Chapter Text
Something is wrong in the air.
It can be felt in the silence that has swallowed the entire warehouse district. It’s a prelude to either something terrible or a particularly vicious rainstorm, if the dark clouds above his head are reliable narrators.
Chuuya Nakahara stands in the centre of the wreckage: three collapsed buildings, a shipping container crumpled like mere paper. Only a lamp-post is left standing, a resilient and slightly apologetic sentinel.
That’s not what the report said at all. Rogue ability user my ass.
“Come on,” he says, kicking a rock just to break the stillness. It collides with what remains of a wall; only half of it is still standing. “Come the fuck out!”
Yes, shouting at enemies that are potentially trying to spring an ambush isn’t wise, in general circumstances. Yet, here he is, and by virtue of this fact he can afford to shout and taunt: what’s the worst thing that could happen? A gun? A bomb? No biggie, nothing can escape gravity. Or him, for the matter.
Shouting simply makes the process quicker, since he’s aching for a sip of decent wine and the softness of his own bed.
The reply finally comes, impossible to pinpoint: a raucous laugh expands in waves seemingly originating from everywhere. Is the ground itself breathing? What the hell…
His gloved hand instinctively lands on his hat: he’s ready to jump, to dodge.
The source of the chaos, and of the very expensive property damage surrounding them, finally appears. It must have been a man, maybe, and it can still pass as one. If you squint. If you squint really fucking hard.
Unfortunately, Chuuya is watching, and that thing’s shadow doesn’t match the body: it slithers, it flickers, stretching over the debris with nothing truly casting it. The shadow keeps swirling, circling the figure as an overexcited pet would.
“Alright, you’re not a normal ability user,” Chuuya concludes, cracking his neck to roll out the tension in his shoulders. “I’ve killed plenty of not-normal shit, don’t ya worry.”
The figure doesn’t give an answer, of course, what has he been expecting? Yet the flesh, on what supposedly is its face, shifts and settles, with eyes blinking open in spots where there should be none, and a smile that shows way too many teeth. None of them is human; they’re way too sharp for that.
Lesser men would step back. Someone more cautious would reassess, just to understand what the hell is going on… but there’s a way to get the same answer, and it’s way quicker.
A chunk of concrete the size of a car lifts from the rubble, emitting the characteristic red shimmer of his ability; it rotates slowly, reaching the air above his head.
“Well, ya see, whatever the fuck you are,” he drawls, it’d be lazy if it weren’t for the venom in his voice. “This is gonna hurt.”
Chuuya throws it.
The concrete hits, and the creature screams. No, it’s not pain, can it feel pain? No, it’s more like surprise, like indignation. A nice clean hit won’t end this: the impact has scattered the pieces, right on the wreckage, but it’s not enough: it’s reforming, goo slithering back towards the centre, amassing and taking shape once again.
Well, he probably just has to hit better, simple as that. It’ll be a matter of hitting whilst it’s reforming, with multiple projectiles.
Oh, he’s got this, he’s good at this. The paperwork will be a pain, but that’s a problem for the future.
After the thing patches itself up into its previous, still unnerving, shape, Chuuya watches its head tilt… is it pondering? As if a decision is being made, here and now, yet with no rush.
The posture is familiar, it’d be to anyone who’s been in countless fights: an attack is coming.
He has to move, right the fuck now.
The air splits before Chuuya’s body is ready for a dodge. A line of pure energy, flickering and vibrating with an unsettling hum, is aimed at him. No, not aimed; it took no time. There was no firing… he instinctively looks down, and there it is: he’s been hit, right between his ribs. It’s a beam containing a myriad of colours, crystallised in a single line, as wide as his palm, and a surprisingly tender warmth radiates from the point of contact.
Pain is going to come any minute now, no? No?!
The pain never comes, but the world itself starts dancing in a vertigo-inducing choreography that hurts his eyes. He shuts them, and one hand races to the bridge of his nose to ease the ache… but the world doesn’t reappear.
It remains black.
For a second he can almost hear the sound of his own body hitting the ground.
Motherfucker…
Time flows weirdly when you’re unconscious.
One moment, and then the next.
The next moment brings a sliver of awareness, a breath caught in his lungs, a panicked exhale.
Everything seems intact; that’s something. No pain. No wounds.
Chuuya opens his eyes. The world is gigantic, when has it become so huge? Debris towers over him like a skyscraper would, the rubble is transformed into a landscape of boulders and mountains. He’s in the same spot, but the size of everything is wrong.
The sky, now pitch black, seems way more unreachable than usual. It must be his vision, the attack has altered his vision: the world is sharp, the colours bleed into each other, how very unnatural.
He turns his head, trying to locate the figure: it must be still there, gloating, probably. His neck doesn’t respond properly. It’s not refusing, but only responding differently: joints bending at a nonsensical angle, muscles shifting in bizarre patterns.
His hat, he sees his hat. And it’s everywhere.
The hat is intact too, at least. This thought surfaces and brings no comfort; there’s way too much going on. The hat lies on him, or he’s somehow inside it?! The lining is a curved wall that reaches past his shoulders. He blinks. Nothing changes: the chain, that dainty chain he has fidgeted with a thousand times, is now the size of a garden hose.
It’s his hat, right?
Why is it the size of half of his body?
What has that motherfucker done?!
He needs to move; that’s for sure. The thing might come back soon, and, for once in his life, Chuuya can admit that he’s in no fit state to fight. Not like this, whatever this is.
But no, the hat. He can’t leave it here either. This is an absurd problem.
Chuuya’s body solves it without his conscious permission: his jaws close around the brim, and he’s dragging it before realising what he’s doing. With his mouth? Okay, alright, fuck this. He tucks it beneath a concrete overhang, leaving only a faint gleam of metal visible from certain angles.
