the vehicle's interiors. He rests his right arm on Chuuya’s chest. It’s comfortably warm, just like the rest of his body.
“Shouldn't a mafia executive handle a breakup a little better than this?” He says in a singsong and pokes at one of the undone buttons of the slug’s shirt. The cloth moves enough to reveal the freckled, scarred chest he knows so well.
Chuuya is taken aback by the question, leading him to proffer the first word of the night, a characteristic huh? that comes off a bit too pitchy to Dazai’s taste.
“Chuuya should be glad the breakup dinner is tomorrow,” Dazai continues. He prods a little more at Chuuya’s shirt, then moves to a few messy locks on his shoulder, “What a terrible way of leaving her it would’ve been if he had stood her up… Hasn’t Kouyou taught Chibi proper manners?”
“How do you even…” Chuuya’s eyelids slowly part. There’s not nearly enough pretend anger in his stare as Dazai needs. He shifts in his seat, trying to get more comfortable. Not once he breaks eye contact with him.
“I’m a detective, Chuuya! One of the best, thank you very much, what did you expect?” He lets out another false chuckle. As a grand response, Chuuya weakly rolls his eyes back.
Dazai likes Chuuya’s girlfriend. She’s nice, always honest, and has a sense of justice stronger than the law itself. That’s precisely why he knows Chuuya’s breaking up with her. The cicadas outside are loud, so loud he almost misses the hiccuped, rattling sigh escaping from Chuuya’s lips.
“You’re panting like a rabid dog, you know.” He states, seemingly carelessly.
Chuuya’s answer is another, noisy, wobbly sigh. Dazai places his hand back on his chest, softly enough to not bother, enough to feel how badly the slug is breathing.
“Shouldn’t Chuuya stand up if he’s so heartbroken he can’t breathe?”
Chuuya shakes his head.
If a word perfectly describes the slug besides short, Dazai would pick hothead. The worst hothead Dazai’s ever known, too. Unsurprisingly, he’ll do anything to hide that his lungs are strained, and his heart is racing. He’s probably driven up all those little ruined roads in this state, too, just because he thought he could put himself back together before Dazai showed up.
The matter is, he clearly hasn’t. So, there was no point in driving up here.
“You could’ve come home, you know? With this panting and sighing, driving up here wasn’t the greatest idea. Unless you wanted a car crash, of course. However, if that was the case, I'll be so deeply offended you didn’t call me.”
“I didn’t,” a deep breath, “want you around,” Chuuya utters through gritted teeth.
The statement sounds nearly convincing. The ‘r’ is rolled perfectly on Chuuya’s tongue in a way only he can do. Years of bantering seemingly helped him become sharper! Dazai doesn’t doubt Chuuya’s subordinates would have shaken in their boots if they ever heard him ordering them around like this. There are no remains of the little fifteen-year-old cursing and tripping over words in the man lying in his lap.
I didn’t want you around. Such a bold declaration. Too bad he’s currently parked in front of Dazai’s house. Talk about unfortunate timing. Dazai feels kind enough to let the location of their rendezvous slide-
“Right. Then, tiger, who else were you hoping to meet on this fateful night? You know, there are tales about this place being haunted. Hoping to encounter some fairy that would’ve let you finally grow taller?”
-Not entirely, though.
“I hate you.” Chuuya musters up.
“You could at least look at me when you say that!”
Chuuya peeps up at him with one eye open. He grimaces. “This is not your best angle. I'd rather not throw up right now.”
“Oh, I’m sure about that! In the same way, I’m convinced this conversation would flow much smoother sitting around a table and not cramped up in a car with you sweating all over me. What do we think? I would really enjoy avoiding the possibility of you throwing up on me.”
“I think,” Chuuya gives up. He props himself up and begins his attempt at sitting up, “that you’re fucking intolerable.”
“And I think…” Dazai slides off the vehicle and holds the door open, like a true gentleman. He bows too when Chuuya steps out of the car. The mafioso shoots him a disgusted glance “I’ll take that as a yes~!”
Ten minutes and a chase for the keys that Dazai accidentally dropped in the creek later find them finally walking inside the house. Chuuya wobbles straight to the cheap couch Dazai had placed in the living room a few years earlier and drops down on the squeaky cushions.
