Chapter Text
The mature thing, Dazai’s sure, would be to shove Chuuya out of the helicopter before he can spit out whatever childish complaint it is that’s screwing up his face right now.
The fun thing, however, is to peer at him from the corner of his eye and count the seconds until his inevitable explosion. Dazai’s currently at three minutes— a new record for Chuuya when it comes to holding in his rants. Dazai’s current prediction is that he’ll cave within the next twenty seconds.
Five more seconds pass. Chuuya’s left eyebrow twitches.
Ten seconds. His eyes dart down. His fists clench and release in his lap.
Two seconds—
“You owe me a new shirt, dumbass.”
Dazai congratulates himself on another correct prediction, including his assumption that the bloodstains were causing Chuuya’s grimace.
“And you owe me an apology for making me look at you all the time, but you don’t see me whining about it,” Dazai says. He can practically hear Chuuya grinding his teeth next to him.
“I’m serious, Dazai. It was supposed to be nothing more than another infiltration and execution,” Chuuya snaps. “If I had known you were planning on leveling the fucking building, I would have borrowed one of your ugly shirts.”
“Actually, I wasn’t the one who leveled the building, it was you. And, anyway, you should be thanking me— that shirt was disgusting.” Dazai sneers at Chuuya’s torn and stained button-up, a teal shade the same color as Chuuya’s eyes. Tacky as hell. Chuuya responds with a rude gesture, and Dazai turns away with a sigh. “We got the job done, okay? The enemy executives are dead, along with the backup they brought in. I don’t know why you’re snarling and snapping like a brat about it.”
“Because Mori wanted it to be quick and clean,” Chuuya emphasizes.
“Well, Mori didn’t know they were expecting us and had set bombs around the perimeter,” Dazai says. “We needed to contain the explosion, and turning it inward with your gravity control was the only way to prevent unnecessary damage to the surrounding area. It’s not my fault you had fun with it.”
“It wasn’t fun,” Chuuya says, and Dazai doesn’t have to look over to know he’s pouting.
“Sure, Chibi.”
“Smirk all you like— you’re still gonna be the one who has to explain the explosion to Mori,” Chuuya says.
This time, Dazai pouts. “But you’re the one who did it.”
“You’re the idiot who encouraged it.”
“You’re the moron who took it too far.”
“You’re the asshole who was laughing and taking pictures the entire time.”
Dazai grins to himself. “It’s important to document a child’s growth.”
“Why, you—!” Chuuya shouts— and, when he does, something twitches in the corner of Dazai’s vision.
As Chuuya spirals into a shouting rage, the lower-ranking members of the mafia on the opposite side of the helicopter flinch.
It’s a subtle thing, hardly worth noticing, but Dazai notices it all the same. A handful of subordinates meant to aid Dazai and Chuuya on their missions, they rarely speak to the duo outside of receiving instructions. It’s easy to forget they’re there.
Tonight, though, Dazai feels the way they stare, the way they hold their breaths and watch. Chuuya’s voice falls to the back of Dazai’s mind, tuned out as Dazai tries to discern their emotions. He furrows his brow in concentration, looking at them without really looking at them.
Hesitation. Uncertainty. Unease. None of this should feel new. It’s not unheard of for people to fear the Demon Prodigy of the Port Mafia. He’s seen, already, the way people look at him when he wanders the hall, the way no one can meet his deadened eyes. He’s felt their stares. He’s carried the weight of their terror.
But this is something new. Something fresh. Something other than the seasoned suspicion he’s often treated with— something sharp and cold, like the edge of a knife tickling the nape of his neck.
Something happened to reawaken their anxieties. But, what—
“Oi, Dazai.” Chuuya flicks his forehead, clicking his tongue. “Are you ignoring me again?”
“Huh?” Dazai blinks and, just like that, it’s him and Chuuya again, the only voices that matter in this little space. “Were you talking? I was wondering what that squeaking sound was.”
