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The air is stale, perhaps a bit too much so following the torrential downpour from the previous day. People gather, grieving, a hoard of black that Dazai avoids as well as he can despite fingers-both familiar and unfamiliar-clutching at his clothes, ruffling his hair, offering him comfort that he will not and cannot receive.
His face is dry, but his heart aches, and his gaze avoids the coffin being lowered into the ground.
(That man didn't deserve his tears.)
He pulls away from the crowd, stomping through the mud-slicked cemetery. He has no destination in mind, but all he can do is escape.
(It never lasts, he always gravitates back, always of his own free will.)
He finds himself in a dusty convenience store, aged and unkempt. Listlessly, he glances over the disappointing selection before picking out a small box of milk, the only thing he can afford with what he knows is currently in his pocket. It's a treat nonetheless, and he sits on the curb outside, sipping at his drink and staring up at the clouds.
Today he turns seven, and it's today that he accepts the death of his father.
/
The mafia is cold and unforgiving, he thinks, long hours of being beaten half to death the only way for him to become desensitized to the horrors he knew he'd come to face.
Blood pours from his mouth, probably too much-(he's too tired, too dizzy to tell for sure)-and it's a saving grace when his attacker is called away for something more important than him. He takes the time to breathe, a privilege he wouldn't have otherwise, spitting out the blood that's collected in his mouth and fighting against the stabbing pain that shoots through him every time he moves.
Dazai flinches when he hears approaching footsteps, but he's lucid enough to know that it's not whoever came before; they're smaller, a child's footsteps, and they scurry away when they hear the chains around his wrists creak.
When a different pair of adult footsteps comes within earshot, however, he risks a groan.
He thinks that today is the day that he turns nine, but in an endless onslaught of abuse, he can't be sure.
/
He's quiet. He says strange things. His sense of style is awful.
Chuuya is the most interesting boy he's ever met.
It's fun, he thinks, getting on Chuuya's nerves; it's much too easy, almost like a game. It's refreshing after so much time of pure apathy to want something-to feel something again.
(They were doomed from the start, he thinks; good things don't go well with Dazai.)
Mori-san laughs, conversation with Kouyou-nee only just reaching his ears, though all of his concentration is on the foreign-looking boy sitting across from him. Chuuya fidgets under his intense gaze.
“Glad you're okay,” he blurts out finally, eyes flickering away, to the ceiling, to Kouyou, to anything but Dazai. “After the initiation stuff.”
Shock is too foreign of an emotion for Dazai to feel, so instead he simply smiles, an empty gesture. He remembers pattering feet and panting breaths, just too loud to remain unheard.
“Me too,” he risks.
Today Dazai turns ten, but in a place like this, he can't bring himself to care.
/
They're powerhouses, moving together as one, a feared pair even in a world of darkness; double black, they're called, but if Dazai were to choose, he didn't think he could put a name to their combined prowess.
The two of them are too young to be truly destructive, but it works in their favor when they're mistakenly underestimated, time and time again.
It's an easier mission than most, and the two boys stand over cold bodies, sifting through piles of documents. Chuuya, nonchalant, drops the stack he's holding, and mutters that he'll return soon. Dazai sits himself on the ground, too irritated with their current job to suffer alone. There's a clattering downstairs, and Dazai keeps an ear out; there's no chance of any extra people being in the house, but any noise could attract undesirables, so it's best to be on the lookout regardless.
Chuuya returns, face too straight for someone making such a ruckus, but he's too eager to leave, so pestering his comrade isn't high on his list of things to get done.
They work for a bit, but a disconcerting smell rises, and the moment he shifts his head, Chuuya dashes from the room. Alarmed, Dazai follows, documents in his hands scattering as he flies down the stairs after his partner.
Dazai doesn't surprise easily, but watching Chuuya-small, annoying, agitated, proud Chuuya-hissing as he pulls a hot pan from the oven is enough to send a decently sized wave of shock through him.
“What...are you doing?”
Chuuya's gaze flies towards him, and his face reddens. Stuttering, still shaking his fingers after burning them on the hot metal, stutters out, “I heard from Mori!”
He tilts his head, genuinely confused.