Dazai's parents would kill him- or perhaps take back the house if they saw how he had re-furnished it. Of the traditional and pricey furniture, a few pillows are all that's left. The living room consists of a shoddy blue couch, a flat-screen television, a wooden coffee table, and two gaming consoles. In a corner sits a leftover bottle of red wine from their last visit.
Debatably, it's all they need for their bimonthly retreats here- usually to escape the city’s chaos or to dodge a fight. Or when Chuuya's partner decides they want to spend the night at his place. Dazai would rather not hear what goes down in the bedroom down the hall. Thank you very much. The traditional furniture is all secured and stored in the basement anyways, so nothing went to waste.
Dazai heads to the kitchen. He takes a bottle of Yamazaki’s twelve-year-old whiskey (Chuuya’s gift, obviously, he would never buy such pricey alcohol. Not considering how fast he goes through the bottles) from a cabinet and two glasses.
"It tastes like shit," Chuuya mumbles when he sees what Dazai’s holding as he walks back into the dark living room, switching a side lamp on. The complaint comes off muffled, as he’s already busy tossing and turning to find a more comfortable position. To hide he’s struggling to catch his breath, obviously.
Dazai ignores him and drops both glasses on the coffee table. A loud clank. He sits down on the couch.
Chuuya finally settles for a comfortable position. He throws his legs over Dazai’s and lays his head down on the armrest. He’s still warm, it’s almost instinctual for Dazai’s hand to rest on Chuuya’s thigh.
“So, what are we dealing with here?” He ventures.
Chuuya answers with gravel in his throat. His guard is raised. Eyes half-lidded, he stares at the ceiling, “I’m not putting up with your stupid jokes right now. Break up, you said? Right, then you already know the answer.” A feeble ‘somehow’ gets mumbled right after.
The uncooperativeness has Dazai rolling his eyes.
There’s no way they're getting anything done if Chuuya keeps this stoic mask on. Dazai mourns the absence of a nice, old bottle of wine for what is probably the first time in his life. He hates the wine brands Chuuya buys. But a nice glass of Italian wine would definitely do something. For starters, get the slug to confess what’s straining his heart so much that a strategic retreat has become necessary.
“Someone’s being fussy~”
“You’re insufferable.”
It’s not the breakup. Dazai hadn't even considered that option when it became clear things were coming to an end. As soon as Chuuya’s behavior drastically changed a week earlier, he knew a breakup was coming. Over a nice dinner at Chuuya’s favorite restaurant, surely. That’s how they all end, sooner or later.. He doesn’t need much inquisition to ascertain that Chuuya isn’t going to be heartbroken over some brief relationship.
He prods at his stomach. Chuuya flails him away quicker than lightning. The laugh he lets out at the instantaneous response is uncharacteristically genuine, “My bad for looking out for you, sir Nakahara. I deeply apologize-”
But there is something that’s not making sense.
Chuuya attempts to shove his knee into his stomach. “Right, if you are so sorry then leave- ” He orders. Dazai is quicker and stops the hit, then shoves a hand against his mouth. He grimaces when Chuuya bites him.
He continues “-for keeping you from disclosing life-threatening details to the bug in your car, shithead!” He considers wiping his hand on Chuuya’s shirt. Feels fair, he proceeds. “Ew. That's disgusting. Even for a slobbery dog like you.”
There is something wrong, but he doesn’t need the entire world to know. He doesn’t need Mori to know. A piece is missing. A fundamental one even, considering how Chuuya’s reacting to it.
Chuuya noticeably stills at the information. “Say what now.”
Dazai tilts his head. “You didn’t notice? Is the slug so out of it he didn’t even know he was being spied on?”
Bugs in executives’ cars. It’s probably one of the most blatant measures of security one could pick. Ten years earlier Dazai had decided to implement it. He’s starting to regret it. It has only ever backfired on him in petty ways.
“...For how long has that been going on?”
“Rude. You don’t answer questions with other questions,” a feeble stab to his side. “Ok, fine! I’d say since you purchased the car. So… five months ago?”
Chuuya gulps. He props himself on his elbows to look Dazai in the eyes. He looks for any hint of deception but finds none.
“What? Did you…” A light bulb turns on. Dazai sees the opportunity- call him a visionary- and leaps on it. “Oh, has Slug been having some fun encounters inside his brand-new car? I knew it served to make up for the lack of something else!"
“Shut up!” Chuuya lets out an unidentifiable noise. It’s sour, a cocktail of anger and embarrassment. Dazai’s favorite one.
