Thread by @H4NDKINK

and then /slow/ transition back into normal life."

"Six WEEKS?" Chuuya repeats, sounding /appalled/. Anger must be giving him energy because he's sitting up straighter, pinning Gide with a glare. "You can't /make/ me not go, not if I start to feel better. Just give me a note for

two weeks, and I'll be fine."

He is the most /stubborn/ fucking person Dazai has /ever/ met--

But he's met his match with Gide. Because /Gide/ doesn't have emotional attachment to him, doesn't want to see him happy above all else and wouldn't give into him just to make him

smile.

Gide only has /one/ goal-- get Chuuya healthy-- and he won't give in on that.

"I'll be giving /Dazai/ your note for the next /three/ months," Gide answers, steady and calm in the face of Chuuya's rising irritation, "And you're right, I can't make you take care of

yourself. But if you're going to take /that/ route, I might as well take the IV out of your hand right now. We'll all sit here and watch as the pressure in your head grows and grows. Eventually, you'll seize again."

Chuuya looks pale, and his hand is beginning to tremble. His

lips are pressed together so tightly they're nearly white with bloodlessness.

"You wanna know what comes after that? Eventually the pressure in your head gets so much that I have to /cut/ into it. I'll drill out a piece of your skull, sew it into your abdomen to keep it alive,

and leave the hole in your head open to relieve pressure."

Chuuya /recoils/,pressing himself back in the bed, and even Dazai feels vaguely uncomfortable with the description of that. He's unfortunately /glad/ that Gide is being so /ruthless/, because it finally seems that Chuuya

is /getting/ it. This isn't a flu or a sickness he's just going to bounce back from.

He doesn't get to pretend that he's /okay/ after all this, because he's not. And if he doesn't take care of himself, he might never be.

"Oh? You don't like that?" Gide's smile is edging on

/mean/. "You must be going after the /brain damage/, then, right?"

He doesn't let Chuuya get in a word otherwise as he brings his hand to his chin, pretending to think. "Let's see-- I know a guy, can't remember a damn thing. Has a memory so shot he can't remember anything past a

few /hours/. Totally forgot his /husband/, by the way. He can never live a normal life again. He needs a /babysitter/ to make sure he doesn't get himself lost. You want that to happen? You want to do that to yourself? To him?" He gestures to Dazai then, and he /hates/ being used

against Chuuya like this but--

But he can't /imagine/ a life like that. A life with a /helpless/ Chuuya, who doesn't even know who he /is/.

Dazai doesn't know how he would handle that. If he /could/ handle that.

"You want to live your life day by day, never knowing what came

before? Having to have /notes/ in your kitchen because you don't know where the /bowls/ are? Not knowing where you /live/? Not--."

Dazai cuts him off there, leveling a glare at Gide. "Stop. You're scaring him."

And Chuuya /is/ scared. He's pressed back against the bed like he's

trying to /escape/. Eyes wide and filled with moisture, locked on Gide like he can't look away.

"He /should/ be scared," Gide huffs, shrugging his shoulders like he doesn't care. "Brains are complicated, fragile things, and all of my help and knowledge will mean /shit/ if he

doesn't take care of himself. He could end up losing /everything/ if he doesn't let his body rest and recuperate."

"Okay," Chuuya chokes out, turning his head away and squeezing his eyes shut. "Okay, I /get/ it. So just-- just /stop/, please."

Gide lets out a breath, some of

the tension leaving his shoulders. "Okay. I didn't mean to frighten you-- but something like this can turn very serious very quickly, and the fact that it's /not/ serious yet is a good thing. You were lucky, Chuuya, but luck won't hold out forever. So follow your care

instructions, and you can go back to a normal life as quickly as your body will allow."

Speaking of, that's /exactly/ the question Dazai wanted to ask. "What /are/ his aftercare instructions?"

Gide pulls out a phone from his pocket, the same one Dazai saw yesterday. He thought

hospitals had like...

Pagers, or whatever, not /phones/.

"Now, this is /all/ depending on his MRI results, because those will determine if he's discharged today or not. If he is, I will be prescribing him an antiviral and an anticonvulsant. The antiviral will need to be taken

for the next... sixty days, to be sure. You'll need a refill at thirty days. As for the anti-convulsant, I'm going to give you a ten day script, just in case. Take one a day for the next three days, then only if you need them. They'll make you tired, but you /must/ take them if

you feel a seizure coming on. I'm sure you know what that feels like."