He steps back on all fours, spine curved and weight balanced. The hat will be safe, protected, and his. A faint rumble spills from his breath, reverberating in his chest.
It’s a purr, but that’s something Chuuya will realise, retrospectively, much later.
Right now, from the inside out, it’s nothing but warm satisfaction.
He starts walking, and he finally allows his gaze to race down: paws where his hands should be, paws where his feet should be. He must be hallucinating! Yeah, that’s the simplest solution, hence the most probable too.
Every motion is fluid, elegant… the weightlessness is comparable to that which Chuuya can induce with his ability, but it’s also less restricted. The sensation is oh-so-wrong, until it isn’t: his brain rejects it, but his body has other plans. Four legs, low gravity, and an incredible sense of equilibrium granted by a flickering sensation: a tail swaying at each step.
What a fucked-up hallucination.
It’s almost believable, but Chuuya doesn’t fall for it, even as the landscape of rubble gives way to narrow streets and the smell of something fried replaces dust and blood.
Well, at least the fur is orange. That’s a nice touch, adding to the plausibility in a manner that would make Chuuya laugh… if he had the ability to do so in this form.
Above him, thunder rumbles. It’s gonna rain soon.
He needs answers, but before that he needs shelter from the incoming rain.
And he needs to not think about what he’s done with the hat.
He’ll figure it out, right?
His stroll leads him to a cramped street which smells of oil. Restaurants huddle together, and from their back entrances comes a call in the form of light, warmth… and the smell of fish. Chuuya’s whole body turns towards the source. He doesn’t want it, yet it happens.
His body sits.
For those accustomed to the ways of cats, he is, albeit unbeknownst to himself, begging. Paws tucked, staring at the door, wide and attentive blue eyes tracking every shadow eclipsing the light.
He’s waiting for someone to bring him something. Grilled fish, hopefully.
What the hell is he doing?
Then, the first drop hits his nose.
The second lands on his ear, tickling. Within the span of a breath the sky has opened and rain pours down. It soaks him rather quickly, reaching the skin as he scrambles for cover. Chuuya ducks beneath a rusted awning, shaking droplets from his coat by moving his whole body.
Nearby, tucked in the corner, a puddle is already forming: it captures the shimmering multicolour lights of multiple shop signs. Chuuya strides over; he looks at it expecting nothing; well, no, maybe his own face, even if he doubts that’s what he’ll see.
Of course what he sees is a cat.
And not a majestic one at that.
He is small, orange and wet. The fur is plastered flat, which makes him look even tinier: a street rat would have more dignity; he looks pathetic… a pathetic cat. Framed by the copper fur are big blue eyes, narrowed in an expression of pure fury. Ears flattened, tail puffed with indignation, teeth gritted… no, fuck this.
Chuuya looks away.
He turns his head slightly over his shoulder, looking back.
The cat does the same.
No, nope, fuck no.
He opens his mouth: ‘Fuck!’ is what he planned on saying. Swearing always makes the world feel manageable. It helps, in any and every situation… what comes out is a mere sound. No, there’s no word, only a thin and shaky mrrp that makes it finally dawn on him.
He’s a cat.
Tiny, soaking wet. His hat is safe, but God knows where his wallet is. He cannot speak, he cannot call for reinforcements. He is powerless.
And to make matters worse it’s raining ca–ah ah, very funny, fuck off.
The rain hammers down, relentless, ricochetting against the roofs in an imperfect melody and turning the street into a river of reflected neon.
His paws ache with cold and his whiskers are dripping. There’s not much one can do without opposable thumbs. Chuuya’s body, this strange shape he’s been trapped in, knows what to do, though. It’s not purposeful, it won’t solve shit, but his legs fold beneath him and his tail curls around, settling as it touches his front legs.
A perfect circle of wet fur. He’s making himself small, as if he’s not small enough. Unbidden, his chin drops to his paws. He’s hiding, but not from the passersby: Chuuya, for the first time in his life, is hiding from the situation.
Time passes, that’s something he can acknowledge even if his perception is, currently, warped.
His mind drifts: his apartment, his wine, his bed would be so warm and perfect right now; oh, the cigarette he’s been craving since before the fight…
How long until the Port Mafia notices he’s gone? It’ll take the whole night, minimum. And how long after that before they find a cat where an executive should be?
Anger is a weird thing at this instant. For what little he knows about cats, he should be hissing and growling. He doesn’t. He curls tighter, pressing his spine against the wall and allowing his eyelids to slide shut.
Rather than anger, this tiny body is translating a more complex thing: the inability of seeing a way out would have been channelled into fury, in normal circumstances. Fury is good, it allows one to break things, and if you break enough shit you can eventually find an opening. The result is objectively useless: helplessness becomes exhaustion.
Perhaps it’s just the cold, which makes him shiver every three breaths.
No, he’s not sleeping. It’s a quick rest. Just a moment, one when he doesn’t have to fight.
Yokohama continues to breathe, as it always does, even as the rain falls in silver sheets. Over a couple of hours, the rainstorm has softened, blurring the edges of the city, adorning it with small rivers that flow towards the drains.
Of course, aided by the late hour, the rain drives people home, a shepherd herding a flock of office workers.
Umbrellas bob past in clusters, their owners hunched against the wind, pulling their scarves tighter, holding onto their bags and bumping into each other. The rain makes people forget how to walk; that’s a universal rule, apparently.
One figure, surprisingly, seems in no rush at all.
When does he ever? He strides lazily, does he even have a destination? Perhaps destinations are, like many other things, a privilege reserved for human beings, which is a status he’d never grant himself.