“You’re not even denying?! Shameless. Oh, please don’t tell me it was on the backseat I was seated on until a few moments ago… I feel like puking now.”
“I- no. No, you don’t have to worry about that,” Chuuya pinches the bridge of his nose. “God, you're making this awkward.” And there he goes, head back on the armrest.
There’s red on his cheeks, which is likely the most problematic thing to hide for him. Over the years, Dazai’s picked up how flawlessly he reacts to embarrassment. Even his ears go red. It’s superb, really.
His breathing is more steady now. Since Dazai's not trying to aggravate it again, he rubs circles with his thumb on the fine cloth of Chuuya’s pants. “Console yourself! The recordings are usually listened to by low-class underlings. Kouyou won’t know about your… peculiar choices in location.”
“They’re… listened to-”
“Yes, in real-time, for a couple of years now. They revised the recording devices five years ago. Up until then, it was just recorded and the files had to be fetched every week.” Dazai explains.
Chuuya drops the most dramatic sigh of the night so far. “Jackass… why didn’t you tell me?”
Dazai cocks an eyebrow. “I did? Why’d you think I blew up your car?”
Silence.
An ungloved, freckled hand is brought to cover the slug’s face. “You know what. No. Fuck off. I don’t wanna hear about this now.”
That's all it takes for Dazai to understand it’s time to reach for the bottle.
Five minutes later, both whiskey glasses have been filled by a carefully bandaged hand. Dazai passes one to the pitiful hatrack, who is now sitting upright, legs still over Dazai’s, and takes a sip himself.
“So, what’s with this dramatic demeanor?” Chuuya opens his mouth to speak, and Dazai can see the lie ready to blossom on his tongue. “Chuuya better not be so naive to think I’d buy the breakup excuse.”
Their eyes meet. Dazai, demanding eyebrows raised. Chuuya, eyebags so dark they overshadow his summer freckles.
Chuuya lets his head crash against the couch's backrest. It would take just a little shift forwards for Chuuya’s head to be against Dazai’s shoulder. Dazai would be a liar if he claimed to find that annoying.
When he speaks, he feels Chuuya’s warm breath against his scapula. He’s resigned. “Mori is dying. I get it. You hate him. But it’s not too hard to connect the dots, is it?”
It shouldn’t be. But again. There's something wrong.
Chuuya’s loyal, and that's for sure. Too loyal, even! Dazai’s known him long enough to see, to test the perimeters of his faithfulness. He’s devoted to the Port Mafia. It’s his family, it’s his home (second home, of course. Dazai’s not letting that record get stripped from their apartment), but Mori? If only he wasn't the one to keep things afloat, Chuuya wouldn't care less if he lived or died.
Mori's death should not have the slug like this. It’s an almost visceral reaction going off inside him, rejecting the information as if it was venom flooding his veins. Chuuya can’t feel like this. Mori doesn’t deserve his kindness.
There is something else. Come on, slug, spit it out.
“Oh, I know that. But Kouyou is qualified enough to be next in line. The Port Mafia is not going to disappear. So I don’t get,” he points at Chuuya’s whole figure with the back of his hand, from head to toe, “all this.”
Chuuya takes a long sip from the glass and winces at the taste. “Osamu.” He says. His voice is smooth, lacking its usual coarseness.
“Yes?”
“Kouyou is not next in line. It’s me.”
Dazai frowns. He watches Chuuya take another sip, way too eagerly considering his alcohol tolerance.
That doesn’t make sense. When it comes to executives, the rule for succession in cases of death follows age, if there’s a lack of a predesignated successor. Right now, the oldest executive is Kouyou, followed by Verlaine and then Chuuya. Right after him, both Akutagawa siblings earned the position a few years back. While Dazai’s not too convinced about Ryuunosuke, still too rash and relentless, he knows Gin would make an amazing leader, if no one above them stepped up.
There’s no reason why Chuuya would fear being the next boss.
“And? Even if Kouyou doesn’t want to step up, there’s Gin, or perhaps Verlaine. I don’t-” Dazai pauses.
Or at least, not if they were playing fair games.
“Chuuya.”
Chuuya, Chuuya, Chuuya.
Mori’s playing one of his crafty games. He’s always done this- redirected people to his own liking while never lifting a finger. With a smile and a pat on your shoulder, he poses as the picture-perfect mentor.