Mouth twisting down in a frown, Chuuya nods. His face is paling, and he's gone limp again, like all the fight has drained out of him. Like he's too tired to even be angry or upset anymore.

Dazai /aches/ for

him. He can't imagine what it'd be like to work so /hard/ for something, just to have it taken from you by circumstances out of your control.

Colleges aren't /supposed/ to discriminate by medical conditions-- but Dazai's /sure/ they do. The more prestigious ones, especially,

make it so /hard/ for anyone who's not in /perfect/ health to survive the classes. They're /merciless/, never giving an inch or adjusting due dates for someone who might need it. Every accommodation must be /fought/ for with tooth and nail.

Even if Chuuya does have a note for

medical leave, when-- /if/-- he returns to class, he'll be /behind/. An entire semester behind, and even if he /can/ keep up with the workload again, he might overwhelm himself again trying to catch up.

It's a shitty, shitty situation, and Dazai feels for him.

"I suggest

you start a regimen of anti-inflammatories--like Tylenol-- to help with the headache and the swelling. Make sure to follow the instructions, though."

This time, Gide levels a stern look at /Dazai/, which he's more than okay with.

"Other than that, I'm prescribing /lots/ of

rest, water and care. Do either of you have any questions?"

Dazai doesn't /think/ so, and if he comes up with any more questions he can always call Yosano. As long as it's a /reasonable/ time--she swears she's getting /old/ now and is in bed before midnight, which is /insulting/

considering that she is /two years/ younger than he is-- then she'll answer him. She might be /nosy/ about it, but she's always given him good advice.

He shakes his head. Chuuya makes a vague 'no' noise, still looking away.

"Alright," Gide says, rapping his knuckles on the

metal frame of the bed, "The nurses should be coming to get you for an MRI soon. If you come up with any questions while I'm gone, let one of them know. Otherwise, I'll see you again when the scans come back."

He turns without another word, long legs carrying him out of the room

easily. He's gone in only a few moments, leaving them alone to process what just happened.

It's rare for Dazai to feel out of his element. He's been trained to pick up the details of any situation and blend in, to use everything he can to his advantage.

There is no advantage

here. There's just Chuuya, staring at the wall with his expression forcibly blank, like he can't bear to reveal what he's feeling.

Dazai's never been /good/ with emotions, in any capacity, so this is especially hard for him. He doesn't know what to /do/, but he has to do

/something/. He can't just /sit/ here.

"Are...you okay?" He asks, and he /knows/ it's a stupid question, but he doesn't know where to start.

There's a long silence, and although Chuuya hasn't let /go/ of his hand, he's no longer squeezing it. He's just letting Dazai hold his

hand, fingers limp.

"No," Chuuya eventually croaks, and Dazai is /just/ about to jump up and call a nurse or something--

When Chuuya continues, "I worked /so/ hard to get into Keio. I gave it /everything/ I had, and now it's /gone/."

His voice cracks the last word, wobbling.

Poor /thing/. He must be feeling so lost right now, so helpless.

Gently, Dazai reaches out and brushes his fingertips over his cheek. Trying to show his care and support without /pushing/ him. "It's not /gone/, baby," he murmurs, wishing he had the works to /fix/ this, to make

it all seem /okay/. "You just... need to take a little break, that's all. You can go back next semester."

But for someone like /Chuuya/, who has been very obviously frustrated with his health over /years/ and refuses to give himself even the smallest of breaks-- it probably

seems like the end of the world. For someone who is /determined/ to push through every little pain or setback with a clenched jaw, the idea of being /forced/ to relax must be hard to handle.

It seems that Chuuya is too tired to argue anymore, because he just turns his face into

his hand and blindly accepts the comfort that's being given to him.

Dazai hopes they release him from the hospital soon, because the beds and equipment in here make it /really/ difficult to comfort Chuuya the way he wants to. Helping him sleep was one thing, but he wants to

/hold/ him.

Eventually a pair of nurses come into the room to take Chuuya for his test. They make small talk as they prepare to wheel Chuuya out, but Chuuya is understandably quiet.

Dazai is /nervous/ watching him leave, but he doesn't protest. He can't follow, so he's once

again left alone to wait in the room.

He gathers all their things while he waits. Chuuya's clothes and everything else he was wearing had been packed into a clear plastic bag. His collar is in there, light pink and metal shining underneath the light.

Dazai traces his finger

over the shape of it, something in him aching at how /empty/ it looks. How bare Chuuya's neck looked without it.

While he's there, he shoves Chuuya's phone and wallet in the bag with his clothes. He's probably wondering where they are, and Dazai's ass is numb from laying on

them all night.