His umbrella is battered, with a couple of spokes bent at odd angles. Near the centre there’s a visible hole which allows rain to drip, steadily and annoyingly, onto the top of his brown waves. He’s been walking long enough that the dripping has now soaked the back of his collar: the beige trench coat has many darkening spots, but that growing circle at the back of his neck is the most annoying of them all.
The detective turns the corner, passing the awning without pause. Then stops.
He takes three steps backward. Looks down.
Orange is such a vibrant colour, you see… well, Osamu Dazai might have a slight priming towards it, for reasons that we shall not investigate at this instant.
A small circle of copper, sheltered by the awning, lying still. A cat. Oh, he’s always been a cat person, despite not all cats liking him. Perhaps that’s the reason, if one ignores the uneasiness that dogs instil into him: cats are selective, they see differences between individuals. Cats, unlike dogs, are not polite about it, either. Cats, unlike dogs, don’t need proximity to judge you: they do it automatically, even from afar, and bless you with their proximity only if you pass their evaluation.
Dazai crouches slowly, so as not to startle the sleeping cat. He tilts the umbrella in a way that covers the entrance of that minuscule shelter more than his own head. The rain starts darkening the back of his coat, and its hem is drinking from the puddle on the ground.
Close up, he can see the shivering running through that compact body every few seconds. The man extends one hand, fingers hovering without touching… he knows better and he acts as such; a novelty for Osamu Dazai. He always knows better, but he rarely acts accordingly.
“Oh my,” he murmurs in a voice that is surprisingly devoid of artifice: it’s just soft, it is, with no deliberation. Apparently, cats don’t belong to the collection of individuals that humans call society, cats aren’t part of the public witnessing the spectacle that this detective is. “Not doing so well, are you?”
His fingertips finally make contact with the cat’s side: underneath the wet fur, breaths come fast and shallow. The cat is alive, but what a timid way of living it is.
Chuuya wakes up miffed. This is not unprecedented, unfortunately.
What he can discern, bit by bit, is that he’s cold, very wet, and there’s something warm and unbidden pressing against his side.His eyes fly open, and for one very disorientated second he doesn’t understand what he’s seeing.
A face hovers above him, gigantic and half-shadowed by an umbrella.
No. No, of course not, the universe ain’t such a bitch, is she?
Recognition precedes comprehension, and his body rushes before his mind fully catches up.
He bolts.
Well, he tries to. His paws slip on the wet ground and all he manages are three stumbling steps to the side before leaning against the brick wall.
No way out, but his frame doesn’t accept defeat: his fur bristles, and, whilst arching his spine, he tries to curse the bastard in front of him.
A hiss tears from his throat, instead of the colourful curses that he’s hurling within his skull.
Dazai Osamu is the man crouched in front of him. Of all the people in Yokohama, of all the nightmares, it has to be the worst one.
“Easy,” Dazai chides, and his hand stays there, stationary and unthreatening. Rain is dripping onto his oh-so-perfect hair. And he’s not even complaining about it!
Chuuya’s tail puffs to twice its size, and his lips pull back, baring small sharp teeth that he still hasn’t accepted as his. His own anger is being translated into pure feline fury. A “Grrph” comes out, and it’s meant to be a threat, but it's shaky.
One of Dazai’s eyebrows rises, and his eyes are still unbelievably tender. Chuuya would love to claw them out, at this instant, but he doubts he can reach him. Hilarious, truly fucking so. For all the taunts of their youth, for all the ‘You sure you can reach that high, slug?’, now it’s undeniable: he cannot reach, even if he jumped.
“What about we make a deal?” Dazai adds after a breath of calculation. “I’ll dry you off, and afterwards you can decide whether you like me or not.”
Fuck no, stay away from me. Don’t you fucking dare touch me. I’ll bite, yes, I’ll…
“Many don’t, so I won’t be disappointed, I promise,” Dazai adds, as if it could make his offer more palatable.
The feline’s ears relax a shade, still flattened but less severely. First of all, why is the idiot trying to persuade a cat with words? Of course this one is perceptive, he is not a cat, he’s just a very unlucky Port Mafia Executive experiencing one of the worst days of his life.
So, does Dazai talk to all cats like this? Pff…
What answer is he even waiting for? It’s clear he’s waiting, sheltering the cat from the rain and acting as if he has all night just to convince him to follow.
No way in hell he’s going with Dazai.
He’ll stay here, in the rain; he’ll probably contract some sort of feline illness and die tragically in a puddle next to a ramen shop. That’s a good alternative: death has dignity! And it doesn’t involve being treated as a pet by someone who’d be delighted by the irony of this shitty moment.
Chuuya glares, and it takes a lot of stubbornness to try to convey a human emotion with a snout.
It’s clearly not sufficient to get the message across, because Dazai doesn’t move.
At least Dazai doesn’t know.
A minute passes, or perhaps more. Time flows differently in this form: it feels like an eternity, but it can’t be. Chuuya knows for a fact, that despite all the strategising, the man in front of him is not patient. Patience requires a certain balance, within his own mind and with the world as a whole, and Dazai has neither.
Yet time passes.
The silence is imperfect and the rain falls.
And Chuuya’s limbs begin to tremble, a giveaway of pure exhaustion. It’s the cold, it’s the humiliating reality of his shelter, of lying on wet concrete for hours… and within a form that has no resilience.
He sways, and there’s nothing Chuuya can do to stop it. Such an instability, albeit brief, should eventuate in face-planting the concrete… but it doesn’t happen: Dazai moves.
He’s fast when he wants to be; that’s something Chuuya’s instinctually known for years.
One hand slides beneath the cat’s chest, cupping that minuscule trembling shape. Wait, fuck… no. He’s being lifted off the ground and pressed against a warm, dry chest.
