Chapter Text
Captain Osamu Dazai was fearless.
That’s what the locals said.
They actually had a lot to say about their resident pirate.
Reckless. Insane. A man who had no self-preservation instincts and ran full speed toward that which others would avoid at all costs.
They said he once laughed at a shipwreck in the middle of a hurricane.
They said he stole treasure from a cursed galleon and used the gold to line his boots.
They said the sea itself had tried to claim him — and failed.
Dazai liked those stories. He encouraged them.
Fearless men were dangerous.
But men who pretended to be fearless?
They were worse.
Osamu sat in the back of the tavern watching as sailors from around the world poured in. They would drink themselves into oblivion, maybe partake in the local ladies for sale, before departing again in the morning. He found all of this tedious, and beneath him actually.
A low fire guttered in the tavern’s stone hearth, casting wavery shadows across warped wooden floors slick with spilled ale. The air hung heavy with the scent of salt and sour rum, mingling with smoke from guttering tallow candles. Against the night’s howl of sea wind outside, the interior rang with raucous laughter and slurred sea shanties, the sensory cacophony of a port-side grog house well past nightfall. Osamu Dazai lounged in the farthest corner, one boot propped on a scarred table, fingers loosely curled around a half-empty tankard. Half-lidded eyes took in the scene before him: sailors and dockhands lost in their drunken, meaningless habits, pouring precious coin into drink and dice with the grim resignation of men who expected to die at sea anyway.
Dazai’s gaze drifted lazily from one sordid tableau to the next. To his left, a bearded deckhand snored with his face pressed to a puddle of spilled grog. By the bar, two old sailors were arguing yet again over who saw the largest sea serpent, each tale taller than the last. A pair of men in threadbare coats swayed arm-in-arm, bellowing an off-key shanty about a mythic kraken in voices rough as the barnacled hulls outside. All so predictable, Dazai mused with a silent, cynical smirk. In his mind, he tallied the meaningless rituals: the clatter of bone dice on a sticky table — check. The lecherous wink at the scarred barmaid — check. The same old salt-crusted legends traded back and forth like well-worn coins — check. It was a ritual of futility, sailors drowning their fears in drink because the sea would claim them eventually, no matter what.
Perhaps I’m no different, Dazai thought idly as he swirled the dregs in his tankard. He was adrift here on the fringe of the lamplight, ostensibly waiting out a storm that battered the harbor tonight. In truth, he preferred the storm outside to the one brewing in his own life. He had his own dangerous journey looming on the horizon — one he hadn’t quite worked up the enthusiasm to face just yet. For now, he let the tavern’s din wash over him, affectless and detached, playing the part of the indolent drifter. His brown trench coat (frayed at the edges from long miles at sea) blended into the shadows, and he doubted anyone would notice him unless he wanted to be noticed.
Over the rim of his mug, Dazai became aware of a new tension cutting through the tavern’s usual haze. A young man — gaunt as a half-drowned crow and visibly vibrating with intensity — stood near the center of the room. He did not join the revelry or slump in defeat as the others did; instead, he held himself rigid, as if bracing against either attack or despair. Even in the dim light, Dazai could pick out the fever-bright gleam in the youth’s eyes and the clench of his jaw. Ryunosuke Akutagawa, Dazai surmised, having heard a few murmurs as the lad made his rounds from table to table. The name was whispered with a mix of pity and annoyance by the patrons he passed — clearly he had been at this for a while. Akutagawa’s threadbare black cloak and the worn sword at his hip marked him as a drifter or mercenary, not tied to any crew in this tavern. His cheekbones cast sharp shadows on a face too young to look so haunted.
As Akutagawa moved, sailors drew back or turned away, uninterested in whatever he was selling or pleading. Dazai watched the young man’s thin shoulders stiffen each time he was rebuffed. There was anger there, barely leashed — Dazai could tell by the way Akutagawa’s hand sometimes twitched near the hilt of his blade, then reluctantly fell away. Yet above all, the youth’s eyes held desperation. It was the kind of raw, consuming desperation that cut through the tavern’s apathy like a dagger. Dazai found his focus sharpening on this stranger despite himself. What could drive a man so young into such a frenzy? he wondered, his cynicism momentarily giving way to curiosity.
