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Life in the Port Mafia was nothing like what Chuuya Nakahara had imagined when he accepted Ōgai Mori’s proposal.
On the coldest days, when the wind blowing from the port brought the smell of sea brine and burnt oil into his room, the weight of the Sheep's betrayal returned to suffocate him. He remembered with painful clarity the faces of his former companions—those he had protected with his life and considered his family—pointing knives and pistols at his chest.
The betrayal hurt more than any physical wound that gravity could heal.
At fifteen, he wore the dark suit of the organization, maintained a straight posture, and executed every order with necessary precision. He had sworn loyalty to the terrifying boss of the Mafia, and that oath was no empty promise. For Chuuya, his word was all he had left. He was well aware of where he was and the kind of monsters that inhabited the place.
With so many valid reasons to turn into a bitter person, to constantly complain about fate, or to explode over the smallest thing, Chuuya did the exact opposite in his day-to-day life. He tried to find small havens of normality so he wouldn't lose his mind.
In moments of pause between heavy training sessions and night patrols, he would swipe a bottle of alcohol from the cabinet of some unsuspecting subordinate to drink on the roof of the building, attempt to flirt and steal a kiss from someone in the internal divisions in hidden corners of the hallways, or simply sit on his bedroom floor playing on the handheld console he had bought with his first paycheck.
That small electronic device was his only possession that didn't bring memories of blood.
The only real problem in Chuuya's life—the fuse for any peaceful moment—went by the name of Dazai Osamu.
Dazai made everything unbearable. The dark-haired boy, covered in bandages and carrying an insanely deep, empty look in his eyes, seemed to have made Chuuya's life his personal hobby. He called him the Mafia's dog at every opportunity, mocked his height with childish jokes, and made an absolute point of sabotaging any attempt at a romantic encounter Chuuya tried to have.
If Chuuya arranged to talk with a girl from the accounting department on the terrace, Dazai would magically appear minutes before to spread absurd rumors and scare her away. If Chuuya tried something with a boy from logistics behind the scenes of a mission, Dazai ensured the person was urgently summoned to the other side of the city. Dazai seemed to take a sick pleasure in keeping Chuuya completely isolated.
And worst of all, the detail that made Chuuya furious with himself and rendered the situation a hundred times harder to endure, was the fact that Dazai was ridiculously good-looking.
The slightly messy brown hair falling gently, the elegantly careless posture, and that expressive, symmetrical face made Chuuya's chest tie itself into painful, confusing knots. Having a secret, completely unwanted crush on that manipulative demon was the greatest curse of his life.
The fights between the two had escalated to such a critical point over the past few days that the concrete walls of the main Mafia building already bore cracks caused by Chuuya's ability. The situation reached a threshold where Ōgai Mori himself issued a direct order: the two were strictly forbidden from exchanging a single word. If seen talking or fighting again, the consequences would be severe.
However, the ban on speaking did not diminish the hostility. It merely transformed it into something denser, almost tangible.
On that Thursday afternoon, the third-floor hallway was nearly empty. The yellowish glow of the ceiling lights cast long shadows on the dark marble floor. Chuuya walked with firm steps, hands shoved into his trench coat pockets, simply trying to reach the training room to vent his pent-up energy.
At the other end of the corridor, the elevator doors opened with a soft chime. Dazai stepped out.
The air in the hallway seemed to freeze instantly.
Unable to utter a single sound due to the Boss's order, the two locked eyes the moment they saw each other. The silence that followed was not a truce; it was the heavy silence that precedes a disastrous impact.
They looked like two warring nations marching toward the same border line.
Chuuya didn't slow his pace. Neither did Dazai. They kept walking toward each other, the distance between them shrinking rapidly by the second. Chuuya's blue eyes burned with contained rage, while Dazai maintained his gaze with that crooked, cold, and provocative smirk that made Chuuya's skin prickle with hatred.
When they crossed paths in the middle of the hallway, neither yielded an inch. Their shoulders collided with deliberate force. The impact made the fabric of their coats snap in the silence of the floor.
Chuuya stopped immediately. Dazai took a few steps forward and turned around with a smug smile on his lips.
Even without speaking, the provocation in Dazai's eyes was audible. He raised an eyebrow, tilting his head slightly and bringing his hand to his lower lip, mimicking the gesture of measuring Chuuya's height and ridiculing his size. Then, Dazai gave a fake smile and silently mouthed the word: "Puppy."
That was enough to break whatever shred of self-control Chuuya had left.
"You bastard..." Chuuya whispered, his voice cracking with rage, completely forgetting Mori's order. The reddish aura of his ability began to crackle around his body, making the dust on the floor float and the glass windows vibrate.
