Archive of Our Own

Just when Chuuya starts to believe he may have an evening off, Kunikida lifts a green file and clears his throat to gather everyone’s attention.

“We’ll need someone to volunteer for an investigation.”

Fucking hell.

Thankfully, Chuuya isn’t alone in the sentiment as a collective groan goes through the room.

“You couldn’t have warned us about this an hour ago?” Yosano sighs, her head propped on her hand. “I would have postponed my plans.”

Kunikida, at least, has the decency to look sympathetic.

“We had intentions of pursuing information on Monday, but recent developments have pushed it forward,” he explains. “If we’re fortunate, it won’t take more than a few hours to handle.”

Yes, but it’s already late afternoon, the sky darkening and the streets damp from a recent rain. Chuuya’s tea went cold a while ago, and his back’s sore from hunching over old reports. He may not have plans to interrupt for the evening— aside from a glass or two of wine— but that doesn’t mean he wants to spend any more time at work than he has to.

Still, he sits up straight and tries to convince himself to pay attention.

“A staff member from the local aquarium has reached out with concerns about unexplained disturbances throughout the past week. These have manifested in the form of unnatural water movements and strange pressure changes,” Kunikida says, summarizing the points in the report. “It’s been increasing in intensity and duration with each day. Due to a technical check that resulted in no issues in the aquarium’s systems, we have reason to suspect an ability user. They’re requesting for the Agency to send in someone to investigate that possibility.”

An excuse already sits comfortably on the tip of Chuuya’s tongue. 

“I’ve—” 

But the rest of the room beats him to it, erupting into a chorus of complaints and whines.

“On Valentine’s Day?” Naomi cries out. “That’s not fair!”

Everyone else agrees, crying out about the parties they were invited to or the dates they had planned. Even the younger employees, such as Atsushi and Kyoka, look about with frowns.

“Atsushi was going to show us the new crepe flavors,” Kenji says. “But, I suppose, if we really need someone…”

Ugh, and now Chuuya feels like an asshole for genuinely considering Kenji’s offer. But no way he’s going to make a kid do an investigation on a holiday. It’s not like Chuuya has any dates.

“I’ll—” Chuuya clears his throat. “Um, that is—”

Kunikida’s eyes turn towards him. “Chuuya? Are you available to help the aquarium this evening?”

A ripple of uncertainty tickles across Chuuya’s skin. Tanks of water and colorful little creatures flitting about without any idea of their capture. It’s enough to make his stomach turn. There’s a reason he’s never been to the aquarium before.

(Though, his mind unhelpfully supplies. He’s been there once— just once. A memory of vibrant laughter and a warm hand around his own, tugging him around with sharp smiles and a promise of protection.

“You’ll never grow if you can’t face your fears,” a terribly caring voice says. “Come on, Slug, I saw a fish that looks like you!”)

Chuuya blinks hard. Kunikida calls his name again.

“Huh?”

Chuuya looks around the quiet room, skin warm from the gazes of everyone around him. How long was he thinking? How many times has Kunikida called for him? Chuuya feels himself flush, but he refuses to look away.

“I can take some time to accompany you if you want an extra pair of eyes,” Yosano offers. It’s kind without being too obvious; as the Agency’s doctor, she’s one of the few people who knows the details of his past, something that lets him skip a majority of the check-ups she tries to schedule for all of them. She’s not offended by his aversion to her infirmary, and he’s not insulted by her mother-henning. It’s a comfort most days, reminiscent of Kouyou’s care for him before he turned his back on the Mafia. They’d get along, he thinks sometimes, if Yosano could look past Kouyou's allegiances.

On any other day, he’d have no problem taking her up on the offer. Neither of them has official partners in the Agency, but they’ve worked together on more than one occasion. She’s a solid presence at his side, aware of his triggers and how to handle them. 

Tonight, though, he knows Yosano’s got plans with a brand new dress and single’s night at the bar Chuuya made the mistake of introducing her to a few months ago. She’s spent the better part of the week warning everyone of her amazing plans to bring someone home with her. 

Just like he’d feel guilty bringing one of the kids with him, he’d feel doubly guilty for spoiling Yosano’s plans.

“It’s fine,” he brushes it off with a wave of his hand. He stands, stretches his back, and approaches Kunikida to take the report from him. “Not like I’m doing anything, anyway.”

Chuuya’s faced terrorists and kidnappers in his years here, but the sigh of relief throughout the room has him half-convinced that this is the most heroic thing he’s done yet.

“Ah, the aquarium’s considered a hot dating spot, right?” Atsushi says in a weak attempt to make Chuuya feel better. “Maybe you’ll end up with some romance today, after all!”

