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Kunikida couldn’t understand what the President was telling him.
It wasn’t a mission, had nothing to do with protecting the city of Yokohama and was most definitely not in his job description. It was a location in Port Mafia territory and Fukuzawa told Kunikida to leave all his weaponry behind.
It was an odd request, not too far out of reach due to their current good standing, but it still made the hair prick on the back of his neck. The president was solemn when he gave the order, as if it was something he regretted even having to say out loud. As far as Kunikida knew, there was no current tension between the organizations.
They had returned from hell, beating out Fyodor, and spent months recovering from the acts of violence they not only experienced but had to commit. Mori had pulled back from the transfer agreement, cases came in as normal, feeble things compared to the war they had returned from.
Kunikida had asked if he needed back up, if he should invite other members of the Agency in case of a dire situation. Fukuzawa had told him to do what his heart felt was right, that if he chose to bring other members they must leave all evidence of weapons within the Agency building. He had convinced Atsushi and Yosano, Ranpo deciding he did not want to see whatever it was they were being called to and Kyouka nowhere to be found.
Ranpo had caught him on the way out, eyes full of something Kunikida couldn’t put his finger on. It was a hard-set look, the kind that Ranpo would use before deducing the largest of crimes. He gripped Kunikida’s shoulder tightly before releasing and returning to sit at his desk and stare out the window.
Kunikida unwillingly left his gun at the office after that, keeping his notebook buried deep in his pocket as the three made their way towards the train.
The weather was an unusual overcast, rain pelting against the ground as the group emerged from the train. It pooled around their feet, light from the buildings ricocheting off the reflective liquid. The trio pulled out their umbrellas and hung them heavy on their shoulders.
They began their descent to the location, an unwelcome silence settling over the group. Usually, Yosano would be making small talk with Kunikida- an inviting development after their fight with the Hunting Dogs. Atsushi would be interjecting in the conversation wherever he could, feigning for a semblance of normalcy after almost meeting his fate.
Their city was quiet, a somber feeling overtaking everything around them. The blues stood out more, reaching across the rain to yank them in. Few people passed them in the street, a car slowly drove by careful to not splash the puddling water. It was distant, strange, not the city they knew.
As they approached the coordinates, a group of people dressed in all black could be seen through the downpour. The fierce need to protect flared in Kunikida’s chest, unsure why his own boss would send him to an unsafe location in the depths of Port Mafia controlled territory now walking up to a very obvious meeting.
“I’ll go first,” Kunikida said, “Stay behind me.”
Kunikida walked forward, disappearing slightly behind the sheer amount of rain that was plummeting from the sky. He took large strides forward, confidence exuding from every inch of his body, ready for a fight.
The fight never came as he stopped completely in his tracks.
Awaiting him was not a fight, it wasn’t a group of Mafia lowlifes ready to pounce at any moment, Kunikida decided it was something much worse.
It was a wake. Men dressed in full black were seated in rows behind a casket, umbrellas heavy in hands, watching the scene in front of them. Nobody was moving, nobody was speaking, the only sound that could be heard was the rain smacking against the wet grass, both overwhelming and comforting.
Kunikida had never seen the sheer amount of Mafia members in attendance. He was no match for just how many of them there were, wondering if he had been sent on some sort of suicide mission. His ideals flared against him, he could not start a battle at someone's funeral, regardless of if they were of the enemy faction. Kunikida tried to take in as many details as possible to try and understand why he was witnessing this.
The casket was a deep mahogany, a swirling pattern adorned the wood that held their fallen comrade. It was striking, a deep color yet it held so much ornate detail that it stood out like the center of the universe. Around it lay white flowers, still in full bloom despite the assault of rain. The rows of chairs were a matching deep mahogany color, no doubt of extreme cost.
Despite the details, there was nothing over the top- no photographs of who could possibly be lying in the casket, no flowers running down the rows of seating, no obvious name placards anywhere- simply a funeral for someone who seemed to be of importance.
The simplicity of it was confusing since the Mafia was anything but discrete. They outwardly displayed their dominance over the city, flaunted their powerful members like attack dogs at any given chance. The Mafia had the money and resources to make this much larger, something boastful.
The feeling didn’t escape Kunikida that it was simply the point- this wasn’t meant to be boastful, it was supposed to be a remembrance of whoever laid inside the casket.
