Chapter Text
The Port Mafia building never really slept.
Even in the quiet hours before dawn, it hummed—low voices echoing down marble corridors, the distant clack of polished shoes, the constant awareness that power lived here and was always watching.
Chuuya Nakahara hated mornings like this.
Not because he was tired—he rarely let himself be—but because his binder felt tighter than usual, the elastic pulling against his ribs with every breath. He adjusted his gloves, rolling his shoulders as subtly as he could while standing in the briefing room, back straight, expression bored.
Across from him, Dazai Osamu was slouched in his chair like gravity had personally offended him.
“Wow,” Dazai drawled, chin propped on his hand, bandaged fingers tapping idly against the table. “You look especially grumpy today, Chuuya. Did someone forget their beauty sleep?”
Chuuya didn’t look at him. “Shut up.”
Dazai smiled anyway.
They were fifteen—technically still children, if anyone bothered to care—but the Port Mafia didn’t. They were weapons, paired together by necessity and effectiveness, friction and force.
Double Black.
The briefing ended quickly. Infiltration mission. Enemy ability user. Extraction or elimination depending on resistance. Standard. Dangerous.
Chuuya listened carefully, memorizing routes and contingencies, but his focus kept slipping—not because of nerves, but because of the dull ache pressing under his sternum. He’d put the binder on too quickly this morning, tugged it into place without stretching like he usually did.
That was his fault.
He could handle it.
Dazai caught his eye as they left the room, gaze sharp in a way that made Chuuya bristle. He hated when Dazai looked at him like that—like he was dissecting him, piece by piece.
“You’re quiet,” Dazai said, falling into step beside him. “That’s suspicious.”
“I’m always quiet before missions,” Chuuya snapped.
“That’s a lie.”
Chuuya shoved him lightly with his shoulder. “Walk faster or I’ll leave you behind.”
Dazai laughed, unbothered, hands tucked into his coat pockets. “You couldn’t leave me behind if you tried.”
Unfortunately true.
⸻
The city blurred beneath them as they moved across rooftops, the early morning air sharp against Chuuya’s skin. He preferred this—movement, momentum, the steady burn of exertion. It helped drown out everything else.
Except today, every landing sent a small jolt through his chest.
He ignored it.
He always ignored it.
Dazai noticed anyway.
Not the pain—not yet—but the way Chuuya adjusted his breathing, the slight stiffness in his movements. Dazai had learned Chuuya’s tells over years of fighting together, learned them like a second language.
He didn’t say anything.
Yet.
They reached the target building just as the sun crept higher, casting long shadows across cracked concrete. Chuuya cracked his knuckles, gravity humming under his skin, familiar and comforting.
“Try not to get in my way,” he muttered.
Dazai grinned. “You wound me.”
The fight started fast.
Enemy operatives swarmed the stairwell, gunfire echoing as Chuuya surged forward, gravity flaring around him. He sent bodies flying, boots slamming against walls, bones cracking under controlled force.
It felt good.
Too good.
He pushed harder than he should have, ignoring the sharp twinge that flared when he twisted midair, ignoring the pressure building with every deep breath.
By the time they reached the upper floors, his chest burned.
Dazai grabbed his wrist suddenly, yanking him behind cover as bullets tore through the space where his head had been.
“Watch it,” Dazai said sharply.
Chuuya yanked free. “I had it handled.”
“You’re sloppy.”
That stopped him.
Chuuya spun, eyes flashing. “Say that again.”
Dazai held his gaze, expression unreadable. “After the mission.”
The final confrontation ended quickly—too quickly. Chuuya slammed the enemy ability user into the ground with a force that rattled the floor, gravity pinning them there until they went limp.
The adrenaline faded.
Pain rushed in to take its place.
Chuuya staggered.
It was subtle—barely more than a misstep—but Dazai caught it instantly.
“Chuuya.”
“I’m fine,” Chuuya snapped, breath coming too fast. He pressed a hand briefly to his ribs before jerking it away, as if embarrassed by the instinct.
Dazai’s eyes narrowed.
“Let’s go,” Chuuya said. “Mission’s done.”
They moved—quickly, quietly—but by the time they were back on a safe rooftop, Chuuya was shaking.
He tried to hide it.
Dazai didn’t let him.
He stepped into Chuuya’s space, voice low. “You’re hurt.”
“I said I’m fine.”
“You’re lying.”
Chuuya’s hands clenched. “Drop it.”
For once, Dazai didn’t tease. Didn’t smile.
“Not this time,” he said softly.
Chuuya hated that softness. It made his chest ache worse than the binder ever could.
He exhaled shakily, shoulders sagging just a fraction.
“I just… need a minute.”
Dazai nodded, carefully, like Chuuya might bolt if he moved too fast. He shrugged off his coat and draped it over Chuuya’s shoulders without comment, blocking the chill and the view of his shaking hands.
Chuuya didn’t shrug it off.
That scared him more than the pain.