Work Text:
Atsushi has six bags of office supplies and snacks, as well as that special coffee milk Yosano likes so much and her order from the pharmacy, hanging from his forearms, and a box that he remembered to cover with a cool, wet towel to keep the fresh produce from wilting in the sun. He’s gotten so good at gathering everyone’s lists and estimating how much money to draw from the petty cash box Kunikida guards like a religious relic, and returning without breaking or dropping anything that he’s become the designated weekly shopper. Something feels funny in his chest, kind of light and bright. It’s definitely related to this task, and he has to puzzle through it to understand it. Even if he's only running a regular weekly errand, he’s doing it well. He’s reliable, for assignments that don’t require violence. He’s proud of himself.
As soon as he registers the thought, his shoulders hunch forward and he glances guiltily around, as if a random pedestrian will know he’s allowed himself such a thought and punish him. The old voices in his head, the ones from the orphanage – his own voice among them – layer over each other, and Atsushi dodges through an intersection and moves toward the stone barrier separating the sidewalk from the river. The air is a little cooler there, and he takes gulping breaths. Then coughs, deeply and…wetly?
Wait, that’s not him. Thanks to his mentor’s antics, he's used to the sounds someone makes after a near drowning. If someone fell over the side and is struggling to get back up, he should help them. Atsushi moves toward the barrier, then nearly jumps out of his skin when a black-gloved hand slaps onto it. There’s an effortful grunt, then another hand joins the first.
Atsushi leans closer. “Hello? Do you need help?”
The fingers flex and a figure pulls himself up. His dark orange hair is bedraggled and dripping. His blue eyes are wide and unfocused.
It’s Chuuya Nakahara.
Cold-blooded Port Mafia Executive.
Master Gravity Manipulator.
Enemy of the Armed Detective Agency.
The cold-blooded enemy coughs up a lungful of water, then one hand slips. He falls, chin banging against the stone before he catches himself. Atsushi drops his carefully-arranged load and grabs at the scrabbling hands, pulling him up and over the stone wall. They tumble in a heap onto the sidewalk, surrounded by tipped over boxes and bags.
Chuuya Nakahara is a force of nature. Powerful, bold, in control of himself and his skill in a way Atsushi can’t even imagine. It doesn’t matter if he’s fighting or just walking into a room, he’s both wholly composed and on the edge of violence. Usually. Now he gasps in breaths. His head hangs, strings of hair stuck to his face and neck. His white shirt and black pants are soaked, the shirt torn along his right side under one arm. The water running down the side of his head is tinged red, blood diluted by river water. Without the flare of his big coat and that hat cocked just so he looks small, human. His sodden socks droop past the ends of his toes.
“A-are you okay?” Atsushi ventures, hoping he won’t be crushed for daring to talk to him.
Nakahara coughs again but not as deeply. He blinks, and finally seems to become aware of his surroundings.
“Shit,” he rasps, scanning the sidewalk. “I made you drop your stuff.”
“It’s fine, it’s fine.” Atsushi waves his hands frantically. He really wants to just run away, but now he can see the angry, red scrapes on the man’s shoulder, the darker patch that looks like a nasty bone bruise forming. Drops of blood are welling, fat and red, on Nakahara’s chin. “Uhm…do you need a doctor?”
Nakahara blinks at him, squinting a little. “Doctor,” he repeats.
“Yeah, because…” Atsushi gestures toward his chin, the side of his head, his ribs, his feet. He doesn’t want to insult him, but the guy is totally beat up and not even wearing shoes! “You look like you’ve been through a lot.”
“Yeah.” His brow furrows. He shoves at some straggling hair, winkling his nose when he pulls a piece of driftwood out of it. Then he looks up at Atsushi and grins a little crookedly. Blood drips from his chin. “You know what’s funny?”
“I-I really don’t?”
“I have no idea what happened to me. But that’s not the best part.”
What in the world? “It’s not?”
“No.” Nakahara grins. Blood is starting to pool around him. Everyone else has made the silent, collective decision to move to the other side of the street to avoid them. “I have no idea who the fuck I am.”
“Who…”
Nakahara laughs, then grimaces, hunching forward and pulling his right arm across his stomach.
“You don’t know who you are,” Atsushi repeats, without the profanity. He should call Dazai. No, he should call Dazai and ask him to call Akutagawa. This is a Mafia problem. He was probably attacked by a gang. But…he thinks he would know about that.
When the Port Mafia wars, the police and news are quick to warn citizens to stay away from where they are battling. Today has been peaceful. There was a car accident on the highway this morning, and trains were running late out of Tokyo, but there’s been no fighting. And it would take an army to take this particular mafioso down. Unless…maybe his own organization turned on him? He saw what they’d done to Kyouka, then done to get her back. She was only a minor asset to them. Chuuya Nakahara is an executive, and he looks like he had violence done to him. But he isn’t roaring with anger or lashing out. In fact…
“What are you doing?” Atsushi asks, confused.
“I made you spill your stuff,” Nakahara says as he gathers up the fruit that escaped when Atsushi dropped his things. He dusts them off and sets them back in the box.
“Sorry, kid.” He holds up a mangled orange. “I think this one’s a goner.”
“Your name is Chuuya,” Atsushi blurts out. “Chuuya Nakahara.”
The Gravity Manipulator’s eyebrows shoot up, his entire face brightening. Is this guy truly Mafia?
“You know me?” he asks hopefully, and Atsushi’s heart bounces a little. How can he not help him?
“A little. Not well. But I know someone who does know you.” Atsushi stands, having made up his mind. He holds a hand out. “You should come with me.”
***
Chuuya.
Chuuya Nakahara.
It feels right, even if there are no memories to go with it. Someone kicked his ass. Kicked his ass and dumped him in the river, and he doesn’t even know who to be mad at. There is definitely an ability at work. He tries to remember and his mind grays out and tosses him away from whatever information he’s trying to find, like there are walls inside of it. Repellant walls. The kid…the kid is familiar, too skinny with those big, earnest eyes and whatever the fuck is going on with his hair. Familiar, but only distantly. It’s not someone he’s fought, he doesn’t think. He’s not part of… His mind veers off but he thinks he has responsibilities, significant ones. Lots of people he has to take care of. This isn’t one of them though? Maybe?
“This is Yokohama,” Atsushi says, talking a mile a minute as he leads him through the city. “Do you remember that?”
“Yeah, I got that.”
“So you know the place, the year, the language, the major train stations.”
They turn down a new street and Chuuya focuses on the red brick building on the far corner. The Armed Detective Agency. The kid keeps talking, glancing at him with that nervous smile, never quite meeting his eyes. Were-tiger, that’s what he is.
“Are those too heavy?” the Atsushi asks. “I can take them back.”
“It’s fine.” Chuuya’s carrying two of the kid’s bags in his left hand. His right arm is pressed tight to his side, to cover his torn shirt and the bleeding that hasn’t yet stopped.
The kid’s ability is to turn into a tiger, but he doesn’t remember seeing it and not because it’s behind that barrier he keeps bouncing off of. And the Armed Detective Agency is…something. Something to do with what’s behind the wall as well.
“So who’s this guy who knows me?” he asks as they cross the street. There’s a coffee shop on the ground floor. He could go for ten coffees, a pack of cigarettes and a nap, in any order. But first he has to find whoever did this to him and pound them into dust.
“Dazai-san,” the kid chirps, trying to free a hand to open the door but Chuuya gets to it first, pulling it wide so he can side-step through with what’s left of his packages. “He’s really smart and one of our best detectives, and you two used to work together.”
“What kind of work did we do?” he asks and, for the first time, sees the kid’s eyes dip and skitter away as he lies.
“You were partners.”
“Were?”
“Dazai-san left…the company you work for so he could work for us.”
That last bit doesn’t quite sound like a lie, but the kid’s nervous now. More nervous. Chuuya pauses at the bottom of the stairs, debating whether to follow any farther. Then he sets his foot on the first step. This would be a hell of a roundabout way to set a trap when whoever’s gunning for him could have just finished drowning him and been done with it.
“Chuuya-san.” Atsushi glances at him then away as they trudge up the stairs. Chuuya told him to use his first name because the surname didn’t fit right. “I’ll need to explain what happened to my coworkers. We aren’t always on good terms.”
“We who?”
“The Agency and…and your company. But it will be fine. Dazai will help. Oh, and we have a doctor! Just, please wait while I explain.”
