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The first time Chuuya saw Dazai with a gun to his head, he didn't think much of it.
In the Port Mafia, guns were punctuation. They emphasized failure. Rewarded loyalty. Ended conversations that had gone on too long. Seeing the barrel of a pistol pressed against someone's temple wasn't remarkable enough to warrant a second glance.
Today was no different, in all actuality. It was just a new attempts to test his loyalties and his stomach.
"...Seriously?"
Chuuya leaned against the concrete wall with his arms folded, one boot tapping impatiently against the floor as he watched the scene unfold through half-lidded eyes. The underground training room smelled of old blood, gun oil, and damp cement, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead.
Three bound traitors knelt in a row in front of him, trembling like they didn’t know the consequences of being discovered.
Mori stood behind them with his hands tucked neatly into his sleeves, expression pleasant enough to make it unsettling. "You've gotten considerably more precise with your ability lately, Chuuya-kun."
"I know."
"So let's test it."
The first traitor was shoved forward.
He was shaking so violently Chuuya wondered if the man would collapse before the exercise even started.
“I want you,” Mori began, tugging the hood off the mans head, “to shoot to kill. However, I don’t want this man dead before we can extract more information from him.”
Chuuya glanced between the kneeling traitor and his boss, eyebrow raised in a perplexed expression he was still working on trying to school around his new, a considerably less lenient, employer. “You want me to stop the bullet before it hits him?” He asked, still trying to make sense of the whole situation.
“Precisely,” Mori said, nodding approvingly.
He’d done it before, dozens of times in fact. On himself, at least. This should be no different, really.
With little preamble, he pulled the pistol out from the holster on his hip and aimed it, leveling it at the terrified mans face and pulling the trigger.
The bullet soared through the air considerably slower than it would have if it weren’t under the influence of Chuuya’s ability, the little ball of metal slugging to a stop just before it hit the mans forehead, hovering there. It was skewed slightly, off the target by maybe a finger length, on target to hit just shy of his left eye, potentially non-lethal if the man was exceptionally lucky.
Mori smiled, eyeing the scene for a second before lifting his gaze up to Chuuya. “Good, but perhaps next time we make it a little less… obvious.”
Chuuya rolled his eyes, lifting the gun back up and allowing the first bullet to drop, releasing his grip on it. It was no secret Chuuya tended to rely on his ability when in combat situations. He’d never had access to any fancy weaponry before the mafia, so he used what he could to survive, which usually meant the environment around him. It was a little roadblock Kouyou had been attempting to remedy for at least four months now, after watching him empty the barrel of his gun mid fight and simply shoot the bullets with Upon The Tainted Sorrows, directly from his hands.
Don’t get him wrong, he can shoot a gun perfectly fine and hit his target at least seventy percent of the time, though there was maybe a sixty percent chance of the bullet hitting square where he meant it to, less so when in the heat of the moment.
With a steadier gaze, allowing himself an extra few seconds to aim properly, he fired again, this time allowing the bullet to keep it’s gradual speed for longer, only pulling back on it with his ability just shy of hitting the mans forehead. This time, the trajectory was relatively fine, it would’ve hit just next to the space between his eyes, however in his attempts to slow it rapidly with his ability, the bullet had been dragged down, lodging itself in the mans throat instead.
Mori sighed, but kept the steady smile on his face. “Better, but perhaps we don’t kill the next one.”
The first man wasn’t dead, but Mori let his body fall onto the ground, writhing as he attempted to drag his bound hands up to the steadily bleeding wound in his neck, mouth gaping like a fish out of water as he choked on his own blood. He’d be dead within the next few minutes, so Chuuya just turned away from him, breathing through the traitorous feeling of nausea slowly trying to slink its way up his throat. He was still getting used to the raw violence of this place.
The next few tests went much the same, the bullet slowing too much before it reached the second traitors head, obvious in its change in speed to anyone watching. He got through seven bullets before his control slipped, an unexpected variable throwing itself into his path. The woman he’d been shooting at shrieked as Mori pressed the sharp heel of his shoe into her ankle, causing her body to jerk slightly, her head ducking down and intercepting the bullet he was still attempting to slow.
Her body slumped instantly, gray, gooey brain matter mixed with blood slowly oozing its way out of the hole in the side of her head.
Mori tutted. “You must account for any potential change in position, Nakahara-Kun. You’ve been able to stop the bullets just before they reach a specific place on their bodies, but the second one moves even the slightest bit forward, suddenly it doesn’t matter,” he explained slowly, as if he were speaking to a particularly dense child.
Chuuya grit his teeth, forcibly ignoring the cooling body at his bosses feet.
“My apologies, boss. Next time I will not assume the variable is fixed. I will anticipate any change of change and interpret how to adjust.”
“Excellent,” Mori praised, nudging the dead woman’s leg off his foot and stepping over her to approach the next subject.
