Archive of Our Own ^beta

In an alleyway of the ports of Yokohama, there’s a small boy who can’t be older than ten years old; a boy who’s mainly skin and bones whose chest is heaving, a boy who’s bleeding from a nasty gash on his left thigh. He runs on awkward legs, stumbles around like a newborn deer, eyes blown wide in terror. Two sets of footsteps follow behind him, and they fall more sure footed, more swiftly than his do.

The boy is cornered against the back of the alleyway, dirty fingers that are caked with sweat and blood and tears clawing at the brick wall, choked noises of panic ripping themselves from his throat. The footsteps get louder and louder until they’re right behind him, and he whips around, tears streaming down his face. They belong to two men, who have nasty sneers on their faces and a gleam in their eyes; they look the boy over, up and down, and the sneers turn wicked and their eyes cold.

With a sob, the boy falls to the ground, trembling from head to toe.

“S'il vous plaît! Ne pas me faire du mal!”

The men laugh and speak in a language that means nothing to the boy, but he can tell from their tone that nothing good was said. One of them reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a knife; the metal gleams in the moonlight and the blade is curved, with jagged edges. The other man lunges forward, grabbing the boy by his arm; he yanks the boy up harshly, and the boy screams as his arm pops out of place.

“Tu me fais mal! Non! Mon bras, s’il vous plait, monsieur, ah--!”

A hand is shoved over his mouth, and the man yanks his arm higher up on the wall. The boy screams, and the hand against his mouth tastes like dirt and salt. The man with the knife presses it to his throat, and a thin line of crimson appears against his pale skin. He says something again in the same foreign language as before, snarling at the boy. Gulping sobs escape from his throat and he squeezes his eyes shut.

Two gunshots ring out.

The men fall to the ground, eyes empty and blood seeping through their shirts. They collapse in a crumpled heap and the boy slides to the ground, limp and boneless. Standing just behind them is the figure of another young boy, a little bit taller than the first and definitely better dressed. He’s holding a smoking gun in his hand.

“Q-qui es-tu?”

His savior looks as much like a demon as he does a child. His eyes are dark and his hair is messy and falls over his face in a way that’s hard to tell if it’s intentional or just dirty. He tilts his head to the side, examining the other who is weeping in front of him, almost delirious with fear. With grace and ease, he walks over to the boy, kicking one of the men’s bodies with distaste.

He speaks then, voice soft and mellow, in the same language that the men chasing him had used, and the boy curled on the ground shakes his head furiously and ducks his head. The other clicks his tongue in irritation, tucking his gun away into his coat. He mutters something else that can’t be understood and starts to lean down toward the other boy whose breath catches in his throat. This close, the boy's eyes look red, and he’s paralyzed by the sight.

“Dazai.” A voice, a woman’s voice, calls out to them in the night.

“Kouyou nee-san.” His savior turns from him to greet a woman who has just materialized from the shadows. She’s tall and slender and beautiful; an angel next to the demon child. Coolly, she observes the scene around her, focusing in on the boy curled up on the ground. Her expression softens; she steps towards him, and her footsteps are light, so unlike the ones of the men chasing him before. She stops just short of him, looking him up and down.

“Pauvre , chose douce.” The woman with the red hair speaks, and the boy’s eyes snap up to her in understanding. She’s even more beautiful up close, with smooth, pale skin and bright brown eyes. She kneels in front of him, dress pooling around her, and reaches out towards the boy. He scrambles back from her, snuffling quietly. Her eyes fill with sadness. “Quel est ton nom?” She asks softly, lowering her hand.

And the bleeding, filthy boy looks at her, and then glances at the boy who is still standing behind her. He’s watching the two of them with interest, his eyes sharp and boring holes into him. The boy gets the fleeting feeling that the two who have just saved him are far more dangerous than his attackers could ever have dreamed of being. The feeling passes and he turns back to the woman who asked him the question. Voice shaky, he gives her his name.

“Chuuya.”

The Port Mafia takes him in, gives him a home and food, a hot bath, and a bed to sleep in. He doesn’t know it yet, but in exchange, he will become one of their greatest weapons.

For weeks afterward, Chuuya refuses to leave Kouyou’s side. He’s given a room on the top floor of the brothel she runs, and he keeps himself shut up in there when he’s not by her side. For her part, she dotes on him much like a mother would on her child, his only connection to a world that doesn’t speak his native tongue. She combs his hair back (red, his hair is red, brighter than hers is and falls to his shoulders in silken curls), pulling it back with ornaments inlaid with precious jewels and metals that sparkle and match the royal blue color of his eyes. Without layers of filth covering him, he’s as pale as she is, with barely visible freckles peppering his body, and she tells him that he’s beautiful, that she loves him. On nights when he wakes up screaming, she’s there to pull him into her arms, cooing soft words of comfort at him until he collapses against her sobbing.

Slowly, he puts on weight, learns to stop flinching at every loud noise or yell that echos down the halls. Chuuya learns that he doesn’t have to gorge himself on food until he feels sick, because there will always be another meal waiting for him and that the women who reach for him have no intention of striking him.

He also learns that the people who have saved him are not saints.

Chuuya learns that the Port Mafia acts like a family, and it is blood that ties them together--but not in the traditional sense. An underlying sense of fear clings to all the members, a sight and feeling he had learned long ago. The courtesans that work for Kouyou whisper about a Boss, one who’s lost his mind and grows more brutal by a day, and about a doctor, one too ambitious for his own good, a doctor with a sharp smile and a sharper scalpel.