It’s a smallish office. The entryway smells like fresh drywall and paint. There’s a conference room followed by a closed door to the right, a partitioned waiting area to the left. Someone’s crashed out on the couch, newspaper open over his face, music droning quietly from an old-fashioned radio on a shelf above him. The room opens up to a floor full of desks and big, uncovered windows. Like a newsroom with few dividers and poor security. They should really fortify those windows.
“I’m back,” Atsushi announces, his voice pitching high.
“Welcome back,” a dark-haired woman responds without looking up from the tray of clanging items she’s arranging. There’s a metal butterfly pin in her hair.
Yosano. Doctor. Also she carries a big ass machete. Ability: Thou Shalt Not Die. Well, shit, when his memories work they’re pretty helpful.
“Took you long enough,” the ponytailed blond in the severe, tan suit declares, continuing to type away on his laptop. “You’d better have stayed within budget.”
Kunikida Doppo. Martial artist. Ability: The Matchless Poet.
“Ah, about that-” Atsushi starts.
“Ahhhh!” A voice rises as a freckled boy stands, grinning widely. He looks like a transplanted farmer. Chuuya wonders if he’s even wearing shoes beneath those dingy overalls. Not that he can talk. He’s not sure where his shoes went and his socks are such a mess they’re currently wadded up in his pocket. “Welcome back, Atsushi! Welcome, sir! Will you be joining us today?”
Ken? Kenma? Kento? Strong as shit and twice as cheerful.
The typing stops. The clanging stops.
“Why is he here?” the pony-tailed guy demands. He stands and, rather than looking stiff or uncertain, his weight shifts like he’s going to throw down. But then he doesn’t move. Ready to thrown down at the first sign of trouble then. Cautious or that certain of his abilities. Huh.
“Did you cut him up like that?” Doctor Yosano asks, sounding a little too happy at the prospect.
“No, no. Nothing like that.” Atsushi slides his burdens onto a desktop. “I found him injured. Some kind of ability affected him. He isn’t…he doesn’t…”
Atsushi turns toward Chuuya as though seeking help. His face is the picture of panic. He’s only a lackey here. Seems odd for someone with the kind of ability he’s… Another bounce, this time accompanied by a throb of pain. Fuck, Chuuya’s at a severe disadvantage. He’s going to have to deal with this diplomatically.
“Apologies for the intrusion.” Chuuya bows, fighting past the slide of bones that shouldn’t be touching in his torso. “Atsushi-kun seemed to think it would be safe for me to be.”
Moving slowly and without looking at the hostiles he places the bags he’d carried on the desk before returning to his position in the center of the room. It’s not the biggest office, but he’s not the biggest guy and standing in an empty space makes him appear smaller. Plus he’s injured and barefoot. There, now if they want to start something they’ll have to do so knowing full well they’re the assholes. They seem like the type to be bothered by that. And if not, oh well. He doesn’t know what kind of ability he’s got churning inside him but he can feel it priming and they’re visibly nervous about him being here. He might not know who he is but he knows the difference between confidence and bravado. What he’s feeling is definitely the former.
“My my,” a man all but croons into his ear, “what did the cat drag in?”
Chuuya pivots and takes three quick steps to the side. His pulse kicks up, not because of what the guy said but because he didn’t fucking hear him approach. He’s tall, much taller than Chuuya for all he’s lowered his chin so he can somehow gaze at him from beneath his lashes while he smooths a hand down his black waistcoat. Rumpled, muted blue shirt with a tall, white collar. Oddly colored stone in the clasp of his ribbon tie. Long legs, bandages on his wrists and neck but he’s not holding himself like he’s in pain. No visible weapons, not that it means anything. While he's big, he looks more like an academic than a fighter. But those eyes…there’s something in those eyes that Chuuya’s not getting from the others in the Agency, something that makes him wary.
“Dazai-san!” Atsushi cries, and Chuuya has to look at him to confirm he’s talking to this lanky bastard. Because he doesn’t remember him. No name, no ability, no feelings. At all. And this not-remembering is triggering a crushing headache.
“You’re Dazai?” he asks, trying to concentrate around the pain in his head.
“Oh chibi, I’m crushed.” Dazai presses one hand to his chest, the back of the other to his forehead. “I gave you the best years of my life and you don’t even remember?”
“What?”
“You were partners,” Atsushi reminds him.
“Oh.” This guy? This guy who’d been sleeping on the couch in the middle of the work day? This dramatic bastard? Their partnership must have sucked. “Right.”
“That’s the problem, Dazai-san,” Atsushi rushes out. “He doesn’t remember who he is or where he lives or anything. Everything else, but not himself.”
“He doesn’t know he’s Mafia?” The ponytail guy sounds surprised. The farmer kid’s voice rises on a big sympathetic note.
“Does he know why he’s bleeding all over our floors?” the doc asks, her tone so dry he’s not sure if she’s making a joke or actually pissed.
“Sorry,” Chuuya mutters, adding something about offering to have them cleaned but all he can concentrate on, aside from the stabbing in his head, is the look that flashes through this Dazai’s eyes. For just an instant he looks scared. Not like Atsushi, who seems to live in a perpetual state of worry. Scared. And now he’s actively paying attention, his focus narrowing in on Chuuya like a sniper scope.
“You know anything about this ability?” Chuuya asks.
“Selective amnesia? Or maybe prohibitive amnesia?” Dazai sets a finger to his chin as he thinks. “It’s certainly interesting, but I’ve never heard of it. Not in relation to any skill-users known to be in Yokohama. But let’s get rid of it anyway, shall we?”
This time Chuuya sees him coming, that long stride then the long arm reaching for him. He’s playing at being harmless, but there’s something about Dazai that isn’t right and he doesn’t know if he wants that touching him. He catches him by the wrist, cold hand around the roughness of bandages. He doesn’t crush his wrist…which is an interesting thought, like maybe he does that on the regular. Dazai’s smile is patient and a little patronizing, as if this is a game. Maybe it is to him, since he’s got no stake in it.
“Uh, Chuuya-san.” Atsushi pokes out from behind Dazai’s shoulder, “he has to touch your skin to nullify the ability’s effects on you.”
“It won’t hurt, sir!” the farmer kid pipes up.
Chuuya glances at the others. The kid gives him an encouraging nod. Kunikida and Yosano merely observe, like they see this every day. None of them seem like they want to fuck with him and clearly they don’t want him here. That’s reassuring, actually. If they were part of some conspiracy or whatever to hurt him, they’d be actively working to manipulate him.
“Okay.” He lets go of the guy’s arm and starts peeling his gloves off. The water has ruined them and they’re simultaneously too big and too small in all the wrong places. It doesn’t matter though, because Dazai doesn’t wait until his hand is bared. Fingers glide along his cheekbone. Chuuya startles.
“Shhh,” Dazai says quickly, like he knew that would happen. “It’s okay.”
His hand is warm against Chuuya’s chilled skin. His fingers intrude beneath his ear and comb into his hair. Chuuya tries to feel something happening, that barrier retreating from his mind or some sensation where they’re touching. The churn inside him settles a little, and he exhales fully for the first time since he came to in the water. Dazai must be able to nullify all abilities, not just the one that’s messing with Chuuya. That’s so unfairly cool. He watches Dazai’s face for a reaction, some kind of “eureka” to show that he found this stupid ability. Instead Dazai’s eyes are locked on his, searching and searching. And then they darken.
“You really don’t remember,” he murmurs.
Chuuya tries to remember something other than the name Atsushi told him. What he likes to eat. Where he woke up this morning. Where his fucking shoes went. What he does for the mafia. Why this man is sending his stolen memories crashing against that barrier so relentlessly he’s surprised it hasn’t knocked him to his knees. There’s nothing.
“No. Sorry.”
“Okay.” Dazai nods to himself. “Okay.”
He pulls away, and Chuuya has to resist the urge to hold his hand in place. He’s just cold, he tells himself. He’s cold and this is fucking weird, and his head hurts, and he should probably do something about his injuries. Breathing isn’t the easiest thing.
Dazai turns to the group, his hands slipping into his pockets.
“Well?” Kunikida asks like he’s waiting to find out if he won a lottery…or has been diagnosed with a terminal disease. Either/or.
“Could be an ability, could be a drug.” Dazai shrugs. “I didn’t nullify it so, if it’s an ability, the key must rest in the wielder or a token object of some sort. You remember the last object we found?”
That question is directed at Chuuya, who winces at the pain of the non-memory this time before shaking his head. That’s getting old really fucking fast.