Slowly, as if they expected him not to notice, people had begun to filter into the room, lining the walls silently as they watched on, hands clasped behind their backs in a proper manner. They were grunts, that much was obvious, their suits identical and their ears all wired with ear-pieces that were hung on the outer shells of their ears, out of use. One or two would trickle in every few minutes, eyes strictly looking right at him. They’d begun to appear after he’d started on the second target. It’d been manageable at first, he was used to having eyes on him while working, used to making examples of people in front of his men to show that laxness and disrespect would not be tolerated just because he was younger than most of them. Now, with over a dozen people all staring unflinchingly at him, it was starting to make the sweat dripping down his spine more noticeable.
“This is our last one for today,” Mori said, dragging Chuuya’s attention back to him as he began to remove the hood from the persons head. “I would prefer you didn’t kill them, though I suppose it cannot be helped if you make a mistake.”
Chuuya froze when he saw who it was he’d be practicing on next.
Dazai was slumped over, dried blood collected under his crooked, clearly broken nose, swiped half across his cheek as if he’d tried to wipe it away with the back of his hand. His one visible eye was bored, matching the slight pout to his lips as he stared at the ground, shuffling on his knees slightly to get more comfortable. There was a bruise slowly beginning to bloom under his eye, a vicious purple splotch, ringed with yellow, was already covered most of his nose.
“Mori-San,” he whined, drawing out the last vowel. “It was so stuffy under that stupid hood, and you left it there for nearly an hour! Next time you should just slit my throat, it’ll be far less annoying a punishment.”
Mori didn’t dignify the complaint with a response, instead smiling up at Chuuya as he tossed the hood to the side. “This target will be a bit trickery, considering his ability will nullify anything controlled the bullet as soon as it touches him.”
Chuuya stood silently, staring wide eyed at the man, partially in disbelief. He wanted him to… shoot Dazai? The little punk he sent on any and every mission that required even the slightest bit of competence? The creature he always sided with whenever he’d make a borderline heinous comment or suggestion during executive meetings? Surely not.
“His ability will stop mine, the bullet will hit him,” he said lamely. “He’ll die.”
Mori chuckled, waving his hands. “He won’t die! So long as you continue to do as well as you have with the other two targets, he’ll be just fine. Besides, Dazai knows what happens when he disobeys. This is fully within my right to punish him for.”
So this was some sort of punishment, then. Chuuya loathed to imagine what Dazai could’ve possibly done to deserve being shot at with a very real chance he’d lose his life. Though, he can’t help but acknowledge the little voice at the back of his head that screamed for this. For the chance to finally kill the boy who had driven the Sheep against him. To bury a bullet between the eyes of this wolf parading as a boy, to finally rid himself of his incessant, irritating presence.
With that frankly dull thought, Chuuya lifted his gun, leveling it with the boys head, and fired.
The bullet sailed through the air swiftly, his fingers itching around the handle of his gun as he watched it, mentally tracking what he believed was probably it’s general trajectory, and watched as it buried itself steadfastly into the wall behind the boy.
There was a slight tremble in his hands as he let the gun lower, pressing it against his thigh and ignoring the collective breathing of all the people in the room watching him. Dazai was grinning, a sadistic glint to his eye as he stared at Chuuya, craning his head forward to do so.
“Wow, what a good shot doggy,” Dazai cooed, tilting his head condescendingly to the side.
“Nakahara-Kun,” Mori started, irritation clearly bleeding into his tone.
“Apologies, sir.” Chuuya lifted the gun again, leveling it with Dazai’s head once more.
It hung there for several seconds, the silence suspended in the air, thick with tension. Why was he hesitating? He didn’t fucking care about this sorry excuse for a mafioso. He didn’t care if he stopped the bullet or let it loge itself in his stupid, smug little face. It’s what the fucker deserves for all the torment he’s put Chuuya through since meeting him.
He heard someone from the wall shuffle their feet, drawing his attention quickly back to the moment.
“Take the shot, Nakahara-Kun,” Mori said sternly.
Chuuya inhaled shallowly. “He’ll be hurt, boss. I might fail.”
Mori scowled. “That is none of your concern. Take the shot.”
Chuuya continued to hesitate, eyes training on the prone figure of Dazai, still slumped on the ground, his expression slowly bleeding into something unreadable. He could see the tremor in his hand now, clenching tightly at his pant leg with the other to conceal it, though he’s sure everyone in the room could see it just fine from the way the gun was shivering.
Another gun clicked somewhere, the telltale sign of the safety being clicked.
“Chibi, take the shot,” Dazai drawled, his voice bland and uninterested.
One of the men lining the wall had his gun drawn, training it on Chuuya’s head, only barely visible from the corner of his eye. Mori hadn’t moved, but he wouldn’t put it past himself to have not noticed a command from the man. He was weirdly out of it, and he wasn’t even sure why. He’d never had an issue before, thinking about the stupid mackerel dying. He’d watched as Dazai put himself directly in the line of enemy fire, watched as he ducked around corners quickly with reckless abandon, not bothering to check for potential foes on the other side, watched his dumbass hand upside down from high walls like a oversized, bandaged bat, his knees locked over the lip of it as he stared at Chuuya, wide-eyed and grinning.