The lapel of a beige trenchcoat follows soon after, enveloping his whole body and leaving only his head peeking from it.
Chuuya is shocked and freezing… or perhaps he’s just too weak to do anything more than let his head loll against the warmth. The fucking problem is that it’s snug and dry, and he hasn’t felt anything dry in something akin to a lifetime. Time is weird, for cats.
“Shh,” Dazai coos. “You barely weigh anything at all, do you? You little thing, all fur and fury.” The words are melodious in nature, comparable to a gentle and, supposedly, soothing hum… fuck, it is. It has the same effect of an off-key lullaby: it’s atrocious music, but it bestows comfort regardless.
Chuuya wants to scream and unleash every foul curse he knows, or at least protest with ‘I’ll have you know I’m a medium-sized cat!’
Something comes out, but it’s the most high-pitched mew ever voiced. Fucking fantastic, now the bastard has yet another reason to pity him!
Dazai doesn’t answer; what can you say to a squeak? His brown eyes widen in response, but it’s ephemeral. As his gaze softens, the skin at the corners of his eyes settles into a few faint creases; it’s the kind one earns at twenty-two, not a day younger.
Chuuya fights.
No, that’s not accurate; he tries to fight.
He will not be carried like a pet; he’s not a helpless creature, and he shouldn’t be grateful. Despite his current form he still has weapons: sharp claws that could tear through bandages and flesh, needle-sharp teeth made to taste blood. Yes, then Dazai will drop him and then… well, he’ll figure out the rest. He’s good at that.
He tries to act on it, truly, but the rage is unreachable, somewhere at the edges of his thoughts but inaccessible to his muscles. No, it’s worse, his body is simply not listening: the focus is elsewhere.
The tension has left his body, and in its absence Chuuya can now recognise that he’s been clenched for hours, even when unconscious. His spine relaxes without his permission, his head settles against the fabric and his ears twitch once before settling. Even his legs have stopped trembling; they tuck closer: he is, effectively, a ball of ginger fur.
No, I’m not going to…
The anger fades. And all the intentions feeding on it do the same.
His eyelids are heavy, and even the rain has changed: it’s muffled, distant, kind. It’s the comfort a human gets from staying home on a rainy day: sure, the outside is wet and harsh, but there’s nothing to worry about, not here, because here there is warmth.
I hate this, I hate you so fucking much.
Okay, he should track the route, at least. He’s being taken, he has to count the turns. That’s something simple; he can manage it, even if Chuuya has to pour an enormous amount of willpower into the simple act of keeping his eyes open.
The streetlights blur past in orange smears that, every once in a while, intrude underneath that raggedy umbrella. Two right, one left… is there any landmark in sight?
Something glimmers.
His gaze fixates on it in a split second. No, fuck, the turns, that’s not…
It’s a bolo tie, resting at the hollow of Dazai’s throat and swaying with every step. Back and forth, back and forth… and more importantly, beneath it there are two tails of leather cord, dangling against his chest; they’re remarkably close to Chuuya’s head.
The tails end in ornate metal tips which catch and release the light in a hypnotic rhythm that makes Chuuya’s pupils dilate.
Don’t.
His paw lifts.
Don’t you fucking dare.
The pad of his front leg connects to the cord in a split second, sending it swinging in the opposite direction.
Oh.
He bats again, slowly, watching it go away and come back for more. It’s just so fucking satisfying, okay?! It’s primitive, it’s a makeshift hunt with a very willing and shiny prey, and he just can’t stop doing it.
From above, Dazai makes a sound: it’s feeble but dripping with delight. “Cute, I’m flattered.”
No, it’s not cute, you piece of shit. Yet his paw swats one more time and it completely misses the mark, landing on the fabric of Dazai’s shirt and giving up. Yeah, he’ll go back to hunting the shiny thing later, because that’s a very important thing that he needs to do.
And the turns? Where is he now?
His eyes close. No answer surfaces and his awareness dissipates.
The mind cannot hold onto fear when the body has already surrendered.
It’s the absence of the rain that brings him back to consciousness. In a matter of hours the coldness and wetness have seeped through his bones, becoming permanent. It’s almost impossible to remember a moment when he hasn’t been so, which is ridiculous. Rationally, Chuuya knows that is ridiculous.
There’s warmth, not localised but permeating, and it’s everywhere.
Alongside it there’s a motion, a touch… of something soft and dry, rubbing against his back in circles. Eh?!
Chuuya blinks, and he tries to lift his head but it’s not cooperative… it’s so heavy, way too heavy for his neck. He still manages a glimpse of his surroundings: he has been set on a sofa, or at least something that pretends to be, and the room is yellow.
Yes, yellow, an important feature to identify where he has been moved, sure thing, good fucking job, Nakahara.
He has been moved, and he doesn’t know where he is. It’s a small room, filled with accumulated belongings and the yellow… old light bulbs! What a cheap bastard.
Dazai is the source of that insistent rubbing: towel in hand, he’s trying to dry the fur around the cat’s shoulders in gentle circular motions.
What? Why?!
Chuuya tries to ask, but what comes out is a high-pitched and questioning chirp.
Of course, like every other person since the dawn of time, Dazai interprets that sound as an attempt to communicate.
It’s even more unsurprising that the sound gets filtered and distorted, becoming something different.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m not good at this I know,” a brief pause. “But you’ve stopped shivering, which is good.”
It’s a completely incongruous response, a monologue masquerading as a conversation. Perhaps human projecting onto animals is what makes them adorable.
Yeah, it’s a fair fucking point. You know what else it is? For a mafioso trapped in a cat’s body? Infuriating.
Osamu Dazai, of all people, is supposed to be smart. Where’s his intelligence now? Why can’t he see that the blue eyes staring up at him are familiar, and that those eyes, despite the variations, are human eyes?