He learns that Kouyou nee-san, who is so warm and kind to him, has a side to her that makes his blood run cold. He’s heard her, pressed up against locked doors, as she threatens men with a voice cold as ice, practically radiating bloodlust. Chuuya had backed away from the door, staring hard at it, before running upstairs and hiding in his bed. When she had come to kiss him goodnight later that evening, he had pretended to be sleeping.

Most importantly, however, he learns about the boy that saved him that night.

The boy (Dazai, he hears people whisper, Dazai Osamu, a demon prodigy) comes to visit him sometimes. He never stays for very long; most of the time, he just sits in the corner of Chuuya’s room and the two of them stare at one another until he gets up abruptly and leaves without a word. Those meetings always leave Chuuya feeling unsettled, like the other is judging him and has yet to determine if he’s worthy or not.

He dreams on the nights after those visits, of red brown eyes and smoking guns and a devilish smile.

Other times, the boy (Dazai, Chuuya reminds himself. His name is Dazai) sits next to him on his bed and speaks to him. Chuuya is slowly learning Japanese, and he’s able to pick out words and phrases, but the conversations are still one sided and he gets the feeling that Dazai is mocking him. The other’s eyes flicker back and forth between cruel and kind fast enough to make Chuuya dizzy. His voice is the same way, soft and soothing one moment like a tender embrace, and then hard and vicious the next, like a slap across the face.

And Dazai moves like a ghost; half the time, Chuuya doesn’t even realize he’s in the room until he feels his skin prickle and looks up to see brown eyes boring holes into him.

This isn’t too big of a problem until one night, when Dazai catches him crying softly to himself. He hears the door open but is too slow trying to hide his tearstained face; he quails under Dazai’s gaze, curling into himself and tugging up his blanket like it will shield him from the other.

The other boy steps fully into the room, closing the door behind him. He’s across the room in three long strides, and then he’s shoving Chuuya to the side and crawling into bed with him. Bewildered, Chuuya moves to allow him room, sniffling.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, and Chuuya can recognize the question--Kouyou nee-san asks him it often enough. And he wants to tell Dazai, desperately wants to spill his guts to this strange boy because the small animal part of his brain trusts Dazai for some reason, but he doesn’t have the words, can’t get his lips to make the sounds he wants them to.

Chuuya shakes his head with a sob. “Speaking hard. Can’t do.” He manages to get out, and he knows how broken and fragmented his Japanese is but it’s the best he can do. He’s sick of being alone, sick of not being able to speak, sick of being so afraid and living in fear that he’ll end up back on the streets because Kouyou nee-san won’t want to keep a useless kid around. There are tears welling in his eyes again, sliding down his cheeks and dripping onto the blankets.

Dazai shifts suddenly, and then he wraps his arms around Chuuya’s small frame, pressing him close to Dazai’s chest.

“Don’t cry.” It’s an order, but Dazai’s voice is gentle. Chuuya is so surprised by both the sudden embrace and the understanding of the other that he cuts himself off mid sob. Hands rub in between Chuuya’s shoulders soothingly, and he can hear the beat of the other’s heart through his chest. Dazai’s unpredictable nature has caught him off guard again, and Chuuya starts to understand that he may never know what the other boy is thinking.

They’re silent after that, Chuuya’s tears drying against his cheeks and Dazai’s hands firm on his back. Chuuya is afraid to shift his weight out of fear of ruining the strange peace between him and Dazai, and Dazai doesn’t seem inclined to move right now. He settles more comfortably against Chuuya’s pillows, tugging the blanket up over the both of them more comfortably.

Chuuya doesn’t remember falling asleep, but when he wakes up, he’s alone in bed and the sun is shining through his window. His sadness comes back in full force, even as he tries to convince himself that Dazai doesn’t actually owe him anything and probably doesn’t care about a scrawny boy who can’t string together a simple sentence in Japanese.

Dazai probably doesn’t care about much other than himself, he thinks, and Chuuya really can’t blame him for that.

A week or so later, there’s a sharp rap on his door that startles Chuuya out of his thoughts.

Dazai has come back, armed with books on sign language, books on speaking Japanese and French, pens and paper. He tosses them all onto Chuuya’s bed and lays them out neatly by subject. “Commençons.” He says in French, and the word comes out horribly mangled; Dazai stresses the vowels too hard and his lips have trouble making the humming noise that the m’s should produce. Chuuya understands what he means all the same. The two of them huddle on his bed under the blankets, pouring over the books and taking careful notes.

Dazai writes in messy French that Chuuya has to constantly proof-read and add accent marks to; Chuuya pens shaky katakana figures that have Dazai crinkling his nose and taking Chuuya’s hand in his own to guide his strokes.

Chuuya learns to smile more, to relax around Dazai who is beyond question the strangest person he’s ever met. The other boy is covered in bandages from head to toe and fickle in nature, but he seems to have adopted Chuuya for one reason or another. Over time, Chuuya gets used to Dazai’s strange brand of humor, his ever changing moods and his odd bluntness that hurts even when the other doesn’t mean to. And he finds that he doesn’t feel so alone anymore.

He doesn’t cry anymore after that.

They learn together. The processes is slow, and often painful, but they learn.