Akutagawa slammed a palm down on a table of off-duty sailors, making the mugs upon it jump. “I’m begging you,” he hissed through gritted teeth, his voice low and rough-edged with emotion. “I will give everything I own to anyone who can help me find my brother.” His other hand, visibly trembling, unclasped a small leather pouch from his belt and spilled its contents onto the ale-stained table. A few glittering coins, a tarnished locket, and a curved knife with an ivory handle clattered forth. It wasn’t much — barely a handful of treasure — but the way Akutagawa’s dark eyes burned, one would think he’d offered up his very soul. Murmurs rippled outward from the nearby tables as curious onlookers realized what was happening. A few hushed conversations died down; even the two dice-players paused mid-throw.
The brawny sailor whose table Akutagawa had struck slowly rose to his feet, towering over the wiry young man. He took a long swig from his tankard and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before snarling, “Listen, whelp. No one here’s interested in chasing fool’s errands. Take your coin and crawl back to whatever hole you came from.” A couple of his cronies snickered, and one reached out to prod at the spilled coins with a greedy finger. Akutagawa bristled; Dazai could practically see the hair on the back of the youth’s neck stand on end like an angered stray dog.
“You don’t even know what I’m asking,” Akutagawa growled, anger flaring beneath his desperation. There was a dangerous heat in his voice now — the crackling spark before a powder keg blows. “The ship— the ship my brother was taken onto is doomed. I heard the rumors in the port. It’s set to sail at dawn and it won’t return. None of those that go with it will return.” His words came out in a ragged rush, loud enough now for more of the tavern to hear. A hush gradually fell over the nearest clusters of patrons. Doomed ship? The phrase carried a weight that cut through even the drunkest mind. Superstitious unease flickered across a few faces. In a world of hard-scrabble piracy and whispered sea curses, no sailor liked to tempt fate by even acknowledging a “doomed” voyage. Some of the listeners crossed themselves or touched lucky amulets reflexively.
Dazai’s fingers went still on his tankard as he listened. He had heard dockside gossip about a certain vessel due to depart on the morning tide — a ship rumored to be bound for waters cursed by some ancient sea deity. Supposedly it was a suicide mission for all aboard; a greedy merchant’s attempt to cut through the Devil’s Teeth Reef by night to save time, despite every omen screaming against it. Dazai had dismissed those rumors with a shrug earlier, but now they resurfaced in his mind with sudden clarity. So that’s the ship this pup is so riled up about, he realized. Akutagawa’s “brother” must have been conscripted or tricked into service on that vessel. It was essentially a death sentence.
Dazai leaned forward slightly, interest pricking through the veil of his boredom. He noted how Akutagawa’s knuckles had gone white where he gripped the table’s edge. The youth’s voice wavered between fury and pleading: “I’ve tried the harbormaster, the guard, every honest captain in port… No one will touch this. So I’m here.” He gestured around at the unkempt rabble of pirates and smugglers. “If any one of you has the guts to sail after that ship and help me get my brother back, I swear on my life, everything I have is yours. Money, weapons— my very life, if you want it. I have nothing else to offer!” The sheer earnestness in Akutagawa’s voice was met with an uncomfortable silence. Many eyes avoided meeting his, as if his desperation were a bad omen in itself.
A few of the sailors exchanged glances. One muttered, “Poor bastard’s lost his mind.” Another spat on the floor, muttering about not courting the same curse. The brawny sailor who had stood up leaned down until his broad, drink-reddened face was inches from Akutagawa’s. “Even if this ‘doomed’ ship exists,” he said in a low growl, “you’d be crazy to go after it. Cursed waters aren’t worth any treasure, boy. Nor any brother.” He jabbed a thick finger at the meager pile of offerings on the table. “And that? That ain’t worth a single life. Not mine, not any of my crew here.” With a contemptuous snort, he swept the coins off the table. The coins scattered to the rush-covered floor with light ping sounds. Akutagawa flinched as if struck, his face draining even paler. For a heartbeat Dazai thought the young man might indeed draw that sword and attempt to carve his own path through the scornful crowd.
Up to now, Dazai had watched as a detached observer, content to let the little drama play out. But something about Akutagawa’s desolate, furious eyes as he knelt to scramble after the fallen coins tugged at Dazai’s mind. It was like seeing a drowning man thrash for a bit of driftwood. He really would give everything… Dazai realized, a slow intrigue coiling in his chest. Here was a young man so desperate to save his “brother” that he would fling himself into cursed waters — a foolhardy, noble impulse that Dazai might normally scoff at. And yet, there was opportunity glinting in that madness.
