Chapter Text
One. Two. Three. Four.
He lost count and started again.
Twelve, fourteen… No, that’s wrong. He’d lost count again.
Chuuya started over again and again, ignoring the commotion in the warehouse as if the horde of armed men in a circle around him didn’t exist, paying no mind to the tall man clad in black standing in front of him, as he kneeled in front of Dazai, trying to count bullet holes in his chest.
“Chuuya-kun,” Mori finally said, plastering the sweetest of smiles across his face, “do you realise your mistake now?”
Chuuya raised his head and stared through his boss. Ex-boss. Fifteen. That’s how many he’d counted until he lost count again. That’s how old they were when they first met. You grow young again, Dazai’s voice singing the song echoed in his head. It took Chuuya a minute to focus his blurry vision on Mori’s face. Why couldn’t he see properly? Why were his eyes burning? He squeezed Dazai’s hand, but he didn’t react. Why won’t you squeeze back? Chuuya thought and looked down on Dazai’s motionless face, absentmindedly erasing a thin trickle of blood flowing out of his mouth with his thumb. You’ll need to shave when we get out of here, Chuuya thought when his thumb went across prickly stubble. He blinked, feeling something hot running down his face, as he remained motionless, slumped on his knees in front of the body lying in front of him. The pool of dark blood kept growing under Dazai, dark wings of an angel of death slowly spreading wider and wider with each passing second.
Mori nodded at someone behind Chuuya, and the next moment, two pairs of strong arms stood him upright. With the energy he didn’t know he had, Chuuya yanked the goons off, sending them flying to the wall in a red flash of For the Tainted Sorrow.
“Fighting back, Chuuya-kun?” Mori crooned, tilting his head and pouting. “Haven't this situation,” he nodded at Dazai’s body on the floor, his glassy eyes staring at the ceiling, their amber warmth that felt like home for Chuuya, gone, “ taught you that you should never try to go against the Port Mafia?”
Chuuya’s vision started clearing. His legs were shaky, but he still stood tall, realisation coming to him in devastating waves with every breath he took.
Dazai was dead.
They failed to escape.
They never intended to go against the Port Mafia. All they wanted was to start anew, opening a new page, ripping out the blood-stained ones and leaving them behind for good. Chuuya tried to take a deep breath to tell Mori exactly that, but he let out a sob instead, his shoulders jerking up and down in a frantic motion. Mori laughed, his cold metallic cackling resonating around the walls of the warehouse.
“How heartbreaking,” he said, taking a step forward and kicking Dazai’s shoulder. His limp, lifeless neck moved on impact, and his head rolled to the side. “So sad, I could cry!” He laughed and kicked Dazai again, the sharp cracking of breaking ribs making Chuuya see white.
“O grantors of dark disgrace,” he whispered, his voice shaky, as he stared at Dazai’s lifeless body lying in the puddle of his own blood, “you need not wake me again.”
He had just lost everything.
He could at least go out with a bang.
He could at least take the root of his misery with him.
He felt his body slowly lift in the air. The last thing he saw before his mind succumbed to Arahabaki completely was Mori’s terrified gaze as he was desperately screaming something to his men, not realising that it was too late, that not even the most powerful man in Yokohama could win against the ancient god unleashed from the confines of Chuuya’s body. His limbs started moving on their own accord, releasing gravitons left and right, and then—
—there was nothing.
Three weeks ago
Dazai had always hated his birthday.
