Work Text:
“ Dark remorse, always lingering remorse,
Filled with stupid laughter, my past
soon became tearful darkness,
soon became deep-rooted fatigue.So now, from morning to night,
I have no life beyond endurance. ”
— The Tree Shade, Nakahara Chūya
It is late.
It is the type of late where the darkness is thick enough to touch. Yokohoma is a city of clearly defined territories, which means whatever nightlife there is to be found is strictly boxed and managed on the opposite side from the port. There are no residents here; only a rotting wharf in need of replacement, the sound of disturbed water, a few antsy, constantly shifting footsteps. It is enough to take someone out of their own body, daydreaming in that mystical, entranced way of someone watching a fire from a safe distance: certainly there’s danger ahead, but it won’t touch you for a while yet.
Chuuya’s hat makes an ambitious attempt to hide his hair from the moonlight, keeping it from catching the light. He holds it in place as a salty breeze threatens to unsettle it. “Shimazaki, how do we look?”
“They’re not too far off, Chuuya-san,” Shimazaki reports, face ducked as he fucks around with his comms. “They just passed our final checkpoint. With this wind, I’d say they’re twenty minutes from port.”
Twenty minutes. Not bad. Chuuya kicks his tongue. “We still have some time then. Anyone need a bathroom break before shit really gets started? No?”
That earns some scattered laughter. These days, it’s rare that Chuuya runs around with the same squad—he isn’t making that mistake again—so he wouldn’t say he’s overly familiar with any of the faces lined up behind him, but he can recognise some and they’re clearly comfortable enough to laugh at his jokes. That’s reassuring. Chuuya hates breaking in the newbies.
“Last chance. I better not see any of you running off to take a piss. I’ll notice.”
“We’re good, sir,” someone pipes up. “We appreciate you thinking of us.”
Chuuya snorts, checking over his shoulder for the smart-ass. He can’t see them too well (that’s the point, of course) so he just squints in the general direction he hears that voice and hopes whoever it is receives the message.
Waiting in pitch blackness for a traitor’s ship full of cargo isn’t the most exciting task for anyone; it’s important to keep morale up, even if that (and, speaking truthfully, this entire operation) could be considered way below Chuuya’s paygrade. Whatever. Akutagawa’s sick and his little protege is drowning in work as she attempts to cover for him. Chuuya’s happy to pick up the slack.
Sometime later while Chuuya is zoning out admiring the moonlight reflecting off the sea, Shimazaki reports lowly, “Target is closing in, Chuuya-san.”
“Right. Everyone, positions. Don’t screw this up or Akutagawa will have your heads.”
This time there is no laughter as a crew of thirty armed mafia members try to squeeze themselves into shadows cast by shipping containers. Chuuya stays where he is, lightly dragging his wingtips along softened wharf wood.
Their ship drifts over the horizon, lights smartly dimmed in the hopes that wandering eyes will pass over its vessel. In answer, Chuuya takes off his hat and holds it to his chest, hair aflame in the night, waving his arm with large motions. He likes to think they see him on the wharf, that even in the stretch of distance between himself and the ship, he can hear the panic and fear in their voices as they begin to catch on. Maybe they’re rallying. He can't help but hope so.
Shimazaki, again: “They’re attempting to send for back-up. Should we move to intercept the signal?”
Chuuya grins. “Nah. It isn’t like there’s anyone to receive it. Let it happen.”
Drifting closer still. A battle-tension as familiar to him as breathing settles in, blood rising, his heightened senses picking up on the shallow, focused breaths of his subordinates. He squints. A person is stepping out onto the deck with something in their arms.
Chuuya doesn’t stop to consider whether it might be a sign of surrender or the beginning of an attack. It’s not like it matters. Regardless, he already plans on giving the aberrant group one chance to turn themselves in. If they dismiss the opportunity before he can offer it, that’s even better—Chuuya really does have better things to be doing than babysitting the reclamation of stolen mafia goods.
“ Deeply autumnal, today
is like stony echoes.
I don’t even have memories;
so much less should there be dreams. ”
— Shambolic Town Elegy (to Sekiguchi Takakatsu), Nakahara Chūya
Smoke curls in the air. Chuuya watches it dissipate, staring at where it used to be with a tired, uninterested gaze. The ash builds on the end of his cigarette; Chuuya lets it burn to his fingers before stamping it out. Without pausing for a clean breath he plucks another cigarette from its case and hovers a lighter at the end. It takes one deep inhale to get it started, blowing it back out in a formless cloud. This one will be wasted too, but it doesn't matter. He’s not that idiot kid who couldn’t tell you what a loaf of bread looked like to save his life. With the money he makes, he can waste hundreds of cigarettes and buy thousands more.
Heat licks at his fingers; he grinds the butt into the concrete windowsill. The window open stays open out of necessity, half-hanging out of it as he is. He’s ruined any chance of fresh air with the incessant smoking and the view is nothing more than the side of grayscale buildings and a birds eye over Yokohama’s many alleyways, spreading venial across the city. Underneath the tobacco, he can smell sea salt and petroleum; the typical scent of a metropolitan port-side town. Chuuya rests his cheek against the sill and listens to the sounds of Yokohama for two hours. He only moves when his alarms beckon him to.
When he eventually arrives to Mori Corporation's head office, three familiar civilians are manning the reception, two of them caught up in calls. As soon as Kei and Goro catch sight of him slowly walking by, they wave eagerly, pointing exaggeratedly at the phones pressed to their ears.
Hinata, the only one who isn’t occupied with a customer, shouts out in excitement when he is close enough. “Hi, Chuuya! Did you have a good weekend?”
Chuuya gives her the answer he’s been giving for several years. “I didn’t do anything too exciting. I stayed in and watched movies.”
It’s beyond obvious that he isn’t being truthful, but she’s too nice to pry. “I’m sure you’ve watched every movie that’s been released. Like, ever.”
“I’m working on it,” Chuuya crosses his fingers. Hinata giggles and tells him about her weekend. A brief get-away with her boyfriend to his countryside home. Next weekend, she was going to make a quick trip to Tokyo with her mother to see a convention. Chuuya resists the urge to give her tips on where to shop in the city. He visits Tokyo often for work. In fact, he was there yesterday dealing with the beginning of a rebellion; snuck right into the basement of Yoshida-kai headquarters, smashed some merchandise, threw around their ability users, and so on. It’s good to refresh the memories of smaller factions, let them know that Chuuya is still around and ready to rock their shit.
He sticks around to hear how Kei and Goro spent their weekend—Goro is venturing into the professional scene with his newspaper cartoons, which is great to hear—when his watch vibrates: he has a meeting in ten minutes.
He’s not late, at least. Mori is sitting at the head of the table, his chin resting in his hand. His body is twisted to face Kouyou; she always stands beside him if she can, so Mori’s used to craning his neck to maintain a conversation. His voice is lowered as they speak, a curve to his eyes that implies he's actually enjoying their conversation.
The amusement stays on his face when Mori looks up at the interruption. “Chuuya-kun! Welcome back.”
“Boss, good to be back,” Chuuya bows. “Hey, Ane-san. What were you two laughing about when I came in?”
Kouyou smiles privately. “Just an old joke, it would take too long to explain it. Let me say that I wish you had known Ace when he first joined. You would have enjoyed it.”
Chuuya’s voice is dry. “I would have killed him,”
“Oh, certainly. That’s the enjoyable part,” Mori chuckles. “Come closer, Chuuya-kun. I didn’t see you last night, let me check on you.”
Chuuya approaches with no particular haste. When he’s near, Kouyou lays a firm hand on the back of his neck, which is as close as he’s going to get to a hug from her at his age. Mori makes him sit down and explain last night’s mission to him again, this time with more of a focus on what Chuuya’s body went through. As per Mori: “You tore down a building, Chuuya-kun. You must have pulled a muscle at the very least.”
A pulled muscle is an insulting understatement. Chuuya’s gravity manipulation is a huge strain on his body. While it’s true that his body withstands forces and density-changes that would, have, and do crush normal people to death, it’s not completely without consequence. His body aches constantly. The pain makes it a challenge to get out of bed every morning and there are many times when Chuuya couldn’t have gotten through the day without the near-illegal painkillers Mori prescribed to him. Sometimes Chuuya ignores minor injuries such as fractures or a bad spot of bruising because they’re disguised under the ever-present veil of pain that Chuuya carries around. Mori is good at keeping him aware of what his body might be hiding from him, but he likes checking himself when he can. Chuuya lets it happen because it puts the Boss in a good mood when he can flex his doctor muscles.