He felt Yosano and Atsushi make it to his side, taking in the scene in front of them; out of place at a Mafia funeral.
They watched as someone stood from the front row, red hair soaked through flowing down their back. The woman’s black dress was taunt against her skin, stretching as she took steps to stand in front of the casket. She laid a hand on the wet wood, her bright red nails obvious to the Agency members- Kouyou.
From their position they watched her head bow low enough to rest her forehead on the wood. She sucked in a deep breath, holding it for a moment before releasing. Her shoulders sagged uncharacteristically, the umbrella slipping slightly to reveal more of her hair.
Kunikida watched, his heart beating rapidly against his chest as the somber feeling swallowed the entirety of the scene. Against every ideal, he knew that pain acutely, placing your head against someone you love for the last time. She took a moment before raising her head, hand still on the casket. She spoke words the Agency members couldn’t hear, hushed by the rain and stolen by the devastation in her body. A young girl stood from the crowd to place herself next to Kouyou, purple hair revealing who it was.
The thought of possible betrayal came to the forefront of Kunikida’s mind, that Kyouka was involved in a Port Mafia funeral, standing next to a high-ranking member.
“Oh,” Atsushi mumbled, watching as the two continued to stare at the casket.
Kouyou turned, hand running against the casket as she walked to the direction of the Port Mafia Headquarters with Kyouka at her side, hands intertwining as they stepped away. After their departure, more members stood, each paying their respects to the body in the casket.
Kunikida recognized Mori, leader of the Port Mafia, with a small blonde child hugging onto his leg making his way to the casket. It was shocking he wasn’t the first person to pay his respects to a member of his organization, but it made sense considering the person he was.
Watching more members lay hands on the casket, some whispering words, others simply nodding their heads and walking away, Kunikida realized the individual must have been of great importance. The Mafia did not hold funerals for ordinary members, oftentimes treating them as disposable units of treachery.
The entire situation was confusing.
He heard Atsushi suck in a breath as a man brought a fist down on the casket, driven by the hungry emotion of grief- of guilt. The umbrella slipped from his hands to reveal black hair with tinged white tips, the rain pouring down his face and dropping onto the wood of the casket. Another man came up behind him to place a hand on his shoulder, monocle glinting in the distance.
If Kunikida took the Mafia out of the equation, it would have been a moving gesture. Hirotsu was attempting to discretely pull Akutagawa from the casket, hand wavering on his shoulder as the other stood with feet placed deep in the mud, eyes unmoving from the sleek wood, rain pelting down harder now.
They eventually moved away, making way for more people to send their regards.
The three watched as almost every member filtered out, leaving rows of chairs empty with water pooling in them. One person was left in the audience, head staring straight forward with an umbrella drawn and limply hanging in their hand.
His hair was drenched, water dripping from the ends and soaking into the expensive black suit that clung tightly to his body. There was an inescapable aura of tension around him, a cloth pulled taut, a string ready to snap, a dam ready to break and flood its surroundings. The last one left at the wake stood.
The Agency members recognized him from his back alone, bandages winding up his neck and peeking out of the sleeves of his suit. They ran over his hands now, the only thing visible was his fingers, a clear difference from the usual binding.
He looked up to the sky, allowing the rain to assault his face. Kunikida swore he could feel the emotions overflowing from him, lifting his head to fate, accepting what had been done and the person in the casket wasn’t coming back. It was gutwrenching, watching someone usually so prideful crumble into a void of nothingness- maybe this was the true face of the Demon Prodigy he had heard so much about.
He walked out from his seat and stood in the walkway towards the casket, standing unmoving for a moment. Kunikida reached his hand out to stop Atsushi from running towards his mentor, allowing him the grace of this moment without their bombarding presence. He may not have understood what was happening, why he was at a Mafia funeral, why Fukuzawa had asked them to the coordinates but he did understand this wasn’t the right moment to ask questions.
Maybe when the bandaged man turned around, maybe when he returned to the Agency building- but not now.
He took a long moment before approaching the casket, his hand running against the raised surface details with utmost care, as if saying hello to an old friend. Both hands found purchase on the wood, flexing against the unmoving object. He stared down at it for a breath, muttering something the Agency couldn’t make out before dropping his head down to the wood. His back rose and fell, the rain continued to plummet, the world continued spinning.