No matter how many years had passed since he first thought about it, his stance remained the same — nothing in this world could ever make this life worth living. There was no point in celebrating yet another excruciatingly tedious full circle around the Sun he spent wasting oxygen wishing he had never been born. Dazai remembered this day exactly one year ago, when he walked into the Agency office and was greeted by beaming Atsushi and Kenji yelling “Happy birthday!” at the top of their lungs and handing him a gift bag. That was basically it, because every single one of his coworkers — ex-coworkers, Dazai corrected himself sorrowfully — knew how much exactly he despised that day, so they didn’t try to attract more attention to it. Dazai appreciated it. He also appreciated the subtle gestures of recognition that day, such as Ranpo generously giving him exactly one candy from his stash, Kyoka bringing him lunch, and Kunikida turning a blind eye to Dazai’s signature slacking off for once. It was as if his coworkers — ex-coworkers — friends — were telling him We are glad you’ve stuck around. He swallowed and rolled the window down, his other hand firmly gripping the steering wheel as he drove through the dark streets of Yokohama. He winced at the pungent smell of smoke and floored the gas pedal, speeding through yet another red light. He didn’t care much about getting a ticket. After all, it wasn’t even his car. After all, who would even issue him a ticket at a time like this?
Yokohama was in shambles.
It all started when Fukuzawa died under mysterious circumstances, his broken body found under the windows of Mori’s office on the very day when the Port Mafia’s leader was on a business trip to Tokyo, his hands clean of any possible allegations. With the president dead, the Armed Detective Agency was no more, despite Kunikida’s enormous effort to keep it together, taking over the role of the president with his usual diligence and vigour. That was the job Fukuzawa had been preparing him for for years; however, no one, including Kunikida himself, ever expected the shift in power to happen so soon. The organisation started falling apart brick by brick, starting with Ranpo disappearing without a trace upon learning of his mentor’s demise, his glasses and uneaten sweets left scattered all over his desk, followed by Yosano leaving a note saying “I will bring him back”, just to never be seen again. The enormous shock from the loss, coupled with no more aid from All Men Are Equal, made Atsushi’s ability get out of control despite the great progress he’d made during his time in the Agency. Kunikida and Kyouka combined efforts, desperately trying to contain his power with the Lone Poet and the Demon Snow until Atsushi disappeared without a trace as well.
With the Agency out of the picture, the Port Mafia went on the rampage in order to make Yokohama their domain, with grandiose plans to slowly but surely spread their influence to the entire country. News reports about shootouts, kidnappings and terrorist attacks became the new normal, something the remaining residents of the city would discuss while drinking their morning coffee. The malignant tumour that was the Mafia was slowly spreading further, with even the most oblivious citizens realising that sooner or later, there would be no escape from the desperate situation Japan had found itself in. The Mafia fought some gangs and worked with others. It bribed, blackmailed and bent the law. At some point, the situation developed into a full-blown war between the Mafia and the local government. It lasted only a few days; however, the damage it caused was comparable to the notorious Dragon Head Conflict.
The turning point in it happened when the state troops destroyed four of the Mafia headquarters’ skyscrapers; almost immediately, it had to wave the white flag when Mori planned and executed a terrorist attack on the metro during rush hour, with hundreds dead and thousands injured. That final blow that the city was still recovering from made the local government stop trying to fight back, finally succumbing to the Port Mafia, making the organisation the de facto ruler of the city, with Mori sitting on the throne and pulling the strings.
Dazai turned the steering wheel, brakes screeching as he turned the corner and continued down a wide avenue that still had some working street lights on. He was almost at his destination. It was just at the end of the avenue. He just needed another couple of minu-
BANG
Dazai swore and floored the pedal again, his heart almost leaping out of his chest at the gnarly symphony of gunshots and automatic rounds mixed with inhuman yelling, still quite far away ahead of him, yet completely unavoidable. “Shit, not now! Not now!” he screamed at the top of his lungs, knuckles white, clutching the steering wheel, his heart pounding in his throat, the long stretch of the road with nowhere else to turn feeling like a runway straight to hell. He saw a helicopter approach from where one of the Port Mafia skyscrapers still stood tall and glanced at the speedometer. It had maxed out, the arrow jumping at 200 km/h in the same rhythm as Dazai’s heart.