Dazai’s fingers work their way from Chuuya’s shoulders to his legs with surprising delicacy, and they purposefully try to keep his bare hands away from the cat’s claws. Albeit retracted, they’re still present, a potential source of pain if Dazai isn’t careful enough.
“You know, I had other plans for tonight,” he says, and anyone who knows the bastard well enough can easily guess. “But then I saw something small, angry and orange that needed rescuing… so I guess not today, I suppose.”
He’s not trying to make any sense, that much is clear: Dazai’s talking to himself, so there’s no need to clarify anything at all.
The problem is that Chuuya knows enough. He doesn’t need additions to understand the implications: he’s, against his own will, fluent in the bastard’s unique language. So, what does he mean? Simple: ‘I wanted to kill myself tonight, again, but then I saw you and you changed my plans.’
What a heavy revelation to lay on anyone: if this is the only honesty he’s capable of, it’s understandable why the bastard rarely indulges in it. This is not clean; this is not polite; nobody wants to know this.
The cat doesn’t care, or rather, this cat cannot understand, no? So the heavy weight of those words cannot crush its bones. Here it is, the pathway that leads to this man’s honesty: the certainty, which is an unfortunate illusion in this case, that he can unveil himself without inflicting harm.
Dazai stills, resting on the dishevelled fur, just for a second. It’s pleasant; that’s something Chuuya cannot deny: those are big hands, enhanced by the size of Chuuya’s own body, and they’re gifting him some warmth.
The contact fades gently as Dazai reaches for something on the couch beside them. Oh, it’s a blanket: thin and grey, but it’s clean. He wraps it around Chuuya’s body with surprising care, tucking the edges until only his head remains free.
It’s constrictive. Chuuya should flee, but the bundling is soft and warm and his body instinctively curls into it.
“Very dignified, ne?” He’s teasing, clearly, but it’s gentle. How strange.
“I’m going to find you something to eat,” Dazai announces, straightening up. “I must have something edible. Don’t go anywhere.”
Where the fuck would I go? I’m wrapped in a blanket, you dip shit.
At this point Chuuya’s mind has relented in its futile fight: there’s a lot he should be thinking about, but right now it doesn’t matter. He should find a way to reverse the transformation. He should be running towards the headquarters. He should…
But, peering from the window, one can see that the rain has picked back up, and Chuuya is now… his legs are short and the headquarters is impossibly far…
He’s never been the type to accept comfort: he’s lived on the streets for most of his childhood. He knows survival.
Tonight he doesn’t have the strength to trade comfort in favour of survival, though.
The warmth is all-encompassing, spreading outwardly and reaching the tops of his ears. For a single eternal moment, he drifts in the space between awareness and a dream: yes, he has a tail, he is a cat, he is trapped… but it’s not such a big deal, is it?
How could it be?
Nothing hurts and there’s nothing Chuuya can do: he is caged in this frame, which is hilariously liberating.
Somewhere a cabinet opens.
Light footsteps on a wooden floor.
The scent of crab rounds the corner and reaches him: it’s the most intense smell he’s ever experienced, full of layers, a salty ode to the sea. His stomach clenches and his small pink nose twitches.
The bandaged bastard appears in his field of vision, but that delicious smell dominates each and every other sense. Dazai holds a sauce dish in one hand and a ceramic bottle in the other.
“I caught you something,” he declares, one of those tender lies that are unavoidable when talking to something cute, settling the plate within reach.
After loosening the edges of the blanket, Dazai settles on the floor in front of the couch, sprawling with his back against the border. The deliberate implication is clear: ‘I’m not looking, I’m not interested in stealing the food I’ve provided, eat now’. To support it Dazai takes a long pull from the bottle, his eyes unfocused, gazing at the dusty window, as if reaching for the outside world.
So many questions demand to be asked, but Chuuya has no voice and, admittedly, he’s staring at the food, reluctantly.
This is pity, which he’s always hated. He should refuse this. It’s canned crab; of course it is… it’ll taste like shit.
His stomach is working with the input coming from his nose: it growls, audibly. Fuck.
Dazai laughs, and it’s a very new sound: it conveys no mockery. It’s spilling out with no real control and intention.
You know what? Fine, this is fucking fine.
Chuuya extricates his front paws from the blanket before diving in: his whole face enters the dish, and for a moment his whole world is encased by the ceramic and its contents.
With the first bite his pride dies.
Oh, are you shitting my dick?
This canned crab is the most extraordinary thing Chuuya’s ever tasted. The flavour is not inherent in the crab itself, of course: the richness is circumstantial.
He eats with horrifying intensity, in frantic bites devoid of any restraint.
Amongst the bites something else can be heard: his small body is vibrating, and it’s too late to stop it… no, no, he is purring. Over canned crab, of all things, and in front of…
Dazai turns his head, just to peer over his shoulder, as if he doesn’t dare to intrude upon the moment, as if he’s granting the cat privacy. His eyes are relaxed and slightly narrowed, and one corner of his mouth stretches into half-a-smile.
It’s satisfaction for a mere action: he’s done something useful, feeding a stray. This moment cannot be a charade, because there is no public. Sincerity can flourish only without prying eyes, that’s something the detective oftentimes experiences, but usually his honesty bears despair. Today it’s yielding pride.
Osamu Dazai has done something right.
Even when his eyes return to the window, and the sake bottle returns to his lips, the smile doesn’t fade.
Behind him, the small orange stray licks the dish clean with a fervour akin to devotion.
Yeah, fuck, Chuuya’ll deal with the shame tomorrow.
The dish is empty, and Chuuya stares at it for a moment, as if he’s waiting for more to appear. He is sated, but a bit more wouldn’t hurt… what a very feline thought that is.