"My, my, has the puppy lost his bark and now only knows how to growl?" Dazai replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he took a step forward, showing no fear of the gravity that was beginning to warp the wall tiles. "Do you really think anyone in the Mafia would take you seriously on a date? I'm just doing the organization's reputation a favor by cleaning up your trash."
"I'm going to kill you! I swear to God I'll smash your face right here!" Chuuya charged, the floor beneath his feet cracking under the pressure of gravity.
"Try it, Chuuya. Let's see if you can hit me before crying to Mori-san," Dazai taunted, spreading his arms in disdain, knowing exactly which buttons to push.
Chuuya's response was a swift strike, his gravity-enveloped fist targeting Dazai's chest. Dazai dodged, the gust from the blow tearing the sleeve of his coat. Using Chuuya's momentum against him, Dazai tried to trip him, and within seconds, both were slamming into the hallway walls, trading shoves, punches, and dodges in absolute chaos.
Chuuya lunged again, pinning Dazai against the marble wall. The impact sent web-like cracks spreading across the main pillar. Dazai grabbed Chuuya's wrist, using his nullification ability to deactivate gravity the exact moment the punch hit his face—taking away half its force, but still splitting his lower lip.
With his lip bleeding, Dazai gave a short, twisted laugh, grabbing Chuuya by his collar and tackling him to the ground. They rolled across the marble, knocking over decorative vases, shattering light fixtures, and turning the noble corridor into a warzone. The building's emergency alarms blared loudly, echoing through the metal structures to alert all subordinates that chaos had erupted once more.
Armed guards rushed down the hallway, but upon seeing who the combatants were, none dared take another step. Intervening in a fight between the Mafia's two prodigies was a death sentence.
The brawl only ceased when the double doors of the executive elevator slid open. Hirotsu stepped out, flanked by four men from the Black Lizard unit. He observed the ruined corridor, the settling dust, the light fixtures hanging by wires, and the two teenagers on the floor covered in dust and scrapes, still clutching each other's collars.
"Enough," Hirotsu's stern voice cut through the alarm noise. He adjusted his monocle and sighed, his expression weary. "You two. The Boss is waiting for you in the main conference room. Now."
Chuuya released Dazai's shirt collar with a rough shove, vaulting to his feet and spitting dust onto the floor. Dazai sat up slowly, wiping the blood from his lip with the back of his bandaged hand, keeping his gaze fixed on Chuuya with an irritating coldness.
They didn't utter a word during the entire trek to the top floor.
The Boss's conference room was a vast space with floor-to-ceiling panoramic windows offering a spectacular view of the port and Yokohama's skyscrapers. Yet the atmosphere inside was suffocating.
Ōgai Mori sat at the head of the long, dark wood table. He held a scalpel between his fingers, spinning the silver blade with mesmerizing precision. Beside him, Elise drew on the rug with red wax, completely oblivious to the tension in the room.
Chuuya and Dazai stood before the desk, a meter apart. Mori didn't speak immediately. He just kept spinning the blade, his cold, purple gaze sweeping over the scratches on Dazai's face and the dust on Chuuya's clothes. The silence stretched for full minutes, heavy enough to make Chuuya's shoulders tense.
"I gave you a direct order," Mori finally began, his voice low, calm, and absurdly dangerous. The quiet tone was far worse than if he had been shouting. "A simple order. No talking. No fighting. No destroying the infrastructure that supports you."
"Boss, he..." Chuuya started, taking a step forward with his head lowered.
"Silence, Chuuya-kun," Mori cut in without raising his voice. The scalpel blade stopped spinning, pointing straight at him. "I'm not interested in who shoved first or who uttered the first insult. You act like two wild beasts whenever you occupy the same square meter."
Dazai remained silent, arms crossed behind his back, gazing out the panoramic window as if the reprimand didn't concern him at all.
"Your efficiency in combat is something the Mafia values," Mori continued, resting his elbows on the table and intertwining his fingers. "But the logistical cost of keeping you two in the same building is becoming unsustainable. Shattered walls, terrified subordinates, interrupted meetings... This ends today."
Mori opened a drawer and pulled out an antique metal key alongside a manila envelope. He tossed both onto the polished wood. The key hit the surface with a metallic clink.
"The Mafia owns an isolated property on the southern coast of Kanagawa," Mori declared, eyes fixed on the pair. "A simple summer house, surrounded only by beach and forest, far from any operations, subordinates, or city noise. No work phones, no missions, no interference."
