Chapter Text
It began with death.
A solitary ability user breathed his last, leaving behind only a rumor, instead of a heir or legacy. A whisper traveled through the sewers and back alleys of the underground like a spark on a fuse: Five hundred billion yen.
That was the prize. A fortune vast enough to buy nations or crown a new king of the night.
Yokohama fractured overnight. The rumor tore the leash off every hungry dog in the underworld, turning a tenuous peace into a feverish gold rush.
The Port Mafia, usually the undisputed rulers of the dark, found their supremacy challenged. The Gelhart Security Service brought heavy military weaponry to the streets, while the Takasekai mobilized their forces to seize the throne.
They were joined by a swarm of scavengers. Zealots from the Bishop's Staff preached salvation through gunfire, competing with the assassins of the Shadow Blade and the contraband merchants of the KK Company.
Then came the overseas threat—Strain—bringing a ruthless efficiency that turned the city streets into slaughterhouses.
The nights in Yokohama ceased to be silent. The air grew thick with the smell of cordite and the iron tang of blood. Civilians boarded up their windows, praying for a dawn that seemed increasingly distant.
Police sirens wailed uselessly against the unnatural sounds of Ability combat. The city had become a gladiatorial arena where the only law was survival.
The hunt for the fortune had begun. As the sun set on the first day of the conflict, the bodies began to pile.
Chuuya slumped onto the cushions of his couch, the springs creaking in protest under his weight. It was a shitty piece of furniture, battered and second-hand, but it fit the rest of the room.
He tilted his head back, staring at the stained ceiling. A year ago, the floorboards above him would have been vibrating with the thud of heavy footsteps or the screech of a rock record. Albatross had lived in the unit directly upstairs. Now, the silence was heavy, settling like dust in the corners of the room.
It had been a little less than a year since they died. Since the Flags were wiped out.
Chuuya scoffed at the quiet, grabbing a pen from the wobbly coffee table. He forced his focus onto the stack of papers spread out over his lap: racing forms for the weekend derby. His current assignment was manipulating the odds, ensuring the Mafia got their cut and the payouts went to the right pockets.
I’m not lonely, he told himself, aggressively circling a horse named 'Red Phantom'. I’m just bored. There’s a difference.
He couldn't afford to worry about people that were not there anymore. He had a meeting with one of the race track owners in two hours to discuss "protection fees."
He tossed the pen down, stretching his neck until it cracked. His mind, traitorously, wandered to the arcade downtown. He hadn’t been in a week. Maybe he should drag that cheating beanpole down there later. He still needed to beat Dazai’s high score on the fighting game. The bastard definitely used a glitch last time.
Speak of the devil. His phone buzzed on the armrest.
Chuuya picked it up, scowling at the caller ID. Mackerel.
He flipped it open and pressed it to his ear. "What do you want?"
"So cold, Chuuya," Dazai’s voice drawled, tinny through the speaker. "And here I am, calling out of the goodness of my heart."
"You don't have a heart," Chuuya muttered. "If you’re calling to complain about your suicide attempt failing again, I’m hanging up."
"Cruel. But no," Dazai said, his tone dropping slightly, sounding conspiratorial. "Mori-san just summoned the executives. All of them. Even Kouyou-san."
Chuuya paused. An all-executive summons wasn't common. "So? What’s that got to do with me? I’m not an executive."
"Don't you want the juicy details?" Dazai asked, hearing the hum of amusement in his voice. "I’m privy to the gossip, you know. I could share."
"You’re so shallow," Chuuya scoffed. "Don't you have actual work to do? Like that stack of paperwork Hirotsu-san has been chasing you about for three days?"
"Paperwork is for people who don't contribute to the organization with their genius intellect," Dazai dismissed. "Come on, chibi. I’m bored. The atmosphere in HQ is stifling. Everyone is running around like headless chickens."
Chuuya rolled his eyes, though the tension in his shoulders eased slightly. "I have a meeting later."
"Skip it. This is more important."
"It’s my job, idiot."
"Meet me at our spot," Dazai cut in, ignoring the protest. "Ten minutes. If you’re late, I’m leaving without telling you anything."
The line went dead before Chuuya could argue.
He stared at the phone for a second, then snapped it shut. "Bastard."
He tossed the racing forms onto the floor, grabbed his jacket, and headed for the door.
The walk to Sankeien Garden gave Chuuya too much time to think, which was never a good thing when it concerned Dazai.
