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Nakahara Chuuya had been walking for a long time.
He had stayed away from the main roads. The people that he did pass chose not to bother him, but he had seen their stares, worried whisperings, and faltering strides. He had not spoken to them, but he wished he could’ve.
When Chuuya stopped walking, he planted his feet carefully, side by side, both balancing inwards on his soles. He stared at the building complex, his heart beating so erratically in his chest that he was almost sure that it would throw him off balance, that it would cause his teeth to unalign and his fingers to twitch.
Slowly, as if his ability manipulated time and not gravity, he knocked on the door. On any other day, he would’ve walked inside without knocking because that was what any normal person would do. Unfortunately, Chuuya had been specifically told that he couldn’t set off the metal detectors just beyond the Armed Detective Agency’s beautiful wooden doors. So he knocked and waited.
He had blocked out the bustle of the street behind him. The longer he thought about it, the more the idea of screaming and running for help sounded appetizing. Thus, he redirected his mind to focus full-heartedly on tracing the intricate patterns engraved in the wood, ignoring his heart as best as he could while maintaining a steady breathing pattern. It was damn-near impossible.
It’d been a while since he’d been properly scared.
He had been at an interesting curve at the top of the double doors, his eyes straining upwards since he’d kept his head completely level, when it fell away to reveal a young woman dressed in the agency’s clerk uniform on the other side.
Appropriately, she shrieked. “S–sir! What are you doing? Please, don’t! This is not—”
“I want to talk to Dazai Osamu. Bring him to me, or I’ll pull the trigger.” His hand was trembling, but he pushed the handgun harder into his own temple regardless.
Her eyes were wide-open, showcasing the electric blue color that matched with her stunned expression. She nodded, taking a small step backwards into the lobby. “It— It’ll be a moment, sir.”
“I’ll be waiting,” he said, straining to keep his voice level. Normally, he would never wait for Dazai to come to him first. Yet most of the time, it was Dazai who was holding the gun to his own head. Suicide wasn’t really Chuuya’s thing, but he supposed there was a first time for everything.
The door was propped open with a wooden stopper, leaving Chuuya to be ogled at by the two poor souls in the lobby of the agency. Obviously they weren’t very busy, meaning it was possible Dazai wasn’t in the office at all.
Chuuya adjusted his grip on his handgun, his palms sweating underneath his gloves. His hair stuck unnaturally to his face. The boss said Dazai would be in office today, but if Chuuya knew anything about his old partner, it was that he could make himself scarce if he wanted to.
He would have to pray that Mori’s intel was correct. It was rather unfortunate that Chuuya wasn’t really the religious type, save for the god that lingered in his body.
A part of him didn’t want Dazai to comply with his demand, that the clerk had alerted that Nakahara Chuuya, a Port Mafia executive, was a threat and needed to be quickly neutralized. All of this waiting and wishful thinking that Dazai would somehow come up with a plan to get Chuuya out of this situation was killing him faster than the gun at his temple.
But there was only one other thing he knew better about Dazai than anyone else; if Chuuya wanted something, Dazai would do everything in his power to prevent him from getting it.
The demon himself ambled leisurely into the lobby, hands in his trench coat’s pockets and body relaxed. He turned to make eye contact with Chuuya, a cheerful smile on his face. His shoes clicked on the floor. “Chuuya! Have you finally taken a lesson from my book?” His lips tightened a little as he stopped in front of the executive, as though disappointed. “I have to say, shooting yourself is the least creative way to go. Though, I couldn’t expect more from someone like you.”
To the bystanders in the lobby, the detective was rambling nonsense to the suicidal man in front of him without a care in the world. To most people, Dazai looked just as insane as Chuuya did. However, nobody knew Dazai like Chuuya did. His life was resting in the detective’s hands, and it wasn’t for the first time, either.
That didn’t mean he wasn’t scared.
“You will follow me, Dazai, or I’ll shoot,” he said in response. He didn’t want to. He didn’t want to be there at all , standing before the person that his heart couldn’t decide what it thought about him. Chuuya was afraid his heart wouldn’t have to make that decision anymore.
Dazai cocked his head. His gaze was intense, guarded and analyzing while keeping up the aura of complacency. Chuuya struggled to keep eye contact with him, but he kept his head level and kept his body as still as he could.