Chuuya stared at the key on the table, a dreadful feeling settling in his stomach. "Boss... what does this mean?"
"It means, Chuuya-kun, that you two will spend the entire weekend locked inside that house," Mori smiled, a calculating grin that made Chuuya's spine turn cold. "You will enter that property tonight and only leave on Monday morning. If you do not learn to coexist and resolve this foolish conflict without breaking things, you will not return to your regular positions in the Mafia."
"Mori-san," Dazai finally spoke up, his voice cold and discontented. "This is a waste of my time. I'd rather be thrown into the ocean with concrete blocks tied to my feet than look at this idiot's face for two full days."
"Your opinion was not requested, Dazai-kun," Mori countered promptly, his purple eyes gleaming with absolute authority that left no room for reply. "The car is waiting in the basement. Supplies have already been delivered to the house. You have ten minutes to grab what you need and get into the vehicle."
Chuuya clenched his jaw so hard it ached. He glanced at Dazai, who kept his face stoic and his eyes glued to the floor.
Spending forty-eight hours isolated from the world in an empty beach house, with no one around. Chuuya didn't know what was worse: the risk of killing each other in the middle of nowhere, or the constant danger of having to face that handsome, insufferable boy with nowhere to run.
The car ride to the southern coast of Kanagawa took a little over two hours, but to Chuuya, it felt like an eternity dragged over hot coals. The sleek black Mafia vehicle glided down the coastal highway as night gradually fell over the ocean, painting the sky in dark shades of purple and gray. Inside the automobile, the air was suffocatingly dense.
The executive driver kept his eyes glued to the road and both hands firm on the wheel, not daring to glance in the rearview mirror even once. He knew exactly who the two teenagers in the backseat were and understood that any noise or distraction could be perceived as a provocation.
Chuuya leaned against the left window, arms crossed over his chest. He stared at the ocean waves crashing against the rocks in the dark outside, his forehead nearly pressed against the cold glass. The light bump of the handheld console in his inner coat pocket offered faint comfort, but the mere presence of the person beside him ruined any attempt at reflection.
At the other end of the seat, Dazai tilted his head back, his inscrutable brown eyes fixed on the car ceiling. He slowly twirled a strip of electrical tape he had pulled from his pocket between his fingers, a mechanical, irritating movement that let out a soft click with every rotation.
Neither said a word during the entire trip. Not out of respect for the Boss's order—given the setting was strictly private—but because their mutual resentment had reached a threshold where any word spoken would spark a chaotic collision.
When the car finally turned off the main highway onto a secondary dirt and gravel road, the bumps in the suspension caused their shoulders to lightly collide by accident. Chuuya recoiled instantly as if touched by fire, letting out an audible click of his tongue. Dazai didn't even move; he simply closed his eyes with an expression of sheer boredom.
The vehicle stopped in front of a two-story summer house, isolated on a small hill overlooking a deserted stretch of beach. The building was old, constructed from dark wood and stone, surrounded by tall trees and the constant sound of the sea crashing onto the sand. There were no lights on, no neighbors for miles.
The driver stepped out hurriedly, placed two small duffel bags on the front porch, left the key on the patio table, and climbed back into the car without a word. In under thirty seconds, the vehicle's taillights vanished around the bend of the dirt road, leaving them completely isolated.
Nightfall blanketed them along with the sound of howling wind and gently breaking waves. Chuuya snatched his bag off the ground with a rough jerk, walked up to the front door, turned the key, and stepped inside. The house smelled of dry wood, salt, and sea spray. The ground floor featured a spacious living room with leather sofas, an unlit fireplace, an open kitchen with a counter, and a large glass door leading to a balcony overlooking the sea.
Dazai entered right behind him, dragging his feet with extreme laziness. He passed Chuuya without a sideways glance, walked up the creaking wooden stairs, and began checking the rooms on the second floor.
"Don't even think about it," Chuuya barked, his low, harsh voice breaking hours of silence as he heard the master bedroom door open upstairs. He took the steps two at a time, stopping in the upper hallway. "The big room with the balcony is mine. You can take the guest room in the back."
Dazai paused at the doorway, holding the handle. He turned around slowly, dark eyes reading Chuuya under the dim hallway light. The bandage covering his right eye made his expression even harder to decipher.
"Do you really think you have any authority to make demands here, Chuuya?" Dazai asked, his voice low, drawn-out, and completely devoid of emotion. "You're just a dog Mori-san put on a leash and sent to a temporary kennel."
"Say that again if you dare, you piece of shit," Chuuya stepped forward, teeth grit, his hand forming a fist so tight his knuckles turned white. "We're far from headquarters. If you push me today, I'll throw you off that cliff and tell Mori you tried to commit suicide and it finally worked."