“An object,” Atsushi repeats, grimacing. “Like that kid with the doll?”
“Kyu,” Dazai answers sourly.
“Kyusako Yumeno,” Chuuya mutters, happy that memory remains intact even if it doesn’t seem to be a good one. “Dogra Magra.”
Dazai turns to gape at him. “That you remember?”
“It’s only me that’s missing.” Chuuya’s voice catches as he twists a little, trying to alleviate the pain around his ribs. And Dazai, but that’s probably because all he knows of the guy is from them working together.
“Okay, well.” Yosano opens a door near the windows and gestures toward it. Kunikida pins her with a look but when she lifts her chin and crosses her arms he huffs, then wheels around and drops into his chair. “Let’s get you patched up before you pass out.”
Atsushi and the kid – Kenji, it turns out – run off to find clothes while he peels the remains of his shirt off. Dazai grabs it before he can toss it away, examining the tears and marks while Yosano circles him. There’s less poking and probing than he expected, which he appreciates. He’s as curious as she is about his injuries, but it’s the healed ones that take most of his attention. He’s got old marks on his chest and arms, a nasty lump of scar tissue on his stomach. They don’t speak to a peaceful life. Somehow that’s not a surprise. The doc and Dazai don’t comment on them either, just like Chuuya doesn’t ask about the bandages.
“Gloves,” Dazai says and Chuuya bites down on a cutting reply because isn’t it obvious he’s already trying to peel them off?
“Choker, too?” he asks.
“No,” Dazai says, and something sparks in his eyes as he takes his turn examining Chuuya’s injuries while Yosano prepares things. “Keep that on.”
So Chuuya sits there like a weirdo in clinging, wet pants and a choker. Wait… Oh, that perverted asshole. Or maybe Dazai just likes being provocative because there’s no follow up comment, only observations which are…decent enough.
“Ribs are likely the first hit. That’s the deepest impact and might explain how someone got the upper hand on you. Then these abrasions probably followed. No bullets grazes, burn or blade marks. No sign of restraints.” He moves a little too close, until Chuuya can feel his body heat. “What’ll we find if we take your pants off?”
Chuuya takes a deep breath and runs every curse word he knows through his head. Then he says, evenly enough, “Couple bruises probably, no injuries.”
Dazai hums, and somehow it still sounds like he’s laughing at him. “Everything else could be explained by the river. Even that nasty little head wound, but it means you were probably incapacitated when you went in. Do you remember hitting the water?”
“No.”
“There are rocks for erosion-proofing all along the southern shore, rather pointy if I remember correctly. And you could have bumped into pilings, or the bridges of course. Was your first awareness underwater or above it?”
Force all around. Pressure in his chest, choked throat, stinging grit in his eyes. “Underwater. I saw the light above the surface, swam for it.”
Dazai looks up from where he’s crouched at Chuuya’s right side where the damage is the worst. He reaches up, hesitates, then touches his chin, beside the cut that’s still leaking there.
“And this?”
“I fell, when I was pulling myself out of the water.”
“You fell?” Dazai stands abruptly.
“My hand slipped. I hit my chin on the stone wall.”
“You slipped?”
“Yeah.” Chuuya rubs at his forehead. His brain feels like it’s turning to mush but that still seems like a strange thing to get hung up on, with everything else going on.
“Give me room to work,” Yosano says, pulling on nitrile gloves and wheeling herself toward his bedside until Dazai moves. He plops back on another gurney, long legs spread wide, feet pointed at Chuuya.
Chuuya looks over the tray the doc brought, the suture kit and pile of gauze, the disinfectant and wheel of tape. The precision forceps and needles.
“What’s in the syringes?” he asks, sucking in a breath as she swabs red disinfectant along the scrapes on his shoulder.
“Analgesic.”
Painkillers. “I don’t need it.”
“I’m going to be pulling bone fragments out of you in a minute. You know, from the broken ribs you have. Then I’m going to sew the scraps of your side together to cover them up. Does that sound like something you want to feel?”
Painkillers dull the senses. They can also mask other substances. Sure, she could be poisoning him with the disinfectant but the smell seems genuine enough. This would be a really roundabout trap for him, but it’s clear the Agency don’t trust him. They shouldn’t if he’s mafia. That makes them natural enemies. He trusts Atsushi would at least give him a warning if he means to fight him, but expects Yosano would not. Kunikida and Kenji would probably offer him a chance to surrender before they attacked. And Dazai… Well, if he understood the things Atsushi said, that means Dazai is probably former mafia too. He doesn’t look like much, but he’s the one Chuuya should be most concerned with.
“Have you used your ability?” the concerning man asks.
He doesn’t want to say. Or he’s not sure. He’s really aware of every object and surface he touches, and while he was walking with Atsushi he was calculating angles. High, low, ricochets. It’s got something to do with movement, with manipulation of objects. Something about force and torque and momentum. Something about the bags he carried feeling lighter when they dug into a scrape in his palm. Something about it constantly churning inside of him, except for when Dazai touched him. Is that why they were partners?
“I’ll take that as a ‘not sure’,” Dazai says. “Your ability is gravity manipulation.”
“Don’t tell him this while he’s in our office.” Yosano sighs. “We just patched that hole he left in the wall. Kunikida will blow a gasket if he destroys anything else.”
Chuuya will not be apologizing for things he doesn’t remember doing. They probably had it coming.
“Don’t use it in the office,” Dazai adds seamlessly. “You can manipulate objects to use them as weapons, mostly projectiles, or shields, but only if you’re touching them or have recently touched them and set them up to be used. You can manipulate your own gravity and small vehicles. Small, land-based vehicles. Aircraft are tricky so now is not the time to attempt those. And you don’t do boats.”
“Why don’t I do boats?”
“You don’t like boats.” Dazai shrugs. He brushes an invisible piece of lint from his pants. “Do you feel the need to stomp a building into pebbles or tear the planet in two?”
“What? No. I don’t even know what that would feel like.”
“No?” Dazai grins like an idiot. “Great! You should be fine then.”
Yosano picks up the syringe. “You sure you don’t want this?”
A fresh, hot trail of blood runs down his side. He hurts in a lot of places, but he does not want that needle inside of him. “No. Thanks, though.”
The doctor glances at Dazai who smiles benignly. “It’s up to him.”
“Heh.” The doctor grins, a little too excited. “A patient after my own heart. Alright, gravity man. Don’t let loose while I’m patching you up.”
Dazai tells him more about his ability. It’s useful information, detailed information. Chuuya absorbs it as Yosano irrigates his injuries. Then she grabs the forceps. Dazai leaves after the second bone fragment plinks into a little metal dish. He must have a weak stomach for this sort of thing. Chuuya continues to stare at the space where he’d sat, teeth clamped together as she stitches him back together. He’s attentive to the door, to her movements and breathing, to the placement of the syringes and scalpels, to the feel of the table beneath his clenched hands, the floor beneath his feet.
“There,” Yosano finally says, snapping her gloves off and tossing them into a bin.
“Done already?” he rasps, unclenching his hands and jaw and looking down at the job she’s done on him. His side is patched up and she’s wrapped him in a compression bandage. The skin on his shoulder and back is tight from the disinfectant. Swollen skin on his chin pulls a little around the stitches she put there. “Nice work. Thanks.”
She studies him over crossed arms, then shakes her head. “You’re not like I thought you were.”
“Maybe this is the real me,” he says, but it’s a bitter sentiment. This isn’t the real him because this isn’t him, period. There’s so much missing, and now that he’s more or less intact, he’s going to track down whoever took it and take it back.
The door slams open, and Chuuya’s off the table, crouched between it and the doc before he consciously decides to move. Dazai grins down at him while Yosano groans behind him.
“Jumpy, Chuuya? Whatever for? It’s just little ol’ me. Oh, right. You don’t remember me.” He drops an armload of clothes on the table. “Get dressed, we’re leaving.”
“Going where?”
“Just get dressed.”
“Going. Where.”
Dazai sighs. He’s got a beige trenchcoat on now. Detective clothes, Chuuya supposes.
“To your apartment, of course. Time is of the essence.” He twirls a finger at the clothes. “Hurry up.”
The headache that had strangely enough subsided while he was being stitched up is back in full force as he follows Dazai out of the office and down the stairs. That bouncing mop of hair he hides under is irritating. The angle of his elbows when his hands are in his pockets is irritating. Then, of course, there’s his voice, an overblown mockery of interest.