“Done?”
Dazai’s hand reaches for the dish, just to set it down on the low table in front of the couch: yes, if it’s in sight it means it might be refilled, sooner or later. Chuuya tenses as the plate is lifted, but he relaxes the moment it lands: if it’s still in sight there’s a chance it’ll be refilled again.
The hand returns, hovering above Chuuya’s head for a moment. There’s hesitancy in those elongated fingers, and that’s something nobody would ever think possible: Dazai’s hands always seem so certain in their laziness, and yet, now they’re trembling.
Gently, the touch lands between the cat’s ears, resting on the fur without pressure. Is he waiting to see if the cat will allow it?
Ridiculous piece of shit.
There’s an important consideration to be made, a relevant question to be asked: why hasn’t he been turned back by No Longer Human? Is this furry body permanent? No, it’s… oh, this is not an ability. At least Chuuya’s been spared the embarrassment of suddenly materialising on the bastard’s couch.
This makes the prospect of reversing the transformation way harder, but… the warmth of the contact spreads through his skull, tiptoeing down his spine and reigniting the purring.
Fuck it; Chuuya’s head tilts into the touch, demanding more.
“Oh,” Dazai exhales. “Okay.” His voice is shaking, as if some emotion is daring to spill but it’s still being contained.
His fingers curl, stroking behind his ears, lingering where the ginger fur is the softest. The vibration explodes: it’s loud, it’s insistent and it silences Chuuya’s thoughts. Yeah, it’s all right.
A purring cat is the most comforting thing in the world, or so Dazai would say: it’s honest, it’s an undeniable reaction… life would be easier if humans conveyed likes and dislikes the same way cats do. There would be no need to deceive.
“You know, perhaps introductions are in order,” he says, and there’s some theatricality in his tone, a flicker of a dying performance.
“Cats tend to be self-centred, I respect that.” His voice pauses, but his fingers keep tracing lazy patterns through ginger fur. “Your saviour’s name is Dazai Osamu, the most beloved member of the Armed Detective Agency!”
Oh, so now that’s how you introduce yourself… how very convenient. It’s a dishonest introduction, crystallised in the present and ignorant of the past. It’s a move Chuuya should have expected, but it still gets on his nerves.
“You see, it sounds more impressive than it is. Mostly we solve those cases the police can’t handle, and we step in when abilities are involved… a good chunk of the job is infidelity and lost pets, though,” he elaborates, because that was a problem, obviously. The cat needed to know this.
Serves you well, now you can shove your self-importance up your arse before stalking a cheating salary-man.
“Are you a lost pet? Would you even know? Perhaps you see yourself as a street urchin, because you forgot, but actually you’re precious to someone and you just… don’t remember.” The hypothetical is unnecessary, but it’s hilariously fitting.
Why don’t you shut the fuck up? Chuuya would genuinely want to convey that, but Dazai’s thumb finds that spot behind his ear, and the rumble intensifies. He doesn’t even try.
Yes, in a way he used to be a street urchin who had forgotten how important he was, but rather than a sign of recognition this is nothing but a coincidence.
The universe, as we’ve agreed upon earlier, is a bitch.
“I work with good people,” he adds, his gaze darts upwards. “They care about me, which is inconvenient. It hasn’t always been so… the detective thing is a new development.”
“It’s not like the people I worked with before the ADA were bad… no, let me be precise, not all of them were bad.” The words come out slow, deliberate. “There were different parameters for care, I guess. Honour as a moral code does these weird things, it makes regular things shameful… and somehow atrocity becomes a virtue. I don’t know how to explain it, I guess you had to be there.”
“I fret they don’t hire cats, though,” Dazai hums in a snort, trying to shatter the tension he, himself, has inadvertently forged. “Though the ADA does… not officially, but Fukuzawa-san has a bias towards your kind, we could easily convince him.”
This is a predictable pivot, Chuuya knows him well enough: the bastard is allergic to responsibility, and even something as small as this orange cat is too much for him. He’s already looking for a better alternative: people who don’t plan on staying always do this, and they always reach this type of conclusion.
The best alternative, the best outcome, it’s always the one where they’re not involved.
You’re still the same shitty coward…
Perhaps it’s a good thing that, in this form, Chuuya’s impulsive reactions cannot take form: he’s not processing them properly, he never does when this bastard is around.
Now, right now, Chuuya can just listen and purr.
The immediate frustration, which rears its head after each and every word Dazai utters, is slowly starting to fade.
“And that’s all!” Dazai chirps, feigning unnecessary glee, but he intensifies his ministrations.
Oh, yes, scratch there, you piece of shit.
Chuuya’s body conveys the demand by tilting, granting privileged access to his neck: every touch sends tingles down his spine, and the wave comes back through his lungs in the form of an insistent vibration. The purring has grown louder, all-encompassing, Chuuya hears it reverberate in his skull.
Each and every sensation feeds on the previous one and nourishes its successor. It’s like being shitfaced, in a way, but with no alcohol involved and way less dread.
“You’re very calm, you know that?” He observes as his fingers dive under the blanket, tracing the ridge of Chuuya’s spine. Street cats usually scratch, or bolt, or both, so this orange ball of fur is clearly not feral. It’s tolerating the blanket, the feeding, the scratches.
“You must have had an owner, someone who taught you to trust. They must have put up posters, no? ‘Lost orange cat, angry and fluffy’.” The words are gentle, reassuring even. Cats don’t understand words, but they can easily grasp tones, and which one would be more comforting than the one conveying ‘you’ll be found, you’ll be back home soon’?
“That’s what happens when something cherished disappears, they don’t celebrate the absence.”
It takes Chuuya an embarrassing amount of seconds to make the connection, and it’s moderately aided by the loss of stimulation.