Chuuya can’t help the dry laugh he offers in response. It’s a nice sentiment, but—

“That’s not the kind of luck I have, kid,” he says. “Me getting a date? I wouldn’t hold your breath.”

<><><> <><><> <><><>

It’s not that Chuuya hates the aquarium or what it stands for. On some level, he understands the appeal— the calming atmosphere, the proximity to the sea saturating the air with salt. Seagulls cry out, perching around the parking lot, and Chuuya raises an eyebrow at them as they scatter at his presence.

“Yeah,” he says, peering up at the grand building. “I don’t want to be here, either.”

Inside, he’s greeted with dim lights and cool air. He pauses a few steps in, incapable of moving forward as the sound of water filtering through tanks presses against his skin. His eye twitches, a slight twinge of nausea gripping his guts. 

Gods, it’s stupid. It’s not like he even remembers anything before Shirase found him. A few bad experiences when he was sixteen barely count as trauma.

… If he hears Yosano in the back of his mind scolding him for downplaying his experiences, that’s beside the point.

All the same, there are days when he feels like he might remember. An itch just out of reach in his skull, a dream that fades the moment he tries to look at it. And, even if it’s not his childhood he remembers, he sure as hell remembers what it felt like to look into a cryptic tank and see his face peering back, to feel a version of himself dying in his arms— the skin still slick and damp in a way sweat and water never are, the warmth of his hacking breaths still sticking in Chuuya’s ears. 

“What are you doing?” His voice now, shrieking in his mind. “Help him!”

Help— Chuuya huffs out a breath as he finally convinces himself to move forward. If anything good came from that mess, he supposes it pushed him into the world of light. The Flags would probably give him shit for it, but—

A detective chased after Chuuya because he thought he could save him, protect him. A good man killed for Chuuya’s sake— and Chuuya’s just good enough not to let him have died in vain.

The ADA’s been good at helping him adjust to the changes— coming in at such a young age, just barely 17 when he’d applied nearly five years ago, had helped earn their sympathies. It took some time for him to feel comfortable as they started bringing in more people, but he made it work well enough. It’s good work, honest work, and it fits Chuuya better than he thought it would, even if it’s not quite the same without—

He shakes his head. He approaches the front desk. It’s not crowded enough for anyone to have noticed his thoughtlessness, at least. 

After showing his ID to the front desk, he crosses the hallway to the main exhibits. It doesn’t take much for Chuuya to notice the weirdness Kunikida’s report had been warning about. Even in the first few tanks, the water doesn’t just shift in pulses— it almost recoils when he steps closer like it’s aware of him. The shadow of the tanks shimmers strangely on the floor, stretching too long, bending at odd angles. Somewhere in the distance, a filter hums, but it doesn’t sound mechanical— it sounds wet, like a breath drawn through gills. 

The deeper Chuuya walks into the building, the thicker the air grows. He’s not suffocating— it’s not like one of his earlier cases, the Agency called in to bust an underground lab— but his reflection in the glass is just enough for his breath to come in uneven pants. 

Sterile rooms. Cold tanks. A face that looks like his own

“Get it the fuck together.” Chuuya grits his teeth, trying to shove aside his fears to focus on the rationality underneath. The two muddy together, though, and he swears at himself again. It doesn’t help with the hunted feeling beneath his skin, and it doesn’t give him an excuse to look away from the water.

The air carries the weight of an unshed downpour when he breathes in— thick, pressing, waiting. His skin prickles like it used to when the sky bruised purple, when the wind died right before a wave swallowed the shore. An impending storm, a calm before the chaos.

Chuuya can’t quite convince himself that he’s imagining things. That his pulse is erratic because of the memories clawing up his throat, but he can’t escape the bone-deep feeling that something is wrong. His instincts aren’t so easily tricked; they press against the inside of his ribs, restless as his heart.

White rooms and white coats and needles and restraints and—

He takes a turn away from the cylindrical tanks in this part of the aquarium, clownfish and blue tangs circling in incessant rounds. He follows a pale shade of cerulean light, a promise of quiet and reprieve. The new hallway stretches out, bathed in dim blue, a softer glow against the fluorescent glare behind him. Calming even in its endlessness, like the mouth of something deep. His boots click against the tiles as he escapes into it, the sound swallowed too quickly by the stillness.

It’s a sound covered by his breathing— his gasps on the inhales, the soft whines on the exhale. His back slams against the wall, his head tipped back against it as he tries to relax. He glimpses around, counting his breaths, and takes in the exhibit. 

