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It was going to be a bad day.
Chuuya wasn't stupid. He knew thinking that way wasn't good, especially so early in the morning, but there was something about his reflection that tugged at his insides: all squirmy and spoiled. His hands tensed. His eyebrows pinched. His heterochromatic eyes—one brown, one blue—swept across the clean, circular mirror before him like a critic, picking apart the features that he couldn't wish away.
He noted, in the cold, quiet space of the small restroom, that his eyelashes were thick. It shouldn't have mattered—eyelashes were meant to protect his eyes, and more eyelashes meant greater protection—but it did. After all, women wished for thicker eyelashes—darkening, separating, lifting, just to fit an engraved standard. It wasn't the same for men. Not many things were.
His nose was small, too. Again, it didn't matter—noses came in all shapes and sizes—but something inside of the boy screamed that it did, brainless yet determined, shrieking: There's something wrong!
And when were things ever right?
It was stupid, really, how easy it was to make a mental list stocked full with criticisms. He was too short. His waist was too thin. Freckles decorated his skin like flicked paint, and although it was the worst thing to be upset about, it was the women in paintings that had freckles—not the men.
Why was that? What did that even mean? Why did it make him feel so wrong?
There was something inherently feminine about his hair, too: silky, soft. It didn't make any sense, yet it did all the same, thick, ginger strands tenderly hugging his face like a mother, hiding his softer cheeks.
Realistically, he knew that his features would change. The boy could already picture it, rounder, softer features turning sharp—his eyes; his nose; his freckled cheeks. He wanted to imagine that it’d happen once he turned eighteen. He knew that he was not a lucky person.
It was that very fact, however, that wrung at his core. He was not guaranteed to change—or, at least, not in the ways that he wanted. He wasn’t promised a sharper jaw or defined stomach, no matter how much training he did. Bitterly, he imagined that even if he was promised change, it would be stripped from him—because what, and who, did he ever get to keep?
For a moment—just a moment—Chuuya looked at himself and thought, not for the first time, that he would make a lovely girl, and that it was selfish to waste the traits he had been given in hopes of becoming a man. He didn’t even know what it took to be a man—yet he had still changed his clothes and his care products, and had tried to lower his voice.
He didn’t hate the hazy girl he was before, all cautious and inscrutable—and was that wrong? Was he supposed to feel ashamed just thinking of her? Was he supposed to get angered by her mere existence?
In the end, he wouldn’t get any answers, and Chuuya tried not to chew at his gummy cheek, bringing his gloved hands upwards and adjusting the soft hairs that framed his face.
It didn’t matter. The world kept turning.
Chuuya kept that in mind as he turned away from his own reflection, heading towards his boss’ office.
★ ★ ★
The mission went as well as expected, stubborn men killed by their own bullets. His partner’s kills were less instant—a teasing shot to the thigh before the heart; a graze to the ear before the eye—but Chuuya ended lives with a bullet to the brain—a pop of blood and the thud of a body. He was merciful.
He usually was, at least, when the fight wasn’t entertaining—and it couldn’t have been, when the expected Ability User hadn’t appeared—but one of the men had cried out about a fiancé like it would change the orders he had been given, and Chuuya broke the man’s arm before a bullet had hit the stranger’s forehead.
He didn’t do things like that—and that fact only frustrated him further.
He thought he could try to clear his head. He had done everything right—had wiped at the blood on his cheek instead of trudging to a restroom; had took off his hat and bowed his head; had reported the mission’s success in a calm manner—yet a demon still followed him, prominent under a sky streaked with orange and pink, and glaring against fresh, green grass and a tranquil river.
“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” Chuuya snapped at his partner. He didn’t turn to look at the taller boy behind him, dressed in black and covered in bandages: ones that he certainly hadn’t changed after the mission—not from a lack of hygiene, surprisingly, but a lack of time.
“Like where?” Dazai questioned in return, his footsteps eerily silent. Of course, that was to be expected of the Black Wraith: a tacky title for a tacky freak. He didn’t even deserve it. He was just an irritating boy: one who walked with tired eyes—only one visible—and broke shaking jaws on rough curbs like it’d somehow manage to fix him—as if there was a cure-all in every snap and pop.
“The office,” the ginger answered, irritated by the question. Anything involving Dazai was irritating, really. He was the human equivalent of sticky, displaced gum and wet, mismatched socks: nasty, terrible. Quickly, Chuuya pushed harder, as if the act itself would randomly light a dutiful spark inside the other. “Doing paperwork or some shit.”
“I hate paperwork.” It was delivered in that tone that only managed to make Chuuya more mad: flat, devoid of anything at all—like the brunet was merely a mannequin given life, his lips stuck in a line.
Teeth grinded. The shorter boy didn’t care that his partner hated paperwork. After all, Dazai didn’t like much of anything—except maybe suicide and drinking: two things that should’ve brought him just a little bit of shame. For someone so obsessed with dying, he sure sucked at it, and although Chuuya was starting to know his way around a bottle of wine—moscato, chardonnay, Chianti—he liked other things, too: hats, music, dogs.
