Work Text:
Dazai doesn’t like running. It’s not that he’s weak: he can fight, disarm an enemy, strike to kill or knock someone out just long enough to tie them to a chair and start asking questions. But running? That’s something else. It bothers him.
His breath shortens too quickly, the air scratches his throat and leaves a metallic aftertaste, like he’s bitten down on a coin. His lungs burn, and every step is more uncomfortable than the last. It’s not pain, it’s just irritating, unpleasant, and pointless. He prefers to solve things before they get to that stage. Plan them, anticipate them, shut them down before they even begin. But if he ends up running, it means something’s gone wrong. And that, more than anything else, is what he truly hates.
And what he truly hates is that he had talked to Mori about it. He’d told him the plan wouldn’t work, that it was obviously a trap, but the boss had nodded with his hands folded under his chin and simply said, “If it’s a trap, I want you to understand why, and who’s behind it. I won’t settle for throwing away valuable intel just because it might be a suicide mission. You’ll come up with a plan, Dazai-kun, as always.”
Dazai had clenched his fists, ready to argue, but Chuuya had kicked him in the leg, ordering him to follow the damn orders.
So they’d agreed to stick together. No splitting up, no solo moves. They would grab as many documents as they could find in the enemy warehouse and then get out. And if it was a trap, at least they’d be within a meter of each other. And for a while, the plan had actually held up.
They’d been inside for almost ten minutes. They had already recovered files and copies of records, all perfectly archived, too neatly, for an abandoned base. That was the first red flag. The second was inside a poorly sealed crate. Chuuya had opened it on instinct, and inside they found sealed packages of labeled drugs.
“And what’s this supposed to be?” Chuuya said, lifting a pack of white powder. “This isn’t what we came for.”
Dazai crouched beside him, staring at the packages like he was analyzing an equation. “No. But now it’ll look like it is.”
“What?”
“They’re using us to pin the evidence. Police are probably already on their way.”
“So what do we do?”
“We take the documents and get out. We’ve already been in here too long.”
Chuuya nodded, closing the crate. Dazai, meanwhile, flipped through more documents, just to make sure the pages weren’t completely useless. Figures, signatures, shipments: standard logistics.
Then he came across a column labeled Age, filled with numbers ranging from thirteen to twenty. Beside them were countries, some neatly listed, others crossed out. And at the bottom of the page, a single line: Final client confidential. Dazai’s fingers tightened around the paper. This wasn’t what they were here for.
He turned to the next page and found a list of names, some reduced to initials, others paired with hastily attached photos, blank faces, red-rimmed eyes, sealed lips. Not quite mugshots. Worse.
Destination: Shanghai. Status: In transit.
Dazai froze for a moment, the file suspended mid-air. Then he closed it quietly and turned toward Chuuya, who was rummaging through another crate.
“They’re trying to pin human trafficking on us too. Even though it should be obvious to the police that the Port Mafia doesn’t handle things like this.”
Chuuya didn’t reply, he just stared at the scattered documents like he was about to kick them all across the floor. Then, with a sharp breath, he crouched down and began stuffing them into his backpack.
“Then get moving,” he muttered. “We’ll take them to Mori and let him decide if someone’s head needs to roll.”
Dazai gave a silent nod and joined him, shoving files and folders into their backpack without much care for the creased pages.
They were almost done when it happened: a faint sound, the moan of a woman, too weak to make out clearly. Chuuya turned on instinct, already facing the direction it had come from. Dazai was just slipping his backpack over his shoulder.
Then the sound came again, softer this time, the words more slurred, but still clear enough to form a single word in their ears: “Help…”
Chuuya froze.
Dazai barely lifted his eyes. “No.”
“You heard that?”
“I did. And I’m telling you that it’s not real.”
Chuuya had already straightened up, hands hovering uncertainly. “There could be prisoners.”
“It’s a recording. A lure. It’s too perfect. A lone woman’s voice, right when we’re about to leave?”
“I know… but what if you’re wrong?” Chuuya shot back, eyes locked on the direction the voice had come from.
Dazai grabbed him by the shoulders and turned him, forcing their eyes to meet. “Am I ever wrong?”
He saw his expression harden. For a moment, he thought he’d gotten through to him. But then Chuuya spoke again, voice steady and defiant. “You take the documents out. I’m going to check.”
“Chuuya.” Dazai grabbed his wrist, voice low and tight with tension. “I’m not asking. I’m giving you an order. I’m the one in charge on this mission, got it?”
Chuuya yanked his arm free with a sharp tug. “Don’t use that executive tone you use on the others. We’re partners.”
“And you’re not a hero!” Dazai shouted.
“And who the hell said I want to be one?” And with that, he turned and ran toward the voice.
Of course. Of course Chuuya would rather get himself killed than walk away wondering if he’d left someone behind to die alone.
“One minute! I want you on the ground floor in one minute!” Dazai shouted after him — barely finishing the sentence, hoping Chuuya would hear it — when suddenly, something in the stillness shifted.
A sharp click.
Dazai froze.
Then came the blast.