At the sight of pillowy hordes of pale pink and purple creatures floating thoughtlessly up and down in the water, Chuuya can’t help but grin. Jellyfish. He can’t quite put his finger on why, but he’s always had a fondness for those.

His breath’s still uneven as he presses his palm against the cool wall, his nerves finally steadying the more he takes in the soothing scene. He’s alone in here but for one other person, and he grimaces at the thought of a stranger overhearing his panic. He narrows his eyes at them, wondering if he can turn away before they notice one of the Detective Agency’s employees in such a ridiculous state, but then—

The figure’s tall. Unmoving. A shadow against the bioluminescence. 

Dazai stands before the tank, head slightly tilted, watching the jellyfish pulse like dying stars.

Was Chuuya truly so anxious, he didn’t notice the other man before this? Or did Dazai sneak in while Chuuya was calming his breaths, quiet as these creatures? Because there should be no world where Chuuya doesn’t feel Dazai’s presence the moment he enters, no lifetime where the impact of Dazai’s breaths doesn’t impact the weight in Chuuya’s lungs.

He’s in that all-black get-up he never grew out of, a high collar casting shadows across a bandaged face. There’s a forced relaxation in his body— forced because Chuuya knows Dazai’s never relaxed, knows Dazai only keeps his hands in his pockets like that when he doesn’t want anyone to see how white-knuckled his fists can be.

Or, at least, that’s what he used to know about Dazai. Before Chuuya left and became a detective; before he left and Dazai became… 

This .

The soft hum of bubbling water and distant voices should make Dazai seem human. It should make him seem real. But standing there in his black coat and red scarf, he looks like something pulled from the depths— something that shouldn’t exist under this gentle blue glow.

A chill goes through Chuuya’s body and it has nothing to do with the tanks and water anymore. 

Dazai turns toward Chuuya, his one visible eye swallowing the light in the room the way the sea swallows the sun. The blue light from the tanks catches the edges of his coat, but never quite settles on his face. It slides off him, like even the light refuses to touch something so drenched in shadow. Ink spilled across waves, a phantom or a corpse. Whatever he is, it has Chuuya’s heart racing. His breath catches before he can think to hide his reactions. It’s like an instinct, a gut reaction that makes his muscles lock up tight. The sight of him here, in this place, in this moment, is like finding a dagger on a child’s pillow. Like finding a stranger in a dream. Like finding a pulse in a grave.

Dazai doesn’t belong here.

Dazai belongs in dark alleys and dimly lit Port Mafia offices. He belongs in shipping containers and toxic wastelands. 

He belongs in the past where Chuuya left him.

But Dazai watches him like nothing’s changed. He turns back to the jellyfish without so much as a blink. He takes a breath and something settles over his shoulders— a shroud, perhaps, or a realization.

“You’re here late, and you’re here alone,” he says— and the gods-awful grin is so evident in his voice. “No date tonight, Chuuya?”

Just like that, the time apart collapses into mere seconds— but isn’t that how it’s always been? Chuuya’s brain knows it’s been years, but his body still remembers the weight of Dazai’s shoulder knocking against his in the dark. The way his voice used to slip between the cracks of Chuuya’s walls. The smell of rain-soaked fabric and the lingering trace of antiseptic. 

Years — and yet in the space of a single sentence, it’s like none of it ever left them.

“Didn’t know you cared so much about my schedule, Boss.”

The word is a weapon, sharpened on the edges of years lost, feelings buried, and a promise that never made it past vague whispers. He throws it like a dagger, but Dazai— Dazai, who has always known how to take a hit— doesn’t so much as flinch.

“Hm,” Dazai says, contemplative, almost disappointed. “That title still doesn’t suit me.”

Suiting doesn’t matter, though, when it’s a title Dazai took with bloodied hands and gnashing teeth. The Black Wraith. The Demon Prodigy.

The Boss of the Port Mafia, Dazai Osamu.

Is it the title that has Chuuya biting down on his shouts and screams, the rage in his body telling him to storm away— or, at least, do his job as a detective and find a reason to arrest him? He can’t move when this version of Dazai stands so close to him. He can barely breathe.

And he sure as hell can’t understand why the hell Dazai’s here now.

It’s been years since Chuuya’s seen or heard anything from Dazai on such a personal level— though that hasn’t prevented him from seeing the news about his rise to power. Years of sneering at headlines and drinking himself sick on anniversaries only he remembers. Years since Chuuya walked away from the Mafia and turned his back on everything.

But not Dazai. He had never turned his back on Dazai.

Because Dazai was supposed to leave, too; he’d promised Chuuya he’d wait, find a way to cover Chuuya’s tracks, and then follow.

