Chapter Text
The bar Gyo wasn’t even open yet for the evening, but already a crowd of people stood outside its side entrance, poised carefully to go in. But they weren’t patrons looking for a drink. They were members of the Port Mafia, and they were raiding the bar on the hunt for a traitor. Gyo was supposed to be a front for the Mafia, allowing for their illicit business in the back and a comfortable haunt up front, and it had been for years. But the bar’s new owner thought he could do more business by opening up the space to other syndicates and skimming off the top. And that couldn’t be allowed.
The executive Chuuya Nakahara stood in front of his team, adjusting his gloves and honestly hoping to grab a drink while he hunted down his target. He didn’t particularly like this part of the job: most of the people in the building were probably grunts who hadn’t individually signed up to betray the Port Mafia. But they did make the decision to wield high-capacity weapons at him and his men, so in that regard, they dug their own graves. And he was uniquely qualified to deal with situations like this.
Chuuya turned to the small group behind him, only a dozen or so hand-picked Mafia members. They were also all armed to the teeth, but it was mostly for show.
He was the weapon.
“Let’s show these fuckers who they messed with,” he said. Then he faced the door as it flew open to admit him and he stepped into a barrage of gunfire.
The first round of bullets was focused fire from a line of men close to the door, the line of offense as the others escaped: the sacrifice. But the bullets bounced off his skin, not even hitting him before they turned around and shot back in the opposite direction. The first line fell all at once like dominos and then the second barrage began, heavier and directly aimed at him. Chuuya grinned, this time sending the bullets on a careful ricochet. Meant to disarm, to harm, to distract the armed gunmen from the rest of his crew as they filed into the building.
They didn’t have ability to bend gravity to their will like he did, but they were decent fighters. To his left, a young woman in a suit ducked around the tables, making her way to the bar where stood a man with a rifle. One of his favorite subordinates, Mary Oliver. Without hesitation, she butted her own pistol into the back of the gunman’s neck and he collapsed. She gave Chuuya a quick nod before moving on to the next target, but at this point, his men had fanned out, the enemy had realized they were outmatched, and it was a mess.
The attention drawn elsewhere, Chuuya resorted to simply punching whoever was closest as he searched for his own target. Soji Shimada, a mid-level Mafioso put in charge of running the joint, had been doing them dirty for a long time. But most recently, the bar was found to be tied to a slew of Mafia disappearances. Of the missing members who had been found alive, none had any memory as to what had happened to them.
But that mystery was someone else’s purview. His orders were to eliminate Shimada as a lesson to the rest of them.
And there he was — Shimada, tall and elegant when Chuuya had last seen him, was currently cowering under the billiards table. Chuuya grinned and jumped over the counter, sending the glasses and rags flying — shame to waste the booze — until he landed dramatically in front of the pool table.
“Give up, Shimada,” he said. “You knew what you were in for the second you sold out your fellow Mafia members. Now you face our wrath — my wrath.”
“You have no proof!” Shimada barked from under the table.
“Like that fucking matters,” Chuuya replied. “This ain’t no court.”
He put his hands in his pockets and lifted his knee, intending to simply kick the table over with one foot and step on Shimada’s neck with the other.
When the table and the man under it disappeared into thin air, as if they were never there.
“What the fuck,” Chuuya said aloud. He brought his leg down too hard and cracked the foundation, not even noticing the damage as he swung around wildly — and saw the utter chaos that had broken out behind him.
Now among Shimada’s people and the Port Mafia was a third party, albeit a much smaller one. Filing in from the front door was a tall man with blonde hair and glasses, a redhead in a hoodie, a boy with white hair and asymmetrical bangs, a woman with a butterfly clip — the Armed Detective Agency. Chuuya growled and rounded on them, especially keen on the illusionist who had tricked him — the redhead, Tanizaki.
“You just made a mistake,” he muttered, advancing on him. “Where’s the real Shimada? Don’t make me beat it out of ya.”
The redhead looked terrified but unwavering; Chuuya nearly rolled his eyes — the damn Agency always thought they had some noble cause they were fighting for. He could only guess they were here to save Shimada for some godforsaken reason — but this was not their fight to win. He crouched down and touched the bar, his ability rippling out until it reached the knives littering the counter, and they rose into the air, pointing menacingly at Tanizaki.
“I won’t ask again,” Chuuya pressed.
“Stand down, Nakahara!” came a shout in a deep voice. The blond man — Kunikida — was standing in the middle of a four-way fight between two Port Mafia mobsters and two of the traitors. He delivered a surprisingly apt roundhouse kick to the traitors that quickly followed into a floor sweep on the Mafiosi. “We’re not here to fight you! We have a single quarry — Phillip Kindred. Where is he?”