Dazai has stopped talking about the cat, he himself is the thing that disappeared… oh. Okay. It’s very on brand for the bastard, turning himself into a victim when he was the one who, four years earlier, did the disappearing to begin with. The Port Mafia doesn’t put up posters for traitors.
The lack of a proper hunt was, in itself, mercy!
Yet, when he looks up, Dazai’s lips are so thin, closed shut as if to cage a feeling inside, and his eyes are surprisingly wet. As if Dazai has the ability to cry, like every other human being… so fucking ridiculous.
But there’s no public. This isn’t a performance either, and it’s an uncomfortable peek into the inner workings of Dazai’s mind: of course his absence must have been celebrated, no?
You stupid suicidal sack of shit, distorting reality through…
Chuuya cannot shout, he cannot…
Well, he can do something, at least.
He shifts his small body, wriggling until he can turn his head: he presses his small skull against the centre of Dazai’s palm. Insistent, hard, for a couple of seconds, and then he turns to the side. His cheek and whiskers start rubbing against the skin, one side, then the other, again and again. Stupid Mackerel.
“Oh, okay, yeah, I’ll get you home, I promise.”
No, that’s not it! Idiot! The cat keeps rubbing, keeps pressing, and purring morphs into a roar: for a second one can hear the disconcerting mixture of pleasure and outrage.
Dazai doesn’t grasp it, and even if he did it’d be perilous, even for a genius, to jump from concept to concept to reach the correct conclusion. It’d be something like this, if you’re wondering: the cat is mad about my words because the cat knows what happened, the cat knows my tendencies, and he’s now trying to console me. You see? It sounds like the onset of a very bad joke.
Dazai stands, and Chuuya’s world tilts: he has no clue when the bastard’s hand has slithered under his body, and yet here it is, airborne for a very disorientating couple of seconds.
They’re both moving. The couch dips under Dazai’s weight as he lies down, and the orange cat finds himself relocated, deposited onto a warm sternum.
“There, ain’t this better?”
His hand resumes its strokes, though it’s slower, lazier. Now, of all the things that Chuuya’s experienced today, this one takes the crown. Dazai’s face is so impossibly close, enough to grasp the slight variations of the man’s irises: coffee with a dusting of gold. He’s never noticed that…
Wherever that realisation is going, it doesn’t, it stops before its destination. This body has clearly stopped asking for permission, as if the extended purring has an intoxicating effect, dulling his thoughts and his inhibitions.
His paws press into the warmth, kneading at the cotton with leisure. Press, release. Like he’s making bread from invisible dough.
Fuck, no. It feels amazing though.
“Oh my god, you’re making biscuits!” Never has genuine wonder tilted Dazai Osamu’s voice like it does now. Of all things in Yokohama it is this that gets to him: a tiny creature which has no reason to trust the world, nor him, who’s communicating that, in this brief moment, he is safe.
“Good cat,” he whispers, right before his eyes close.
For once in forever, Dazai’s breathing slows down without putting up a fight, escaping slightly curved lips.
Sleep and Osamu have never been good acquaintances, that’s something even Chuuya knows. He can’t recall when the notion entered his mind, but it resurfaces right now.
It’s important: relevance and scarcity go hand in hand, don’t they?
He could say he doesn’t give a flying fuck, and that’s a performance he might resume later, but for now he allows himself the satisfaction. Dazai’s face is slack, his eyes close and shed long shadows on his cheekbones; he’s vulnerable and unaware of the claws catching in the fabric of his shirt.
A cat can be deadly, it takes a single well-placed slash to end a man.
One of Chuuya’s paws reaches upwards.
No, he’s not going for the jugular, you ill-intentioned reader: there’s the gemstone, now static, but also unguarded. Perfect prey: it’s finally mine. Chuuya shifts his weight forward: this is another satisfying victory for this orange cat, and he celebrates by tucking his snout under the collar’s fold.
Safe, accomplished, victorious.
Warm, proud, fed.
Such a strange mix; it’s a concoction of complex human emotions and simpler, feline, ones. The remaining paw stubbornly continues kneading, but the rhythm stutters, pressing with diminishing force.
He should really try fixing this mess. Fleeing from a window, at least. He should figure it all out, it’s time to leave…
His paw presses once more, and then stills. Even the vibration in his throat fades to a whisper, and then succumbs to silence.
A sleeping detective with a small and warm weight at the centre of his chest, in a flat reeking of cheap sake and canned crab: real peace, in its ephemeral and realistic manifestation, frequently looks just like this.
At times heaven is just an orange cat.
Ow. What the hell.
There’s pain in his neck, that’s the notion that wakes Chuuya up, rather than the more dignified alternative of being woken up by the morning light. His face is pressed against something warm, one arm is stretched outward, fingers curled around something cool and smooth.
His other arm is numb and trapped under his own body.
Mm. Nice.
There’s no immediate rush to go, to run, to get his day started just to start slaving away to his own obligations. No, this is safe and comfortable: both adjectives that Chuuya never granted to his own bed.
Absentmindedly, his thumb traces the object in his grasp, tracing a couple of circles on the gemstone. Thumb?
His eyes snap open: white fabric littered with thin blue lines, the ridges of buttons, a collar, and right there, directly in his line of sight, lies the blue gemstone, set in brass wire and possessively held by a very human hand.
The situation is… compromising, that’s the first thought: his leg is thrown over a thigh, his body is draped across another man’s like an admittedly short blanket, and…
He’s naked.
He’s human, and he is very naked.
He’s human, naked, and lying on Dazai.
Of fucking course, his clothes are where his hat is. Is it how the transformation is supposed to go? Or does the universe just hate him, specifically?
It’s clear he needs to move.
Now, before this gets worse.