But then some low-level grunt died, and the world shifted. Odasaku’s death had reached Chuuya’s ears and some part of him had already known how everything would change after that.

Still, an even more foolish part of him had hoped that, just this once, he’d be wrong about Dazai.

In the end, though. It played out the only way it ever could. Chuuya made his choice after the death of his friends; Dazai made another. 

And, now, Chuuya stands, looking at someone he thought he would never see again.

Jellyfish drift up and down, casting shadows that distort the light. 

Did the two of them ever really leave each other, at all?

Chuuya grits his teeth and moves to stand at Dazai’s side. “Is this coincidence, or are you here just to fuck with me?”

Dazai lets out a breath, and it sounds frustratingly similar to how he used to breathe when he found something entertaining.

“Would you be disappointed,” he asks, rolling his eye towards Chuuya, “if I said the former?”

Chuuya bites his tongue. It’s useless for Dazai to ask; they both already know what Chuuya’s answer would be.

“I should arrest you,” Chuuya snaps, looking away, looking at harmless jellyfish and their dragging tendrils. It’d be easy to announce the charges on Dazai— he hasn’t exactly been keeping his business with the Mafia a secret, playing just outside the lines of the law. A number of the police force sits on his payroll, so only the Agency can do anything. If it was any of the other detectives, they’d make their move now. But— “You’d let me, wouldn’t you?”

“I always was a fan of handcuffs.” Dazai dares to smile, the reflection of it distorted in the glass. “But there are easier ways to stage an interrogation if that’s what you’re hoping for.”

An interrogation? The idea’s laughable. As if Chuuya doesn’t already know Dazai better than anyone else.

(But he doesn't know if Dazai thought of how much his betrayal would hurt, letting Chuuya wait for years only to become the very thing they swore to leave behind. He doesn’t know if Dazai thought of his promise when he slid a scalpel across Mori’s neck, when he painted a new legacy in blood and power.

He doesn’t know if Dazai’s act of treason was of self-preservation or self-destruction. He doesn’t know how well Dazai sleeps at night, or if becoming a demon scares his nightmares away)

He knows that Mori always said this is what Dazai would become, though, and he knows that thought always hurt Dazai more than anything else.

Dark circles on a gaunt face. Lifelessness in a forced voice. 

Chuuya knows what it looks like when Dazai’s in pain.

“What—”

He’s cut off by a shudder in the water, an unnatural pulse that taps against the glass. The whole room seems to breathe, the aquarium inhaling around them. Chuuya’s senses sharpen, his body locking up before his mind can name the wrongness in the air. A hum vibrates through the tanks, through the walls, through the bones in his chest. The lights flicker. The world holds its breath.

Chuuya turns towards the entrance and tries to remember if the room was this dark before. 

“The hell was that?” He asks, not bothering to hide the tension in his voice. 

Almost as if to directly contrast Chuuya, Dazai doesn’t so much as shift his weight. His gaze flickers past Chuuya, and a slow smile curves his lips, edged in something unreadable.

“Well,” he murmurs, voice as smooth as an eel slithering through waves. “Looks like your real problem has finally decided to say hello.”

A thud, a wet stamping of feet. A low groan and unintelligible whining words. 

A young woman all but falls around the corner of the hallway, a hand pressed to the wall to hold herself up. Puddles drag behind as she shambles forward, eyes glazed over even as they seem to pin Chuuya in place. She can’t be much older than either of them, but she breathes like each one could be her last— erratic, desperate, feeble. 

She’s lost control of her ability

Chuuya knows this feeling. The weight of an ability slipping from its user’s grasp— the way power can turn against the owner. It’s in her glassy stare, in the way the water doesn’t just obey her but writhes in time with her suffering.

But sympathy doesn’t help when the water convulses against the glass, a living, seething thing, rippling with each ragged breath the girl takes. It seeps through minuscule cracks in thick, shivering rivulets, dragging itself across the floor like searching fingers.

The woman gasps in quick, shallow bursts, lips parted as though she wants to scream but can’t. Her fingers twitch at her sides, reaching for something unseen, but she jerks as though something keeps her from moving freely.

“Stop,” she rasps. Not to Chuuya, not to Dazai— to the thing twisting inside her, the force she no longer controls.

“Hey, here—” Chuuya moves forward, but the water reacts to his motions, slamming against the glass as though perceiving him as a threat. It surges, hungry. It coils up from the hands-on lab space behind Chuuya and Dazai, splashing from the open tanks and slamming down in a violent sheet. Chuuya barely throws himself back in time. The impact shatters the glass of the empty tanks, sending shards spinning through the air.