Who?
Chuuya frowned. He didn’t like being out of the loop, and he also didn’t like being told to stand down. His hackles raised, Chuuya shifted his focus instead towards Kunikida, the knives behind him still poised and deadly.
“You can’t say you didn’t come to fight when you show up in the middle of a damn fight!” Chuuya cried.
He started to fling the knives at the detective when he felt a cold hand grab his wrist. The knives stopped mid-throw and clattered to the floor, his ability neutralized.
“Stand down,” said a gentle voice behind him. “I know how you love being told that. Because you’re so short.”
Shivers trickled down Chuuya’s spine from the touch, his skin growing hot. As quick as he could, he shook it off, remembering how pissed he was. With pure strength, Chuuya grabbed the arm behind him, stepped sideways, and flipped its owner over his shoulder, slamming them down on the floor in front of him. Now staring up at him from the ground was the soft-haired and bandaged detective, Osamu Dazai.
“Get the fuck off me,” Chuuya growled. “I’ll kill you.”
“Aw, Chuuya, aren’t you happy to see me?” Dazai hummed.
Chuuya decided not to answer the question; but part of him did want to climb on top of Dazai as he lay there.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” he said instead. “You’d better take your detectives and get the hell out before I kill all of you — this is a raid. We have a traitor to punish.”
“And we won’t stop you,” Dazai continued. “Only we were hired to come in and take one person into our custody before he’s killed too. A Phillip Kindred.”
“I don’t — I don’t know who that is,” Chuuya spat. “But if it’s the real name of the owner or something — you’ve got another thing coming if you think—”
“Oh,” Dazai interrupted, and Chuuya noticed he was looking towards the back of the room. “Looks like Atsushi found him.”
Chuuya turned slowly to find the white-haired young man quickly making a bee line for someone in a waiter’s uniform with glasses and unkempt brown hair.
“Hey!” he shouted.
Not that he actually cared about this guy — the detectives honestly could have him. Only Dazai had drawn attention to him, and that was never a good thing. Chuuya once again vaulted over the bar, trying to get to Kindred before Atsushi, but the kid was fast. Chuuya landed on the ground and slid towards the man, as Atsushi jumped to tackle him, and Chuuya reached for Kindred’s ankle —
It was like something out of a dream. For a moment, he was no longer in the bar, but in a large basement or warehouse, dungeon-like and vaguely familiar. The room was empty save for two people: one, he could not see sharply, like there was a blurred filter over them, but they were tall and lank. The other was hanging manacled on a wall, face contorted in obvious pain, skin flayed, cut, blood splattered on his face and matting in his long dark hair. Covered in blood and bandages. Dazai. Chuuya’s heart lodged in his throat and his head spun, and he tried to get to him, but his limbs wouldn’t move, his power was nonexistent, he couldn’t do anything —
At last, he found himself back in the bar, covered in sweat, Kindred struggling to get up in front of him. Chuuya glanced over at Atsushi, who seemed just as pale, but was already standing, pulling Kindred up from the ground.
What the hell was that?
He surveyed the room as if searching for an answer. Around him, the fight was winding down, most of his men on their feet and there, in the back, Oliver was holding the tall, elegantly sweaty Soji Shimada, his arms folded painfully behind his back. Better end this now.
“Take him and go,” Chuuya spat at Atsushi. “Like I fucking care about some grunt.”
Atsushi did as he was told and hurried away, and soon the rest of the detectives were gone, leaving him to his task. It was almost over, anyway.
What he had just seen from Kindred was disquieting, but it was something he could deal with later, especially if the detectives had him. He had his own quarry to deal with.
He launched himself through the air towards Oliver and Shimada, and with no more ceremony or hesitation, he picked Shimada up by the throat, using gravity to pin his arms to his sides, and with one sharp motion, twisted his neck. There was a loud crack sound that almost echoed around the room as Shimada’s neck snapped. Chuuya winced but turned to show off what he had done to the rest of them before tossing Shimada’s lifeless body aside.
The rest of Shimada’s men laid down their arms, hands up.
But Chuuya was still fixated on Shimada’s body, the crumpled form, the limp limbs. In a flash, he again saw Dazai’s body in his stead, worn, beaten, bleeding.
Fuck.
Chuuya clenched his fist and kicked the air in front of him, trying in vain to channel his anger into something useful. He settled for slamming one of the cronies into the wall, cracking the concrete and sending fractures up to the ceiling.