It wasn’t some movie-style fireball, not even a clean burst of yellow light. It was a dull, heavy crash, followed by a shockwave that punched the air from his lungs and hurled him against a metal crate. Smoke poured in, the ceiling began to shake. He forced himself back up, pressing his forearm over his mouth and nose to keep from inhaling too much.
“Shit!”
He looked toward the corner where he’d last seen him disappear, now reduced to a mass of smoke, twisted metal, and crumbling brick. A burst of flame still licked up from below, catching on the shelves and devouring plastic, wood, and paper. The smoke was everywhere, thick as a wall, stinking of melted insulation and scorched iron. The heat was real. Not like a radiator’s warmth, but like a direct breath from hell. Dazai could feel the skin on his cheeks pulling tight, sweat mixing with dust on his face.
The ceiling above him groaned. One of the main beams had buckled, sending an entire row of shelves crashing down with a scream of twisted metal. Dazai coughed, gritting his teeth as his feet slipped on debris still hot to the touch. The warehouse was collapsing, piece by piece, and he prayed that Chuuya had been fast enough to shield himself before a chunk of concrete crushed his skull.
“Chuuya!” he shouted, but got no answer.
He slung the backpack over his shoulders and ran down the hallway toward the lower level, praying the way wasn’t blocked, because if it was, he’d die in there. The sickly-sweet stench of burning drugs was closing up his throat, stinging his eyes.
He coughed again, harder this time. His head was starting to throb, a low buzz behind his eyes threatening to spread. Then came a second blast. Dazai felt it in his bones before he heard it. The wall to his left burst inward, sending shards of molten metal flying in every direction. One struck his shoulder, tearing through his coat and searing his skin.
Dazai collapsed to the ground, the backpack still clinging to his shoulders like dead weight and tried to find a spot where the heat wouldn't melt his lungs. He breathed through clenched teeth, knees scraped raw, palms slick with blood.
The path ahead had become a cage of twisted metal, burning crates, and fallen sheets of steel. There was no more time. He crawled under a slanted beam, passed a shelf crackling with dry pops, and burned his side without even realizing it. Every step brought a new sound: another creak, another warning that the structure was about to give in.
A flame licked his arm. He jerked away, falling forward, his breath catching mid-chest. Then he saw it: a side door, half ripped from its hinges, open just enough. He pushed, slammed into it with his shoulder, the backpack yanking at his shoulder blades, until he finally broke through.
The air outside was grey and sharp, thick with dust and the stench of scorched concrete. He staggered a few steps from the exit, coughing violently, spitting blood and saliva. Then he looked up.
Chuuya was there. Just a few meters ahead, caught in the middle of a fight. His coat was torn, his hair coated in dust, blood trailing down from a cut at his temple, but he was still standing. Three men surrounded him, all armed, and at least one had an ability active: the ground trembled underfoot, as if something was about to break through.
Dazai barely had time to open his mouth before Chuuya moved. Two sharp blows, one burst of motio, bodies lifted off the ground and slammed into the concrete with a force that left no room for retaliation. None of them got back up.
Chuuya stood still for a second, breath ragged, hands streaked with blood. Then he turned to him. “You were right.”
“I know.” But there was no smugness in his voice. Maybe it was because his throat was still burning from the smoke, and the words came out weaker than he’d meant. Or maybe, despite everything, he was just honestly relieved to see Chuuya still standing and couldn’t bring himself to blame him for doing something so deeply human.
The ground beside them exploded, shattered by a precise hit. A sharp gunshot, from a distance. The second missed by only a few centimeters.
“Shit.” Chuuya dropped low in an instant. “We’re being targeted.”
“And we’re getting out. We’re done here.”
Dazai took off running, the backpack slamming against his spine with every step, smoke still in his lungs, blood dripping from his shoulder. Chuuya was right beside him, breathless, but not slowing down.
They had already put enough distance between themselves and the warehouse, and Dazai was fairly sure that by the time the snipers got down from their positions, they’d be long gone. His shoulder throbbed, sending waves of pain down his arm, radiating all the way to his hand with every step.
He tried to calculate how far they were from the nearest safehouse, but his thoughts were cut off when a car swung around the corner. A black sedan, its windows tinted and the hood already pockmarked with bullet holes. The passenger window rolled down in a snap. A gun appeared.
“Chuuya!” Dazai shouted, but he’d already moved, shoving Dazai behind him and intercepting the bullets mid-air, redirecting them with gravity. The shots stopped almost instantly. Every target inside the car had been neutralized.
“How far to the next safehouse?” Chuuya asked, panting, wiping blood from his temple as it streamed down into his eye.
“Fifteen more minutes. If we run.”
And Dazai had no desire to keep going. He would’ve gladly collapsed on the asphalt and let someone riddle his organs with bullets rather than keep up this goddamn physical exertion.
“Lucky you,” Chuuya said, the faintest hint of a smile on his lips. “Let’s go. I’m sure there are more cars out there with guns aimed at us.”
They’d left the industrial zone behind, legs burning, lungs raw, when — rounding the corner of an abandoned lot — Chuuya reached out and pointed.
“There. Bikes.”
Two bicycles leaning against a fence, half-rusted and with crooked brakes, but still intact. Dazai stopped, staring at them. “Bikes?” he echoed, breathless.