Chuuya sighs, exasperated. “It's June ninteenth! Hello!!”
It occurs to him, then, that the smell he'd been so alarmed about was a cake. It's an ugly thing, a bit too brown and certainly appearing to be inedible, but Chuuya seems reluctantly proud of his creation and awkwardly waves his arms in front of it.
“H-happy birthday,” he says, relatively quieter than before.
Trying to spare himself some embarrassment, Chuuya turns quickly and rummages through the drawers, pulling out a couple of utensils and shoving one into Dazai's hand.
It was an easy job, and with their combined skill they were ahead of schedule, so Dazai humors his partner and finds a kitchen towel, wrapping it around the hot pan and bringing it to the quiet living room, sitting himself down on the floor and placing the cake in front of them. Chuuya plops down next to him, staring at him expectantly.
“I can't eat it while it's so hot, you know?”
Chuuya seems to realize this and stutters out half a sentence before Dazai interrupts him, turning the conversation elsewhere while they wait for it to cool. The sun begins to sink lower and lower into the sky, and Chuuya disappears, returning with a small pen flashlight. He clicks it on, shoving it unceremoniously into the burnt abomination.
“Couldn't find candles,” he explains, like it's a natural thing. He supposes he doesn't have much of a reference to go by, so he can't find it in him to mind Chuuya's alternative.
“Aren't you supposed to sing or something?”
Chuuya scowls. “Like hell I'm singing for you, bastard.”
He laughs, easy and free; despite the mafia, the job, the corpses upstairs, Dazai wonders if this is what childhood is like.
Instead, he begins to hum his own birthday song, an absentminded tune with no real melody. Chuuya, reluctantly, joins in, and they create a cacophony of sound that would make anyone else cringe.
Today, Dazai turns thirteen, and the taste of his first cake-however burnt it may be-is something he'll never forget.
/
The blood and sweat mixing together and rolling down their bodies drips steadily to the floor as Chuuya kicks the door to their room open, Dazai's arm slung around his shoulder and disgusting hat clung tightly in his other hand. Chuuya dumps him on the bed, locking the door and shoving a dresser in front of it before scrambling around the room looking for some kind of first aid kit.
“Shit, shit...!” he mumbles harshly, pulling clothes from drawers and dumping bags. Eventually he pauses, stripping what's left of his jacket and tearing the bloodiest of Dazai's clothes, pressing the material to the broken skin and instructing the half-conscious boy to hold it there. Dazai, too lightheaded to watch Chuuya flutter around with his eyes, instead focuses them on the ceiling, room spinning and details blurring.
The ginger returns, pulling the fabric away and chugging several gulps of one of his more prized bottles of liquor before pouring it freely on the wound. It burns, but pain is a foreign concept to Dazai, so he simply continues staring upwards before a blurry hand comes into view and smacks his face a few times.
“Stay with me, Dazai,” he grunts, struggling to thread what appears to be dental floss through a needle. “It'd be annoying if you died today.”
In the haze that's enveloped him, Dazai feels somewhat amused at his partner's antics. It was unlike him to be so put together-as well as Chuuya could be, anyway-but a bit of pride swells up in him. He'd die soon regardless; he knew exactly how much blood he'd lost, and even if the wound would heal, there was little chance of recovery. Once he was gone, Chuuya would make a fine replacement.
He's ready to slip into the abyss, but another sharp slap to his face jolts him back to earth. “I told you not to go dying on me, bastard!”
If he had the strength to laugh, he would.
Chuuya sews up what he can of the gaping gash in his stomach, and it's much more painful than the alcohol, but he's too exhausted to flinch. He hears his partner's watery, distant voice talking to someone; he hears something about an ambulance, and every feeling of Chuuya handling things well goes straight down the drain. Getting anyone other than a mafia doctor involved is pretty high on the list of bad ideas, and Chuuya went straight there.
It's almost surprising to see Chuuya caring too much.
Inky black fades in and out of his vision, and everything flashes by too fast; a scuffle, the sound of a gun being cocked, whimpering and whispering that his ears can't quite reach.
-
He awakes, unfortunately, staring at the same ceiling he had been before.