Apparently, Chuuya has a pulled ligament in his knee that he’s been ignoring—so what, he always has knee pain—and Mori wants him to ice that, as well as his left ankle, because it’s kind of throbbing. Mori gives him a deeply disappointed look when Chuuya reveals that he’s making thorough use of his joints despite the pain they’re giving him.
“Your back is full of knots,” Kouyou adds at the behest of no one. “I’ll let one of my girls know. Stop by when you’re done today and get a massage, okay?”
“Are you two organising a spa day for me?”
“Don’t tempt me,” says Mori, so pleasant about it that Chuuya feels uncomfortable. “You’re our best martial artist, Chuuya-kun, I need your body in perfect condition to ensure you’re able to serve the mafia to your fullest. I will do whatever is necessary to keep you healthy.” It has all the markings of a threat. “Kouyou-kun, please go ahead and let your best masseuse know to expect Chuuya-kun this afternoon.”
“Yes, Boss,” Kouyou and Chuuya say in unison. She makes it as if she’s going to sympathetically pat Chuuya on the shoulder, but she re-routes at the last minute and jabs a bulge of muscle in his back that’s been wreaking havoc on Chuuya’s sleep schedule. He bites back a shout of pain and shoots her an affronted look. She crinkles her eyes at him, and that's it—his afternoon is gone.
Kouyou's parlour is a traditional establishment deep in the bowels of the red light district. She basically owns the entire street, but luckily Chuuya knows where he needs to go. The only reason he ever visits is for their weekly pot of tea or for a massage; so without hesitation he walks past the girls waving at him from the corner, ignoring the cold noodle stall that tempts him with its fresh wares. He stops at a dark brown building that has a painting of three steaming rocks on the front tatami door: a sauna.
Kouyou isn't attending the front desk nor is she waiting for him in the building. A tanned girl standing there instead sees him and goes, "Chuuya-sama, you're early! Kouyou-sama told us to expect you this evening."
Chuuya shoves his hands in his pockets. There are about seven men hanging around in the waiting room, some of them wearing mafia black. The back of his neck itches when he considers the kind of idea they might be having about him—but even that discomfort is peanuts against the wretched state of his back. "June," He greets her quietly, "Sorry, I didn't realise I had a booked time to come in, I would have delayed myself."
June is a familiar face; she's been working at the sauna for five years now. If Chuuya stretches his mind that far he could probably remember when Kouyou first picked her up. "It's not an issue, Chuuya-sama! I'll let Yasuko-chan know you're here!"
"Ah, Yasuko's available today?" Chuuya shuffles his feet. "Was... she actually working or did Ane-san call her in for this?"
"She is your favourite," June hides a smile behind her hand.
"Yeah. Still don't wanna cut into her days off." It's not the woman's fault she's too good at her job.
"She was rostered on, don't worry! Why don't you come around to the back? You can wait in the lunch room until Yasuko finishes up. I'll make you some tea to relax. Peppermint?"
"Actually… Do you have red tea?"
June's face creases in worry. "Of course we do, Chuuya-sama, ah…" He only asks for rooibos tea when it's particularly bad. She leads him through a private staff-only door and sits him down. "Get comfy, I will—Sacchan, bring in a pillow please!—Oh, thank you. Chuuya-sama please sit on this. Your tea won't be long."
His face feels warm as he eases himself down on his cushioned chair. June busies herself preparing a pot of red tea; Chuuya sighs loudly when she pulls out Kouyou's treasured dark clay pot she received from a Chinese patron. It's really too well-made for personal use, yet June never hesitates to bust it out for Chuuya. It's embarrassing and unnecessary. Once the water is cooled down to less than boiling, June brings the full pot over with a small cup. It all clatters onto the table as she ends up stepping on the hem of her own kimono. Chuuya sighs again, "June, be careful."
She flusters quietly as she pours his tea. Since the pot is of such high quality, the sprout of water pouring out of it is completely silent as it fills his cup. "Ah, an accident, it was just an accident. Let me pass on that message to Yasuko-chan. I promise you won't be in for a long wait!"
Chuuya sips from his tea, acknowledging its taste with a quiet hum. It is delicious. "Tell her to take her time, will you?"
June gives him a disbelieving look. It is too much to expect one of the workers here would be comfortable making an executive member of the mafia wait. She bustles back out the door and leaves Chuuya to his own devices.
Chuuya stares at a wall and drinks tea. His knee wants to bounce restlessly, but he resists. Not everything in his life has to be about violence and pain and adrenaline. He can sit still for half an hour as he waits for a massage.
“ I am living like an iron bridge under a cloudy sky after rain.
I am pressed by things forever desolate.I am not completely quiet in the midst of that desolation.
I am seeking something, always seeking something
in the midst of this terrible immobility, but also terribly
impatient.
For the sake of this, my appetites and lusts are as nothing.”
— The Voice of Life, Nakahara Chūya
His weekly tea with Kouyou is an informal arrangement.
While they’re both more than capable of looking after themselves, it’s generally not safe for high-profile criminals to have a predictable routine. He visits her house if he has the time. If he does not, he is content with the knowledge that Kouyou will seek him out on her own. After nearly seven years serving the Port Mafia, he is confident by now that Kouyou would not allow a single week to pass without at least one pot of tea shared between them.
Today, she finds him.
She’s a welcome sight after a long night of shouting orders and securing buildings. Dressed as always in her autumnal kimono, she glides across the rubble and bodies as if she either can’t see them or doesn’t care. Even though they’re inside one of Yokohama’s warehouses (that are somehow rebuilding faster than the city’s unchecked organisations can destroy them), she has an oil-paper umbrella up over her head.
Chuuya smiles and walks towards her. “Ane-san! Hey, is that one new?” He asks, gesturing to her umbrella. “Don’t remember seeing the cranes before?”
She twirls it off her shoulder and spins it in his face. He can’t even see the artwork. “One of the girls painted it for me. It’s beautiful, no? I wanted to show it off.”
“What, in a place like this?”
“There’s hardly any other place available to people like us, lad,” Kouyou replies, before making a face like she regrets saying it. Of course, unlike other people when Kouyou ‘makes a face’, it is more of a nose-twitch and a general sense of uneasiness that is felt by the whole room. “I thought I would deliver the news. Mori-san looked at your schedule and declared you are free for the rest of your night, once your business is concluded here.”
Chuuya raises his eyebrows, “We’re understaffed,” he reminds her, more to see what she has prepared for that.
“As the Boss, isn’t that an issue for Mori-san to cope with? We are only executives. We have our limits.” She smiles. “I am concerned for my little brother’s mental health. Lad, you’ve barely slept or had time to unwind after work. It won’t do.”
In fact, Chuuya slept regularly and deeply during the day, usually waking just in time to catch the late-lunch specials available at his favourite cafe. On days when he is late, the waiter knows to set aside a ham-and-cheese croissant and prepares his regular order of coffee for him as soon as he walks through the door. Chuuya is definitely socialising. But that’s hardly the point.
His sister wants tea.
Chuuya will have tea.
“...You don’t have taiyaki again, do you?”
“Yes, lad. After your reaction last time to my taiyaki, naturally I went out and purchased more for you to politely eat then immediately vomit up.” Her smile has taken on a distinctly mocking undertone. His cheeks feel uncomfortably warm. “No. I have a plate of senbei prepared. Although I do cherish the memory of you throwing up like you were fifteen—”
“Ane-san…”
“—I wouldn’t ask my girls to clean up such a mess again.”
“I offered,” he defends himself. “I offered to clean it up and you told me to sit down!”
She tuts. Then moves on before he can work himself up. “Please wrap this,” an elegant gesture to the chaos happening around them, “up quickly, will you? I would dearly enjoy your company sometime this week and time is running short for it.”
A long time has passed since Chuuya was insecure enough to be humiliated by his sister’s attention, longer since he called her ugly names and she responded by calling him a dirty, ungrateful brat. The memories he has of Kouyou adoring him now outnumber the early years of his own life that he’s forgotten. He has hand-sewn quilts from her that she spent months on, just because he mentioned in passing that he couldn’t find a decent retailer to purchase a new blanket from. For him, the fact that she’s interrupted a clean-up op to announce that she misses him, and that she strong-armed their Boss into giving him time off—it’s just not embarrassing anymore. It’s nice. Usually it’s Chuuya in her place, except his efforts were the equivalent of throwing spaghetti at a wall to see what stuck, only for the wall to throw it back in his face, call him short, and blow up his car before disappearing indefinitely.
“I’ll meet you at the tearoom in fifteen.”
Kouyou, pleased, leaves him to finish his job.
It’s really nice.
There's more to his life than covert underground dealings and having his time monopolized by his sister. Chuuya has made sure of that.