“You’d rather keep running?”
Chuuya didn’t wait for an answer. He got on the first bike and waited for Dazai to follow, then started pedaling. Dazai climbed on with an awkward, unsteady motion, his backpack slipping off one shoulder, the bike wobbling beneath him like it was possessed. He made it three crooked meters before nearly crashing into a pole.
“What the hell—” Chuuya called back, already several meters ahead. “What are you doing?”
“My shoulder hurts!” Dazai snapped, more panic than protest. “And I’ve got the backpack!”
“You’re riding like a drunk with one leg!”
Chuuya pedaled back toward him, grabbed the backpack, and slung it over his own shoulder like it weighed nothing. “Pedal, idiot!”
This time, Dazai started off first, but even without the backpack, he didn’t get far. He pedaled like every part of his body had a mind of its own, and after barely ten meters of wobbly progress, he tipped over and crashed to the ground — thankfully on the side opposite his injured shoulder.
When he got back up — spitting out a curse and trying to get his feet under him without tripping over the bike — he saw Chuuya approaching. He was already looking at him the way you look at someone who’s just confessed they can’t read a clock.
“Are you going to admit it or do we have to witness more of this spectacle?”
“Admit what?”
“That you don’t know how to ride a damn bike, dumbass.”
Dazai shrugged, straightening up with all the dignity he could scrape off the ground. “It’s the shoulder. And the ground’s uneven. And the bike’s old.”
“And the Earth’s spinning too fast, huh?”
“Come on, it’s not that essential to know how to ride a bike.”
Chuuya gave a low, amused snort. “Who would’ve thought. Dazai, criminal genius… can’t ride a bike. And I’m only finding out after two years of knowing you.” He nudged the bike. “Hop on the back. And take the damn backpack.”
“Well, I couldn’t ruin my aura of perfection too early.” He winced as he slung the backpack over his shoulder again. “I was saving a few flaws for later.”
Dazai’s legs were too long to sit comfortably on the back, but with his arms wrapped around Chuuya and his knees tucked awkwardly, they sped through bumpy roads and empty alleys, grey buildings blurring past on either side. Every so often, a jolt sent pain shooting through his shoulder, but he didn’t say a word, and Chuuya’s legs never once slowed.
When they finally reached the safehouse, Dazai collapsed onto the couch, basking in the luxury of something soft to lie on.
Chuuya, meanwhile, headed straight for the cabinet under the sink and pulled out a first aid kit. He opened it, quickly checking that everything was in place. “Shirt off,” he ordered, kneeling beside him on the floor.
Once every layer was off, Chuuya got to work. With a pair of surgical tweezers, he began removing the visible fragments lodged in the wound, dabbing at each new trail of blood with disinfectant-soaked gauze.
Dazai, for his part, was making the whole procedure far more dramatic than it really was: flinching, squirming, letting out soft groans every time the tweezers touched a deeper spot. He finally went quiet once a bandage was wrapped around his shoulder.
Chuuya stood up and returned to the medical kit. He grabbed some fresh gauze, the bottle of disinfectant, and walked over to the mirror above the sink.
Dazai watched him silently.
Chuuya took off his hat and set it on the edge of the sink, then lifted his hair from his forehead and examined the cut carefully. It wasn’t deep, but the skin was reddened, and the dried blood had crusted in his eyebrows. He soaked the gauze and pressed it to the wound, hissing softly, more from the sting than any real complaint. He kept dabbing at the cut until nothing remained but raw, clean skin, then sealed it with a thin adhesive strip and splashed cold water over his face.
Chuuya joined him again, nudging his feet aside so he could sit on the couch too. Dazai let out a faint protest, but stayed half-reclined, head resting against the armrest, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
“It’s an overrated skill,” he said suddenly. “Riding a bike, I mean. All that movie mythology, balance, wind, freedom… In the end, you scrape your knees, bleed, and look like an idiot.”
Chuuya didn’t respond, but Dazai knew that silence: it was his way of telling him to keep talking, that he was listening.
“No one ever taught me,” he added more quietly, like it cost him something to say it out loud. “There are things most people our age have already done. Things they take for granted. We’re not like that.”
Chuuya was looking at him, head resting against the back of the couch, face turned toward him. He wasn’t showing pity but something quieter than that. Sadness, maybe. Understanding.
For all their arguing, for all the pretending they hated each other, Dazai knew that whenever that bastard ache for a childhood he never had came creeping back, Chuuya would be there. And he’d listen, even in silence.
“I don’t remember learning,” Chuuya said, shrugging slightly. “I just know that when I was with the Sheep, I got on a bike one day and already knew how to ride. So someone must’ve taught me. Before.”
Before.
When he still had a family, Dazai finished the thought for him. Parents who’d found the time. Who had watched him ride without training wheels for the first time, maybe even pulled him into a hug and told him he was growing up, a real little man.
And then, ironically, they’d never seen him grow up.
They both fell silent. If anyone they knew saw them like this — calm, caught in one of those rare moments where they weren’t threatening each other but sharing something real, something almost vulnerable — they probably wouldn’t believe it.
“If someone wanted to learn,” Dazai said casually, “just so he doesn’t crash like an idiot on the next mission… well, he might need a teacher.”