“I think he surrendered already,” Oliver said meekly behind him.
“Now there’ll be no second guessing,” Chuuya said smoothly, though his visage was flushed. “Hear this, all of you. You mess with the Mafia, you have me to deal with, got it?” A murmur of agreement went around, most of them too afraid to speak up. That was annoying and not particularly useful — but he knew from experience they needed time to regroup and process what they were in for. “I’ll come by to talk to your new rep in two days,” he declared loudly. “Be ready to talk business by then. And if there’s even a hint of anything funny going on, best be sure I’ll raze this place myself.”
He turned and left, his subordinates following suit. Once outside, Chuuya took off his hat for a moment and covered his face, hiding his clenched teeth, his tensed brow.
Kindred’s ability, whatever it was, had stopped him in his tracks, rendering him frozen. That image of Dazai, bleeding and bound, dying painfully, was so raw and real he could have sworn it was a memory. Maybe it was — maybe that’s how the ability worked. He’d have to look into it when he got back because . . .
More than afraid, Chuuya was pissed — at himself that after all this time, Dazai was still his vulnerability. The thing he would sacrifice everything to save, fuck the consequences. He was never sure if Dazai would do the same for him; and yet, he still had these feelings. It was almost in spite of himself.
See, you are human. You have human emotions that you can’t control.
Chuuya pulled himself together and straightened up, now also annoyed at himself for letting Kindred go. Whatever his ability, it must be powerful, and the fact he was in the Mafia meant he could be an asset. But he’d been fixated on Mori’s orders to take out Shimada before all else. Dazai used to tease him that he truly was Mori’s man, that he could always be trusted to do as he was told.
Only that wasn’t entirely true. In fact, Dazai had usually been the beneficiary of his occasional disobedience.
* * *
The Detective Agency wasn’t always the strict enemy of the Port Mafia, though when they were, it made the rendezvous with Dazai more dangerous — and hotter, truth be told. But even when they were working towards the same cause, their ideals were often in direct opposition. He expected this would be a huge pain in the ass now that Dazai was with the Agency, and he was right. So although he was fighting alongside the detectives, Chuuya found himself in a stark conflict of interest much sooner than he had expected.
They were spread out throughout Yokohama fighting another gang, and Chuuya had been told to take in one of them alive by any means. Not usually his strong suit, but he had control enough to make it happen. It just so happened that he and Dazai were facing down the same annoying ability-user, along with his favorite subordinate, Oliver. The enemy was too fast for them to follow properly, too fast for Dazai to catch, and they could really only reflect his attacks briefly before he was changing tactics. Even Dazai was fatigued, although he seemed modestly bored more than hurt. If they tried to capture him for information, surely he would be more of a pain than it was worth.
Sudden sharp pings rained down from above, and Chuuya barely dodged a bullet heading right for his neck. If he had been paying attention at all, it could have bounced off his skin, but he’d been focused on the speedster. At once, Chuuya put up a barrier, searching the buildings around them for the sniper. If they could capture him instead . . .
“Oliver, take this guy down,” Chuuya said into his earpiece. “I’m going after the sniper. Dazai, you got this?”
“Don’t take him down,” Dazai said, annoyed. “And do you even know where you’re going, Chuuya?”
As he said this, a bullet came at Dazai and Chuuya put up a hand to catch it. As he grasped it in his fist, he checked the angle, the trajectory, leading to a large seemingly abandoned building. And on the top floor, he could see the glint of a muzzle.
He grinned, and then turned to look at Dazai, gloating. But Dazai was busy deflecting attacks from the other guy.
“Just let me kill him,” Chuuya muttered, but Dazai either didn’t hear him or more likely, had ignored him. It wasn’t that the Agency never killed anyone — quite the opposite — but they had to have a real reason, it had to help people.
Chuuya turned his attention back to the sniper, starting to jump towards him, when the entire block shook.
The building in front of him suddenly didn’t have a face anymore. It didn’t make any sense — and then Chuuya registered the small explosion. The small series of explosions, set all around the facade of the building — and it started to fall, crumbling straight at them. Chuuya shook off the minor shock and started back at the sniper, but he had fired once again — straight at Dazai, who was still locked in a standstill battle, unable to pause. And meanwhile the building facade, beams, bricks, and all, was coming down on all of them, including Dazai and Oliver.
Chuuya had three choices and only a second to make a decision. He could secure the sniper as he was ordered and let Dazai get shot and Oliver get stuck under the rubble. He could push Oliver out of the way, still letting Dazai fall and possibly allowing the sniper to escape. Or he could grab Dazai and spare him from both the bullet and the building.