Even so, he doesn’t know what he’s doing here tonight. It must be obvious. Does he give himself away, he wonders, with his urgent drinking and the constant shifting in his stool—are they put off by it? He can’t help it. It’s too crowded. It’s been four years since he put himself on display and let others dare to take their pound of flesh. He knows he doesn’t look at ease.
Chuuya tips his empty glass towards the server in a silent request. His glass is swiftly re-filled, the bartender passing through like a breeze and leaving behind no proof of his presence apart from that fresh splash of dry vintage. It’s not the best—Chuuya owns more sophisticated bottles in his cellar—but he isn’t out for quality wine.
The main goal for tonight is a distraction.
He isn’t supposed to be alone tonight.
One of his underlings, Kobayashi, wanted to go out to barbecue with everyone from the last mission to celebrate another success. It was unusual to be included, actually; you don’t usually invite your immediate superior out for dinner and a drink, no matter how much you respect them as a leader. Kobayashi surprised him when he approached Chuuya to let him know what he wanted to do after their shift finished, but after some small fry attacked a warehouse under Ace’s jurisdiction, half of Chuuya’s squad was temporarily reassigned to the other executive in an attempt to retaliate against the gang—including Kobayashi.
Just like that, the night was cancelled.
Is he disappointed? Eh. It’s whatever.
He was already dressed when he heard news from Boss that his men were getting poached. Instead of losing his temper, Chuuya picked a random direction and started walking. He stopped in at the first bar he could find, polished a cheap bottle of dessert wine at the counter, then came here using the navigation app on his phone.
Chuuya’s used to overhearing his men set up dinner plans without receiving even a polite invitation to join. It used to bother him when he first started climbing the ranks and he noticed the distance growing between him and his friends, but he’s come to terms with it. His workload doesn’t usually allow him a night to himself. When the rare opportunity arrives, he enjoys doing his own thing—something completely separate from his job. Right now, he doesn’t consider his night ruined, just back on track.
Three glasses in. He’s still sitting at the bar.
Bored, he checks his phone; it’s been hours since he glanced at his emails. Even when he’s technically off-duty, Chuuya keeps a constant eye on his work phone in case of an emergency. What he finds is nothing important. Updates on projects he has peripheral awareness of; a coupon deal from Chuuya’s supermarket; an email to the organisation from one of Kouyou’s girls reminding them of an upcoming event at the teahouse.
He has an unread text from Gin that he’s about to reply to when movement draws his attention.
A man slouches in the stool next to Chuuya. He’s reasonably tall with a head of flat black hair, cut too short for his long face, and purple bruises under his eyes. There’s a pale and sweaty look to him. He’s using a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe the back of his neck. Chuuya glimpses the back of his hands: kind of wrinkled, ink smudges on the inside of his thumb. Older by seven years, minimum.
Chuuya’s sitting impolitely on his own seat with his legs spread wide; the other man’s jitteriness causes their knees to knock together accidentally. No reaction to it. Most people would bother to mutter an insincere apology.
The man rigidly raises a finger for the bartender. His eyes bounce to everything except Chuuya with so much intent that he might as well be looking directly at him. “The same as, uh, as before. Please.” He requests. His voice is reedy too.
For his part, Chuuya stares openly. There’s something about this guy that makes his fingers curl around his glass stem with unmonitored force. Maybe it’s his clothes; they’re old and bland and ill-fitting. His ugly beige business shirt is untucked in the back, giving him a sense of sloppiness that is unpleasant to look at. Even when he couldn’t afford it, Chuuya’s never worn clothes that he isn’t proud to show off. Not this guy. He couldn't care less what type of impression he makes on others.
The bartender places a short, square glass down in front of the customer. It’s full of about two fingers of golden scotch, the perfectly round ball of ice ringing out clearly as it hits the side of the glass. “Here you go, sir.”
“Thanks. I—that will be enough, I think. Uh.” He turns, abruptly, to Chuuya. Their eyes meet. Chuuya notes with a distant sense of disappointment that his eyes are a very dark brown—almost black. “Can I, can I help you?”
“You? Help me?” Chuuya asks flatly, not even bothering to pretend he hasn’t been eyeballing the guy for the past minute.
“You’ve been...” His hand trembles as he wipes his neck again. “Sorry, are you waiting for someone? Should I—would you like me to move?”
“I’m not waiting for anyone.”
“Oh. Then…”
Chuuya leans his elbow on the bar. “Oi. Old man. What’s your name?”
“Old? I’m not even in my forties?” He sighs heavily. “Uh, it’s Kawakami,” He can’t make eye contact as he says it. He doesn’t reveal his first name.
In fact, he doesn’t follow his answer up with a single word, staring intensely into his cheap glass of bottom shelf scotch.
Chuuya slowly puts his foot on the rung of Kawakami’s stool and starts bouncing his leg. It rattles the seat rather pointedly. The nervous wreck—he’s gotta be a salaryman or something equally as mundane—acts like Chuuya’s started an earthquake right under their feet, the way he jumps. Once he has his attention, Chuuya raises an eyebrow: “You’re not gonna ask?”
“Ah, I’m sorry. I wasn’t sure you would want to tell me, uh. What your name is.”
“And why the hell wouldn’t I?”
“You just have that look about you.”
“What look?” Chuuya demands coolly.
Kawakami darts his eyes back to his drink. He flexes his hand on the bar top. “I don’t know. Like you have a life to go back to. I wouldn’t be surprised if you wanted some anonymity, I mean, uh, most of the people who come here are the same—you have nothing to be ashamed of if that’s how you do feel, I can respect it—”
It occurs to Chuuya that he is not slowing down nor does he intend to stop. That’s unacceptable. Chuuya slaps his hand on the counter loudly. “Oi! Shut the hell up!”
“Excuse me?”
“Listen. Has anyone ever told you that you’re a fucking mess?”
“Well—No?”
Yeah, that’s obvious. Chuuya tips his head back, emptying his glass in record time. He takes a deep breath before shoving the glass off to the side. In the same moment he is hooking his foot under the stool’s rung, dragging Kawakami in until their thighs are slotted between each other. “Whoa,” the old bastard gasps, wobbling forward. Chuuya steadies him with one finger to his skinny chest.
This close, the stench of his breath exposes just how long he’s been lingering in the corners of this club, waiting for someone to catch his eye. Chuuya indulges in a moment of fantasy. Maybe Kawakami’s been here for hours, nursing his scotch until the ice completely melted, ordering glass after glass in a bid for patience. He must have decided to try another night—go back home to his miserable wife and child, make an excuse for being out late—when he saw Chuuya sitting at the bar. He thought all he would need to build his courage was his lukewarm drink at the table, but as he came closer he realised he wasn’t dealing with the usual inexperienced, wide-eyed brat. It takes a glance to clock that Chuuya is out of his league.
He’s come too far to turn away now and he doesn’t want his night to be a waste. Another drink is in order, this time at the counter. Maybe then—
Chuuya isn’t really that patient. He doesn’t have the energy to wait for this guy to get his shit together.
He turns his finger so that it catches on a button. He tugs on it, testing at first, then pulls until a seam pops. “Out of the two of us,” Chuuya leans in, speaking in a low voice, “I’m not the one who’s ashamed. You got that?”
Apart from the scotch, Kawakami smells clean. His aftershave is overpowering as he tilts forward, this time purposeful about it. He can’t help the way he checks his peripheral vision for an audience. Chuuya doesn’t bother with that himself. “I—yeah, okay. I understand.”
Chuuya grins, quick and sharp. “Good.” At ease, he spins his stool around until he can put his weight on his elbows, resting backwards against the bar. Kawakami flops into his own seat with a shaky exhale. “Tell me about yourself, old man.”
His eyes widen. “Why? I mean, what do you want to know?”
“I want you to entertain me,”
“I’m not—” He blinks rapidly. “I can’t really entertain you here, it’s a club? And I’m not that interesting.” Added on like he’s just remembered.
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Chuuya says, equal parts encouraging and insulting.
“I’m really not interesting though. I’ve worked at the same company for twenty years. I barely have enough time to maintain a hobby. I don’t,” Kawakami works his jaw, looking perplexed and slightly tipsy, “I didn’t come here to discuss my… what I do in my free time. Apart from—” He clears his throat and looks at their surroundings. He makes another sound from his chest when Chuuya fails to observe the entertainment on offer. “You know.”
They’re in a fairly high brow club, considering what’s being marketed. It’s well-lit and cozy, there are sofas out on the floor that are actually clean, and the bar is decently stocked. The patrons match the interior since the dress code is formal. In Kawakami’s case, he’s clearly just come in from his workplace and hasn’t dressed up, but generally speaking everyone else has higher standards than him. For example there are a handful of people in Chuuya’s immediate line of vision who are well-groomed and decked in tailored vests and promise to be more tolerable company. If it weren’t for the half-naked young men in leather pants prowling the room offering cocktails to everyone, it would feel exactly like a prissy dinner party.