Kunikida took a hesitant step forward, deciding to finally approach his partner. He approached slowly, shoes slapping against the collected water on the ground. Yosano and Atsushi followed with the same caution, always a step behind.
Dazai looked terrible, soaking wet and useless, hunched over a casket, staring down with blank eyes. There was a tremor in his hands that gripped the smooth wood, something archaic took hold of the air around them. The rain dripped down his face, sticking his hair to the smooth skin under it.
Kunikida grabbed the umbrella Dazai had discarded on the ground and shook off some of the water before opening it with his free hand. He placed it over Dazai’s figure, shielding him from the downpour of rain. Kunikida caught a glimpse of the coat his partner was wearing, something familiar but obviously not his, it ran slightly small at the bottom with darker brown elements.
His blood ran cold as he truly grasped the situation at hand. Dazai was wearing Chuuya Nakahara’s coat, standing over his casket, a shell of his former self. His eyes were screwed shut, willing away any form of seeing, of knowing, of understanding- anything to refuse processing what was clearly written into stone now.
Dazai’s former partner was deceased, and Fukuzawa had sent them to the wake.
They stood there for a while, behind Dazai, covering him from the onslaught of rain that refused to let up, as if the earth itself was grieving the loss of the Executive. Dazai, seemed like he was grieving his entire world. He didn’t acknowledge his coworkers, didn’t even open his eyes to look at them. He stayed put as if he was repeating something in his head, a mantra of sorts, refusing to believe the casket was real.
Dazai straightened, keeping his right hand on the casket for a moment and hesitated before retracting.
“Goodbye, partner.” Dazai whispered, just above silence. Emotion was thick in his voice, lacing itself with another emotion Kunikida couldn’t place.
Dazai shrugged off the coat that had been previously engulfing him, holding it in his hands with a small smile on his face. It was clear he was reliving something, the piece of fabric holding more meaning than Kunikida could begin to understand. He draped it over the casket, evening out the wrinkles as it laid a wet mess atop the wood. It felt like something was being returned to its rightful owner, a cloth that never truly belonged to neither Dazai or Chuuya.
Dazai turned and began slowly walking away, still refusing to look at his coworkers. The three stood in complete shock as the scene unfolded.
“You guys go back to the Agency,” Kunikida whispered, his voice quieter than they had ever heard before, “I’ll stay with Dazai.”
It wasn’t a request, it was a demand wrapped in some form of understanding. He had to follow Dazai, stop him from throwing himself off a highrise or pointing a 22mm to his head. This time it would be real, it wouldn’t be a joke, a cry for attention, something to drown the thoughts in his mind.
Yosano put an arm around Atsushi’s shoulders and guided him from the wake, leaving Kunikida standing alone in front of Chuuya’s casket.
Kunikida wasn’t sure if he was meant to say something or if he should chase after Dazai. He stared at the casket, now close enough to reach out and touch. He wasn’t a fan of Chuuya, despite the Executive saving them from the Hunting Dogs, or saving everyone from the dragon, or saving Dazai from Lovecraft- Chuuya was a Port Mafia Executive who was now messing with Kunikida’s ideals.
Not good, but not exactly bad either. Chuuya tended to live his life somewhere in the middle with the same goal as Kunikida; protect the city of Yokohama.
Kunikida couldn’t bring himself to lay a hand on the casket, decorated with details that must’ve taken months to accomplish. He knew though, with a long gaze over the wood, that this was paid for by Dazai. The pattern wasn’t loud, didn’t match the man laying inside, but it made sense.
“You always put up a good fight,” Kunikida whispered, dragging his eyes across the casket before turning to follow after Dazai.
Dazai was a little ways away, hands in pocket allowing the rain to fully consume him. Lightening struck near where Kunikida was walking, as if the earth was reclaiming something that desperately belonged to her. He picked up the pace, walking in a rush to catch up.
He followed his partner down winding alleys until they finally made it to an apartment building, a highrise away from Port Mafia territory. The location caught Kunikida by surprise, wondering just what Dazai was doing in a place like this, or why he’d come after something that obviously moved him.
