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The deafening roar of the Port Mafia helicopter blades was the best sound Chuuya had heard in hours. It drowned out the ringing in his ears and the bitter taste of an underwhelming victory.
Meursault was behind them at last. The whole ordeal had devolved into an agonizing waiting game. After Fyodor’s ability had been revealed and the rat vanished, there had been nothing left to do but sit in the rubble. Sure, Dazai had managed to play his part from afar with the Agency, but waiting around while the real outcome unfolded miles away left a restless, burning itch under Chuuya’s skin.
He had spent most of that time watching his former partner. The bastard had been on edge, a rare sight that set off every alarm bell in Chuuya’s head. Now, however, the adrenaline was fading, leaving behind the gruesome reality of Dazai's physical state. The gunshot wound on his shoulder bled sluggishly through the stiff fabric of his prison uniform, and his right leg was clearly broken. With every passing minute, Dazai seemed to lose color, his trademark arrogance slipping into a tight, strained grimace.
Chuuya exhaled a harsh breath. Activating his ability, he enveloped the still-unconscious Sigma in the familiar red glow of altered gravity, floating the casino manager safely into the back of the chopper. Once Sigma was secured, Chuuya turned back to the wreckage to collect the biggest headache of his life.
Dazai was slumped against a slab of concrete, tracking Chuuya's approach with half-lidded eyes.
"What, feeling guilty for shooting your poor, defenseless partner, slug?" Dazai taunted. His voice lacked its usual theatrical projection, but the bite was still there.
"Shut it." Chuuya grunted, not waiting for him to try and stand. He simply leaned down, hooked one arm under Dazai's knees, the other around his back, and hoisted him up bridal style.
Dazai was too light. The fact that he let himself be manhandled without a fight only twisted the knot of worry tighter in Chuuya's chest. To compensate for caring, Chuuya intentionally shifted his grip, pressing his thumb just a fraction too hard near the fractured bone in Dazai's leg.
Dazai gave a very un-mastermind-like squirm. "Ah! Bad chibi!" he hissed, smacking Chuuya weakly on the shoulder.
"I can drop you back in the rubble, you know," Chuuya muttered. Still, he kept his stride steady toward the aircraft.
Carrying him like this brought up how absurd their whole dynamic was. They were twenty-three now, and things had been weird since Dazai popped back into his life. They had worked together a handful of times since the truce, but almost never alone. There were too many unspoken words, too much history. Yet, despite the years and the betrayal, it was infuriatingly easy to slip right back into their old antics. It was muscle memory.
Dazai’s head dropped. His cheek came to rest in the crook of Chuuya’s neck, accompanied by a pathetic, breathy whine.
"C'mon, Chuuya, you're taking too long... I'm actively bleeding out here. It hurts."
He was being a nuisance, as usual. Yet, feeling the faint tremors wracking the lanky body pressed against him, Chuuya knew the pain wasn't an act. Dazai was hurting.
Chuuya swallowed his sharp retort. Stepping carefully into the chopper, he did his best not to jostle the broken leg as he lowered Dazai onto the bench opposite Sigma. Dropping down right beside him, Chuuya felt the helicopter lift off, banking hard away from the prison.
For a long moment, the only sound was the rhythmic thrum of the engine. Chuuya kept his eyes trained on the metal floor, though his gaze kept darting sideways to check Dazai's breathing and watch the pool of crimson seeping wider into his shirt. He was still pissed about the crazy vampire plan, but a cold guilt gnawed at his stomach. He had shot Dazai. For real. Before the trick had kicked in, he had put a bullet in him, and seeing the result up close made his skin crawl.
Taking a slow, deep breath, Chuuya leaned over slightly, pitching his voice low so the pilot wouldn't hear.
"Hey," he muttered. "You want me to patch that up?"
Dazai cracked one brown eye open, a weak, mocking smile playing on his pale lips. "A tiny slug playing nurse? No thanks. I'd rather take my chances with the blood loss than let your clumsy, dog-like paws near my wounds."
Chuuya saw right through the deflection. The tight lines at the corners of Dazai's eyes and the way his good hand gripped the edge of the seat like a lifeline gave him away.
"Shut up, mackerel," Chuuya said, rolling his eyes.
He didn't ask again. Reaching under the chopper's seats, he dragged out the Port Mafia first-aid kit and rested it on the bench between them. Biting the finger of his right glove, he pulled the dark leather off, then repeated the motion for the left, stuffing both into his coat pocket.
His bare hands hovered over the sterile supplies for a second.
"Shirt off," Chuuya demanded, though the words caught slightly in his throat. He quickly told himself it was just a matter of practicality, since there was no other way to properly clean and stitch a shoulder wound.
Dazai’s expression shifted. Chuuya clocked the exact second the idiot decided to say something infuriating. A smirk crawled across Dazai's face, looking stark against his chalky, blood-drained complexion.
"I don't remember you being so forward, Chuuya," Dazai gasped playfully. "But unfortunately for you, I am a man of respect. You'll have to take me on a date first."
Heat spiked in Chuuya's cheeks. He wanted nothing more than to punch that arrogant grin right off Dazai's stupid face, but he forced his hands to stay flat. Instead, Chuuya leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous murmur.
"Or what? You'd rather wait and have the Boss patch you up?" Chuuya asked sharply. "Because in case you forgot, you're sitting in a Port Mafia chopper heading straight back to our territory."
Invoking the boss's name was a calculated move. Dazai and Mori’s relationship was a toxic, complicated mess at the best of times. Chuuya understood well that despite Dazai having deserted them, Mori would take him back under his control in a heartbeat. He also knew Mori was the reason Dazai had left in the first place. They had never talked about it, not even once since Dazai’s return, but Chuuya wasn't stupid. He had pieced enough together over the years. The fact that Oda Sakunosuke had died, and Sakaguchi Ango was exposed as a traitor, in that exact order, painted a clear picture of how things went down.
There it was. A minuscule flinch in Dazai's frame. Anyone else would have missed it over the vibration of the helicopter, but Chuuya caught it.
When the silence stretched, Dazai’s good hand reached up, fumbling clumsily with the ruined fabric of his prison uniform. It was agonizingly slow. Watching him struggle with the busted shoulder for all of three seconds, Chuuya sighed. He locked eyes with Dazai, silently daring him to protest. When no refusal came, Chuuya reached out, grabbed the bloodied hem of the shirt, and carefully eased it over Dazai's head.
Beneath the fabric, Dazai's skin was pale. Aside from the bright white bandages wrapping his neck and the lower halves of his forearms, his torso was uncharacteristically exposed. Chuuya's eyes dragged across the skin before he could stop himself.
"Seems like you got a whole new array of scars," Chuuya muttered, catching the words a second too late.
"Eyes up here, chibi," Dazai joked, but his voice was thin. His heart wasn't in it.
"Sorry," Chuuya replied softly. The word slipped out into the noisy cabin before he even registered he was apologizing.
Dazai blinked, surprise flickering in his dull eyes at the uncharacteristic gentleness. The heat returned to Chuuya's neck in a fresh wave of embarrassment. Desperate to save whatever dignity he had left, he turned his full attention back to the open medical kit.
He soaked a gauze pad in strong antiseptic. "This is going to sting. You good?"
Dazai simply closed his eyes and gave a stiff nod.
Chuuya got to work. He moved as quickly and lightly as he could, meticulously cleaning the torn flesh before threading the curved suture needle. Dazai went rigid, his breathing growing shallow as the needle pierced his skin, but he didn't make a sound.
It was far from the first time they had done this. Caring for each other and stitching each other back together in the dim aftermath of a bloodbath used to be routine. But it had been years since the last time. Underneath Chuuya’s bare fingertips, Dazai’s skin felt soft, completely at odds with the unrelenting violence of their lives.
Chuuya had always known Dazai hurt himself. It wasn't just the morbid suicide attempts or the razor blades; Dazai routinely threw himself into the line of fire, using his own body as collateral damage just to ensure a plan's success. As he tied off a neat, tight stitch, Chuuya couldn't help but wonder: even after all this time, after walking away and stepping out into the light, did Dazai still feel this compulsive need to punish himself?
The fatigue weighing Chuuya down must have been stripping away his filter. He snipped the final thread, his voice dropping so low it was barely a breath over the engine's roar.
"Guess even the treatment in the light is flawed."
The words slipped out. A bitter realization that even on the side of the 'good guys,' Dazai wasn't being taken care of the way he should be.
Dazai didn't open his eyes, but the ghost of amusement flickered across his pale features. "You know me, Chuuya," Dazai murmured, his tone reedy but light. "I’ve never been particularly fond of following orders. Or keeping safe. Stepping into the light didn't magically change that."
Still an idiot, Chuuya thought. Outwardly, he just scoffed, packing the suture kit away. "Guess you're right. Having me save your ass hasn't changed either, even in opposing organizations."
This time, Dazai didn't have a snappy comeback. When the silence held, Chuuya shifted his gaze to check if the brunet was alright, only to find Dazai had turned his head away, staring blankly out the small window into the dark sky.
It was fine. It was what it was. Chuuya had already accepted that while Dazai had changed in many noticeable, profound ways, his habit of dragging Chuuya headfirst into his convoluted schemes hadn't faded in the slightest. And, though he would sooner swallow glass than admit it out loud, a strange, quiet warmth bloomed in Chuuya's chest at the thought that Dazai was still a constant in his life.
"You want bandages over this?" Chuuya asked, gesturing to the freshly closed wound.
A non-committal hum vibrated in Dazai's throat. Taking that as a yes, Chuuya unrolled a spool of fresh gauze. He wrapped Dazai's right shoulder and upper torso, his movements gentle and precise as he managed the vibrating aircraft. Once the padding was secured, he grabbed the blood-stiffened shirt and helped Dazai maneuver his good arm and battered shoulder back into it.
Dazai let out a long, shuddering sigh as the fabric settled over him. His eyes fluttered, the fight to stay awake glaringly obvious in the slump of his spine.
Deciding to be merciful just this once, Chuuya nudged his knee against Dazai's good leg. "Your face is annoying me. Go to sleep and leave me the hell alone."
Dazai let out a weak huff of laughter, understanding the olive branch disguised as an insult. "Careful, chibi... I can be incredibly annoying even in my sleep."
With that, Dazai threw his remaining weight sideways, slumping against Chuuya. Once again, he buried his face right into the crook of Chuuya's neck. Chuuya made a half-hearted show of shoving at Dazai's good shoulder, grumbling under his breath, but gave up the act after a few seconds. He just let him be.
A tidal wave of lethargy washed over Chuuya. Oddly, the solid weight of Dazai leaning against him eased the tension in his own muscles. He swore to himself he wouldn't fall asleep, since someone had to make sure they got to the hideout safely, but keeping his eyes open was going to be a brutal struggle.
He felt the rigid tension melt out of Dazai's frame. Chuuya was convinced the brunet had already dozed off when a faint breath tickled his skin.
"Thanks for coming for me, partner." The whisper was barely audible against Chuuya's collar.
Chuuya closed his eyes, thoroughly resigning himself to his lifelong role as the white knight savior to this disaster of a damsel in distress. Without overthinking it, he lifted his bare hand, resting it on top of Dazai's head, his fingers absentmindedly carding through the soft, greasy brown locks.
The short flight to the hideout dragged on for an eternity.
The constant, radiating heat of Dazai's forehead against his neck was impossible to ignore. At first, Chuuya simply chalked it up to the unusualness of the situation. They had not been this physically close in years. Back in the day, the only times they were ever this tangled together was when they were patching each other up or scrubbing blood off after a grueling job. Chuuya did remember a few rare instances where Dazai would get a bit touchier after noticing Chuuya struggling with the exhausting aftereffects of his ability, and he knew he was just as guilty of leaning into those moments.
After a few more minutes passed, the reality fully set in that Dazai was running a fever. It was expected, considering that between the gunshot wound, the fractured leg, and the miserable days spent locked in Meursault, the idiot's immune system was bound to crash.