Chuuya pretends that’s why he’s letting Kawakami talk to him. Everyone else here reminds him too much of a rich dick he might encounter during a Mori Corp. function. Kawakami, sloppy and closeted and scared, is the farthest thing from ‘class’ you could run into here.
“I just mean,” Kawakami continues, “Do you—are you not…Is this not something you’re into?”
“Jesus. I didn’t stumble in by chance,”
“Right. Of course not. I thought I should...check.”
“You’re not good at this,” Chuuya kicks his tongue. “I could have anyone here, man, and you’re yapping my ear off about how boring you are? Shouldn’t I be the one checking if you’re into me? With the way you’re going on, I’m getting a weird feeling that you don’t wanna get laid.”
“I do!” Kawakami protests, immediately flushing an ugly red. The golden lighting makes it a more flattering colour on him that it really should be. It’s bizarre. “I—I don’t—”
Chuuya narrows his eyes and shifts forward quickly, nudging Kawakami’s chin up. He holds it there. The older man blinks rapidly, his throat moving nervously. He has a shadow of hair growing on his neck that he hasn’t trimmed. Chuuya hates beard burn, but if he’s right, then it’ll be worth it—
“Uh?”
The lighting hits the top of his head. His hair and eyes alike reflect back to Chuuya as a warm brown. Not too far from the colour of whisky, actually...
Well. Beard burn it is.
“My name is Chuuya.”
“Chuuya?”
“Yep,” He says shortly. Kawakami is almost handsome when half his face is turned away from him. It’s almost too easy to substitute his crooked and oversized features with something more to Chuuya’s taste. In the dark, he could even—no, no—he should keep one lamp on, enough to lighten that dull black hair into a more palatable colour. Kawakami isn’t lying when he calls himself boring. But Chuuya can work with a blank canvas. “Can I do you a favour, Kawakami?”
He’s using a bit more command in his voice than he typically does outside of work. Like a puppet with his strings pulled, Kawakami’s back stands as straight as a rod. Without his slouch, he’s taller than he initially seemed. A hook pulls in Chuuya’s stomach. Oh, yeah. He can work with this.
Kawakami hesitantly says, “S-Sure?”
“I’m going to give you an excuse to shut the fuck up. That alright with you?”
His eyes go absolutely round. “...Um.”
Silence.
Chuuya sighs. “It’s a yes or no question, Kawakami.”
He quietly revises his earlier imagination. He’s not dealing with an experienced adulterer in the slightest. He’s right that Kawakami’s closeted, that’s written all over him, and jury’s still out on whether he has a wife or girlfriend or whatever; but Kawakami’s never had sex with another guy before or Chuuya will eat his own fucking gloves. No way. That blush, the stunned wide-eyed look, his irritating self-pity routine, it’s altogether too obvious. Did he approach Chuuya—a much younger man—in the hopes that he would encounter a kindred soul? He got that wrong. This is Chuuya’s first gentlemen’s club; it is not his first rodeo.
“Y—Yeah, okay. Shut me up. I mean. If you want?”
His fingers are trembling. His ice ball is half the size and clinking around the scotch glass noisily, Kawakami unable to hold it still. Heat flares through him, a feeling closer to anger than hunger; it’s not right that he’s so nervous. But why wouldn’t he be? In the end Chuuya remembers where he is and takes pity on him, reaching out and steadying his hand with a firm grip. Kawakami freezes.
“Can’t you say it like you mean it?”
Chuuya’s voice is distracted. He is cataloguing Kawakami’s hands. Broad and stained and a bit weathered. They’re not—he doesn’t really like them, to be honest. Fingers aren’t long enough, maybe. Chuuya can always tie them up, keep them out of the action. Lights dark, one lamp, hands-off. He marks the beginning of a plan.
Strained, Kawakami whispers, “Yes.” He doesn’t appear to find Chuuya’s attitude uncomfortable. He’s not dwelling on Chuuya’s calculating gaze, wondering why he’s being picked apart and found wanting, too busy reacting like someone who’s never been touched before in his life. Chuuya could make him cry, he thinks. He probably won’t have to try too hard. “Do whatever you want to me.”
“It’s not what I want to do with you,” says Chuuya. He grabs his wallet out and pays for their drinks. Kawakami chokes at the sheer amount of bills Chuuya slaps down. “There’s a hotel within walking distance of this place. Let’s go.”
“ [...] when some were napping,
I was running in the fields.I was champing hope between my teeth;
I despaired, with dazzled eyes…
Ah, alive, I was alive! ”
— Boyhood, Nakahara Chūya
And of course, he has his subordinates. There is none he lets get too close, but as a social person it isn't an option for Chuuya to isolate himself entirely following the explosion—and why would he, anyway? Letting a mackerel bastard ruin his life when he isn't even here is bullshit. Since clearly their partnership meant fuck-all to Dazai, the only thing that can be done is for Chuuya to work towards the same apathy. For that, he needs people.
He tries to take his squad out for drinks when he can; if anyone is seriously injured, he pays them a courtesy visit and ensures they don't lose status during their recuperation period. More recently, Chuuya maintains that taking the older Akutagawa on board was the hardest decision of his career: not because Chuuya didn't want him around, but because Akutagawa used to throw hissy fits whenever he attempted to mentor him without the use of violence, and that was… a lot of emotional tip-toeing to handle. Which is mostly why Chuuya took off the kiddie gloves.
The first time he dragged Akutagawa onto the mats was a disaster. Kid not only looked like an escaped pneumonia patient but hit like one too. He was also completely resistant to learning how to punch harder.
Still, as far as training methods go, this remains one of Chuuya’s personal favourites. Beating people to the ground is generally an activity that puts him in a good mood—and while he loathes having anything in common with Akutagawa’s former mentor, it must be said that Akutagawa is a fun person to bully. Admittedly less so in the beginning where his only response was to spit and snarl, however these days he's able to scrounge up some entertainment from Rashoumon at least. Damn coat is a vicious opponent once the kid is riled up.
It’s a good work-out for both of them. His opponent probably isn’t getting the same enjoyment from it, but that’s life.
Akutagawa’s coat is rippling like a boxed-in tsunami on his back. The kid is on his hands and knees, hacking up wet phlegmy coughs. Chuuya wipes his forehead with the hem of his shirt and floats a water bottle in his direction. “You did well today. Meet me here next week if you can, we can go over your crappy footwork.”
Crappy is a gentle word to use: Akutagawa’s footwork is non-existent. He puts his forehead against the cold concrete that surrounds the mats and pants, “If—my—schedule—allows it, Chuuya-san.”
Sure.
Even though he sounds amenable, Rashoumon spikes through the offered water bottle like it’s furious, making a mess.
Chuuya sighs. “Yuh-huh. You’re cleaning that up, man. Gin, step up.”
The quiet Akutagawa sibling, which would be a redundant statement to anyone who’d never seen the two in the same room and subsequently realised that Akutagawa is the chatty one, steps forward. For reasons related to Akutagawa’s spotty health, she makes a point to watch their training sessions; her brother doesn’t have the sense to know when to quit and Chuuya is aware that he’s not the kind of guy who stops a fight just because his opponent is spitting blood. So she’s invaluable to have around.
Chuuya also likes to think that she misses him.
Gin joined the mafia just before he earned his executive promotion, when he was in a great position to take on mentees. Yet even then, taking on personal subordinates wasn’t something Chuuya was comfortable doing (actually, he still refuses the responsibility), but Gin was trained by his older brother. Naturally, they spent a lot of time together and it isn't an exaggeration to say Chuuya acted as a teacher to her in some regards. Now that she leads her own Black Lizard squads now, the only time he sees her is when she’s lingering like a wraith around her brother. In fact, Gin is a massive reason why he took Akutagawa under his wing. God knows he isn’t tolerable enough on his own.
Her hands are already wrapped as she steps over her brother’s trembling body. Chuuya eyes him warily before deciding it’s fine. Gin wouldn’t leave him if he was seriously in danger.
“What does senpai want to do?” Gin asks shortly.
“Hand-to-hand?” Chuuya suggests. “I’m all warmed up, so it’s up to you. It’s your session.”
“A few rounds to get me started,” She says. “Then, I have something I’d like to practice. I will need my weapons.”
“Sure. Do I need to be armed? I’ll borrow one of your knives if that’s cool?”
“Of course, senpai.”