He didn’t even register what choice he had made before he was bounding across the street, Dazai in his arms. There was a loud and heavy crash that shook the asphalt and made several hairline fractures as the facade hit the pavement, and Chuuya folded himself over Dazai as much as he could, deflecting the falling rubble. Chuuya looked carefully through the clearing dust towards where Oliver had been standing; she was on the ground, but was slowly rolling to get back up. Conscious, at least. A relief. But there was still the other problem, and he glanced up at the now derelict building. Nothing.
Damn.
“Tsk, you really didn’t need to do that.” Dazai said.
“Shut the fuck up, you ungrateful asswipe,” Chuuya replied. “That bullet was headed for your brain.”
“If that were true, I would have welcomed it. Except it wasn’t, and the force would have pushed me back, right out of the way of the falling beams, which would instead fall on the shooter.” Dazai raised an eyebrow. “You’re not tactical, Chuuya. You always think that brute force is going to solve all your problems.”
“I like to think of that as practical,” Chuuya said blandly. “And I’m right most of the time.”
“Well, you’d better use some of that brute force because he’s getting away.”
The sniper was still there, now had gotten back to his feet and was running across the open floor towards the stairwell. Chuuya dropped Dazai with an audible oof and made to launch himself at the building, when Dazai grabbed his shoulder and stole his power.
“Not at him,” he said quickly, his breath hot on Chuuya’s ear. “Aim a projectile at his knees, he’s off balance from the earthquake. I’ll take it from there.”
Chuuya didn’t want to lose more time by hesitating, and so he grabbed one of the bricks and shot it at the man’s knee like a bullet. The sniper screamed and tripped, toppling over the side of the open building and heading straight for the street.
“Hey!” Chuuya started, now pissed at Dazai, but Dazai was already running towards the man’s landing point.
And simply and gently, the man fell straight into Dazai’s outstretched arms.
Dazai gave Chuuya a knowing grin. Cocky bastard.
The sniper barely had a moment to realize his luck before he flailed and fell again on the ground, where he then seemed to understand he was not in walking shape. Chuuya stepped over to him and knelt in front of him, grabbed his hand — his trigger hand — and as the man looked on terrified, Chuuya broke his finger with a single snap.
He tuned out the man’s scream and stood back up, tired.
“Oliver, bring him back to HQ. Are you alive?”
“Yes, sir, to both,” she said, though she sounded injured.
He told her to take the rest of the day off, once the prisoner was secured, and stayed behind with Dazai. It was habit.
They watched the car ride off with the sniper and Oliver, until the two of them stood alone in the street. He’d have to go back to headquarters to meet her at some point and make sure the job was actually done, but at the moment he wanted a stiff drink.
Dazai made a sound beside him, some throat-clearing to demand his attention.
“So,” he started, “I suppose you did rescue me after all. And . . . maybe I should show you some gratitude.”
Chuuya flushed, thoughts of the drink gone out the window and replaced with something else. Dazai grabbed his hand and ducked into the empty building where they found a room that was still intact. And despite the disregard for his own life, when Dazai’s body was pressed against him and his lips were whispering into his ear, Chuuya found that Dazai was very grateful indeed.
* * *
Chuuya was again tired by the time he got back to Mafia headquarters, but he didn’t think this could wait. He was already kicking himself for not sending a squad tailing after the Agency, especially with Kindred’s ability. But that was the thing — he needed to find out as much about the ability as he could. And if he really was powerful, how had they not known he was right under their nose?
He headed to the storage room, swiping his executive access card. First things first: was he really a member of the Mafia, or just a happenstance bystander? Not that Chuuya believed in coincidence — being with Dazai had taken any last thoughts of that away. And, as he searched through the Mafia directory, he found the man was listed.
Kindred was mid-level, currently working as a mediator at the bar. It was his job to collect the money and goods before they went back into Mafia circulation, and also to talk up the locals and gather intel. He had probably known about Shimada’s betrayal and hadn’t said a damn word — good riddance, then, he supposed. Now for his ability.
His company profile listed nothing. Under skills it listed that he was good at blending in; that he had a PhD in biochemistry — Mori probably loved that shit — and that he made a mean Manhattan. Terrible flavor text, he wondered who the hell typed this up.
This was no information. That, in and of itself, was concerning. He had barely brushed Kindred before he was knocked on his ass by that vision or whatever it was. How had no one noticed before?
Chuuya turned back to the file room. There must be something here. It was more than just company records: Mori took in the records from any facilities they managed or helped shut down. That included some unsavory places, personal places, and part of the reason Chuuya joined the Mafia in the first place.