Even if, what could be worse than being naked on a traitor’s chest? What could possibly…
Dazai waking up and seeing him, that’s it, that’s the worst case scenario.
His limbs protest as he shifts, but despite the numbness Chuuya manages to slide off the couch without making a sound. Every moment is costly, like the immense effort one needs to leave a warm bed on a freezing winter morning.
Dazai’s breath stutters, once. Only once before steadying back. It’s alright, the bastard is still sleeping.
Now the problem is, where to go? How to leave? Sure, he could stride out from the front door, if not for a single detail… he’s naked.
Nakahara Chuuya, Executive of Mori Corp, seen fleeing naked from the apartment of Osamu Dazai, employee of the Armed Detective Agency.
The headlines write themselves.
Alright, fuck. He circles the room with feather-like steps. There’s a wardrobe in the corner, and that’s his best chance to locate something that will cover enough for him to get from here to the headquarters without being arrested for public indecency. He’s not going to be arrested on such charges, it’d be insulting to every other crime he has committed in the past fifteen years. Unacceptable.
He faces the wardrobe’s absolute chaos: shirts crumpled in creative shapes barely reminiscent of a fold, trousers hanging from one leg, and a single tie knotted around the hanger for… what even is the purpose of that? Ah! Not very strategic of you, Osamu. The thought almost makes him snort, but he catches himself before that.
Chuuya tears through the piles at the bottom with the focus of a man who has thirty seconds (well, a minute at best) before the universe finds another way to humiliate him.
He immediately pulls on a beige sweater: worn thin by use and gigantic on his frame. It almost fits on the shoulders, but the sleeves are a disaster. Next, sweatpants! They’re brown and pool at his ankles, but he cinches them as tight as it can go and he rolls up the hem thrice. How dare Dazai have clothes that fit his height!
Chuuya pauses at the door. He should be fleeing as fast as possible, yet he looks back once. Just once.
Dazai is still on the couch, sleeping, a hand lying on his sternum as if trying to hold onto something that isn’t there anymore. He doesn’t look serene, no, that’s not in the realm of possibilities, but he looks defenceless. Even soulless bastards are affected by sleep, Chuuya’s not surprised, and there’s absolutely no ache in his chest either. Not at all.
The bolo tie is still there, and there’s something inviting in the way it glints in the thin morning light. He’s already stolen clothes, adding that too…
Don’t fucking think about it.
The door opens silently; the hallway stretches ahead, empty and safe. He closes the door with care and with the faintest click known to man. Luck might be on his side this morning.
But no, there’s a movement in his peripheral vision: a door opening at the end of the corridor.
Lesser men would freeze, Chuuya glows red, instead, floating upwards in the blink of an eye. Gravity is nothing but a suggestion: he flattens himself against the ceiling like a spider in stolen clothes.
Shit.
A tall blond man emerges, already dressed despite the time, notebook in hand. Oh, right, he’s an ADA member… named… four-eyes, or something. A very regular Japanese name, not that it matters to Chuuya’s inner categories.
The man walks in the opposite direction, muttering to himself something that sounds suspiciously like Dazai’s name, followed by a complaint.
He passes directly under Chuuya. He doesn’t look up. Nobody ever looks up.
The footsteps fade. Chuuya hits the floor in a silent crouch and sprints in the opposite direction. Down the hallway, through the stairwell, until the cold morning air envelops him.
Chuuya doesn’t stop running until he’s two blocks away, all whilst trying very hard not to think about anything at all.
Dazai wakes much later; his chest is weirdly empty. Lighter, for sure, but there’s no relief. There’s only confusion and loss of a specific steady heat that has pressed against his torso all night.
His hand moves, searching, but he only finds wrinkled fabric and his own bolo-tie, which has come loose during the night.
“Hey?” Even his voice is questioning, but no response comes.
He gets up without much of a fuss, which is unusual, just to start looking for the loss. He checks the bathroom first. Under the couch. Behind the bookshelf. Then within the kitchen’s floor cabinets. There’s no rationality behind it, no pondering how the cat could have got inside, no, there’s just the increasing desperation of losing something important.
“Kitty?” Dazai inquires, but his voice is thin, as it often happens when hope fades out.
He doesn’t even know what he’d hoped for to begin with. No, he knows.
It could have been a reason.
A reason that makes tomorrow worth reaching for.
It could have been good, coming home to something alive. He’d be forced to buy groceries, because the cat needed food, so that would have improved his own diet a bit.
It would have been nice, to have something to fall asleep to, every night. A weight on his chest, tampering with the void that rested in his ribcage.
It could have been good, having something choose to stay, just because.
Perhaps, thus, Dazai could have done the same.
It could have been enough.
He doesn’t know if he’d be good at it, but he would have tried taking care of it. It could have helped, having something sincere in his life.
The cat is gone, this is pointless.
Perhaps they’ll cross paths again, cats are resilient creatures after all, free and ungrateful.
The coffee pot is empty.
He’ll make some coffee, that’s it.
Despite his brain, as awful and wonderful as it is, Dazai will never know what happened, who was there, who purred against his will.
And perhaps that’s for the best.
On the other side of the city, there’s a ginger mafioso buying canned crab and trying very hard not to inspect why.
We all delude ourselves with the illusion of knowing what the shape of our grief is. We don’t know. Its borders are fuzzy, as if someone dug into a ribcage with a rusty spoon: we can feel the pain, the edges, and we rationalise it, we visualise a shape that isn’t there.
Such a level of detail is not bestowed upon human beings.
You see those two, right?
One is making coffee and he deems his grief cat-shaped.
The other is shopping for an exact shape, that of a can of crab.
Neither can see that this is an old loss, four years in the making, and shaped exactly like each other.