Chuuya tilted his head, teasing him with a half-smile. “You’ll need a bike.”
“And someone who won’t laugh.”
“I can promise one of those things.”
Two days later, they were wandering through the neighborhoods of Yokohama looking for a bike to steal, just so Dazai could get a bit of practice. He had insisted on getting a brand-new one — “like any respectable young Japanese man,” he’d said — but Chuuya had pointed out that it made no sense to ruin a fresh-out-of-the-shop bike, especially considering he was almost certainly going to fall a whole lot in the next few hours.
They walked for at least an hour, checking parking lots, overgrown yards, and rickety bike racks, but only looking for bikes that already seemed stolen or abandoned by someone else. Chuuya had refused from the start to take a perfectly good one from some poor citizen just to teach Dazai how not to fall on his face.
Every time Chuuya pointed out a potential candidate, Dazai made a face like he’d just suggested riding a tricycle.
“That one’s crooked,” he said, eyeing a mountain bike with a slightly tilted seat.
“It’s perfectly fine.”
“I don’t deserve a crooked bike.”
Chuuya sighed. “You don’t deserve a bike at all. And yet here I am, wasting my afternoon.”
“That one’s got an ugly handlebar.”
“It’s a handlebar.”
“But ugly.”
By the sixth rejection, Chuuya stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk, feet planted firmly. In front of them, leaning against a half-rusted bike rack, was an old women’s bicycle: faded pink, with a broken front basket and sun-bleached pedals. The seat was low, the paint chipped, and it didn’t even have a kickstand.
“Okay, that’s it,” Chuuya snapped, turning to Dazai with eyes bloodshot from sheer exhaustion of patience. “This one is perfect. You take it, get on it, and learn. I don’t give a damn if it’s pink, if it’s old, or if it once belonged to a grandma going out to buy daikon: you’re pedaling.”
Dazai didn’t look particularly convinced, and deep down, he was still delaying the inevitable shift from choosing the bike to actually getting on it.
They wheeled it over to a rectangular patch of asphalt, surrounded by stacked containers and warehouse buildings.
The area was practically deserted, watched only by a few Port Mafia security cameras and a couple of nosy seagulls.
“Perfect,” Chuuya said, propping the bike against a concrete pillar.
Dazai thought the only perfect thing would be going back to his container, which wasn’t perfect at all, but at that moment, he’d have preferred to be anywhere else.
“Okay. I have no idea how to teach this stuff. Just get on.”
Once seated, he started getting familiar with the brakes, squeezing and releasing them, noting that they were a bit too stiff and rusty.
“This one’s for the front wheel,” Chuuya said, squeezing one lever. “And this one, obviously, is for the back. I hope you’ve got the decency not to use them both at the same time, unless you want to end up flat on your face.”
“Yes, sensei!” Dazai mocked, giving a sloppy military salute.
Chuuya sighed. “Want me to hold you?”
“No! You’ll push me and make me fall!”
“Honestly, I’d like to get this over with as soon as possible. So yes, I do want you to learn fast so we can go home.”
“Mmh.” Dazai eyed him with suspicion, trying to gauge whether he was being sincere.
“I promise, come on. Hands on the handlebar.”
He started pushing him — one hand on the left grip, the other on the back of the seat — letting Dazai pedal without worrying about balance. Once Dazai began to move, Chuuya picked up the pace, going from a brisk walk to a run. Then, without warning, he gave him a push and let go.
“Chuuya!” Dazai turned sharply, and of course, the bike tilted and crashed to the ground.
“Why the fuck did you turn around!?”
“Because you fucking let go!” Dazai snapped, still on the ground with his hands on his knee, rocking back and forth and whining like a kid to exaggerate the imaginary pain.
“Oh, come on,” Chuuya walked over and tapped him with the tip of his shoe. “Get up. You didn’t hurt yourself.”
Dazai stayed on the ground, clutching his knee with both arms and keeping his gaze low. He wasn’t faking the pain anymore, wasn’t trying to make a scene, he had just gone silent.
Chuuya crouched down beside him. “Oi… did you actually get hurt?”
That wasn’t the problem, and Dazai knew it. He hadn’t hurt himself that badly — nothing serious, nothing worth staying on the ground for — but what kept growing inside him was the quiet frustration of not being able to do something right away, especially when that something was as stupidly simple as keeping your balance on two wheels.
He hated not getting things right the first time, hated the way it made him look ridiculous, because whenever something slipped out of his control, his first instinct wasn’t to try again — it was to walk away, to give up before the failure had time to settle in and make him feel entirely foolish.
And the truth was that he did care, more than he wanted to admit, but it was easier to deny it, easier to act like none of it mattered, easier to pretend it was all just a waste of time and not something that actually, quietly, meant something to him.
“It’s getting late. We should head back,” Dazai murmured quietly.
“You think I knew how to ride my motorbike the first time I got on it?”
Dazai didn’t answer right away.
It felt like a pointless question: Chuuya was good at everything he did, and he always made it seem effortless. From hand-to-hand combat to weapon handling, even down to his cooking skills, and the way he’d sometimes hum around the house with such ease that being perfectly in tune felt like the most natural thing in the world, as if he didn’t even realize that, if he wanted to, he could probably start a band. Maybe his height was the only concession the universe had made to keep him from being actually perfect. But Dazai would never admit out loud that he thought he was.