“No, I don’t wanna hear any of your bullshit.” Chuuya reaches out and drops the empty glass on the table. Dazai does the same, even if he is still half-full.
“Chuuya. What did he tell you?”
“What are you talking about?”
Faced with a crossroad, you might as well think there’s none. There’s no place for picking when it comes to Mori’s plans. He’ll have you doing exactly what he wants you to and successfully make you think it’s your choice.
And there’s one way to get what you want when it comes to Chuuya. It’s vile, miserable. It fits Mori’s modus operandi like a tailored glove.
“No, let me rephrase this. Who did he use to convince you to be the boss? Who did he tell you would’ve wanted you to be in the lead?”
Chuuya perceptibly stiffens under the pads of his fingers.
“What?” Chuuya repeats, voice wobbly due to the alcohol. It’s been just a minute, but he can already see his cheeks reddening. It’s a splash of color, beautiful crimson soaking the thousands of brownish freckles on his cheeks.
And suddenly he wants-
“You heard me,” he states instead, shooing away the tingling in his hand.
Chuuya shakes his head. His hair ruffles even more against the couch's surface. “Don’t you try to twist the narrative. What goes down in the Port Mafia’s not your business anymore. You left. Now you don’t get a say in what happens there.”
“You misunderstand me, Chuuya. Whether the Port Mafia burns down or not, I couldn’t care less. However, this is not about the Port Mafia." He raises a finger and places it on Chuuya's chest. The man looks at the weight on his sternum, then slowly looks up to meet Dazai’s firm stare. "This is about you. And if you’ll excuse me, I am going to have a say on what happens to my partner.”
A mere few inches are all that divide them. It takes a few seconds for Chuuya to answer. “That’s not how it works.”
"It is."
Chuuya shakes his head again. "No," he says, voice overflowing with something that almost sounds like childishness. It's fresh, clean blood spurring from his every word. "No, Osamu, you don't get it."
Dazai’s patience is running short now. "Chuuya, I'm asking you this again. What did he tell you."
"Stop it."
"I'm not gonna stop until you tell me."
Chuuya throws his legs off Dazai’s and scoots back. He perches, cross-legged, on the opposite side of the couch from Dazai. "Just because you don't give a shit about responsibilities doesn't mean everyone does."
Dazai is restless, deprived of the warm weight on his legs. He stands up and starts pacing around the room to avoid reaching out for the slug. "This isn't a responsibility. You don't owe being the boss to anyone."
"That's what you think."
"Enlighten me then! What else am I supposed to think? You're not answering me.”
Chuuya stares at him from across the room. It’s almost unsettling how Dazai can feel him biting back a snarky remark. He can hear the unsaid words floating between them along with the far off babble of the cicadas.
It takes a few hoots from an owl for Dazai to hear his voice again.
"... There are eight boxes of silver oracles in Mori’s office. Eight boxes of people who want me as the next boss." He keeps his voice low, careful. Like he’s revealing a secret he’s told no one.
Dazai huffs and shakes his head. "Every subordinate does that for the executive they're under command of. I'm guessing Mori hasn't told you this, though." Whether Mori has told him or not, Dazai suspects Chuuya knows it anyway.
"They didn't do it for you."
Dazai laughs at that. "You're aware that using me as a parameter for comparisons is probably the worst thing you could do, right? My subordinates hated me. Of course, they weren't gonna get down on their knees and beg Mori to make me the next boss!"
"I should've hated you too."
"Well, too bad! you're twelve years too late to make that decision. Now keep talking."
Chuuya stands up, reaches down to his pocket, and takes a few folded papers out of it. He covers the little distance that separates them and shoves the invoices to Dazai as if they burn. Like he wants him to feel the conflagration they carry.
Dazai takes them. He feels the rough, thick paper under his fingertips. The edges and folds are ruined, holding years of usage onto them. He unfolds them to read. He wishes the papers- five silver oracles, like all the others stacked in Mori’s office- didn’t contain exactly what he expects them to. His eyes skim quickly over the familiar names.
Albatros. Iceman. Piano Man. Doc. Lippman.
Dazai stays quiet.
Chuuya plops back down on the couch. "Mori's got nothing to do with this."
"Oh no, he does! Chuuya, look at the dates,” he turns the papers so that they’re facing Chuuya and points to the digits on the bottom right. “These things were signed when you weren't even an executive."
"I know that."