He wishes he'd thought of getting Chuuya clean clothes for discharge, but it seems too late now. He can't make it to his house--Chuuya has a few outfits hanging in his closet, a sight that makes him feel warm and bubbly inside-- and back by the time he's

discharged.

If the scans don't go well and he ends up having to stay another night, then he'll make the trip to get him something comfortable to wear. If not, Chuuya will have to be okay with the jeans and sweater he wore yesterday. It'll only be for a little while anyways,

because Dazai intends to get him straight home and into bed as soon as he's released.

Half an hour later, Chuuya gets pushed back into the room. He looks more exhausted than ever, but the IV has been removed from his hand. That has to be a good sign, right?

Dazai greets him

with a gentle kiss dropped on the back of his hand, but otherwise lets him doze as they both wait for results.

‘Results’ come in the form of Gide waltzing into the room like he owns it nearly another half an hour later. His hair has been pulled up into another messy ponytail

on top of his head. Honestly, Dazai doesn’t understand why he just doesn’t cut his hair if it’s such a problem, or even start the day with his hair up.

He’s actually got his lab coat on this time, sleeves rolled up to reveal corded forearms. In his hands is another brown

package envelope, like the ones that were holding his scans yesterday.

Dazai sits up straighter, waiting to hear if he can /finally/ bring his baby home or if they'll be in for another long night of waiting. Gide doesn't /look/ particularly concerned or happy, but he's been

irritatingly hard to read so far. Professional in /some/ moments, and swinging into something resembling a heartless drill sergeant the next.

"Good news," he starts, grabbing the chart on the end of Chuuya's bed. He flips to the back page, taking a pen out of his pocket. "Your

scans came back with good results. You've shown enough progress that you can go home today."

He signs the page with a flourish, before flipping the chart closed and tucking it underneath his arm.

Dazai lets out a breath of relief, slumping back in his seat. Relief is flooding

through him quickly, /finally/ washing away the lingering, sticky threads of emotion that have been clinging to his lungs like tar. It feels like he can finally /breathe/ again, and the air tastes clean and fresh again.

Even though the hard part is /just/ beginning.

Chuuya

doesn't look nearly as pleased-- in fact, he looks just exhaustively accepting, face blank-- but he nods and starts to pull himself into a sitting position.

Dazai slides over the bag of his clothes, not /offering/ to help him get dressed because he's sure that will just

frustrate him even more and he's not even sure if he /needs/ it.

Gide waves him closer, eyeing Chuuya's hunched frame as he tears open the bag and digs out his jeans.

"Keep an eye on him. Depression can be common," he murmurs to him, quiet enough to not be heard. Then, louder

he says, "You'll need an appointment in thirty days, just as a checkup. If anything /concerning/ happens between then,--like seizures or fainting or anything else-- go to the emergency room and ask them to page me directly. If there's nothing else, I'll leave you to it."

Chuuya

looks up then, and his eyes are clear, if drawn with exhaustion. "No, I think that's it. Thanks. For taking care of me."

Gide smiles at him, expression dissolving into mild happiness. For the first time he doesn't look like a professional force to be in this situation-- he looks

like a man who loves his job and is pleased when things go /well/. "You're welcome, Chuuya," he responds, caring and warm. "Now, take care of yourself. I don't want to see you again,even if you /are/ a better view than most of my patients these days."

He flashes a teasing smile

at him, one that manages to pull out an amused huff out of Chuuya /and/ a rising blush on his cheeks.

Dazai is torn between thinking 'is he really flirting with my fiance in front of me??' and 'yeah, Chuuya /is/ very pretty, thank you' and 'why the hell is he blushing at that?'.

And over that is a hot, possessive thought of 'do NOT touch'.

Before Dazai can decide if he's overreacting or if he should be /displeased/, Gide is clapping a hand on his shoulder. Maybe it's /harder/ than it should be, but the squeeze is friendly enough--

And then he's gone.

Leaving him with a boyfriend that /needs/ his help, even if he won't admit it, that he really has no idea /how/ to help.

"So," Chuuya says, reaching down to pull the ends of his jeans over his ankles. Then he stands up and Dazai is watching warily to make sure he doesn't fall--

"Fiance, huh?" He continues, and /oh/, Dazai /likes/ the way he says that, likes the little twinkle of amusement in his eyes, the teasing curl of his lips.

Like it's a /secret/ between them, something sacred tying them together.