His eye caught a burst of gunfire coming from the helicopter, immediately followed by the deafening sound of automatic rounds aimed at the armed group on the street, the cacophony getting louder and louder the closer Dazai’s car approached it. The noises got even more unbearable when he wheezed right past the commotion, until everything stopped abruptly, the sound of the helicopter getting quieter and quieter the farther away it flew. Dazai breathed out. He wasn’t hit. He survived. Dazai glanced in the rear-view mirror — the residential building next to which the carnage had happened caught fire, flames licking the walls, horrified tenants running out of it, stopping in their tracks and screaming at the sight of mangled dead bodies on the pavement, probably resembling minced meat more than human beings after the helicopter attack.
He gritted his teeth and took his eyes off the mirror, focusing on the remaining stretch of the road in front of him instead. There was no point in coming back and helping the people still trapped in the burning building. Dazai would be as good as dead had he done so.
Every man for himself, he thought, and Oda’s face flashed before his eyes. He blinked, trying to get rid of the image, guilt in his heart twisting and tearing it apart.
Dazai parked the car on the pavement in front of the posh high-rise and rushed inside, not even bothering to shut the car door. The elevator dinged on the 41st floor, and Dazai hurried to the oak door with a certain name on the dainty golden plaque. He took a deep breath and rang the doorbell.
“Harassing me on your birthday?” Chuuya spat out with disgust, leaning against the door frame. “What a lovely present you came up with for yourself, eh, shitty Dazai?” Chuuya didn’t look good. Seemed like these few weeks of what had basically been a civil war had worn him out. He had dark circles under his eyes and small wounds on his chin where he'd cut himself shaving, still missing patches of dark copper stray hairs here and there.
Dazai tried to fake a smile. “You remember? How sweet of you,” he chirped, but it came out strained.
“Unfortunately so,” Chuuya responded, turning his back to Dazai and walking inside the apartment, leaving the door open. “Every year, I make a wish that you don’t make it to your next one.” He picked up a book lying on his armchair and sat down, putting his legs on the coffee table.
Dazai walked in and closed the door behind him. He is still bitter, Dazai thought, following Chuuya into the living room and shifting on the carpet awkwardly, like a schoolboy in front of the headteacher’s office, about to confess to breaking the window in the school cafeteria. He did not like this feeling one bit. He tried to plaster a smile across his face, but it came out more like a scowl instead. Another smile looked more like a gruesome grimace. He hung his head and sighed. Honestly, he had no energy to keep up his cheerful look. He dropped his façade and got straight to the point.
“I’m leaving Yokohama.”
Chuuya cast a quick glance at Dazai and focused his attention on the book again, indifference painting every edge and line on his face. “Ha! How typical of you. Wouldn’t be the first time this happens.”
Dazai took a deep breath. It didn’t take his exceptional prediction skills to know Chuuya was going to say exactly that. He looked at his shoes. Clumps of dirt flaking off his soles were staining Chuuya’s antique Persian carpet, one of his most prized possessions. Absentmindedly, Dazai crushed one of the particularly large clumps with his foot, smearing black on milky beige. Chibi was, after all, such a philistine, and it was weirdly out of character for him not to kick Dazai out the very moment he’d decided to walk into his apartment without taking his shoes off.
“There is no way you are fine with what’s happening in Yokohama, Chuuya.”
“It’s all alright for me,” Chuuya said, not taking his eyes off the book this time. “After all, the Port Mafia is winning.” His face didn’t reveal any of his emotions, but it didn’t escape Dazai’s attention that Chuuya’d been stuck on the same page for a while now.
“Really? I heard you’ve been calling in sick quite often lately.”
“I am sick.” Chuuya looked up from the book and gave Dazai a cold stare. He raised his fist to his mouth and coughed theatrically. “I am a responsible citizen, after all,” he said, drilling Dazai with his heavy gaze. “I don’t go to work when I'm not well.”
Silence fell upon them. Dazai was the first to break it.
“Come with me.”