“Where would you take me? It’s too early for a nice dinner,” Dazai said smoothly. He was waiting for a signal, but Chuuya had nothing to give him. He didn’t have time to wait for Dazai to realize this.
He swallowed, carefully avoiding jostling the pill tucked against his molars. “When I start walking, you’ll be beside me. If not, my brains will be out on the street.”
They’ll splatter on the civilians around them. Dazai will watch as Chuuya commits suicide in the most unimaginative way possible.
He turned around, counting in his head the amount of time it takes to reposition his feet. He paced his breathing evenly. Chuuya didn’t look at the people’s faces, nor at the sidewalk or at the skyline. He unfocused his sight, losing himself in keeping his feet titled in his soles and walking at the correct tempo.
He was aware that Dazai was keeping pace beside him on his right side, coincidentally the same side that Chuuya was holding the gun to his temple. He could sense the attempt before Dazai had time to do it.
This much he could tell his old partner. “If you remove the gun from my head, I’ll swallow the cyanide pill in my mouth.” It felt incredibly heavy against his teeth despite its small mass.
“That’s a little more creative than using the gun, but still not particularly creative and suffering-free. Tell me, Chuuya,” Dazai asked, his voice dropping an octave, “how did you get yourself in this predicament?”
That wasn’t something he could answer directly. The story wasn’t very exciting anyway—he simply hadn’t expected his own boss to use him like this.
Chuuya couldn’t see Dazai very well from where his arm was blocking most of his peripheral vision. It was hard to tell if Dazai needed the information to configure a plan to help Chuuya escape, or if he was only asking to help alleviate some of Chuuya’s trepidation.
The Port Mafia executive almost appreciated the incentive. Almost. His anxiety wasn’t cleared so easily. “If you’re thinking of touching me,” he started, because there were only so many words he was allowed to say. Warning Dazai of the things he couldn’t do in order to keep Chuuya alive made up three quarters of those words. “I will kill myself. No Longer Human won’t work.”
Chuuya held his breath for a count of three, approximately the amount of time it would take from the bombs in his shoes to detonate. On three, he released slowly. He hadn’t revealed too much information.
Beside him, the detective hummed a familiar tune. “Who said anything about touching you? I’m sure if I did so, I would contract the suicide germs that have infected you.” He paused, and then: “Maybe only short people can contract it.”
Silence greeted the unimpressive insult. Even if he could’ve responded appropriately, Chuuya couldn’t find it in him to take it seriously in the slightest. Gruesome images were running through his head, and all of them ended up with his own bloody death in one way or another. If he misstepped in any of his responses, those would be his endings.
He wondered if the boss was wrong. Mori’s assumption was that Dazai cared too deeply about Chuuya to let him die, leading them to their current situation. Chuuya had a hard time believing that Dazai had cared about anyone since Oda’s death. He’d left behind Chuuya in the Port Mafia; who was to say he wouldn’t do it again?
But even so, Dazai trod alongside Chuuya like a loyal dog. “Nothing to say back? Tough luck.”
The executive bit his tongue, cringing as the bottom of his feet pressed a little too hard on the C-4 packets. Dazai would’ve noticed his odd gait by now, but there was nothing the two of them could currently do about the explosives. The detonation device was remote, located with the boss at their final destination.
One wrong move. Chuuya straightened his back, breathed properly, and stepped accordingly. There was no room for error or miscalculation.
Chuuya turned into a side alley, getting away from the main streets where the police have likely already been alerted. A suicidal man and a suicidal maniac walking side-by-side in a congested sidewalk was sure to spell trouble, and any forward-thinking individual would’ve thought to get the proper authorities involved.
Dazai sighed. “You’ve got me stumped this time, Chuuya. At first, I was sure you weren’t being serious, but…” he trailed off. “I can see you mean it.”
What would kill him faster? The gun, the cyanide, or the explosives? He wanted to ask Dazai because surely he, of all people, would know. Instead, he kept his mouth shut and walked.
He’d been doing so for a very long time. His mouth was dry and his stomach hurt from anxiety and hunger.
“We have a long way to go.” His feet were hurting from the precarious position he had to keep them in so he didn’t prematurely detonate the C-4.
“I have no doubt about it,” Dazai said, the frown evident in his voice.
