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You see, Sigma is a firm believer he has committed some exceptional transgression to aggravate the universe he has yet to find out, given he would always find himself in this kind of situations.
Especially when he was left on his own. But he promised Atsushi and Kunikida he would be back just in time for dinner, specifically in one piece.
Shouldn’t be so hard, right? Right?
All he wanted was to visit the grave of the man who saved his life -one of the main reasons why he decided to accept President Fukuzawa’s offer and join the Armed Detective Agency- to get some fresh air and think a little about everything that went down the last couple months, and of course why not leave some flowers.
Earlier that morning, he went to a small flower shop downtown with Kyouka on their lunchtime, the little girl helping to pick up some beautiful pink carnations.
She had told him they meant something along the lines of heartfelt gratitude, that they were often used to say “Thank you” and sometimes also “I will never forget you”.
So they were kind of perfect.
However, his whole plan came to a halt when draped over the stone was none other than the only other man besides himself who came out alive of Meursault. Port Mafia executive and gravity manipulator Nakahara Chuuya, with dark red roses adorning his body and surroundings, holding a bottle of wine in his right hand and a pack of cigarettes in his left one.
It was a tragically beautiful scene if you asked him, not that he would ever say that out loud of course.
He thinks about leaving before the other man sees him.
Their gazes meet and Sigma immediately feels the air knocked out of his lungs. This was his first time seeing Chuuya’s breathtakingly blue eyes, bright and beautiful and alive, very much unlike the once robbed of soul and void dark ones he and Dazai got to witness through the security camera footage once Fyodor revealed who the last card under his sleeve was.
The detective is staring now, he knows, but he kind of can’t look away. He secretly hopes his face doesn’t look as warm as he feels it right now.
“I’m not gonna fight you.” Chuuya is the first to speak between the pair, slightly startling him for a second, maybe he was a little more out of it than he thought.
He sounds exhausted, awfully so, the dark circles on his face matching the pretty much evident tiredness in his voice. Peaceful slumber was a luxury these days, he knew that much.
Sigma looks around validating his options, feeling somewhat small as he clutches his bouquet against his chest, careful not to hurt the flowers in the process.
“I can come back later if you’d like.” Sigma offers, but deep down, it is kind of a lie.
Since he joined the Agency he has what Fukuzawa and Kunikida rightfully call a “temporary curfew”, given the catastrophic events that occurred literally not so long ago. All in order to make sure none of Fyodor’s men or whoever might represent a threat were still searching for him.
He could actually come back later or any other day, but he will for sure be accompanied by someone else from the Agency, and while he loved dearly his new coworkers and everything they have wholeheartedly done so far for him, he rather mourn all by himself, at least just this once.
It felt right for some reason.
Sigma learned to do everything by himself after all. It's like he wanted to keep this one little, but very much special, memory to himself from his old life before stepping into the new one.
Did that make any sense?
“Do as you wish,” Chuuya pulls out a cigarette, lighting it up in no time and blowing smoke with an elegance a ballerina would die for. There was something about the way he moved that seemed so enticing to watch. “I’m not moving from here any time soon.”
“Right,” The detective smiles weakly, out of words to say. “thank you.”
Sigma takes a few steps towards the mafioso, afraid he might burst whatever bubble he seemed to be so submerged in, eyes now lost somewhere far away on the horizon as the sun began to set.
If he stared long and hard enough he believes he could convince himself that the older man wasn’t actually there. Or at least not completely.
As he comes closer he’s able to appreciate the bed of roses Chuuya has crafted for himself, lazily lying there as if waiting for twilight to rob him out of his very last breath to join the soul now resting underneath his weight.
The picture was worth a museum of his own.
Takes him a few seconds to notice the grave beside Dazai’s has also been visited recently, equally brimmed with flowers, some of them similar to the ones currently engulfing Chuuya.
S. ODA, Dearest friend and guardian
He takes a mental note to look it up later, or maybe just ask Ranpo. Sigma has learned in a very short time that no information in the whole city of Yokohama got past him. Ranpo knew about Sigma more than Sigma knew about himself.
It was both terrifying and fascinating.
“Go ahead, ask away.” Chuuya’s voice pulls him out of his thoughts, throat bobbing as he takes a rather large swig of his bottle.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You look like you’re dying to ask me something.”
Sigma tries his best not to feel embarrassed about being so transparent, he needs to work on that. Or maybe Chuuya is just exceptionally good at reading people. He is an executive of the mafia after all, he did these kinds of things for a living.
“Be my guest.”
Here goes nothing. “I was just curious, I guess.”