“Maybe not,” he said at last, voice flat. “But you pick things up fast.”
Chuuya stared at him for a moment, then reached out and flicked him lightly on the forehead. “So do you. When you want to.”
He was about to get up in silence, ready to write the afternoon off and forget the whole thing altogether, when he heard Chuuya speak again.
“If you learn,” he said, tone casual as he stood up, “I’ll buy you the bike myself.”
Dazai looked up at him. “Whaaat? Chibi wants to buy me a bike? Did I hit my head when I fell and die without noticing?”
Chuuya crossed his arms, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “If you learn in the next thirty minutes, I’ll buy you whatever bike you want. But if you don’t, then you owe me a favor.”
“What kind of favor?”
“The worst one I can think of.”
Dazai stared at him for a few seconds, weighing the risk. Chuuya knew exactly how to provoke him, and even if he didn’t actually care that much about the bike, the idea of walking into a store, pointing to the most expensive one, and decking it out with every ridiculous accessory possible… well, that was more than tempting.
He could already picture the scene: him, with the most innocent face he could manage, asking for a leather luggage rack, a chrome bell, a three-mode LED light, a matching water bottle holder, a colored chain, and maybe even some decorative stickers.
And on the other side, Chuuya leaning against the counter, staring at him with that you’ve got to be kidding me expression, while the total climbed higher and higher with every new accessory. He could see it so clearly: Chuuya swiping his card with the resigned look of someone who knew he’d lost a bet with the only person who could actually make it entertaining.
“I’m in,” Dazai said at last, getting to his feet. He dusted off his pants and climbed back onto the bike with a renewed sense of purpose.
Chuuya took his position again, one hand on the handlebar, the other steadying the seat. “Same as before. I’ll hold you while you pedal, then I’ll tell you when I’m letting go. And if you feel like you’re gonna fall, get your damn feet off the pedals, dumbass.”
Dazai started pedaling, with Chuuya running beside him, holding him steady just enough to keep him balanced.
“Okay,” Chuuya said. “I’m letting go now. Ready?”
Dazai took a breath. “Ready.” The absence of support hit him immediately, the bike wobbled, but at least it didn’t crash right away. Still, the second he felt the slightest loss of balance, he dropped his feet to the ground with a frustrated huff.
“That’s fine,” Chuuya said, a little out of breath. “But next time, don’t stop the second it gets shaky. If it feels wobbly, speed up. Go too slow and you’re gonna eat shit.”
Dazai nodded, more focused than ever. He tried again, and again.
Each time, he stayed up a little longer — feet hitting the ground just a bit later than before — while Chuuya stayed right by his side, ready to give him that first push and call out when he was letting go. Then, at some point, he started taking off completely on his own, without Chuuya holding on at all.
The first time he managed to ride a good thirty meters without putting his feet down, he surprised even himself, and felt a rush of adrenaline kick in. He pedaled faster, then lost balance and had to stop again, but for the first time, he laughed instead of swearing.
The sun was already starting to set when Chuuya told him he was going to stand about fifty meters ahead. “Alright, Mackerel. Ride to me!” he shouted. His hair, lit by the glow of the sunset, seemed to catch every color in the sky, gleaming with the kind of light that only the evening could carve into shape
Dazai picked up speed, heart pounding in his chest, wind in his hair, the pedals spinning under his feet in a rhythm that was all his own, imperfect but working. The bike finally felt like an extension of his body instead of some clunky mechanical obstacle, and for the first time in years, after quietly carrying the shame of never having learned how to ride, he had done it: he was riding.
And it was all thanks to Chuuya.
Since the day he’d met him, a lot of things had been thanks to Chuuya. Maybe the universe had taken pity on him when it dropped that street punk into his life like a gift. Maybe — despite the hollow ache he carried inside him, that monster that wrapped around his chest by day and stole his breath and sleep by night — he actually did deserve to feel okay.
It was getting easier and easier to forget what life had been like before. And the thought of what life might be after, without his partner, terrified him.
He reached Chuuya, braked poorly, swerved a little, but somehow managed to stop on his feet. Then he jumped off the bike and, without thinking, hugged him.
“I did it!” he exclaimed, holding him tight.
Chuuya stiffened for a second. “Get off me, idiot,” he muttered, but made no real effort to push him away.
And Dazai felt him laugh, soft and quiet, against his shoulder before stepping back with a light shove. “I can’t wait to go buy the biggest, most expensive bike in the whole damn store,” Dazai said with a wide grin. “With lights and all the extras.”
“Easy,” Chuuya said, raising a hand to stop him. “Try making it around the edge of this lot without falling.”
Dazai got back on the bike immediately, determined to prove he could ride the full loop. And as he pedaled, circling around the containers, Chuuya ran beside him, his hair bouncing with every stride, his cheeks flushed red. And when he smiled at him — that smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes — Dazai nearly lost his balance.
He thought, just for a second, that he would’ve gone back in time if he could, just to relive that moment again, and again, and again. Just to remember what it felt like to be alive.