When the helicopter began its descent, Dazai started to stir as if on a timer. Chuuya slipped his hand out of the brunet's hair and let it drop to rest on his uninjured shoulder instead.
Dazai let out a theatrically loud groan while making no effort to pull away from Chuuya's neck. "Ugh, couldn't the Mafia afford a better pilot? This metal box is entirely too shaky."
Chuuya swallowed the urge to point out the brunet's less-than-optimal health. "Next time you can fly it yourself, genius wannabe."
"I would," Dazai mumbled, "but my useless dog let me get hurt."
The aircraft touched down with a heavy thud. Before they could even make a move to unbuckle, Dazai tilted his head slightly toward the back of the cabin to comment that he didn't know if or when Sigma would wake up.
"The guy is a total pushover," Chuuya scoffed, although he could feel the subtle tension radiating off his partner. Chuuya had been watching closely while playing his part as a vampire. He had noted the way Dazai treated the casino manager, understanding on some unspoken level that Dazai related to Sigma.
The engine powered down as their pilot slid open the cabin door. Chuuya stood up first and hauled Dazai to his feet so the taller man could drape over his shoulder. He certainly did not bother picking him up bridal style this time.
The pilot stepped aside to give them room before asking, "Chuuya-san, what should we do with the other one?"
Glancing out the door, Chuuya spotted another Mafia grunt waiting for them near the entrance of the airstrip. He jerked his chin toward the back of the chopper. "You two take him to the secure hospital in France," Chuuya ordered. Since their current hideout was just outside of Lyon, transporting Sigma deeper into French territory made the most sense.
The grunt by the entrance hesitated, eyeing Dazai's battered state. "Are you sure you and Dazai-san should be left on your own?"
"We can take care of ourselves for one night," Chuuya snapped. "Just make sure you have transport back here to pick us up first thing in the morning."
Chuuya stood firmly on the tarmac, supporting Dazai's weight as they waited for the helicopter to take off again. Only when the roar faded into the distance did he start maneuvering them toward the doors of the hideout.
Dazai hobbled along beside him, leaning on Chuuya's side to tease, "I knew you just wanted to be alone with me."
Returning fire, Chuuya didn't hesitate. "You are always insufferable, but when you are sick? No one deserves to deal with that, so I was just being kind."
"Also, I know you would rather die than be trapped in a hospital," Chuuya grumbled as they approached the sturdy wooden door. "So consider this me sparing you."
"How generous. I suppose I should be grateful your raging guilt trip is finally working in my favor," Dazai mused, sagging against the doorframe.
"Shut it," Chuuya muttered, shoving the front door open and dragging them inside.
Outwardly, the place looked like a forgotten, crumbling country house. Inside, however, it was a modernized fortress. The entire structure essentially functioned as a state-of-the-art panic room. Now that the steel deadbolts had clicked into place behind them, no one was getting in unless they brought a literal wrecking ball or a carpet bomb.
Chuuya bypassed the living area entirely and hauled Dazai straight into the spacious bathroom, depositing him carefully on the wide marble ledge of the bathtub. He explained they were going to get him cleaned up without soaking his new stitches, and that they desperately needed to get his temperature down.
Dazai tried to wave him off, arguing that he was fine, but the protest fell flat. Chuuya saw how unfocused the brunet's eyes were becoming, glazed over with a sickly, feverish glimmer. Ignoring the complaints, Chuuya began peeling away Dazai's ruined clothes, stripping him down to nothing but his underwear and the stark white bandages wrapping his torso and arms.
Soaking a fresh towel in cool water, Chuuya started the tedious process of wiping the grime, sweat, and dried blood off Dazai's skin. "I won't be able to wash your hair, though," Chuuya mentioned offhandedly as he worked the damp cloth over Dazai's collarbone.
"That is fine. I look good anyway," Dazai murmured.
Chuuya rolled his eyes. "You are incredibly cocky for a guy who looks like a corpse."
"I have to have something going for me," Dazai replied quietly. It was a weirdly self-deprecating comment, the kind of hushed admission Dazai only ever made when he felt terrible.
Pausing, Chuuya let his hands still for a fraction of a second. "How are you feeling?"
Dazai kept his gaze fixed firmly on the floor tiles before mumbling, "Not good."
That was all the confirmation Chuuya needed. He sped up his movements, getting Dazai as clean as humanly possible before guiding him out to the main bedroom. After digging through the dressers to find some loose clothes, he helped Dazai dress and guided him to sit on the edge of the large mattress.
"I have some medicine for the fever and the pain," Chuuya said, turning toward the adjoining bathroom to fetch the first-aid supplies. "Do you want it?"
Even through the haze of a high fever, Dazai managed a weak, teasing smile. "You are being so attentive. If you keep this up, I might cry, or worse, fall in love with you."
Chuuya's pulse jumped, hammering so hard against his ribs he feared Dazai could hear it. He quickly tried to convince himself the sudden spike in his heart rate was purely out of anger and annoyance. Fuck, I feel like we are fifteen again, he thought desperately.
Wanting to bite back, Chuuya snapped without thinking. "Only someone with an actual heart could do either of those things."
He regretted the words the second they left his mouth. Usually, Dazai would let an insult like that roll right off his back with a smirk, but the fever was stripping away his emotional shields. Dazai pouted, looking upset as his shoulders slumped.
"That was mean, Chuuya," he whispered softly. "You didn't have to say that."
Chuuya let out a sigh, rubbing a hand aggressively over his face. "Sorry," he muttered, offering a quick apology. He was having a remarkably hard time navigating exactly where he and Dazai stood right now, and the bone-deep weariness wasn't helping either of them think clearly.
Telling Dazai to stay put, Chuuya went to fetch the painkillers, fever reducers, and a tall glass of water. He pressed the pills into Dazai's hand, ordered him to lie down, and then announced he was going to take a shower himself.
He kept the bathroom door cracked open just in case Dazai needed anything, stepping under the scalding spray for the quickest shower of his life. Usually, Chuuya preferred to sleep in proper clothes, but tonight he decided to forego pajamas entirely. Having Dazai over was already weird enough, but Chuuya was simply too tired to bother dressing up, opting to step back into the bedroom wearing nothing but his boxers.
When he walked back in, he was surprised to find Dazai still awake. The brunet was lying flat on his back, staring blankly up at the ceiling and fighting a losing battle against sleep.
Chuuya frowned, his voice laced with poorly concealed worry. "Do you need something?"
Dazai rolled his head to the side, his fever-bright eyes finding Chuuya in the dim light. "Come to bed with me," he asked softly.
Tensing, Chuuya hesitated near the doorway. He crossed his arms over his bare chest, trying to physically brush the absurd request off. "You are delusional. You hate unnecessary physical touch more than anyone I know. You despise it."
"Right now, I don't," Dazai murmured, his gaze refusing to waver.
"It is literally just the fever talking," Chuuya insisted, shaking his head. "Your brain is boiling in your skull, and you are running on empty. Just close your eyes and go to sleep."
"Please, Chuuya." Dazai stubbornly held his gaze. His voice dropped into a desperate, pleading edge that destroyed whatever defenses Chuuya had left.
Defeated, Chuuya dropped his arms and crossed the room, climbing into the bed. They got under the thick covers, settling on their sides and looking steadily at each other across the pillows. Before Chuuya could process what was happening, Dazai scooted closer, sliding his hands securely around Chuuya's waist and burying his face right into Chuuya's bare chest.
Chuuya's muscles locked tight. Slowly, carefully, he relaxed, wrapping his arms around Dazai's back to hold him in return.
"You keep throwing yourself into death's arms, fully expecting me to come and rescue you," Chuuya whispered into the dark room. "And to top it all off, now I have to take care of your sick, clingy ass."
Dazai took a long moment to process the words, his breathing hot and uneven against Chuuya's skin. "I don't trust anyone else with my life," Dazai finally replied. "Sorry excuse for a life as it is."
Chuuya wanted to argue, wanted to talk more about everything that had happened, but he could feel Dazai's lanky frame physically relaxing in his hold. Opting for peace, Chuuya softened his voice. "Stop trying to end it all the time, then. It just doubles my workload."
Dazai huffed a quiet, breathy laugh against Chuuya's collarbone before surrendering to his exhaustion, his breathing evening out as he fell asleep.
Chuuya took much longer to settle. His heart kept beating at such a frantic, rhythmic pace that he was certain a healthy Dazai would have noticed it from across the room.
Laying there in the dark, Chuuya hated how moments like this made him almost forget how agonizingly hard it was when Dazai first abandoned the Mafia. He hated how easily the warmth in his arms erased the memory of how empty, lonely, and out of place he had felt for years. He had spent so long grieving someone who simply walked away, a partner who vanished into the night without leaving a single clue as to whether he was even alive or dead.
Deeper yet, tucked away in the darkest corners of his mind, Chuuya could still remember the raw, suffocating pain and betrayal he had felt back then. While he hadn't understood the depth of those emotions at eighteen, and flatly refused to acknowledge them even now at twenty-three, the truth remained undeniable. Dazai had, in his own twisted way, broken his fucking heart.
Still, as he held onto the sleeping man, he realized that having Dazai safe and sound by his side after saving the world was good enough for tonight. Releasing a shuddering breath, Chuuya let himself relax, closing his eyes to follow Dazai into the land of dreams.
Chuuya woke up what could have been hours—or merely minutes—later, unsure of how much time had passed. He supposed it was nearing dawn, judging by the faint, grayish light beginning to filter into the room. At first, he didn't quite understand what had pulled him from his heavy sleep, but the issue quickly became glaringly clear. Dazai was still cuddled against his chest, and he was radiating heat. Instead of going down, his fever had skyrocketed.
Chuuya supposed that was to be expected. He knew Dazai had abused his body and attempted to overdose so many times over the years that he had undoubtedly built a massive tolerance to most common medicines. Still, Chuuya refused to be responsible for drugging Dazai up more than necessary, so he decided against risking another dose of pills.
He knew the best medical option was to sink the idiot into an ice bath. However, with the fresh stitches and a shattered leg, that was out of the question. He would need to think of something else.
Moving as slowly and lightly as he could, Chuuya started to break away from the embrace, hoping not to wake the injured man. It was a futile effort. Dazai slowly opened his eyes, his gaze glassy and even more unfocused than before.
"Mnn, Chuuya, don't leave," Dazai moaned, weakly tightening his hold on Chuuya's waist.
"I have to, mackerel, or you are going to literally burn up," Chuuya responded, keeping his voice low.
Dazai stubbornly shook his head against Chuuya's collarbone, dragging out the word in a childish whine. "I am fiiiiine."
"Stop being difficult," Chuuya sighed, trying once more to peel himself away. "Come on, Dazai. I just want to make you feel better."
"But I am fine, Chuuya," Dazai mumbled, his voice cracking slightly. "Please don't leave me."
The irony of the request struck Chuuya like a physical blow. If Dazai had been in perfect health, Chuuya would have given him a screaming earful for that comment alone. Who the hell was Dazai to beg not to be abandoned, when he was the one with the lifelong habit of abandoning Chuuya? It surprised him, once again, how easily those painful ghosts from so long ago managed to claw their way back to the surface whenever Dazai was around.
Swallowing past the sudden tightness in his throat, Chuuya adopted the exact same soothing, steady tone he used to reserve for the younger children in the Sheep. "I am not leaving you, idiot. I will be back in a minute, I promise."
That finally seemed to appease the feverish man. Dazai released his grip, though he looked incredibly unhappy about it as he let his arms fall to the mattress.
Freed from the bed, he headed straight for the kitchen. He yanked open the freezer, grabbed a large ice pack, and wrapped it carefully in a dry dish towel before hurrying back to the bedroom they were sharing.
"Get on your back," Chuuya instructed as he climbed back onto the mattress.