“Hopefully you’ll have left clues laying around.” He turns and smirks over his shoulder. “Or, if not clues, maybe something really embarrassing. What do you think your hobbies are?”
“Shouldn’t you know?” Chuuya asks as they reach the street and he settles gingerly in the back of the waiting taxi.
Dazai hums. Then he sits too close. Or, he’s not that close, but when he crosses his stupid long legs his shoe bumps Chuuya’s calf. They found him some slide sandals that he’s pretty sure are ladies but mostly fit, and an outdated athletic jacket that’s too bright but at least it covers up the worst of his injuries. Chuuya hunches down in it and angles his legs away from Dazai toward the door.
“You have a headache,” the douchebag detective says.
“I got a lot of aches right now.”
“Riiiiight,” Dazai responds like he’s stupid. “But that’s because you were bounced off of boulders or something. The headache is due to the ability.”
Chuuya glances at him. Dazai’s wearing that fake ass smile like he’s a doll and it was painted on.
“Yeah,” he admits, looking out the window. “It’s like there’s a wall around my memories. When I think about the wrong thing, or try to remember something, the effort bounces off and it crunches.”
“Crunches?”
“Best way I can think of to describe it. Hurts like hell.”
“You’ll most likely have to remember to solve this thing.” Dazai twists, eyes bright. “Or you could just leave it to me!”
“I don’t care about a little pain,” Chuuya grumbles, stopping himself from rolling his eyes when Dazai deflates, slumping against his door. “Look, I just want this over with. Thanks, by the way.”
Dazai twitches, then turns to look at him. “Pardon?”
“Thank you.” Who doesn’t just accept thanks? God, what an asshole. He has to work to keep his thoughts out of his voice. “For helping me.”
“Oh, Chuuya,” Dazai croons, but his eyes go cold. “You can drop the act. It might have scored you points with the others, but I know better. This polite, pliant thing isn’t you.”
He hesitates. It’s a trick. Or a trap. A ruse. How the fuck should he know, except he doesn’t like the idea of this man – specifically – knowing him. He’s hot and cold, teasing too much for all that he volunteered himself to help. Still, he’s not wrong.
“How long were we partners?” he asks.
“Seven glorious years,” Dazai drawls, and Chuuya knows without remembering that he’s lying.
“You sure it wasn’t a living hell? ‘Cause that seems more likely.”
Those brown eyes go wide, sparkling with mischief which is slightly better than the dramatics from before. “Whatever do you mean?”
“I think you know what I mean.”
Dazai chuckles as the cab pulls to a stop. He leads Chuuya down a few streets and alleys. Various sites send up flares in his head, as does their entry through a side door. He flags a little as they climb the stairs. He’s thirsty as hell and probably needs something to eat. Clues first, then dry clothes, then food. No, clothes first.
Dazai picks the lock on an apartment door and Chuuya would be more annoyed if he wasn’t nervous about what he’s going to find inside. Something familiar, he hopes. Or someone… He’s not wearing a ring and doesn’t even have a tan line where one might be, but maybe there’s someone in here who really knows him.
“We’re home!” Dazai sing-songs before spinning around and backing into the space. “Ah, too bad. There’s nobody here.”
Chuuya shuffles his shoes off, absently noting the single umbrella, the other shoes backed against the wall, the jacket and hoodies hanging there. They’re all in his size. The kitchen is clean and spacious. There’s one dirty coffee cup in the sink. There’s a small, round table past the counter. The books stacked on it – one on the history of Vietnam following the war, another on the economy of southeast Asia – ping around in his head but don’t awaken any memories or emotions. Dazai is bent over the coffee table in front of the long couch, rifling through a small box containing thumb drives. Beside it sits a laptop. He opens it and drags his forefinger down the mousepad, waking it up.
“Surveillance videos,” he says as Chuuya crosses to him.
Each drive is labeled with a date and some number, a location code maybe. Dazai sits on the couch and types in a password. Chuuya puts his hand on his hips so he doesn’t grab the man and start shaking him.
“There a reason you know my password?”
“Lucky guess.” The detective doesn’t look up from where he’s navigating folders. “You must not have changed it since we were partners.”
“Bullshit.”
“Ah, look at this.” The screen is split between two camera feeds. The images are black and white, but only grainy in the deepest shadows. That’s quality recording equipment. It’s roads lined with… No, it’s the other way around. It’s towers of shipping containers with narrow pathways between them. Storage, near a port. The feeds are edited, selected clips instead of hours of boredom. Someone’s already done the work of isolating images. The pattern becomes apparent quickly. A box truck shows up, sometimes accompanied by a forklift. The tag and lock are cut, stuff is not stolen but placed in the containers, then a new tag and lock are put on. Smuggling, after the containers have been packed by the original exporters and probably inspected. Theft isn’t uncommon. Millions of containers move through the port annually. This is a little different.
“It’s the same guy every time,” Chuuya says as they finish the eighth clip. Two bottles of water and two protein bar wrappers sit empty beside by the laptop, since Dazai doesn’t only know his password but his way around his kitchen.
“And the forklift operator is the same woman,” Dazai adds.
Forklifts were used in five of the placements, but unlike the driver the operator’s face had been hidden by a hardhat and safety glasses. Chuuya hadn’t gotten a good look at the body shape within the coveralls.
“You think?” He squints at the image on the screen. The operator is smaller than the truck driver, sure. They aren’t wearing gloves, and the hands moving across the controls are sort of graceful he supposes? And is that shadow under the hat hair all bound up?
“I am well versed in the female form,” Dazai declares, like Chuuya’s fighting him on it. “I know women intimately.”
With that face and that voice, Chuuya doesn’t doubt he has any trouble attracting ladies. But there’s no point in feeding that ego. He rolls his eyes. “Shut up.”
“Jealous, Chuuya?”
“Just feeling sad for womankind.”
“Rude!”
“Whatever. So why use the same people for each job? It’s clear they’re just working.” They’d both seem a little bored, and get a little sloppy by the later jobs, pausing to chat or have a smoke, not double-checking the tags were properly attached. “Someone else has gotta be behind this.”
Dazai takes a moment to answer, and Chuuya gets the sense he isn’t thinking, he’s irritated. That makes two of them.
Finally, with a dramatic sigh, Dazai says, “Use the same crew and there’s less chance of a leak or poor performance. This is lucky for us, though. The number of female equipment operators at the port is low.”
“Low enough she’s a good lead.” He runs up against the wall in his head and grits his teeth through the discomfort. When the fuck is this block gonna wear off?
“The Port Mafia controls the illicit import and export business in Yokohama. And it enforces, with extreme prejudice, when someone gets greedy.”
“So whatever happened to me might have been because I was close to finding whoever’s ordering this?”
“Oh, I think you were farther along than that. I think you found them.” Dazai stretches then flops back against the couch. “It’s not easy to get around the Port Mafia, and based on the time stamps, these incidents have been happening for over a year. It would make sense that someone with an ability was covering them up whenever someone got suspicious. How better to do that than to make people forget?”
Chuuya hums in agreement. His head has been steadily throbbing with the impacts of this discussion. He stands, stretching, then grimaces at the tacky cling of his clothes.
“I must have told someone I work with,” he says, thinking out loud. “Put together a crew to go after them.”
“Most likely,” Dazai says, something careful in his tone, and Chuuya’s about to demand he stop being cryptic and just fucking say what he thinks when his eye falls on a chair in the corner by the sliding glass doors. The barrier in his mind clamps down, hard, as he shuffles toward it.
It’s western-style, tall-backed with a large, cushioned seat. The wood of the armrests and frame are carved in a rounded, ornate pattern. A ratty, knitted blanket is draped over the back. The details come into focus as he moves toward it. The flaking gold paint, the faded red cushions. It’s a cheap imitation of a gaudy throne. He reaches out, rubbing the blanket between his fingers. The yarn is rough. Wisps stick out all over. The whole thing is worn down, from weight dropping carelessly into it, from legs slung over one armrest. Oversized rings and carelessly twirled knives have gouged the other.
The blanket slips from his fingers. His face is wet. He touches his cheek, wondering if his head started bleeding again, but the liquid is clear. Blinking, he looks up to see if there’s a leak from the ceiling. The paint is smooth and unmarred.
“Chuuya.”
He turns.
Dazai’s hand is up like he was about to grab him, but now it’s just hovering there in the air between them as the color drains out of his face.
“What’s the matter with you?” Chuuya asks.
“Why, uh…” Dazai swallows audibly. He rocks his weight back onto his heels. His hands disappear into his pockets. “Why don’t you change your clothes then we can find someone in your organization to talk to.”