The members of the Port Mafia were used to finding Dazai in the most improbable positions, but they knew better than to comment on it in his presence. At that moment, Dazai Osamu, the Demon Prodigy, was lying on the floor in front of Mori’s office door, behind which a meeting was taking place that he himself had already attended earlier that morning with the Boss.
The case Chuuya and Dazai had taken part in — involving human trafficking and a shipment of drugs, for which the enemy organization had foolishly tried to use the Port Mafia as a scapegoat — had been successfully resolved.
Yan Sùliáng, leader of the Chinese organization nicknamed the Black Alliance, was as elegant and ceremonial as Kouyou. But while Kouyou always seemed wrapped in soft, light colors, Yan Sùliáng had long, silky black hair and onyx-colored eyes. She had turned out to be a far more formidable enemy than expected, especially once her ability — to generate toxic spores — had nearly caused both of them to lose consciousness. They’d been forced to activate Corruption, and that was why Chuuya had spent a couple of days unconscious in bed and had only been briefed by Mori that same afternoon.
Yan Sùliáng, on the other hand, had been left alive and taken prisoner. Apparently, the Boss had a role planned for her within the Port Mafia. If she refused, she would be eliminated.
When Chuuya came out of Mori’s office, he nearly stepped on Dazai.
“What the hell is wrong with you, lying around like that?”
“I was waiting for you.”
“You look like one of those dried-up dead rats that wander around your container.”
“The pain of losing the last one is still fresh. Don’t joke about it,” Dazai replied with utter seriousness. Then he sat up and added, “You still haven’t bought me that bike.”
“I never said I’d get it right away.”
“A bet is a bet. And while you were half-unconscious, you promised me that as soon as you were better, we’d go buy it.”
“I did not!”
“Yes you did! You just don’t remember because you were high on painkillers!”
“Then it doesn’t count as a promise!”
Dazai grabbed Chuuya’s leg with both arms. “Pleaaaase, I want my biiiiike.”
Chuuya rolled his eyes, exasperated. “Fine, Christ. Let’s go buy your stupid bike.”
A few minutes later, they were walking through the streets of Yokohama, dressed up for Christmas. There was a buzz in the air — thanks more to the tourists than the locals — as people streamed in and out of shops, one hand full of gift bags and the other holding colorful dango.
In the Port Mafia, there was no time for holidays like that: Christmas Day would be business as usual, no presents, no breaks. Dazai knew he’d probably get something from Odasaku — he was that kind of guy — but he wasn’t the type to return the favor. Not that it would stop Oda, who would still show up at Bar Lupin with a couple of small packages, one for him and one for Ango.
Just like he hadn’t really expected Chuuya to buy him a bike, let alone the accessories. Before leaving, he’d already stolen Mori’s wallet, fully intending to use that money instead. But still, he wanted to play along, to see just how far his partner would go in the name of that promise.
“I’m freezing to death,” Dazai muttered, the words muffled by the wool scarf he’d, surprisingly, remembered to wear before leaving the house.
Chuuya had the tip of his nose red when he turned to him. “And whose idea was it to go out?”
He reached into the pocket of his jacket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and placed one between his lips.
Dazai watched him grow visibly annoyed when he realized he didn’t have his lighter. Without thinking too much about it, Dazai pulled his own from his coat pocket and lit it, shielding the flame from the wind with his hand as he held it out.
Chuuya leaned in slightly, the cigarette still between his lips, and took a slow drag until the tip glowed red. He stood still for a few seconds, while a second pair of eyes stayed on him the entire time.
“I thought the Boss told you you weren’t allowed to carry lighters anymore,” Chuuya said, nodding toward the part of Dazai’s arm hidden beneath layers of clothing.
Dazai flicked the lighter open and shut a few times, the flame flaring and dying in an uneven rhythm. Then he slipped it back into his pocket. “Yeah. But I don’t think it’ll happen again.”
“You don’t think,” Chuuya echoed, nodding like someone who immediately recognizes a lie told quietly, for convenience, not conviction.
But it wasn’t a full lie, either. A few months back, he’d needed to find an alternative way to feel pain: he’d needed something to keep himself afloat, something that gave him back even a sliver of control over his mind and body. Alcohol in his blood, and the instinctive gesture of pressing the flame against bare skin.
The pain had come on slowly: first as a sharp sting, then as a dull throb that spread outward. The smell was that unmistakable scent of burned skin, the kind that clings to you longer than the pain itself. The mark, though, had lasted for weeks. A swollen blister, then raw flesh, then a thin, jagged scar like a tiny crater carved into his arm. A kind of reminder — useless and silent — that would keep company with the other marks hidden under the bandages. He’d tried it and filed it away at the bottom of the list.
They kept walking in silence, with Dazai now quietly humming a Christmas song he’d heard earlier from a street performer.
When they arrived at the shop, a small bell jingled above the door, announcing their entrance. Inside, the air was warm and thick with the smell of new tires and chain oil. The walls were lined with vertical racks full of colorful helmets, technical gloves, and saddle bags, all tagged with handwritten labels. There were bikes of every kind: racing, city, folding, some electric. Some still had cellophane wrapped around the seats; others already showed scratches and dust, as if they'd been sitting there for more seasons than the shopkeeper would care to admit.