He also didn’t forge a trail of misery in his wake: so heavy; so suffocating. Chuuya turned around to look at the source, his jaw clenched and his eyes sharp. “And I hate you.” Then, a little louder: “Leave me alone.”
The demon paused in place, his black-colored dress shoes, speckled with blood, brushing against long, healthy grass. “Hmm,” he hummed, his brown eye flicking to the side. The brunet pretended to think, for a moment, the action painstakingly obvious, only to focus his gaze and chirp: “No, thanks!”
Chuuya’s left eye—the blue one—twitched in response. His words were not meant to be taken as a suggestion, but of course Dazai would be the type to twist them as such, his knowledge on knots unparalleled. “Why not?” the mafioso pressed, wanting to believe, as someone overseen by a woman of high—albeit cynical—intellect, that he could reach some kind of solution—although such a thing rarely worked.
The brunet’s answer was frustratingly simple, dripping in unsurprising condescension. “My dog has been in a terrible mood.”
Chuuya’s teeth ground together at the remark: stupid, true. At the rate he was going, he was going to get fractured teeth before he even turned twenty—yet would that be less feminine? “Shut it,” he spit, ignoring the thought.
Dazai ignored him, yet another thing that was unsurprising. One of the taller boy’s pale, bandaged hands trailed to his own chest, the tip of his chin tilting upwards. “And I am a responsible, caring owner.”
It was almost childish, the way Chuuya leaned forward with a wave of vexation, stomping his black, leather shoe against the damp ground—a lackluster tantrum. “I said to shut up!” he yelled, feeling anger bubble between his ribs like nabemono: so hot he could taste it.
A second passed, then another, and Dazai’s face fell. It wasn’t guilt—Chuuya didn’t even think that Dazai, born of shadows and devoted to death, could feel guilty—but it was strong enough to make something shift, the air changing without the use of gravity-manipulation.
Dazai pursed his lips, something so unlike him, and the sight made Chuuya’s jaw loosen ever so slightly. After a beat, the brunet finally spoke, the words strangely soft, swathed by something heavy. “No one would believe me, you know.”
Air caught in Chuuya’s throat. That was true, he supposed, and he found himself pursing his lips, too.
Everyone avoided Dazai like the plague, too scared of a boy who weighed less than they did. It was ridiculous, really, being frightened by a teenager who could certainly benefit from a pocket-size hairbrush, but it was normal for the mafia members that surrounded them—trembling limbs, lowered gazes.
Quite frankly, the only person who would truly listen to Dazai—aside from the adults and short-term lovers that he certainly wouldn’t confront—would be his mentee, and while Dazai praised Akutagawa’s growth behind his back, he treated him like shit, yelling and harming. Chuuya definitely couldn’t imagine Dazai tenderly wiping the younger boy’s bleeding nose, his lips close to the other’s ear, and asking if he wanted to learn one of Chuuya’s secrets.
But there was a weight to that secret, just like there was a weight to everything else. Dismissively, Chuuya turned away, shoving his gloved hands in the pockets of his black pants. “I don’t care,” the boy said, much calmer than before, the anger in his chest replaced by something shamefully jittery.
“You’d feel much better if you said something.”
Dazai’s words cut through the air like a knife—not because they were sharp, but because they were light. They were so kind; so certain—yet they came from a boy who wanted to die; who took pills that he shouldn’t; who jumped into unsafe waters.
Chuuya couldn’t accept them. It just wasn’t right. He didn’t want for Dazai to give and for him to take. He wanted a mutual exchange. He wanted—
He wanted to kill Dazai when they were even, and best him in the end.
So, the ginger scoffed at his partner’s hypocrisy. “What would you know about feeling better?”
Dazai didn’t answer. Chuuya realized, then, that he might’ve been a bit harsh, slashing at places that were a tad more sensitive. Was he evil, he wondered, being in such a bad mood over something he could repress?
He didn’t need to be a boy. He could still do his hair the same—all sharp and asymmetrical—and dress the same—all chic and polished—and restrain every possible resulting shiver if someone ever called him miss.
But he wanted to be. He wanted to be a boy so bad that it hurt. He wanted the chance to one day be able to look in the mirror, with a flashy, confident smile and lively eyes, and think: That’s a man.
With his head heavy with concern, the ginger took a few angled steps forward, crouching by the flowing river. The water was clean, so clear that, if he squinted enough, he could see his own reflection: a thing that brought him more displeasure than it should have for something that was entirely his.
Maybe it would be nice to say something, even if he’d have to find a way to return the favor.
The Sheep had known, before they cast him off. Shirase had been the most supportive, quick to increase gendered terms and include Chuuya in nasty, arrogant jokes, but Yuan had tried her best, too, voicing that she was pleased by a lack of competition—a sentiment that strangely helped.