Digging into the bag, Dazai carefully pulls out

the collar and moves over to him. He waits until Chuuya carefully pulls his hair on top of his head in silent permission before gently sliding the leather around his neck.

"It was the only way they'd let me back here with you," he murmurs, making sure Chuuya has enough room to

breathe before buckling the collar. "And I couldn't just /leave/ you here alone."

The hospital gown is slightly large on him, exposing a section of his shoulders. His skin is pale, freckles darker than ever.

It's /tempting/, though, one Dazai can't resist. So he leans down,

brushing his lips over one of the constellations of markings.

Chuuya tilts his head to give him better access, sighing. He leans back slightly, letting Dazai take his weight.

He takes advantage of that action to slide his arms around his waist and pull him back, wrapping him in

a warm, solid embrace.

Chuuya feels comfortingly real in his arms, if still slightly fragile and too-thin. But he's breathing, he's getting /better/, his fever is coming down, and Dazai gets to take him home again.

He hates hospitals.

"Mm," Chuuya hums, leaning back into him

more firmly. His hands find Dazai's forearms, squeezing lightly. Then--

"Ah, shit, do you think they called my dad?"

Dazai blinks, pausing in his self-given mission of adorning every one of Chuuya's freckles with a kiss. Neither Gide or any of the nurses /mentioned/ calling his

father, but they probably aren't /required/ to mention that. Plus, even though Dazai was here and they all believed he was Chuuya's fiance, he still wasn't his emergency contact.

"I don't know," he mutters, rising up to give Chuuya one last adoring kiss on the cheek. "No one

told me if they did, and I don't think he's called yet."

Chuuya's phone is on the dregs of it's battery, almost dead, but Dazai doesn't remember an incoming call at all last night.

"Dammit," Chuuya sighs, motioning for Dazai to untie the laces holding the gown together in the

back. He does so easily, handing Chuuya his shirt when the gown starts to fall off of him. "He's going to be a pain to deal with."

He already looks irritated and exhausted by the concept, tugging his shirt over his head.

Dazai touches the middle of his back briefly. "I'll help

you," he reassures him, supportive.

Of course, the /next/ problem is one that Dazai can't help him with. In fact, in Chuuya's eyes, he's probably a /traitor/ for thinking it's a good idea.

Because when the nurse arrives with his discharge papers, she brings a /wheelchair/ with.

Chuuya eyes the contraption disdainfully. "I'm not getting in that," he announces stubbornly. "I can walk. I'm /fine/."

The nurse opens her mouth to argue, probably something about hospital policy, but Dazai is much more versed in arguing with Chuuya, so he takes this one for

the team.

He takes the handlebars from the nurse, giving Chuuya his brightest smile. "Come on, I'll push you. It'll be fun."

Chuuya's eyes flash at him as he signs the discharge papers and hands them back. "If you think its so fun, why don't you get in it, old man?"

/Ow/.

Dazai has to fight back a smile because even though that was /completely/ uncalled for, it’s a good thing that Chuuya is showing attitude. It means he’s feeling /better/, at least enough to feel snarky.

It’s also good that Dazai can’t /punish/ him for bratty behavior, which he’s

sure Chuuya will take /full/ advantage of in the coming days. He’ll have to get creative.

“Chibi is /so/ mean to me,” he pouts, dramatically holding a hand to his chest and internally snickering when Chuuya’s eyes flash again. He hates that nickname. “There’s no need to be like

that, baby,” he teases, flashing him the smile that /usually/ means he’s in trouble.

Dazai pushes the wheelchair forward, arching an eyebrow at Chuuya. “Sit,” he tells him, casually authoritative.

Like always, Chuuya crumbles under the tone, grumbling under his breath to

himself as he grudgingly trudges over and collapses into the wheelchair.

“I hate this,” he mutters, crossing his arms over his chest.

The nurse hands Dazai the papers for his prescriptions. He’ll have to get them later today, but Chuuya should be good for today. They already

gave him his meds for today, earlier this morning.

“Personally,” Dazai muses to himself loudly as he follows the nurse down the hallway, pushing Chuuya in front. “I’m having /lots/ of fun.”

“Just you wait. I’m gonna run /your/ wheelchair into a parked car, when you need one.”

The words themselves are harsh, but Chuuya is tilting his head to brush his temple over Dazai’s fingers wrapped around the handles so the sting is soothed away.

It’s a good thing Chuuya can’t see his smile from this angle. “I suppose that’s better than a /moving/ car,” he says,

pushing Chuuya into the elevator when the door opens. “But you’re gonna have to wait a /long/ time for that.”