When Dazai sluggishly complied, Chuuya pressed the cold cloth squarely onto his forehead. "We need to cool you down before your brain boils over."
Dazai did not offer a single word of argument, which was a glaring indicator of just how terrible he was feeling.
"Chuuya?" Dazai mumbled a moment later, his eyes slipping shut. "Can you keep doing what you were doing in the helicopter?"
Chuuya paused, confused for a split second before realization caught up with him. Heat flooded his cheeks.
"You were supposed to be asleep, you asshole," Chuuya hissed.
"Mnn, it felt good, Chuuya," Dazai slurred, his words barely coherent at this point. "I didn't want to miss it."
With a defeated breath, Chuuya gave up the fight. Shifting his weight against the headboard, he reached out, threading his bare hand gently into Dazai's brown locks and beginning to slowly caress the soft strands. Almost immediately, the remaining tension drained from Dazai's body, and he fell fast asleep.
Chuuya stayed awake for the remainder of the night, vigilantly swapping out the makeshift ice pack and monitoring Dazai's breathing to make sure he was getting better. When the morning sun broke over the horizon, casting a pale, cold light through the windows, Chuuya got everything ready for their extraction. They had a long journey ahead of them—a car ride into Lyon followed by a private Port Mafia jet straight back to Japan. Dazai was quiet the entire time, offering no complaints or teasing remarks, though his fever had broken and he seemed physically much better. For his part, Chuuya was too exhausted to push for conversation. He just wanted to be home.
Coming home, however, was significantly harder than Chuuya thought it would be.
He was shocked at how bad things had gotten in his absence. The Port Mafia headquarters had been ruthlessly attacked from the inside out during the vampire outbreak. Three of their five iconic towers had suffered catastrophic damage. But the worst part by far was the staggering loss of life. More than half of the Mafia's personnel were gone, wiped out in a matter of days. It was an unprecedented bloodbath.
He now stood rigidly in Mori's dimly lit office, positioned alongside the remaining executives—Ozaki Kouyou and Paul Verlaine.
"We will need to recruit more people immediately, and focus heavily on keeping our territories secure," Mori said, his voice terrifyingly calm as he looked out over the ruined city. "The enemy organizations suffered heavy losses as well, but the Port Mafia took the blunt end of this war. Yokohama itself sustained devastation of such severity that it will take months, at the very least, to return it to its former glory. For now, the general public believes the city was simply struck by a devastating earthquake."
"What about the Armed Detective Agency?" Kouyou asked, the elegant sleeve of her kimono hiding her mouth. Chuuya knew without a doubt she was thinking of Kyouka.
"I have, in fact, spoken with Fukuzawa," Mori replied, finally turning away from the window to face them. "It seems that even though we managed to stop the end of the world, the global accusations against the Detective Agency haven't been removed. They are still considered a terrorist organization by the greater public, even if the military police are no longer actively hunting them. Because of this, they will dissolve for the time being."
The news settled like a stone in Chuuya's gut, and he couldn't stop himself from thinking of Dazai. They hadn't spoken a single word to each other since touching down in Japan. Chuuya had been unbelievably busy trying to hold the crumbling Mafia together, and he assumed Dazai was equally swamped with the Agency's fallout. Their private flight back from France had been quiet and relatively uneventful, yet the profound sense of something strengthening between them hadn't left Chuuya once.
"So we won't have their support in joint missions until this whole terrorism thing is solved?" Chuuya asked, crossing his arms.
"I am afraid not," Mori sighed, though his eyes remained sharp. "Which is exactly why we need more people. More ability users, preferably, to fill our decimated ranks."
Verlaine, who had stood like a silent, imposing ghost in the corner for the entire meeting, spoke up. "What about the exchange, Mori-dono?"
Chuuya blinked, surprised that Verlaine would even know about the secret agreement dictating that one member of the Agency would be transferred to the Mafia. The man had spent years willingly locked up in the basement, rarely participating in official executive meetings. Then again, it was unsurprising that he knew; they were the Port Mafia, after all. Every single one of them had their own quiet ways of gathering intel.
"I do have someone in mind for that, indeed," Mori purred.
Chuuya caught the calculating glint flashing in the boss's dark eyes, and his stomach dropped.
"Someone who already knows the exact ins and outs of the Mafia," Mori continued smoothly, a dark smile playing on his lips. "And someone whom I spent entirely too much time and effort working on to just let go of."
An icy chill traced Chuuya's spine. It was obviously Dazai. Mori was talking about bringing Dazai back.
Chuuya squeezed his eyes shut for a fraction of a second, his gloved hands curling into tight fists at his sides. He should have known better, because when it came down to a blank-check trade with the Armed Detective Agency, who else would Mori possibly want?
Verlaine let out a quiet, clicking tsk with his tongue. He didn't say a single word, though his rigid posture made it abundantly clear he vehemently disagreed with the unspoken proposal. Beside him, Kouyou's grip tightened imperceptibly on the handle of her parasol. She clearly understood exactly who Mori was talking about, and her silent disapproval was as clear as day.
Chuuya desperately wanted to keep his mouth shut, but Mori had no intention of giving him a choice.
"What do you think, Chuuya-kun?" Mori asked smoothly, tilting his head. He still hadn't bothered to clarify who exactly would be selected. "Since the others have made their opinions quite clear."
Chuuya took a long moment to organize his racing thoughts. "I do not think this will be the best idea, Boss," he finally said.
When Mori only raised an eyebrow, silently prompting him to explain himself, Chuuya continued. "Dazai has betrayed us once already, and his total disregard for Mafia affairs has become quite clear over the years. Furthermore, I do not think he will come back willingly. Even if he does, there is no guarantee he would be acting in our best interests."
Mori tapped a slow, deliberate rhythm against his mahogany desk. "So, you think I would not be able to control him?"
"Not at all, Boss," Chuuya was quick to clarify, keeping his tone perfectly respectful. "I am sure he would be under your control should you wish it. I just think he works much better when he actually wants to, and he clearly seems to not want to be back in the Mafia."
Mori steepled his fingers together, his expression unreadable in the dim light.
Kouyou gracefully jumped in. "Chuuya-kun has a valid point, Mori-dono. From the little time I spent observing that boy at the Agency, I could see a dedication in him that I had never witnessed when he was with the Port Mafia."
Verlaine remained silent, as he so often did, but his icy blue eyes suggested he would gladly welcome literally anyone else into their ranks over the former demon prodigy.
After a tense moment of silence, Mori offered a sharp smile and made an unexpected suggestion.
"We will only take Dazai-kun back until the Armed Detective Agency is officially restored," Mori declared, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Once their name is cleared and they rebuild, he will be free to choose where he wishes to go. In fact, I have already discussed this at length with Fukuzawa-dono. Although it was certainly not an easy negotiation, I eventually convinced him to accept my terms."
Verlaine finally decided to speak, his heavily accented voice breaking the thick atmosphere. "Does the kid even know about this arrangement? Can we predict how he will react to the news?"
Mori flashed a perfectly crafted, fake smile. It was terrifyingly similar to the hollow grins Dazai used to give when he was being particularly manipulative. The unsettling parallel made Chuuya realize there was probably a lot more to their twisted dynamic than he could ever possibly understand.
"No, he does not know," Mori answered lightly. "Since the Agency has dissolved for the time being, their members are currently moving out of their dormitories and shared vicinities. Fukuzawa mentioned that Dazai-kun is still lingering around the city, but he has no idea where the boy is actually planning to go."
Mori shifted his dark gaze directly onto Chuuya. "Which makes me wonder if we shouldn't be the ones to personally notify him. What do you think, Chuuya-kun? You have partnered up with him quite a lot recently, and I am sure you are still exceptionally great at finding him."
Chuuya could not deny it. He was undeniably good at finding Dazai, and to be honest, his brain had already begun unconsciously forming a mental list of places the mackerel could be hiding if he wasn't in his dorm room.
He had incredibly mixed feelings about this entire mission. While he knew Dazai could help the Mafia tremendously, especially given the desperate situation they found themselves in, Chuuya was certain Dazai would rather die than willingly come back to the place that took away his closest friends.
Yeah, Chuuya knew all about that. He had been away on a mission out west when the tragedy happened, and he and Dazai had never spoken a single word about it. Ever. But Chuuya was smart. Whether he liked it or not, he knew his former partner better than anyone. He remembered perfectly well how fiercely the idiot had fought to keep his personal attachments to a bare minimum back in his Mafia days. Sure, Chuuya could see that Dazai had opened up a little bit since finding the light, letting a select few people past his towering walls, but he was still vastly more closed off than anyone else.
Sometimes, in the lonely hours of the night, Chuuya wondered if things would have turned out differently had he just been there. Maybe someday, if he ever got the chance, he could ask Dazai.
Pushing the heavy thoughts aside, Chuuya met his boss's gaze and bowed his head slightly.
"As you wish, Boss. I can go fetch him anytime."
As expected, Mori did not waste a second. He explicitly ordered Chuuya to fetch Dazai immediately. The Port Mafia still had a mountain of chaotic affairs to sort out, and the sooner they secured their former executive, the better. They would be holding a collective memorial service for all their fallen members in exactly two days, and Mori fully expected Dazai to be in attendance.
Before making his way out of headquarters, Chuuya pulled out his phone and shot a quick text. Where u at?
He didn't bother waiting around for a reply. Shoving the device back into his pocket, Chuuya swung his leg over his motorcycle and peeled out of the garage. He tried his best not to shatter every single speed limit between Mafia territory and the Armed Detective Agency dormitories, but he needed to get there fast just in case Dazai suddenly decided to skip town.
It took him barely twenty minutes to reach the quiet residential street. Opting to check his phone the exact second he killed the engine, Chuuya stared at the brightly lit screen. Dazai hadn't replied, but the tiny read receipt sitting stubbornly under the message told Chuuya everything he needed to know. First, the idiot was alive. Second, since he was actively ignoring messages, he was almost certainly sulking somewhere or trapped in a highly precarious emotional state.
Chuuya marched straight up to the front door of the dorms and let himself in. He was actually quite worried about running into any of the other Agency members, knowing well that a Mafia executive barging into their sanctuary unannounced could easily trigger a massive fight.
Naturally, his luck was terrible. The moment he stepped into the cramped hallway, he found himself face-to-face with a startled weretiger. Nakajima Atsushi, Chuuya recalled.
Chuuya just gave the kid a brief, acknowledging nod, acting as if he belonged there. Atsushi, however, had a very different reaction. The boy jumped, quickly shuffling backward with his hands raised defensively.
"Um, Nakahara-san..." Atsushi stammered, his wide eyes darting nervously toward the front door. "I didn't... Ah, should you really be here?"
Chuuya almost laughed. Looking at the fidgety, anxious kid, he understood why the boy managed to both violently irritate and deeply interest Akutagawa.
"Just Chuuya is fine," he said, waving a gloved hand dismissively. "And I suppose I shouldn't be, but I am currently looking for that walking bag of bandages. Did you happen to see him anywhere around here?"
Atsushi hesitated, his gaze dropping to the floor. The moral gears were clearly grinding in the kid's head, entirely unsure of whether or not he should be divulging his mentor's location to a notorious Mafia executive.
When the boy's internal struggle stretched on for a bit too long, Chuuya decided to have some mercy on him. "Look, it’s Nakajima-kun, right? I mean no harm to Dazai. I haven't in a while. I just need to talk to him."
Atsushi flushed a bright shade of red, and Chuuya could not help but think about how young the weretiger looked up close.
"Just Atsushi is fine," the boy mumbled, clearly embarrassed before finally caving. "Dazai-san has been locked up in his room ever since our emergency meeting yesterday. No one has seen him come out, but I know for a fact he is in there. I can... you know. Hear him."
Right, Chuuya thought. The tiger ability. The kid's hearing had to be exceptionally sharp.