It was selfish of him, but he wanted Dazai to keep speaking, spouting irritating nonsense like he always did before he abandoned the Port Mafia. His voice was soothing, moreso in the dire situation they were now in. Chuuya wanted to look at him and drink in the waves of his hair, the shades of his eyes, and the stature of his body.
He wanted to lie down with his head on Dazai’s lap as he ran his fingers through his hair, just like he did after the chaos of the apple suicides. Chuuya would use Corruption a thousand times if it meant he could experience that euphoric tranquility each time.
If he used Corruption now, what would happen? The bombs at his feet would detonate, but his control of gravity in that state could swallow the blast. He would toss the gun or turn it on Dazai, but it was incredibly unlikely that he’d pull the trigger on himself. Corruption caused him to lose his mind, not become intentionally suicidal.
None of that mattered, anyway. He would chomp down on the cyanide pill in a heartbeat. It was tucked too far back for it to spit out quickly, and his Corruption form would mistake it for a piece of regular food. He could recognize a gun, not a pill.
There wasn’t any peace for him. His arm was hurting from how long he’d kept the handgun held in the air. Corruption wasn’t an option if the plan was for Dazai to come up with a solution to this mess.
‘You’ve got me stumped this time, Chuuya.’ Dazai had to have been lying through his teeth. Chuuya wouldn’t know what to do if he was telling the truth.
The quiet was worse than the nervous energy of the crowded streets. He could hear his and Dazai’s shoes echoing against the buildings’ exterior walls, the thumping of his own heart, and his breathing. Occasionally, Dazai would hum some familiar tune. It was an old song from the second world war—his old partner had mentioned in the past that he’d loved that time period’s music the best.
“People were scared during that time. The War to End All Wars had only just concluded, and a new one had already started?” Dazai said with a light chuckle, breaking his humming and startling the Port Mafia executive. He almost tripped. “The songs of the time were born of depression and dismay. They showcase a certain desperation that is hard to find in modern-day songs.”
Hope— it was all he had to stave off the pit of dread that had already enveloped his stomach. By showcasing his practical mind-reading capabilities, he was giving Chuuya that terrible hope. It did little to settle his nerves, for the more Dazai talked, the more chances that Mori would detonate the bombs increased.
“My favorite is There’ll Be Bluebirds Over the White Cliffs of Dover,” Dazai continued in Chuuya’s silence. “It’s English, but fittingly so. They’d been the only major world power fighting the Axis at the time."
They were desperate. Dazai sang softly, his voice winding its way through Chuuya’s heart like a stitch. If he closed his eyes for just a second, he could pretend the barrel at his temple was Dazai’s chest, and he could feel the rhythmic rumble of his vocal chords as his old partner crooned.
Then Chuuya stumbled over his feet, and his world went white.
With one hand grasping at the dark wall of a building to keep his weight up, and the other desperately pressing the weapon to his head, Chuuya heaved with a bright spark of horror. “I tripped! I tripped, I swear! It was an accident!”
One. No, God, please no. He didn’t dare move, didn’t dare look anywhere besides the dirty floor of the alley. For how long they’d been walking, they couldn’t be far now. He’d been so close. Two. Mori had to have heard his plea through the tiny microphone on his collar. He had to have.
He squeezed his eyes shut as if it would save him for his burning demise. Three.
A count of three, a count of thirty, and there hadn’t been a detonation. It took him a half a minute to fully comprehend he was still alive, that he was still bracing himself against the wall and his heart was still beating in his chest. It tried desperately to escape its cage made of bone.
Chuuya blinked and looked up, finding Dazai studying him with an indescribable expression. His hands were still tucked into his pockets, but his muscles were taut like guitar strings. Lips drawn tight together, the detective took a dangerous step towards Chuuya.
“Stop moving!” Chuuya shouted. It was impossible to keep the shake out of his voice, given how it was no longer concealed in his body, either. Dazai halted with his hands up in surrender.
The executive pushed himself off of the wall, breathing heavily and keeping his head level with his direct line of sight. All of a sudden, he became acutely aware of the dryness of his mouth and the lack of food in his system. His tremors increased tenfold.
But Nakahara Chuuya walked, just like he had been, with bombs in his shoes, cyanide in his molars, and a handgun on his temple. Dazai walked beside him.