Even now, with a gun pointed directly at his forehead, tied up by his own boss who was ready to allow his own partner to shoot to kill, his stupid ass was smiling, teeth an off white with shining metal braces marring the surface. He would never mistake the boy as a child. Something like him could never be considered innocent, pure. But just standing there looking at him, scrutinizing his face as he stalled the inevitable, he couldn’t help but notice the soft roundness of his cheeks, or the way his eye looked far too big for his head, or the way his spindly arms were pulled so harshly behind his back it was sure to be painful by now. How his metal smile reminded him of one of the younger kids back in the Sheep.
“Chuuya-Kunnn~” Dazai had sat up a little bit now, eye flickering over him as if he were assessing him. It almost seemed like he was confused as to why he hadn’t taken the shot yet.
The grunt with his gun up took a step forward, heeled boots clicking loudly on the concrete floor. It was an obvious threat, telling him to get on with it already before Mori got tired of the situation, which was seeming more and more likely as the seconds ticked on.
“Nakahara, you wouldn’t defy a direct order from the boss, would you.” It wasn’t framed as a question. Mori looked at him with a closed off, dull expression, something achingly similar to one he’d seen on Dazai’s face whenever they were questioning someone physically while on a mission.
The grunt took another step forward and Chuuya pulled the trigger.
The bullet shot through the air quickly, the bang and reverb from the gun a sudden, somehow startling feeling to Chuuya whom had somehow forgotten that it did that in the two minutes it took for him to remember they were in an enclosed, underground space that amplified every little noise made in it.
It distracted him just enough that the bullet didn’t slow down fast enough before it reached Dazai, slamming into the side of his head and scraping away across his unbandaged ear.
The silence was loud for a few moments, tinnitus ringing in Chuuya’s ears, before Mori sighed, shaking his head slowly.
“I suppose that’ll be enough for today then.” With a quick wave of his hand the grunt holstered his gun again and stepped back against the wall, resuming his previous position alongside the others.
Mori lowered himself down into a crouch and took a brief look over the steadily oozing wound along the side of Dazai’s head, pressing a finger against the cut along the apple of his cheek. “He’ll be fine. It’s just a graze,” he said, standing up again and looking at Chuuya with a cold, calculating expression. “I’m disappointed, however I suppose I cannot put all the blame on you. I should’ve taken into account your weaknesses before attempting this.” He hummed to himself, looking down at Dazai again. “As for you, I suppose you shall be left to deal with this on your own then, since your punishment was cut rather short.”
With that, he turned and exited the training room, leaving the two corpses and all the people still stood down there alone.
Chuuya hadn’t noticed when his breathing picked up, though it was quite obvious to those around him when his chest heaved a bit and his eyes flickered around the room, coming back to himself and scraping a gloved hand down his sweaty face to regain his self-control. He holstered his gun after clicking it’s safety and took the quick few steps over to Dazai’s slumped form, swallowing back the bile that was burning the back of his throat as he stared down at the lump of black clothes and bandages.
The boy had blood oozing from a long, shallow cut starting from the top of his cheek and leading across to his ear. Chuuya had to clench his teeth together harshly when he noticed how there was a ragged rip in the appendage, the thin cartilage and skin partially blown away from the barely controlled blast, leaving what was sure to be an incredibly ugly scar, mostly mangled. Dazai’s shoulders were trembling slightly, though Chuuya wasn’t sure if it was from pain, adrenaline, or some sick kind of laughter rattling his shoulders. He’d seen all three, so it was really a toss up when he couldn’t see his face clearly.
He looked up, eyeing the people who quickly forced their gazes away from him. There was an obvious, sick-like look to their expressions as they tried to ignore what had just happened. Greenies.
“Go, I don’t know where the fuck you’re supposed to be after this but I don’t care.”
They all filed out relatively quickly, leaving him and Dazai alone in a matter of minutes.
Chuuya nudged Dazai with his shoe, carefully rolling the boy over as he seemed to allow the crude attention readily. Once he was on his side, Chuuya could see the way Dazai was partially curled in on himself, his face a bit dull despite the obvious layer of sweat covering his sallowed skin, fingers twitching intermittently in response to the obvious pain he was in.
He sighed, crouching down. “Stupid mackerel,” he muttered, pulling one of his gloves out of his pocket and pressed the spongy fabric against the boys ear, ignoring the slight twitch of his shoulders as he made contact. It was a cheap pair, one he wasn’t too concerned with getting dirty or damaged. He had a nicer set made out of a fine silk Kouyou had gifted him as a welcoming token a few months back, after she’d officially taken him in as her apprentice, but they were still at home, sat carefully in a drawer in his closet.
“Next time,” Dazai griped quietly, “you should just shoot me dead. It’d save us all a lot of pain.”
Chuuya tutted, rolling his eyes as he stood up, nudging him again with his foot. “Get up, I’m not dragging your ass all the way to the doc.”
Dazai just rolled onto his back, a characteristic whine building in his throat as Chuuya watched on, eyes half-lidded in a deliberate move to seem unbothered by everything. Though, his hands continued to tremble slightly where they were pressed deep into his pockets.