Dazai stops mangling French vowels, stops putting so much stress on the consonants, and his accent gets better and better.

Chuuya’s lips learn to form the shapes needed to speak Japanese, and his tongue stops flopping about uselessly in his mouth; his brush strokes for katakana become less shaky and more legible with every word he writes. His accent starts to disappear.

Both of their hands become steadier as they sign; their fingers stop jutting out at odd angles and every hand gesture becomes less and less awkward to make. Chuuya no longer smacks himself in the face with his fingers.

Eventually, they can hold full conversations with practically no confusion, no stopping to lookup a word or sign. They have silent conversations across the room, hands flying through signs, sharing quiet laughs and smiles. Dazai makes a rude comment in French under his breath when he’s shooed from the brothel, and Chuuya giggles. Somewhere along the line, he’s stopped thinking of Dazai as ‘the boy who saved me’ and starts thinking of him as ‘my friend.’

He’s been with the Port Mafia for two years now.

Dazai brings him a hat.

It’s thrown at him unceremoniously one afternoon, when the taller boy barges into the room like he owns the place. Because he’s not ready for something to be flung at him and because Dazai thrives off of irritating others, it hits him squarely in the face and falls into his lap.

“Think fast.” Dazai snickers from the doorframe, and Chuuya swears at him in French. “My, Chuuya, do you kiss Kouyou nee-san with that mouth?” He pushes himself off the door frame and saunters over to the others bed, perching himself on the edge of it. Chuuya swings his foot at him, which Dazai stops with a flick of his wrist.

“I bring you a gift, and this is how you thank me?” He pouts, wrinkling his nose at the redhead. Chuuya stops trying to yank his ankle free and glances up at the brunett.

“A...gift?” The word sounds heavy and strange on his tongue.

“Do you not know the word, or do you not understand what a gift is?”

“I understand the word!” He snaps, glaring at his friend. Dazai grins at him, and then glances down at the hat. The smile slides from his face and a blank look takes its place. Chuuya is too used to Dazai’s rapid mood whiplash by this point to be concerned.

“You don’t have to keep it if you don’t like it.” Dazai says, offhandedly. “Just figured you’d like something to wear that aren’t Kouyou nee-san’s hair clips.”

He reaches for the hat, and Chuuya yanks it back with wide eyes, jamming it on top of his head. It’s a little too big for him and slips down over his ears but the felt is soft and there’s a tiny chain jiggling off the side of it, something that looks like it’s been attached by Dazai himself.

“No.” He says. “I want it.”

And Dazai smiles at him, and it’s real and genuine. “Okay.” He says. “Happy birthday Chuuya.”

It’s the first gift he’s ever been given, and he swears he’ll never take it off.

Two years later, on Chuuya’s sixteenth birthday, he learns something special about his friend and himself. He and Dazai are lounging about in his room; Chuuya doodles absentmindedly on a scrap piece of paper at his desk and Dazai is hanging upside-down on his bed.

“You don’t speak French anymore.” Dazai says out of nowhere.

It’s a casual observation made by his friend, but nothing about Dazai is casual or innocent he’s learned, so Chuuya glances up at him warily. “Haah?”

“French.” Dazai repeats, drawing out the word. He flips over so that he’s lying on his stomach. “You don’t speak it anymore.”

“Why would I?” Chuuya asks slowly. He knows that note in Dazai’s voice, knows that Dazai’s brain is moving a mile a minute with thoughts that he can’t even begin to guess. “Only you and Kouyou nee-san can understand it. It’s not useful.”

Dazai hums, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “It could be,” he says, and Chuuya knows that face. It’s the one Dazai always wears right before he suggests something stupid that’s going to get the both of them in a world of trouble, but he knows Chuuya will go along with anyway.

“Whatever you're planning, stop it. I don’t want to be yelled at on my birthday, thank you.” Chuuya’s hands come up to mess with the brim of his hat, a nervous habit of his that Dazai teases him mercilessly about.

“I’m not planning anything.” Dazai pouts at him, and Chuuya rolls his eyes in response. “And I don’t like the sass in your tone,” he continues. “To think, I went through all the trouble of getting you a birthday gift, too.” And sure enough, when Chuuya blinks, Dazai has pulled a neatly wrapped package out of his ass. “But if you’re going to be rude, I don’t think you deserve this.”

Chuuya tackles him almost before he’s finished speaking, grabbing at the present. “It’s my birthday, I can be sassy if I want to.” He says smugly, pinning Dazai to the bed. Dazai lets himself be held captive, letting out a dramatic sigh.

“Fine, but only because it’s your birthday,” he agrees, watching as Chuuya eagerly tears into his gift. “Tell me, did Kouyou nee-san get you make up again this year?”

“Shut up, Dazai,” Chuuya mumbles, but the pink creeping up his neck gives him away. He throws the torn wrapping paper at Dazai’s head as the other laughs. While Dazai bats the paper out of the way, Chuuya turns to properly examine what was in it, holding it up to admire.

It’s a coat made of silk black material and lined with a lilac material that matches the lace around his hat. It looks expensive and hand tailored, and Chuuya feels his throat bunch up.

“Well? Try it on.” Dazai shoves him to the floor with a grunt, and the emotions that had been threatening to bubble over on him fizzle out into mild irritation and fondness. He stands up, brushing dirt off of his new coat, and pulls it carefully over his shoulders. The material is cool and soft against his shoulders, and the coat sweeps down to his ankles, brushing lightly against the floor.