The detective wasted no time, recovering faster than Chuuya ever could’ve. “Where was I? Oh, yes; Tomorrow, when the world is free… ”
The Port Mafia executive stared straight ahead and let Dazai’s voice ease his trembles. He abandoned the useless fantasies, even if living in the present was harder. If he stayed in the daydream, he could make another mistake. It wasn’t worth it to risk the chance of never waking up again.
His finger twitched on the trigger. He’d almost pulled it when he fell.
Dazai had moved onto a new song by the time Chuuya stopped in front of a small warehouse. He hadn’t bothered to mention the name, but at least it was in the native tongue. His voice slowly lowered until it was nothing but an old sound on the wind. Chuuya inhaled shakily.
“Open the door and walk straight forward. I will follow behind,” he said. “Try anything out of line and I will kill myself.”
“You know, you don’t have to keep reminding me. The mantra gets boring after a while,” Dazai replied. Irritation laced his words, but he unlatched and pushed up the door without any unnecessary force. The screeching metal pierced through the executive’s ears, a sound familiar for a reason he couldn't put his finger on.
The cyanide pill made itself known, then, and he clamped his jaw firmly shut.
Walking through the dimly lit warehouse, Chuuya could hardly see Mori standing near the back. The boss had set up a meager stand consisting of a dark wood desk with a candelabra to illuminate the area. Once his eyes had fully adjusted, he noticed the men dressed in black surrounding the interior perimeter.
Chuuya would need a miracle to make it out alive. He glared at the back of Dazai’s head. If anyone could accomplish such a feat, it would be that bastard.
“Welcome, Dazai. It’s nice to see Double Black together again,” Mori said, lifting one hand in the air. Chuuya halted immediately, and so did Dazai.
“Mori,” Dazai greeted in return. His stance shifted to be more relaxed as if this was a game he’d been born to play. “I recognize this warehouse. It's one of the many places you forced Chuuya and I to train together. I hated every moment of it.”
Now that Dazai was saying it, Chuuya could barely glimpse the vague dark splotches on the wall behind Mori, and if he strained enough, he could spot them underneath his feet. Old blood. Despite it all, a grin threatened to spread across his lips. He didn’t have much time to reminisce on his first year in the Port Mafia, but he knew most of his memories were contained in this room.
Double Black may have formed during their first job together, but this was where they were honed into a perfect blade.
“Of course. You never stopped complaining about it,” the boss said. “But look where it has taken you now. I do say that I made you two a fine pair.”
It was rather unlucky that their blade had been fitted to Mori’s palms.
Dazai tilted his head back to Chuuya. His eyes flashed brilliantly, and Chuuya spent too long in this warehouse to not know what that meant.
Just how exactly Dazai wanted him to use Corruption was the issue. That’s what the executive had always hated most about working with the detective—if they weren’t in the thick of battle, he never knew what to expect next.
“I left the Port Mafia a long time ago and broke apart Double Black. Your craftsmanship could use a little work.” Dazai took his hands out of his pockets and absently picked at his nails. “I’m getting real tired of your voice, Mori. The sooner you tell me why you went out of your way to test your alliance with the Armed Detective Agency, the faster I can try this new method of suicide I’ve been looking at.”
Suicidal maniac. No matter how hard Chuuya had tried, he’d never been able to convince Dazai off of that shit. The agency hadn’t seemed to help, either. What a shame.
Mori laughed. It was a sick, cruel sound. Somehow, with the gun pressed to his head, Chuuya felt like he was fifteen again. “I want you to come back as an executive of the Port Mafia.”
Chuuya was fifteen. Mori told him the only way he could access the files on the experiments run on him when he was younger was to become an executive of this wretched organization.
Dazai was twenty-two. Mori told him that he wanted the youngest executive in Port Mafia history to return to his station, or else—
“At the threat of Chuuya’s life. Is that it?” His old partner scoffed. “It takes two to form Double Black.”
The executive narrowed his eyes. If Mori wanted the old Double Black back, then he would never detonate the bombs. Was he lied to so bluntly, and it just slipped right past him? Did he comply with Mori's demands like a brainless dog, thinking that his life was on the line when in reality, it was never really in danger?