Chuuya offered a polite word of thanks and brushed past Atsushi, making his way down the narrow hall toward Dazai's room. He had never been inside the Agency dormitories before, but judging by the fact that there was only one door with a heavily engaged deadbolt, the location was painfully obvious.
Chuuya skipped knocking, simply grabbing the handle and giving it a shove. Unsurprisingly, it was locked solid.
He had a few different options for getting inside, but violently kicking the door off its hinges while the weretiger was awkwardly watching from the end of the hallway did not seem like a great diplomatic move. Instead, Chuuya pulled out his phone and hit the call button.
A few seconds later, he could hear the muffled, obnoxious ringing coming from the other side of the wood. The line connected, and Dazai's voice drifted through the phone speaker, sounding impossibly drowsy and flat.
"Slug?"
Chuuya immediately ended the call. Slipping the phone away, he leaned forward and spoke directly to the closed door, keeping his voice dead serious and stripped of their usual banter. He needed Dazai to know he wasn't just here to pick a fight or annoy him.
"Open up, mackerel. I just want to talk to you."
The silence stretched for a moment, but the shift in Chuuya's tone seemed to have worked. A few seconds later, the distinct, metallic click of a deadbolt sliding back echoed in the quiet hallway.
Chuuya gave one final, reassuring glance over his shoulder to Atsushi, who was still silently observing him, before pushing the door open and stepping into Dazai's room.
The first thing that hit him was the disaster zone it had become. Empty cardboard boxes and trash littered the floor, mixed with a depressing number of discarded sake bottles and crushed beer cans. Piles of loose paper sat abandoned in the center of the living area. Over in the small kitchenette, the sink overflowed with half-cleaned dishes, mostly a few plates and a couple of stained cups. A closed door likely led to the bedroom, but Chuuya had no intention of going in there.
Dazai looked awful. His broken leg was encased in a thick cast, forcing him into a pair of loose, overly short sweatpants that Chuuya distinctly remembered from their Port Mafia days. A simple black t-shirt hung off his lanky frame, with fresh bandages restricted only to his wrists and forearms.
His neck was bare. The marks from countless unsuccessful suicide attempts had faded into dull, silvery lines. The sight sent a jolt of shock through Chuuya. The few times he had seen that skin when they were younger, those cuts were always angry and red. Above the faded scars, Dazai's brown hair was greasier than normal, and the dark circles under his eyes looked like heavy bruises.
"You look like shit," Chuuya said, unable to hold the comment back. "And so does this room."
Dazai stared back with a blank expression. "Well, Chuuya, that is not a very nice thing to say, is it?"
"I suppose it beats that miserable shithole you lived in back in the day," Chuuya continued, pulling out a chair from the small kitchen table. "At least there is a place to sit here."
He sat down and began tapping his fingers rhythmically against the tabletop, trying to figure out exactly how to approach this conversation.
Dazai limped over and dropped into the chair opposite him. "I was rather busy these past couple of days, slug. I wasn't exactly expecting any visitors."
"Bullshit," Chuuya fired back. "The tiger kid said you have been sulking in here for the past twenty-four hours."
Dazai actually pouted. The unbidden thought cute flashed through Chuuya's mind before he brutally shoved it down.
"I am not sulking. I was thinking, chibi. Though I suppose since your brain is so tiny, you have very limited experience with the concept."
Normally, Chuuya would rise to the bait, but he was here on official business. Beyond that, it was painfully obvious Dazai was not in a good place. Chuuya stayed silent, keeping his gaze fixed steadily on the brunet.
Dazai let out a tired sigh, the playful facade crumbling. "What is it, then? What does Mori-san want?"
Time to get serious. There was no point in going about this in a roundabout way. Dazai would figure out the reason for the visit before Chuuya even finished his sentence.
"The boss talked to your president. He told us the Agency is dissolving for the time being," Chuuya started. "And I am sure you are aware the Mafia suffered significant losses."
Dazai gave a curt nod.
"We need more people as soon as possible to fortify our territory while we strengthen our ranks."
The shift was immediate. Dazai tensed, his posture straightening into a rigid line. His face lost whatever little color it had left, and his lips pressed tightly together.
"So he wants to see through the deal he made with the Agency," Dazai said softly.
"Yeah," Chuuya confirmed, watching the brunet's face for any indication of his next move.
"And he wants me back in the Mafia. As an Executive."
Chuuya nodded again.
Dazai tried to hold himself back, but a raw, unfiltered look of fear crossed his features. Chuuya hated it. That expression did not fit Dazai at all.
Just as quickly, the brunet closed off again, throwing up a desperate shield of lightheartedness to pretend he didn't care. "Well then, my petit mafioso, Mori-san can go right ahead and discuss this with Fukuzawa-san. They will have to meet to discuss the details, and I am sure I will have a say in that, too." He waved a hand dismissively. "Besides, I would rather die than go back. So, good luck to Mori-san."
Chuuya knew this was exactly how the conversation would go. He braced himself for what he had to say next.
"The boss and your president already discussed this. Fukuzawa agreed to transfer you to the Mafia."
Dazai's eyes widened a fraction of an inch. A minuscule tremble shook his bottom lip. The sight made Chuuya's chest ache.
"Temporarily," Chuuya added quickly, desperate to mitigate the fallout before Dazai reacted further. "At least, that is what the boss said. Fukuzawa agreed to your transfer only while the Agency is no more. Once they rebuild, you are free to go back."
Dazai's expression shifted into something unreadable. When he spoke, his voice was colder than anything Chuuya had heard since their reunion.
"And you believe this? You believe that Mori-san will just let me walk out the Mafia's front door?"
Chuuya knew Dazai was right. He knew Mori's word was never that trustworthy. But he was a Mafia Executive following direct orders.
"It is what it is, Dazai."
"What if I don't want to?" Dazai challenged, his voice tight. "What if I run away, or die, or rejoin the Mafia just to destroy it from the inside out?"
A frantic edge of panic laced the words.
He decided to stick to the harsh truth. "You know the boss better than I do. He has contingency plans for all of that. He said..."
Chuuya hesitated. Mori's words were violently manipulative, and because Chuuya knew his former partner so well, he knew they would be the final blow.
"What did he say, Chuuya?" Dazai demanded. There was a hollow resignation in his tone, as if he knew this was a lost battle from the very start. "Tell me. Word for word."
Chuuya obliged. "He said he raised you better than that."
He paused to give Dazai time to digest the statement. When the brunet said nothing, Chuuya continued. "He said you wouldn't dare shatter the alliance between the Mafia and the Agency at such a dire time."
Then came the hardest part. The kill shot.
"He said you were oh so good now, that you wouldn't let him take the younger ones to break them to his liking."
As Chuuya predicted, all the fight left Dazai in an instant. It was a subtle shift that would go unnoticed by anyone else, but Chuuya saw it for exactly what it was. Defeat.
Dazai closed his eyes and let out a dry, self-deprecating laugh. "All for nothing," he mumbled under his breath, bringing his hands up to cover his face.
Chuuya kept watching him. Dazai kept mumbling something mostly unintelligible behind his palms, but Chuuya quickly realized he was just repeating the words 'I can't' over and over again. The sight was beginning to deeply distress him.
"Daz..." Chuuya tried to interrupt.
"Chuuya, I can't," Dazai cut in, his voice cracking with pain. "I really can't do it."
Dazai's hands flew up to his own hair. He twisted his fingers into the brown locks and pulled hard, clearly trying to ground himself through the physical pain.
Chuuya had seen Dazai do something similar exactly once before. They were about sixteen, and Dazai had freaked out during an undercover meeting when the name of a highly influential Japanese family was brought up. This time, however, Chuuya had a much better idea of what was going on, and he actually wanted to help.
He got up from the kitchen chair and walked over to where Dazai was sitting. Standing right in front of him, Chuuya reached out and gently wrapped his gloved hands around Dazai's wrists.
"Hey, Dazai, it’s okay," Chuuya said softly, trying to pry the rigid fingers away from the scalp. "You don't need to hurt yourself."
Dazai wasn't cooperative at first. His breathing was growing irregular, and his lanky body was practically shaking—a sight that unnerved Chuuya. He knew Dazai struggled violently with things that fell completely out of his control—knew the idiot had a terrible time dealing with attachments and feelings, often feeling less than human because of it. But Chuuya also knew that, ultimately, Dazai was just as human as anyone else—and when the pressure piled up like this, he simply did not have an easy time coping.
Chuuya kept his grip steady and continued trying to calm him down. "Really, Dazai, it’s fine. It will be fine."
Eventually, Dazai stopped struggling. His hands went limp, held suspended in the air only by Chuuya's careful grip. He looked up, his gaze locking straight into Chuuya's eyes.
"Chuuya, I don't feel so well," Dazai admitted reluctantly.
Holding both of those wrists and looking down into those tormented brown eyes, Chuuya didn't feel all that well either.
Dazai wasn't finished. "I don't... I can't go back, Chuuya. I can't."
The ache in Chuuya's chest intensified tenfold. He released Dazai's hands, took a step forward to part the brunet's knees, and pulled Dazai's head firmly against his stomach. He wrapped his arms around the trembling shoulders.
He felt Dazai tense up in his arms. A few seconds later, the rigid posture slowly relaxed. The tremors decreased, and Dazai lifted his own arms to wrap them securely around Chuuya's waist.
They stood like that in the messy living room for a couple of minutes. Chuuya knew Dazai was trying to recompose himself. He half expected the brunet to shove him away and pretend the incident never happened.
Dazai surprised him again. "Okay, Chuuya. Okay," he said softly into Chuuya's vest. "I just need to talk to Fukuzawa, and we can go."
Despite the words, Dazai made no movement to pull away from the embrace.
"We can wait until you are good to go," Chuuya offered.
Dazai snorted a wet laugh against his stomach. "That would be never."
He finally moved away from Chuuya. His eyes were red, but they were dry. That detail alone told Chuuya exactly how hard Dazai had struggled to maintain his composure.
Chuuya had to check one last time. "You good?"
Dazai instantly threw up his fake, carefree persona. "Peachy! I would freak out more often if I knew Chuuya would be so nice to me."
The teasing remark actually made Chuuya blush. He grunted and crossed his arms.
"Yeah, well, I would rather not see you like this at all," Chuuya shot back. He paused, looking away for a second. "If you want a hug, you can just ask, you know."
The second the words left Chuuya's mouth, they both realized the absurdity of the statement. The tense atmosphere shattered, and they were both laughing hard. Hearing Dazai's laugh fill the messy room sent a flutter through Chuuya's stomach, and for a brief, shining moment, he really felt like he was fifteen all over again.
As the sudden burst of laughter began to die down, the thick silence of the room crept back in. Yet, the air felt different. Chuuya felt an unexpected, lingering urge to pull Dazai close again. That profound, undeniable sense that their bond was strengthening came rushing right back to the forefront of his mind. Dazai apparently felt the exact same way. Once his breathing evened out, the brunet simply rested his head back against Chuuya's stomach, letting out a long, exhausted sigh.
Chuuya brought his hands back up, tangling his gloved fingers into Dazai's brown locks. He definitely needs a shower, Chuuya thought, feeling the grime coating the strands.
"This is a shitty outcome," Dazai muttered to the room.
Chuuya paused. It was incredibly rare to hear Dazai curse like that. Even in the darkest pits of the Port Mafia, the demon prodigy almost always maintained a chillingly proper, theatrical vocabulary.
"It is," Chuuya agreed softly, resuming his rhythmic caress of Dazai's hair anyway.
"I am going to have to be the chibi's partner all over again," Dazai bemoaned, his voice dripping with exaggerated misery.
In retaliation, Chuuya gave a sharp, deliberate tug on a fistful of brown hair.
"Ow! Bad chibi!" Dazai complained, swatting blindly at Chuuya's waist.
"You don't seem to be having too many issues with me being around," Chuuya pointed out. It was a risky comment, plunging right through their usual defenses. Still, everything was so chaotic right now that Chuuya simply lacked the strength to filter his words.