Chuuya wanted Kouyou to know. Despite her deep-rooted cynicism, she was a breath of fresh air—the calm in the storm. She was bright, and beautiful, and brilliant, but she was poised and proper, and the boy worried that their values wouldn’t align. He didn’t want to lose her respect, nor for her to suddenly misgender him—and maybe she wouldn’t, caring for him as she always had, but there was always a risk in uncertainty.
He realized, staring at ripples in the water, that he really didn’t care what Dazai knew. The brunet was cruel no matter what—yet there were always limits, weren’t there? Dazai already knew so much about him: those terrible, confusing things that really should’ve frightened him, yet the taller boy stayed like a gnat and kept even more quiet—as far as those things were concerned. Really, what was one more secret, in the end?
Chuuya breathed out, trying to ignore the tension in his form. Before he could talk himself out of it—and he suddenly really wanted to, something writhing in his chest—he found himself stating, “You won’t tell anyone.”
Dazai’s response was surprisingly quick, as if he had expected the guarded hesitation—a thing Chuuya didn’t quite like. “I already told you that it wouldn’t matter if I—”
Chuuya swiftly interrupted him. “You won’t tell anyone,” he repeated, much more sternly, as if they weren’t the same age. He needed Dazai to know that this was serious. He needed Dazai to know that this actually mattered to him.
The brunet paused. Perhaps he felt it: that unspoken weight. Quietly, he slipped into place beside him, bending his lanky legs. His next response was a little more gentle—a little more definite. “I won’t tell anyone.”
Forcing himself to believe him, Chuuya tried to ensure the steadiness of his voice. He would be a stone pillar; a mountain. “I'm a boy—”
“I know,” Dazai interrupted.
Any preparation—half-thought sentences; words from before—slipped from Chuuya’s mind, his lips slightly parted. A second passed, then another, and the mafioso blinked quickly before he snapped, “Let me finish, asshole. I'm a boy,” he started, trying to regain his strength, “but I wasn't always a boy.”
“Hmm.”
Nothing else followed. There wasn’t even a laugh—a breath. Out of all of the reactions that Chuuya had expected, dread clawing at his wet, squishy guts, apathy was not one of them.
“You—” The ginger hesitated, turning his head to look at the other. His partner’s expression gave nothing away. There was no secret etched in the mafioso’s visible brown eye; no hint hidden in the corners of his lips. Anxious, strangely, Chuuya awkwardly asked, “You aren't gonna say anything?”
The taller boy tilted his head, short, brown strands shifting with the movement. “Is there something you want me to say?” Dazai inquired in return, his tone difficult to read.
“I—” Chuuya stopped himself. In all honesty, he didn’t really know—but, if he admitted that, with worry dispersed in his chest, he’d only look stupid. He should’ve known what he wanted. He should’ve known who he was. He was not very good at doing the things that he should’ve. “Well—”
Maybe he wanted Dazai to say something mean. That was what he had expected, mostly: a sneer; a stupid nickname; a single sentence that cut much deeper than a blade. Their insults had started the first day they met. It was difficult to imagine anything else.
But voicing that would be a lie, because, deep down, in a dark place that Chuuya tried to bury and ignore—rusty, aged, moss-grown—he had wanted Dazai to say something nice.
“You’re a boy,” the brunet said, when Chuuya hadn’t managed to stammer out a proper answer. “I don't see the relevance in what you were before.”
At the statement, delivered with such certainty, something trembled between Chuuya’s ribs. He wanted Dazai to grab it—to cradle it in his cold palms. He wanted Dazai to smash it, with all of the intensity that he could possibly muster.
Silent and tense, the shorter boy watched as his partner’s gaze shifted towards the water. It stayed on his own reflection first: a mix of soft brown and sharp black. It traveled to Chuuya’s next: a mix of sharp black and fiery orange.
After a beat, Dazai added, “Is this really what has you so upset?”
Chuuya turned to look at him, his eyebrows pinched in confusion. There was an aspect to the boy’s tone that seemed to hint at something more. “What does that mean?”
“I thought you were stronger than that.”
The statement hung in the air like a corpse. At first, Chuuya was mad. He was strong. He could manipulate gravity in an instant, quick enough to stop fired bullets. He harbored and utilized Arahabaki despite the risks—the blood; the destruction; the fatigue. He could kick someone hard enough to have them spewing blood, and still have the strength to punch them to the floor.
Then, he was pleased—because Dazai thought of his strength; because Dazai pictured him to be stronger. It stroked Chuuya’s ego, despite the condescension. Maybe that wasn’t what Dazai wanted.
Maybe it was.
“Is that a compliment?” the boy asked, feeling the edges of his lips curl.