It was a contradiction that irritated him to no end. They spent half their time threatening to kill each other and the other half glued to one another’s sides. Even before Chuuya lost his friends, again, Dazai had been a constant annoyance. And now, even though Dazai had his own drinking buddies—that stiff guy with the glasses and the older one, Oda—he still pestered Chuuya.
And Chuuya, like an idiot, still showed up.
He shoved his hands into his pockets, navigating the gravel path toward the inner garden. They had found this place by accident a few months back. Kouyou-san had sent them on a ridiculous errand to handle a dispute at one of the high-end brothels she managed. Afterward, trying to avoid reporting back immediately, they had wandered in here.
They had found a solitary bench near the lotus pond. They had sat there for two hours, bickering about everything from arcade games to the best way to break a wrist. Surprisingly, it hadn't been miserable. Since then, whenever things got too much, for either of them, they ended up here.
Chuuya rounded the corner and spotted the bench.
Dazai was already there. He was leaning back, staring out at the water, his posture deceptively relaxed. He wasn't wearing that ridiculous oversized black coat for once, just a white button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
For a split second, Chuuya thought he looked... pretty.
He immediately locked this thought away in a box deep, deep, in his mind. Get a grip.
He crunched purposefully across the gravel. Dazai didn't turn, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward.
Dazai lifted a hand, shielding his visible eye as he scanned the horizon, deliberately looking over Chuuya’s head. "Oh? I heard footsteps. How weird. I can't seem to see anyone." He squinted theatrically. "Unless the intruder is microscopic! Is it a fairy? A very angry, gravity-manipulating garden gnome?"
Chuuya didn't break stride. He walked right up to the bench and delivered a sharp, calculated kick to Dazai’s shin.
"Ow!" Dazai yelped, clutching his leg and curling in on himself like a very long dying spider. "Violence! Unprovoked violence against a cripple! You broke the bone, Chuuya, I felt it snap!"
"I didn't break anything, you big baby," Chuuya spat, sitting down on the empty space beside him. "Though I should have aimed for your head."
Dazai peered up at him through his bangs, the pain vanishing from his face instantly. "You’re so cruel to your partner. Since you injured me, you should take responsibility." He pointed a finger at his shin. "Kiss it better?"
"I'd rather drink acid," Chuuya said, his face heating up with sheer annoyance. "You are absolutely disgusting."
Dazai let out a long theatrical sigh, leaning back against the bench. He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. "You say I'm disgusting, Chuuya, but you certainly didn't seem to think so last month. If I recall correctly, you were quite enthusiastic. We can repeat it if you want."
Chuuya stiffened.
They didn't talk about it. That was the rule. The unspoken law regarding The Thing. Whatever happened between them when the adrenaline spiked too high.
For a second, the memory of a cramped safe house hallway flashed behind his eyelids. The friction of Dazai’s suit trousers against his leather pants. Dazai’s cold hands slipping under his shirt. The desperate rhythm of them grinding against each other while Dazai’s mouth devoured his. They hadn't gone all the way. It was just heavy kissing and hands wandering beneath waistbands, but the memory made the back of Chuuya's neck burn.
He shook the memory off. He refused to be flustered by Dazai.
"If you want to use your mouth for something," Chuuya snapped, keeping his voice dangerously low, "make it useful. Tell me what you heard and what's got to do with me."
Dazai hummed, watching Chuuya’s reaction with a satisfied smirk before letting his expression smooth out.
"I may have lingered near the door during the summons," Dazai said, examining his fingernails. "It’s a mess. A beautiful, chaotic mess. Someone died and left behind a fortune. Five hundred billion yen, to be precise."
Chuuya raised an eyebrow. "Five hundred billion?"
"Every organization in the city is mobilizing, as well as some from abroad," Dazai continued, his tone bored. "Mori-san intends to deploy multiple Port Mafia fronts. Not just to defend our territory, but to seize the advantage. He wants that money,” he paused for a beat, as if weighing whether to share the next part. “However, I heard the Special Division for Unusual Powers is involved. I suspect Mori-san’s interest lies with them more than the cash."
Chuuya leaned back, digesting the information. He looked out at the pond, a slow, predatory grin tugging at his mouth.
He wasn't worried. The politics were Dazai’s playground. A city-wide conflict meant strong enemies.