“I’m gonna kill you,” Chuuya growls.
Dazai winks at Chuuya, grinning at the scowl it brings. “I’d sincerely love to see you try.”
<><><> <><><> <><><>
“By the way, you’re the one he blamed for the situation, in case you didn’t pick up on that,” Dazai lies as they’re leaving Mori’s office a few days later, having reported the mission details to the boss. “You always make things so difficult for me.”
“Fuck off,” Chuuya says, but it lacks a degree of its usual heat. A scolding from Mori is enough to do that for both of them, regardless of who Mori blames for the mess.
“Can we try to keep things clean next time?” Mori had asked. He’d raised his eyebrow towards Dazai at that moment, and Dazai had bitten his tongue to keep from whining about how unfair that was. His plans are always clean— but Chuuya’s fiery, a violent variable likely to explode at the slightest touch. He’s anger and wrath and every human emotion at its most extreme, screaming and laughing as he burns all he touches.
He’s untouchable to everyone but Dazai and, most days, that’s enough to ease the itching hollowness within Dazai’s skin. Other days, though, all it does is get them both in trouble.
“Something to say, shitty Dazai?” Chuuya asks— and, oh. Dazai supposes he had been staring, lost in the conundrum that is his partner.
There are things Dazai could say. Complaints about how reckless Chuuya is, how strong. He could tease him for the way he tore that building to shreds, and make jokes about how such a little kid can cause such a big mess. All statements are calculated to draw out the biggest reaction, playing into Chuuya’s dramatics.
But there’s tension in Chuuya’s jaw, left over from the way Mori had sighed in disappointment when Chuuya explained what he had done. There are fists at his side, a twitch around his lips.
Dazai looks away.
“We completed our task,” he says. “Mori can’t deny that.”
It’s not meant to be a comfort. It’s a fact, logic and sense.
Chuuya, though, stupid as he is, nods and lets some of the tension drop from his body.
“Got another job, too,” he says, pausing at the end of the hallway. “Guess that’s a good sign?”
“Ugh. It’s a boring job.” Dazai leans against the wall. “Vandalism? Minor threats? It’s still a punishment from Mori, keeping us tied down with the grunt work.”
Chuuya mimics Dazai’s posture, pressing against the wall beside him. He looks like he wants to dispute Dazai’s pessimism, but only manages to scowl. Dazai knows that Chuuya knows he’s right. It’s been a while since they’ve been sent on a job as quotidian as this.
Recently, a handful of threats have been graffitied into Port Mafia territory, typically accompanied by minor acts of vandalism. Nothing’s been stolen and no one’s been harmed, but Mori’s not the kind of person to let such blatant signs of irreverence go ignored.
And, so, the mighty Double Black has been assigned the task. Investigate the threats and determine their validity. Discover the source and, if needed, enact judgment upon them.
God, Dazai dreads it already.
“Dazai,” Chuuya mutters. Dazai hums in acknowledgment, following Chuuya’s gaze towards a thin man in a typical mafia underling suit walking their way. Seiji, one of their subordinates. “He’s here.”
Mori hadn’t found fit to give them a break from their latest task, telling them to wait for one of their men to fill them in on the situation. Dazai pushes away from the wall and watches Seiji approach, not bothering to wave or nod as the man draws closer.
“Dazai. Nakahara.” Seiji nods his head in deference to the two. “I was sent to inform you of the details of the recent vandalisms in the eastern port regions?”
“It appears so,” Dazai says. “Make it quick. I’d prefer to see the writings for myself firsthand as soon as possible.”
“Of course. We can speak in one of the offices,” Seiji says, gesturing to the various emptied conference rooms nearby.
“Very well. Come along, Chuuya,” Dazai says. Chuuya grumbles about being told what to do, but he follows as Dazai steps forward.
Seiji jolts, moving ahead of the two of them with an awkward grin.