Chuuya shut the book and slammed it on the coffee table, swiftly taking his legs off it and leaning forward in his seat, staring at Dazai with unblinking eyes. Something was missing from Chuuya’s usually fiery, passionate gaze. The azure oceans of his eyes got murky, as if the water got tainted with debris from a shipwreck.
“Are you shitting me?” he finally said.
“No. Chuuya, I’m serious. Come with me.”
Come with me. Dazai’s voice echoed in Chuuya’s head, amplified a hundredfold. Come with me. Seven years ago, when Dazai defected, abandoning everything and everyone overnight, Chuuya spent countless lonely evenings pondering over one question, downing glass after glass — why did he run without me? Chuuya scowled, feeling rage rise in every single cell of his body. Come with me. The words Chuuya would kill to hear back then, now made him want to smash Dazai’s face flat, making him regret he even considered suggesting that Chuuya betray the Mafia and join the traitorous bastard in his escapade. Chuuya had to muster all his strength not to rip the mackerel to shreds right here and now. He took a deep breath.
“Are you seriously suggesting I leave everything behind? Everything I’ve earned with my hard work?”
“There are more important things in life than your carpets or your collection of wine,” Dazai said quietly.
Chuuya scoffed. “Really? Are you implying that you’re more important than my wine?”
Dazai swallowed and breathed out. “Maybe,” he said, barely audible. This whole exchange started looking ridiculous, unrealistic, as if Dazai was watching himself from afar, pointlessly talking to the person he was once inseparable from.
“You’re not,” Chuuya snapped. “I couldn’t care less if you live or die, if you run or stay. You lost the right to my sympathy years ago. I’m not doing you any favours ever again.”
Dazai’s ears rang, and he realised he couldn’t feel his legs anymore as he felt air leaving his lungs. He stared at Chuuya, feeling him slip through his fingers once again, except this time it felt final. “Please,” he said, “please, let me make this right this time. I should have asked you to run away with me back then.” His voice cracked. “I can’t lose you again, Chuuya.”
Chuuya stared at Dazai with nothing but contempt, not granting him an answer. He was the most selfless person Dazai knew, and a few times he was lucky enough to experience it firsthand. This time, however, when Dazai looked in Chuuya’s eyes, he was greeted only by the dead, unforgiving coldness.
He’s made up his mind, hasn’t he? Dazai thought, desperately trying to see at least a minuscule sliver of compassion in Chuuya’s eyes.
He has.
I’m leaving alone.
In a fit of desperation, Dazai fell to his knees.
“Please, come with me,” he begged, crawling forward and grabbing Chuuya’s hand. “Chuuya, please!”
He hissed and yanked his hand out of Dazai’s grip, wiping it on his sweatpants, the look of disgust on his face making Dazai’s heart sink.
“Don’t you touch me, bastard,” Chuuya growled, clenching his fists.
Dazai felt his eyes starting to burn as the world spun around him. His whole life had already crumbled, and there was just one last wall standing strong, and now even it was falling apart, about to tip over, reduced to nothing but a rubble of broken brick and old mortar.
“Tell me no. Tell me you won’t run with me,” Dazai pleaded. “Tell me no, and I will leave.”
Chuuya said nothing, burrowing his gaze into Dazai’s eyes. Suddenly, he looked ten years older, his youthful cheeky facial expression gone, erased by the destruction and violence around. “I mean it,” Dazai added almost inaudibly.
Telling Dazai “no” was supposed to be the easiest thing for Chuuya to do. He had done it countless times, only budging to the mackerel’s sneaky ways when it was absolutely necessary. He felt this simple word form on his tongue, the familiar combination of sounds that would rid him of Dazai’s presence forever, fulfilling his almost-life-long dream of never seeing the bandage waster ever again.
He opened his mouth, but no sound came out, his own voice betraying him.
The voice of reason in his head screamed loud and clear: no. No, Dazai. Go away. Get out of my life. I never want to see you again. No, no, no.
Chuuya knew he needed to tell Dazai to leave him alone.
He knew that a simple “no” would set him free from Dazai’s omnipresent toxicity.