Dazai let out a short sigh, a dry chuckle escaping his lips. He let go of the door handle, took a step back, and walked toward the smaller bedroom at the end of the hall, kicking the door open weakly.
"Take the big room, then," Dazai said without looking back. "The smell of a wet dog fits better in wider spaces. Just don't make any noise. Your annoying voice ruins the sound of the wind."
The back bedroom door closed with a muted thud. Chuuya stood frozen in the hallway for a few seconds, breathing heavily, his chest heaving with built-up rage. He wanted to kick that door off its hinges and drag Dazai by his bandages into the sea, but he swallowed his anger raw. He walked to the main room, threw his bag in the corner, slammed the door shut, and locked it from the inside.
The first day in that house ended in a cold, silent war.
Saturday dawned under a cloudy sky with a frigid wind blowing off the ocean. The sunlight could barely pierce the thick blanket of gray clouds, casting a pale, melancholic atmosphere over the coast. Throughout the morning and early afternoon, Chuuya and Dazai executed an invisible dance of total avoidance.
If Chuuya went down to the kitchen to grab a glass of water or prepare a meal from the provisions Mori left, Dazai remained locked in the back room. If Dazai went down to the living room to lie on the leather sofa and stare silently at the ceiling, Chuuya grabbed his portable console and headed out to the second-floor balcony, playing until his fingers lost feeling from the cold.
They didn't cross paths. They didn't look at each other. The house was large enough to accommodate their overwhelming pride without colliding, but the tension hung like a magnetic storm, making the air heavy in every room.
Around five in the afternoon, as the sunlight began to fade completely and the sky turned shades of orange and purple over the horizon, the silence in the house became unbearable for Chuuya. The sound of the sea outside seemed to call to him—a welcome escape from the four wooden walls smothering him.
Chuuya threw on a thicker coat, didn't bother putting on shoes, and walked downstairs in silence. He opened the sliding glass door and walked barefoot across the cold grass until he felt the coarse sand of the beach under his feet.
The beach was entirely wild. Dark rocks bordered the edges of the cove, and the rough sea churned against the shore, leaving white foam on the wet sand.
Chuuya walked to the water's edge and sat on a drift log swept ashore by the tide. He hugged his knees, tucking his neck into the collar of his coat.
The light of dusk reflected directly onto his face. Under the golden, decaying illumination of the setting sun, the uniqueness of his eyes became even more striking: he had heterochromia. His right eye was a deep, almost electric ocean blue, while his left eye displayed a warm, dark brown hue.
This duality, which he usually hid under the shadow of his hat or red hair, was fully exposed here, reflecting the vastness of the water before him.
However, the unique beauty of his gaze carried a different weight at that moment.
His eyes looked empty. There was no usual fury, no spark of gravity power, nor the arrogant stubbornness he paraded around the Mafia. He was just a fifteen-year-old boy who had been betrayed by everyone he trusted, now bound to a life of violence under the orders of a ruthless leader.
A few meters away, walking slowly along the edge of the treeline, Dazai appeared.
He had left the house simply to escape the oppressive boredom consuming him.
Dazai's hands were buried deep in the pockets of his oversized trench coat, his bandages fluttering gently in the sea breeze. He intended to walk toward the rocks on the far side of the beach, but his steps faltered the moment he spotted the redhead sitting on the log.
Dazai stared at Chuuya in silence. He was used to seeing the boy screaming, lunging with gravity-infused fists, or trying at all costs to prove he was strong.
But this version of Chuuya—motionless, vulnerable, with heterochromatic eyes lost in the vastness of the dark sea—was something Dazai had never witnessed.
Driven by a morbid curiosity and a chronic inability to leave Chuuya alone, Dazai changed course. He walked silently across the sand until he stopped a few steps from the log, casting his long shadow over Chuuya.
Chuuya didn't bother lifting his head right away. He felt the presence, recognized the scent and the sound of footsteps, but merely released a heavy sigh that turned into a cloud of cold mist in the air.
"What do you want now, Dazai?" Chuuya's voice came out low and raspy. "Don't you get tired of this nonsense? Following me around, ruining my things, annoying the hell out of me..."
Dazai took another step, stopping right beside the log, his eyes fixed on the two different colors of Chuuya's eyes that were now staring up at him with deep exhaustion.
"You look miserable, Chuuya," Dazai said, his voice devoid of its usual sarcasm, yet carrying a cold observation. "Even by your standards of an abandoned stray, you look like an empty shell today."