A stray tendril of water lashes out, catching Chuuya’s wrist. It’s more than just wet— it’s gripping him, dragging at his skin with an unnatural pull, as if trying to drown him on dry land. A quick burst of gravity frees him, but the creeping sensation remains. 

The water continues in sentient puddles, reaching across the floor towards them. 

Pulling Dazai out of the way is natural; wrapping his hand around a bandaged wrist and yanking toward himself is barely a thought, more a possession of memory than a conscious decision. 

“It’s not time to stand around and observe, idiot,” Chuuya snaps, adding the insult to hide the threads of concern sneaking into his voice. His grip tightens, bones grinding together, and he pretends the bruises make up for the way he still hasn’t let go.

“Look, Chuuya,” Dazai says, unmoving even when Chuuya tries to pull him again. His voice is steady, settling into the air like a weight.“This isn’t an attack— it’s grief.”

As if Chuuya couldn’t tell that from the staggered steps, the ragged breaths. But, still, he follows the command, dragging his eyes back to the woman stumbling towards them. Like the subordinate he once was, he catalogs each detail as though Dazai will test him on it later.

Shadowed eyes and trembling limbs, greasy hair and wrinkled clothes. Gasping for air like she’s drowning in her sorrow.

It’s a look Chuuya knows well. He’s seen it on the families of victims the Agency couldn’t save in time. He’s seen it on Atsushi waking up from nightmares, on Yosano when they both get too drunk and talk too deeply about their pasts.

He’s seen it on himself, every year on the anniversary of the Flags’ murder. 

He wonders, if he had stayed, if it’s a look he would have seen on Dazai in the days following Oda’s death.

(It’s a look he can just barely see now, in the pale cheeks and the unkempt hair, the loose bandages and the darkness in once brilliant eyes.

Chuuya’s hand twitches. The only reason he doesn’t reach out for him is because he’s already holding onto Dazai’s arm.)

The water pulls back, collecting like a wave preparing for the shore. This time, it’s Dazai pulling Chuuya to the side, away from the force of another torrent. The woman stumbles again, and the water lurches with her. It smears across the floor and walls. When she exhales, the surface of the tank shudders as if it’s breathing with her.

Glass cracks. Lights flicker.

“Whatever her reason, we need to get her away from the civilians.” Chuuya’s voice cuts through the sound of sloshing water. 

“Why not use Tainted Sorrow ?” Dazai asks. “When we were partners, you would have her on the floor by now.”

“ Dazai —” Now’s not the time to preach to Dazai the Agency’s rules and how Chuuya’s traded cruelty for kindness. “If she gets past us—”

“She’ll get access to the larger exhibits,” Dazai finishes, glancing back towards the path to the sharks and bigger sea creatures. Tanks with hundreds or thousands or millions of gallons of water for her to weaponize, a force any average person would be helpless against. Even Chuuya and his gravity would struggle to protect everyone, especially if he’s hoping to minimize damage as much as possible. 

Dazai jerks against him, his shoulder brushing Chuuya as he nods towards the corner. “Employee door, there.”

Chuuya doesn’t waste time wondering why Dazai’s helping him. He takes off, boots splashing through the thin layer of water spreading across the floor. Dazai follows, barely dodging another whip of liquid that lashes out, this time more desperate than violent. It knows they’re running; it wants to claim them before they have a chance to escape.

Chuuya reaches the door first and shoves it open, throwing a glance over his shoulder. The woman’s still following, her expression blank, moving forward like a puppet on a string.

Dazai lingers, playing his favorite role— bait. Dancing over puddles, half-tripping over little rivers. He waves his hand and keeps the woman’s attention, all while steadily leading her into the room with Chuuya.

The second she makes it in, Chuuya slams the door behind them. The latch clicks into place, his ability holding the door shut in case she realizes the trap and tries to leave.

Slosh— Slosh— Drip— 

An echo through the chamber, and it doesn’t come only from the woman before them.

A drop of dread down Chuuya’s spine. Dazai’s huff of amusement— bitter laughter, the worst omen— confirms his fears.

A supply area. 

Empty tanks filled with nothing but water. 

Nowhere for them to run or hide.

The room itself convulses; the temperature plummets.

The air stretches taut— pulled to the brink of shattering. A wire drawn too tight, a cry before it leaves the throat. Chuuya holds his breath, grasping for a plan, for anything—

Then, the woman screams.

And the world erupts.

Water explodes from its glass confines like a living creature, writhing and clawing for freedom. It surges in torrents, twisting and snapping, driven by a force beyond nature. The scent of saltwater thickens, cloying, drowning the air itself. The walls tremble beneath the weight of her anguish, bending, groaning, as if they, too, are seconds from collapsing.