Why’s he talking to Chuuya like he’s a kid? Oh. It’s because he’s crying. He’s crying over a shitty chair and an old blanket, and he has no fucking idea why.
“Do you know what this is?” He’s suddenly angry, and it comes out like an accusation.
Dazai tears his gaze away to focus on the chair and starts to shake his head. Then his lips thin.
“Oh.” His shoulders drop and he smiles, but it’s the weakest smile the world has ever seen. “It belonged to a friend of yours. He…died. It was a few years ago. You were close.”
A close friend, dead. A few years ago, back when they were partners. Chuuya must have been pretty torn up about it then if Dazai knew, and if he’s still crying about it now. Impatiently he rubs at his cheeks. His eyes sting. The tears continue to leak out.
“I’m gonna grab a shower, then we’re out.”
He aims for the only door he hasn’t gone through yet. Dazai steps back to let him pass.
He finds a bedroom. There’s a big, fluffy bed, a couple chairs, some great black out curtains. There’s a closet. Lots of dark clothes. That must be a mafia thing. Lots of hats? He’ll deal with that later. He grabs some practical clothes and goes into the spacious bathroom, cranking on the water in the shower before he looks at himself in the mirror. His eyes are red-rimmed with darker shadows underneath. The rest of him is scuffed up and bruised. If he saw himself on the street, he’d think he was strung out. Fucking terrific. He lifts the hank of hair lying over one shoulder, turns to see the other side is cut shorter and watches himself raise his eyebrows in the mirror. He’ll deal with that later, too.
The shitty clothes go into the trash. He peels off the corner of his bandages to see the stitches are holding. It’s healing well enough. No need to keep the bandages on. Then he steps into the shower so he can at least scrub away the most obvious of his problems. They’ll find someone in his organization, someone who knows what he’s been up to. He’s…not looking forward to that. His side hurts, and his shoulder. His chin’s his own damn fault so he’s not going to complain about that. But if he got his ass kicked like this, what does the rest of his team look like? He better not have led people into an ambush, and he hopes to hell he didn’t leave someone behind on their own when he went into the river.
“Fuck.”
The smell of his products is messing him up, sending shit bouncing around and crashing in his head. That’s the deal, right? The olfactory sense is most closely tied to memory? When he thinks about that ratty old chair, he can almost smell car exhaust and smoke. What kind of a dickhead had someone worth crying over and can’t even remember who it is?
He slaps the water off, towels off and pulls his clothes on then drops his fists against the counter. He’s breathing too hard. He can feel his pulse hammering in the veins of his neck, and the elevated blood pressure is making his head hurt all that much fucking worse. He can’t believe he let someone do this to him. How could he be this careless, this stupid? If he doesn’t know who matters to him, who he’s supposed to love and protect and cry for, what even is he? A shell? Not a person, certainly.
This is such bullshit. Some smuggler got one over on him and now his brain is a punching bag for that shithead’s ability. Some run of the mill, greedy ass loser took everything from him and now he’s out there, probably bragging about it, while Chuuya’s sitting here feeling sorry for himself.
He drops his head into his hands. This headache is killing him. He’s going to find who did this to him and tear them apart. If they were here right now, he would crush them between his bare hands. Turn them to dust. Remove them from existence.
Grantors…
His eyes open and he straightens, staring at his fuzzy, wide-eyed reflection in the steamed-up mirror. What the hell was that?
Grantors of Dark Disgrace…
The words drag themselves through the barrier. The churning inside him picks up, deepens. It’s not just that heightened awareness he has of the things he touches, there’s something else inside him. Something deeper, more powerful. Those words are pulling it toward him.
“C’mon,” he urges. More power means faster. More power means winning.
He’s been going about this all wrong. He landed with detectives but that doesn’t mean he needs to act like a detective, taking one slow step after another. Just because the effects of this ability aren’t tangible doesn’t mean it can stand up to a heavy hit. He can do that. He doesn’t remember exactly what, but he knows he’s got something that can crush it back the way it’s trying to crush him. If he does that, he’ll have himself back. Then woe unto the fuckhead who did this.
The words emerge slowly, congealing to reveal an invocation. He must need it to reach beyond gravity manipulation to this deeper power. If the words to invoke that higher strength can come through the barrier, he can use them to destroy it. He sees his own grin in the misted mirror, all sharp edges and feral gleam.
“Grantors of Dark Disgrace, Do Not Awaken Me Again.”
Power explodes through him, lashes out of him, brands him inside and out. It’s agony and eternity, and laughter bursts out of him as his vision goes dark. It pours and he rises…
And crashes down against the tile, cold sweeping through him, as he shakes and is shaken.
“Don’t you ever, EVER, do that. Chuuya, why? No. You cannot do that. Do you hear me? Do you hear me?” Dazai’s body is holding him down, but he’s still shaking him, cold hands against the retreating burn of his skin.
“Nnnng,” Chuuya groans into the floor.
Dazai drags him up, gripping too tightly, nails digging in. He pulls him back against his chest, crushes them together. One of his legs wraps over both of Chuuya’s.
“Wha th’ fuck,” Chuuya slurs, his vision spinning, “wassat.”
“You cannot do that!”
“Yeah, got that.”
“Stupid, stupid idiot, moron, stupid slug!”
He grips him more tightly. Desperately.
This isn’t how past coworkers behave. They don’t gulp breaths, or shudder, or clutch like this when something goes wrong. Why would he be this worried about Chuuya?
“I don’t remember you,” Chuuya tells him, nearly whining, the not-knowing is so frustrating.
“You think I didn’t notice that?” Dazai snaps. “Maybe if you remembered you wouldn’t have tried something so, so stupid. Fuck.”
Chuuya turns, rolls in his arms. Dazai’s eyes are almost perfectly round, his pupils blown wide like that will help him spot danger. But all he’s looking at is Chuuya.
He shoves his hands under that mop of brown hair, covering Dazai’s eyes. The man stops breathing. Chuuya can feel it, with their bodies pressed together like this. One or both of them are shaking.
“Chuuya.” Dazai’s voice breaks, then he gathers himself and speaks evenly. The change is disorienting. “You cannot do that. You cannot say those words.”
“I thought it would take care of this thing.”
“Yes, it will break it. Then kill you. Then destroy the city.”
Chuuya drops his hands. Oh, no wonder Dazai was so worried. That makes sense. He feels even worse now, not because he apparently almost destroyed the city. It’s like all his cells have turned against him, maybe all his molecules too. He’s so tired he could sleep right there.
“What the hell was it?”
“That’s your ability.”
“I thought…gravity?”
“You can manipulate gravity. But that was your true ability.”
“And it will kill me?”
“Yes.”
He shivers, considers throwing up but that seems like it will require too much energy. “That sucks.”
“It can be useful on occasion, but only if I am with you and we have talked about it beforehand. Do not ever, ever use it without me.”
“I got it. Do I always feel like a truck hit me when I use it?”
“On a good day. When things have gone well. If you call out Corruption, things have not gone well.”
Dazai’s laugh is weak. His hands are loosening but not letting go. Chuuya’s lying here, in this guy’s lap and in his arms, and the guy’s holding him like it’s the most natural thing in the world for them to do even though he’s been bragging about being a womanizer, and Chuuya doesn’t feel anything for him. He got a sense of his feelings for Atsushi and the farmer kid, Doc Yosano and the blond with the ponytail. But this is the guy helping him, feeding him, knowing his password, tackling him when he apparently tries to off himself in his bathroom. Is there…something between them?
“Dazai?” Chuuya says, too confused not to ask.
“No.” Dazai unwraps himself, setting Chuuya away and standing briskly.
“What, why?”
“Don’t give yourself more of a headache.” He smooths down his waistcoat and straightens his tie. He’s looking away, eyes dark, face impassive. “Get dressed and we’ll go take care of this thing. After that, you’ll know. There won’t be a question.”
There’s no sign of the fear from seconds ago. That’s quite a trick. He’s right, though. Chuuys shoves himself upright. He coughs and tastes blood. Awesome. He spits it into the sink, rinses his mouth out, then straightens, looking around. The bathroom looks like a bomb went off. There’s craters in the floor, ceiling and walls. The tile has blistered. At least the blast cauterized the water pipes so he didn’t drown afterwards. That’s gonna be a bitch to fix.