Chuuya and Dazai were dealing with the Port Mafia boss. While it may be easier to fool Chuuya, the same couldn’t be applied to the prodigy of the mafia. There had to be something deeper at play. The power simmering beneath his skin was quickly shut down, violently shushing the ancient god stirring in his mind. Even though his anxiety and fear were quickly fading, he kept the gun to his head.
He couldn’t risk it. Not while Dazai was still making moves on this dark chessboard.
“I don’t recall a requirement for both the parties to be alive. It’s time you met a dear friend of mine. Kenzaburo,” Mori called, motioning with his other hand—the one with the accursed detonator—for the individual to come forward. “Please, join us.”
A man stepped out from the crowd, his stature rather unassuming and face particularly uninspired. What separated him from the rest, outside of his choice of a deep mahogany suit in comparison to the black ones surrounding him, were his eyes.
To put it simply, he didn’t have any. Bandages were wrapped around his head, but when it went over the sockets, the pure white was disrupted by a color the same shade of his outfit. Covering his eyes didn’t do anything if everyone could still tell he was missing them.
A strained hissing sound came from everywhere in the room, bouncing off of the warehouse walls until it came to a head by the man’s side. The vulture preened with its ugly, featherless head stuffed into its brown wings. It made another hissing noise, which sounded more akin to a cat than a bird.
Dazai startled backwards, landing himself close to Chuuya’s gunless side. His old partner’s face was an oil painting of consternation. The executive felt his heart drop in his chest.
He didn’t need to have a future-seeing ability to tell this wasn’t going to end well. Fear sweltered back into his body like a fire that couldn’t be doused.
“It seems you’ve heard of him. Or at least, you’ve heard of his ability,” Mori said, stepping around his desk in perfect confidence.
Dazai panted heavily and clearly struggled to regain his own self-assured composure. Shit. “He was— he should be locked up! What have you done?”
The missing eyes and preening vulture were bad enough, but to have Dazai sputtering and stumbling over his words like a school boy with a crush was all he needed to know to feel terror. Along with that familiar spark of anger.
“It seems Chuuya here is uninformed. Dazai, would you inform him of his near future?” Mori was enjoying this far too much.
“Kenzaburo’s ability, Lavish Are the Dead, in… simple terms, allows him to control the dead and their ability if they have one.” Dazai wasn’t looking at Chuuya, but instead kept his gaze trained on the vulture. “When someone dies and his vulture consumes their flesh, he has to eat the regurgitated version of that flesh to gain control.”
“But you’re missing one part,” the man rasped. His voice was that of sharp nails on a chalkboard. If he listened to it for long enough, he was sure a migraine would kill him before Mori had the chance. Kanzaburo’s stringy black hair bobbed with the slight movement of his jaw. “The control goes to whoever consumes the regurgitated dead first.”
More grinned. “Dazai, you will be the one to necromance Chuuya.”
Oh God, he was going to throw up. From the looks of it, Dazai was no better off. He looked two seconds away from either hurling or killing the boss right where he was standing.
“You shouldn’t have released him from prison. He’s going to betray you, Mori,” Dazai’s voice quavered from a mixture of fury and fear, “You’ve doomed us all.”
“No, Dazai. I’ve saved the future of the Port Mafia.”
It was a losing battle. Chuuya couldn’t use his ability or Mori would detonate the bombs. Corruption would swallow the cyanide pill. His handgun was the most painless way to go out. He could see now why Mori ever handed him the gun in the first place. It wasn’t a matter of intimidation to get Dazai to come quickly and quietly–he’d given mercy to Chuuya.
There had never been any intention of letting him survive the day. Dazai slumped suddenly, all of his rigid tension dissipating from his body to display absolute defeat. He must’ve come to the same conclusion as Chuuya had.
Perhaps there wasn’t a way to save Chuuya, but he had no doubt his old partner would find a way to escape the Port Mafia without using Kenzaburo’s ability. It was the only solace he could carry with him to have peace in death. Although, it was hard for him to believe his soul would ever truly rest.
“I see,” the detective mumbled, his wrapped arms now hanging loosely out of his trench coat’s pockets. “If this is how it is, may I have a final word with Chuuya?”
Mori nodded, his lilted smile never fading. “Go ahead.”