“About what exactly?”
“About the man that saved my life, about what was he like before I met him.” Sigma slowly gets on his knees, shyly placing his pink flowers at the older’s expensive-looking boots, almost like an offering to a god, sitting back on his heels as his manicured nails play anxiously with the closest single rose petal he could find, whatever he could get his hands on to ease the intense weight of Chuuya’s gaze on him.
There was no room to wonder as to why he had the rank he had inside the mafia.
“I’ve heard so many stories about him in the time I’ve been at the Agency, but Yosano told me once you were probably the only one who ever truly knew him.”
Sigma was no stranger to Dazai’s dark past now -it only just occurred to him he never once asked Dazai how he even ended up at Meursault- which only served even further to confuse him as to how he ever turned out working at the ADA.
Like, sure, he seemed too much a freak to be one of Fukuzawa’s men, but being the younger executive of the Port Mafia and proclaimed ‘Demon Prodigy’ by his subordinates and enemies all over Yokohama went a little over what Sigma thought he was capable of.
Every single encounter at Meursault that went over his head kept coming back to him, he only had thought Dazai was extremely brilliant and manipulative but not to a murderer degree.
Serves him right for expecting the best in people, a trait he learned he shares with Atsushi.
The wound above his left hip was nothing but a cruel reminder of the very last time he trusted Fyodor.
Sigma has yet to discover the story of how the Port Mafia/Agency transition took place, he just didn’t have that much confidence in his new coworkers yet as to go ‘So, how do you feel about your now deceased friend being a mass murderer in his younger years? Also, could you please pass the salt?’ over lunchtime.
He wasn’t talking to Nikolai, who would probably find the whole situation hilarious.
Yet, right now the person he was told knew him best was in front of him, sitting on a throne made of stone and blood red roses, with the answer to every single one of his questions simmering at the tip of his tongue.
“You have to take credit for that, he was a very complex man.” Sigma offers him a gentle smile, he hasn't experienced enough yet to act on social cues, but he believes the older could use some sympathy on moments like these.
“I don’t know why would she ever say that.” Suddenly Chuuya sounds small, his voice at the edge of hoarse, lost somewhere deep inside his throat.
The image of the man before him going ballistic, screaming and crying his heart out once he learned what happened, crossed his mind for a second, the real visceral weight of his actions sinking in.
Sigma’s gut throbbing and twisting in sheer horror.
Any organization that has interviewed the detective so far about what happened has been somewhat careful to not let out details of what happened. The footage was pretty much self-explanatory after all, he knew his curiosity wasn’t enough to stomach watching the whole thing, so he never asked.
He was out when it happened but he can guess how it went down.
Someone else pulling the trigger while you're the one standing with blood in your hands. No one deserves that.
The detective was new to office gossip but rumor has it the executive went to find Dostoevsky himself to return the favor. Fyodor might have power but Chuuya had a reason, and that was more than enough for him. It was no longer a king against his pawn but two kings standing on opposite sides of the board.
“That was a long time ago.” Chuuya tries his best to sound nonchalant. Sigma wonders if he knows he doesn’t believe him for a second.
Probably doesn't even care, he’s got much greater things to worry about now.
“Seven years.” Sigma says before he can stop himself, finally breaking through the petal he has been fidgeting with the whole time as Dazai’s words back in Meursault echo inside his head.
It was the very first time he saw the human within him breaking through all that facade and mastermind persona, eyes watering and lips trembling as he claimed not remembering a single moment, and quote, ‘their hearts connected’.
Something was going on there.
“That’s longer than the time I’ve been alive for.”
The younger wonders sometimes what it would be like to possess another half. Tried not to let it keep him awake at night. Much. Maybe it was just his nostalgia trying to fill up the space where his dearest casino used to be, nestled right next to his heart.
Maybe it was his newfound need to make as many connections as possible, the ragging fear of being left alone lurking in the back of his mind constantly fighting against his imminent fear of being used and tossed away like he has many times since his creation.
His creation itself was the answer to a need, not a want.
This lures Sigma into making conversation, knowing there might not be a lot of chances where he would get to discuss personally with the gravity manipulator. He thinks long and hard, not wanting to make meaningless chit-chat in these trying times, afraid to come up as awkward or boring.
Suddenly, the last piece of information he received before leaving the Agency that same evening comes to him.
“Fukuzawa asked me to get in contact with Meursault the other day.”
This seems to immediately get Chuuya’s attention. No going back now, he guesses.
“What for?”