“How do I look?” He asks, turning one way and then the other, holding his arms out for Dazai to admire. His friend looks him up and down, brows pulled down in thought, head tilted quizzically.

“....really short.”

“Why are you this way?” Chuuya asks with a sigh, dropping his arms as Dazai doubles over with laughter. His friend has tears in his eyes and he’s actually snorting, and sometimes Chuuya can’t believe that the two of them are sixteen. “You’re laughing at your own joke, you ass!” He snaps, and Dazai straightens up, wiping away his tears.

“You really are short, Chuuya,” he says, and Chuuya feels his blood pressure rising.

“And you’re a jerk,” he says, turning his back to his friend. “So I don’t feel like showing you something cool.” And now he has Dazai’s attention, he can tell by how the other quiets down and the eyes he can feel on his back.

“Oh?” Dazai’s voice takes on a dark note, and it’s times like this that forcibly remind Chuuya that his friend is a full fledged member of the mafia, not just a pretty face who works in the brothel. “And what could you possibly have to show me?”

Chuuya has a desperate need to prove himself and both of them know that, which is exactly why Dazai poses that question as a challenge. Chuuya lasts a full five seconds before he caves into Dazai’s cajoling. “Watch this.” He can’t quite keep the excitement out of his voice. Chuuya takes a deep breath and begins walking straight towards the wall; he’s a meter from it, a centimeter, against the moulding of the floor and then-

“How the hell are you doing that?” Dazai breathes. Chuuya grins, only it looks like a frown because he’s standing upside-down on the ceiling of his bedroom, perfectly at ease. Even his hat and new coat stay down, moulded to his body.

“Dunno, but it’s cool, yeah?” Chuuya says smugly, pride welling up in him. It’s rare that he can catch Dazai off guard, but he’s succeeded this time judging by the look on his friends face.

Dazai hums and gets up off the bed, walking around Chuuya. “Pretty cool.” He agrees. “Are you stuck up there?”

“No, I can control it; I won’t fall unless I want to.” Chuuya puffs out his chest like a peacock and Dazai’s eyes narrow.

“Not even if I try to pull you down?”

Never one to back down from a challenge, Chuuya holds his hand out for the other to grab. Dazai accepts his hand, letting their fingers brush together.

Something goes wrong the second he touches Dazai’s hand. His body feels heavy and the world inverts suddenly. Chuuya lands in a heap on the floor, limbs tangling in his new coat and hat flying from his head. He flails wildly, trying to detangle himself, and when he manages to do so looks up to see Dazai smirking at him.

“What the fuck just happened?” He says flatly, and Dazai’s smirk widens.

“You’re so naive Chuuya.” Dazai’s voice is cruel and mocking--something's gotten to him, but Chuuya has no idea what. What he does know is that he hates it when Dazai gets like this. Dazai continues speaking, taking on an arrogant air. “Don’t you know there are people in this world who are gifted?”

Chuuya inhales. He feels like an idiot now, not having been able to put his gravity manipulation and the existence of those with supernatural abilities together. “Caught up, have you?” Dazai taunts, and Chuuya frowns at his friend.

“Stop it, Dazai,” he says softly, and the other’s eyes flash dangerously. Dazai turns his back to him, walks to the other end of the room and back, and when he’s back in front of Chuuya, his face is the impressively blank mask he wears so well that Chuuya despises with every ounce of his being.

“You’re gifted and so am I,” he says flatly. “Only my gift is...unique.” A smile with no warmth finds its way onto the taller boys face. “My ability is the ability to nullify others’ powers through a single touch.”

Chuuya takes a minute to process that information. “Seems like a useful thing to have,” he says finally, and Dazai snorts.

“Mori agrees with you,” Dazai says, and then pauses. “Mori doesn’t like how often I hang around you,” he adds, and the smile on his face doesn’t match the hollowness of his voice.

Chuuya feels his stomach drop. The new Boss of the Port Mafia has rarely ever crossed paths with Chuuya, but the few times he has seen the other the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Mori Ougi is not a man whose wrath he wants to incur. “Pourquoi?” He asks, slipping back into French on accident. It’s an old habit; he and Dazai always used to share secrets in French that they didn’t want the courtesans to hear. It’s comforting and familiar, and he feels that if Mori doesn’t understand him, doesn’t comprehend his fear, then he has no power over him.

Dazai’s lips pull up in a snarl.

“Parce qu'il est un vieil homme amer!” He spits out, and Chuuya recoils at the hate in his friend's voice. Dazai notices and softens his tone.

“Pardon,” he mumbles, and Chuuya moves to brush against him.

“S’alright,” he says, and the two lapse into silence. “Thanks for my gift,” Chuuya adds quietly, pulling the coat more tightly around him.

Dazai bumps their shoulders together. “You’re welcome,” he says, just as quietly. Then he sighs and leans heavily against Chuuya. “Don’t worry too much about Mori; it’s me he hates more than anyone. You’re just a bystander in our fight. But promise me,” Dazai says, staring hard at his friend, “that you won’t tell Mori or anyone else about your gift.”

Chuuya takes in how serious the other has become and nods.

“I promise.”

Mori finds out anyway.

It’s not because Chuuya goes back on his promise intentionally; it’s an accident.

He wakes up in the middle of the night to screaming downstairs. He’s out of bed in minutes, throwing himself down the stairs only to come face to face with a group of men who are all armed and holding the courtesans of the brothel hostage.