Dazai turned to Chuuya, his lips downturned and eyes lacking the spark of ingenious it had before. They were replaced by a grief Chuuya had seen the day before Dazai had disappeared from Port Mafia and became completely untraceable. Except, it wasn’t really the same if one paid attention to the right details.
This warehouse had once been their whetstone. Chuuya began to understand Dazai a little better while standing over their cemented blood.
“I regret leaving you behind in the Port Mafia. I wish…” he choked behind his bandaged hand. “I wish I could’ve made different decisions. Things could’ve turned out differently for you. For us.”
The detective stepped closer, now invading Chuuya’s personal space. It was hard to keep his arm in the air due to the way it trembled from hunger, exhaustion, and worry. The hand that was at his mouth reached out and touched the executive’s cheek ever-so-gently, as though he was holding the stem of a flower covered with thorns.
“Take this as my apology, Chuuya.”
Dazai’s eyes fluttered shut and his hand wound its way through ginger hair. Chuuya froze as Dazai took his lips into his own.
It was nothing like how he’d imagined it would be. Mainly because almost as soon as it started, Dazai deepened the kiss and transferred a small object into Chuuya’s mouth, then almost immediately used his tongue to pilfer the cyanide pill from where it was tucked in his molars. It wasn’t romantic in any sense of the word.
Dazai was a real asshole for kissing Chuuya—for the first time, no less—like this. The familiar flame of anger, a fire so easily ignited by its predecessor called fear, burst in his stomach and licked his lungs, and the god beneath his skin hummed in delight.
The hand that wasn’t in his ginger hair was gripping Chuuya’s collar, and with a crack broke the little microphone resting out of sight. Gently, as though he hadn’t violently oral-switched two pills without any help, Dazai pulled back and gave Chuuya a sinful grin.
“Go easy on the warehouse,” Dazai whispered. His eyes were alive in the way the only ever were when blood was going to be shed.
“I’m going to kill you, bring you back to life, and kill you again, bastard,” Chuuya whisper-yelled back, but Dazai was already moving. He twisted his fingers through Chuuya’s glove, pulling off the cloth and throwing the handgun at the same time. With his other hand, gone from the executive’s hair, yanked off the other glove.
“I’d like to see you try, hatrack.”
Chuuya let go of his tight control. The god awakened, and the last thing he witnessed was an explosion with Mori staring wide-eyed through the blaze.
Corruption.
Smoke clouded his vision and his ears rang something awful. He collapsed forward, blinking away the sting of tears from the smog. Instead of landing on the hard floor of the warehouse, his face collided with a body. This was all-too familiar.
“Rest. You’ve done well, Chuuya,” Dazai said softly, his digits carding through Chuuya’s hair. His scalp tingled with his touch.
His scalp . “Where’s my hat?” He mumbled against Dazai’s chest.
The detective sighed. “You’re more worried about that tacky thing than whether or not Mori lived through your rampage.”
“It’s not tacky. You’re the tacky one,” he said, weakly pushing himself off of Dazai’s chest. At first, all he could think was that he was already missing the feeling of his hands in his hair. Then he looked up, saw the bloody gash that extended from the top of his forehead and over his nose—narrowly missing his right eye—and the gloves and hat neatly set on the ground next to them.
Chuuya narrowed his eyes and attempted to kick Dazai’s knee in. The detective sidestepped, blood dripping into his innocent smile.
“How long did you know?” Chuuya yelled while swiping up his missing articles of clothing. “Stupid bastard, embarrassing and kissing me like that in front of the boss!”
“I had an idea of what was going to transpire a few days ago when Mori broke that ability user out of a high-security gifted prison unit,” Dazai rubbed at his new wound with his bandaged arm, staining its pristine color. “I knew about the cyanide and explosives when the clerk told me you were requesting for me under the threat of suicide. Each weapon checks out for the other, and your gait confirmed that for me when we walked together. I am curious though; how did Mori manage to force your hand?”
“Everytime you ask me a stupid question like that, a dog dies. I know you already figured it out, ” the executive said, annoyed. With his hat and gloves safely returned to his person, Chuuya felt his control tighten over both the old god and his own thoughts.