“Eww,” Dazai replied, much like Chuuya would’ve, if the roles were reversed. “No.” With one swift motion, the brunet stood up, taking a step backwards. Expensive fabric rustled as he brushed his hands on his thighs, swiping at something that wasn’t there. Then: “I’d never be able to find one good thing to say about you.”
“The feeling is mutual,” Chuuya replied, yet the words stuck to his teeth like taffy: thick, tacky. He realized, despite who he had spoken to, that he actually felt a bit better—because Dazai had confirmed that he was a boy; because Dazai hadn’t suggested that he change.
There was good in that, admittedly, but Chuuya wouldn’t ever voice it.
“I’m hungry.”
“What?” the shorter boy asked, despite hearing the words clearly. They were difficult to miss, really, when said by someone so obnoxious.
“I’m hungry,” the brunet repeated, and even that was strange. Hunger was its own type of weakness, and Dazai didn’t admit to weaknesses.
Skepticism tugged at Chuuya’s insides. “You’re never hungry,” he noted, cautious, because it was the truth.
He didn’t like thinking about it, quick to brush it off like another suicidal comment, but he knew that Dazai was underweight. He could wrap his hands around the boy’s wrists—could feel the shape of his ribs when a stealth mission forced them to be just a little too close. There was that look Dazai would get in his eyes—eye—too: fuzzy; distant; so terribly close to fainting, yet too stubborn to fall.
Sometimes, Chuuya wondered what he would do if Dazai did. He would do whatever was best for his boss, obviously—but what if it was just them, with no mission keeping them together? After he laughed—after he prodded Dazai’s side with the tip of his shoe—would he leave, or would he stay like Dazai did, when Corruption had rendered him dormant?
He didn’t like the direction in which he tilted.
“I want butadon,” Dazai suddenly voiced, interrupting his partner’s thoughts, and the absurdity of it all hung in the warm, evening air.
Chuuya scowled, even if Dazai couldn’t see it, confusion and frustration bubbling to the surface. “Then, go get butadon.”
“But the owner likes you more.”
The shorter boy paused, a puzzle piece clicking into place. There were very few common people that weren’t infatuated by Dazai’s awful personality. There would’ve been more if the brunet wasn’t so good at lying, voicing sweet words with a rotten tongue. “Shizou-san?”
“Yes,” the other replied, and Chuuya thought of him: that man with gray hair and tired, brown eyes. He liked Chuuya’s spark, he had told him once, when another aimed remark about his height had made the mafioso embarrassingly break a bowl, forced to listen to his partner’s snickers while he tried not to scowl at the strangers that turned to look at him.
If only he knew how much spark Chuuya really had.
“Eat somewhere else,” Chuuya suggested, if only to get the boy off his back.
After all, it wasn’t like it was also Dazai’s favorite restaurant. Their tastes were too different. If anything, Dazai preferred women-owned food stalls—a scarcity in Yokohama—and even that didn’t feel fair to say, considering the fact that Dazai ate more canned crab than he did hot takoyaki or korokke.
“No,” Dazai stated from behind him, not unlike a spoiled toddler.
Chuuya’s nostrils flared. His voice raised. “I’m not going with you.”
“I’ll pay,” his partner remarked, as if it mattered—as if both of their pockets weren’t filled with blood money and numerous debit cards. It was strange for Dazai to offer, though—and not just because he was offering something. In actuality, the mafioso didn’t tend to spend his money on things that actually mattered. He willingly slept in a shipping container: hot and dark, and refused to ever explain why.
“I don’t care,” Chuuya retorted, because there was no reason to. He could pay for his own food. He could skip eating all together, and get a big breakfast. He was in control of everything except the things he wanted to be.
“I’ll pay,” Dazai repeated, like there was more to it than Chuuya originally believed, and the ginger paused. He fought the urge to turn around—to try to read the brunet’s expression.
If only he didn’t trust him so much, a phantom of Dazai’s hand lodged in his ribcage and the other pressed against the scar on his right wrist.
Chuuya sighed, air leaving his lips like his own frustration. It was always there, waiting, ready to rise from the smallest thing—a comment; a look. Maybe he really was a bad person.
Maybe he was just a teenager.
Eating sounded nice, at the very least. “Will you leave me alone afterwards?”
“Yes,” Dazai answered, his voice flat, and that was enough.
Slowly, Chuuya stood up from where he crouched, looking at the river one last time. With a turn, and a raise of his left hand, he steadied the hat on his head and parted his lips. “Then, I guess I’d be an idiot not to accept.”
“Oh, Chuuya,” Dazai sighed, pivoting away from him and walking towards the nearest steps. “You’re an idiot no matter what.”
“Can it,” Chuuya hissed, walking forward with a quickened pace—and not just because of his shorter legs.
Though, with every step, the boy thought of Dazai’s reaction to his secret—of the food he’d eat; of the peace he’d get once he was alone; of the quality of his sleep after a mission well done.
In the end, maybe the day wasn’t so bad after all.