Chuuya is violently reminded of that night six years ago, and his blood boils in his veins. He’s shaking, but he’s not the same frightened boy he was that night, and he’ll be damned if he lets his new home be destroyed in front of him. The promise to Dazai echos in his head, but he has no choice right now. Kouyou has taught him the basics of hand to hand combat, just in case wandering hands got too free at the brothel, and, combined with his gravity manipulation, he should be able to do something.

For a while, he does a good job. Then hands close around his neck, and he’s forced against the wall and it’s just like before, and he’s afraid, he’s afraid, he’s afraid-

Words come into his head, words he’s never heard before, but that spill over his lips in a desperate frenzy.

“O grantors of dark disgrace, do not wake me again.”

The world explodes around him and the power coursing through his veins makes him dizzy. There’s blood rushing in his ears and his heart is threatening to explode out of his chest. He’s aware of yelling around him but he’s falling, falling, falling out of his own body and mind.

His world goes black.

Chuuya wakes up, and that’s surprising to him.

He tries to move, and that’s his first mistake. Every nerve in his body is on fire, and they scream in protest as he tries to convince his muscles to unclench so that he can look around the room.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a voice says, one that he knows well. Dazai moves so that he’s standing over Chuuya. The first thing he takes in is that the taller boy is covered in bandages; they’re on his head, his neck, his arms-they disappear under his shirt, and Chuuya has no clue how far down they go. The second is that Dazai actually looks concerned, and Chuuya has to wonder just how badly messed up he is to elicit such a look.

“What…” he croaks out. His throat is dry and it hurts to speak-actually, everything hurts. Dazai presses a glass of water to his lips and he drinks greedily, not caring that some of it dribbles out onto his mouth and down his chest.

“Boy, you’ve done it this time, Chuuya.” It’s been a long time since he’s heard Dazai speak to him so coldly, and it’s an odd contrast with the worry on his face. “Why couldn’t you have just waited for backup?” A touch of fear has crept into Dazai’s voice, and Chuuya is in too much pain to be able keep up right now.

He whimpers and immediately Dazai’s fingers are tangled in his hair, stroking soothingly. “Don’t be mad,” Chuuya rasps, and Dazai lets out a quiet sigh. He maneuvers himself onto the bed with Chuuya, taking care not to brush against his aching body, and folds his arms around him.

“I’m not mad,” Dazai says, fingers still carding through Chuuya’s hair, and it’s been a long time since the two of them huddled together in the same bed. “I’m not,” he repeats, lowering his head to brush against the top of Chuuya’s. He’s quiet for a moment. “Why didn’t you tell me what your true ability was?” He asks, and the hurt is back in his voice.

Chuuya makes a noise of confusion that leaves his throat tingling in protest. Dazai pats his back as he coughs, mumbling quiet words of comfort to him. “Did you really not know?”

“They’re calling it Corruption,” Dazai says. “They’ve never seen anything like it before.” His eyes flicker down to glance at Chuuya. “It’s a miracle you’re alive,” He says flatly, and Chuuya blinks at him.

“You really don’t remember do you?” Dazai asks. “Well, you stopped everyone raiding the brothel, but your ability almost tore your body to bits in the process. You’re lucky that I was on my way there to cancel it out.”

A terrible thought occurs to Chuuya. “I...I didn’t do this to you, did I?”

Dazai is silent.

“Dazai?” Chuuya rasps, his voice catching on his friend's name.

“Yes and no,” Dazai says finally, and Chuuya can tell he’s trying to dodge the question.

“I don’t understand.”

“The exchange of my gift is that I can cancel any ability, but it costs me.” With growing horror, Chuuya notices that the bandages wrapped around Dazai’s head mirror the bandages he can feel on his own. In fact, everywhere there’s a bandage on Chuuya’s body, there’s a matching one on Dazai. “I take any damage that the ability I cancel is putting out at the moment I nullify it.”

“Oh mon Dieu.” Chuuya croaks out. “Dazai….”

“You’ll just have to be careful in the future.”

“No!” It hurts his voice to yell but he can’t help himself. “I hurt you.” Tears sting the backs of his eyes but he quashes them down. He hasn’t cried since Dazai began teaching him Japanese, and he’d sworn them that he would never show weakness again. “I won’t use it anymore!” Chuuya’s accent is becoming more pronounced, something that only happens when he gets panicky.

“You don’t have a choice.” Dazai’s voice is sharp and his good eye is cold, and Chuuya flinches back from him. This is the Dazai who saved him from those men years ago, the one who is bored with the world and would kill just for the pleasure of it. “Mori-san is very interested in your ability. He thinks you have great potential.” His friend's tone has gone dull and flat, like it always does when his mentor is involved.

“W-what?” Chuuya stutters, and Dazai’s eye hardens.

“He wants to test you and your ability,” Dazai says emotionlessly.

And despite his aching body and his friends injuries and his regret at being responsible for them, Chuuya feels joy well up inside him. This is his chance to prove himself, to earn his keep and show what he’s worth. He makes another solemn vow to himself: that he’ll become the best at fighting, so that Dazai will never have to step in and hurt himself again for his sake. He’ll show Mori exactly what he’s worth.

Mori goes from hating him to admiring his ability to kill and the efficiency he does it with.