The tremors slam through the room, vibrating against his skin.

Chuuya stands firm, wreathed in crimson light. He throws his hands up— gravity solidifies around them, an invisible shield that holds the deluge at bay. But it’s not enough. The force behind the water is relentless. His arms quake beneath the pressure, the weight compounding, rising, suffocating. Each scream feeds the tide, each sob sends another wave crashing down. The water is alive with grief, a storm of sorrow and fury that does not give in. 

And it touches something inside him. A fracture. A buried, splintered thing.

A crack in the armor.

“What are you doing?” Dazai’s voice snaps against the chaos, sharp and urgent, too close behind him. “Throw it back at her!”

“This much water—” Chuuya grits his teeth. His calculations are off. His gravity wavers; the pressure shifts. “This much could kill her.”

“Then to the side—”

“I—” His breath stutters. “I can’t—”

Because this isn’t just water. It isn’t just force, just liquid, just a flood he can redirect. No— this is deeper, vaster. Not even gravity can touch it. It’s a messenger with a terrible message.

Grief carves into every drop.

Rage laces into every crashing wave.

Pain forms an ocean with no shore.

The first tendrils of water coil around Chuuya’s wrist— fingers, ghostlike, grasping, A mockery of how he’d held Dazai earlier. Cold seeps into his skin, into his bones.

Something inside him shudders

The world blurs. His heart slams against his ribs, but it’s not the water that terrifies him. It’s something else. Something clawing its way to the surface. 

Something awakening inside him.

It drags him under. The water isn’t outside him anymore; it’s inside, filling his lungs, pouring into his veins. He’s choking, gasping, drowning in something other than water, something like—

Blood

Guilt

Pain

The scream tears free. His? Hers? The difference no longer matters because, in the next breath, the world tilts

“Chuuya!”

Dazai’s voice, but Chuuya hardly hears it.

Because there’s another voice. A whisper.

“Chuuya—”

Where is he? Were there tiles beneath his feet? Was there water in the air? Are his eyes even open?

Where—

“Chuuya, I— I can’t see anything— I can’t feel my legs—”

His knees slam into the floor. Darkness swallows the edges of hazy vision. The dampness pooling around him must be blood, must be tears, must be something more awful than any of those combined.

The voice is fading. His pulse is deafening.

Images seize his mind, dragging from the depths without his permission.

Albatross and Doc. Lippman’s lifeless body. A wrecked billiards room.

He thrashes. Screams.

The memories shift— Mori, voice low and calculated as he dismisses Chuuya from a funeral.

“Fix it, Chuuya.”

Blood in Chuuya’s hands, in his mouth, in his eyes—

And then— 

Dark eyes, free of bandages. A rare night without shields. A stolen moment. Dazai’s hand in his jacket, gripping tight— like a child clutching a threadbare blanket.

“Stay with me.”

“ Leave with me.”

A promise whispered between trembling lips, a vow shared before the sun could fully rise. 

A hundred more nights, emptier than the first. 

“Wait for me,” Dazai had said.

He never told Chuuya he was only waiting for Dazai to break that promise.

The memory strikes Chuuya like it's the first time, and he forgets what it means to breathe.

All at once, the ability wraps itself around him, tendrils of raw, relentless power sinking into his mind, wrapping around every festering wound he thought he’d buried. It drags him under, pries open the doors he’s welded shut, rips out his grief by the roots, and flings it before him. He cannot turn away. He cannot run. He is shackled to the memories that have haunted him in the dark.

Verlaine. N. The crackling agony of electricity ripping through his veins.

A home abandoned, a family left behind, the hollow echo of his own footsteps in an empty world that never wanted to keep him.

Loss ripping through him like a blade, again and again, the wound never allowed to heal.

The absence of the one person he loved most. The betrayal and the loneliness and the wondering of why he wasn’t enough to make him leave

And if he’s not enough to make him leave, is he good enough to have left? Has he earned the life he’s wrapped around himself? Does he deserve to give himself something new?

Someone calls his name, but it’s distant— muffled, meaningless, like fingertips tapping against thick glass. He’s on the other side, clawing at his own throat, drowning in the weight of it all as the past crashes over him, violent and cold—

The night Dazai became Boss, rain blurring the city into something unrecognizable. 

The morning Chuuya walked away, dew kissing his skin like the tears he refused to let fall.

Further back. Deeper down.

His own clone dying in his arms, blood warm and sickening against his fingers.

Waking in a tank, lungs filled with liquid, tubes threaded into his body— scientists watching him through the glass—

Tapping.

Tapping.

Tapping.

“Chuuya.”