★ ★ ★
The days passed exactly as they had before. In fact, there was no sign that Chuuya had talked to his partner at all, revealing a secret that tugged on his freckled shoulders and made the walk to a mirror longer than it truly was.
Dazai didn’t add to his arsenal of insults. Instead, he kept to the ones he usually thrown: pipsqueak, hat rack, slug. There were no new looks from others, either, ones that said: Gross. Stop pretending. What a waste.
Chuuya’s favorite thing, however, although he would never admit to it, was that there was no change in their missions. Dazai didn’t pity him because of what he was before. He kept Chuuya by his side or a step ahead. He changed directions without prompting and expected Chuuya to follow. He stepped in puddles of blood and brains and made Chuuya do the same, albeit with a huff and a complaint about No Longer Human.
Everything changed the best way it could, in that nothing had changed at all. That was, of course, until Dazai had disappeared for three days, without any warning.
The first day went by quickly. Dazai’s absence wasn’t all that surprising. He was prone to disappearing, sometimes, spending the day in another city, only to come back with a photo or two of roses or a stray cat: two things that he could find in Yokohama, too, if only he stayed.
On the second day, Chuuya had wondered why Mori hadn’t informed him that Dazai would be gone. Usually, he knew a little about the brunet’s tasks, if only that he wouldn’t angrily interrupt them after getting a bit tipsy.
By the third, Chuuya missed him badly—a realization that left his heart pounding and his head hurting. He didn’t want to miss him. Dazai had no right to take up space in his mind, but he did, and the ginger couldn’t continue to pretend that it was anything else but longing, the very idea making his stomach twist and knot.
It was disgusting, desiring someone so awful, but Chuuya continued to think about the bandaged boy in the comfort of his own bed, his fan on and his legs bare, his black-colored boxer briefs comfortably short. He rubbed his legs together with a heavy sigh, light hairs tickling his flesh: a strangely good sensation, especially in the cool air.
He wanted to play video games together. He wanted to see Dazai stick his pale tongue out in concentration—wanted to see him scowl when he lost. He wanted to agree to a bet and win, and snort when Dazai had to dial a random number and sing or wear theatrical makeup to their next bar trip.
He wanted to yell at him. He craved the normalcy of it like he craved a rush of adrenaline. He wanted to sneer, and grab, and fuss—powerful waters meeting a durable dam. He didn’t have to hold his tongue with Dazai. He didn’t have to pretend to care when he truly didn’t. He could just be him—human or not; wicked or not.
Surely, one good kick would satisfy the coiled wrongness in his stomach. Maybe even a punch would do. He just needed to see it: Dazai’s visible eye wide with hurt, his lips parting with a sound he couldn’t control, rosy, open, and—
Chuuya wanted to kiss him, again, the alcohol on their tongues their sacred excuse.
He wanted to let the taste of Dazai linger in every crevice of his teeth, only to sour in the morning. He wanted to tug on brunet hair with his left hand, and let his right cup taped gauze. He wanted to press, and steal, and bite, his freckled skin aflame.
He liked feeling Dazai’s breath hitch: so faint that he had to wait for it. He liked seeing the brunet’s gaze, usually so cold, soften from his touch alone. He liked the way that the boy moved his lips against his, hungry only for the taste of him, both of them wanting, even if it was temporary.
The ginger wanted to fall asleep together, and pretend that it was an accident. Sometimes, it was. When it was late, and Chuuya didn’t want to play anything, he liked to sit by his partner’s side and stare at the white-colored device in the mafioso’s swift, bandaged hands—because he was bored; because his head felt fuzzy. Colors flashed. Dazai raved. Chuuya listened, somewhat, each passing second tugging harder and harder on his eyelids, until he—repulsively—fell asleep on his partner’s shoulder.
Yet, sometimes, it wasn’t an accident. Sometimes, they inched closer—the ocean lapping at the shore. Sometimes, they flopped down with an exhausted huff, the other following. Sometimes, they tried to make each other fall, then pin each other into place. Those were the times that Chuuya, on the cusp of unconsciousness, would hold onto Dazai like he was scared to lose him, too—hugging the boy’s arm or keeping his bent, lifted leg over his partner’s closest thigh.
He wanted to text him. He could. His flip phone—black, sharp—sat by his smooth, white pillow, full of charge. It’d take just a few seconds to pull up Dazai’s contact—a little more to type a single message, asking where he was. He didn’t need to say anything more than that—but, even then, Chuuya couldn’t bring himself to do it, the very thought of it making his cheeks warm and his throat tighten.
They hated each other. No one could annoy them any worse. No one could carve themselves any deeper into their flesh. Chuuya was meant to kill Dazai—to watch his focus fade; to feel his last breath. No one else deserved to kill him—not even the brunet himself.
The ginger wanted, and wanted, and wanted—but he could never get. Some of it was his own fault. Some of it wasn’t. It was funny, almost, how things were—or, rather, it was easier to think that way, if only to stop the bitter tears.