He couldn’t bring himself to do it.
Chuuya thought of the world where Dazai was no longer in his life, of the world that should feel wonderful and free. The world where the main source of grey hairs on Chuuya’s head was nowhere to be found, erased from his life for good. Then why, when he imagined his new Dazai-less life, did it look like all the colours in it faded to dull grayscale?
Chuuya stared at Dazai, still kneeling in front of him, as the stress of the past few weeks came rushing at him like a tsunami, breaking the carefully constructed façade Chuuya had been trying to maintain in the new situation he'd found himself in.
It was killing him.
Destroying his city and reading all the news reports describing the atrocities he had committed was killing him. The unthinkable crimes that had been happening with his silent approval were killing him. He couldn’t bring himself to say “no” to Mori-san’s orders, and neither could he bear looking at the mangled bodies of civilians falling victim to the turf wars Chuuya was responsible for. Whenever he came back home from yet another bloodbath, he would spend hours in the shower, desperately trying to wash off everything that had happened during the day, but no matter how hard he scrubbed, the stench of blood of the innocent seemed to have seeped into every pore of his skin.
He couldn’t leave the Mafia.
He couldn’t stay in it, either.
Dazai stared at him with pleading eyes, not saying a word, his hand still extended toward Chuuya, trying to bridge the gap that was growing between them with each passing second. Mackerel. Bandage waster. Demon Prodigy. He’d been in Chuuya’s shoes and he broke out of the endless circle of violence, and while nothing could ever erase the crimes Dazai had committed in the past, he was at least in that goddamn world of light that Chuuya never had the chance to become a part of, the opportunity mercilessly ripped out of his hands, disappearing with the last breath detective Murase took. Chuuya thought of what the Mafia would do had he decided to run, and the consequent manhunt that would surely be announced the moment Mori-san realised Chuuya had fled. No doubt, they would do anything to bring Chuuya back, or, more likely, execute him on the spot for daring to defect at the time so crucial for the organisation. Chuuya’s heart sank as he thought of everyone he would be leaving behind. Kouyou. Aku. Tachihara. Dozens of other people so dear to him, the people who had become Chuuya’s found family and accepted him as one of their own.
Maybe Dazai was just a little bit braver than Chuuya. Maybe he was just a little bit better than Chuuya. He shut his eyes and opened his mouth, ready to say no. I’m not going with you. Go away.
He sighed and opened his eyes.
Dazai’s pleading stare made Chuuya swallow his words. There was not a hint of hollowness in them that Dazai used to have in his time in the Mafia. The raw emotion in his eyes took Chuuya aback, and no matter how desperate the look in Dazai’s eyes was, it was something real, something genuine, something heartfelt.
Chuuya’s heart skipped a beat.
“Okay,” he said with defeat, taking a moment to process what he'd just agreed to. He looked at Dazai’s outstretched hand, which used to be covered in the blood of thousands, just like Chuuya’s. Nothing on his pale skin gave away anything about Dazai’s violent past. Maybe I could erase my sins, too, Chuuya thought, moving his gaze to Dazai’s dumbfounded face, his mouth slightly open in disbelief. “Okay. Let’s run,” he said with more confidence and stood up.
Dazai did not move. He kept staring at Chuuya with wide eyes, as if not fully grasping what Chuuya had just said. “Seriously?” he whispered, his shoulders slumping and arms falling limp along his torso.
“Give me your phone,” Chuuya said, and when Dazai didn’t react, he reached into his pocket and fished it out. Glowing red, Chuuya smashed Dazai’s phone against the floor, reducing it to a bunch of useless broken microchips squashed by enormous gravity. Chuuya took his phone off charge and did the same to it. “Hope you have cash on you, shitty mackerel,” Chuuya said and went to his bedroom. Dazai heard the sound of the sliding door of his walk-in closet open as he followed Chuuya with his eyes, still not moving and not quite registering that Chuuya had just agreed to escape Yokohama with him. No matter how much he wanted him to, he didn’t dare keep his hopes up. The feeling of crippling loneliness was so deeply ingrained in him, it was only natural that his road to freedom would also be as lonely as everything else in his life. Chuuya came back to the living room with a thick wad of cash in one hand and a handgun in the other. “The fuck are you still on the floor for?” he asked in annoyance, prodding Dazai with his foot.