"So it's a war," Chuuya murmured. He cracked his knuckles. "Good. It’s been a while since anyone gave me a real workout. Those small-fry gangs lately have been boring as hell."
He glanced sideways at Dazai. "Does this mean I'm stuck with you until this blows over?"
Dazai made a face, looking genuinely pained. "Worse. A little bird told me we aren't just being deployed together. We’re being put into a team." He shuddered visibly. "Working with you is bad enough, but having to herd a group of subordinates? It’s going to be a nightmare."
"Subordinates." The word sat heavy in his gut.
It triggered a split reaction in his gut. On one hand, he knew how to lead. He had been the King of the Sheep, after all. He knew how to organize a formation, how to inspire loyalty, and how to keep people alive. Mostly. He aspired to be the kind of leader men would follow into hell.
On the other hand, a team was just another opportunity for absolute failure. Another chance to watch people under his command bleed out while he stood helpless.
But looking at Dazai, who was currently trying to balance a pebble on his knee with an air of detached boredom, Chuuya knew the answer. Between the two of them, he had to be the one to lead. He trusted Dazai with his life, in the literal, bloody sense of the word. But with other people’s lives? Dazai viewed subordinates as numbers. Chuuya viewed them as people.
"Who’s in this squad?" Chuuya asked, kicking at the gravel. "And more importantly, who’s leading it?"
Dazai let the pebble fall. He turned to Chuuya, a mocking pity in his gaze. "Well, surely not you, Chuuya. A tiny, angry slug like Chuuya-chan doesn't exactly create the visual of a threatening commander. You aren't imposing enough. The enemies would just think you're the mascot."
"Hah?" Chuuya bristled. "And you are? Look at you. You’re a lanky beanpole with noodle arms, covered in bandages like a clumsy oaf who fell down a flight of stairs. You look like you'd snap in half in a moderately windy day."
"I possess a mysterious aura of dread!" Dazai protested, poking a long finger into Chuuya’s cheek. "You just possess a lot of hot air and—ow!"
Chuuya snapped his teeth, biting down hard on Dazai’s finger.
Dazai yanked his hand back, shaking it wildly. "Rabies! I’m going to get rabies! You bad, bad chihuahua!"
"Don't poke me then," Chuuya muttered, though the bite lacked real malice.
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. His heart was beating a little faster than usual, thumping against his ribs. It wasn't anger. It was... relief. After the last few weeks of seeing Dazai haunting the headquarters like a walking corpse, seeing him act like a brat, like the seventeen-year-old he actually was, felt strangely soothing.
He put a cigarette between his lips and flicked his lighter.
"Gimme one," Dazai said, abandoning his dramatic injury act instantly.
Chuuya rolled his eyes but shook another one out of the pack. He waited for Dazai to take it, then leaned in, cupping his hand around the flame to light Dazai’s. For a moment, the only sound was the crackle of burning tobacco.
"How do you know all this, anyway?" Chuuya asked, exhaling a cloud of gray smoke. "The war, the team."
Dazai took a drag, his expression unreadable. "I have eyes in places I maybe shouldn't."
Chuuya scoffed. He hated when Dazai played the mysterious information broker card, acting like he was older and wiser than he had any right to be. But he let it slide.
"So? The team," Chuuya pressed.
"Six guys," Dazai said, tapping ash onto the gravel. "All gruff types from the lower divisions. I didn't catch all the names, but I know two of them. Inamori and Sugiro."
Chuuya frowned, searching his memory. The names rattled around until they clicked into place.
"The twins?" Chuuya asked. "Inamori and Sugiro... yeah, I know them. Early twenties, I think. I’ve had drinks with them a few times after collection runs."
They were decent guys. Loud, a bit rough around the edges, but they paid their tabs and didn't start fights they couldn't finish. They might actually be... nice to work with.
"What do you think of them?" Chuuya asked aloud, before his filter could catch up.
Dazai blinked. His visible eye widened slightly, a flicker of genuine surprise crossing his face. He stared at Chuuya for a beat too long, as if trying to process that Chuuya had actually asked for his opinion on personnel.
"I've never worked with them," Dazai said slowly, recovering his composure. "But they are familiar with Odasaku."
"Oda?"
"Odasaku thinks they’re good enough," Dazai said, looking back at the pond. "He says they aren't exactly the intellectual types. Don't expect them to solve riddles. But they’re strong. Good shooters, loyal. Useful for a war."