So, the mafioso stared at his boring, white ceiling as if it were painted by a famous artist—as if there were poetic, wistful messages in every stroke. It hit him, in the comfort of his own room, that he probably looked like a mess: his hair dishelved, his red shirt too large—hiding the features he avoided in the mirror, only to stare at in the shower.
With his lips ajar, he relaxed against his sheets. He pictured Dazai saying it, again: “You’re a boy.” He pictured Dazai taking in the sight of him now, completely unprepared, and still saying it: “You’re a boy.” He pictured Dazai glaring at him, or shoving him, or pressing their noses together, his lips parted: Stupid boy. Bad boy. Pretty boy.
He’d take anything, if only to be called a boy, and when fatigue began to settle against Chuuya’s heterochromatic eyes, he pictured an older version of himself, as he often did, not alone, shirtless, in a bathroom with a circular mirror, but with another man beside him, messy, brown hair framing his sleepy face.
★ ★ ★
Chuuya saw him in the evening—a ghoul in the dimly lit hallway. His black coat hung on his shoulders like it was holding him down, each of his footsteps silent and slow. He strolled past the locked doors like a secret: hushed yet heavy, carrying with him an air that would’ve made anyone else suffocate.
Chuuya was not like anyone else—nor could he ever hope to be.
Quickly, the short mafioso called out to the walking enigma, saying the name that had run throughout his mind without remorse and swirled upon his tongue at night: “Dazai.”
The boy paused in place. Slowly, he turned around, meeting Chuuya’s gaze with dark, tired eyes. There was a certain slackness to the edges of his lips—a slight pinch to his dark eyebrows. He was in a bad mood, then.
Unafraid of storms, Chuuya inched closer, each step just as confident as the last, leather tapping against expensive tile. Once the pair was finally standing face-to-face, two diamonds stained with blood, the ginger leaned in, loudly asking, “Where the hell have you been?”
The brunet gazed down at him like he was nothing more than a loading screen—his eyelids droopy; his lips straight. “Did Mori-san not tell you?”
At the question, the shorter boy faltered, falling silent. His relationship with Mori was far different than Dazai’s. He was not served information on a silver platter, nor could he storm into his office like a brat and walk out with answers or files.
“Oh,” Dazai said flatly, acknowledging his reaction. “You didn’t ask.” Slowly, then, the edges of his lips began to curl. “Well, if you must know, I was cramping.”
At the remark, Chuuya spared his partner’s legs a quick glance. “Oh.” His gaze flicked upwards. “Well, maybe if you didn’t break your legs all of the time, you wouldn’t have to worry about that.”
Casually, the taller mafioso lifted his thin, right hand, closing his eyes. His index finger stayed raised in the cool, quiet air as, both candidly and pompously, he voiced, “Actually, it was menstrual cramps.”
There was a pause, and then shock tore through Chuuya’s form, ravaging thin tissue. His eyes widened. His muscles tensed. He stared at Dazai like he was the fish out of water, his lips parted stupidly in realization. “What?”
The brunet opened his eyes, but there was a distance in his gaze—a boy looking through glass. “I usually skip my period,” he noted, plainly, despite how bad that was. “I must’ve eaten more food than usual.”
“Are you messin’ with me?” the ginger pressed, feeling a pulse beneath his skin. For whatever reason, his throat was dry—smaller than it used to be.
Dazai ignored him, as he often did, his bandaged hand flicking backwards. “I throw up a lot, too. Very nasty stuff.”
“But you’re—”
Chuuya stopped himself, and Dazai stared at him through a soft, round eye and thick, dark eyelashes.
The boy would not voice it—he knew how it sounded—but when he tried, it was not all that difficult to imagine the other as a girl: younger, smaller. Maybe her hair was less messy. Maybe she wore altered skirts. Had Mori treated her like Elise—or was Dazai a boy long before he had even joined the Port Mafia?
It didn’t matter—not really. It wasn’t a pressing matter. The only thing pressing was a question in Chuuya’s mind: one dripping in disappointment and something akin to shame. “Why didn’t you tell me that you used to be a girl?”
Dazai looked away, only to glance back with a warmth that was not there before—as little and fleeting as it were. “I didn’t want to ruin Chuuya’s special moment.”
Chuuya’s heart jumped at the consideration—consideration that Dazai did not often give; consideration aimed at him. Quickly, the boy scrambled to say something, knowing that he could not express himself honestly. “You ruin everything.”
Slowly, the brunet smiled. “I do, don’t I?” he returned coyly, only to wave. “But, I actually have places to be, so I’ll see you later.” The mafioso turned, then, dashing off with more energy than he had possessed before. “Preferably in a tiny casket!” he added, yelling.