Dazai responded entirely unfazed, as if they had always spoken this openly. "I suppose I was enlightened, spending so much time in the light and all." He shifted, pulling back just enough to look up into Chuuya's face. The quiet admission carried a heavy weight, indicating Dazai had actually spent the last few years away from the darkness analyzing their twisted relationship.
Then, the corners of Dazai's lips twitched upward into a mischievous grin. "And I guess it helped that you finally took some rabies shots."
Chuuya rolled his eyes and dropped his hands, letting Dazai go. "Fuck off. You should go shower. I can help pack your stuff while you do."
Dazai tilted his head, contemplating the messy room. "There is not much to pack. We do not strictly need to leave, it is just safer if we do." He let out a dry hum. "Besides, I am not under the impression Mori-san has an Executive-worthy apartment waiting for me. I might as well just stay here."
"Yeah, not a chance," Chuuya shot back instantly. "You know you are not high on the boss's trust list right now. You are staying with me."
For a split second, Dazai looked flustered. The mask slipped, leaving his eyes wide and a faint dusting of pink on his pale cheeks. Or was Chuuya just imagining things? The bone-deep exhaustion was probably playing tricks on his eyes.
"But you are not getting into my apartment looking like this," Chuuya continued, pointing toward the hallway. "Go shower."
"So bossy!" Dazai whined. Still, he grabbed the edge of the table and hauled himself up. He limped his way toward the bathroom, and Chuuya waited until he was out of sight before turning his attention to the disaster zone of a living room.
As he gathered the empty bottles and crushed the cardboard boxes, his mind wandered back to the day they met—how he had brutally kicked a thin, lanky kid down the street, only for that same kid to look up at him as if he had hung the sun and the moon.
He thought about how Dazai meticulously kept his distance from everyone else in the Mafia, treating his subordinates like disposable pawns. Yet, around Chuuya, he was always just a fraction softer. Occasionally. He remembered all the times he had surrendered to Corruption, losing his mind to the singularity, only for Dazai to reach him. Even when Dazai didn't stick around for the bloody aftermath, he always made sure Chuuya was safely deposited somewhere secure.
It was difficult to notice when they were angry, bruised teenagers, but looking back now, their relationship had always been vastly deeper than Chuuya would ever like to admit.
Then there was the glaring issue of Chuuya's traitorous heart. He hated how, sometimes, he just wanted to be near Dazai. He hated how much he constantly worried about the asshole. Meursault had been a waking nightmare specifically because Chuuya knew exactly how fast Dazai's convoluted schemes could go sideways.
Chuuya was deep in thought when the bathroom door finally opened. Dazai hobbled out, wearing his usual crisp Agency attire—a button-down shirt, slacks, and his bolo tie. However, he looked unkempt. The collar was askew, the bandages were loose, and it was painfully clear he had struggled to dress himself with a broken leg and a freshly stitched shoulder.
"You are such a mess," Chuuya sighed, tossing a trash bag aside.
He closed the distance between them and batted Dazai's clumsy hands away. Chuuya fixed the misaligned buttons on the shirt, tightened the fresh bandages peeking out from the cuffs, and grabbed a nearby towel to roughly dry the dripping brown hair. Dazai stood remarkably still, letting Chuuya work without a single complaint.
When Dazai finally looked presentable, Chuuya tossed the damp towel over the back of a chair and stepped back.
"So," Chuuya said, crossing his arms. "What is the plan?"
"The president has an office in this building as well, right on the top floor," Dazai replied quickly, leaning his weight against the kitchen counter. "I will head up there real quick and talk to him."
"Need help getting there?" Chuuya asked without thinking.
Dazai did not miss a single beat. A wide, teasing grin split his face. "Oh, Chuuya! You really have been so forward lately. Hoping to carry me bridal style again, hmm?"
Chuuya wanted to slap him. He wanted to hit the idiot for making him flustered and for daring to flirt during such a highly charged moment. He had to get back at Dazai somehow. Forcing his rising blood pressure under control, Chuuya stepped closer and lowered his voice into a smooth, dangerous drawl.
"We will have plenty of time for that later, princess. Don't worry," Chuuya purred, watching the instant shock register in Dazai's eyes. Taking the victory, Chuuya added, "Oh, I won't forget exactly how you like it, either."
That got a massive rise out of him. For the first time in their entire lives, Chuuya watched a furious, dark blush spread across the brunet's cheeks. He could hardly believe his own eyes.
Dazai scrambled to recompose himself, forcefully ignoring what had just happened. "Stupid slug," he muttered, turning his face away. "I have a pair of crutches in here, you know. I just didn't want to use them."
Chuuya watched him retreat into the bedroom, returning a minute later with a pair of metal crutches tucked under his arms.
"Okay, I will go upstairs and talk to the president," Dazai said, adjusting his grip. "What will you be doing? I would rather it be a private conversation, if you don't mind."
Considering his options, Chuuya decided he would go up the stairs with him, but he would stay outside Fukuzawa's office to give Dazai the privacy he asked for.
They made the slow journey up to the top floor. Just before Dazai reached for the heavy office door, Chuuya noticed the sharp shift in his posture. The flirty, carefree energy vanished into thin air, replaced by a rigid, nervous tension. Dazai slipped inside, pulling the door shut behind him.
Left alone in the quiet hallway, Chuuya leaned against the wall. A moment later, the sound of footsteps approached. A woman with shoulder-length dark hair and a golden butterfly clip stopped just a few feet away.
Chuuya knew exactly who she was. The Agency's doctor, Yosano Akiko. They had not interacted much over the years, but Chuuya had read the old Port Mafia files. He knew she had worked directly under Mori a long time ago.
Yosano looked pissed. Chuuya wasn't afraid of her, but he recognized the terrifying, sharp aura rolling off the doctor.
"So, you are taking him back," Yosano stated, her voice like cracking ice. "Mori-sensei made his pick, then?"
Chuuya debated keeping his mouth shut, but the entire Agency would find out eventually. There was no point in hiding it now.
"He had options. Dazai said he would go, so..." Chuuya trailed off, trying to sound as unbothered as possible.
"It is a mistake," Yosano warned firmly. "Dazai may be a master when it comes to hiding how he is feeling, but I am a doctor. And I have worked with Mori-sensei before. I remember the exact state Dazai was in when he first arrived here."
A bitter resentment flared in Chuuya's chest, directed not just at this woman, but at the entire Armed Detective Agency. If they knew how broken Dazai was, they should have kept him as far away from the Mafia as possible.
"Good thing I have plenty of experience keeping him alive," Chuuya replied dryly.
Yosano narrowed her eyes. "Do you, now? It is funny, I don't recall you caring for him while he was in hiding."
The words stung. He shouldn't be surprised the Agency knew Dazai had spent those two years in hiding all alone before joining their team, but the casual reminder still caught him off guard. A heavy, angry resignation settled over him, because she was right. He wasn't there for Dazai when he needed it. Dazai hadn't wanted him to be. And honestly, back then, Chuuya didn't even know if he would have been willing to help a Port Mafia traitor, Dazai or not.
Taking a deep breath, Chuuya forced his voice to remain calm. "Look, I get it. This is less than optimal. But things are different now. The boss said it would be temporary, and I know his word cannot be trusted on this," Chuuya spoke over her before she could interrupt, "but I will make sure Dazai comes back when there is an Agency for him to come back to."
Yosano gave him a curt nod. She clearly wasn't convinced.
Chuuya dropped his voice lower, staring at the closed oak door. "And I will make sure to take care of him, too."
That quiet promise seemed to make Yosano relax a fraction. When she spoke next, the sharp edge in her tone had softened.
"Dazai isn't a bad person," Yosano murmured. "The light suits him, don't you think? He shouldn't have to go back to the darkness."
Chuuya could hardly disagree with that. Even bruised and recovering from a fever, Dazai looked better and more alive than he ever had while drowning in the Mafia's bloodshed.
"I know," Chuuya sighed, sliding his hands into his pockets. "He is going on his own volition. To make sure the young ones don't have to."
Chuuya realized his words had caught Yosano off guard. For a brief second, he thought she wasn't expecting this kind of selfless behavior from Dazai. But then her expression hardened.
"Mori-sensei is such an asshole," she said, her voice dropping into a low, venomous hiss. "This is evil."
Well, Chuuya couldn't disagree with that.
Before either of them could say anything else, the door clicked open. Dazai stepped out of Fukuzawa's office. He looked physically ill, pale and unsteady as if he was about to throw up right there in the hallway, but his expression was bolted shut, far too guarded for Chuuya to comment on it.
Chuuya offered Yosano a brief nod, excusing himself. She said nothing as he stepped past her to join Dazai in the elevator.
The moment the metal doors slid shut, sealing them in private, Dazai reached out and pressed the button for the ground floor. "Let's go," he said. "My business here is finished."
Chuuya instantly recognized that tone. It was the old Demon Prodigy speaking, the cold, detached cadence Dazai used to wield like a weapon in the Mafia. Chuuya opted not to point it out.
"Not gonna say goodbye to your pupils?" Chuuya asked casually, watching the floor numbers tick down. "The weretiger seemed pretty worried about you."
"No," Dazai replied coldly, keeping his eyes fixed on the elevator doors. "It is better for them if I don't, anyway."
Chuuya seriously doubted it was the kids' feelings Dazai was worried about protecting. He probably just didn't want to endure the pain of saying goodbye.
The realization flipped a switch in Chuuya's mind. It illuminated a dark corner of their shared history, the possibility that maybe Dazai hadn't kept his defection a secret out of malice. Maybe he just hadn't wanted to witness Chuuya's reaction to it.
Chuuya spoke before he could stop himself. "Oh. That is why you didn't say anything back then."
The unspoken connection they shared proved itself yet again. Dazai didn't ask for clarification. He just let out a long, ragged sigh.
"Took you long enough, chibi."
They left the building in silence and walked around the block to where Chuuya had parked his bike. Usually, this was the exact moment Dazai would run his mouth, dropping a snide comment or two about Chuuya's ridiculously bright pink torture machine, the beloved bike Albatross had left him. This time, Dazai said nothing. He just stared blankly at the leather seat.
Chuuya handed him a spare helmet and swung his leg over the bike. Dazai climbed on behind him.
Taking off down the street, Chuuya merged into the sparse late-morning traffic. He really should be heading straight to Mafia headquarters to report in, but he could feel the rigid tension radiating off the man behind him. Dazai desperately needed some time to breathe. Honestly, Chuuya needed some time too, and preferably a strong drink. He adjusted his route, steering them toward his own apartment.
A few minutes into the ride, Chuuya felt Dazai's hands hesitantly grip his waist. A moment later, a solid weight settled against his spine as Dazai let his forehead rest against Chuuya's leather-clad back. The fingers curled tighter into Chuuya's vest, anchoring him.
Chuuya knew he shouldn't do it. It crossed too many lines. But he couldn't help himself. Reaching down with his left hand, he covered Dazai's cold fingers with his own warm glove, holding them securely against his stomach.
They rode like that all the way home.
If Dazai was surprised they did not pull into the heavily guarded Port Mafia parking garage, he didn't mention it. He just quietly followed Chuuya into the private elevator.
As soon as they stepped out into Chuuya's sprawling penthouse, Dazai let out a low, distinctly unenthusiastic whistle.
"Wow, Chuuya. You really upgraded with your Executive pay grade," he noted, his tone still flat and hollow.
It dawned on Chuuya that Dazai had never been to his home since their chaotic reunion. It was weird to think about, considering how the younger Dazai used to spend almost every waking hour outside of missions bothering Chuuya or deliberately invading his privacy.
"Not much else to do with that money," Chuuya jabbed, shrugging off his coat. "Different from some people, I actually care about my living conditions."
Dazai didn't seem particularly amused by the bait.