Chuuya frowned, the cigarette tasting bitter on his tongue. He hated that detached tone Dazai used, the one that reduced living, breathing human beings to mere pawns in a scheme.
"Dazai, they are people," Chuuya said, his voice hardening. "Not your playthings you can discard at will. You can't just—"
Dazai stood up abruptly, cutting him off. He fished his cellphone from his pocket, staring at the screen with feigned panic. "Oh no, slug! We will have to cut this incredibly pleasant conversation short. Hirotsu-san is calling me."
He flipped the phone open and brought it to his ear, turning away before Chuuya could get another word in. But he didn't walk far enough. In fact, Chuuya was fairly certain he was speaking loudly on purpose.
"Yes, Hirotsu-san!" Dazai chirped, his voice carrying across the quiet garden. "The briefing? Now? Ugh, do I have to? I’m in the middle of... deep contemplation."
He paused, listening to the other end, then slumped his shoulders in exaggerated defeat. "Fine, fine. I’ll be there. No, I haven't seen Chuuya-kun." He emphasized the honorific with a sickeningly sweet tone that made Chuuya’s eye twitch. "But if I cross him somewhere, I'll let him know. Yes, yes. Goodbye."
Dazai snapped the phone shut and turned back, his expression blank. "Work calls. Let's go."
Chuuya scoffed, stomping out his cigarette on the gravel. "Don't call me that, you bandage-wasting mummy."
"Move your legs, Chibi. War awaits."
By Day eight, the novelty of the conflict had thoroughly worn off.
Their assignment was straightforward: break into the Bishop's Staff hideouts, collect information on their attack plans, formations, and ability users, and secure anything that could give the Port Mafia an advantage.
The secondary order was simpler. Eliminate absolutely everyone they encountered. No questions asked.
It was gruesome work. Way less fun than the challenge Chuuya had anticipated. There was no glory in it, just a repetitive cycle: invade, collect, and eliminate. These people were religious leaders, for fuck's sake. Granted, they were religious leaders armed with automatic weapons who preached salvation through violence, but it still left a bad taste in his mouth.
The only thing that made it bearable—and the thing that annoyed Chuuya the most—was how damn well he and Dazai worked together.
It was flawless. It was infuriating. They bickered constantly, they couldn't agree on how to open a door, but the second the violence started, they moved like a single organism. Dazai predicted the enemy's panic, and Chuuya was there to crush it before it formed. No words, no signals. Just pure, terrifying efficiency. It was the most amazing feeling in the world, and Chuuya absolutely hated that it was Dazai who gave it to him.
The squad Dazai had promised, or threatened, had materialized. Besides the two of them and the twins, Inamori and Sugiro, the team was a motley crew of Mafia toughs.
There were Hirano and Natsume, two rejected candidates from the Black Lizard. They had failed the entrance evaluation not because they were weak, but because they lacked the finesse required for stealth ops. They were brutes, pure and simple, who came alive only when it was time for the killing to start.
Then there were the martial artists, reassigned from brothel security detail. Jian Yi, a distinctively Chinese quiet man who moved with terrifying silence, and Kaoru, a guy almost as thin as Dazai but who was apparently a black belt in karate.
They were currently crouched in the shadows of a back alley, staring up at the stained glass windows of a repurposed chapel.
"Should we really be ok with invading a church?" Hirano whispered, shifting his weight. The floorboards of the porch creaked under his heavy boots. "Isn't it blasphemous or something?"
"Yeah," Inamori and Sugiro replied in perfect unison, checking the magazines of their handguns.
Dazai, leaning against the brick wall near the entrance, rolled his visible eye so hard it looked painful. He refused to answer, clearly finding the repetitive moral dilemma boring.
Chuuya secretly understood the annoyance. It wasn't their first time doing this—they had hit three other locations in the last two days, and Hirano asked the same question every time. But as the leader, Chuuya couldn't just ignore them.
"Come on, guys," Chuuya said, keeping his voice low but firm. He adjusted his gloves. "It doesn't really matter. We do what we have to and go home."
The advantage of being small, a fact Chuuya would usually kill someone for pointing out, was that he could fit into places where grown men would get stuck.
While Dazai remained outside with the rest of the team, playing commander, Chuuya slipped through a rusted ventilation grate at the building's foundation. Kaoru and Jian Yi followed close behind, moving with the silent grace of disciplined martial artists.