***
They arrive at a low office building with a restaurant in one corner and a tax and accounting firm in the other. He can’t see the river from here, but he can just make out the rounded top of a nearby bridge in the gap between buildings. They aren’t five steps into the lobby before they’re surrounded by men in dark suits. Dazai lags a couple steps behind him. Because Chuuya’s the mafia guy. Right.
“Who’s in charge here?” he demands. He’d feel nervous but the barrier is pinging as he looks from face to face and, despite the accompanying pain, their presence is calming.
Light steps come from behind them and the suits part around a stately woman. Violet eyes, red hair, immaculate makeup, red spider lilies on the silken drape of her kimono.
Kouyou Ozaki. Elegant. Enjoys a good kill. Ability: Golden Demon.
“Chuuya-kun.”
“Hey,” he grits out, vision wavering from the onslaught against the barrier in his mind. He has no idea what their relationship is but all he feels is relief.
“Ane-san,” Dazai singsongs as he steps up beside him, and her return smile is as cold as the mask Dazai wore the entire trip over here.
“Do we have you to thank for this disruption, Dazai-kun, or the condition he is in?”
Chuuya waves off the insinuation that Dazai did this to him. “It’s nothing like that.”
Kouyou looks between them for a moment, her frown deepening. “Well then, you’d better come with me and explain what this is like.”
She shows him to an office in the back. No, wait. She shows him to his office in the back. From what he saw of the wardrobe in his house, that’s his jacket on the back of the chair and his shoes beside the couch. The fire door to the back parking lot is warped, metal frame rounded as if something very large expanded on its way through. A pack of cigarettes, wholly intact, is embedded in the wall. These are things he can do, he reminds himself, trying not to marvel at them.
“You and Gin spent the night conducting surveillance,” Kouyou is saying. “Then you came here while she returned to headquarters to prepare for an incursion tonight.”
“Tonight.” He was that close to catching this fucker and got caught instead? “How’d he get in here?”
“The guards we questioned couldn’t quite remember,” Kouyou says and, for an instant, Golden Demon flickers into form behind her. “They are no longer on payroll. It seems contact with this ability is so instantly disorienting as to be incapacitating. We’ve had reports of a couple other incidents like this, within our ranks, since this business began. In those instances, the investigations weren’t resumed.”
They all turn to look at the doorway, the cigarette pack he’d thrown at someone and missed.
“I can’t believe I let the fucker get me.” And he can’t believe there’s someone on the inside tipping the guy off.
“Look on the brightside, chibbiko,” Dazai chirps, unnecessarily bright. “You were woken out of your post-reconnaissance nap, dazzled and disoriented by the man, and still chased him as far as the river.”
Something occurs to Chuuya and he slaps a hand over his face. “I didn’t fight anyone, did I?”
Dazai hums. “I’m sorry to say it doesn’t seem so, no.”
“Fuuuuuuck.”
“What?” Kouyou asks. “If he didn’t get in a fight, what happened to him?”
“Well,” Dazai starts, “I believe he was enjoying a little gravity-assisted flight-”
“I must have forgotten how to use my ability while I was over the river. Nobody hit me. I just couldn’t keep myself in the air.”
“You hit the rocks when you fell, knocking the wind out of yourself and maybe knocking yourself unconscious, then rolled into the river.”
Kouyou sucks in a breath. “You could have drowned.”
Chuuya’s face is hot. This is so embarrassing, and of course Dazai took one look at his injuries and knew instantly. No wonder he’d been so interested in Chuuya slipping and hitting his chin. Even if he did slip, he could always catch himself. So long as he remembered what he could do. He should invoke Corruption just to end this humiliation. No, fuck this. If he’s ending anything it’s the one who did this to him.
After that it’s stupidly easy, because he’s already drawn up the plans to bag the guy. He finished last night, filling in details after conducting surveillance, then he locked everything up in a drawer in his desk and dropped off on the couch.
Black Lizard – the Port Mafia’s strike team – took the equipment operator into custody the day prior, under his orders (Kouyou said custody, Dazai said dungeon, neither corrected the other) and she corroborated what they’d already worked out.
“He’s former Guild,” Kouyou says as Chuuya sifts through the photos and blueprints again.
Chuuya has no memory of the big ass gated house he and Gin apparently left only hours ago. The photos of the guy who did this to him – short dark hair, double-breasted navy suit, sweet fucking Bugatti Veyron all tinted and armored up, and eyes like the rat that he is – provoke him but only because he’s the source of this outrage of a headache.
“What’s Guild?” he asks. He sounds like he’s slurring because he can barely unclench his jaw due to the pain of revisiting so many things already locked up inside that barrier.
“A secret society of skill users headquartered in America,” Hirotsu says (Hirotsu Ryuro. Black Lizard Commander. Ability: Falling Camelia. The mingled scent of his aftershave and cigarette smoke nearly dropped Chuuya to his knees.) “Powerful, specialized, ambitious.”
“And heavily capitalized,” Dazai adds. He’s away from the desk covered in plans, which they’ve all surrounded, in a big chair in a shadow and now he’s sitting there with his legs crossed, one hand hanging lax over the end of the arm rest, the other holding a whiskey glass. It’s his third and it’s barely past noon. “They tend to come with resources.”
A knife arcs through the air and Kouyou sweeps her sleeve out of the way so it’s not pinned when it stabs into a pile of photos. Oh yeah, those ones. The ones showing ten armed guards, all equipped with body armor and some kind of monitoring tech.
“So it’s ten guys but they’re strapped with something that lets them work in synch?” Chuuya asks. “How many do we have?”
“Our backup is sufficient,” Hirotsu replies, calm and steady. He’s so comforting that Chuuya wants to lean on him, to bury his face in the lapel of his wool coat and just sleep. “Black Lizard will take lead, carve a path for Dazai so he can nullify the ability. You and Kouyou will come in last, to confirm it worked and address any larger issues.”
There’s a heavy silence after he stops talking. Of course this is because of Chuuya’s state. These are his plans, and he saw enough of them to know he wasn’t planning to take an armed force of two dozen in. He was going to go in first, fast and heavy, and Gin and a small squad would hang around to catch anyone who managed to escape. The plans make him look like a badass. But that was last night and this is now.
His injuries are workable. This headache is a beast. He doesn’t want to say how badly Corruption messed him up – and that was only a few seconds of it – but he doesn’t know if he could make a stand now let alone lead a charge. Pretending he could will only end up getting someone hurt.
“Is that the plan with the least potential for casualties on our side?” he asks, changing the subject without having to address his own condition.
A little of the tension bleeds away. Gin and Kouyou are both nodding before Hirotsu says, “I believe so, yes.”
He needs to trust them. He does trust them, he thinks, but all this not knowing sucks. They shouldn’t all have to be taking care of him.
“Hey,” he calls to Dazai, “you good with this?”
“It’s your plan.” Dazai salutes him with his glass.
Chuuya goes over to him. “Yeah, but you’re gonna be right in the middle of it.”
“It’s fine.”
“Oi.” Chuuya pokes his shoe with his own, lowering his voice. “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want. You should know, we’re not letting anyone walk out of there. It will be messy.”
“I think, after what happened today, I do. Can’t have you running around Yokohama with that time bomb inside of you.”
“I’m not going to do that again now that I know what it is. We’ll take this guy out, Guild resources or no, and my memory will return. I’m just saying you don’t have to come if you don’t want to. It’s not your fight.”
Dazai tilts his head back to look up at Chuuya. His eyes are a little glassy and a lot…empty. There’s something fundamental missing in Dazai, a bottomless well that he probably shovels stuff into as fast as he can but can’t ever fill. Fill it with good stuff and maybe he’s okay for awhile. But exposing him to what they’ll do during this operation could just stretch that void wider. Chuuya knows this without remembering. He knows because, just maybe, he’s got that too. He’s not only missing memories, there’s something else that went with them. But, in seeing Kouyou again, and Hirotsu, the Black Lizard lieutenants, he’s felt himself settle, felt that void fill. Behind Chuuya, Hirotsu clears his throat.
“I’m only trying to warn him it’ll be violent,” Chuuya explains without turning around.
“Ah, yes, I understand that. But Dazai-kun, he is familiar with this…type of operation.”
“So are you good?” Chuuya asks, but he’s asking Dazai, and his stomach is sinking and sinking. He was Mafia. He left. Now he’s on the side with those soft, sunshine-y detectives, the law at their back. He was cheerful this morning, teasing, bright. His eyes have gotten emptier the longer he’s been exposed to Chuuya. He wishes he remembered him, wishes he could understand why. “Why have you even been helping me?”