Chuuya is a good sparring buddy for her. His gravity and density manipulation forces Gin to get creative with her fighting style, especially since she could benefit from experience against an enemy who is objectively more skilled than her. Gin’s talent is that she will use unorthodox methods to win; his job is to train her brain into looking for those methods. Plus, any move that she lands against him is considered lethal against anyone else, so she can let loose here.
Gin keeps him occupied for a few hours. She’s as vicious as a viper bare-handed, he’s always liked that about her, and walking her through this new maneuver she’s eager to try out is never boring. It’s more acrobatic than she likes so she fumbles a lot during the first hour. Here, Chuuya can offer advice about flexibility and momentum. By the end of it, she has his arm locked between her legs and a knife to his throat.
With his nose pressed flat into the mat, Chuuya offers his praise. “Oh yeah, this hurts. I think you got it.”
“I think I have your arm… but can you still move your hips?”
“Ah, a bit? Put more weight down lower and it should—“ Gin follows his instructions, moving her knee until it’s pinning his torso down. He can’t twist at all. “That’s it! Jesus fuck, ow!”
Gin hums, pleased, and leaps off his back. Chuuya rolls over and takes a large gulp of air. “I think you gotta be careful with, like, judging the strength of your enemy with this one. I could have unseated you if I stood up, but you won’t ordinarily encounter someone who’s gonna do that.”
“Senpai does have a high pain tolerance.”
“It’s not that unique in this line of business.”
“I see. If I fight an enemy who is strong enough to push me off,” Gin says soothingly, “I promise I’ll kill that person first. Thank you for your assistance.”
Chuuya waves her off. “Don’t sweat it. Why didn’t your teammates help, anyway? Not that I mind but I’m sure they’d be happy to do it. And you have minions, Gin, don’t forget.”
Gin rolls her eyes. “I needed someone who could put up a fight. Besides my subordinates, Tachihara is the only Commander off-duty right now."
“Still don’t like him?” She gives him a dark look. “Haha, alright, fair enough. Let’s wrap this up and clear the floor. Akutagawa!”
The time Akutagawa has spent catching his breath has also tenderised his bruises nicely. He’s sitting stiffly on a metal chair in the corner. In one hand he has his work phone, the blue light of his screen washing him out worse than ever; his other arm is cradled to his chest. He is sort of hunched over it. When Chuuya calls, he lifts his head up mechanically, thin lips folding together in trepidation. “Yes, Chuuya-san?”
Chuuya sits up and rolls his shoulder around. He’s going to need to stretch it out properly when he’s home. He pats the mats. “Get over here, we’re cleaning up the room. I’ll think about freeing you if you try to be helpful.”
Akutagawa’s nostrils flare. He flicks a look towards his sister. She raises her eyebrow at him and walks off to the cooler bin that Chuuya filled with water bottles and ice packs. “...I’ll be right there.”
“You’ve got five minutes to ice that,” Chuuya gestures at the arm he’s nursing. He presumes that Gin’s gone off to get him something to put on it. “Then I’m dragging you out here myself.”
Expression sliding towards homicidal, Akutagawa is nevertheless obedient as he says, “...Understood, Chuuya-san.”
Four years and it’s still this satisfying to order such an obstinate brat around? How is that allowed? Chuuya doesn’t bother hiding his grin. If Akutagawa has a problem with it, he can come over and do something about it. Chuuya wouldn’t mind handing out another ass-kicking at all.
“ Though I stagger, I keep the peace;
I admonish my insolence
with something of a sense of formality
As I go under the cold winter’s moon. ”
— Self-Portrait on a Cold Night, Nakahara Chūya
Someone is inside his room. They’re trying to be quiet about opening his curtains. The metal hoops are inching along the rod with a metallic sigh, the morning light hitting his eyelids and turning everything warm and red. Chuuya turns over to hide his head under a pillow.
His chauffeur, Yamamoto-san, must decide that he’s awake. “Sir, you’re going to be late for your flight.”
There’s a glass of shitty wine on the bedside table. Chuuya blindly grasps for it and uses the lukewarm liquid to wet his mouth; it’s no vintage, but Chuuya wasn’t going to bring out quality goods last night and he doesn’t regret his decision, even if the taste in his throat makes him want to gag. “Ugh...what time is it?”
“Ten o’clock.” Yamamoto-san continues diligently. “I’ve laid out your clothes, sir. I’ll load your luggage while you get ready. Please try to meet me in the car in the next twenty minutes or you will miss your check-in.”
If Chuuya decided to sleep in whenever he just didn’t feel like waking up, he wouldn’t have a job. He pushes himself into a sitting position as Yamamoto-san departs his penthouse suite. Chuuya doesn’t make a habit of letting lower members of the mafia into his private residence, but in this case, Chuuya messaged Yamamoto last night to give him a heads up that he was going to need a wake-up call.
He’s thankful for his own forethought. Chuuya considers the filthy state of his bed with a wrinkle between his brow. It’s evident that he put in a good amount of effort towards ruining perfectly good silk. Apparently his drunk, horny self only extended consideration and mercy towards their wine collection, writing the sheets off entirely. He has a vague memory of ushering his guest out the door and engaging his security measures before wobbling back to bed and passing out. So there’s that, he guesses. Two out of three isn’t so bad.
The shower is welcome. Chuuya spends ten minutes scrubbing himself raw, attempting to salvage his hair. He manages to clean it but can’t spare any time towards it’s usual nine-step routine. He’ll have to finish it off in the hotel, when he lands. As Yamamoto-san promised, the luggage he left out has been taken and he has an outfit hung in his closet; he knows this is the one Yamamoto-san was talking about because it’s still in the plastic cover. He checks his watch—twenty past—and dresses quickly.
Yamamoto-san drives off as soon as Chuuya jumps into the car. The partition is already up, and his voice comes through a speaker in the back seat. “You have an incoming call, sir. It’s the Boss.”
“Right, yeah. Put him through.”
Mori starts the conversation with an audible smile in his tone. “Chuuya-kun, did you enjoy your day off?” Before Chuuya can wonder how he’s supposed to respond to that, Mori helps him out. “The reason I ask is because you have yet to acknowledge my email. It must have been an enjoyable night!”
“... Fuck.”
“Indeed,” says Mori. Chuuya pulls his phone out in a rush. As the boss said, there’s an email right at the top. The subject is straight-forward: [PRIORITY: Flight XXX NRT to CDG cancelled.] Right below that is another priority email, but it doesn’t have a heading and Chuuya doesn’t recognise who sent it. For now, he focuses on his snubbed employer. “Don’t feel bad, I did provide very little notice and I was aware that you might not see it until now. I hoped to catch you before you arrived at Haneda.”
“Shit, Boss, I’m so sorry. I woke up late, this is my first time checking my phone all morning.”
“Yes, yes, I already told you not to feel bad. The email explains it all but since I have you, let me elaborate. I’ve sent Kouyou-kun out to deal with the Corcican mafia this week. They have run afoul of an opposing organisation who specialise in human trade. As the Corcican mafia need our help annihilating their enemy, we will receive a percentage of the merchandise as payment. I thought it would better suit Kouyou-kun to watch over the proceedings. I do apologise for the inconvenience, Chuuya-kun.”
“Don’t be, Boss. Circumstances change. You made the right call sending Ane-san.”
Kouyou is the Port Mafia’s overseer of their human and sex trafficking operations. She is undeniably the best person for the job and can hold her own in a fight; this way the Corcican’s would not be able to argue that the Port Mafia failed to pull its weight during the battle. She is also way better at negotiating. Mori chuckles. “I’m glad you understand. I’ll make it up to you, Chuuya-kun—I know how much you enjoy your walks around Paris.”
“It’s the job, I’m not that bothered by it. Do you want me to report to the office then?”
“That would be wonderful,” Mori sighs woefully. “Elise-chan would appreciate a visit too. Do you think you can convince her to try something for me, Chuuya-kun? She would look so cute in it.”
In the background, something shatters. “Shut up, Rintarou! I’m not interested!”
“But Elise-chan~!”
Chuuya closes his eyes and pretends he didn’t hear his boss whine like a child. He does it often enough, you think he’d be better at it. But he’s not. “Sure, Boss. I’ll see you soon.”
His voice sounds closer to the speaker: “And you’ll talk to Elise-chan?”
“Yeah, but I can’t promise anything, Boss.”
With a mournful sigh, Mori hangs up. One-handed, Chuuya navigates to his messages and sends an apology to one of his French contacts, Julien, who owns a Bordeaux wine estate. They’d arranged for Chuuya to participate in some wine training and he regrets the need to reschedule.
That done, he goes back to his emails. The intercom button is pressed with the tip of Chuuya’s shoe. “Yamamoto-san. Flight is cancelled, you can take me to headquarters instead.”