★ ★ ★
Chuuya visited him that night, the pretty, dark sky clashing with his ugly, blazing feelings. Embarrassment ate away at his edges, causing him to do things that he typically didn’t, like walk to his destination—as much as he could, considering its toxicity—and carry his bags at full weight. One was stuffed with takeout: a typical thing. The other was filled with canned crab.
He knew that what he was doing was idiotic. The thought squirmed against the back of his mind, pushing and pressing. He was headed towards a high, dangerous cave, but he had already climbed the mountain. There was no room for surrender, so, when the mafioso finally approached the inconspicuous shipping container, he lifted an occupied, gloved hand, knocking on one of the steel doors.
Silence followed the three taps. That was to be expected, really. There were a number of powerful people that wanted the brunet dead—his calculations gone; his cruel acts avenged. Approaching his home would be stupid, but almost everyone was stupid in comparison to Osamu Dazai.
Chuuya was stupid. He parted his lips anyway. “Let me in, Dazai.”
There was a pause, and then the door creaked. Chuuya stepped back, expecting it to open fully, but Dazai kept his grip on its side, peeking at the ginger with a pout. “Aww. You haven’t died yet?”
Chuuya’s eyes narrowed. “You really think I’d go before finishing you off first?”
“Stupid mutts never know when they’re going to the pound,” the brunet retorted, leaning forward.
“I’d argue this place is worse than any pound,” Chuuya stated, his heterochromatic eyes sweeping across Dazai’s so-called home, and then the shipping containers that surrounded it, piled high like corpses. Only when he met Dazai’s gaze, again, did he demand, “Let me in.”
The taller mafioso hummed dismissively. “It doesn’t sound like you want to come in.”
Chuuya’s jaw clenched, his grip on his bags—plastic, white—tightening. “Let me in, you walking bag of bandages.”
With a huff—forced, exaggerated—Dazai pushed the door open, letting go and sliding to his right, just behind the other door. “What’s in the bags?” he questioned, as Chuuya sharply moved to his left, then stepped inside.
It wasn’t as much of a home as it was a miniature hell, fit for cars and not people, but there was a refrigerator and a bed, a desk and a chair, and a shitty-looking exhaust fan. A bare light bulb hung from the ceiling, too, and it was likely the only thing keeping Dazai sane—or, well, less insane. Chuuya already felt suffocated.
“Takeout,” he answered, walking forward. “And canned crab. There was a sale.” He was lying, of course—but Dazai didn’t need to know that.
There was a pause, and then Chuuya heard the steel door close behind him. “Isn’t that nice?” the brunet remarked, his voice flat.
“Yeah,” the shorter mafioso answered, stopping in place. The exhaust fan hummed softly nearby. “I figured, y’know, it’d be a waste if I didn’t—”
Chuuya stopped himself, realizing the weight behind his next words—lie or not.
Slowly, he turned around, focusing on the bandages above his partner’s right eye. Sometimes, he liked to imagine that it was kinder than the other—then tossed the inaccurate fantasy to the side. “I mean,” he corrected, “you’re probably the only one who actually likes the crap.”
“So,” Dazai chimed, sounding uninterested, “you were saving it from being thrown out. How thoughtful.”
Chuuya’s posture straightened, his lips curling. “Exactly.”
The brunet’s head tilted, much like an animal’s, his gaze just as piercing. “What about the takeout, then?”
“Well—” The ginger tried to think quickly, his chest tightening and his mind going blank. “I—”
“Hmm?” his partner pressed, before he could properly answer, the sound venomous. The dark-haired mafioso stepped forward, his black socks tapping silently against the steel floor. “Did they have a sale, too?”
Chuuya hesitated, suddenly feeling trapped and examined—a butterfly pinned to a board. “Not exactly,” he replied truthfully, not moving, “but—”
Dazai drew their faces together—a strange, typical habit—his dark eye wide and his tone mocking. “Really?” he asked, prodding him with the word alone. “They don’t have a discount for bite-sized liars?”
Chuuya could only stare, forcing himself not to react to the comment about his height, even if it was difficult. Dazai was in a bad mood. He knew that, already, and if the brunet was going to throw a tantrum, then it was better to get it over with.
Dazai didn’t seem to like that, however—which was unfair, really, considering his own lacking reactions. His pale, bandaged hands jerked without warning, grabbing at the bags in Chuuya’s hands, trying to break his strong grip. “Don’t pity me,” he demanded coldly.
Chuuya only held the bags tighter, trying to twist his gloved hands away. He could imagine what Dazai would do—slam the food to the floor; toss it into the soil filled with toxic substances—and he wasn’t particularly interested in wasting his hard-earned money. Nonetheless, something twisted in his empty stomach at the other’s words. He snarled. “You think this is pity?”
“What is it, then?” Dazai bit back with a scowl, still tugging.
Care, Chuuya’s mind supplied, to his distaste. Connection. He couldn’t say either. “You got me food, when I told you,” the ginger snapped earnestly, grunting when one of Dazai’s fingers painfully slipped between his own. “I wanted to make things fair.”