“I’m here as long as you want me, Chuuya.” The smile is so bland it’s maddening. That’s not an old echo of an emotion, that’s what Chuuya’s feeling right now seeing it. Maddened. He wants to make it go away, but he doesn’t know how and it makes him want to scream and throw something through a wall. Or throw a wall. What had Dazai asked earlier? Did he want to stomp a building in two? Yeah, now he kind of wants to do that.
“Because of Corruption,” Chuuya grates out.
Dazai clicks his tongue and points at him. “Of course! Why else?”
Dazai knows why else. He knows why he held him like that after he triggered Corruption. He just doesn’t think it’s worth sharing with Chuuya.
“Fine.” Chuuya turns on his heel, ignoring the wave of dizziness. “Somebody get him body armor.”
Dazai scoffs. “I don’t need armor.”
“You’re wearing it. We’re leaving in ten.”
***
The gunfire, of course, is loud. Kouyou walks on one side of him, Golden Demon glides along behind them, a lethal shadow. Three heavily armed suits lead them through the gate. They pass the first body. Gin, knife. The second and third hang over a second story railing. Tachihara. The fourth is partway inside of an ornate column. That would be Hirotsu. The house is gaudy, most of the downstairs set up for entertaining with hightops, billiard tables, three…no, four bars.
There are shouts, rapid footsteps, grunts, the occasional burst of shots fired. Things are winding down as the opposition is taken out. Chuuya starts to relax. He’s minutes, at most, away from getting himself back. Then they pass the body armor, vest neatly folded, helmet placed on top, behind a large decorative vase in an alcove at the top of the stairs. Dazai’s the only one not fighting their way to the top and the only one who was wearing armor on the outside of his clothes.
“Fuck.” Chuuya staggers when he launches, losing a precious second to regain his balance as the marble floor cracks beneath him. The blueprints had been weird, asymmetrical. A missing balcony, a room that appeared too shallow, a blank wall where there should have been a door. There’s a hidden room in the middle of the east wing, probably an unmarked panic room. He should have recognized it but it was so damn hard to think around this headache. That’s where Dazai will have gone, too smart to know what’s good for him.
There’s dust behind him, Golden Demon at his heels, Tachihara turning with his gun rising before Gin shoves it down. Chuuya flies past, cornering too sharply and taking out the doorway. Hirotsu yells in the distance. Chuuya tells the walls to go light as he goes heavier, smashing straight through a reinforced metal wall into another, smaller room. Dark, blue-lit computer screens on the wall, a chair, table, and giant fucking four poster bed.
The Guild asshole is in satin PJs, tangled in a blanket on the floor beside the bed. Dazai’s hand is outstretched toward him but there’s another guy behind him, gun rising toward the back of his head.
No, this is not happening. That lanky bastard is not fucking dying because of Chuuya. Not ever.
He kicks, knowing the angle isn’t quite right but there’s no time. One of the posts shatters and he pushes the shards of wood toward the Guild man, arcing them wide so there’s no chance they touch Dazai. He launches himself at the bodyguard, knee driving into his soft middle. He hits him hard enough they both crash through the exterior wall, two stories up and falling. Chuuya grins. There. Fuck these guys, they’re done.
Something lurches in his head. Images flip through his mind, voices rise and fall. Emotions nip and claw until he can’t tell the past from the present. He lightens his own gravity, shedding momentum, knowing the ground is coming but unable to see it around…around…
Everything goes dark.
***
Slug
3:13 p.m.
Where’d you go?
3:18 p.m.
dazai where
where r u
4:55 p.m.
Either pick up your fucking phone or call me.
11:44 p.m.
I’m at that hotel with the red lobby
Where we had that thing that one time
Cause my apartments fucked?
Penthouse
4 guards
Come over
11:46
srsly
dazai
4 crab dishes on room service menu
ill get em all
It’s two a.m. Dazai doesn’t need to re-read the texts from Chuuya because they’re burned into his memory, as surely as he isn’t burned into Chuuya’s. Or wasn’t. It hardly matters. What does matter – what might matter – is the delays in between the messages, as well as the shifts in tone. While Dazai enjoys bantering and flirting, Chuuya has two modes in text conversations: aggression and escalating aggression. It rare for him to allow minutes, let alone hours, to go by when he hasn’t received the answer he wants. These delays, and the vacillations in clarity, point to problems that should be investigated.
He had used Corruption when he was compromised.
He had used Corruption because Dazai had let him.
He will check on him, once, but only for that reason. After all, that was the only reason Chuuya attributed to Dazai staying – loyally, helpfully, attractively, and through no small amount of hardship – at his side while he was affected by that ability. Chuuya reacted to every other person he knew. Friendly with Atsushi. Respectful to Kunikida and Yosano. He’d even patted Kenji on the head when they’d left the Agency! Did Dazai want head pats? No. No, he did not. But he would have appreciated the offer.
The chibi had smiled when he saw Kouyou, all but thrown himself at Hirotsu to hug him. He’d probably made out with his awful hat collection while Dazai wasn’t looking. Ugh. Stupid slug. Stupid compromised slug who let himself get touched by that Guild man, then dropped himself in the river to wash up on Dazai’s doorstep and then not know what he was to him. Ridiculous.
He goes to the hotel with the red lobby where, as Chuuya had so idiotically described, they “had that thing that one time”. (It was a prolonged gunfight with a major gang at the beginning of the Dragon’s Head conflict. Mori had wanted the property so they had to be creative to keep it intact. It’s where Chuuya had mastered the art of “shooting” bullets using gravity.) He arranges a small, non-destructive distraction for the guards. There are six of them, not four, plus two drones, and Dazai gets that eerie sensation indicating Akutagawa is nearby. Probably perched outside the penthouse where Chuuya is secured, like a gargoyle.
Dazai pauses just inside the suite, letting his eyes adjust to the meager light coming through the gauzy curtains. The hotel is luxurious if a little older. Thick, silencing carpeting. Rich wood and deep colors. The rooms are a little small, and the windows aren’t floor to ceiling glass. Heavily papered walls, too much furniture arranged in a way nobody would choose to sit in. Chuuya had cried over that beaten up chair he’d had for so long.
Seeing him playing polite and safe at the Agency had been reminiscent of how he used to tiptoe around the Sheep, uncertain of his welcome. It had been kind of funny when he’d turned that on Dazai as well, valiantly refusing to respond to the nicknames and provocations. Kind of. Until he’d realized that Chuuya really saw him as another stranger. No different than anyone else.
Chuuya’s responses to him tend to be extreme. They’ve always pushed and grated at each other. But, relieved of years of built up habits, his reactions were simply…neutral. There is a kind of simple honesty after being freed of memories, and it’s clear Chuuya doesn’t feel strongly toward him one way or the other. It’s agonizingly clear, which brings Dazai to this recent shift in their relationship. Dazai has been pushing and Chuuya has been…accommodating him. Just like in the Agency office. He bends to make himself more palatable to others, compresses himself to ensure he won’t be left alone. Dazai supposes he should feel grateful that Chuuya hasn’t told him he loves him, that he might be willing to play along but he’s not an outright liar.
He should also congratulate himself on being important enough to Chuuya that he’s been able to get so much from him in recent weeks. Throw himself a party maybe. Steal a hundred bottle of something incomprehensibly expensive and drown himself in them.
He forgets to protect himself from Chuuya sometimes, misdirected by his spontaneity and directness. Or, more likely, wanting to believe. And now the chibi has a new arsenal in the form of intimate touches and murmured words. He hasn’t wanted to distrust those. Dazai knows better than to lower his defenses. Everybody takes advantage. Everybody disappoints. The cracking inside his chest will stop at some point, surely.
Chuuya lies in an oversized, overfluffed bed, but not sprawled in the middle of it like he’s enjoying all that space. He’s huddled against a pile of pillows at the very edge, duvet kicked off, hands clenched into fists and tucked under his chin. He’s probably cold, wearing only a white t-shirt and soft blue shorts. One of his legs is pulled up and he’d be fully fetal if it weren’t for the brace on his right knee, bandages beneath it, keeping that leg straight. A large ice pack has slipped off and onto the floor. He’d put his knee through the ribcage of a goon with a Glock, then put the goon through a reinforced metal wall and into a crater in the earth. Tachihara had ooh’d and aah’d over it, but it was about the least controlled Dazai had ever seen Chuuya move.