"Go sit down and stop forcing weight onto your leg," Chuuya ordered softly, walking toward the sleek kitchen island. "I'll get us something to drink."
Dazai hobbled over to the plush living room sofa and sank into the cushions. "Can't drink, chibi. I am on antibiotics."
That tracked, considering the fever and the fresh stitches. Chuuya grabbed a crystal glass and poured a generous measure of red wine just for himself.
He walked over and took a seat on the opposite end of the sofa. While the two of them had shared many moments together by now, both in the bloody days of their youth and during their recent, reluctant team-ups, they had yet to actually talk about the things weighing them down. Chuuya didn't like talking. He was an action-oriented guy, and he knew Dazai was equally averse to earnest conversations. Still, he felt that if this whatever it was that was happening between them was going to continue (and had it always been like this? Chuuya genuinely wondered), it required at least one frank, honest conversation.
Noticing the intense stare, Dazai clearly lacked the patience to wait for Chuuya to figure out how to start.
"Tell me what is going on in that tiny brain of yours," Dazai prompted, resting his head back against the sofa.
Chuuya took a slow sip of his wine.
"I know what led you to leave the Mafia," Chuuya started, his voice quiet but steady. "I know I wasn't here when it went down, but learning the details later on made it quite easy to put the pieces together."
Dazai kept his eyes trained firmly on the ceiling, avoiding Chuuya's gaze, but he didn't interrupt.
"And it is clear you are... happier, I guess, in the light. Healthier, too," Chuuya continued. "But having known you back then, I still don't fully understand what it was that made you change sides. Not just leave, not just vanish or finally kill yourself... but actually do something good."
Chuuya let the silence stretch, waiting to see if Dazai would shut him out.
It took a couple of long, agonizing minutes, but finally, Dazai let out a ragged sigh and rolled his head to look at Chuuya.
"Mori-san used Odasaku to take down Mimic. I suppose it was primarily due to his ability, but... I know it was also a calculated way to keep me in check," Dazai murmured. The admission sounded like it was physically hurting him to pull from his memory. "Odasaku saw all the kids he cared for die. He was blinded by revenge and didn't see the whole plot Mori-san laid out. By the time I understood what was actually going on, he had already marched to his death."
Dazai swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. He paused, staring blankly at the coffee table. Chuuya carefully set his wine glass down and scooted closer across the cushions, offering quiet comfort simply through his proximity.
"Odasaku was already half-dead when I got there," Dazai continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "While I held him, and saw the life leaving his eyes, he told me I would never find what I was looking for. Be it in the dark or the light. And being the case... he asked me to be on the side that saves people."
Dazai finished the story looking utterly drained, like a ghost haunting Chuuya's couch.
Chuuya finally understood. It wasn't a sudden burst of morality. Dazai had made a dying promise to his only friend. Chuuya could understand that kind of loyalty. He could respect it.
Before Chuuya could figure out what to say, Dazai spoke again.
"And you weren't here, Chuuya. Mori-san sent you abroad to the west because he knew things could go awry." Dazai let out a weak, breathy laugh that held no humor at all. "He didn't want to risk me asking you to come with me."
Chuuya's breath hitched in his chest. His heart hammered violently against his ribs as the weight of that confession settled over the room.
"Would you?" Chuuya asked, his voice cracking. "Have asked me to come with?"
The moment before Dazai responded was one of the longest in Chuuya's life. A stifling silence filled the space between them on the couch. For a long second, Chuuya thought the brunet wouldn't answer at all.
"I don't know," Dazai finally whispered.
Chuuya was disappointed, to say the least. He knew Dazai was not in the best place mentally, and that it was all in the past, so it shouldn't matter. But still, Chuuya had desperately wanted Dazai to say he would have asked him.
But Dazai wasn't done.
"I had seen you grieve so many times at that point. I was so used to death, and yet it still caught me off guard," Dazai murmured, his voice hollow. He let out a dark, unamused chuckle. "I was reminded of a very simple truth. Anything I would never want to lose is always lost. It is a given that everything that is worth wanting will be lost the moment I obtain it."
Chuuya froze in place. He felt like he couldn't breathe, the air trapped tightly in his lungs. Still, he had to ask.
"Everything that is worth wanting? And what would that be?" Chuuya asked, scooting closer across the cushions to close the remaining distance between them.
Dazai let out a frustrated breath. His patient, untouchable persona slipped, revealing the raw jagged edges underneath. "I don't know, slug. To feel normal? To have people to rely on? Friends, or whatever ridiculous human thing." He spoke passionately, the words rushing out of him. Then, he looked down, his voice dropping into something almost shy. "You, as my partner."
That was it. Chuuya had no idea if he wanted to slap the idiot or kiss him. He compromised by reaching out, firmly holding Dazai's face between his gloved hands and forcing those tormented brown eyes to look directly at him.
"You are an idiot. There are so many things I want to tell you right now to make you understand exactly how much of an idiot you are," Chuuya said, trying his hardest to keep his voice steady.
He wanted to tell Dazai there was no such thing as the universe taking things away just because he dared to want them. He wanted to scream that if anyone was cursed to have things ripped away, it was Chuuya himself. He had lost his supposed "family," his humanity to Arahabaki, the Sheep, the Flags, and for four agonizing years, he had lost Dazai. He had lost so many friends that it left a permanent, hollow ache in his ribs. He wanted to tell Dazai that he was missing out on great things purely out of a cowardly fear of losing them.
He didn't say any of those things. Not now. Instead, he just looked into Dazai's eyes and told the truth.
"I would have gone with you, if you had asked."
At the sudden widening of Dazai's eyes, Chuuya could hold himself back no longer. He closed the tiny gap between them.
Dazai responded to the kiss immediately. His lips were soft, his skin warm under Chuuya's palms. Chuuya felt his heart hammering so hard it threatened to crawl right up his throat. He knew the massive implications of what he was doing, crossing a line they had danced around for almost a decade, but he couldn't care less. He couldn't deny that he had wanted Dazai close—closer—ever since they were kids.
They kissed soft and sweet for a while, Chuuya's hands still securely cupping Dazai's cheeks. But it wasn't enough. Dazai seemed to agree, shifting his weight forward to deepen the kiss, parting Chuuya's lips. Chuuya allowed it eagerly. Like so many other chaotic things in their lives, they just fit.
They kissed until Chuuya felt all the air leave his lungs, until he could feel Dazai shaking slightly against him.
It was only when Chuuya felt a sudden dampness against his leather glove that he pulled back. Dazai's eyes were still closed, his eyebrows pulled taut in visible distress. There was no doubt he was crying. Silent tears slipped down his pale cheeks.
Chuuya had only seen Dazai cry once before, back when they were much younger, right after a particularly brutal nightmare.
"Hey, what's wrong?" Chuuya asked, his voice dropping to a gentle murmur.
Dazai leaned forward, hiding his face in the crook of Chuuya's shoulder. When he replied, his voice was surprisingly steady despite the tears. "And now I am back in the Mafia. It was all for nothing."
Chuuya finally understood the true depth of the agony. He understood exactly how Dazai must be feeling, as if he was breaking a sacred promise to a dead man. It wasn't true, though. Dazai was ultimately doing this to spare the younger Agency members from Mori's grasp.
"It wasn't for nothing," Chuuya said firmly, wrapping his arms around the shaking shoulders. "You are doing it so the others don't have to." He pressed a soft kiss to the top of Dazai's messy brown hair before continuing. "And this time, we will do it together. Okay?"
Chuuya knew he shouldn't make promises he couldn't guarantee. But as he held Dazai on the couch, he swore to himself he would fight to the bitter death to keep this one.
The reassurance did not calm Dazai in the slightest. In fact, it had the exact opposite effect.
Dazai tensed rigidly under Chuuya's touch. "It will make no difference, Chuuya. Don't you see?" his voice cracked, thick and wet. He pulled away abruptly, scrubbing his sleeve over his eyes to dry them before leveling a deadly serious stare at Chuuya. "Mori-san might never know what Odasaku's exact last words to me were, but he saw the aftermath. He saw what that loss did to me." Dazai’s expression twisted with bitter frustration. "He wouldn't have threatened the Agency children if I hadn't let myself care about them. My defection handed him the perfect weapon to drag me back."
Chuuya saw the brutal logic in it. Unsurprisingly, Dazai was right. Mori had explicitly bragged about his methods of keeping Dazai in check; the man possessed a terrifyingly accurate read on his former protégé.
Mulling over the situation, Chuuya picked his words carefully. He didn't want to start a screaming match, but he was always one for blunt honesty. "Well, it is not like you were hiding how much you've changed. Everyone could see it."
"Is that so." Dazai's face closed off, a sullen shadow falling over his features. "Odasaku mentioned nothing about the light turning me soft." It sounded like a childish, petulant complaint.
The familiar snark made Chuuya physically relax. He could deal with this version of Dazai vastly better than an antsy, emotionally shattered Dazai.
"Ha, as if you would ever be soft," Chuuya teased, a smirk tugging at his mouth. "The only thing the light did was make you slightly less of an asshole."
Dazai didn't miss a beat. A faint smirk ghosted across his lips, a far cry from his usual infuriating smugness, but a solid attempt nonetheless. "Enough of one to make you want to kiss me some more?"
Chuuya smiled at that. Yeah, maybe he had wanted to kiss Dazai for quite some time now, loathe as he was to admit it, but he was certainly not about to hand over that confession so easily.
"I will have to think about it, princess," Chuuya teased back. He felt a sharp spike of satisfaction at the faint flush creeping across Dazai's pale cheeks.
"You are the one being an asshole!" Dazai complained, leaning back with a bright, infuriating smile that Chuuya immediately wanted to kiss right off his face. "Taking advantage of my unstable emotional state to make moves on me!"
Chuuya didn't hesitate. He launched himself across the couch cushions, straddling Dazai's lap and giving the injured man zero time to react.
This kiss was nothing like the soft, hesitant confession of the first one. This was hot, passionate, and bordering on feral desperation. Chuuya tangled his arms tightly around Dazai's neck and kissed him hard, parting Dazai's lips to deepen the connection.
Dazai's hands dropped to grip Chuuya's waist, and oh, it felt good. Chuuya had been so stressed, exhausted, and buried in Mafia politics that he couldn't even remember the last time he relieved himself, much less the last time he had been with someone else.
Unconsciously, Chuuya began moving his hips, grinding a slow, weak friction against Dazai's lap. All the blood in his body seemed to be rushing straight south. If they didn't hit the brakes right now, they were going to barrel way further than either of them was prepared for.
Dazai let out a low, wrecked moan straight into Chuuya's mouth. Feeling the hard, unmistakable evidence of Dazai's own arousal pressing back against him brought reality crashing down.
Dazai broke the kiss abruptly. He dropped his forehead against Chuuya's shoulder, his chest heaving as he fought to drag air back into his lungs. "We shouldn't do this now," Dazai rasped, heavy with resignation.
Chuuya agreed one hundred percent. It sucked, but there were far too many massive, life-altering things they needed to deal with and clear up between them before they could go any further.
Taking a deep, shaky breath, Chuuya slid off Dazai's lap and dropped onto the cushion beside him. The scene was utterly ridiculous. They were sitting in a pristine penthouse living room, both flushed, panting, and visibly hard. An embarrassed giggle bubbled up from Chuuya's throat before he could swallow it down.
"I'll go take a cold shower," Chuuya announced, brushing a stray strand of hair out of his eyes. He stood up, his tone dropping back into the serious, grounding reality of their day. "Boss said he expects to see you later today."
"Don't take too long, chibi," Dazai called out from the living room.
Chuuya shut the bathroom door and drove the deadbolt home with a sharp click. Stripping off his clothes, he stepped under the spray and cranked the handle all the way to cold. The icy water hit his skin, doing its necessary work to cool his blood, but it did absolutely nothing to slow his racing mind.