“Oh, actually, I was thinking it may be best if I speak with Dazai alone,” he says.
Both Chuuya and Dazai still. This— This has never happened before. Never .
Dazai doesn’t respond immediately, running the request through his head like a shirt that needs ironing before the details can be seen. Speaking with Dazai alone? Who in the mafia aside from Mori or Chuuya has ever felt confident enough to speak with Dazai alone? Instinctively, Dazai’s thoughts turn towards the chance that this is a trap, that Seiji has something planned against Dazai and he needs Chuuya’s ability separated from the situation. But Seiji only has a single gun attached to his body, and he shows no signs of hidden weaponry. He’s not clever enough to come up with a kidnapping scheme, Dazai knows, and he’s not strong enough to overpower him.
Why, then, would he ask for this?
Dazai shifts, and he feels Chuuya do the same beside him. He doesn’t look over to see how Chuuya feels about the situation, if he’s as baffled as Dazai, but he has no doubt that Chuuya’s caught on to the strangeness of it all.
“I don’t mean any disrespect, of course,” Seiji says before the silence can extend into anything dangerous. “I simply meant to suggest for Nakahara to seek out the files the mafia has kept on similar events in the past. We can save time if I give my information to Dazai while Nakahara is researching.”
He’s lying . Dazai can all but smell the deceitful sweat dripping down the man’s neck. The accusation sits on Dazai’s tongue, but Dazai doesn’t want to spit it out until he understands why Seiji’s doing this. Research? Saving time? Pathetic excuses. He’ll need better if he wants to get past Dazai and Chuuya.
Alright. Trap him, then. Dazai picks through his options, determining which question to ask in order to achieve the greatest results. He can’t just say that Seiji’s lying— he won’t receive the why part of the answer unless Seiji’s particularly stupid. If he plays his cards right, though, he can trick him into giving away his intent. It’s all a matter of how to guide the conversation, how to lead him into it. With Chuuya here, it should be easy. Chuuya typically catches onto Dazai’s schemes when this happens and, though he doesn’t enjoy the game as much as Dazai does, he has his own tricks he can toss in.
Dazai settles on the plan, his shoulders relaxing into the familiar set of the Demon Prodigy going in for the kill. He parts his lips, prepares to begin and—
“Whatever,” Chuuya says. “I’ll go.”
That’s not how this is supposed to work.
Dazai’s mouth snaps shut, and an infuriating tinge of frustration grips his throat when Chuuya shoves past him.
“He’s right about saving time. You get your info and I’ll get mine. We can compare notes after. Besides, if it gets me away from your annoying face, I’ll take it,” Chuuya explains— but he doesn’t look at Dazai as he says it, he doesn’t sneer or smirk or scowl. He shoves his fists into his pockets, shoulders hunched, and glares at nothing, at all.
“Okay,” Dazai says, and he hates that it’s all he has to say. Chuuya nods at him once, then nods at Seiji. Seiji does a terrible job of nodding back, his head bobbling up and down uselessly as Chuuya turns away to storm down the halls. Dazai only barely manages to tear his gaze away from the mystery of what on earth just happened.
Okay, then. Bad blood? Some argument between Seiji and Chuuya? Dazai’s mind rewrites his earlier assumptions, but nothing seems to stick.
Well, whatever. It’s Chuuya’s problem to deal with, it seems. Dazai doesn’t have the patience to figure it out on his own right now.
“Shall we?” Seiji asks, gesturing towards an empty room.
Dazai sighs and follows him in. “I suppose we shall.”
<><><> <><><> <><><>
It takes Seiji forty-five minutes to explain the most straightforward situation. Graffiti scrawlings on Port Mafia buildings located near the docks. No obvious group affiliation, and no harm outside of the damaged property. Generic spray paint that can’t be traced to a particular seller, and no footage of the perpetrators. By the end of Seiji’s fifth run-through of the color of the paint, Dazai’s trying to ignore the headache building in his temples.