By the light of the small lamp left on, he reads the labels on the prescription bottles on the nightstand, frowning at one of them, idly righting the glass that’s been knocked over beside them. Mori overprescribes to Chuuya, with the intent of keeping him immobile after he extends himself. Dazai doubts Chuuya knows his actual recovery time from Corruption since Mori sedates him so heavily afterwards. He says it’s to protect Chuuya but it’s more likely to keep those in the Port Mafia who have the privilege of navigating the wreckage to pick him up afterwards from fearing him too greatly. They should though. He’s terrifying. And exhilarating. An apocalyptic work of art come to life.
Dazai smooths tangled strands away from the sweat dampening Chuuya’s forehead, picks up the ice pack and returns it to the freezer in the outer room, pulling out a replacement. He fills another glass with water.
On impulse, he checks the refrigerator. There are four take out containers, intact and untouched, all labeled as crab dishes. They’re probably delicious. Dazai closes the refrigerator door with its harsh blue lights and, in the resulting darkness, leans his forehead against the metal door. Stupid, stupid slug, knowing every button of his to push.
He sets the glass beside the pill bottles, and if he slips a few of the sedatives into his pocket that’s just the fee for services rendered. He bends the ice pack and arranges it around the knee brace. There, he’s done his good deeds for the night. There’s nothing left to do but go, again. Dazai looks up, and freezes.
Chuuya’s eyes are open, the barest gleam visible within the bruise-dark circles around them. He pushes as if to sit up, makes it about two inches then lowers himself back down. Blood begins trickling from his nose. Grabbing a tissue, Dazai sighs.
“You’re a mess, Chuuya.”
The lazy slug just watches him as he dabs at the blood, noting the already tender skin around his nostrils, checking the three black stitches Yosano put in his chin for swelling. That actually looks mostly healed already. It probably won’t even scar. With each blink, Chuuya’s eyes open a little more, until he might actually be called awake. Dazai should have gone sooner.
“You came,” he murmurs, low voice raspy with sleep and slow from exhaustion.
“You should be in the clinic still.” Dazai lifts one of the bottles, shaking it. “Why are you taking anti-seizure medication?”
“To stop seizures.”
“To stop…” Dazai’s hand twitches and the bottle falls, clattering on the nightstand. “You had seizures? After I nullified the ability?”
“Yeah.” Chuuya shifts, frowning as he gropes around the bed. “Swelling of the brain, side effect of the ability or something. Corruption prob’ly didn’t help.”
Dazai pulls the blanket toward his reaching hand.
“Just the sheet,” Chuuya whispers. “It’s too hot.”
The room is, by no definition, hot.
“What’s the matter with you?” Chuuya asks, and it takes Dazai a moment to realize his expression isn’t as impassive as he’d like.
“Oh, nothing. Just stopped by to retrieve the crab you promised me. I’ll be on my way.” Dazai stands.
“Stay.”
He backs toward the door. “You need your chemically-induced rest.”
“Stay.”
“It’s not interesting to watch you sleep, chibi. So much snoring and drooling.”
“Why’re you upset?”
“I’m not.” Dazai can hear that his voice is pitching too high, that he’s talking too fast. “You just need your rest. Or you won’t grow anymore.”
“Fuck off. Stay.”
“Your signals are so mixed, slug.”
His outstretched hand bumps the door. There, he’s nearly clear.
With a groan, Chuuya pushes himself up to sitting, then struggles to pull the sheet free from where Dazai tucked it around him.
“Chuuya, don’t.” He’s going to hurt himself.
“You’re gonna leave.”
“Chuuya.” Of course the slug is going to make him be the bad guy here. His tone hardens. “Don’t get up. Don’t talk. There’s no need to exert yourself in this condition.”
Chuuya’s hands fall into his lap. His shoulders hunch a little. “Then don’t leave.”
“I’ll call someone to keep you company. I’m pretty sure Akutagawa’s just outside. Or do you want Tachihara?” He better not ask for Tachihara. Dazai hates that overly energetic gun-loving thug and his open awe for Chuuya.
“You keep me company.”
Dazai smiles. The chibi’s eyes narrow.
“Quit using that fake ass smile.”
Dazai drops the smile. It hurts to make anyway. “I’m trying to make this easier on you. You don’t have to pretend anymore. I’ll be around if you need me around, but you don’t have to pretend you want me, not in the way…” In the way that Dazai cares about Chuuya. “…not like that.”
“The fuck are you talking about?”
Dazai is rarely direct when it comes to matters of the heart, but he cannot stay here for another minute. Besides, Chuuya already knows. “You don’t have feelings for me.”
“I lost all my memories, dumbass. I didn’t even know who I was. Why the fuck did you think I’d know who you were?”
“Memories, yes. But not feelings. You knew how you felt about everyone else, and reacted accordingly.”
“That’s not true,” Chuuya says quickly.
Dazai spreads his hands. “I was there, not confused or injured like a certain someone. I saw it all play out. Everyone you cared for.”
“No, Dazai. That’s not-”
“Why do you keep that chair?” he asks, knowing it’s a low blow.
All the air bursts out of Chuuya like he’s been punched. But he’s nothing if not resilient. He shakes his head, drags in a breath.
“It was…Albatross used to pretend it was his throne or something. Kept it in his chop shop. The…it’s not the chair. It’s the blanket. His grandmother knitted that blanket. It was like…it was comforting to him when things got bad. I cleaned out all their places. The Flags. I couldn’t let it be thrown out.”
The Flags, that group of wannabe mafia execs, murdered by Verlaine when he’d come looking for Chuuya. After Dazai sent him to them. After Dazai told him that severing Chuuya’s connection to them would allow Verlaine to take him. It was a delay tactic, meant to keep Mori secure and give the Port Mafia time to launch a response to Verlaine. But they’d been Chuuya’s friends. Dazai hadn’t known what that meant, back then, what it could feel like to lose a friend.
He’d never seen Chuuya cry, no matter what happened to him. But that was just it. He’d never seen it. It didn’t mean it hadn’t happened, that he hadn’t cried on someone else’s shoulder.
“See?” Dazai asks, almost gently. “Your feelings remained, but you had none for me. It doesn’t matter. It’s fine. I’m just saying – and I think this is quite benevolent of me – that you don’t have to keep pretending for me.”
“I’m not pretending.” Chuuya’s glaring up at him with red-rimmed eyes. It makes the blue all the more striking. It’s unfair really.
“Chuuya.”
“You think I’d stoop to that?”
Dazai opens his mouth to say “yes”, that Chuuya will do anything to keep people with him. Then he closes it, not because that’s too cruel to vocalize but because it isn’t true. Shouldn’t be true. He’s not sure.
“I didn’t remember myself,” Chuuya says again.
“Or me, and I’m far more interesting.”
“You’re far more of an asshole.”
“Mmm, debatable.”
“It’s not that I don’t have feelings for you. It’s that I didn’t remember myself.”
“Why do you keep repeating yourself? Is it a side effect of the drugs? Do you not realize you’re awake and this is a real conversation?”
“I know I’m awake and I know you’re using that fuckhead’s ability as an excuse to run away.”
Such a lowly accusation. Dazai is being the noble one here! He’s being rational. Worse, he’s being the bigger man. Chuuya should applaud and thank him for this. Dazai loathes being the bigger man but he will do it to relieve Chuuya of this burden. He pinches the bridge of his nose.
“Chuuya, be reasonable.”
“I didn’t remember myself.”
“Yes, I heard you the first time!” Dazai yells, this wretched frustration too big to be contained. “You don’t have to rub it in!”
“So I didn’t remember you!” Chuuya yells right back.
Dazai stills because…that doesn’t make sense.
“I was gone so you were gone.” Chuuya’s face is drawn tight. His eyes are clear and earnest. “There’s no me without us. There’s no me without you, Dazai. You get that, right?”
A jolt goes through Dazai, a good, high voltage electrical shock. Oh. Oh, that’s…
He’s afraid to even blink. “And now?”
“I remember everything. The bad, the ugly.”
Dazai clears his throat but his voice still comes out shaky. “You’re supposed to start with the good.”
“The surprising. The awful. The brilliant. The idiotic. The good. Everything about us. Everything that makes me love you.”
Dazai examines the wallpaper for awhile. His mind is full of that paisley print, nothing else. His chest is rising and falling, but that’s just standard respiration. Inside he’s full, so full.
“Guess I’ll have to keep showing you ‘til you believe it.” Chuuya groans as he falls back against the pillows. He holds out his hand. “So get over here already, mackerel.”