Chuuya aces every challenge, every mission that is thrown his way. Mori deems him worthy of working in the field and informs him that, from here on out, he’ll be working with a partner as part of the guerrilla squad of the Port Mafia.

Kouyou nee-san tells him that she’s proud of what he’s done, but her voice is trembling and a cloud of sadness hanging over her. Chuuya chalks it up to her fearing for his life--killing is a much more dangerous profession than serving drinks and playing nice in a brothel--but for the first time in his life, he’s been given purpose, and a means to pay back those who saved him. He hugs the woman who is in essence his mother goodbye as she weeps into the crook of his neck.

Dazai comes to him, a beautiful silver knife with a bow on its handle in his hand and a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes on his face. Chuuya’s eyes flicker from the knife (which Dazai hands to him silently) to his friend, who quirks an eyebrow at him. It takes him a moment, but Chuuya puts the dots together and smiles.

“Try not to slow me down,” Dazai says.

He and Dazai go from friends to partners.

They work well together, which is a surprise to everyone but them.

Dazai’s brains and Chuuya’s destructive powers are a wicked combination, and no one is able to stand before them. Rumors spread about them, and they become feared, hated, admired.

Chuuya keeps his promise to himself; he trains night and day and becomes the best martial artist the Port Mafia has seen in years. Corruption becomes less and less of a necessity and bandages still cover Dazai but fewer and fewer of them are Chuuya’s fault.

People begin to whisper as they walk by together. They are called Soukoku, Double Black, and the destruction they are capable of a night becomes a legend to be told to new recruits.

Chuuya gets prouder and prouder and Dazai gets quieter and quieter.

And, eventually, he and Dazai go from partners to lovers.

It feels like a natural progression in their relationship; one second, they’re leaning against each other, elbows poking into each others ribs and snarky insults being traded, the next, Dazai’s hand is brushing against his thigh, his lips are on his neck, his jaw, his cheek, his mouth and they’re frenching like it’s going out of style. They fall into bed, all teeth and nails and quiet gasps and moans, and it’s awkward and perfect all at once.

Afterward, they lie in bed together, curled around each other tightly. Dazai’s fingers draw lines that connect all the freckles that dot Chuuya’s body, creating nonsensical shapes. Chuuya’s hands are curled up against Dazai’s chest, brushing lightly against his friend’s--partner’s--lover’s jaw.

It should be weird, lying naked next to someone who’s been his best friend for years, but it’s not. Dazai has been the one constant in his life for a long time, after all. Chuuya is the happiest he’s ever been in his life; Dazai is obnoxious and impossible to predict, and Chuuya wouldn’t trade him for the world.

Chuuya whispers ‘I love you’ into the room late one night, when he thinks Dazai is asleep.

He’s jumping in surprise when the arms around him tighten and Dazai whispers ‘I love you too, idiot’ back.

Their line of work is dangerous and things like love and affection are meaningless to a mafioso, but the two of them have always been awful at following rules.

If Mori disapproves of their relationship, he doesn’t say anything.

“Are you secretly a goddamn vampire?” Chuuya ask bitterly, sitting at his dresser and staring into the mirror, dabbing concealer onto his neck. “Because you get way too much enjoyment from biting my neck.”

“Excuse you, I’m giving you a reason to use all the makeup Kouyou nee-san bought you ages ago.” Dazai is relaxing on their bed, watching him try to hide the dark love bites that pepper his pale skin. “And you didn’t seem to have a problem with my attraction to your neck last night.”

Chuuya flushes a dark red and turns to glare at his lover with a hiss. “Bastard!”

Dazai winks at him. “You love me for it.”

Chuuya turns a shade darker and sputters for a moment. He turns back to the mirror, ignoring Dazai’s smile and laughter behind him. The springs on the bed creak and soft footsteps pad across the room and stop behind him. Warm arms wrap around his shoulders and Dazai’s face appears in the mirror next to his.

“Here.” Dazai hands him a black leather choker with a silver buckle on it. The leather is supple and warm in his hands; Chuuya holds it up to his neck and it’s a perfect fit. He sets it back down on his dresser carefully, locking eyes with Dazai in the mirror.

“And what makes you think that I’m going to wear a collar for you?”

Dazai shrugs. “Wear the choker if you want, it should cover most of your neck. Or walk around with the hickeys exposed.” He leans in close and breathes against Chuuya’s ear. “Either way, you’re marked as mine.” The dark and possessive note to Dazai’s voice sends shivers down Chuuya’s spine. He wants to protest, to say that he doesn’t belong to anybody, but that would be a lie and Dazai has always been able to see through his fibs. The hands on his shoulders trail down his back, brushing against his sides, down to toy with the waistband of his pants. A kiss is pressed to his neck, right over one of the fading bruises; Dazai scrapes his teeth against it, sucking hard to turn it back to a red wine color.

“Motherfu-” Chuuya starts to swear, and then Dazai’s lips are on his own, his hands are reaching up automatically to brace against Dazai’s shoulders, and he’s being picked up and carried to the bed.

The next morning, Chuuya picks the choker up from his dresser and buckles it onto his neck. Dazai smirks broadly when he sees it, but thankfully says nothing.

Dazai deserts the mafia, deserts Mori, deserts the protege he scooped up off the streets, deserts the only way of life he’s ever known.