Dazai feels heavy, mouth too dry and eyes lined with crust. Chuuya breathes softly beside him, facing away. He's awake, but Dazai doesn't have the strength to deal with an upset Chuuya, so instead his eyes flicker down towards his still bloody clothes, the exposed, sutured wound in his abdomen, the blood soaked sheets, and up to his arm. From there he notices the IV, deep in his skin, and he follows the line up to blood bag, pinned high up on the wall by Chuuya's knife.
It's then that he notices, in the background, the crumpled up corpse of a doctor laying cold and pale in the corner.
“It's the most I could do,” Chuuya says quietly, and Dazai starts a bit. “given the circumstances.”
Dazai hums thoughtfully, coming out much weaker than he'd intended. He's not dead, but maybe-just maybe-if Chuuya worked this hard to keep him alive, he should return the favor. Just for a bit.
“He didn't think you were gonna make it. He's underground, I think...he said something about performing illegal surgeries. I probably would have let him go if he hadn't said you were gonna die.” He turns around, eyes tired. Dazai wonders if he slept at all. “You're not dying, Dazai. I'm not gonna let you.”
He smiles, empty. “That's not for you to decide, Chuunyan-”
“Bullshit-”
Chuuya, in a rare moment of very un-Chuuya-like clarity, realizes he's being too aggressive. He sighs. “I'm your partner. We stick together.”
“I know, Chuuya.”
The glare he receives isn't cold, but it lacks it's usual fire. “If you know, then stop trying.”
He takes a moment to push himself from the chair, crawling onto the bed and flopping down next to Dazai. The movement of the bed sends a lick of fire through his stomach, and rips a choked cry from him. Chuuya mutters something about him deserving it, and nestles his head down on the pillow next to his own. “Haven't you ever heard that it's uncouth to die on your own birthday?”
He hums, a confused sound, and fixes his eyes to the other side of the room. “Was that today? I hadn't noticed.”
“Well here's your present, you ass,” Chuuya shoots back, tired. “So don't waste it.”
Today, Dazai turns sixteen, and it's perhaps the only birthday present he has ever received.
/
(+1)
Before them lays a wasteland, fire flickering up towards the sky. Smoke surrounds them, a cloud so thick that it's nearly impossible to see more than a meter beyond.
It's their last mission; he's decided this before they even set out. Dazai should have cherished it more, but it's difficult when all he has on his mind is lugging an unconscious Chuuya to safety.
They finally make it far enough that the air is somewhat breathable, so he collapses, his and Chuuya's combined weight causing his knees to give out. Chuuya coughs weakly, blood spewing from his mouth. He lays his partner on his back, mindful of the injuries he's sustained, and looks around. There can't be a living soul within a mile, he thinks, which would be perfect if he actually believed that help would get to Chuuya in time.
Shit.
Steeling himself, he pulls the dead weight below him onto his back, and continues his trek, praying they encounter a somewhat more civilized area. He passes several cars, parked directly in the middle of the street; he wonders how long it took them to abandon their vehicles following the string of massive explosions.
It's safe enough, he thinks, so he lays Chuuya's body down beside the gathering of cars. His hair is tangled, matted with blood, clothes torn and skin broken. It's probably the most pitiful state he's ever been in, even after all the other times he's been forced to use Corruption.
His heart aches.
Dazai brushes the hair away from Chuuya's rapidly paling face, and continues on his way alone. It's too far for him to carry his partner, himself being almost as injured if not more so. It's a couple miles out that he reaches a small town, seemingly devoid of life; his eyes turn immediately to a payphone, situated outside of a convenience store.
Rummaging through his pockets, he finds just enough loose change to make a single phone call.
“Who is this?” the smooth line on the other end begins.
He lists off Chuuya's exact location to Mori, and then hangs up the phone; giving his boss any time to reply would make things more difficult, but he's worked for this moment and god damn it he's going to take the only chance he has.
His legs ache and blood rushes through his ears, but he finally manages to collapse only a few meters from the highway, splitting pain going through his head as it smashes against the asphalt. It's only a matter of time before someone finds him, he knows as much, but for now, he enjoys the bliss of unconsciousness.
Today, he turns eighteen, and today is the day that he leaves behind the mafia for good.