Something hazy formed in Dazai’s visible eye: fuzzy, haunting. A second passed, the tension building, and then the boy spat, “Fine.”
He let go, to Chuuya’s relief, angrily sliding past him. Chuuya turned, just in case, watching as his partner sat on the floor with a huff, his black-colored tie swaying slightly with the movement. Obviously wanting Chuuya to see his irritation, he crossed his thin arms, glaring upwards.
The shorter boy blinked, wide-eyed. He was missing something, clearly, yet he couldn’t figure out what—and he seemingly didn’t have time to. With a sigh, he relented and sat down about a meter across from the brunet, carefully placing his bags on the floor. He kept the canned crab by his right hip, scooting the bag of takeout in front of him and pulling out its contents: two closed containers filled with rice, teriyaki chicken, and grilled vegetables.
“I’m not thanking you,” Dazai commented abruptly, as a savory smell filled the shipping container.
Chuuya’s expression hardened in return. “I don’t want you to.”
He meant it, too, this time around. He was treading unfamiliar waters, and he didn’t want to face any more unusual things than he had to. Trying to calm down, because Dazai’s actions still frustrated him, the boy took the plastic lid off of one of the containers, sliding it across the smooth floor, in his partner’s direction. It brushed against Dazai’s covered legs, halting.
The mafioso glanced down at his food, blinking stupidly. Chuuya almost wanted to punch him—something unsurprising. “I don’t have chopsticks.”
Annoyed, Chuuya dug in the white-colored bag, pulling out one of the chopstick sleeves: red, patterned. He speedily threw it at the other boy’s face, only for it to be caught with an irritatingly agile hand. “You should’ve let it hit you,” the ginger sneered.
Dazai’s expression only soured as he lowered his hand, his lips twisting and his cheeks twitching. “I can kick you out,” he said, bluntly, like it mattered.
The shorter boy grabbed the other sleeve, dropping it on top of the bag with a crinkle. “And I can actually kick you.” Plastic groaned as he took the clear lid off of his own food, only to place it aside and center the warm, black container on the thin, white plastic.
“Oh, wow!” the brunet exclaimed in false surprise, sarcasm dripping from his rotten tongue. Then, deadpan: “I have legs, too, you know.”
Chuuya slipped his wooden chopsticks from out of their sleeve, easily breaking them apart. “Oh, I know,” he remarked, before steadying the utensils in his left hand and taking a bite of white rice. “You break one every other month.”
“Wrong,” Dazai argued, quickly and childishly, the word just a little louder. “That would be too painful.” With a muted sigh, he slipped his chopsticks from their abandoned sleeve, snapping them apart like bones. Strangely, then, he started to smile—the sight icky. “You thought I had leg cramps.”
Muscles tightened defensively. “It’s not like I knew about”—Chuuya paused, uncertain of how to phrase it—“things.”
“Things,” the taller boy repeated, obnoxious, taking a small bite of grilled zucchini. Chuuya tried not to stare. “I’m curious.”
Skepticism tugged at the ginger’s stringy insides, all scarred and vigilant. “About what?”
“Do you want surgeries?”
It was such a normal question that it threw Chuuya off—his heart jolting; his cheeks flushing. It sounded like something a friend would ask—and Dazai was as far away from that as someone could possibly get.
“I mean, yeah,” the mafioso answered, embarrassed. He wasn’t quite sure why. Nonetheless, he opened his mouth, ready to voice that any surgery couldn’t be worse than N’s torture, only to stop himself. Now wasn’t the time. It wasn’t ever the time. Instead, he voiced, “I just need to wait.”
To grow, he meant, but Dazai would only laugh at him if he admitted that verbally.
The brunet paused, clearly in thought. Was he thinking about him? Was he thinking about Mori? Chuuya couldn’t tell, and that bothered him more than he would’ve liked.
“Mhm,” Dazai finally hummed, after a few seconds had passed, mixing his food around and taking another bite. It was bigger, this time.
“What about you?” Chuuya didn’t know why he was asking. He didn’t know why he was curious. He was seeking a chain with a dark-haired monster, and the links were hot and heavy. “Do you want surgeries?”
A second passed before Dazai slowly glanced down at the floor, his voice lowered. “I just want to be dead.”
Tension built—weighty, nauseating—and the shipping container likely wasn’t big enough to hold it. That was why Chuuya reminded himself that, even if he hated the way that Dazai spoke, sometimes, Dazai wouldn’t listen. He couldn’t be saved from words alone—a drowning man who loved the violent sea.
So, Chuuya calmly uttered, “Yeah?” His right hand drifted towards the bag at his side, reaching in and grasping at one of the round cans. Making up for the other’s lack of energy, he pulled it out and tossed it, only for it to smack against Dazai’s waiting palm, getting caught between his swift, pale fingers. “Well, you better eat all of this crab first.”