Dazai trudged up a long spiral staircase, water dripping from his clothes onto the metal as he refused to give up and crumble as expected. His hands gripped the railing, pulling his body forward until they reached the top floor. Dazai pushed open the door, not caring that Kunikida was following if he even noticed. It was ridiculous, of course he knew, but Kunikida couldn’t be sure after seeing him shrug off that coat and almost refuse leaving his former partner’s corpse.
Kunikida opened the hallway door to see one of the apartment doors slightly ajar. He made his way forward and braced himself for whatever it was he would encounter. With a heavy hand in the middle of the door, he pushed forward to come face to face with the inside of a normal-looking apartment.
There was a large couch in the middle of the living area with blanks thrown across it as if they had been recently used. A bookshelf stood in the corner by the large window, filled with all different types of literature, the wood the same color as Chuuya’s casket. He turned his head slightly to see two coat hooks by the front door, Dazai’s worn tan coat hanging neatly with his bolo tie draped over it. There were a smaller pair of shoes underneath it, polished and black, no doubt expensive.
Kunikida couldn’t make sense of where he was, considering it to be Dazai’s second apartment because of course he would have one of those. But there were two mugs sitting untouched on the countertop, one still full of tea while the other sat empty. There was a dining room table with two chairs, only slightly pulled out and facing the door. There was artwork on the walls as well, various styles from across Japan and Europe, hanging like trophies or memories on the wall.
He looked to the TV stand, which was littered with small trinkets, to see a frame sitting atop of it. Inside the frame was a grainy photograph of a young Chuuya, his hair shorter and his eyes full of fire, a smudge of brown hair and bandages was blurry in the picture, obviously Dazai attempting to move out of the way of the camera snap.
Kunikida pushed further into the space, mindful to lock the door behind himself. He walked towards the door which was most definitely the bedroom and opened it. Inside sat a western-style bed, clearly untouched from a morning ritual he was a stranger to. The deep red sheets were pulled back, pillows sitting lifeless atop the sheets. There were two nightstands, one housing a novel, the paper dog-eared in the middle of the book, a half drank glass of water and a pair of glasses. The other housed a bottle of painkillers along with a small lamp, the light still on and filling the space with a dim light.
Nothing of what he was seeing made sense. There were traces of Dazai here, but traces of someone else too. Maybe it was a safe haven for his partner, his true home from the looks of it, shared with some beautiful woman that could console him better than Kunikida ever could.
A noise came from the small bathroom attached to the room causing Kunikida to whip around.
“He never turned the lamp off,” Dazai said, his voice monotone and low, as if he was untrusting of his biggest weapon.
Kunikida turned back to look at the lamp again, this time noticing a thin blue bracelet that sat next to it. Without warning, Dazai walked past him and into the living area, still sopping wet. Kunikida trailed him to the kitchen where he was pouring himself a glass of water. He wiped his mouth before bringing it up to his lips to take a sip as if he had been throwing up.
Kunikida didn’t know what to say, for the first time being completely stumped by how to approach. His partner was one of intellect, quick witted and rarely serious in casual conversation. Seeing him like this, soaking wet with a black suit married to his body, hands gripping the countertop with a head hung between his shoulders was not something Kunikida thought he was prepared to see.
Over the death of his former partner, somebody Dazai swore up and down was the absolute worst, the brute force of the Mafia, an idiotic slow slug who never did anything right.
Despite Dazai’s words, Chuuya had always shown up in the knick of time for him, and they worked well together in competition with their anger towards one another. Somewhere in Kunikida’s mind, he toyed with the idea Dazai was grieving an old friend who at one point, he did get along and have camaraderie with.
“He even left his mug out,” Dazai breathed, “And mine, which is typical.”
Kunikida wasn’t a detective for nothing, after the second time Dazai referred to the mysterious ‘him’, he realized all too quickly who he was referring to. This was not Dazai’s apartment, it was Chuuya’s, and from the looks of it, Dazai spent a considerable amount of time here. His signature was everywhere, from the types of literature on the bookshelf to the fabric of the throw blankets on the couch.
“I’m… Sorry.” Kunikida sighed, relaxing in his stance as his partner finally made eye contact with him.