A low counter separated the entrance from the back of the shop, where spare parts, tools, and a small coffee machine could be seen. A radio crackled softly in the corner, tuned to a station playing classic city pop.
Behind the counter, a man in his sixties looked up as they walked in. “What brings two members of the Port Mafia to my shop? I hope I’m not in trouble.”
"Good afternoon!" Dazai chirped, far too cheerful after that comment. "You must be mistaking us for someone else." He approached the counter wearing a toothpaste-commercial smile. "I’ve decided it’s time to turn my life around. Fresh air, exercise, sustainability.”
The mechanic stared at him in silence, not entirely convinced.
Dazai cleared his throat. “Anyway, I’m looking for a bike that’s fast. And doesn’t kill your ass.” Then he turned to Chuuya. “You know, the ones with padded seats? Maybe even a basket in the front. I’ll put flowers in it.”
Chuuya sighed and started looking around, blatantly ignoring him.
“Gotta stay in shape, right?” Dazai went back to the shopkeeper. “What would you recommend for a young man full of motivation, ready to dive into the world of urban cycling?”
“What kind of budget are we working with?” the mechanic asked, glancing from one to the other.
“Oh, budget’s not an issue,” Dazai said breezily.
“Yes, it is!” Chuuya snapped, shooting him a murderous glare.
“Don’t mind him,” Dazai said, turning to the shopkeeper with a conspiratorial look. “He’s just jealous because he wants one too, but he’s too short to ride an adult bike.”
“I’ll kill you!”
“Try me!”
The shopkeeper let out a weary sigh, visibly annoyed by the two loud teenagers who had barged into his store minutes before closing. He showed them a few bikes, and Dazai took all the time in the world to try every single one. He climbed onto the saddles with grave ceremony, tested the grip on the handlebars, rocked back and forth to assess the setup. On one of them, he even rang the bell with a dead-serious expression.
By the time he finally settled on a beige bike with black detailing — “elegant but not pretentious,” he declared — the shop was just about to close. He settled for the bell it already came with and grabbed a supposedly “thief-proof” lock at the last minute, even though both of them knew Dazai could crack it open in under thirty seconds if he wanted to.
When it came time to pay, Dazai surprised Chuuya by pulling out Mori’s wallet.
“Thank god I don’t have to spend a single yen on you,” Chuuya muttered, arms crossed.
They barely made it out the door before the shopkeeper pulled down the shutter, possibly afraid they’d change their minds and come back to bother him again. Outside, evening had nearly fallen.
“I don’t feel like risking traffic in the prime of my youth. Will you give me a lift?”
“Get on and hold tight. If you fall, I’m not stopping.”
“Treat my baby well. I’ll need to name her.”
“Yeah, yeah, shut that mouth already.”
Dazai hopped onto the rear rack and grabbed Chuuya’s sides, resting his chin on his shoulder with zero shame. The bike jolted forward with a sharp push of the pedals, and they sped off into the cold evening, swallowed by city lights and the soft hum of tires on asphalt.
New Year's Eve
(Start of their eighteenth year)
Dazai’s excitement for the new bike had lasted exactly three days. Just like everything else that managed to catch his attention: it was rare for him to feel any real urge to pursue a hobby — or any kind of passion — for more than a short while. Except bothering Chuuya: that, apparently, was a pastime without end.
He had spent the evening counting down the last ten seconds of the year in the middle of a shouting crowd, with Tachihara and Gin by his side. Akutagawa had stayed home, refusing to even entertain the idea of walking through the chaos of New Year’s Eve.
Dazai, meanwhile, was holed up in that festering box of diseases he called home — still a container — and although he’d said he’d join them later, Chuuya seriously doubted it.
Not that he really cared Dazai wasn’t there with them. And yet, at the same time, there was that strange feeling again — the kind that tightened in his chest in a way that was annoyingly familiar — at the thought of Dazai spending New Year’s alone.
“Maybe we should take him home,” Gin said, holding Tachihara up with one arm. The boy was leaning heavily on her, visibly unsteady after drinking too much.
“Call Hirotsu and have him pick you two up.”
“You’re not coming with us?”
“Nah. Think I’ll walk home.”
“Mm,” Gin replied, not sounding convinced. Like she already suspected where he was actually headed.
After saying goodbye to them, he headed to the last place anyone would’ve expected to find him on a holiday. He knocked on the metal door, counting silently to fifteen — the time frame Dazai had once told him he’d open within; if he didn’t, it meant he was either dead or passed out. On the thirteenth second, the door creaked open. Only Dazai’s nose peeked through, already shivering from the cold air.
“Go away. I’m in the middle of something important.”
Chuuya raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”
The door opened a bit more, just enough to give him a view of the floor.
“I built a cockroach racetrack out of chopsticks. We’re at the semifinals.”
Silence. "...Are you serious?"
"They're racing right now. Buster's in the lead, but Shinsuke’s got a good grip on the turns."
Chuuya stared at him. "You named the cockroaches?"
"Only the ones worthy of the podium."