"Shut up," Chuuya averted his gaze back to the waves, clenching his teeth. "I'm tired of your games. I'm tired of how you look at me, the things you say... I have enough problems with what happened with the Sheep and the shitshow that is my life in the Mafia. I don't need you tormenting me twenty-four hours a day."
"The Sheep?" Dazai let out a low laugh, completely lacking empathy. He leaned against the side of the log, looking out at the horizon. "Are you still crying over those mediocre brats? They used you as a weapon, Chuuya. You were too naive to realize they never saw you as an equal. They only saw 'Arahabaki'."
The mention of his deepest pain made Chuuya's blood boil instantly. Accumulated sadness morphed into pure rage.
"You don't know anything about them!" Chuuya leapt up, sand flying around his bare feet. "They were my family! I had nothing before them! You talk like you understand feelings, but you're just an empty freak who spends his time trying to die because you can't feel anything!"
"And you're an emotional idiot who clings to anyone who gives you a scrap of attention!" Dazai snapped back instantly, stepping quickly toward Chuuya, brown eyes burning with a dark intensity. "Is that why you try to kiss random subordinates in the Mafia's hallways? Is that why you go looking for stupid dates? Because you're desperate for validation?"
"You motherfucker!"
Chuuya lunged. Without using his gravity ability—driven purely by raw physical hatred and hurt—he threw a direct punch at Dazai's face. Dazai partially dodged, but the impact of Chuuya's arm struck his shoulder hard, causing both to lose their balance on the unstable beach sand.
Dazai grabbed Chuuya's coat to avoid falling alone, pulling the redhead down with him.
They rolled together across the sand in a chaotic mess of arms, legs, hair-pulling, and shoving.
Chuuya tried to pin Dazai to the ground to punch him, while Dazai used his legs to trap Chuuya's hips and tugged on the redhead's collar to throw him off balance. They tumbled down the small sand dune, breathless from physical exertion and the freezing wind blowing off the ocean.
When they finally stopped rolling in the wet sand, right where the tide was rising, Chuuya ended up on top, both knees pinning Dazai's arms against the ground.
Their breathing was a rough, erratic noise amid the crashing waves.
"I hate you..." Chuuya panted, his face inches from Dazai's, red bangs falling over heterochromatic eyes full of fury. "I hate everything about you, Dazai."
"Then hit me, Chibi," Dazai dared, his voice raspy from exhaustion, mouth half-open as he tried to catch his breath. "Hit me until..."
Dazai was cut off when Chuuya tried to lean his body forward to land a final blow, but the wet sand beneath his knees suddenly gave way. The weight of Chuuya's body pitched forward out of control.
The impact was not a fist.
Chuuya's lips collided directly against Dazai's.
The clash was sudden, awkward, and entirely accidental. Chuuya's teeth bumped lightly against Dazai's lower lip, causing a sharp, small pain.
Fine sand coated their skin, the taste of salt and sea brine dominated the air, and their warm breaths mixed in the split second where time seemed to freeze entirely on the beach.
Neither moved for three full seconds.
Chuuya's blue and brown eyes were wide as he stared into Dazai's brown eyes, which blinked slowly, shocked by the sudden contact. Both of their pulses spiked in a frantic, wild rhythm.
It was supposed to be a horrible accident. Chuuya was supposed to pull away spitting and cursing, and Dazai was supposed to express absolute disgust.
Yet the pressure of their lips, the heat of skin amid the biting cold of dusk, and the physical proximity built up over months of mutual obsession triggered a short circuit.
Instead of pulling back, Chuuya felt an electric surge run down his spine. He slowly closed his eyes and, in a completely irrational and hungry impulse, pressed his lips more firmly against Dazai's, moving his mouth clumsily, seeking the warmth he would usually deny.
Dazai let out a muffled gasp against Chuuya's mouth. His hands, which had been clutching the redhead's coat to push him away, slowly slid through the sand until they buried themselves in the nape of Chuuya's neck, pulling the red hair with desperate intensity.
Dazai parted his lips, deepening the kiss with a hunger he didn't even realize he carried in his chest.
The kiss was chaotic, salted by the tide and hot as fire. The friction of their bodies on wet sand, the taste of the sea, and the sudden surrender transformed the fight into an overwhelming physical contact.
They kissed as if trying to rip the air from each other's lungs—a blend of rage, repressed desire, and the relief of finally finding an answer to the tension destroying them.
When the first strong wave crashed up the sand and soaked their legs in freezing water, the shock of the ice made them break apart abruptly.
Chuuya sat back on the sand, breathing completely out of control, lips red and swollen, hand covering his mouth as he stared at Dazai in utter shock.