What the actual fuck am I doing?
There was no point in dwelling on his feelings for the idiot in the other room. He had denied them for so long that maintaining the lie was just exhausting at this point. No, the feelings weren't the issue. The timing was. Dazai had just been forced back into the Mafia—temporarily, in theory, though no one actually believed that. While Chuuya respected Mori and remained fiercely loyal to the organization, he was under no illusions about how the boss would react to the two of them... doing whatever it was they were currently doing.
There was still a mountain of history they had to discuss and unpack. Letting Mori see how close they had gotten wasn't just an awful idea; it was a lethal vulnerability.
Chuuya leaned his forehead against the wet tile. He had really dug himself into a massive hole this time.
The atmosphere in Mori's office was suffocating. Chuuya hadn't forgotten how these specific meetings with the boss and Dazai used to play out, but the years apart had definitely dimmed his memory of the sheer, crushing tension.
"The prodigy son returns, then," Mori said, his voice laced with dark malice.
Beside Chuuya, Dazai stood locked in his classic Demon Prodigy stance. It was fitting, really, but Chuuya hadn't missed it at all. The stark contrast between this unreadable, hollow shell and the vulnerable man crying on his couch barely an hour ago was violently jarring.
"Thank you for the cordial invitation, Mori-san," Dazai responded dryly, his eyes dead. "It certainly left plenty of room for refusal."
The tension thickened. Chuuya kept his mouth shut, deciding firmly to refrain from speaking unless directly addressed.
"Oh, now, don't act like a spoiled child." Mori's tone dripped with equal parts venom, sarcasm, and victory. "You let yourself go soft. You caught a lot of those pathetic human feelings you swore you never would. This outcome is entirely your own doing, Dazai-kun."
It was impressive how steady Dazai kept his posture. He didn't offer a single micro-expression of vulnerability. He was an impenetrable fortress.
Dazai replied instantly. "You must be mistaking me for someone else, Mori-san. I merely saw a better job opportunity, is all."
Mori laughed. The sound crawled down Chuuya's spine. Once again, he was profoundly grateful he didn't share the kind of twisted, psychological warfare dynamic those two engaged in.
"Sure thing, Dazai-kun," Mori smiled, the amusement never reaching his eyes. "Enough with the pleasantries. Let's talk business, shall we? You may both sit."
Dazai and Chuuya took the plush leather chairs in front of the mahogany desk. Chuuya knew Mori wanted him here for a specific reason, otherwise this would have been a private meeting. He simply waited for the other shoe to drop.
Mori didn't give them a chance to speak. Neither of them would have tried anyway; surviving the Port Mafia meant knowing how to read the room when the boss was holding court.
"Dazai-kun. Although you are only just returning, and your loyalty is questionable at best, I trust you are smart enough not to cross me," Mori began, his tone shifting into cold, hard authority. "For this reason, you will be fronting two of our primary operations: money laundering and intelligence. I want you to put that silver tongue of yours to good use. You will be the one collecting dirt to be used in bribery and high-level threats, for both the legal and illegal fronts of the organization."
Dazai gave a single, tight nod. He had nothing to add.
Mori was actually going easy on him. He could have shoved Dazai into managing human trafficking or the narcotics trade. Drugs were the absolute worst sector to manage, and Chuuya deeply pitied whichever poor bastard was currently in charge of them.
"Now, for you, Chuuya-kun." Mori shifted his dark gaze. "You will remain in charge of the jewelry smuggling front. However, since we are drastically low on executive staff, you will also be taking over our political control sector. You will work directly with Dazai-kun. You are to use his gathered intel to apply pressure, and you will take him alongside you to political events when a heavier hand is needed."
"As you wish, Boss," Chuuya replied evenly.
Then, a glaring logistical issue occurred to him. Mori hadn't addressed Dazai's living arrangements or his surveillance protocol.
"Boss, will I have to babysit this traitor?" Chuuya asked, carefully injecting a heavy dose of venom into his voice to meet Mori's expectations. "I wouldn't want to house him for much longer. Or at all, frankly."
Mori hummed, tapping a finger against his chin. He looked amused, which was always incredibly unnerving.
"Unfortunately, Chuuya-kun, I would like him to stay with you, at least for the time being," Mori decided. "There is no need to keep eyes on him twenty-four hours a day. Just make sure he doesn't kill himself, and ensure he doesn't leave."
The next couple of days passed in an exhausting blur. Chuuya had a massive mountain of administrative work to sort through, and apparently, Dazai did too. They barely saw each other. Their only real overlap happened in the quiet hours of the morning, sharing quick breakfasts that Chuuya cooked, or passing out for brief naps on the couch. They did not talk about the kisses, nor what any of it meant. Dazai clearly had a solid, logical grasp on exactly why pursuing anything romantic right now was stupid and incredibly risky.
This morning, however, they had woken up in Chuuya's bed. They were back-to-back, not touching, but the proximity had been undeniably soothing. It was a simple way for Chuuya to guarantee the idiot was safe.
Dazai looked locked off. Ever since they left Mori's office, the brunet had retreated into a hollow, zombie-like state. When they were teenagers, Chuuya would have worried himself sick over it. Now, he saw it for exactly what it was: a necessary self-defense mechanism. He would give Dazai some time to process the shock. The brunet would come back to himself soon enough. Besides, Chuuya had his own heavy burdens to carry; he couldn't spend all his energy worrying about his partner.
Today was the collective memorial for all the Mafia personnel who lost their lives during the catastrophic vampire outbreak. The reality of it weighed heavily on Chuuya's shoulders. He knew so many of the deceased personally. He had fought alongside them, shared drinks with them in dingy bars, and knew the names of the families they left behind.
"Chuuya, lad. You cannot afford to look so affected by this," Kouyou's soft, refined voice broke him out of the dark rabbit hole.
They were currently sharing a quiet pot of tea in her office, secluded from the chaotic preparations outside.
"I know, Ane-san," Chuuya sighed, staring down at his porcelain cup. "It just never gets any easier. Losing people is a given in our line of work, but still..."
Sometimes he cursed himself for feeling the loss so deeply. He would never cry over the subordinates he lost, and he would never let the grief stop him from doing what needed to be done, but it hurt. It left a permanent ache.
"You are not soft, Chuuya," Kouyou stated, reading the exact insecurity plaguing his mind.
Chuuya blinked, surprised. "I have always suspected you could read minds."
"Or maybe I simply know you," Kouyou countered smoothly. "I mean it. Grief is an unavoidable part of human life. People deal with it differently. You always face it in stride, bearing the weight so others do not have to. That is a sign of immense strength, not weakness."
She finalized her speech by reaching across the small table, placing a delicate hand on top of his gloved one.
Chuuya was deeply touched by the rare physical sign of affection.
"Thank you, Ane-san," he murmured, his voice surprisingly thick.
She gave his hand a brief squeeze before pulling back to pour them both another cup of tea.
"Now tell me," Kouyou continued, her tone shifting into something sharper. "How are things going with that boy?"
Chuuya had no doubt she was asking about Dazai. It was almost funny how deeply resentful she was of Dazai on Chuuya's behalf. To her, abandoning a loyal partner seemed like a far more egregious sin than betraying the Mafia itself.
Chuuya took a moment to formulate his answer. "Just the usual. He is insufferable, he possesses a highly specific talent for annoying me to hell and back, and he obviously cannot be trusted." He made sure to inject the right amount of practiced resentment into his voice. "But it is nothing I cannot deal with."
Kouyou assessed him over the rim of her teacup. "I know you can handle him. But be careful, will you? He seems different than he was four years ago, but how much of that is real?"
Chuuya knew exactly what she meant. Kouyou had always kept a highly critical eye on Chuuya's attachment to Dazai, advising him to keep the manipulative boy at arm's length ever since they were fifteen. While Chuuya easily admitted her concerns were valid, he liked to think he knew Dazai better than anyone else did.
"I will be careful, Ane-san. Thank you."
They drank their tea in a comfortable silence for a few more minutes. Then, a sharp knock echoed from the heavy wooden door. It swung open before Kouyou even had the chance to grant permission.
Dazai stood in the doorway, dressed in a pristine black suit. He offered a brief, shallow bow.
"Kouyou-san. Slug," Dazai greeted them, his voice wiped clean of emotion. "The memorial is starting soon. Mori-san is requesting our presence."
Chuuya stood, offering a brief nod of thanks for the tea, and moved toward the door. Kouyou followed, her geta clicking softly against the floorboards.
As the three of them navigated the sprawling, dimly lit corridors of headquarters in complete silence, Chuuya felt a sharp pang of pity looking out of the corner of his eye, watching Dazai rely heavily on a metal crutch with an uneven gait that lacked its usual fluid grace. The exhaustion radiating off his slumping frame was palpable, sparking a fleeting impulse to reach out and steady him, but Chuuya ruthlessly crushed the thought, well aware they were in the heart of Port Mafia territory, where offering that kind of overt physical support to a known traitor would be nothing short of idiotic.
Kouyou, however, harbored no such reservations about pointing out the obvious.
"A charming accessory, lad," she noted, her tone laced with elegant mockery. "It certainly completes your aesthetic as a spectacularly failed adult—a man who has absolutely no idea what he is doing with his life."
Dazai didn't miss a beat. "Oh, thank you, Ane-san," he replied, deliberately weaponizing Chuuya's title of respect just to be grating. "I can't help but notice how much nicer everyone is treating me since I came back. Perhaps I should defect a second time to really accelerate my career growth within the Mafia."
Anger flared hot in Chuuya's chest. He didn't have the patience for this kind of suicidal provocation today.
"Shut up, genius wannabe," Chuuya snapped, letting his exhaustion bleed into his voice. "Keep running your mouth like that and your head will have a bounty on it before the hour is out. I am way too damn busy to deal with the paperwork."
The sharp reprimand worked. Dazai snapped his mouth shut, and the rest of the walk to the main hall proceeded in a stifling, unbroken quiet.
The grand hall was cavernous, draped in funereal black. Mori was already positioned in the very front row, the undeniable center of gravity for the room. Chuuya, Dazai, and Kouyou moved to flank him. In the old days, Dazai would have seamlessly slotted himself directly at Mori's right hand for any official gathering. Today, he bypassed the boss entirely, taking the seat on Chuuya's far left, putting as much physical distance between himself and Mori as the seating arrangement allowed.
The memorial was crushing. Chuuya fought a constant, losing battle against his own nature. He tried so hard not to get attached to his subordinates, to treat them purely as the soldiers they were, but it was useless. He remembered their faces. He had shared drinks with them. He knew the names of the families they left behind.
Standing rigid, Chuuya pressed his hat firmly against his chest. He forced his attention to remain anchored to the present, to the somber eulogies echoing through the hall, rather than drowning in the faces of the dead. It was a brutal effort.
His traitorous mind drifted to the man standing rigidly to his left. He remembered grieving Dazai, too.
For an entire agonizing year after the defection, Chuuya had scoured the underworld, hunting for the smallest clue that his partner was still breathing, only to come up empty-handed every single time. He remembered the blinding confusion of walking into that dungeon years later and finding Dazai chained to a wall. The violent collision of relief, rage, betrayal, and a heartbreak far deeper than he had ever let on.
It was ridiculous. After everything, Dazai was back. And somehow, the massive, tangled mess of Chuuya's complicated feelings was slowly unraveling into something nice. Something almost pretty.
Lost in the labyrinth of his own memories, he didn't notice Dazai shifting his weight until a bony shoulder brushed deliberately against his own.
Chuuya blinked, startled. He cast a discreet glance to his left, locking eyes with Dazai.
The brunet gave a minuscule tilt of his head, silently mouthing, Earth to Chuuya, before turning his blank, impassive gaze back to the front of the room.
Chuuya's heart skipped a treacherous, cliché beat. He knew exactly what this was. It was Dazai offering a quiet, invisible anchor in a room full of ghosts. And oh, how good it felt.