Dazai’s own dangerous journey, the one he had been delaying, also pointed toward those very same cursed waters. In fact, he had been brooding in this tavern partly because he lacked a few key elements for that voyage: a bit of information, perhaps a second sword arm, and certainly a reason compelling enough to make him set sail into danger. Now, listening to Akutagawa, Dazai felt the pieces quietly shifting into place. Desperation is a powerful currency, he thought, a faint, sly smile ghosting at the corner of his lips. The cynical part of him immediately framed it as exploitation: this intense young stranger could be steered to serve Dazai’s own ends. But another part of Dazai — perhaps the part that still had a shred of reckless idealism — actually admired the ferocity of Akutagawa’s devotion. It reminded him of a younger self, one who might have believed in something or someone that strongly.
He watched Akutagawa snatch the last coin off the floor and stand, chest heaving with indignity and despair. The youth’s eyes were wet, not with tears of weakness but with sheer frustration. When Akutagawa spoke again, his voice cracked like a mast under strain: “Is there no one here willing to try? Has the sea truly made you all cowards?” His challenge hung in the smoky air. A few men shuffled their feet. Most simply returned to their drinks with uneasy shrugs, trying to pretend the problem had ceased to exist now that his coins were scattered.
Dazai decided it was time to stop observing. With deliberate nonchalance, he pushed himself up from his shadowed corner and sauntered forward. “What a touching display,” he drawled softly, just loud enough to be heard by those nearby. His tone carried a lazy amusement that made Akutagawa’s head snap around, eyes narrowing. The hulking sailor glowered at the interruption, but Dazai met the big man’s gaze with an easy, almost bored smile. Under the grime of tavern lantern-light, Dazai’s wiry form and unassuming posture didn’t look like much of a threat, but something in his unruffled confidence gave the larger man pause.
Dazai tipped his head, shaggy dark hair falling over one keen eye as he regarded Akutagawa. “If you’re still looking for someone insane enough to chase a doomed ship,” he said, “you may consider me interested.” A hush fell, broken only by a distant crash of waves against the docks and the creak of the tavern’s sign in the wind. Akutagawa stared, not sure whether to feel hope or to suspect mockery. He studied Dazai up and down: the older man’s posture was relaxed, hands tucked casually in the pockets of a long coat, a half-smile playing on his lips. There was a glint in Dazai’s eyes, however, that belied the indolence — a glint that matched the keen edge of a cutlass hidden beneath rags.
“Who in blazes are you?” the brawny sailor growled, eyeing Dazai with a mix of annoyance and respect that hadn’t been there moments before. Dazai waved a hand as if swatting away the question. “No one of consequence, just a fellow with an appetite for danger and perhaps a soft spot for hopeless causes.” He chuckled, a sound that somehow held both genuine mirth and biting irony. “And this young man’s cause sounds especially hopeless, wouldn’t you agree?” Dazai gave Akutagawa a sidelong look.
Akutagawa bristled at the insinuation of hopelessness, but before he could retort, Dazai extended a hand toward him. “I jest, of course,” Dazai said lightly. “Hope or not, I’ll help you find your brother… for the right price.” His smile sharpened just a little. “You offered everything you own. I accept that offer.”
A gasp and a few low whistles came from the surrounding patrons. Akutagawa’s breath caught. The intensity of his earlier bravado wavered as he regarded Dazai’s outstretched hand. The young man’s voice was hushed, almost disbelieving: “You… you will?” He cleared his throat, squaring his shoulders. “You truly mean it?”
Dazai shrugged, his coat rustling. “I’ve little reason to lie. The way I see it, you need a ship and a crew mad enough to follow your quest. I,” he gave a small self-deprecating bow, “happen to have a ship and a propensity for madness. Convenient, isn’t it?” In truth, Dazai had a modest sloop moored in this very harbor — sturdy enough for a quick pursuit, and more importantly, his. He had been planning to set sail alone if need be, but a determined ally (or perhaps pawn) like Akutagawa could only improve his odds.
Akutagawa swallowed hard. For the first time that night, a spark of genuine hope lit in his gaunt face, tempered by wary skepticism. “If you’re jesting, I’ll kill you,” he said, voice rough but earnest. One could almost mistake it for a joke, but Akutagawa’s eyes showed he meant every word. Dazai only laughed, a surprisingly warm sound. “Fair enough,” he replied. “Fortunately for both of us, I’m not jesting. Now—” he gestured to the spilled coins and trinkets that Akutagawa had offered, which the young man now clutched protectively in his fist, “I believe that is mine, if we have an agreement?”