Dazai lay on the wet sand, suit soaked, brown hair plastered to his forehead, and arm bandages drenched. He stared at the dark sky for a few seconds and, suddenly, in the middle of that completely absurd situation, Dazai began to laugh.
It wasn't a sarcastic or cold laugh. It was a genuine, loud, youthful laugh that echoed across the deserted beach.
"What the hell are you laughing at, you idiot?!" Chuuya yelled, his face burning with embarrassment, trying to sound angry, but his own voice cracked.
"Look at us, Chuuya!" Dazai wheezed through laughter, sitting up on the sand and wiping water from his face. "We came here to kill each other and ended up making out in the middle of an empty beach!"
Chuuya stared at the ridiculous sight of a drenched Dazai, and despite himself, an involuntary smile tugged at his lips. He let out a short chuckle, which quickly turned into a nervous, liberating laugh.
"You're terrible at kissing, Dazai," Chuuya mocked, throwing a handful of wet sand at the dark-haired boy's leg.
"Says the guy who almost broke my tooth on the first try," Dazai shot back, eyes shining with a lively light Chuuya had never seen before.
Dazai stood up in one swift motion, stripped off his soaked trench coat, and tossed it onto the sand. He looked at the dark sea and, without warning, ran straight into the waves, throwing himself into the freezing water with a loud splash.
"Have you lost your mind?!" Chuuya yelled from the beach. "The water is freezing!"
Dazai surfaced, pushing hair out of his face and looking back at the shore with a challenging smirk. "What's wrong, Chuuya? Is the dog scared of getting wet?"
"Ah, you bastard..."
Chuuya didn't think twice. He pulled off his own coat, tossed it beside Dazai's, and sprinted into the ocean, plunging into the icy water with all his force.
The salt water cut through the chill in his body.
They started splashing water at each other, laughing loudly, swimming, and shoving one another in the waves like two normal fifteen-year-olds. The ocean water off the southern coast wasn't just cold; it was biting, stinging skin on impact. But for two fifteen-year-old boys carrying the weight of assassinations, conspiracies, and betrayals, the thermal shock acted as an electric cleanser.
When Chuuya surfaced, spitting salt from his lips and shaking his head like a wet dog, his water-heavy red bangs covered half his face. He wiped his eyes quickly, electric blue and warm brown shining under the dying orange light on the horizon.
"Dazai, you son of a bitch!" Chuuya yelled, his raspy voice cracking from the water's temperature as the tide hit his chest. "Do you think I have the resistance of that gaze-wrapped carcass of yours?!"
A few meters away, Dazai floated on his back with irritating ease, letting the short waves cradle his body. He kept his eyes closed, brown hair spreading in the water like an ink stain. Hearing Chuuya's yell, he opened one eye, the corner of his mouth curving into that crooked smirk.
"You talk like you're made of glass," Dazai mocked, flipping his body in the water with an agile motion and standing where the tide was shallower. The soaked bandages on his arms were loosening slightly, heavy with sand. "I thought gravity made you heavier, but apparently you float like any piece of driftwood."
"I'll show you driftwood, you piece of shit!"
Without thinking twice, Chuuya cupped both hands and slammed them down onto the water's surface, launching a wave of salt water straight at Dazai's face.
The impact caught the taller boy off guard, making him cough and stumble back three steps, hastily wiping his eyes. The image of Dazai Osamu—the cold, untouchable strategist of the Port Mafia—completely disarmed and swallowing sea water made Chuuya burst into a loud, genuine laugh that echoed down the entire empty beach.
"Look at the Mafia's genius now!" Chuuya pointed, laughing so hard he nearly swallowed water himself.
"Oh, so that's how it is?" Dazai caught his breath, brown eyes glittering with a spark of pure, childish malice he had never displayed inside Yokohama's concrete buildings. "Water wars are a very primitive tactic, Chuuya... but perfectly fitting."
Dazai waded through the heavy water, splashing continuous streams toward Chuuya with both arms. Chuuya blocked with his forearms, laughing and charging straight at him.
Within seconds, the deadly combat of abilities that usually defined their existence transformed into a chaotic water fight. They circled each other in the shallow waves, shoving water forcefully, creating small bubbles and splashes that glittered like glass under the sunset.
In a moment of boldness, Dazai dived beneath a wave. Chuuya lost sight of him for two seconds, looking around alertly.
"Dazai?"
Suddenly, two cold, wet hands grabbed Chuuya's ankles from beneath the surface.
"Hey!" Chuuya yelled as he was yanked down, sinking into the salt water with a loud splash.