Dazai shrugged, moving towards the entrance they came from. Now that the smoke was clearing, Chuuya could see the dead mafia members riddling the scene. Neither Mori nor the necromancer were amongst the observable casualties. “It would’ve sounded better coming from your lips,” he responded dejectedly. “Let me see— you were unknowingly drugged yesterday during a Port Mafia executive meeting. When you woke up this morning, the bombs and pill were tucked into their respective places. Mori was by your side with the detonator, and you were given the ultimatum to bring me to the warehouse or face certain death.”
Turned out that ‘or face certain death’ had really been ‘and face certain death.’ Chuuya knew, as soon as Dazai kissed him, that Dazai had known all of the details from the motion and weight detector attached to the microphone on his collar to the meeting point in the warehouse.
“I wish whoever gave you that wound had finished the damn job,” Chuuya muttered. He kicked out again while Dazai was reopening the metal door, but it was to no avail. “Would’ve done me a great favor.”
“Who knew vultures were such good fighters?” Dazai chuckled, but it contained none of the mirth that was supposed to accompany it. “Mori and Kenzaburo got away. Our trouble has only just begun.”
The path of a Port Mafia member consisted of only blood and human entrails. Chuuya was not unaccustomed to gruesome death in a variety of inhumane ways. But there was something particular about Kenzaburo’s ability that made him want to empty out his stomach’s contents until there was nothing left but acid.
Cannibalism and necromancy. What a pain in the ass.
“How did you do it?”
Dazai looked at him curiously, playing the fool’s card. The glare Chuuya returned to him could’ve cut diamond if it were a blade. The detective put his hands in the air in mock surrender. “I was careful, but the reality of the matter was that Mori didn’t put all of his efforts into finding and silencing me.”
“He was afraid of what you would do. One bastard scared of another,” Chuuya supplied. If there hadn’t been a god in his veins, Chuuya probably would’ve been scared of Dazai, too. Perhaps not during the first team-up, but definitely afterwards, when the Sheep and GSS were manipulated into casting out Chuuya by that little bastard.
“Yes, and no. It was in his best interest to let me go at the time.” The demon prodigy’s voice was clipped. It was a change in tone that nobody but Chuuya could hear. “Your ability will make it easier for you, but you won’t know a single moment of rest until you get your ass out of Yokohama or they decide it isn’t worth chasing you anymore. The Armed Detective Agency won’t be a haven for you, either.”
“I never implied—”
“You wouldn’t pass the entrance exam.” Dazai said, eyes glinting in the sunlight cast over the buildings of the city. Chuuya almost retaliated that yes, he could pass any exam he so wished, shitty mackerel, if it weren’t for what he tacked on: “Not yet, anyway.”
Smoke followed them well out of the warehouse. They were headed the exact same way they came from. The Armed Detective Agency.
Chuuya had no interest in saving people like they did in their organization. At one point in time, Dazai had been the exact same way. Then something changed for him. He disappeared off the face of the Earth for two years, showed up as a new member of the Armed Detective Agency, and began helping innocent people.
“I have no place in the Port Mafia anymore, but that doesn’t mean I wanted to go running with my tail tucked in my legs to your sorry lot,” Chuuya bit back. But there was a request in his words. His pride would never allow him to say it directly, but he needed Dazai’s help if he wanted to leave the Port Mafia as easily as possible.
From the expression on Dazai’s face, it already looked like he had a plan. Chuuya had no doubt the next year or two of his life was going to consist of one migraine to the next.
“How about this: we stop to eat at the café on the bottom floor of the agency’s building, you pay for the meal and my currently existing tab, and I’ll help you retrieve your belongings from the Port Mafia before they burn it all. Deal?”
Chuuya could already feel the first migraine of his new life on the run begin to form. “You make me sick, old snake. ”
But Chuuya was starving. Not only had he not eaten all day, his Corruption form had consumed any last morsel his body had been saving from the other night’s dinner. Chuuya also happened to have eaten at that café before, and he knew just how good their food and coffee were. He didn’t argue against the deal Dazai had proposed.
And if he broke one of Dazai’s toes when he stomped on it after seeing the tab he’d built up in said café, well, it was nobody’s business. Neither was the kiss that still lingered in his mind after he’d found sanctuary in an abandoned warehouse just outside of the city’s limits, nor the personal belongings he’d stored around numerous other safehouses in Yokohama.
Whether or not he dreamt of old war songs sung by an old friend—someone that Chuuya wished was more—wasn’t anyone’s business, either.