He deserts Chuuya, and doesn’t even bother to tell him that he’s leaving. He doesn’t give him the chance to go along, doesn’t breath a word of it, just abandons Chuuya like his parents did when he was an infant. The man he’s shared a bed with for years, given his virginity, his heart, his everything, didn’t even offer him a choice. That’s what stings most of all.

He would’ve gone with Dazai, had he been asked.

Chuuya’s smiles change.

He smiles, and his face contorts in a grotesque imitation of affection, as he stares down his partner who left him, who abandoned him, who used him and then threw him out like trash-

He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes, doesn't match the hatred in his tone as Dazai hangs before him, grinning, like it isn't his fault his world has been shattered

Because if he smiles, then Dazai doesn't know how badly he’s hurt him, and he hasn’t won. Chuuya’s heart is something he’ll never be trusted with again.

“You’re still wearing that ugly hat.” Dazai is smiling at him, and Chuuya is blinded for a minute by the rage that sweeps through his blood. The taller man is relaxed in his chains, completely at ease despite being the one tied up in enemy territory. Chuuya doesn’t know if he’s thrilled he made it back just in time to watch Dazai be executed or sick to his stomach. He doesn't want to think to hard about it, either way.

“And you’re still wasting bandages,” he snarls back, ignoring the worry he feels deep inside of him. Dazai has always been careless with his ability and given very little regard to the damage his own body sustains.

“What can I say, they’ve grown on me.” Dazai shrugs and the chains binding him clink. “Which is the only thing that’s grown, I can see,” he adds, pointedly looking Chuuya up and down. Banter is familiar ground, but it’s safe. It’s easy to blend affection and hate and hurt with barbed words, and Dazai is better at it than he is, but he refuses to let the other get to him, refuses to cry, refuses to be weak.

Except Dazai is ten steps ahead of him again, and he has no choice but to let his old partner walk out scott free, with his hands in his pockets and a spring in his step.

And Chuuya’s smile widens, threatens to split his face, and it doesn’t match the agony his heart is in right now.

Mori forced them to work together again, and Chuuya hates how they fall back into synch like it hasn’t been four years since the two of them fought together.

He hates the concern that squeezes his chest as Dazai is thrown across the forest, hates that his brain can remember every single one of their codes in minute detail, hates how when Dazai suggests using Corruption, he hesitates only briefly out of concern for the other, not for himself.

He agrees, and steels himself to face off against Lovecraft.

When he comes back to, Dazai’s hand is wrapped around his wrist and he can hear the taller man mutter “Take a break now, Chuuya.” He collapses to the ground, coughing and spitting up blood, trembling from head to toe.

Force of habit has him glancing up at Dazai, who looks...no worse for the wear surprisingly. “Neat trick, hmm?” Dazai croons, and if Chuuya wasn’t so concerned he’s going to hack up his lung, he would hit the other. “Our President takes good care of his employees,” Dazai says breezily, and Chuuya looks up sharply.

"Yeah?” He asks, spitting out another gob of blood. Dazai wrinkles his nose in disgust. “All Men Are Created Equal, right?” He’s heard Mori talk about Fukuzawa Yukichi, heard the tales of the man's skill with a sword and his ability that lets him regulate any of his subordinates’ powers. Chuuya will admit, he’s impressed at the extent of it; Dazai doesn’t have a single scratch on him from canceling Corruption. Briefly, he lets himself think about how dangerous Dazai is now that he can nullify abilities without fear of rebound from them.

Dazai’s eyes gleam in the moonlight. “You’ve done your homework Chuuya; I’m proud of you,” he says sickly sweet, and Chuuya chucks him the bird.

“Go fuck yourself Dazai, no one else wants to.” The other’s smile turns cruel.

“I can think of one other person who wanted to,” he says softly, and Chuuya’s blood turns to ice.

“That person is dead,” he snarls, staggering to his feet. He can barely feel his legs and his limbs feel like they could fall off any minute, but he can’t be here a second longer with Dazai. Chuuya can feel his old partner's eyes on him and he tries to pretend that he isn’t longing for the other to call his name, to tell him to stop, to do anything.

Dazai stays quiet, and Chuuya limps home alone.

The Guild is defeated, and Mori calls off the truce with the Armed Detective Agency. Things go back to normal and Chuuya drinks himself into a stupor that night.

In an alleyway in Yokohama, Chuuya is 22 years old with his chest heaving, a cut bleeding profusely on his right thigh, and running for his life. He’s stronger than he was 12 years ago, but the cut makes it hard to run and he’s exhausted.

The alleyway ends and he runs straight into a brick wall, palms extended to soften the blow. Footsteps sound from behind him and whips around; he comes face to face with a group of men, all who look thrilled to see him cornered.

He knows these men. They are stragglers left over from the fall of the Guild, greedy and ambitious men with a score to settle and bloodlust their way of life.

They aren't ability users, but there is one of Chuuya and dozens of them and no Dazai to watch his back anymore.

He's fucked up this time, and he knows it. He's too exhausted to try and flee anymore, and there's no point in it; these men will catch him no matter what he tries. This time, there is no Dazai to swoop in and save him, no Kouyou nee-san to offer him a kind word and a helping hand. He is alone, a dirty brick wall behind him and men seeking vengeance in front of him. Chuuya is left with limited choices, and none of them have a happy ending for him.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

'O grantors of dark disgrace, do not wake me anymore.'

The chant is familiar to him, as familiar as Japanese has become, as lies and false smiles are to his lips.