“I have what I need.” Dazai ignores Seiji’s dismayed sound at having been interrupted, opting to take out his phone and send a message requesting immediate transportation to the site. “Since there aren’t any specific threats being made, I wouldn’t be surprised if this is simply a newer gang testing their luck against the bigger fish in the area. They have no idea what they want, and their tactics are completely lackluster. Still, I won’t be able to verify these assumptions until after I see it in person.”
“Of course,” Seiji says. “I, ah, I assume you intend to take Nakahara with you, as well?”
“That’s the plan.” Dazai leans back in his chair and stares at the ceiling. “Gah, it’ll be such a pain to drag my dog through the streets again. He’s so easily distracted.”
Mocking Chuuya’s as habitual as breathing, which is why it’s so strange when Seiji twists his face uncomfortably at the sound of it.
“With all respect, is it truly necessary to bring Nakahara along, then? Certainly, such force isn’t required at this point.” A somber tone covers Seiji’s voice, a level of seriousness far greater than any he’s shown thus far. “It’s a non-combative assignment. Wouldn’t it be fine to leave that level of power behind?”
Behind the solemnity, Dazai sees that same fear from the helicopter. The fresh wave of uncertainty, the flicker of tension in his voice.
Dazai’s eyes narrow.
“Chuuya’s time with the Sheep means he has more experience with these sorts of gangs and street criminals,” he says. “He has a temper and a sharp bite, yes, but, loathe as I am to admit, there are some uses to him outside of his gravity manipulation.”
“Yes, but isn’t that temper an undesirable variable to consider?” Seiji tries to argue. “Wouldn’t it serve you better to remove it altogether?”
His voice and words grate across Dazai’s nerves. Someone as pathetic as Seiji trying to change Dazai’s mind, looking at him like he’s a fool for something as simple as bringing his partner along on a mission? What gives him the right to speak on Dazai’s schemes? What a foolish thing to do. Dazai opens and closes his fists with controlled movements, allowing a sickly smile to slip across his lips.
“My, Seiji, are you doubting me? It’s not often I have someone question the validity of my plans.”
The response has the desired effect; though Dazai keeps his expression neutral, his words and tone reveal the icy threat that comes upon anyone who dares to treat Dazai with such disrespect.
“Of course not,” Seiji spits out, face paling. “My apologies. You know best.”
“Very good,” Dazai says, looking away from Seiji once he’s confirmed the fear in his eyes— that’s the kind of fear Dazai’s used to, not this strange new brand that’s seemed to infect Seiji and the others in Dazai’s group. “You’re dismissed.”
Seiji rushes from the room, nearly tripping over his own chair in his haste. It’s disgusting, Dazai thinks, that, even once the man’s gone, there’s still this ugly shard of annoyance clawing at Dazai’s skin.
Though, annoyance feels like the wrong word now. It’s different than that— stronger somehow. It’s something that has his cheeks warming and his blood rushing, his heart pounding at the mere memory of Seiji’s words.
There’s no reason for such a reaction, is there? Dazai’s dealt with doubt before, and he’s certainly used to these looks of fear. Why, then, does he feel so… helpless?
Ugh. It’s enough to make him sick.
Dazai presses his forehead to the sticky coolness of the table before him, humming absently as he wills nausea to pass. It’s not worth thinking about, he tells himself, and it’s ridiculous to feel so invested in something as worthless as rude comments from a subordinate. With a sigh, he raises his head and runs his hands through his hair, careful not to disrupt the bandage going across his face. His gaze falls upon the clock. Has it really been nearly an hour since Seiji appeared? What a waste of time. And where’s Chuuya? There’s no way it’s taken him this long to find some files.
“Stupid Chibi,” Dazai mutters to himself, standing to exit the office. “Making me track him down like this. What a useless dog he is.”
Only the soft thuds of his feet against the ground respond.
It’s a rather unsatisfying sound.