“When he asked for Dazai’s belongings we were informed they were sent to the Port Mafia. He was mad at first because he thought it was Mori’s doing, just to mess with him like old times.” He giggles under his breath, remembering something Ranpo said about divorced parents fighting for their child custody.
It’s almost distraction enough to not notice Chuuya going completely rigid next to him, eyes dead and bottle of wine almost escaping his now loose grip and spilling over the roses.
But he has become more observant now, which is something he believes he learned from Dazai.
So Sigma proceeds ever so carefully, as if he were talking to a frightened child hiding under the bed, waiting for the thunderstorm to pass.
“But then they told us they were sent to Port Mafia’s headquarters. To his spouse.”
And there it was, the sentence that has been itching his throat since the moment he lay his eyes on the mafioso, draped over stone like a guardian angel, longing for the day he will finally reunite with his lover in their next life.
Almost like a Renaissance work of art.
Earlier that day, he couldn’t believe what he was hearing, so awfully gobsmacked it actually took him several seconds to recover before thanking the lady on the other side of the line and hanging up.
Chuuya was a widower now, by his own hand.
Chuuya stays silent, throwing his head back elegantly as he smokes his cigarrette, the last tints of oranges and purples dancing over the freckled kissed skin of his throat, right where Sigma believes he might feel the other man’s heart beating wild if he ever were to place his hand.
He swears the mafioso not meeting his eyes was no coincidence, but a moment for himself to keep everything in check. From what he has heard so far about Chuuya, it was most likely he did not wish anyone to see him in a position of vulnerability.
Raw and open, but also so deeply broken. Maybe even beyond repair.
Sigma doesn’t personally know the man but he surely hopes that's not the case, not if he can help.
“Couldn't believe it took me that long to figure it out.” Sigma finally admits, more like an afterthought than another attempt to make more conversation. “Once I connected the dots it was quite obvious.”
”Everyday for these past 7 years I have been thinking of ways to kill Chuuya” was very telling, actually, now that he thinks about it.
Fyodor was a terrifyingly calculating man, but soon the detective realized there were more reasons besides his inhuman strength to choose Chuuya among all people.
Sigma doesn't believe in a million years he could ever forget the obscenely provoked and feral look in Dazai’s usually cheerful and big doe eyes the second he realized who they were up against. He would hate to be at the end of that sick man’s rage.
“Dostoevsky, you bastard.” Every single word dripping with thick venom. “That's a nasty card you played.”
It takes Chuuya two drags of his smoke and a significantly large swig of his wine to find his voice.
“Have you..”
“Told anyone? No, only Fukuzawa knows because he was on the same call.” Sigma rushes to answer, God knows that poor man didn’t need something else to worry about right now.
Part of him wants to ask so many questions, -How did they meet? How did they keep their relationship secret for so long? And of course, who proposed?- bubbling curiosity quickly overcoming him, but thankfully his common sense kept him in check.
It was not the time. Maybe in the near future. When the executive’s mental stability wasn’t hanging by a thread as thin as the thorns currently jabbing the redhead’s thighs.
“Figured if you two did it in secret you had your reasons but again, it's none of my business and I respect that.”
It was a sick sick world out there, Sigma learned that the hard way. The very hard way.
Tying the knot behind closed doors didn’t actually sound that much like a bad idea, but a brilliantly strategic one, especially if the the two parties involved were ridiculously powerful organizations. The mere fact that they were supposed to be rivals was just for giggles.
In a war zone, trust was a luxury you couldn’t afford. Romantic or not, any relationship was no doubt an easy target. An invitation to let the outside world mercilessly break you from the inside out.
And that’s exactly what happened. Unfairly and unjustifiably, they broke Nakahara Chuuya.
At the silence, Sigma dares meet the blue eyes one more time, excruciating pain tugging at his heartstrings when he finds them brimming with tears.
Right hand now on a tight fist, thumb sweetly stroking a gloved finger where the younger believes a golden band is still slowly burning into his skin. A painful reminder of what was once his.
A red string that got cut ahead of its time.
The mafioso sits up straight, a trench coat that seemed a few sizes larger than him falling over his petite shoulders, making him look like a poor child coming home, and maybe he was.
“Thank you.” It’s small, but bare and sincere, almost as if mercy was an alien concept to him. The detective desperately wishes he could do more to ease the pain than just stop and stare at the human before him tortuously losing himself.
Armies lost men all the time. Soulmates were lost just once.
The world lost Dazai Osamu but Nakahara Chuuya lost his world.
So Sigma says something he believes not a single soul has said to him since everything went down, from a man who never had something to lose to begin with to a man who lost everything.
“I am so deeply sorry for your loss.”