The air inside the crawlspace was stale, smelling of wet earth and old incense. They navigated a series of narrow service tunnels that ran directly beneath the main hall, likely used for maintenance back when this place was a legitimate house of worship. Now, the dust vibrated with the sound of shuffling boots above.
They reached the end of the line: a wooden lattice directly beneath the raised pulpit.
Chuuya peered through the slats. The main hall wasn't guarding a skeleton crew.
It was packed.
Rows of pews were filled not with worshippers, but with soldiers cleaning assault rifles, checking ammunition crates, and sharpening knives. The Bishop's Staff were mobilizing for a full-scale offensive.
Beside him, Jian Yi stared up at the sea of enemies and whispered, "Gǎo shén me guǐ."
Chuuya didn't speak Chinese, but the tone was universal. What the fuck.
What the fuck indeed, he thought grimly.
He tapped his earpiece, keeping his voice to a bare breath. "Dazai, guess your intel was shit. The place is packed. They’re gearing up for a raid."
Static crackled in his ear, followed by Dazai’s cheerful, infuriatingly clear voice. "Oh? Are they? That makes things more interesting."
"It makes it a slaughter," Chuuya hissed. "There are at least fifty of them in the main hall alone. We’re going to need the rest of the team in here, now."
"You're late to the party, Chuuya," Dazai drawled. "I already gave the order. The twins and the brutes moved into position three minutes ago."
Chuuya bristled. "Then why didn't you tell me? Fuck off."
"Maybe later," Dazai replied smoothly. "I know you have the stamina for it. But right now, you might want to cover your ears."
Chuuya ignored the heat rising in his neck, though he begrudgingly admitted the bastard had a point. If this went well, he was going to need to wind down. They both would.
He turned to his two companions. The time for stealth was gone.
"Change of plans," Chuuya whispered, locking eyes with them in the gloom. "Kaoru, you're with me. We draw their fire and keep them busy." He turned to Jian Yi. "You stay hidden. While chaos breaks loose, find the intel. Maps, ledgers, anything that looks important. Don't engage unless you have to."
Both men nodded, their expressions hardening.
"Dazai," Chuuya said into the comms. "We're in position beneath the pulpit. What’s the signal?"
"Wait for the boom," Dazai chirped. "I had Natsume plant a few smoke bombs at the side exits. They should be going off in... three, two..."
The ground shook.
A dull thump reverberated through the foundation, followed immediately by the sound of shattering glass and confused shouting from the hall above.
"Showtime," Chuuya grinned.
He didn't bother with the stairs. He activated his ability, feeling the familiar crimson glow wrap around his skin. He compressed the gravity of the floorboards above him until they splintered, then reversed the vector, launching himself upward like a cannonball.
Wood exploded outward. Chuuya burst through the pulpit floor, debris raining down around him as he landed in a crouch directly in front of the stunned enemy commander.
"Good evening, father," Chuuya drawled, standing up and cracking his knuckles. "I'm here for confession."
The "father" didn't have time to answer. Chuuya didn't give him the chance.
With a flick of his wrist, Chuuya increased the gravity around the man tenfold. The commander crumbled instantly, slamming face-first into the floorboards with a wet crunch that was audible even over the chaos erupting around them.
"Amen," Chuuya muttered.
Then, hell broke loose.
The side doors burst open as Hirano, Natsume, and the twins flooded in, guns blazing. The smoke from the charges Natsume had planted filled the air, turning the sanctuary into a gray, choking haze lit only by the muzzle flashes of automatic rifles.
Chuuya moved. He was a blur of black and red, vaulting over pews and using the debris as projectiles. He was used to fighting alone, used to unleashing the full, destructive weight of his ability without holding back. But today, he had to be careful. He had to keep his gravity vectors tight, ensuring he didn't accidentally crush Inamori or flatten Hirano while taking out the Bishop’s Staff soldiers.
"Three on your right, Chibi," Dazai’s voice crackled in his ear, sounding bored, as if he were commenting on the weather rather than a firefight. "And try to look less like a flailing octopus when you kick. It’s embarrassing."
"Shut up!" Chuuya barked, ducking under a spray of bullets before roundhouse kicking a soldier into the choir loft. "I’m a little busy!"
"Watch your six. Sniper in the balcony."
Chuuya didn't question it. He dropped flat immediately. A bullet whizzed through the space where his head had been a millisecond before.