Dazai stood up. “Yeah,” he croaked. “I do have cash.” He blinked and looked at the gun in Chuuya’s hand. “Do you, by any chance, have another one for me?”
Chuuya clicked his tongue. “You bet!” He went to the walk-in closet again and came back with an identical gun and an extra box of ammo. “Gimme 5 minutes,” Chuuya said, walking into his bathroom and rummaging through cabinets.
Dazai plopped onto the couch and hung his head, putting his elbows on his knees and burying his face in his hands.
None of this felt real. It couldn’t possibly have been.
It didn’t feel real when Chuuya walked up to him with a backpack on his back and smacked him on the shoulder, urging him to stand up.
It didn’t feel real when they went down in the elevator, crushed by the sinking feeling of leaving the old life behind with each passing floor.
It didn’t feel real when they got into the car, Dazai’s things in it untouched, the door still wide open.
It didn’t feel real when Dazai started the car and they drove through poorly-lit streets toward the edge of the city, up north. None of them said a word, the steady hum of the engine acting as an ambient soundtrack accompanying them on their journey god-knew-where. Chuuya didn’t bother asking where the hell they were going — Dazai probably had an elaborate escape plan. After all, he wasn’t the Port Mafia’s top strategist for nothing back in the day.
“It’s selfish,” Chuuya said quietly after they approached Kawasaki, almost halfway to Tokyo. He was watching the lights of the capital in the distance, still shining bright, light reflecting in his dull irises, the halo of light pollution illuminating the sky above the concrete jungle of high-rises.
“Can we just put our own happiness first for once?” Dazai responded, never taking his eyes off the road.
“Our happiness?” Chuuya asked bitterly. When Dazai said nothing, he sighed and continued. “Aren’t you breaking the promise you gave Oda? Protecting the weak and all this bullshit?”
Dazai’s face contorted as he thought of his friend, whose memory he was tarnishing at this very moment when he’d decided to cowardly escape instead of staying in Yokohama and fighting for it. “I am,” he finally said. “I know. But I need to think about myself.”
“Yup, this does sound selfish as fuck,” Chuuya said, leaning back in the seat. “Running away with your tail between your legs,” he mumbled, turning his head away from Dazai and watching the stretch of the road behind them disappear through the rear-view mirror.
Chuuya wasn’t sure when exactly he fell asleep — probably the moment they got on the toll road and Dazai hit the gas. He wasn’t sure how long he slept for, either. He shot his eyes open when the car suddenly stopped. He rubbed his eyes and saw a straight stretch of the road in front of them, the car’s emergency lights reflecting in the road sign a few meters away. It was dark in the car, and Chuuya’s stomach growled from hunger. He would really love to eat something right now.
“Why did we stop?” Chuuya asked, yawning.
Dazai removed his hands from the steering wheel; however, he was still staring at it, neck stiff as if he was physically unable to turn to Chuuya and look at him. “Isohara train station is east, at two o’clock, about 1.5 kilometres from here. You can’t miss it.” He swallowed and looked into the driver’s window.
“Train station? Why?” Chuuya asked, still bleary from his nap, feeling like he was missing something in the conversation.
“In case you’ve changed your mind,” he said emotionlessly.
“I didn’t,” Chuuya grumbled, getting annoyed with Dazai yet again. “I’m coming with you. Double Black, all this shit,” he said, trying to crack a smile.
Dazai finally looked at him with a hint of fondness — or was it sadness? — in his eyes. “Yeah,” he said. “Double Black.”
With that, Dazai floored it, and they sped into the night.