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Despite popular belief in the Port Mafia, it’s not Kouyou who first drags Chuuya on his first real shopping trip. Sure, she provides him with a new wardrobe and set of expectations for his presentation, but that happens when several trunks and backpacks appear in his apartment overnight.
Instead, he doesn’t see the inside of any brand name shops until a month after meeting the group known as The Flags.
It starts with Albatross at his door bright and early one morning, an iced coffee in one hand as the other grabs Chuuya by the collar of his shirt and drags him outside. Chuuya kicks and protests as best he can, but all it takes is one threat to call up Dazai and get him involved for Chuuya to shut up and get in the stupid car Lippmann’s rented for them to take to the nearest shopping district.
For half the drive, Chuuya is still determining what they plan to shop for. For the other half of the drive— after Piano Man comments on Chuuya’s clothing sizes and proper color palette— he’s even more confused than he was before.
It’s not like he has nothing. In the months that he’s been in the Port Mafia, he’s amassed his own array of belongings. His closet’s full of outfits Kouyou handpicked for him. His shelves carry fine wines— unopened and purchased on a whim after his first payment from the Mafia, the type of expensive stuff Shirase always yearned for. Even the space beneath his bed has the few plushies he’s stolen from Dazai after losing to him in the arcade— simply out of pettiness, of course, and not because Dazai joked about winning them for him.
A few books. Nice decorations. The apartment belonged to a previous member of the Mafia, and Chuuya hadn’t seen the need to change out much of the scenery. He can make do with the furniture and paintings that were left behind; it’s more than he ever had when living on the streets with the Sheep, after all.
And he feels just like that lost street urchin when the others lead him into a large indoor mall like it’s nothing, even as stories of bustling shops loom before him.
“Doc said we have to start with the first aid shit first because this bright guy doesn’t have so much as a bandaid at his place,” Albatross says, leading them to one of the large maps pinned to a wall. The others crowd around him, packed so tightly Chuuya can hardly see what Albatross is pointing at. “But if we start at the eastern escalators, we can grab some accessories first. A nice pair of sunglasses or a tie for that hair.”
“Or a proper pair of fashion gloves,” Iceman suggests, arms over his chest. “Not the winter weather type he’s been wearing.”
They talk about him like he’s a pet they’ve rescued from the side of the road, and Chuuya’s cheeks heat at the implication that he can’t take care of himself— whether or not that’s true.
“I’ve been living on my own for a while now, assholes,” he snaps, looking away from them. “What is this? A charity case?”
“Chuuya, dear,” Piano Man says with a sigh, “for you, we’d need a full charity ball.”
“Oh, fuck off,” Chuuya mutters— but he still lets them yank him away once Albatross convinces them to find the sunglasses first.
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After that, it’s a whirl of shops and dressing rooms, with everyone asking him what style he wants to wear or what colors he'd like to adopt. He goes along with it because it’s easier than arguing, but he doesn’t know how he feels about the way they shout and applaud whenever he tosses the curtains back and shows off a new outfit of their choosing.
Barely an hour later, he tags along behind them, more exhausted than he’s been in ages with bags filling his arms— necessities along with accessories. He wonders how much of this is a trick so they can steal it all for themselves later.
His thoughts and steps pause, though, when he spots a familiar shape peering out from behind a glass display.
It’s a trinket of a thing— a carved sheep just small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. The worker behind the window’s painting different animals with a delicate focus, an array of farm creatures already set up around her. Chuuya steps closer, drawn in by the animal he always believed he would be: a sheep, part of a flock, just as much value as anyone else around him, nothing more and nothing less.
His heart tugs at the memory of those he once called friends; his side aches in remembrance of a scar put there by the same people. His throat and eyes, traitorously, burn.
“Chuuya!” Albatross calls out from farther down, waving obnoxiously enough for those nearby to glare at him. “Come on! I want you to try on these chains!”
Chuuya shakes his head, refocusing on the present, though the pain of it lingers in his mind. How long, he can’t help but ask, until the same thing happens again? Cast out and hurt, licking his wounds until another predator comes along to prey on his ability?