That gave him a thought, and he walked over to a shelf he’d picked through a dozen times. They were patient and subject files from various ability research labs. Some voluntary; some not. Quickly, he scanned the K sections of all the labs, then looked for first names. Finally, he found something close: Dick, P.K.
Chuuya slid the file off the shelf and opened it to a photo of a middle-aged man, brown hair and glasses. Fairly nondescript, but it was definitely him.
The report inside was very long, but Chuuya was a little bit heartened to find this was from one of the volunteer facilities. Kindred, or Dick, he guessed, had been paid to help with ethical research on ability-users. But that didn’t really matter.
He had to know the ability, as soon as possible. Was it just sending horrible visions to slow people down? Was it projecting bad memories? Or . . .
Chuuya quickly flipped through to the front, looking for a summary. The cigarette fell from his open mouth and hissed as it hit the floor.
Phillip Kindred Dick
Ability: ”Minority Report” - Precognition
“Shit,” he muttered aloud, and scanned through the pages for more information.
Subject has been known to predict events up to two weeks in the future, as soon as three hours. However they are not always as they seem. Subject imbues the visions with his own emotions as well as the seer’s at the time of the precog. This has repeatedly led to misinterpretation.
Chuuya breathed out. Kindred was obviously terrified at the time of the vision, coloring the experience with that terror. Only Chuuya could not think of how Dazai bloody and shackled could be anything but colored with terror.
Maybe Dazai’s gonna get into some new weird shit.
He could try to shrug it off, but this was bad. He needed to pass along this information as soon as he could, before . . .
Chuuya surreptitiously took the report and left headquarters. Nearby his apartment was an abandoned train tunnel, an old haunt he returned to in certain moods. Like the one he was in now, with his hand clutching his phone, lying on his back on the tunnel ceiling.
Not his phone. It was a burner, one he barely carried with him. Because there was only one number in it.
* * *
Four years ago, he had gone to the office early to talk with Mori. He’d heard it was a rough night, with more than a dozen of their grunts dying in a half-assed battle. Chuuya had only been vaguely monitoring the incidents with the terrorist group who called themselves Mimic, but it sounded like a shitshow and he prepared himself to step in if needed. And so he was only vaguely surprised to find the doorway to Mori’s office was crowded with ten or so higher-ups, all standing impatiently with their arms folded. He looked among them, eyebrow raised, trying to gauge why they were waiting outside like this, and some sort of recognition scratched at the back of his mind. These were all people from Dazai’s track.
Had something happened to him?
As he approached the door, the bodyguard who had been keeping the others at bay nodded at him.
“You’re who the boss wants to see,” he said, stepping aside.
Chuuya waded through the crowd and entered the office, finding Mori sitting at his desk, sorting through a large stack of paperwork. On the top of the stack was a large, black envelope.
“Is that—?” he started before he could stop himself.
“Ah, Chuuya,” Mori said as though he hadn’t spoken at all. He looked up from his work and folded his hands in front of him. “I have some good news and some bad news. Or, perhaps it isn’t really bad news for you, but it’s an interesting development at least. With our help in the disposal of Mimic, we’ve been granted a legitimate business license. Some of your duties will change, but I have no doubt you’ll excel. You can be charming if you want to be.”
Chuuya didn’t respond, though the news about the license was incredible. It meant the police would have a much harder time prosecuting them or even investigating them without real, legitimate cause. They would have to be more careful, but they would also be spending less time and money bailing their men out. He was still thinking about how this would impact him when Mori said the other piece of news.
“Dazai is gone,” he said simply.
“Good riddance to bad garbage,” Chuuya said reflexively, but he could say nothing else.
The breath was knocked out of his lungs, and he struggled to keep his face neutral. Out loud, he and Dazai were constantly fighting, berating each other, and part of him was determined to keep up that front. But Mori wasn’t stupid.
“I mean he disappeared, not that he’s dead,” Mori clarified. “Before he left, he made it very clear that he was not happy with the way I was running things. So, who knows if he’ll turn up again.”
“You’re not worried?” Chuuya asked matter-of-factly.
His heart pounded, anxiety starting to seep in. This was bad, this was bad. The one solace was that Dazai must have known that this would be bad, especially for him . . . but if he just disappeared like this, did he even care what mess he was leaving?
“Not really,” Mori hummed. They truly were alike, him and Dazai. “I think I know him well enough that if he truly becomes a nuisance, I can easily neutralize him. I think you know him well enough too, Chuuya.”
