Chapter Text
It all starts with spilled coffee.
Well, actually, it starts when Dazai oversleeps and misses his alarm. That wouldn’t have been too bad on its own, but he can’t sit and enjoy his caramel latte from his favorite cafe down the street like usual since he’s already late. So, he gets it to go and sprints down the street, clutching the cup in one hand. He weaves through people, dodging pedestrians as best he can.
He’s on the edge of campus when disaster strikes. Some idiot owner can’t control his dog, and the mutt lunges for Dazai as he runs by. In an effort to avoid the beast, Dazai stumbles over the curb and spills coffee all over his favorite cream sweater.
Fuck it all.
He waves off the apologizing owner and assesses the damage. Whipped cream drips down his front, and the coffee he loves so much soaks through his sweater. He kneels there for a moment, mourning his latte, but he stands eventually, throwing his empty cup into a trash can close by.
Thankfully, Odasaku’s apartment is just around the corner, and he drops by to change clothes. His friend is already out on his mail route, so Dazai steals one of Odasaku’s tan trench coats and white dress shirts. He’s sure Odasaku won’t mind, but he scribbles a small apology note on the way out, just in case. He eventually makes it to class, and the professor gives him an evil glare as he sinks into his chair, avoiding the curious stares of his peers.
Later, he forgets his bi-weekly tutoring lesson with Atsushi. The poor boy waits in the library for over two hours before realizing Dazai isn’t going to show. He leaves a sweet voicemail, but Dazai still feels absolutely awful about ghosting his mentee.
Finally, as if fate itself is laughing at him, neither Odasaku nor Ango make it to their weekly hangout at the Bar Lupin. Dazai assures his friends that he’ll be fine by himself, but he drinks whiskey into the early morning and complains to the poor bartender about his shitty day.
Stumbling out of the bar sometime after one, he decides to go for a walk by the port instead of heading back to his dreary apartment. As he walks, the wind ruffles his hair slightly, and Dazai breathes deeply, enjoying the scent of the ocean. Leaning against the railing, he smiles for the first time today, but of course the moment is promptly ruined when the voice in his head speaks up.
How nice would it be to sink into the water and never come up?
No, he couldn’t think like that. Odasaku taught him that life was worth living, even if he has crappy days like today. Besides, drowning is one of the most painful ways to die, and Dazai absolutely despises pain. Still, he can’t help but fantasize about the ultimate death, preferably done with a beautiful woman by his side.
A small noise off to his left catches his attention, and Dazai turns to watch as several men in suits enter a warehouse in the distance. He squints and notices they’re holding guns.
Mafia.
Dazai wracks his brain for information about the Port Mafia, but comes up empty. He did research on the organization after moving to Yokohama, trying to find any sort of knowledge related to the secretive group. It’s a strange obsession, but Dazai likes knowing every little detail about his surroundings. He even questioned Ango—who had lived here most of his life—about the Port Mafia, but he had strongly advised against pursuing them.
“Their boss is a cruel man who keeps all the criminal activity in Yokohama under control.”
Dazai sipped his whiskey. “Any information on the man himself?”
Ango levelled Dazai with a serious stare, trying to stress the danger. “His name is Chuuya Nakahara. If you ever hear that name while on the streets, I’d suggest you sprint in the other direction.”
Dazai isn’t sure what compels him. Maybe it’s the alcohol surging through his veins, or it’s the remnants of his shitty day, but his not-quite-sober mind decides he needs to investigate the mafiosos who had disappeared inside the dark warehouse. Looking back on the moment, it’s the first in a series of terrible mistakes, a domino effect that would ultimately change his world forever.
He creeps toward the entrance, keeping to the shadows and cursing his tan coat that seems to shine in the moonlight. Dazai studies the building for a moment and spots a small entrance off to the side. Jackpot. He slinks towards it and opens it silently, entering the warehouse.
“Where are they?”
A figure wearing a hat speaks in a harsh tone, and Dazai moves closer to get a glimpse. Crouching behind a large shipping container, Dazai gets his first glance of the Port Mafia.