Shields lift in his mind, and it’s with a stoic face that he rejoins the others.
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More shops. More excitement. More bags of things Chuuya will shove into the back of a closet and refuse to think about again. They aren’t buying these items because they care about him, he thinks. They’re just another lot of fools trying to buy his trust, his power.
Fool me once; shame on you.
Fool me twice—
They end up outside, Chuuya hunched over and breathing hard from the bags' weight. He debates using Tainted Sorrow to help him, but he doesn’t want to draw that kind of attention— as if they all haven’t already been doing that.
“The wallet from today is far better quality than whatever you’ve been carrying around,” Iceman says as they wait for the car to come around and pick them up.
Doc nods, studying the bags sitting at Chuuya’s feet. “Of course, you should switch out the cups in your home immediately once you return; you never know what poisonous residue may be left behind on the ones you’ve inherited.”
Inheriting makes it sound like the previous owner had died. Chuuya opens his mouth to question this but decides against it. Besides, the others have already moved on.
It’s ridiculous of them to catalog everything they’ve bought. Can’t they remember? Or was it all on a whim, a thoughtless action to toss things to the cashier just because they can? Was Chuuya an excuse for them to waste their money? He grits his teeth and sets down the other bags.
As he does so, he spies one he hasn’t seen before. A little package resting near Lippmann’s shoe— more an envelope than a bag-- and Chuuya wracks his brain trying to recognize the store symbol stamped across the front.
It’s not until the envelope is in his hands that he realizes he’s grabbed it. The conversation around him stops. He twists the thing this way and that, almost hesitant to see what’s inside.
“What the hell is this?” He says, crouched on the sidewalk, the weight of everyone’s eyes upon him.
Albatross joins him first with a fond smile as he mimics Chuuya’s squat.
“Doc shoulda hidden that one better, but it’s all the same,” he says in an uncharacteristically quiet voice. There’s a tone of something more beneath the words, though— something woven with hope and anticipation. It’s not a voice Chuuya often hears. “Well, go on and open it since it’s already in your hands. Or don’t you know what to do with a present?”
Chuuya whips his head to look at Albatross, eyes wide. “A present?”
“And that’s you echoing me.” Albatross pokes Chuuya in the cheek, and Chuuya scarcely has the thought to bat his hand away. It’s a weak attempt, though, as his gaze searches the faces of the others looking down at him.
“I don’t understand,” he says, the envelope crinkling in his shaking grip. “This entire day— all of these things and bags— and now you’re saying this is a present?”
“They’re all presents, darling,” Lippmann says in that gentle tone of his. “But we certainly hope that one is most special.”
“You must think I’m a fool,” Chuuya whispers. “Or a joke. Or some other shit that I don’t wanna play along with anymore.”
Lippmann snorts in amusement, but it’s a tender sound. “The word we’re looking for is friend, but you’ll catch on soon enough. Now, we won’t force you to accept anything you don’t wish, but know that all of it is of the sincerest intent.”
Chuuya ducks his head sheepishly at Lippmann’s easy words— he’s not the Mafia’s public image for no reason— and turns his gaze back towards the package in his hands.
It’s so small. Really, what harm can it do?
Despite his misgivings, he’s careful as he opens it— undoes the flap without tearing, tips the contents into a waiting palm.
A small sheep carving falls into his hand. He chokes on his breath, fist slamming shut as though to hide the image.
A threat? A cruel reminder of what he once was— an enemy to the Port Mafia, a lamb without a home? His breathing picks up, his skin prickles, but—
Doc bends down beside him and taps the back of his hand. He has a look of amusement in his eyes as he eases the tension from Chuuya’s knuckles and wrists, delicately pressing into pressure points to soothe the sudden trembling.
“It’s not what you think,” Piano Man says from above him.
Iceman grunts in agreement. “Take another look, will you?”
And with Albatross pressed to his side and Lippmann grinning down and everyone else waiting with such careful patience, Chuuya peers blindly over the edge into trust.