He said it with a smile that Chuuya did not echo. And Chuuya did not know how he managed to make it through the rest of the meeting as if everything was normal, and by the time he left the office, he couldn’t remember what he agreed to help out with in the interim, but he didn’t care. This was something he could think about later, when he could breathe again, when the ground under him was more stable. He walked quickly away from the headquarters, then ran, not knowing where he was going, only that he needed to be away from everyone.
When he and Dazai first started having sex at 16, Kouyou had pulled him aside and given him a strict and blunt talk. She was his mentor and he still thought of her as the group mother, so he had shoved his hands in his pockets and nodded along, mumbling the expected responses. Yes, they were being careful. Yes, they would still be able to act professionally and do their jobs.
“This isn’t just about your own safety, Chuuya,” she had said, as a coda. “I’m . . . afraid of what might happen if someone breaks your heart. What you might do.”
At the time, his heart was the last part of his body on his mind. Of course, that had changed as they grew up and slid into a smooth partnership. But a broken heart . . . that wasn’t what this was — was it? It couldn’t be. He wouldn’t let it be.
But fuck, he needed to break something before he exploded.
Chuuya made his way north to a forest and stopped in the middle of a circle of evergreens, where he could see no one around. And he proceeded to tear apart the trees with his bare hands. He ripped the bark off some of them, pulled a fir out of its roots and threw it across the copse, the rage and betrayal taking over any of his more sensible instincts.
He was truly kidding himself that he expected Dazai to never leave the Port Mafia. The signs were there that he was starting to get too big for his shoes, and that probably either meant leaving and starting his own syndicate or taking over. Only Chuuya thought he would have fair warning.
Dazai as his enemy was his worst fear, and if Mori asked him directly to kill him, he wouldn’t know what to do. How dare he leave without saying a fucking word, without any hint that he was having cold feet, that he even was capable of feeling something like that.
At last, Chuuya was surrounded by a large circle of roots and dirt, and he clenched his fist, wondering what else he could possibly destroy.
There was a crack of a twig behind him, a rustle of leaves, and Chuuya turned quickly, raising the splintered wood around him as makeshift weapons. But there was no one there; instead, a low buzzing sound rang through the trees. It was a familiar sound, and Chuuya cautiously followed it, deep into the forest and up a particularly tricky pine tree. There, wedged between a strong branch and the trunk was an old flip-phone.
Chuuya picked it up carefully; in his line of work, he was used to these things as bomb detonators. But the front display was showing a text message, and he had a nagging feeling it was for him. Not expecting much, he flipped it open to find three words across the screen.
Go home, Chuu.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” Chuuya growled, but pocketed the phone. “Asshole.”
Pure adrenaline fueled his trip back to his apartment, fully expecting Dazai to be there, sitting casually at the table, pretending everything was fine. He went over ways to throttle him, to bring him that death he so badly sought, ways to interrogate him, but when he arrived home, the place was empty.
Dazai didn’t show up until nearly two in the morning. Chuuya was sitting at his kitchen table, finishing his fourth glass of wine, finally deciding he’d better switch to something harder to drink himself to sleep, when he heard a clatter from the entryway. And as he turned, he was not surprised to find himself facing a tall young man in a vest and covered in bandages. His black jacket, a signature Mafia piece, was gone.
Just seeing him was enough to throw Chuuya into another rage.
“You’ve got some nerve showing your face!” he spat. “I’ll kill you!”
Instinctively, he ran forward, fist raised with as much gravitational force as he could muster. He brought it down straight at his face, and Dazai met it, taking his punch single-handedly and neutralizing the attack. Still, Chuuya had his human strength and the punch knocked Dazai back; he toppled over backwards, bringing Chuuya down on top of him. Chuuya tried to sit up, his legs splayed on either side of Dazai’s, meaning to beat the ever-loving shit out of him, but Dazai pulled him down, wrapping his arms around him as Chuuya struggled, pulling him tight against his chest, and at the sound of his heartbeat, all Chuuya’s strength to fight drained out of him.
“Talk, you worthless piece of shit,” Chuuya muttered into his chest.
“Ask me what you’re thinking,” Dazai said quietly.
“Why did you leave me like this?”
“I didn’t take you for the needy type,” Dazai teased. “Besides, I’m here, aren’t I?”
Chuuya let out a sound of anger and broke out of Dazai’s embrace, sitting up.
“Answer the goddamn question without your mind games, asshole!”
Dazai’s expression flickered, and he stayed on his back as Chuuya looked down at him. His brown eyes, often hard and cruel, were tired and sad.