Slowly, Akutagawa opened his fist. He looked at the pitiful bundle of coins and effects — effectively his life’s possession — and then at Dazai. With a decisive nod, Akutagawa poured the lot into Dazai’s hand. “It’s yours,” he said, voice steeled with resolve. “All of it. Just… help me save him. He’s all I have.” For the first time, Dazai saw a flicker of something vulnerable in Akutagawa — an admission of how much this “brother” truly meant to him.
Dazai closed his fingers over the offered payment. He could feel the edges of coins pressing into his palm, the weight of responsibility (and opportunity) settling in. “A fair trade,” he murmured. Then Dazai stepped closer and draped an arm lightly around Akutagawa’s shoulders in a congenial manner, lowering his voice for the youth’s ears alone. “We set sail at first light. The storm should break by then. Get yourself some rest — you’ll need it.” He steered the younger man toward the bar, away from the prying ears of the onlookers. Akutagawa tensed at the unexpected familiarity, but allowed himself to be guided, every muscle in him still coiled tight with adrenaline.
As they passed the table of stunned sailors, Dazai couldn’t resist tipping an imaginary hat to the burly one who had scorned Akutagawa. “Cheers, gentlemen. Enjoy your drinks and your cowardice,” Dazai said pleasantly, the smile never leaving his face even as his words made the big man scowl. Akutagawa shot Dazai a glare that could have been reprimand or begrudging gratitude — it was hard to tell.
In the relative quiet at the bar, Dazai finally released Akutagawa and looked him square in the eye. Up close, the young man was even more haggard than he’d appeared from afar — dark circles under eyes that still burned with fierce purpose. Dazai felt a strange kinship in that gaze, like looking at a younger, fiercer version of some long-buried aspect of himself. “We haven’t properly introduced ourselves,” Dazai said, inclining his head. “Osamu Dazai, captain of the little ship Sunset Crow.” The name was known to almost no one; Dazai had chosen something poetic for his boat, even if it was just a repurposed smuggler’s sloop.
Akutagawa blinked, perhaps surprised that this drifter was actually a captain. “Ryunosuke Akutagawa,” he replied quietly. He hesitated, then added in a softer tone, “Thank you… for doing this.” The words held sincerity, stiff and awkward though they were from lack of use.
Dazai merely flashed a lopsided grin and lifted his tankard (which he’d brought along from his table) as if in toast. “To dangerous journeys, then,” he said. “And to unlikely alliances.” Akutagawa managed the faintest ghost of a smile in return and clinked the edge of his own forgotten cup against Dazai’s. The exchanged look between them — Dazai’s sly amusement and Akutagawa’s guarded hope — sealed the pact in the smoky gloom of that pirate tavern.
As the night pressed on and the tavern’s revelry resumed in fits and starts around them, Dazai felt the stirrings of purpose quicken his heartbeat. His cynical inner voice muttered that he was likely dooming himself alongside this reckless boy. But another part of him, long subdued by cynicism, felt alive at the prospect of what was to come. Perhaps this desperation will be useful, he mused silently, watching Akutagawa steady himself with determination. Or perhaps it will be the death of us both. Either way, by dawn’s light, they would embark together on a path fraught with danger and myth, each driven by his own secret motivations. In the gritty, shadowed halls of the Broken Compass Tavern, amid the smell of salt and smoke, a fateful alliance was forged — one that would change both men’s destinies on the high seas.
Being from a family of means, Osamu wasn’t a pirate interested in buried treasure.
His good looks and natural charm ensured that both women and men were instantly attracted to him. So that wasn’t the motivation, either.
To put it simply, he craved the excitement of the unknown.
It was the only time he truly felt alive.
Sailing into uncharted waters.
Chasing storms no sane captain would dare approach.
Laughing in the face of curses whispered by men who barely remembered why they feared the sea in the first place.
He didn’t need gold. He needed chaos.
And right now, he needed a crew reckless enough to follow him straight into it.
⸻
Dazai tugged at the threadbare shoulder of his grey tunic.
“We need at least one more,” he said, already turning toward the door with the easy swagger of a man who hadn’t just gambled his life on a half-wrecked ship and a desperate boy he barely knew.