He came back up coughing and laughing at the same time, finding Dazai beside him, laughing so hard he could barely stand against the current.
"You play dirty, you bastard!" Chuuya lunged at Dazai, grabbing his wet shoulder and dragging him down into the water with him.
The two tumbled into the shallow surf, where the tide came and went, coating their bodies in a thin layer of water and white foam.
They rolled in the shallow water, trying to dunk each other's heads under, but without real malice—just the pent-up energy of two teenagers who had finally found a pause in the hell they lived in.
When physical exhaustion from the cold finally won out, they lay on their backs on the wet sand, where weaker waves merely washed over their feet and legs.
Their breaths rose in tiny clouds of white mist in the freezing evening air. Dazai turned his face to the side, looking at Chuuya. The redhead's hair was spread on the sand like flames put out by water, and his heterochromatic eyes stared at the first stars appearing in the darkening sky.
"Chuuya," Dazai called softly, his voice losing its mocking edge for the first time.
"What is it?" Chuuya answered without turning his head, chest rising and falling slowly.
"You're shaking."
"It's the cold, idiot."
"It's not just the cold," Dazai slid his wet hand across the sand until his fingers brushed Chuuya's cold ones, slowly intertwining them in the wet sand.
Chuuya looked to the side, staring at Dazai's hand laced with his. He didn't pull away. He simply squeezed Dazai's fingers a little tighter, feeling the residual warmth of his skin amid the freezing sea spray.
"Yeah..." Chuuya gave a faint smile, closing his eyes for a second. "It was less terrible than listening to you talk."
"Let's go inside before you get pneumonia and I have to carry you, dog." Dazai stood up slowly, pulling Chuuya by their linked hands until he stood up too.
Laughing softly and chattering their teeth from the cold, they walked out of the water with their arms wrapped around each other's shoulders for warmth, leaving behind footsteps in the sand that the tide would soon wash away.
By the time they finally left the sea, night had taken over the sky, and the coastal cold had grown unbearable. The two walked back to the summer house with chattering teeth, soaked to the bone, dragging their sand-heavy coats across the front lawn.
"I'm going to die of hypothermia and it's your fault," Chuuya grumbled as he stepped onto the wooden floor of the living room, leaving a trail of salt water behind him.
"If you die, I'll have to carry your corpse to the car on Monday, so do me a favor and stay alive," Dazai replied, his voice trembling from the cold as he stripped off his drenched arm bandages and tossed them into a corner.
They went up to the main bathroom on the second floor. It was a spacious room with light tile flooring and a large cast-iron clawfoot tub near the window.
Chuuya turned the hot water tap on full blast, letting the steam rise and fill the bathroom, quickly driving out the chill.
He stripped out of his wet clothes without hesitation, keeping a towel low around his waist while waiting for the tub to fill. Dazai did the same, shedding his soaked garments and leaving them in a pile on the floor.
There was no room for shame or awkwardness. The barrier between them had been shattered on the beach.
When the tub filled, Chuuya stepped in first, letting out a sigh of relief as hot water enveloped his freezing skin. Dazai climbed in right after, settling into the opposite side of the tub.
The tub was roomy, but both were long enough that their legs brushed against each other beneath the hot water. Neither pulled back.
The silence that settled over the bathroom was no longer the tense, hostile silence of the Mafia. It was a comfortable quiet, broken only by the sound of water and the steam swirling around them.
Chuuya rested his head against the edge of the tub, closing his eyes. He felt a hand gently touch his knee under the water. Opening his eyes, he saw Dazai staring at him with a calm expression, arms resting on the porcelain rim.
"Your heterochromia..." Dazai said softly, his voice gentle against the bathroom steam. "It's beautiful. You should stop hiding your left eye."
Chuuya felt a flush creep up his neck, but he didn't look away. "Shut up, Dazai."
"I'm serious, Chibi," Dazai gave a faint smile, sliding his hand down Chuuya's leg under the water until he touched the redhead's ankle. "It's the only interesting thing about you."
"You're an idiot," Chuuya retorted, but extended his foot and lightly splashed water against Dazai's leg—a affectionate gesture disguised as a taunt.
After a long bath, they dressed in dry, comfortable clothes found in the house's closets—baggy hoodies and cotton sweatpants. Chuuya cooked a simple pot of instant ramen in the kitchen, and they ate together at the counter, sharing utensils in a quiet truce.
"There's an old TV in the living room and a collection of VHS tapes," Dazai remarked as he tossed the ramen packaging in the trash. "Wanna watch something or are you going to sleep in your dog room?"
"I'm picking the tape," Chuuya declared, heading to the living room.