<><><> <><><> <><><>
Chuuya stands out like a sore thumb in the middle of the hallway, sitting against the wall with a look somewhere between focus and exasperation. The way he’s sitting can’t be comfortable; his back’s curved awkwardly so he can look over the papers, and his legs shift around with the kind of restlessness that only comes with sitting in a painful position for too long. Still, like a proper overachieving teacher’s pet, he blatantly ignores his own discomfort in favor of reading through the various files splayed around him. Dazai watches for a second before shaking his head and approaching.
“I should definitely put a leash on you considering that you’ve been working here for over a year, and you still can’t get from point A to point B at a decent time. Did you get lost, puppy?” He teases. Chuuya doesn’t jolt at the sound of his voice— Dazai wouldn’t be surprised if Chuuya had already noticed him long before the taunt— but he does scowl and toss his paper down.
“Like it’s my fault you guys don’t have this shit indexed,” he says. “Don’t pretend it was supposed to be easy for me to track down all the fucking dates on my own.”
A frown crosses Dazai’s face. It is supposed to be easy to grab files from the archive. Sure, the index isn’t available to everyone, but that’s why Mori has employees tasked with finding documents for the people who come in. All Chuuya had to do was ask them for what he wanted.
Though, Dazai figures, Chuuya is extremely stubborn and prideful. He wouldn’t doubt that the chibi marched right past the workers and insisted on finding the files on his own.
“Alright, then,” Dazai says, sitting beside Chuuya. “Have you found anything worth sharing?”
The shift from the childish brat to the serious mafioso is always fascinating to watch, the way Chuuya sits up with a new gleam in his eye and a subtle pride in his voice. He points at various images before them, explaining his thought process as he does so.
“These are all from the past five years— not many incidents, obviously, and not many that even resulted in necessary action on the mafia’s part. Most of the time, these just ended up being empty threats.” He splits the pictures into two groups. “A lot of the vandalism is similar, but see if you can tell me what separates this half from this half.”
“Trying to test me, Chibi?” Dazai asks, ignoring the glare Chuuya tosses in his direction. He scans the different groups. It takes him less than a moment to spot what Chuuya’s talking about. “You’ve categorized them by distance. The ones on the left are deeper in mafia territory than the ones on the right.”
“Exactly,” Chuuya says. “Now, check this out— the ones on the left are twice as likely to follow through on their threats. That makes sense, right? They’re willing to venture farther into our turf than the rest, so they must mean business.”
“And the recent messages have been appearing in the heart of our territory by the docks,” Dazai muses. “What do you make of the past incidents that occurred on the outskirts of our property?”
“Dares. Childish pranks.” Chuuya shrugs. “It wasn’t unheard of, even in the Sheep. It was a way to show off, sneaking around Port Mafia territory and leaving some sort of mark. It was stupid, I guess, but it kept things interesting. No one ever went too far into the actual zones, though. We knew it’d be too dangerous, and we didn’t actually want a war with you guys.”
Dazai takes in Chuuya’s information, sorting it into the proper places in his mind. This is what he meant when he told Seiji that Chuuya’s experience would be valuable here.
“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind as we go through the investigation. Though, I do notice that you’re leaving out an incredibly important detail,” Dazai says.
Chuuya’s head snaps towards him. “Hah?”
“Right here.” Dazai jams his finger against a picture from a few years ago, a scrawling graffitied mess proclaiming FUCK OFF MAFIA SHITHEADS. “Doesn’t this look an awful lot like Chibi’s handwriting?”
“No.” But Chuuya slams the file shut, cheeks red. “You’re delusional.”
Dazai laughs, poking Chuuya’s cheek instead. “Aw, you were such a delinquent in the past! It’s no wonder you ended up here.”
“Shut up, you’re giving me a headache,” Chuuya grumbles, collecting the files into a semi-decent stack. “Your voice is so annoying. Do you have to yell all the time?”