Akutagawa followed, his boots thudding against the warped tavern floor. “You trust too easily,” he muttered under his breath. “You barely know me.”
Dazai laughed — a soft, almost musical sound that didn’t match the sharp gleam in his eyes.
“I don’t trust anyone,” he said, pushing the tavern door open into the misty, salt-stained night. “That’s what makes it so much more exciting.”
The harbor streets were half-abandoned now, the hour late enough that only the dregs remained — sailors too drunk to stand, rats picking through overturned crates, the low moan of ship masts rocking in the restless tide.
And in the shadows near the market square, something moved.
A blur of pale limbs and ragged cloth.
“There,” Dazai said, sharp and delighted. “What’s this? A little fish trying to wriggle free?”
Before Akutagawa could react, Dazai was already striding forward, his boots barely making a sound against the wet cobblestones.
The boy bolted — barefoot, quick — a flash of silver hair in the darkness.
“Catch him,” Dazai called, the grin in his voice unmistakable. “I think he’ll do nicely.”
Before the words were completely out of his mouth, Akutagawa was already moving — a blur of black coat and fury, tearing across the street toward the boy.
Dazai followed the chase lazily, not particularly concerned.
Akutagawa, impatient as always, called forth his power — a slick, black tendril of Rashōmon unfurling from the hem of his coat like a living whip.
The tendril shot forward, aiming to bind the boy before he could slip away.
But the boy moved — fast, too fast — twisting sideways, the tendril grazing only his sleeve.
Dazai’s eyebrows lifted slightly.
“Now that’s interesting,” he murmured as he watched the boy stumble back, chest heaving, dirty hair sticking to his forehead.
There was no tendril coming from the boy — only raw instinct, sheer survival.
But something… something beneath his skin shimmered.
A ripple of unnatural strength, there and gone in the blink of an eye.
“Stay away!” the boy barked, voice cracking. “I’ll fight!”
Dazai smiled, all lazy amusement and sharpened interest.
He’s hiding something, he thought. Something very fun.
The boy stumbled backward, breathing hard, his dirty clothes clinging to him in the damp night air. His pale eyes darted between Dazai and Akutagawa — a cornered animal weighing his chances.
Dazai raised both hands again, his smile easy, almost kind.
“Easy, easy,” he said in that light, coaxing tone usually reserved for wild horses and drunken men with knives. “Nobody’s dragging you back anywhere.”
The boy didn’t relax. Not even a little.
“Why—” Atsushi choked out, voice raw. “Why do you care?”
Dazai’s smile widened.
“I don’t,” he said cheerfully. “But I find myself in need of strong arms, quick feet… and a stubborn will to live.”
He took a step closer, boots splashing in the shallow puddles, his coat trailing like a shadow.
“You have that, don’t you?”
The boy stared at him, chest heaving. His sleeves fluttered where faint threads of raw power still trembled under his skin — not enough to be a weapon yet, but enough to be noticed. Enough to be feared.
“You don’t know what I am,” Atsushi rasped, fists clenching. “You don’t want me. I—I’m cursed.”
Dazai laughed, low and rich, as if Atsushi had said something terribly funny.
“Kid,” he said, tilting his head, “if I wanted saints, I wouldn’t be in a tavern at midnight hiring orphans and outlaws.”
He stuck out a hand, gloveless and open.
“Come aboard,” Dazai said. “You’ll either find freedom or die trying. Either way—”
His smile sharpened like the glint of a cutlass under moonlight.
“—it beats rotting in a cage, doesn’t it?”
Atsushi hesitated — for a heartbeat, for a lifetime — and then, slowly, his small, battered hand reached out.
Atsushi hesitated — for a heartbeat, for a lifetime — and then, slowly, his small, battered hand reached out.
His fingers closed around Dazai’s.
Akutagawa watched the exchange, arms folded and expression sour, as if he’d just witnessed a particularly stupid form of suicide.
“You’ll regret that,” he muttered darkly.
Dazai just grinned and clapped Atsushi on the back hard enough to make him stumble forward a step.
“Probably,” he said cheerfully. “But I make a habit of regretting things in the most interesting ways.”
He turned on his heel, coat swirling behind him, and strode back toward the docks without another word.
For a moment, Atsushi stood frozen, glancing nervously between the retreating figure of the madman who had just “hired” him and the glowering boy in black who clearly hated him already.
Then, with a quiet, shaky breath, Atsushi picked up his feet and followed.