They settled onto the large leather sofa. Chuuya inserted an unlabeled tape into the old VCR, expecting an eighties action movie. However, as the static cleared, the screen revealed a classic psychological horror film focused on hauntings and grotesque figures lunging out of the dark.
For the first twenty minutes, Chuuya kept a straight, stoic posture, trying to pretend he didn't care. But as the movie progressed and the soundtrack grew tense and unsettling, Chuuya began pulling his legs up onto the sofa, hugging his shins.
Dazai, catching onto the redhead's subtle discomfort, smirked. With every jump scare where a pale figure appeared on screen with a piercing shriek, Chuuya flinched slightly, blue and brown eyes wide.
"Are you scared, Chuuya?" Dazai teased in a whisper right near his ear.
"Bite me! The movie's just poorly made!" Chuuya lied instantly, but he didn't move away when Dazai leaned closer on the sofa.
When the movie finally ended, the house felt dark and full of strange noises made by the wind rattling the wooden windows.
Chuuya stood up from the couch, looking toward the dark hallway leading to the second-floor bedrooms. He took two steps, paused, and glanced back at Dazai, who was watching him with an amused look.
"What?" Dazai asked, raising an eyebrow.
Chuuya crossed his arms, clearing his throat and trying to maintain his dignity. "The master bedroom has a big king bed. Makes no sense for you to sleep in that cramped, moldy back room. It's... purely practical."
Dazai held back a laugh at Chuuya's flimsy excuse, knowing full well the redhead was wary of the dark hallway after the horror movie.
"If you're asking so nicely..." Dazai stood up, walking alongside Chuuya as they climbed the stairs. "I suppose I can do you that favor."
The master bedroom was cold. They slid under the heavy duvet of the double bed. At first, they kept a respectful distance in the middle of the mattress, lying back-to-back.
But as the night grew colder and the wind howled louder outside, Chuuya turned over slowly. He shifted closer to Dazai's body, seeking his warmth. Dazai turned around at the same moment, wrapping a long arm around Chuuya's waist and pulling him close, nestling the redhead's head against his chest.
Chuuya rested his face against Dazai's shoulder, listening to the steady, calm rhythm of the taller boy's heartbeat.
For the first time in months, Chuuya's mind fell silent.
There was no betrayal, no Mafia, no pain. There was only Dazai's warmth surrounding him.
They fell asleep together, holding each other in the dim light of the room under the quiet protection of the night. And for the first time in his life, the dark-haired boy felt grateful for something happening in his life, even if silently.
On Monday morning, the black Port Mafia car was parked in front of the summer house at exactly seven o'clock.
Chuuya and Dazai walked down the front steps clad in their usual black suits, perfectly put together, carrying their duffel bags. They looked nothing like the two boys who had rolled around in the sand or dived into the ocean over the weekend.
The driver opened the rear door without a sound. The two stepped in and took their seats.
During the ride back to Yokohama, the silence returned, but its nature had radically changed. It was no longer the rigid, hatred-filled silence of Friday. There was a quiet complicity in the air. Beneath their coats, Dazai's hand found Chuuya's on the seat, fingers intertwining discreetly for half the trip back to the city limits.
When the car stopped in the Mafia's basement, they stepped out and walked together toward the executive elevator.
As the elevator doors opened on the third floor, several subordinates and guards in the hallway froze in place, expecting a fresh explosion of violence between the organization's two prodigies.
Dazai stepped out of the elevator, turned to Chuuya with his usual provocative smirk, and tilted his chin up.
"Be a good dog and bring those reports to my desk by noon, Chuuya," Dazai said loudly, his voice echoing down the hall for everyone to hear.
The guards held their breath, waiting for Chuuya to destroy the ceiling with gravity.
Chuuya merely adjusted his hat, taking a step forward until he was inches from Dazai. He looked up at the taller boy, his heterochromatic eyes gleaming with sharp confidence and an unmistakable hint of flirtation at the corner of his lips.
"If you want something on your desk, Dazai, come get it in my room tonight," Chuuya replied in a low tone, audible only to the two of them, with a crooked smirk that made Dazai's chest skip a beat. "Let me see if you have the nerve to ask properly."
Dazai blinked, caught off guard by the firm, suggestive reply, while Chuuya brushed past him with long strides, intentionally bumping his shoulder against Dazai's—this time with an unbreakable complicity that only the two of them understood.
They would still fight. They would still wreck hallways and trade daily insults to maintain appearances before the Mafia. But in the shadows, behind every argument and provocation, Soukoku had been born that weekend—stronger, bolder, and irrevocably united.