“Understood. I’ll re-route.”
“Thanks.”
That suspicious email is still there, right under Mori’s. He skims that one first to make sure it’s exactly as the boss reported then deletes it. The second, he hesitates over. It could be a virus. Scratch that, it’s definitely a virus. There is no subject heading and when he looks at the email address again, it’s clearly one of those anonymous junk addresses that a website randomly generates. If he opens another malicious link, those IT idiots will have his balls. That settles it: Chuuya swipes, sending the email into the bin.
Almost immediately, his phone vibrates. He’s received another priority email. Same lack of subject heading, same vibe, except the email address is different. ‘29scomberaustralasicus04.’
He opens the email. There’s no body, just a video attachment.
Chuuya clicks out of it and deletes the email. Again.
His phone buzzes. It’s—surprise, surprise!—a priority email. The subject heading says: [PRIORITY: i’m not a virus!!]
How stupid does he think Chuuya is?
Delete.
Bzzt. [PRIORITY: really? i do have better things to do...]
Yet another lie, because Chuuya is sent a replacement email as soon as he deletes this one. His harasser clearly has nothing else to do with his time.
[PRIORITY: last chance (눈_눈)]
Good fucking god. Chuuya opens the video attachment. It’s shitty CCTV footage of a shaggy-haired guy walking out of a building, messing around with his backpack. His shirt is half-undone and he’s acting pretty shifty. Chuuya squints, wondering what he’s supposed to be looking at here. While he recognises the building (he lives inside of it, after all), the man is ringing no bells.
With a growing headache, he does the stupid thing in this kind of situation and replies to the email. ‘Why should I care about this again?’
‘why because he is a thief!!! don’t worry he’s been dealt with since you can’t do it yourself’
‘Okay? I don’t know who he is though?’
‘....wow, so classy. i really hate you.’
Chuuya sends back a lot of question marks. It bounces back to him immediately, because apparently that email address doesn’t exist anymore. Ha. Figures. Chuuya throws his phone across the car and sinks down in his seat. It was stupid of him to engage and he’s feeling it now: like there’s bees in the tips of his fingers and rioting around in his stomach. A blend of anxiety and thrill and a strong sense that he’s the world’s biggest fool.
It should be fine. It’ll go away. He just needs to be careful to avoid alcohol for the rest of the week, otherwise he’ll really regret it.
Dazai owned seven phones when they were partners.
All of them were registered to play the same games that Chuuya had on his phone, because Dazai is a shithead who goes out of his way to make him miserable and back then, that included preventing Chuuya from acquiring a single highscore on his favourite games.
But that wasn’t the only reason he oversupplied on the phones, although it was probably the most important. He used a separate one for each of his aliases; it helped him to compartmentalise his roles, apparently.
He didn’t have them on hand often—definitely not all at once; Dazai’s pockets were already full of junk, he didn’t have extra space for seven phones—but he always seemed to know when he would receive a call, because he’d make sure that particular mobile was on him that day so he could answer it. They were the same model, same colour, with a default lock screen background; Chuuya had no idea how Dazai differentiated them, but he must have had a system, because he never got them confused.
He owned one personal, and it was used the least. Last he checked, it had a grand total of four contacts on it. There’s probably more now.
When Chuuya came home to a burnt up car and a kill-on-sight order, Dazai’s personal phone was the only one that still rang—he’d already destroyed his spares. Chuuya initially tried calling him sober, but he was so angry that he drank a glass of wine to calm down every time he would ring out, and when he woke up the next morning he was completely ashamed at the state of his call log. Dazai hadn’t answered a single one.
Four years later, he still hasn’t.
In an ideal world, this would mean that Chuuya hasn’t heard from Dazai since his defection.
It’s ridiculous shit.
That’s what makes Chuuya mad. It’s small, almost petty crap that Dazai sprinkles into Chuuya’s daily life like so many breadcrumbs. It makes Chuuya feel out-of-control and stupid and like the bandaged bastard is tugging on his leash, ever the attention-seeking child.
No one taught Dazai how he should have acted after he left the mafia.
To be fair, he figured most of it out himself: Chuuya is still curious to know how he wiped his criminal records, because that was by no means a small file, and he was certainly successful at going dark. Mori tried for a year and a half to pick up a trail and turned up nothing; not even Chuuya’s insight helped there. Dazai had planned for Chuuya to be involved in the search. He avoided his usual patterns—even the ones Chuuya could have sworn he wasn’t aware of—and burned every single bridge available to him. He hadn’t even shown up for Sakunosuke’s funeral, which Chuuya had set up on the side (and not even as bait).
Dazai disappeared.
Life moved on. Chuuya had to take on his workload, yet another bittersweet claim to Dazai’s hand-me-downs, and that was difficult to get on top of. The duties couldn’t even be divvied up between the executives as the paranoid idiot had coded and encrypted every-fucking-thing under his jurisdiction. It took Chuuya three days to crack a file that turned out to be a list of employees under Dazai’s payroll. You could literally find that information on any mafia computer in the building.
To make matters complicated, the passwords were all but engineered for Chuuya. They varied between inside jokes, references to their mission codes, past jobs, and half-finished encryptions that Dazai had tried teaching him before calling him a barbarian and giving up.
“You could assume he was planning to run a long time ago,” Kouyou had remarked in passing. Her expression was strange. Chuuya, by then onto the pattern, had guessed a password right on the first try. It was an excerpt from a French poem; Dazai once dog-eared it and left it in Chuuya’s bookcase when they were sixteen. “At the very least it is clear who he wanted as his successor.”
“Screw that, Ane-san. I don’t need or want his fucking leftovers.”
“I know,” she said, “but it certainly proves your competence if you can seamlessly fit into his role, doesn’t it?”
Dazai’s projects were highly profitable. His loss would have been a massive hit to the mafia’s earnings if Chuuya hadn’t been able to step up. Aware of that, Kouyou placed her hand on his shoulder. “Maybe he was good for something, lad.”
What a horrible thought.
And it just got worse.
Chuuya was investigating a small gang by himself, checking they were behaving and following the rules. All trade—jewels, drugs, people, money—came in through the port, which belonged to the mafia. There were rumours this particular group was importing goods without paying their taxes. Chuuya’s presence was an inherent warning and threat rolled into one. He was in the middle of intimidating their second-in-command when he saw a goddamn vintage Médoc sitting in the middle of a glass case displaying bourbon. 1982. Chuuya had the exact same bottle in his cellar.
It was a purchase Chuuya was very proud of. Once, to piss him off, Dazai had rolled it under his wine racks and pretended he’d thrown it out as some kind of punishment. For Chuuya’s birthday, Dazai had fished it out and tried to give it back to him. He’d gotten a broken nose for that.
Chuuya stared at the bottle, hard. He’d asked, “Can I see your basement, Sanada?”
“We don’t have a basement, Chuuya-san?”
“I’m gonna do you a favour, Sanada, and pretend you didn’t just lie to me. If you spare me the irritation of finding it myself, I might break even with you and not give you the beating of your sorry life.” He was positive he’d understood the message correctly. He insisted: “Basement. Now.”
As expected, the basement was full of homeless children. Chuuya didn’t even get credit for reclaiming mafia goods. Instead, he quietly killed every adult in the building and let the stupid brats free. Dazai knew what he would do if he found them. Chuuya had not, in all his years of service, recruited a single member to the mafia and actively avoided children when he was on-duty. Dazai used to mock him relentlessly for going out of his way to spare ratty street kids no one would miss, and now he was planting situations for Chuuya to do exactly that? Suspicious, he combed the basement for cameras; but it was clean.
If Dazai was recording his actions to use as blackmail—Mori would not be impressed to learn what Chuuya had done—he was being real fucking subtle about it.
A dam broke. Chuuya started receiving photos in the mail. Alleyways that lead him to criminals wanted by the mafia; recordings of their enemies openly discussing their plans; torn-off shreds from the bottom of a foreign report that compelled Chuuya to change directions on an ongoing investigation. It was never anything blatant, but at least to him it's perfectly clear who his mystery informant was. Chuuya fell into line too easy for it to be anyone else.
He hasn't told anyone about it. Dazai is alive somewhere in Yokohama, close enough to keep an eye on Chuuya, and he doesn't tell anyone. Not his sister, not his boss. That's what he hates the most about it, if he had to pin down one specific reason. Dazai's a piece of shit for pulling at his leash, yeah, but Chuuya is the idiot who keeps going along with it. They'll both go down hard for their bullshit and Chuuya shouldn't be cradling that risk so close to his chest—it's hardly substantial enough to produce any sort of warmth. It doesn't soothe him. It doesn't comfort him. It's just a sharp and cold truth, but it's all he has left of a partner who's too chicken-shit to care about Chuuya where anyone can see it.