Chuuya’s brilliant. Dazai knows it because he’s been the number one witness to how perfectly his brain operates. He’s able to plan, predict, and anticipate his every move. He’s been able to elevate the smuggled jewels trade to a level of prosperity the Mafia has never seen before, not even when it was Dazai leading it.
Chuuya’s brilliant, but he’s too loyal. It’s easy to blindside him when it comes to the people he values. And that’s exactly the game Mori’s been playing. It’s been so long since Dazai’s felt this angry, it feels like a whole new sensation on his skin. It almost stuns him, how tight he’s clenching his jaw.
"Do you really think they wanted you as the boss? When they knew how much you didn’t care about that?"
"But-"
"No. Chuuya. Think.” He tosses the papers on the coffee table. He almost regrets it, when he sees how Chuuya catches them and shoots him an ignited glance. “You weren't an executive. Who was supposed to be the boss back then, and why would they feel the need to interfere with that order?"
Only Mori could use others’ kindness as a weapon against his own men. If death doesn’t take him soon, Dazai might pay him a visit. Give him a taste of his own medicine, gift him a new blood splatter to remove from the pricey, floral wallpaper.
Chuuya’s shoulders slouch at the realization. It hits him like a storm, sudden and painful. “You,” he says. He pauses. “We were fighting for who got to be executive sooner.”
Dazai takes a deep breath. He unclenches his jaw and keeps his voice calm, a whisper, as he walks back to the couch. He stands next to Chuuya. This time, he doesn’t hold his hand back and observes it tucking a few loose strands of Chuuya’s copper hair behind his ear.
“They thought that if I became the boss, I would’ve made it unthinkable for you to take possession of the documents about your birth-” Chuuya is crushing his bottom lip through his teeth, not looking up. “Which, for the record, I wouldn't have done. But they couldn’t know that. They were looking out for you, Chuuya. They wouldn’t have wanted this.”
“You don’t get to speak for them,” it’s all that Chuuya mutters. There’s no bite in his words though. He throws his head back against the armrest and closes his eyes. Dazai leaves it at that.
Fifteen quiet minutes follow. Dazai collects the glasses and the bottles and brings them back to the kitchen, then fetches his futon from the bedroom and a few extra blankets. He doubts he’ll be able to make Chuuya get up from the couch.
The eerie feeling washing all over him is… new. For someone so good with words, it’s uncommon to lack the right ones to lay down on paper how he’s feeling. His chest hurts with an unspeakable pain.
“I wish you weren’t such a loyal dog for that rotten place. I would've had you join the agency long ago.” He whispers. Chuuya’s laying back down on the couch. His eyes are shut, and the words he lets out are as soft as the late summer breeze. Dazai carefully lifts his head, red locks rough against his fingers, and slips a pillow under it.
"You know I can’t do that."
He throws a light cotton blanket on him.
“I know.”
“I’m tired,” Chuuya whispers later, as Dazai slips under the covers of the futon he has set up on the floor. The light has been long switched off, and from the window, he can see the wonderful flickering lights of the city. Their city. For once, if they woke up and found it burnt to the ground, he wouldn't mind.
“I know, Chuuya. I know.”
“Keep talking,” Chuuya says abruptly, harshly. Then, faintly, comes a “...please.”
…
There’s a tale, one that he had learnt from an old lady working in a small grocery shop downstream, when he was nothing but a little kid who had ventured too far. Depending on the tale, somewhere on the hills of his youth there’s a shrine. Ruined, the red and white paint long faded, it’s the house of a Nekomata. If found, lost in one of the most remote corners of the forest, it grants one wish to its visitors. When he was nine, he had set off one morning, slipped past the guard of his parents and ventured in search of such a dreamy place.
He hadn’t found the shrine, clearly. All he had gotten from that adventure was a search warrant being sent out for him. Policemen and helicopters scattered all around the region to find him.
A life without boredom, he wanted to ask.
He remembers spending a whole night awake, trying to come up with a wish that was good enough. He didn't want to waste the occasion, of course. He has always been a smart kid.
As a teenager, looking back on the adventure, he used to think he had been foolish. So bored out of his mind that he had truly believed a tale about a yokai and a well of wonders.
But it’s been almost twenty years now. Treasuring the knowledge that the world is not as boring as he originally thought -magic cats exist, for instance. Chuuya sleepily chuckles at that- he’d do it again.
And as for the wish he would make…