A hand, warm against his cheek. Real. Steady. Here.

No Longer Human floods through him, burning, searing, but saving . Chuuya gasps— choking on the nullification like oxygen to starving lungs, like salvation. His body collapses forward, muscles trembling, too rigid for too long— and yet he never fears hitting the ground.

Dazai catches him. Arms unyielding, breath ghosting against his skin.

“You always sink too deep. It’s a bad habit,” Dazai murmurs. There’s a raggedness in his voice. Chuuya glances up and, for a moment, he swears they’re teenagers again, clinging to one another when there’s nothing else to cling to. “Rest, Chuuya.”

Chuuya doesn’t need permission and he doesn’t follow Dazai’s orders but—

Rest

It’s a word Dazai said when they were partners, when he was pulling Chuuya back from Corruption or his own emotions. 

The last of the tension fades from Chuuya’s body. A calm settles over his mind. With ragged breaths, he meets Dazai’s gaze.

There’s a new scar along the path of Dazai’s cheekbone— faint, pale, a whisper of pain Chuuya wasn’t there to soothe. It crosses through a few of the scattered freckles on Dazai’s face, disappearing beneath his bandages. He wears those bandages on the wrong side, too, and it’s like looking at a picture of Dazai in a funhouse mirror.

But he still has that smattering of moles on the right side of his chin, just beneath his jaw. He still has cracked lips and a soft pink tongue that darts out to wet them. He still doesn’t know how to keep his bangs out of his face.

And he still softens along the edges when he looks at Chuuya. The sharp crimson-brown of his gaze melts into deep gold, a color Chuuya has spent so long pretending he could live without, and for a moment, it’s like nothing has changed.

“You—” Chuuya coughs, half-expecting to taste saltwater on his tongue. “You’re so—”

He doesn’t even know what he’s trying to say, but Dazai shushes him before the words can form.

“It’s alright,” Dazai murmurs. He steps away, but the absence isn’t cold. The heat of his touch lingers, burrowing beneath Chuuya’s ribs, curling into that empty space beside his heart. A warmth to replace the ocean that tried to claim him. “Leave it to me.’

And when Dazai turns to face the woman, Chuuya’s pulse stumbles— not with fear, not with anger, but with something else, something deeper. Something like a ring slipping onto a finger, a tether tightening between them, an old rhythm thrumming in his bones.

(A rhythm that says: Trust him. Trust him the way you always have. Trust him the way you never stopped.)

Dazai slides his hands into his pockets, stepping toward the woman as if she were an inevitability rather than a threat. The water writhes, reaching for him, but it recoils before it can touch— whether it’s from the defense of No Longer Human or the instinct of prey recognizing predator, Chuuya isn’t sure.

“I won’t waste time telling you it’s okay to be afraid,” Dazai says, his voice soft, measured, razor-sharp beneath its quiet. “Or that everything will be alright. That would be dishonest, and I’ve never been particularly sentimental.”

The woman stares, breathless.

“I prefer the facts,” he continues. “And the fact is this— your name is Kate Chopin. And you have been drowning for a very, very long time.”

Chuuya doesn’t recognize the name. He files it away, knowing he’ll search for it the moment he’s back with the Agency’s resources.

“You were caged,” Dazai goes on. “Trapped in a life that was never yours to live, forced into a role you never wanted to play. And now, after years of suffocating under expectations that were never meant to fit you, this is your rebellion, isn’t it? A final act of defiance. A declaration that you are not weak. That you are not helpless. That if you must perish, you will do so by your own hand, on your own terms.”

The water shudders.

Dazai tilts his head.

“A spectacular display of emotion,” he murmurs. “I commend you, truly.”

The words do not build her threat, nor do they lessen it. They simply weave a picture Chuuya can see all too clearly— a life wasted in service to something greater than herself, drowned beneath the weight of expectation. A life that was never hers to claim.

Dazai steps forward, his shadow swallowing her frail figure whole.

“It’d be easy to let you continue with your destruction,” he muses, voice light, careless, as if the chaos around them is nothing more than a passing inconvenience. “I certainly have nothing to lose from it.”

Chuuya stiffens, Tainted Sorrow thrumming at the ready. Gods, had he really trusted a mafia boss with something this delicate? Had he truly let himself believe, for even a moment, that Dazai could still be something warm, something familiar? Had he—

“Alas,” Dazai sighs, wistful, detached. “I fear my dog would be rather disappointed if I were to be that selfish.”

And then he moves, pressing his palm to Chopin’s outstretched hand, gentle in a way that should not belong to the demon who now wears the title of Port Mafia’s Boss.

The effect is instant.