“ Tinged a dull gold, the sky is overcast – just as usual –
Because it’s so high, I bow my head.
I am living resigned to fatigue;
the tobacco has three different tastes.
Death already may not be far off… ”
— Autumn, Nakahara Chūya
Chuuya doesn't remember closing his eyes, but the next time he wakes, he's in a hospital bed and he can't feel anything below his hips. That should worry him, and it eventually will, but for now it simply registers as: Huh. This ain't great. It means Mori's cracked into the good shit. It means Chuuya has fucked up in a big way.
He spends a good amount of time counting the water-stained ceiling tiles. Someone was courteous enough to leave the remote to his bed close by: the cord is deliberately tangled with the bed railing so that it doesn't move. He could sit up or call a nurse with the twitch of a finger. It's rare for Chuuya to have a moment of true peace, though. In the end he chooses against alerting anyone.
Time passes. The light coming through the blinds gets deeper and deeper until it's snuffed out. Chuuya breathes in.
The door opens. He doesn't hear anyone enter, nor does he turn his head to see who it is. Until that person says his name quietly: "Chuuya."
Chuuya breathes out. He hadn't thought to hope it would be him. "What are you doing here?"
Now that he's announced himself, Paul Verlaine lets his shoes click against the linoleum floors. He comes up to Chuuya's bedside and starts rustling around with some shit on there. Chuuya hasn't moved for hours; he's not quite sure what's happening. "You're popular," says Verlaine, revealing that he's freely screwing around with presents from his well-wishers. "Ozaki's girls pooled their money together to buy you a bear."
"A bear?"
"It may be taller than you. It's sitting in your visitor's chair."
Chuuya gives into his curiosity, twisting his head to the side. The first thing he notes is his older brother, pale and dull, watching him with half-lidded eyes. Whether he is worried or pleased or irritated with the state Chuuya's found himself in is difficult to fathom; Verlaine's hardly more than a puppet without his partner, physically lacking from his extended stay in his depressing basement and emotionally weak because he's a pussy. Nothing in life truly affects him anymore. But his hands—they are tender as they know how to be, reaching out and moving Chuuya's greasy hair out of his eyes.
The second thing is the bear: blue and soft and, yes, about the size of an average human. It sits hunched in the plastic visitors chair, the fluff insufficient support for a spine. In the arms of the toy bear is a stuffed felt heart and an envelope with his name on it. He doesn't have to open it to know that it's a Get Well Soon card.
The drawer Verlaine is rooting through is covered in bouquets of flowers. Three helium balloons are drooping above the foliage; Chuuya's been asleep too long, there is hardly any pep left in them. The flowers, however, are sufficiently tended, already sitting pretty in vases. The culprit responsible for their survival lifts a handful up to check their stems. "You're a loved person," says Verlaine, squinting critically at the flowers. "There are more gifts at your house. I simply couldn't fit them all into your room."
Chuuya swallows roughly. "Is that so?"
"Mm. I ate your chocolate already. Very bitter."
"Those from Gin?"
"Yes. Her surly brother signed the card too."
Tsundere brat. Of course he did. Chuuya gives in further. "How long was I out?"
"A week," Verlaine answers blandly. "I don't suppose you recall the circumstances behind your injuries."
"I was on a mission."
That earns him an impatient smile. "Naturally. What else do you do with your time?"
It takes conscious effort to leave that bait right where it is. Gritting his teeth, he continues, "Was I in Nagoya? I remember flying in. I was gonna hammer rebel heads together. Black Lizard squads had it mostly sorted, it wasn't supposed to be that dangerous." As it comes back to him, Chuuya feels an entirely psychosomatic headache grow behind his eyes, an allergic reaction to the memory of his own foolishness. "The intel was wrong. The gang was waiting for me. They knew Mori would send me out when the Port Mafia felt like we were winning."
"You were ambushed. They had four hundred men waiting for you on the top floor. You only had one option."
Exhausted, bleeding like a stuck pig, his knees threatening to snap underneath him, Chuuya had a choice between the certain, indiscriminate annihilation of Corruption or taking out the skyscraper's supporting structure. So he brought the fifty-storey building crashing down in the middle of Nagoya metropolis, with himself and hundreds of enemies still inside. It goes black here, but evidently since he is not a smear on the side of the road, he must have softened his fall with his ability.
"Mori must be pissed."
"He wants you stationed outside of Japan for a while."
His ribs curl inwards, a chastened pet. Chuuya exerts an unwise amount of energy just to throw his arm over his face. "Why?" The word has a bruise.
Verlaine places the humongous bear on the floor, dragging the chair closer. He sits down, resting his chin on the cold white rails of Chuuya's bed. His shadowed eyes don't belong to his gentle actions. He puts a comforting hand on Chuuya's shoulder and is lucky when it isn't bitten off. "You are clumsy and reckless in your efforts to preserve the lives of your friends. Mori should have let you perish in Nagoya, but he decided to save you. Despite the risk of exposure, he sent in a team to airlift you back to Yokohama. He operated on you personally."
"God. Shit, Paul—I'm not worth that."
"Actually, you are. More important than the worth of your life, Chuuya, don't you realise how much you, as an executive member of the mafia, contribute to the organisation? The only reason it survived Dazai's betrayal was because of your efforts. Mori considers you valuable for that."
Those words strike him down. Chuuya's laugh shudders out of him the way a window rattles in the middle of a storm, liable to shatter. "I see, I see. I get it now. It makes sense."
"You're very lucky."
"Right, luck. That's what it is. So Boss wants me out of the way for a while? Station me with people I don't give a shit about and see if that reduces my property damage? Fine. I'll go along with it."
Verlaine leans back in his seat. "I'm glad you understand the necessity, little brother. You'll be able to keep in contact with us. You won't be entirely cut-off from your home. But make no mistake, there will be limitations."
He doesn't have to say why. If Chuuya ever received the slightest hint that Yokohama was in danger, he'd run straight back, fuck whatever his orders happened to be. Mori wants to control the information he receives because he's sick of an uncontrollable mutt. It's no use arguing: Chuuya messed up, there are consequences to suffer for it. That is how the world works.
Verlaine recognises his need for sullen silence and returns to tending to the flowers. He cleans up the room, brushing petals into the waste-bin and fussily rearranging all his Get Well Soon cards in a mysterious figuration that only he understands. Once it's done, he presses down on a red call button. "It will not be this way for long," The older man reassures him. It's hard to take his words sincerely. Verlaine exists in a constant, cannibalistic state of misery, so he is not suited for deliverying messages of hope. They tend to fall short of the mark. "You can come back, Chuuya."
Chuuya would turn away if he could feel his goddamn legs. "Just fuck off, Paul."
“ – And I am disheartened;
my past’s confused
piled-up memories,
no way to disentangle them, irritated;
some day, to the tangibility of my head’s burdens
I will entrust my body, I will entrust my heart.[...] I try as hard as I can to love
something I don’t know. ”
— Fig Leaves, Nakahara Chūya
It takes three years.
Okay. More like three months.
Chuuya spends half of that time recovering, then the rest getting his affairs in order so that his projects and duties are well-in-hand before his indefinite departure from Yokohama. Mori and the other executives are oddly helpful as he does this. A worse surprise was on his first day back. Getting called into Mori's office was to be expected; walking, unprepared, into a theatre of Elise's waterworks with himself as the sole person to blame, less so. Boss didn't even tear into him for making his daughter cry. Just sat in his big chair with an unreadable smile and said, "I hope you've learned your lesson, Chuuya-kun."
Yeah, right. There seems to be no shortage to what Chuuya is learning.
Tomorrow he flies out. His bags are packed and waiting by the front door, his accommodation is sorted, and his subordinates know what to do: Kobayashi is a sub-executive until he returns, and is the only person Chuuya is allowed to contact directly, without having to go through Mori first.
Right now, though, he is spread-eagle on his bed, trying to smother himself with a pillow.
His body hurts. He doesn't want to leave Japan. His health has been too poor to allow for his usual quantity of hook-ups. At this point it would be harder to find parts of his life that aren't fucked up beyond his control. It's rare for him to be in such a horrible mood, but Chuuya allows it to wash over him. There is no one around to witness his weaknesses, to watch him wallow and for it to affect their faith in his reliability. He presses his face into his pillow until it's humid from his furious breathing.