A sheep figurine. The same carved work as before. And, yet, it’s not. Not painted white and mundane like all the rest, it’s—
It’s got red-orange fluff and a black spot on his head that could be a hat if someone squints just right. Same with the hooves— black gloves on the front, silly boots on the back. A ridiculous rendition of him in sheep form, down to the jacket painted over the back. He gawks, taking in every detail he had missed in his panic before.
“I was reading about sheep last night. Weird little animals with freaky eyes, but something did stand out,” Albatross says as he stands. “Many times, people say that sheep stick together just to keep themselves safe from predators by forming a big mass that scares the wolves off. But that’s not all, you know? There’s more than just scaring the big guys off with a big guy that isn’t actually really a big guy; it’s the connection.”
“They form bonds with each other,” Doc adds on— did they all do a group research project behind Chuuya’s back? “They learn to recognize each other’s feelings by look alone. One sheep can tell if another is feeling frightened or calm or anything in between. And, you wouldn’t guess it, but they have a pretty wide range of emotions, too.”
Lippmann cuts in as Chuuya’s head spins, trying to put their metaphor together. “It’s simple once you really think about it, of course. The sheep can’t rely on the image they project; they must lean on one another. If they can’t identify the complex thoughts and feelings of their own, well, they’d have no right to be a flock, in the first place.”
The pieces slot together in Chuuya’s mind, but it’s less of a puzzle forming a larger image than it is a key fitting into a lock. A comfortable slip into the door, twisting just so— and the door opens. The shields fall.
“I thought you called yourselves the Flags or some shit. What’s this talk about flocks?” He asks though he can’t tear his eyes away from the sheep carving.
“I’d like to think that the Flags is a bit catchier than the flock, but the purpose is the same,” Piano Man says with a soft chuckle. A warm hand settles on Chuuya’s shoulder. “You have a home here, Chuuya, and we see you. You deserve to see yourself, too, when you look around.”
All at once, the day flashes through Chuuya’s mind: the clothing, the accessories, the decorations. The way the others sat around and demanded his input and asked if he was comfortable in what he was wearing, what he was looking at, if he could imagine this or that in his home.
The way they saw a moment of him staring at a sheep trinket and went back to purchase a special one just for him.
It’s a struggle to keep his voice steady but, somehow, Chuuya manages. “What if I don’t know what that looks like?”
It’s a quiet admission, one he almost hates himself for saying out loud.
Albatross’s hand joins near Piano Man’s on Chuuya’s arm, touching his bicep just enough for him to feel the warmth through his sleeve.
“We’re so damn lucky to be the ones who’ll be around while you figure that out,” he says, and he sounds so proud of it that Chuuya has to blink away a sudden dampness in his eyes.
He doesn’t know who helps pull him to his feet— if it’s one or some or all of them. He just knows there’s support, and that it’s gentle. Part of him craves for these touches never to leave his body, for a part of them always to be a part of him.
Maybe I can look like that , he thinks as he looks upon all of them. Maybe I’ll look at them and see a place where I belong.
Chuuya brings the sheep carving to his chest, his fist resting above his heart. “You jerks are gonna have to help me organize all this new shit, though, okay?”
He can already predict the chaos that’s going to bring. Piano Man and Lippmann will take charge, of course, and immediately gasp and overdramatize their disdain at the lack of identity within Chuuya’s home. Albatross will perch on the counter with a soda in his hands, kicking his feet and directing everyone else even if they won’t listen. Iceman will do the heavy lifting and sneak off on his own to do something sweet, like fix a lightbulb or start the laundry. Chuuya will stand with Doc, listening to his most grotesque stories to distract himself from how touched he feels by all of this.
Now, though, they stand on a sidewalk outside a mall and tease over who can carry the most bags into the car when it arrives. No one lets Chuuya carry a thing, joking that he’ll unfairly use his ability to carry more.
Chuuya’s eyes roll in fond exasperation. He decides to let the others carry the rest. He has the most important piece with him already.
A little sheep carving held carefully in his hand, ready to find the perfect place in his home.