"Thanks," Chuuya grunted, launching a fractured piece of a pew upward to crush the sniper against the ceiling.
"Don't thank me yet. One of the twins is in trouble. Sugiro, I think."
Chuuya’s head snapped toward the altar. Through the smoke, he saw Sugiro stumble, clutching his upper arm. Blood seeped through his fingers—a graze, but a nasty one.
Chuuya grit his teeth, ready to intervene, but a shadow moved faster than him.
Kaoru surged forward. The martial artist didn't shout or waste movement. He closed the distance to the shooter in two strides and delivered a single, devastating chop to the throat. The gunman dropped like a stone, silent. Kaoru immediately grabbed Sugiro by the collar, dragging him behind the cover of a marble statue.
Chuuya let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. Good. They can handle themselves.
The conflict dragged on. It felt like hours of relentless noise, a chaotic blur of screaming men and the deafening rattle of gunfire. But when the last body hit the floor, Chuuya realized it couldn't have been more than thirty minutes.
The silence that followed was heavier than the noise. The air smelled of sulfur and blood, heavy breathing the only sound that could be heard.
Chuuya stood amidst the wreckage, wiping a smear of blood—not his own—from his cheek. He pressed a hand to his earpiece. "Dazai. Status on Jian Yi? Did he get the data?"
"Jian Yi is already outside," Dazai replied. "He brought some very interesting souvenirs. Stacks of papers, three briefcases, and a couple of encrypted pendrives. A good haul."
"And the inside is clear," Chuuya said, looking around at the groaning, incapacitated bodies of the survivors. "We're done here."
"Not quite," Dazai said. The playfulness was gone from his voice. "Now it's my turn."
The double doors at the main entrance creaked open.
Dazai walked in. He stepped over the debris and the bodies with a casual, almost floaty gait, his hands stuffed deep into his pockets.
As he crossed the threshold into the main sanctuary, Chuuya saw him stiffen. It was minute—a twitch in his shoulders, a slight hesitation in his step—as if the atmosphere of the church physically repelled him. But it was gone in an instant, smoothed over so quickly Chuuya wondered if he’d imagined it.
My eyes are playing tricks on me, Chuuya reasoned, rubbing his temple. I'm the one who's tired.
Dazai stopped in the center of the room. He didn't look at Chuuya. He didn't look at the team. He looked at the few Bishop's Staff members who were still conscious, bleeding out on the floor.
"Inamori, Hirano, Natsume," Dazai said softly. His voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the room like a razor. "Tie those three up. The ones by the altar."
The men moved instantly, sensing the shift in the air.
Chuuya leaned against a shattered pew, watching. He saw the change happen. It wasn't a physical transformation, but something in Dazai’s visible eye died. The annoying, childish glint that usually danced in his iris vanished completely.
What remained was complete emptiness. You wouldn't know what he was thinking even if you tried extensively to.
Dazai approached the prisoners, tilting his head to the side like a curious bird examining a worm it was about to dissect. He had slipped into the persona that terrified even the hardened veterans of the Mafia. The Demon Prodigy.
"Well then," Dazai smiled, but the expression didn't reach his eye. "Let's ask them why they were in such a hurry to die, shall we?"
The walk back to the Port Mafia headquarters was a blur of exhaustion and adrenaline crash. By the time they reached Dazai’s office, the silence between them was thick enough to choke on.
Chuuya kicked the door shut behind him, leaning back against the wood and letting out a long, shuddering exhale. His muscles felt like anchors weighing him down, but there was a lightness in his chest that hadn't been there when they left.
"The team did good," Chuuya murmured, dragging a hand through his hair. "Better than I thought. Hirano didn't freeze up, and the twins held their ground. I'm... relieved."
He glanced at Dazai, expecting a snarky comment or a complaint about the quality of their subordinates.
Instead, Dazai was already at his desk, ignoring him completely. He had thrown his coat onto a chair and was flipping through the stack of bloodstained papers Jian Yi had retrieved. His eyes were scanning the lines with a manic intensity, that cold, hollow look from the church still lingering on his face.
"Oi," Chuuya pushed off the door, frowning. "You shouldn't be reading those. We have orders to give intel directly to the Boss. Sealed."
Dazai didn't look up. "Mori-san can feel free to punish me afterwards. I don't care."