Ten or so men in black suits stand in a semi-circle, each one armed with a submachine gun and an earpiece. Two more men stand in front of the group, seemingly above them in rank, and Dazai leans in to see them.
One is an older man with gray hair. He sports a monocle over one eye, and his demeanor suggests he’s led many types of meetings in a warehouse like this. He scans the room with an observant eye, and Dazai shifts lower against his hiding place.
The other man—Dazai notes—is quite short, but something about him screams danger. His fiery orange hair is slung over one shoulder, and Dazai suppresses a gasp when he notices the man’s eyes: reddish-brown in one and striking blue in the other. He’s the one who spoke earlier, and he taps his foot impatiently.
“It seems they’re not coming, Nakahara.”
Nakahara. Chills run down Dazai’s spine as he remembers Ango’s warning. This man is Chuuya Nakahara, leader of the Port Mafia? He’s—not exactly what Dazai pictures when he thinks of a feared mafia boss.
Chuuya growls in anger, and Dazai decides he needs to get out of here now, before a bullet finds its way into his chest. He backs up slowly, trying to get out without making any noise.
Chuuya raises a hand, and all his subordinates snap to attention.
“Sweep the warehouse. I want to know if they left anyone to watch us fumble around.” Chuuya’s eyes narrow darkly. “They need to learn that no one makes a fool of the Port Mafia.”
The men fan out, and Dazai quickly loses sight of them in the gloom. Chuuya now stands alone in the middle of the room, as if waiting for his prey. Dazai continues to inch backwards, keeping his line of sight on the mafia boss. A couple more steps, and he’ll be free, ready to go home and forget this ever happened.
Suddenly, his back bumps into something that feels vaguely human, and a meaty arm wraps itself around his throat.
Shit! Dazai’s body goes into panic mode as he thrashes in the grasp, already desperate for oxygen. The man behind him drags him forward into the room and drops him in front of Chuuya like a cat presenting a mouse to its owner. Dazai coughs as air finally enters his lungs, sucking in greedy breaths as he looks up at Chuuya.
The Boss of the Port Mafia glances down at him in disgust, like Dazai is scum on the bottom of his shoe. Dazai hears the click of weaponry as the men raise their guns at Dazai’s head, ready to blow it off at the first hint of danger.
“So, they left behind a rat to watch us scramble like idiots.”
Dazai’s eyes almost pop out of his head. “No! I’m just a civilian who happened to be in the area!”
Chuuya raises an eyebrow. “What kind of civilian is hiding in a warehouse at two a.m watching a mafia arms deal?”
Dazai opens his mouth to respond, but his brain can’t supply any sort of answer. Chuuya has a good point there. What kind of sane person sees a group of shady people and immediately decides, I should go investigate! He opts to stay silent, which is apparently the wrong answer.
“Listen here,” Chuuya's hands shoot out to grab Dazai’s lapels, and he pulls them in so they’re face to face. “I’m not sure what the Decay of Angels think they’re doing, but I don’t want any of their bullshit here. Got that?”
“Are you really the leader of the Port Mafia?” Dazai’s not sure why he blurts it out, but Chuuya drops him on the ground at the unexpected response.
“Wha—? I’m Chuuya Nakahara, Boss of the Port Mafia.”
“Really?” Dazai’s not sure why he’s still talking, but he can’t seem to make himself stop. “I thought the boss would be taller than you are.”
A swift kick buries itself in Dazai’s stomach, and he curls into a ball of pain. That kick might’ve broken a rib or two, and he feels the powerful urge to throw up. As Chuuya glares down at him, Dazai knows one thing for certain.
He’s fucked.
“Knock him out and take him back to base. I want Kouyou to attend to him and make him talk.”
Choruses of “Yes, Boss,” ring out, and Dazai struggles to sit up. A grunt shoves him back down and stabs a syringe in his neck, injecting him with some type of drug. The last thing he sees is Chuuya’s multicolored eyes watching him with a careful expression. And then, he falls into blackness.