Dazai looked wrecked, an absolutely devastating glimmer rolling through his eyes as they quickly looked away from Kunikida. The look was foreign, something he never could have dreamed the other would wear in their lifetime. The cold, calculating man who he called his partner, the witness to major crimes- the perpetrator of major crimes.
Kunikida couldn’t help but feel pity for the man in front of him. He knew Dazai would loathe the pity, probably choke him out or point a gun at his head for simply considering the topic, but he couldn’t help the feeling that crept through his skin and nestled between his bones. Dazai was grieving, an emotion he had never seen on the ruthless man.
“Chuuya was a good partner,” Dazai said, voice teetering on something lethal, some bloodthirsty parasite leeching onto his every syllable, “I know you don’t think so, but Chuuya was good.”
‘For me’, was left unsaid.
Kunikida couldn’t respond, he couldn’t find the words to fight against his ideals at the moment. He was here to be a good partner, a good person, to apparently help Dazai through whatever his grief would look like.
“One time,” Dazai’s head dropped as a small chuckle left his mouth, “He kicked the gun out of my hand while I shot a dead body, over and over. That’s when I knew we would get along.”
It wasn’t something Kunikida thought was admirable, but it must’ve held weight for Dazai.
“When I got captured by the Port Mafia, he let me go,” Dazai smiled now, as if he was rolling the memory around in his mind like it happened yesterday, “He’d never admit that was the plan, but we had talked about it lots of times before it happened.”
Kunikida’s lips pressed in a thin line, allowing Dazai to continue.
“He lost all his friends,” The somber tone returned to his voice.
Dazai shook his head, his hand coming up to cover his mouth as the reality began to sink in again- Chuuya Nakahara was dead, and there was nothing he could do about it. Kunikida saw it then, the dam about to break and unleash.
“He lost all his friends,” Dazai repeated, this time with a glint of anger in his voice as he knocked the cup from its place on the counter.
The cup shattered with no grace, clear liquid seeping around it like a sorrowful reminder of what had transpired. Dazai’s head didn’t move, still stuck between his shoulderblades, still refusing to look Kunikida in the eyes.
“I understand.” Kunikida replied, his voice as soft as he could make it.
“You don’t,” Dazai retorted, a bite of anger deep within his voice. He was right, whether or not Kunikida wanted to admit it- he didn’t fully understand why his partner was in such shambles about an old friend, someone he swore he disliked.
“I’m… willing to,” Kunikida let out a breath as he tiptoed the tension of the conversation, “To understand, that is.”
“Just look around, Kunikida,” Dazai replied, finally picking his head up, “Look around and try to understand.”
Kunikida watched as Dazai took a deep breath and pushed past him. Dazai’s hand gripped the doorhandle as he hesitated, turning to look Kunikida in the eyes before turning the handle and slamming the door.
He was shocked, standing alone in an apartment he had no clue the owner of as his grieving partner slammed the door straight in his face. Kunikida let out a long breath as he was finally alone and turned to understand the space he was in. Dazai would be fine, as he always was, and probably just needed time to cool off after an obviously charged day.
Kunikida started by stepping into the kitchen, he cleaned the broken cup off the ground and turned to face the large refrigerator. On it were papers held by magnets, some detailing various mundane things such as schedules, others holding what was much more sentimental. There was a child’s drawing of a house with the words ‘To: Mr. Chuuya’ underneath, scribbled with red crayon.
On the counter, beside the discarded mugs were a series of documents. With his curiosity getting the better of him, Kunikida thumbed through them. They were Port Mafia files describing a rogue gifted who could transform into anyone from your psyche. The files were assigned to Chuuya, and Kunikida assumed this was how he met his end. Kunikida wondered just who the gifted had transformed into to get the better of the Executive. He closed them with a thump, deciding to move into the living room area of the apartment.
From in front of the couch, he could see the trinkets along the TV stand clearer. They were small, cheap plastic things that looked like they were won from an arcade. Some were of higher quality, no doubt from various trips overseas with better production of such meaningless objects. Kunikida picked up the framed photograph that sat on the edge, his fingers running over it as he considered the scene in front of him. Chuuya looked no older than sixteen, eyes bright as Dazai’s one visible eye was blurred at the edge.
Placing the photograph down, he turned to the bookshelf and found various novels from around the world. Some were classics, others were more contemporary pieces. It wasn’t a singular collection, it had the story of two people collecting. There was a small note on the middle shelf, a beautiful scrawl across it.