“I had to leave the Mafia,” he said simply. “We were just chess pieces in a long game. Even the Queen is disposable if it means winning.” He looked poignantly at Chuuya, but saw his answer was not satisfactory and changed his tone. “They killed Oda. I thought I should do something to prevent that from happening again. I want to help people, Chuuya. Or I want to try.”
Dazai shifted his hands to settle on Chuuya’s lower back, holding him in place. Chuuya prickled but didn’t yet try to stop him.
“You had a sudden change of heart, after all these years?” Chuuya said in exasperation. “We’ve both seen our share of death, and you’ve never given two shits before.”
“I don’t want to play with life like that anymore.”
“You’re a hypocrite,” Chuuya retorted. “You don’t even value your own life! I’ve seen you send countless men to their deaths, how can you—”
“People change,” Dazai shrugged.
That comment, more than anything else, felt like a slap in the face. And Chuuya couldn’t hide his hurt behind his anger any longer.
“Are . . .” he started, his voice cracking. “Are you saying you’ve outgrown me?”
Dazai paused for a moment, surveying Chuuya’s miserable expression; and then he laughed. Chuuya snarled and lifted his hand again to smack him, but he stopped short as Dazai’s fingers traced up his back and sent shivers up his neck.
“I could never,” Dazai said softly.
He tangled his hands in Chuuya’s hair and pulled his head down. Those warm lips pressed against his, those fingers dragged against his skin. Dazai kissed him slowly, sweetly, more gentle than he usually did, and Chuuya had an awful feeling that this was to say goodbye. Chuuya shifted, letting his hands clutch Dazai’s face, letting his wanting mouth open to him, not ready to let go, savoring his taste, his touch.
Dazai clutched him close again, struggling to sit up while maintaining his hold on Chuuya. Finally, he got into an upright position and broke away.
“My back, damn it,” he bemoaned. He held Chuuya firm and uneasily got to his feet, where Chuuya slid off him. “Your floor’s hard as a rock. You should look into better hardwood, I don’t have lackeys to massage me anymore.”
“Don’t look at me like that, I’m not your lackey,” Chuuya replied.
“Not for my lack of trying,” Dazai sighed. “But . . . you are still my partner.”
He took Chuuya’s hand, and Chuuya let him, although he did not entirely feel like a partner right now. So much of being Dazai’s partner meant putting up with his bullshit, the cryptic conversations, the real-life chess. It meant having to recognize that Dazai thought he always knew better than anyone else, and having to trust that he actually did. Was leaving the Mafia part of some greater project, some bid at an unknown checkmate? He didn’t know, and he didn’t care. Dazai had to always be ten steps ahead; but he’d rather be ten steps behind if it meant Dazai standing next to him.
For a moment, they stood in silence, so much unsaid, before Dazai spoke again.
“I have to lie low,” he said obviously. “So don’t call me, I’ll call you.”
“Like I’m gonna call you.” Chuuya shoved his hands in his pockets. “This sucks. You suck.”
“Likewise,” Dazai said smoothly. “Try to be taller next time I see you. It hurts my neck.”
* * *
Almost as soon as Dazai had made his appearance among the Armed Detective Agency, Chuuya rushed to the site to meet him, and they fought in a way they hadn’t since they were teenagers. Soon afterwards, the phone had its first call, and Chuuya welcomed Dazai back into his home and his bed. They had both used the phone fairly consistently ever since, but he still felt that odd rush of adrenaline every time he called, that someone else would answer, or that no one would answer at all.
The line rang an absurd number of times, his heart rate picking up with each one, the concrete around him coming loose with his distress. It couldn’t possibly have happened so fast — he had just seen Dazai at the bar, saw his smarmy face and stupid little smirk. But things in their line of work could escalate quickly.
There was a click, and he felt a jolt in his stomach, thinking for a moment that the line had gone dead. And then —
“What took you so long?”
Chuuya breathed out, the relief somewhat tinged with self-disgust. It was Dazai’s voice, sounding perfectly not under life-threatening harm.
“It’s been a few hours, asshole,” Chuuya chided. “I didn’t think you were so damn needy. Sorry, should I follow you back to the office for post-fight cuddles next time?”
“Hm, you joke but that does sound nice,” Dazai hummed. “It’s funny when you’re the big spoon. You’re like a backpack.”
Chuuya’s eyebrow twitched and he racked his brain to reply with some comeback about how Dazai was a long-limbed beanpole, when Dazai spoke again, his tone changed completely.
“You distracted me,” he muttered seriously. “Tell me about the vision.”