"This place could start, like, ten global pandemics." He pushed Dazai aside and stepped into the container, wrinkling his nose at the stench of a space left shut for too long, full of bugs and discarded food wrappers. "Come on, let’s go out."
"No. I placed a bet against myself and I’m winning."
"Dazai."
"I don’t feel like it, Chuuya. Please, okay?"
Chuuya’s eyes widened at that word: please. He tried another tactic. “We’ll stay out just a little, then you can crash at my place. This dump is disgusting. We should do what we did last time and let the Boss call in a cleaning crew to disinfect everything. I’m not getting scabies because of you.”
“And I get to play that new video game all night?”
“Only if you keep the sound off.”
Dazai grabbed his coat in a flash. “You’ve convinced me. Come on, let’s go celebrate another glorious year of me being alive!”
Chuuya smacked him on the back of the head to shut him up as he pulled the container door shut behind them.
They disappeared into the crowd, under the hanging lanterns and past steaming takoyaki stalls, weaving between kids bundled in coats two sizes too big. Midnight had long passed, but the city was still wide awake, and every so often, distant fireworks burst above the harbor.
The Iseyama Kotai Shrine was lit by torches and warm lanterns, and the only sounds were footsteps on the damp grass and coins dropping into the offering boxes. Chuuya stopped at a small stall and, after paying 200 yen — one for himself and one for Dazai — pulled out a slender wooden stick. In return, the miko-san handed him an omikuji (Note: a Japanese fortune slip, ranked from daikichi = great luck to daikyo = great misfortune).
When Dazai received his own slip of paper, he unfolded it and read the prediction for the new year.
“What is it?” Chuuya asked, catching the disappointed look on his face.
“Daikyo,” Dazai muttered. “Great misfortune. It says: An imminent change. Step away from what you know. A loved one will be left behind.”
“Maybe it was meant for me. Doomed to have you around for even longer.”
Dazai smiled, folded the slip, and tucked it into his pocket instead of tying it to a pine branch like tradition would have it.
“What about yours?” he asked.
Chuuya shrugged. “Shokichi: small blessing. Says: If you remain steadfast, you will receive what is rightfully yours. Do not trust those who avoid eye contact.”
The crowd kept flowing around them. Children were laughing. A girl was blowing warm air into her boyfriend’s hands to heat them up.
Dazai was still staring at the spot where the omikuji container had been.
Chuuya nudged him lightly with his elbow. “Hey. Whatever bullshit that slip says, you don’t have to believe it.”
Dazai nodded, but didn’t answer.
They had left the shrine’s courtyard a few minutes earlier, walking down the path that led to the road. On either side, food stalls lined the way, lit by hanging lamps and filled with the warm scent of street food.
Dazai walked with his hands stuffed in his pockets, eyes drifting from one stall to the next, more out of boredom than hunger. Chuuya, on the other hand, seemed more focused: he stopped in front of a stall selling amazake, ordered two cups, and handed one to Dazai.
“My treat. For your great misfortune.”
“Did you poison it?”
“No, but I wish I had.” He rummaged through the inside pocket of his coat, hesitated, then huffed. “Here.”
Dazai looked at him, then down at the small box he was being offered. “What is it?”
“Open it.”
Dazai obeyed. He set the cup down on the bench beside him and lifted the lid. Inside was a small, glossy black bicycle bell, with a little mackerel painted on it.
Chuuya watched as he picked it up between his fingers. He’d prepared that gift with the intention of laughing about it, or maybe insulting him if he started making a scene. But now, seeing him like that, with that surprised and almost shy expression, something tightened in his chest. He wasn’t sure what it was, but it was annoying.
He realized he wanted to see Dazai smile like that again, and again, and again. And it was in that moment — with a warm drink in hand and winter air on his skin — that the doubt struck him. Clear, direct, undeniable: maybe I have feelings for him.
And that realization hit harder than he would’ve liked.
“…You got me a present?”
Chuuya looked away, craning his neck like he was checking the crowd. “It’s just a bell.”
“Chuuya…”
“If you don’t like it, throw it away.”
“No!” Dazai said, quicker than he meant to, clutching it tightly in his palm. “I like it!”
Chuuya gave a crooked half-smile, then ran a hand over the back of his neck, like he was trying to brush away the awkwardness. “There. I kept my promise, even if it’s not a whole bike.”
Once they finished their drinks and the crowd slowly began to thin out, they started walking back to Chuuya’s place, letting the quiet of the city settle around them.
“When spring comes…” Chuuya continued, “we could go riding sometimes. You need the practice. I don’t want a partner who’s gone soft.” His voice was the usual, but there was something else in his tone. As if it wasn’t really about the cycling. As if, in that small offer, there was a stubborn wish to keep spending time together.
Dazai smiled, really smiled, this time. “Alright. Then next year, we come back here. I’ll pull another omikuji and show you that whole bad luck thing was bullshit.”
Chuuya let out a short laugh, more breath than sound. “I’ll hold you to that.”
Their silhouettes disappeared into the crowd, footsteps in sync, like they still had all the time in the world.
But they would never return to that shrine together. And next year, Chuuya would read his omikuji alone, heart clenched against the chill of a winter that felt like it would never end.