‘Osamu,
I know you’ve been here, for the love of god stop fucking going through the drawers like you don’t know where anything is. Mori has called an emergency meeting, won’t be back till late. Don’t make yourself known if you want to stay alive.
Yours,
N.C.’
Kunikida tilted his head, part of the full picture coming into view. The note had dust collected on it, his fingertips brushing some of it away. It was clearly a note Chuuya had left for Dazai after his defection from the Port Mafia, meaning they hadn’t stayed away from one another. It was a piece of the puzzle Kunikida knew would be important if he had any chance of figuring out his partner.
He placed the note back on the shelf and pulled a small box from the shelf as it looked slightly out of place. Before he could open the box, his phone began ringing from his pocket. Checking the caller I.D, Kunikida figured for once, Ranpo could wait and he would figure this out on his own. Kunikida silenced his phone and pulled off the top of the box, inside lying letters that hadn’t seen the daylight in some time.
‘Osamu,
I swear to God stop leaving your shit in front of the washing machine, it is literally right there. Put your clothes in.
Yours,
N.C’
Kunikida cracked a small smile at the note, feeling the anger through the paper for something he could envision his partner doing.
‘Osamu,
I know it has been difficult recently. I’ll be back before the sun sets, it might be a good idea to show your face at the Agency. See you soon.
Yours,
N.C’
The note caused Kunikida to do a double take, reading it over to fully understand this was something Chuuya had actually written to Dazai, and had kept. He plucked out another, unable to stop himself from the clear invasion of privacy.
‘Osamu,
I’m glad we are back. Not surprised I’m being called in to discuss the events and report the day after we returned, but business as usual. I’ll push back on the transfer deal, I’d hate working with you again. Glad we’re on the other side but the countryside looks better. I know you’d laugh, but it could be our reality. Think on it.
Yours,
C.N’
Kunikida was once again taken back by the clear partnership displayed in the message. Chuuya pushed back on the transfer deal, likely being the reason the deal fell through in the first place. He once again proclaimed hate for Dazai, but the feeling of the note said otherwise. Kunikida considered the line about the countryside, did Dazai and Chuuya have a plan to defect both organizations and run away? Not a chance, but it must’ve been a nice thought. He picked up another.
‘Chuuya,
Today I will be arrested. I know this puts a wrench in our original plan but be certain I will be okay. Enact plan Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing, use your judgement. I trust you, I’ve got a great speech lined up for you. Loop Mori in as well with discretion of course.
See you on the other side,
Dazai’
Dazai was working with Chuuya completely during the debacle with Fyodor, trusting an Executive to cover the gaps in his plan and use his own judgement. The ending is what truly caught Kunikida’s eye, the callback to the other side, the promise he would see Chuuya again.
‘Osamu,
I know today is hard, call me on your break. I won’t be up to much today, overseeing some bullshit as usual.
Yours,
N.C’
Kunikida help but notice the care in the note, how Chuuya was blatantly worried for Dazai. It was not something he thought the Executive could do, care for someone on the other side, but at the end of the day, these were personal notes not meant for anyone except them.
‘Slug,
You slept in late, please influence Mori to withhold from the truce for the time being- I need to gather more intel before going forward with our plan. I understand this is contradicting considering our conversation last night, I am asking you to trust me on this one.
Regretfully,
Dazai’
Kunikida ran his finger against the ink, more concisely written than the earlier notes. Whatever it was must’ve carried more weight than the others.
‘Snow White,
Our old friend is back from the dead. Keep the tiger out of sight, he’s after him. Fyodor will betray you but I am certain you already saw this coming. I’ll try not to be violent, can’t promise you anything.
Yours,
N.C’
Kunikida felt his ideals being tugged, not understanding why he suddenly began thinking Chuuya may not have been as terrible as he once imagined. He continued searching for his answer as he picked up another one.
“Osamu,
You slept in late again, show your face at the Agency you annoying prick.
Yours,
N.C’
‘Chuuya,
The painkillers aren’t poison, I promise. The fake arm works every time, such an old trick, can’t believe you fell for it again! Lots of reports to do, see you later.
Tired,
Dazai’
‘Chuuya,
We may need to use corruption tonight. Call me when you see this.