Chuuya feels the shift as though the nullification has reached him too, the pressure in the air dissipating, the water falling in harmless puddles to the floor. The tension that coiled in his muscles slackens, and he watches as Chopin collapses, drifting downward like a cloud too heavy to remain aloft. Dazai lowers her— not the way he once held Chuuya, but with a care that is still too much for the monster he claims to be.

“You can come closer now, Slug,” Dazai calls, his voice laced with something other than mocking. Tiredness, maybe. “She won’t haunt you with those silly little memories anymore.”

“Fuck off,” Chuuya mutters, and the insult lands weak, more exhaustion than venom. He pushes himself upright, legs steadier than before, and steps to Dazai’s side. He looks down at the girl crumpled on the floor, then drags his gaze upward. Dazai is soaked; the downpour may not have drowned him, but water clings to his hair, drips from his jaw, traces the line of his throat. The damp jacket clings, and for one fleeting irrational second, Chuuya wants to wring it out, to set the bandages aside to dry— but that’s not who they are anymore.

“You knew her?” Chuuya asks, voice rough.

“Knew of her,” Dazai corrects. “Didn’t know she was behind this. Not for sure, at least. She was one of Gin’s friends. Went missing a few weeks ago. Gin doesn’t scare easily, but when it comes to the people she cares about… Well. Can you blame her?”

Gin. A name that lingers like an old ghost, one of many that Chuuya left behind. He does not ask about her, does not ask about Kouyou, Hirotsu, the rest. He does not ask if they miss him, if they hate him, if they remember the boy they pulled off the streets and sharpened into something dangerous.

Instead, he shakes out his drenched hair and shifts uncomfortably in his soaked shoes.

“So I’m guessing Gin filled you in,” he says.

“She told me what she knew. The rest I figured out myself.”

Dazai stares at Chopin for a beat too long, as though seeing something else. Someone else. If asked, Chuuya thinks he knows exactly what’s running through his mind.

(Because expectation and fear are a language they both understand, and the belief that death is the only escape is one they once both spoke fluently)

Then Dazai flicks his hair, scattering droplets of water, and the illusion shatters.

“You have a doctor at the Agency, don’t you?” he asks. “See to it that Chopin gets the help she needs.”

And then, like he’s simply leaving a meeting, Dazai adjusts his jacket and turns away.

Chuuya’s body moves before he can stop it.

“That’s it?” He snaps. “I know the people under you, Dazai. Any one of them could have handled this. You expect me to believe you came all this way for something so simple?”

A pause. A breath. A silence that stretches too long between them.

Dazai looks back, and for once, his smirk is not a shield.

“I suppose I had a feeling the Agency would get involved,” he admits. “And I had a feeling which detective would be assigned the case.”

And then, softer.

“But you wouldn’t believe me if I said I came here on the chance that I’d see you.”

It’s the most open Dazai’s been all night, and it roots Chuuya to the spot. Pins him in place with something hot and bitter lodged in his throat. His hands twitch with the urge to grab fistfuls of that damn coat, to slam Dazai into the nearest wall and demand How? How can you act like this doesn’t hurt? Like we’re still the same?

But there is a time and place for that conversation, and this is not it.

Chuuya scoffs, shoving his hands into his pocket.

“Tch. Damn right, I wouldn’t.”

He drags his hair over one shoulder, unbothered by the way the water clings to his skin, seeping cold through his shirt. Dazai leaves a similar trail in his wake, his footsteps echoing softer with every step toward the exit. Chuuya tells himself not to watch him go. Instead, he reaches for his phone; Yosano is the best choice for Chopin’s care, and as much as he hates to interrupt her night, she deserves a warning before he brings another broken soul to her infirmary.

But before his fingers can close around his phone, something small collides with his chest. Gravity reacts before he can think, and a tiny object hovers in the air.

A heart-shaped chocolate. No bigger than a coin, wrapped in cheap foil.

His breath stills. His fingers catch it before it falls. Slowly, he raises his gaze.

Dazai stands in the doorway, smiling. Not his usual smirk, not a mask, but something softer than that. Unmistakably real.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, partner.”

Gravity wavers. The chocolate lands in Chuuya’s palm. The door swings shut.

Chuuya stares at the tiny piece of candy, his grip tightening around it as if it might slip away like everything else he touches. A quiet breath, a bitter smile. The warmth in his chest is nothing. Just leftover adrenaline. Just exhaustion. Nothing more, he swears.

He lifts his head, but Dazai’s already gone.

“Happy Valentine’s to you, too,” he mutters to the empty space left behind. It still aches. But maybe, just maybe, not as much as before.

“Partner.”