Two agonizing hours. That was how long the memorial had dragged on, a grim, suffocating testament to the sheer number of bodies the Mafia had piled up during the vampire outbreak. By the time Mori finally dismissed them, Chuuya felt entirely scraped raw. He wanted nothing more than to go home, strip off his stiff suit, and obliterate his own consciousness with a very expensive bottle of wine. Or ten.
He kept his spine straight and his face unreadable until the hall cleared, offering a stiff, respectful bow to Kouyou and the Boss. The second they were out of Mori's line of sight, Chuuya grabbed Dazai by the elbow, steering him toward the sturdy exit doors.
A sleek black car idled by the curb. Since the courtyard was mercifully empty of prying eyes, Chuuya didn't bother hiding it—he reached out, gripping Dazai's good arm to help maneuver the idiot and his cast into the backseat.
"Such a little gentleman!" Dazai teased, his tone infuriatingly carefree.
Chuuya scowled, though he would be lying to himself if he denied the way that familiar, grating banter made his tense shoulders drop a fraction of an inch.
"I just want to get home. No time to waste," Chuuya muttered, sliding into the opposite side of the leather seat and slamming the door.
The driver pulled away. Exhaustion settled deep into Chuuya's muscles. His eyelids grew impossibly weighted, the rhythmic hum of the engine dragging him down into the dark.
"Hey, slug."
A hushed voice broke through the haze. A warm, bare hand rested lightly against his cheek, the thumb brushing his cheekbone.
"Time to wake up. We are here."
Chuuya blinked his eyes open, his brain thick with sleep. He took a long second to orient himself in the dim cabin. Sitting up slowly, he let Dazai's palm slide away from his face, instantly mourning the loss of the quiet warmth.
"'m sorry. Just tired," Chuuya mumbled, his voice gravelly. He pushed the door open, stepping out into the underground garage, and circled around to help haul the lanky bastard out of the vehicle.
They rode the elevator up to the penthouse in a stifling quiet. Chuuya was completely drained. The second the front door clicked shut behind them, he stopped caring about appearances. He tossed his hat onto a side table, kicked off his shoes wherever they landed, and let his vest hit the floor. Walking over to the living room sofa, he essentially collapsed, burying his face directly into the plush throw pillows.
"Wow, Chuuya. This is a rare sight," Dazai mused. Despite the joking cadence, Chuuya's sharp ears caught a faint, uncharacteristic edge of apprehension threading through the words. "I have never seen you make such a mess."
"I can't deal with it right now, Dazai. Just let me be," Chuuya mumbled into the upholstery. Swallowing what was left of his pride, he added a miserable, tight, "Please."
The word tasted like ash. Chuuya was far too accustomed to mourning in complete isolation. Grief was like an old, loathed acquaintance he was forced to entertain alone. He had absolutely no idea how to exist around Dazai while feeling this utterly hollowed out.
Luckily, he didn't have to overthink it. A second later, the couch groaned, and a lanky, entirely too-bony weight settled directly over his spine. Dazai had simply collapsed on top of him, crushing his crisp black mourning suit into the cushions. The heavy plaster cast on his leg thunked awkwardly against the edge of the coffee table. Anyone looking from the outside would have thought the scene was utterly absurd.
"The hell are you doing, mackerel?" Chuuya asked, his voice muffled but undeniably flustered.
"I am comforting you, slug. What does it look like?" Dazai answered plainly, as if crushing his partner with his body weight was standard medical therapy.
It sounded so simple. Except Dazai never comforted anyone, least of all Chuuya. Sure, the idiot had been clingy lately, but that was only when Chuuya was the one doing the caretaking. Even their kiss earlier had been entirely Chuuya's initiation.
A breathless huff escaped Chuuya's lips. "Yeah, well, this is just definitive proof that you are not good at everything."
Dazai let out a quiet, vibrating laugh against Chuuya's shoulder blades.
"Can you turn on your side a bit, Chuuya?" Dazai asked softly. The usual arrogant lilt was gone, replaced by a shy, hesitant edge that immediately put Chuuya on high alert. "I want to tell you something."
Grumbling under his breath, Chuuya shifted his weight and rolled onto his right side. Dazai awkwardly adjusted his cast, slotting himself into the narrow space between Chuuya's chest and the back of the couch until they were lying face-to-face in the cramped quarters.
Chuuya knew he probably looked like a wrecked disaster, but Dazai's expression commanded all his attention. The genius wasn't just sounding insecure; he looked genuinely lost, his dark eyes nervously searching Chuuya's face.
Patience had never been one of Chuuya's virtues. "So? What is it you want to say?"
Dazai took a slow, deliberate breath before delivering the most nonsensical statement Chuuya could have possibly anticipated.
"You were grieving."
If Chuuya wasn't completely drained, he would have kicked him off the couch. What the actual fuck? "What?" Chuuya stared at him in pure disbelief. "Of course I am. I was. What the hell are you talking about?"
Dazai shook his head, a flash of frustration crossing his features. "I mean back when we reunited in the Port Mafia dungeons. You were grieving, still. You grieved me." The words gained a firmer footing, returning closer to the infuriating know-it-all tone Dazai usually wore like armor.
Chuuya’s throat clamped shut. When he failed to respond, Dazai pressed on.
"As I told you earlier, I had seen you lose people before. But I still failed to recognize that look when it was directed at me."
Oh. It hit Chuuya straight in the chest, knocking the wind out of him.
Thinking about those four dark, bloody years without his partner still felt like dragging a serrated blade across an open nerve. For a wild second, Chuuya considered standing up, pushing Dazai off the couch, and walking away from the conversation entirely. But it wouldn't be fair. Dazai was laying all his cards on the table, desperately trying to communicate in his own twisted way.
Still, it infuriated him. For a certified genius, the guy was a complete fucking moron.
"Of fucking course I was," Chuuya snapped. He stopped, forcing a deep breath into his lungs to dial back the harshness. "I thought you were dead. I looked for you everywhere. For over a year. Ane-san begged me to stop. The Boss explicitly forbade it, and he punished me the second he found out I was still digging..."
The admission tasted like blood. Chuuya's throat tightened painfully, his vision blurring at the edges. He refused to cry. He didn't want to rip this old, infected wound open any further than necessary.
"I didn't think you would," Dazai admitted, looking completely derailed by the information. "I was so sure you would be celebrating the fact that I left."
Looking back, Chuuya could see how Dazai arrived at that miserable conclusion. They had spent their entire teenage years bickering, bleeding, and constantly threatening to kill each other. Yet, they had placed their lives in each other's hands on a daily basis. They had spent eighty percent of their waking hours side-by-side, sharing quiet, rare moments where they were allowed to just be kids—moments Chuuya cherished, damn it.
The sheer density of the man was almost too much to bear. Pushing past the suffocating knot in his throat, Chuuya let his exasperation bleed into his words.
"You are such an idiot. We were partners, Dazai. Of course I fucking cared!" he challenged, glaring at the supposed mastermind who had missed the biggest truth sitting right in front of him. "How could you not see it?"
If they weren't in the middle of a massive emotional reckoning, Chuuya might have laughed at the bewildered expression on the brunet's face.
"You really shouldn't have, Chuuya," Dazai whispered, looking profoundly distraught. "There is absolutely nothing to gain from caring for me."
"It is not something you can just choose!" Chuuya lost his temper, his voice rising in volume, cracking in the quiet apartment. "It is not a damn math equation you can calculate, Dazai. I didn't care because I wanted to, and I sure as hell wasn't broken-hearted when you vanished because I thought it was a great strategic move!"
The truth hung between them, undeniable. Chuuya had been left completely heartbroken, and the words had tumbled out before he could build a wall to stop them.
"Chuuya..." Dazai breathed.
For the first time, Chuuya couldn't read the emotion swirling in those dark eyes, and the blind spot was terrifying. He only caught the way Dazai's gaze flicked downward, dropping to fixate intensely on Chuuya's mouth.
Chuuya didn't want to hear whatever self-deprecating rejection Dazai was about to offer. He refused to part ways a second time, and he refused to deal with the harsh reality that harboring these feelings for a suicidal mackerel was a terrible idea. It was far too late for regrets.
Surging forward, Chuuya closed the tiny gap between them. He refused to give Dazai a single second to react, pressing their lips together and dragging his tongue hot and desperate along the seam of Dazai's mouth.
Dazai yielded immediately. The brunet's mouth parted, chasing the heat, and within seconds the narrow space of the couch dissolved into a feverish tangle of limbs and teeth, complicated only by the bulky cast Dazai had to awkwardly maneuver out of the way.
They kissed until all the air left Chuuya's lungs, until the heat pooling in his gut made his mind go entirely blank. But a single, stubborn thought clawed its way through the haze, acting as a grounding anchor to reality.
Chuuya broke the kiss, pulling back just enough to draw breath. Dazai’s eyes remained squeezed shut, his brows pinched together as if he were physically struggling to keep himself steady.
"You seem awfully willing for a guy who just gave me a whole speech about how I shouldn't care for you," Chuuya whispered, wary of pushing too far but needing to point out the glaring contradiction.
Dazai didn’t open his eyes at first. Chuuya knew he was awake, listening, and carefully calculating his next words. Finally, a heavy sigh rattled Dazai's chest. His lashes fluttered open, revealing dark eyes stripped of their usual mockery.
"Almost losing to that stupid rat put things into perspective," Dazai murmured. He wasn't finished. "I had so many ideas, plans, and strategies. So many contingencies taken into account, but..." It clearly pained him to force the next words out. "To be honest, I had no way of knowing if we would actually make it."
Chuuya mulled it over. It made sense, yet something was still glaringly amiss. "Having your life on the line has never bothered you. Quite the opposite, really."
"Mine. Not yours."
Oh.
Oh.
Chuuya thought his heart was going to shatter his ribs.
"I found I do not quite like it when your life is in someone else's hands but mine," Dazai confessed.
A breathless, disbelieving laugh bubbled up Chuuya's throat. It was, without a doubt, the most ridiculous, twisted attempt at a confession he had ever heard—and honestly, the only one he would ever get.
"You are such an idiot, Osamu," Chuuya singsonged softly.
He was completely drained, and the heavy shroud of grief still haunted him like a stubborn curse, but watching Dazai's eyes blow wide in pure shock, and a genuine, unmistakable flush of pink dust those pale cheeks, made every agonizing second of the last four years worth it.
Chuuya leaned in and kissed him again, slower this time. Deeper. He knew there were a hundred different things he would never say out loud to Dazai, and a hundred more he would never hear in return, but it didn't matter. They didn't need them.
"Is that why you suddenly got all clingy with me the second the rat was dealt with?" Chuuya teased against Dazai's lips.
Dazai let out an exasperated whine, pulling his signature annoying face. "Not clingy, slug!" Despite the protest, his arms tightened securely around Chuuya's waist. "I was just seeing how far I could push my luck before you finally snapped and killed me."
Chuuya laughed again. Against all logic, despite the bloodshed and the suffocating shadow of the Mafia looming over them, he was happy.
"Pretty far, I'd say," Chuuya confessed, letting his face drop to bury itself in the crook of Dazai's neck. "Maybe further, once your leg is healed and your stitches aren't about to burst."
"Chuuya! So forward!" Dazai giggled.
It was one of the best sounds Chuuya had ever heard. God, when did I become such a sap?
He decided he was simply too tired to care. Being wrapped in Dazai's arms was entirely too comfortable and warm. They were profoundly fucked—caught right back in Mori's web with a mountain of treacherous politics ahead of them—that was a fact. But Chuuya decided he would deal with the rest of the world tomorrow. For now, he allowed his exhausted body to completely relax into the hold.
"You know this is the worst idea we have ever had, right?"
"You are the genius, and you are doing it anyway. I don't think I have anything else to add."
"Chuuya..."
"Shut up, Osamu. We'll do it together. It will be fine."