"It’s the rules, Dazai," Chuuya stepped closer, his irritation rising. "Don't be an idiot. If there's something sensitive in there—"
"You're so stiff, Chuuya," Dazai cut in, finally looking up. His lips curled into a sneer that lacked any real humor. "Always following the rules like a good little dog. You're such a kid."
Chuuya’s jaw tightened. He saw it then—the bait. Dazai was poking the bear, trying to get a rise out of him in a desperate search for anything to pierce through the numbness that had settled over him after the torture session in the church. He wanted Chuuya to lash out so he could feel something real.
Fine, Chuuya thought, a dark heat coiling in his gut. You want a reaction? I’ll give you one.
"Give me the damn papers," Chuuya growled, lunging forward.
"Make me," Dazai taunted, leaning back.
It started as a spar—Chuuya grabbing for the documents, Dazai deflecting with a sharp twist of his wrist. But within seconds, the papers were forgotten, scattering across the floor, and hands that were meant to strike turned into hands that grabbed.
Chuuya pushed Dazai back, fingers digging into the fabric of his white shirt. Dazai retaliated by yanking at Chuuya’s collar. The air in the room shifted instantly from hostile to suffocatingly hot.
Chuuya's jacket was discarded haphazardly onto the floor while shirts were unbuttoned with frantic, clumsy fingers that sent buttons popping off and rolling under the desk.
He backed Dazai against the edge of the desk, the wood creaking under the impact. He reached up, his hands surprisingly steady despite the racing of his heart and cupped Dazai’s face, his thumbs tracing the edge of the bandages that covered the right eye.
They had been partners long enough, patched each other up in safe houses and alleyways more times than Chuuya could count. He knew the map of Dazai’s scars better than he knew the streets of Yokohama.
With a gentle tug, Chuuya peeled the bandage away, letting it fall to the floor.
Dazai blinked, the exposed eye looking vulnerable and wide. Before he could make a joke, Chuuya crushed their mouths together.
They collided with a desperation that bordered on violence, tongues tangling as Dazai made a noise low in his throat—half-growl, half-whimper.
The kiss grew steamier, wetter. Dazai gripped Chuuya’s waist, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, and spun them around. He pushed Chuuya back against the desk, stepping between his spread legs to press their hips together.
Chuuya gasped into Dazai’s mouth. He could feel the heat radiating off Dazai, could feel the slight tremor in the hands that were holding him captive. Dazai was shaking. Whether from adrenaline or something else, Chuuya didn't know, and he didn't care.
"Couch," Chuuya broke the kiss to pant, his voice rough.
Dazai didn't argue. He hooked his arms under Chuuya’s knees and lifted him effortlessly. Chuuya wrapped his legs around Dazai’s waist, burying his face in the crook of Dazai’s neck as he was carried across the room.
Dazai threw him onto the leather couch, and even when Chuuya bounced against the cushions he didn't let go, dragging Dazai down with him.
They landed in a tangle of limbs. Dazai settled heavily on top of him, his thigh slotting perfectly between Chuuya’s.
They started grinding against each other, a desperate, rhythmic friction. Even through the barrier of their pants the pressure was undeniable, causing Chuuya to throw his head back and have a ragged moan tear from his throat as Dazai bucked his hips down, cock hard and heavy against Chuuya’s groin.
"Don't stop," Chuuya hissed, his hands scrabbling at Dazai’s bare back, nails dragging over the skin.
He didn't want them to stop nor did he care about the mess or if he ended up ruining his pants. The sensation was a blinding white heat that wiped away the blood and the dust from the conflict at the church.
Dazai buried his face in Chuuya’s shoulder, his breathing irregular and harsh. He matched Chuuya’s pace, grinding down with a desperation that bordered on pain.
Chuuya’s mind went blank. The tension coiled tight in his belly, snapping with a sudden, violent intensity. He came with a low, strangled moan, his hips jerking up instinctively to chase his release.
He slumped back against the cushions, panting, his body trembling with the aftershocks.
A moment later, Dazai went rigid above him. He let out a sharp exhale against Chuuya’s skin, grinding down one, two more times before collapsing, his weight pressing Chuuya into the leather as he followed him over the edge.
Dazai collapsed, dropping his full dead weight onto Chuuya with an exaggerated exhale. He didn't move, his face buried in the crook of Chuuya’s neck, his breathing slowly evening out.
"Ugh," Dazai mumbled against Chuuya’s skin, his voice muffled and flat. "That was disgusting, Chibi."