It doesn't actually take three months. It's been simultaneously more and less than that. If he wants to be precise, it takes two months and twenty-nine days since Chuuya was discharged before the bastard eases up on his self-control. Since it's him, he has to do it in the most infuriating way possible. He walks in while Chuuya is sulking, a swagger to his step like he's not even slightly unsure of his welcome. There are sounds like he's taking off his coat and shoes before he jumps into bed like he hasn't been gone for nearly four fucking years.
First thing he does is put his weight down on Chuuya's back and murmur, "Don't turn around."
His voice has changed. Gotten deeper. Chuuya digs his fingers into his pillow like he wants to rip it in half. "You better not be here. I swear to God, you better not fucking be here."
"Sorry," He says insincerely. "Pretend you're dreaming."
"I don't dream, moron."
"Then let's talk about how fortunate you must be, for your first to be of me."
Chuuya doesn't need to turn around when he throws his elbow back. It nails him right in the shoulder. "Why are y—Damn it, Dazai. You can't be here."
He makes an acknowledging sound. It hardly needs to be said that this is a bad idea. The hand on his hip presses down firmer. "You're welcome," Dazai says.
"For what."
"You want to pretend you don't get it?"
Chuuya anchors his teeth into the pillowcase so he doesn't completely lose his shit. "Thanks for unknowingly pulling me into yet another one of your shitty plans. I'm so fucking grateful."
"It saved your life, didn't it?"
"All of your plans get me out alive," He snaps, "That doesn't mean I like them."
"If it helps, it was more of a contingency in case you were ever stupid enough to need it." He can't see what face he's making. His voice is so unfamiliar, Chuuya doesn't have any confidence that he's reading his tone quite right. This is the closest to unreadable Dazai has ever been for him.
"Watch it, Dazai."
"You are, though. Stupid. Why didn't you retreat instead? Bringing down the building was the worst plan you could have come up with."
Chuuya keeps his mouth shut. It's not like Dazai didn't already know that he couldn't risk anyone following him to the rendezvous point, where their crippled numbers were licking their wounds. That would have resulted in a massacre of Chuuya's people.
Dazai plants two palms on Chuuya's lower back. He lifts himself up and swings his leg around so he's straddling the back of Chuuya's thighs. He sinks the entirety of his insubstantial weight down. "Yeah," Dazai sighs, his fingers desperately gathering up Chuuya's shirt, "you're an idiot. A criminal with self-delusions of heroism. I can't stand it."
And yet, he planned for it.
Doing half of Chuuya's job for him from the shadows, keeping one foot in the grave of mafia misdeeds just so he could act as Chuuya's little oracle. Directing him here and there like an obedient minion. Doing everything he could to raise Chuuya's value in the organisation without compromising his newfound morals—because Chuuya isn't dumb. He's only ever received assistance against criminals and members of society who are truly despicable, a pattern he's noticed and even laughed about in his less-than-sober moments. Dazai helps with intellectual puzzles that ultimately benefit more than just the Port; Chuuya is the only one staining his hands with innocent blood.
All of this effort, so that when the time came for Mori to weigh the scales of Chuuya's value against his expendability, there could only be one outcome.
Chuuya realised it two months and twenty-nine days ago, but even now when he thinks about it—and the sensation is worse with the man here—it gets his insides twisted up. Like there's something sitting on his chest, and it isn't sharp or cold at all.
"You… you are a joke of a human being."
Dazai huffs in amusement. "You're not his," He says matter-of-factly. "I was generous enough to let you go around wooing every sad soul who walked past you on the street. You can't stand being alone—it's a pathetic fact of your nature. When you set about winning over the heart of the mafia, I allowed it because I know you wouldn't have survived otherwise. But for him—I had to step in. He can't have you."
"Because you already staked your claim, is that it," He replies, a bitter taste in his mouth.
"You didn't have to accept my help. If you thought it was just me manipulating you again, you could have ignored my efforts to reach out."
It is never really a choice with him though, is it?
With an air like he's not doing it on purpose, Dazai knuckles into Chuuya's muscles, a piss-poor attempt at a very deliberate massage. Dazai's possessiveness isn't restricted to Mori and the free real estate that is Chuuya's brain. He gets jealous over everything. It's no wonder he's watching Chuuya's hook-ups from CCTV cameras and getting them booked for petty charges, and it's no fucking shock to him that Dazai's researched how to give a decent massage—he never did like Yasuko.
To answer his question, Chuuya says, "You're not easy to ignore."
"You have never struggled with it before."
"Yeah, well. You blew up my car. That was new for me too."
Dazai digs his elbows in with a palpable vindictiveness. "It wasn't like I touched your bike."
As if Chuuya didn't clock that himself the minute he saw his car go up in flames. Back then he had clung to that: if Dazai truly wanted to hurt him, he knew exactly how to do it. Bombing his car but leaving Albatross' motorcycle in pristine condition in a storage shed Chuuya didn't hire—it was a message within a message that no matter what it looked like, Dazai still had his best interests at heart.
"I know," Chuuya murmurs. To his disgust, his eyes start to burn. He is abruptly glad that his face is hidden. "I know. I know you."
"Chibi," He gets as a reply, barely more than a croon. Dazai doesn't have the stamina or strength to keep working on Chuuya's muscles; his arms are quickly getting tired and no matter how hard he tries, he can't work out the tougher knots in Chuuya's shoulders. He just sits on Chuuya's ass, bunching up his shirt and rubbing all over his back like a loser, a heavy, solid presence that refuses to go away. His bare palms pass over the lower back again; a sensitive part of Chuuya's body that often carries the worst of his pain. He can't help a nervous twitch, anticipation a pacing beast in his stomach.
Dazai gently presses down with the inside of his thumbs. When Chuuya, tentative, makes to roll his hips, Dazai puts more of his weight down. It isn't quite the deterrent he means it to be. "Stop that," He mutters.
Chuuya turns his head so it isn't smothered by his pillow. "What?"
"I said stop," Dazai repeats. His voice is quiet and he doesn't sound firm in his rejection, but he pushes down some more until Chuuya's hips are immobile against the mattress. "I'm not interested."
"Sure, 'cause that's likely," Chuuya scoffs.
A pause. Dazai hums in acknowledgement—it cannot be denied that he's always ready to go. Not only that, but he's a pillow princess who responds well to manhandling. It's unfortunate for them both that Chuuya's natural instincts line up so well with Dazai's picky standards. They are annoyingly compatible in every aspect. Surely that much hasn’t changed. "But I'm saying no," He insists, still in that non-committal way. "I really am. I don't think it's a good idea."
"Seriously?"
"As if you're fucking anyone in your state," Dazai says. The disdainful curl of his mouth can be heard in his voice. "You'd blow your back out." Chuuya bites his lip, saying nothing. There is an odd silence from Dazai before he groans, "Oh, you would find that funny."
Fuck it. They are both already thinking it.
"How about I blow your back out—"
Spitefully, Dazai uses his bony fingers like claws and stabs them into a bundle of nerves in his lower back to shut him up. He carries on talking like Chuuya never cracked any kind of joke. "If you're that desperate to get off, do it yourself. I'll leave the room."
There's a chance Dazai is doing that thing he used to do—where he goaded Chuuya into losing his temper and ignoring his rejections, since he was a glutton for self-punishment. It's unlikely he's maintaining such a maladaptive habit, though, and he only ever did it after he came back from one of his mysterious visits with Mori. Chuuya reasons that this isn't one of those situations; and he's not really into having sex with someone who isn't feeling it. Not that Dazai's even willing to let them see each other. It's a moot point.
Chuuya pushes his face back into the pillow, muttering sounds that barely qualify as words. His acquiescence is read and understood; the massage resumes properly. It isn't quiet for long. Dazai has never handled a stilted conversation with grace, he is weirdly self-conscious like that. Soon enough he speaks again, his tone as soothing as he is capable of. "Just rest, Chuuya. Can't you do that?"
"You're looking for any excuse to slip away again,"
"I am," he agrees, neither of them under any illusion that he was ever going to stay, "and you have an early flight. It'll be like I was never here."
"As if you ever fucking left."
With a low groan, Dazai leans down and puts his forehead to the nape of his neck. He stays there for a bit, talking into Chuuya's hair like that's a comfortable place to be. "You won't be gone for long, Chuuya. I'll make sure of it. Would I lie to you?"
Of course he would. He always lies. It’s disgusting how quick Chuuya is to believe otherwise. That’s his problem, at the end of the day: he never fucking learns.
Dazai's lips brush against the shell of his ear. "Sleep," He coos, a silver of steel running through his voice. It has the aftertaste of a bitten-back order.
How could it end end up any other way between them? Chuuya digusts himself.
And in the end, because he's as comforted by Dazai's twisted act as Dazai is by performing it—he falls asleep like that, as easy as anything.