Chapter Text
The day that Dazai left was in fact not the best day of Chuuya's life. He did open up an 89 bottle, he's never lied about that fact. He shared it with Mori and Kouyou that day, sitting in the meeting room thinking about how he didn't know what to do next. He's been part of a duo for three years now. The topic of what to do next was the topic chosen for this particular sit down meeting. It couldn't even be classified as a meeting. It was a freakout session. That's what it was. The words entered Chuuya's head as he sipped his wine.
"Next step up"
"- should at least be considered"
"Our next executive" was what he finally zoned back into. Who? Is this really a decision that Chuuya should have any choice in?
"Chuuya?" Mori snapped his fingers in front of the younger man's face. "Have you been listening at all?" he gave a sigh as his hand fell to his lap.
"Not at all, boss." Chuuya supplied as he took another sip. Man, he should really stop drinking. He's already feeling the flush in his cheeks.
"Kouyou and I said that we are once again going to consider you being an executive. Though I admit, there isn't much competition this time, as Dazai has left the Port Mafia." Mori hummed, tapping his chin with his index finger. "Yes, I might not even make it a consideration. Consider it done."
"Excuse me?" Chuuya asked staring at his boss. Him? An executive? Filling in Dazai's shoes of all positions? Especially when Chuuya wasn't the most fond of positions of leadership? God, he hoped that Mori would maybe reconsider.
"I said that you would make a lovely executive," Mori supplied, "and that since there's no competition, it's effective immediately. We wouldn't want a weakened hole in our defenses, now would we, Chuuya?"
Chuuya sighed. He hated it when people did this to him. Though he could admit that he liked it better if he isn't given a choice at all as opposed to fake options. He's been subjected to both enough. "Yes sir," he muttered, sinking in his chair. The rest of the meeting was a blur. He knew what Dazai did. He was there most of the time. He's lead people on missions, reluctantly. He's no stranger to dealing with Dazai's men. His men.
Chuuya went back to his room a bit more than tipsy. God, why did he have to be such a lightweight? Is it too much to be able to handle alcohol a little bit better considering his overall strength? Sleeping wasn't difficult that night. The alcohol made him more relaxed than he'd like to admit.
An executive. He was an executive now.
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For most people in the Port Mafia, it wasn't strange to see Chuuya on edge. Especially without the presence of Dazai, though he admittedly made it worse at times.
Weeks. It's been weeks since Dazai's departure from the Port Mafia. It wasn't terribly odd for Chuuya to wake up with a headache or being a little more irritable. Exhaustion? Pfft, he did this all the time. Coffee is a great pick-me-up. The fever, though? That wasn't something that Chuuya was used to. He was pretty healthy all things considered. It would take him down for a few days before he would recover. It was like a cold or flu to Chuuya. Just stay in bed for a day or two to make sure he didn't infect someone and then return to work when he felt well again. It was no big deal.
That was until Chuuya felt a nagging in his stomach. A feeling that something just wasn't right about his fatigue and headaches. He spoke to Paul about it briefly.
"Have you considered your workload right now?" he'd said to Chuuya. "You've taken on a lot since Osamu Dazai left. Just rest."
Just rest. As if he hadn't tried.
How incredibly unhelpful.
Next he went to Kouyou.
"Fatigue? Hm, well you are young still. You're probably stressed right now" she too insisted that it wasn't anything to worry about. Kouyou put a hand on Chuuya's forehead. "You see? You aren't feverish. It's just in your head. That's all" Kouyou assured him, giving him a light pat on the shoulder.
Now this was ridiculous. It wasn't in his head. He could feel it, somehow. A nagging tiredness that followed him, and the headache. It almost hurt to think about.
So he went further up the ladder to his boss. One halfassed bloodtest later, there was nothing. Nothing irregular with cells, nothing wrong with his blood pressure.
There was... Nothing wrong with Chuuya.
"Maybe it's just some general malaise from anxiety. It's not uncommon, you know?" Mori said as he tidied up his office once more. He threw away the needle into a little red bin at the side of the medical table. Then he washed a scalpel. Why did he even have one? He didn't use it.
"It's not in my head," Chuuya gritted out under his breath. He was tired of being told that there was nothing there.
Mori looked up at the shorter man, "Well, if there is, I didn't find it. Don't worry about yourself so much, you're exacerbating your condition." Chuuya scoffed, rolling his eyes at his boss' words. "I'm serious, Chuuya. You appear to be mentally unwell at the moment. Sleep well tonight. You know you have a mission coming up" Mori said as he shooed Chuuya out of the office.
"Hey! Wait- I-!" Chuuya turned around to speak more to Mori, but the door was already closed. "Damnit!" he cursed, hitting the door once before turning and leaving again. He might as well get something to eat while he's up.
He walked down to the kitchens and took out a package of ramen that he had stashed away in a far back corner. He loved easy to make food. Little effort. Chuuya put in water to the fill line before sticking it in the microwave. He didn't have the time nor the patience for a pot. A pot is for people who care about the consistency of their noodles. Chuuya would eat them dried if he had to. But he doesn't. Microwave. And a working sink. It's magical.
Chuuya sat on the counter as he watched the numbers count backwards on the small screen. The buzz of the microwave was something almost magical to him. Relieving even. Even and constant. Chuuya looked down to his gloved hands with a sigh. He gently slid off a glove, looking at the scar on his wrist that proved his own 'human' existence. He spent minutes staring down at the small scar before the microwave beeped aggressively at him.
"Shut up," he grumbled to the machine. It almost felt like a whine. Chuuya blamed it on the hunger. Chuuya gently took out the noodles and finally put in the seasoning packet. He couldn't explain why he liked it better after it's been heated, but adding the seasoning in last just hit different. Now *that* might be in his head. He cherished his noodles, eating them carefully as he walked back to his room.
He knew what was in his head. There was a lot in his head, actually. Starting with the waves of guilt from the massacre of the Flags. Ending with his own natural thought process. And somewhere along the way, there's Arahabaki, who doesn't have any real thoughts, but Chuuya's sure that there's fragments of ideas at times. That all is in his head.
This wasn't.
You can't just make this kind of thing up, he told himself that every day.
Every day for months.
Yet the response was the same every time.
"It's just in your head."
"You're imagining it."
"You're not mentally well."
"You just need help."
"You need time to process."
But he didn't! Did he? He didn't miss Dazai like that. Not enough to make him sick. He wouldn't... Not for this long.
His gut told him that he was right, but all Chuuya was told was that he was wrong.
So, he decided that he was wrong.