With lots of regrets and wishes of dying,
Dazai’
“Osamu,
It’s the Americans, the Guild. Careful. Trusting your judgement here.
Yours,
N.C’
So Chuuya had given Dazai information on who the Guild was.
‘Osamu,
Keep the tiger under your eyes, there’s a bounty on him.
Yours,
N.C’
And he had protected Atsushi, it seemed.
‘Chuuya,
See you in the basement, go all out.
Your Million Dollar Masterpiece,
Dazai’
‘Dazai,
You annoy the ever loving fuck out of me. Stop meddling, it’s pissing me off.
Yours,
N.C’
‘Chuuya,
Might not be home for a few days.
Nerves and stuff,
Dazai.’
‘Osamu,
Hope you do your worst and crash and burn.
Yours,
N.C’
‘Chuuya,
Thanks for ordering food last night. I must go patch some things up.
Appreciative but annoyed,
Dazai’
‘Dazai,
I know you’re bored. Stop trying to meddle and keep your head down so we can make the right play you’re fucking annoying.
Yours,
N.C’
‘Chuuya,
I might not be back until late. Working things out seems to be harder than expected.
Apologetic,
Dazai’
‘Dazai,
I know you’ve been here, once again. Stop pretending I don’t exist, I can’t track down where you’re laying your sorry head at night due to your own fucking games. Stop playing coy.
Sorry about your friend.
Yours,
Chuuya’
‘Chuuya,
You don’t know shit. Get out of my way.
-D.O’
The handwriting was different, looking as if it had been hastily written. Dazai’s signature was also different. Kunikida wondered why the change. He could understand they were going backwards in chronological order, but the quickness of Dazai’s handwriting was frantic. Kunikida picked up another.
‘Dazai,
Trust that I have your back. See you whenever I see you.
Yours,
Chuuya’
‘Slug,
Apologies about your car, and the future torture. Promise I’ll make it up to you in time. Oda is dead.
Yours,
Dazai’
‘Dazai,
Mimic. Lay off of Akutagawa. Might be worth telling you now that I’ve always hated that Ango guy.
-Chuuya’
‘Chuuya,
Kouyou has inquired about you multiple times and I am growing tired of keeping up appearances for the both of us. Please do us all a favor and die, thanks!
Big Dog,
Dazai’
‘Dazai,
I can’t describe how fucking angry I am with your shit face right now. Stop playing in Mori’s face, you are so goddamn annoying.
-Chuuya’
‘Chuuya,
I’m sorry about your friends. I know you’ll see this eventually, don’t worry about how I got in here.
Your friend,
Osamu.’
Kunikida set down the letter, allowing it to fall in the box. There was two more neatly folded in the bottom of the box. The rain pattered against the large window, a crack of thunder rumbled the floor. Kunikida picked up one of the last two notes and braced himself as he opened it. The scrawl was messy, as if it was written out in a rush.
'Dazai,
I know you've been here but you're ignoring me, for whatever fucking reason. I get what happened yesterday was messed up, but i don't want you to think you owe me anything. I'm so pissed you think what happened yesterday was run of the mill Mafia bullshit because it wasn't. You asked why I intervened in the first place and truth is I couldn't live with myself if I didn't. Please just talk to me, in person, without the theatrics.
-Chuuya'
Kunikida sighed, this note feeling more intimate than the rest. It was obvious Chuuya never gave up on trying to understand Dazai, he probably died still in pursuit of truly getting him. It had a different undertone though, one of something deeper than before. Kunikida held a breath as he picked up the last note, noticing the handwriting was beautifully laid out despite the multiple eraser marks and crossed out words. It was obvious Dazai had taken his time thinking of his words.
'Chuuya,
I don't know what to say, I have never done this before. Writing out how I truly feel seems like it will be my own downfall. Just know, I am appreciative of you stepping in on the incident yesterday and I am regretful for what I said in return. Chuuya, you saved my life, and dignity, and now I am indebted to you. Please know I do not take this lightly as I do not have debts to anyone. I am willing to take the chance if you are.
Yours,
Osamu'
-
Four days later, Kunikida stood in the blaring sun with his hand on a casket paid for in a lump sum of cash the Agency had apparently had on file for four years.