“If you want me to whisper seductively in your ear, just say that,” Dazai teases. The red on Chuuya’s face stretches towards his ears, and Dazai stands before Chuuya’s fist can make contact with his stomach. “Hurry up, slug. We’re scheduled to visit the vandalism site within the hour. A car should be here for us soon. Do you plan to take those files with you, you studious little gremlin?”
“Why am I the gremlin? You’re way more grotesque than I am.” Chuuya stands, the files collected to his chest. “And obviously I’m not gonna take the files with me, idiot.”
“Alright, then. I’ll wait here while you take them back. Try not to take so long this time, okay?”
Chuuya doesn’t respond, and that’s enough to have Dazai’s alarms go off.
When he looks at Chuuya, there’s a strange expression on his face— something twisted, like he’s tasted something sour. His grip has tightened on the files, his knuckles white.
He looks… embarrassed.
Weird. Dazai didn’t think Chuuya could feel real embarrassment.
“Actually, uh. Why don’t you take them back?” Chuuya asks.
Dazai blinks. “I don’t want to do that.”
“Come on, Dazai,” Chuuya says petulantly. “My back is fucking sore from sitting out here, and I’d prefer to stretch it out before the ache settles for the rest of the day.”
It’s not exactly a lie. Dazai can tell that Chuuya means what he says— just like he can tell that there’s something else Chuuya’s not saying.
“Fine,” Dazai grouses as he takes the files from Chuuya. He makes sure to glare at him, though— eyes narrowed to let Chuuya know that Dazai knows he’s hiding something.
Of course, it doesn’t work on Chuuya. It hardly ever works on Chuuya.
With a few more mumbles about lazy pipsqueaks, Dazai turns and takes the files towards the archives, trying to understand why Chuuya was acting so weird.
The archives room is dark; the lights are kept low to protect the more sensitive papers. Cameras line the ceiling, focused on the door and the clusters of desks set up around the room. The files themselves are kept in cabinets in the back, at least one employee guarding each section. How Chuuya managed to walk up and start searching without being stopped is beyond Dazai.
A few familiar subordinates sit around one of the tables by the files, bunched together as Dazai passes the papers back to the man in charge. Usually, Dazai pays such people no mind. Usually, Dazai doesn’t care about what they say or do.
But, usually, he doesn’t hear them muttering Chuuya’s name.
“Weren’t you listening earlier when I was telling you?” One of the men whispers. “That one’s the Demon Prodigy. He keeps Chuuya controlled.”
It means nothing and, honestly, it’s not entirely inaccurate, from a certain point of view. But Dazai’s stomach still turns when he hears it. On its own, the words would be a joke to share later; coupled with his more recent concerns in regards to Chuuya and their subordinates, though, it’s another mystery to add to the list.
Dazai hesitates, hoping to hear more, but the men shut up as he passes by their table. Typical. Still, he’s heard more than enough.
He keeps Chuuya controlled — he doesn’t particularly love the way they phrased that. He jokes about leashes and collars often, but Chuuya’s not actually something he can control. He brings him back from the brink of destruction when Corruption takes hold; he pieces him back together with bandages and stitches after their dirtier missions. He eases his anger, gives him something to lash out at in a safer way.
He doesn’t control him, though. Not any more than Chuuya could ever control him.
Chuuya’s still waiting for him in the hallway when Dazai steps back outside. He’s doing as he said he would, stretching his back and groaning at each uncomfortable pop. It makes Dazai wonder— why didn’t Chuuya just sit inside the room? There are tables and chairs set up for this reason— why would he willingly subject himself to the exile of sitting in the corridor?
It’s obvious now, though, isn’t it?
He keeps Chuuya controlled
Is it truly necessary to bring Nakahara along?
I was thinking it might be best if I speak with Dazai alone
The words drift through the air— Dazai doesn’t grasp them, not yet.
But he does consider each one in a new light and doesn’t like what he’s starting to find.