He knows the risks, knows the consequences of using Corruption without Dazai there to cancel it out.

Chuuya is not afraid of dying.

Around him, gravity warps and the ground beneath his feet cracks. His blood heats in his body, dribbles forth from his lips, his eyes, his ears. He is death, he is destruction, and he is not afraid like he was as a child.

He's been living a hollow existence for six years now, and he has nothing to lose.

Using Corruption has always been...surreal for Chuuya. He's only half conscious of his own actions, of the devastation he brings about. It's like his body is on auto-pilot and his brain is watching what goes on around him through a fuzzy lens. He's a spectator to his own death, and the thought doesn't bother him anywhere near like it should.

He chalks it up to not being able to feel anything. Wherever his mind goes during Corruption’s activation, it's outside the realm of the physical. Chuuya watches with mild fascination as the skin is stripped from his flesh, as his bones crack under pressure, as blood soaks his clothes and body.
In cold blood, he kills those who had been pursuing him, crushes them like ants beneath his feet, and then he's left with nothing to do but wait for his own power to consume him.

He wonders then, while waiting for his death, what it was like for Dazai to watch him years ago. For the first time in years, Chuuya allows himself to think of his partner, to mourn what was lost between them, to regret and hate and hurt freely. There are so many things left unsaid between them, so many questions that have never been answered and now will never be. He thinks that this may be for the best; he will die, Dazai will live, and this will be how their story ends.

Abruptly, the power leaves his body, and pain floods into his system.

It's a whirl of colors, feelings, sounds, tastes as he is forcibly shoved back into his own body. His skin feels five sizes to small and there is blood and ash in his mouth; his lungs feel shriveled up, like they are incapable of breathing air anymore and it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, and he doesn't know why.

Spitting and screaming, he crumples to the ground, bones brittle and unable to support his own weight.

The impact he's expecting never comes; his fall is cushioned by something warm that's drawing in ragged breaths beneath him. Shaking uncontrollably, Chuuya finds the strength to lift his head, to squint through the blood running down his eyes, to try and make sense of the situation.

A familiar face is grinning back at him.

Over the years, Chuuya has learned what death looks like. Death is light leaving the eyes, it is rotting flesh and sickness, it is cuts and tears and bruises that will never heal. Death is unpleasant and inescapable, and all too familiar to Chuuya.

Dazai, trapped under his former partner, eyes glassy and the skin torn from his cheeks, grin still on his face, looks like death.

Chuuya's mouth opens and shuts; his heart thumps against his rib cage and his breath catches in his throat. He has so much to say and no words to do so with, and he's ten years old again, useless and frail and stupid.

Unlike before, Dazai understands his partner even without a thing being said between them.
His grin morphs into a soft smile, the first real one Chuuya has seen on his face in a long, long time. Dazai is beautiful through all the blood and peeled flesh and death, and this isn't fair. He speaks, forcing his ruined lungs into action and Chuuya has to strain to decipher the words between Dazai's garbled chokes on his own blood.

"It's been fun partner. I'm sorry it has to end like this."

He finds out, as the rest of the Armed Detective Agency arrives on the scene, that Dazai disobeyed direct orders so that he could go save him. His stomach, which is already doing backflips, jumps up to his throat.

An act of blatant insubordination invalidates his employment at the Agency. Without being under Fukuzawa’s employment, he had no safety from his ability’s backlash.

And knowing this, Dazai still hadn’t hesitated to grab Chuuya when he had been willing to throw his life away with Corruption. He wishes he knew why.

Chuuya watches in silence as the other members of the Agency take in the scene, their eyes coming to rest on the body of their fallen comrade.

“You should be the one who’s dead.” The blonde who works for the Detective Agency spits at him, and it looks like he’s trying hard not to cry, not to let his emotions show. Chuuya recognizes him; he’s Dazai’s new partner, though his name escapes him at the moment.

Chuuya says nothing; he agrees with him.

They leave him there, lying on his back to stare up at the fading sun, incapable of moving. Chuuya suspects that it has something to do with Dazai's final sacrifice; killing him outright would be an insult to the man's memory, and the Armed Detective Agency is not made of murders. On the other hand, it is his fault that Dazai is dead, and they are not selfless enough to forget that.

Chuuya doesn't blame them.

With nothing left to do, he thinks.

He thinks about his childhood, about warm meals and beds, about Kouyou smiling at him warmly and making him feel like he belonged.

He thinks about days spent huddled under layers of blankets, of shared laughs and private jokes and the feeling of having a friend.

He thinks about dark brown eyes that were always, always watching him, even if he wasn't looking back.

He thinks about a boy with a sharp tongue and a sharper mind who was hailed as the demon prodigy of the Port Mafia but no one realized was suffering.

He thinks about the triumph over successful missions, where plans had gone off without a hitch and about plans that have failed horribly, ended in pain and death and suffering.

He thinks about long nights and cheap wine shared with Dazai, where the warmth of each other’s company was more important than the quality of their drinks or the worries of the world.

He thinks about lingering kiss and calloused hands on his body, about small smiles between the two of them and whispered ‘I love yous’ and genuine happiness.

He thinks and thinks and thinks about his life, about everything he’s done to get to this moment, about the man he loved and the man he’s lost. For the second time, Dazai has abandoned Chuuya, only this time, he’s gone somewhere that Chuuya can’t follow.

And for the first time in 12 years, Chuuya cries.