Chuuya snorted, pushing at Dazai’s shoulder until the other boy rolled off him and onto the leather cushions. "You're the one who’s disgusting. Get off me."
He sat up, running a hand through his mess of hair before reaching for his shirt. The air in the room was cooling rapidly, mirroring the sinking feeling in Chuuya's own chest—a cold, sinking realization of what they had just done.
"This is the last time," Chuuya muttered, buttoning his shirt with sharp, decisive movements. "I mean it. We aren't doing this again."
Dazai, currently sprawling like a starfish on the couch and staring blankly at the ceiling, didn't even blink. "Sure it will."
Chuuya grabbed his jacket, then bent down to collect the scattered intelligence reports, stacking them neatly and tapping the edges against the desk to align them.
"I'm going home to shower," Chuuya announced, his back to Dazai. "I'll drop these off to the Boss after."
Dazai didn't reply, looking as if he had already retreated into his mind, his eyes unfocused, looking at something far beyond the walls of the office.
Chuuya walked out, the door clicking shut with a finality that disturbed him.
As he navigated the corridors of the headquarters, the weight of the papers in his hand felt insignificant compared to the weight in his chest.
It’s just sex, he told himself, the sound of his footsteps matching the mantra. It’s just sex. It’s always been just sex.
His mind drifted back to the beginning. It had been desperation after they had botched a mission—badly—and Mori’s punishment had been severe. Bruised, bleeding, and trembling with the aftershocks of pain, they had found themselves in Chuuya's apartment, needing to feel something other than agony.
They had acted as a lifeline to each other in that moment, grounding themselves in the closeness and the heat, only to pretend nothing happened the following day.
It was a vicious cycle. Chuuya knew that. He was resigned to it. He hated Dazai, hated his cruelty and his endless manipulation. But he knew there was something else there, too. A tether he couldn't sever. He didn't want to analyze it or look at it too closely, for fear of what stared back.
Chuuya reached the top floor. He walked past the guards, who bowed low, and entered the Boss's office. The room was dim, lit only by the city lights outside.
He walked to the large mahogany desk and dropped the files onto the polished surface.
"Mission accomplished," Chuuya whispered to the empty room.
Chuuya stood over the bathroom sink, scrubbing his hands with a stiff-bristled brush. The skin was raw, red and irritated, but he couldn't stop.
The water swirling down the drain was clear. He knew it was clear. Yet, every time he blinked, he saw red.
There was so much blood. It had soaked into his gloves, into the very lines of his palms, to the point he felt he would never be able to wash it out again. The smell of copper and cordite had become a permanent perfume, clinging to him no matter how many times he showered.
He turned off the tap and stared at his reflection. Dark circles bruised the skin under his eyes.
The war had become a grinder, chewing up the city and spitting out bodies. But amidst the carnage, there was one thing Chuuya hadn't expected: he had come to appreciate his team.
The twins, Inamori and Sugiro, were reliable. Hirano and Natsume, despite their lack of finesse, were loyal shields. Even the quiet martial artists had proven their worth. They had formed a grim camaraderie, forged in the fires of constant combat. They had even developed a habit of grabbing drinks together after successful raids—cheap whiskey in dive bars where they could be loud and alive for a few hours.
Dazai never joined them.
He had his own drinking buddies, Chuuya knew. He disappeared into the shadows of Bar Lupin, presumably to complain about life with that guy Oda and the one with the glasses. Chuuya didn't ask, and Dazai didn't invite him.
But they still had their moments.
Chuuya left his apartment, the night air biting against his damp skin. He didn't head to the bar this time. He headed to Sankeien Garden.
Dazai was there, as he always was, sitting on the bench by the lotus pond. The conflict hadn't spared him either; he looked thinner, his hair greasier, the aura of exhaustion clinging to him like a shroud.
Chuuya sat down next to him, leaving a respectable distance between them. For a long time, they just watched the moon reflect on the dark water.
"How long do you think this is going to last?" Chuuya mused aloud, his voice raspy. He wasn't really asking for intel, just voicing the exhaustion that sat heavy in his bones.
Dazai didn't look at him. He picked up a pebble and tossed it into the pond, shattering the reflection of the moon.
"It won't end soon," Dazai said softly.
Chuuya leaned back, closing his eyes. He knew Dazai was right.
The nightmare was just beginning.