“How —” Chuuya started, before he sighed angrily. “Doesn’t fucking matter, I guess. Why, you can’t go look yourself?”
“Annoyingly, this would be the one time it would be more convenient for an ability to work on me,” he replied obviously. “We’re under strict orders not to go near him, in any case. The President is concerned about what we might see. Superstitious. Ranpo’s been chomping at the bit to have a go, though. Stop it,” he added quickly. “Tell me what you saw. In as much detail as you can.”
“Oh, you want details, huh?”
“Chuuya.”
“Fine.”
Chuuya told him about the dungeon, the vague look of it, of the blurry figure and of the one chained to the wall. Dazai pressed him on more details, but there wasn’t much more to add. It wasn’t all that weird to tell Dazai about the wounds and trauma he had seen on Dazai’s body, as threatening to hurt him was sometimes just another way they flirted. But Chuuya was appalled to find that his voice caught again as he spoke, that his hands were shaking.
He folded his arms across his chest to steady them, waiting for Dazai to say something else, but the line was unusually quiet.
“Dazai, please tell me you’re not going to run headfirst into this place,” Chuuya sighed. “I bet you know where it is, don’t you?”
“No, I don’t,” he replied. That liar.
“For fuck’s sake. Don’t. I know you don’t like pain. At least not like that.”
“Haha. Chuuyaaaa, what would you do if I asked you to flay me?”
“Fuck off.”
There he went again, sliding right into “would you love me if I was a worm” territory. But though Chuuya dismissed his masochistic ramblings, the truth was that whatever Dazai asked him to do, he would do it. That look in his eyes when he got what he wanted, that genuine smile that broke across his face, the sounds he made in the throes, the feel of his grip on Chuuya’s back; Chuuya would do almost anything to keep those.
I’m worried about you because I love you, dipshit.
He sighed.
“Dazai,” he started, but there was a sudden loud sound on the end of the line, a horrid crackling static.
Chuuya pulled the phone away from his ear, thinking Dazai had purposefully interrupted him, annoyed he had even dared to show the smallest bit of vulnerability when his boyfriend was still a jackass.
“What the hell—?”
“Shit.” Dazai’s voice on the other end was far away — no, there was just so much noise in the background he could barely hear him. “Something’s going on at the agency — I have to go. Bye, Chuu.”
“Wait —!”
There was a click and the line went dead. Chuuya stared at the phone for a moment before flipping it closed. A large part of him wondered if whatever emergency was happening at the Agency was going to lead to his vision . . . but what good would come of it if he rushed in blindly? Dazai clearly had some sort of plan, even if he didn’t share it. For now, telling him what he knew would have to be enough.
He pushed off the tunnel ceiling and landed back on the ground, kicking up dust and then rolling that dust off his nice pair of oxfords. Like he did each time he got off the phone with Dazai, he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and yelled into the tunnel void. Dazai was always infuriating; but there was no one else he would rather be annoyed by.
The apartment was quiet, empty, and too much of a reminder of the months he’d spent there actually alone. With that thought, Chuuya decided today was as good as any for a heavy nightcap. After all, it wasn’t every day you learned that your partner would have an unavoidable bloody encounter that might somehow be your fault. He looked high in the cabinet for the 20-year Scotch and pulled out an old pulp novel. This one was trashy, but it would keep his attention, keep him thinking about something else, anything else.
He was halfway done with his first glass when he heard a clatter from the entryway.
A shiver went up his spine; surely Dazai would have told him he was coming. And he was supposed to be taking care of some emergency . . . so . . .
Chuuya stood up carefully and reached for the .22 he kept under the sink. Not that he needed it; but for a normal intruder, there was no need to show his hand, who he was. Just having the weapon would usually help him avoid confrontation. Poised with the gun, he turned around towards the door, finding no one there. The door didn’t even look like it had been opened. Except . . .
There it was again, that clatter, not like feet or shoes but like something else. Chuuya made for his living room, where the window faced the street below. The doorway was dark, and he squinted, trying to see anything out of the ordinary, and —
A sudden movement across the light of the window. Chuuya acted without thinking. He rushed forward and sent the ottoman flying at the intruder. It knocked them down, giving him enough time to grab them by the throat.
“Wrong fucking apartment,” he hissed.
He lifted the intruder into the air, into the light, to see what the hell he was dealing with. The streetlamp fell on a slight figure with pale skin, uneven white bangs, and two tiger claws where hands would be on a normal human.
Chuuya nearly dropped him at the recognition, but instead firmed his grip.
What is he doing here?
He was crushing the windpipe of Atsushi Nakajima.