Chuuya turns his nose up. “That’s fine. I can wait.I’m patient. I can hold a /grudge/.”

Little /liar/. He’s /far/ from patient.

Even the nurse is fighting a smile now.

Dazaj would never admit it to anyone else but the idea of Chuuya sticking around that long is—

/Very/ nice. Natural, even, like they’re both settling into something that was just /meant/ to be, a future Dazai can finally envision for himself.

He’s never dreamed about the

future about. Viciously forced himself /not/ to think about it, because he hated the idea of it, the idea of /still/ being here despite that he’d promised himself so many times that he /wouldn’t/ be anymore.

But you know what? A future with Chuuya sounds pretty damn good.

“I’ll be counting on it,” he says in response, tapping Chuuya on the back of his head lightly with his fingers. “Don’t let me down, little brat.”

(He can’t see it, but Chuuya sticks his tongue out at that. The nurse does though, and the amusement she’s been fighting finally

breaks through.)

“You two are very cute,” she tells them, leading them past the reception desk on the first floor. The lobby is already starting to fill up with patients, even though it’s still early on a Saturday. “How long have you been together?”

Dazai beams at her,

answering before Chuuya can. “Almost six months,” he says, not wanting to pick a time that lands /before/ Chuuya’s 18th birthday, just in case she knows his age. “It’s quick, but... when you know, you know, right?”

The nurse ‘aww’s’, clasping her hands together. “That’s so

/romantic/! Like a movie! Everyone must be so happy for you two.”

“Oh yeah, /ecstatic/,” Chuuya says, amused, “His son, in particular, /loved/ getting the news.”

Dazai flicks him in the back of the head again, wishing he hadn’t brought /that/ up. Dazai’s trying to cheer him

/up/, and trying to cover their story. He’s making it /difficult/.

Chuuya gets parked on the sidewalk just outside of the doors. The nurse— Naomi, her upside-down name tag reads— waits with him while Dazai goes to get the car.

Thankfully, his car /hasn’t/ been towed or fined

while they were in the hospital, though there is a sticky note slapped onto the hood with a scribbled “>:(“ face on it.

Whatever. He crumples the note up, shoving it into his pocket to throw away later, starting the car.

When he parks next to Chuuya on the street, he looks

/giddy/. Dazai squints at him through the side window as he reaches over to unlock the door.

He’s up to something.

Chuuya, stubborn as always, doesn’t wait to be picked up or moved into the car himself. When Dazai gets out and comes around to open the door for him, he’s

pushing up out of the wheelchair with a cheery wave.

Naomi waves back at him, grinning. Before Dazai can shut the door, she’s calling out, “Bye! Good luck. Feel better. Oh— tell your son I hope he has a good first day at Kindergarten!”

Dazai /chokes/. Chuuya smirks.

Shutting the door with a strained smile, Dazai says, “I will, thank you. Goodbye.”

When he slides back into the drivers seat,he looks at Chuuya with disbelief. “You told her he was in /kindergarten/?” He hisses quietly, so she doesn’t hear.

Chuuya shrugs. “What? I’m justified.”

When Dazai doesn’t answer immediately, smoothly pulling out into traffic instead, Chuuya continues, “He’s an ass. Besides, it was funny.”

Alright, Dazai /does/ have to give him that one, it was pretty damn funny. Especially when he imagines Shuuji’s indignant reaction if he

ever found out a /girl/— a pretty one too, not that Dazai would ever admit that because Chuuya is /jealous/, but he does still have eyes. Not that she even comes close to Chuuya though— thought he was a baby that still cried and needed to be tucked in at night—

Yeah, it’s funny.

Plus, the fact that Chuuya feels good enough to be joking around at all— even though it seems to have taken most of his energy, because now he’s slumped against his seat with his head tipped back and his eyes closed— feels like a good sign.

It doesn’t ease the worry gnawing at

Dazai’s insides. In fact, it seems to just give it more to chew on, taking every scrap of ‘good’ news and reminding him that it’s not /enough/.

Maybe that feeling will never go away.

Sliding one hand across the center console, he offers it to Chuuya. Cold, slender fingers

interlace with his own.

"Are you hungry?" He asks gently, hoping he has an appetite. The meager breakfast the nurses brought him in the hospital was rejected with an upturned nose, and he didn't eat last night either. Probably hasn't eaten in a while now, and even if the IV's

/did/ give him some sustenance and nutrients, he needs something to /eat/. Something solid in his stomach.

"Yes," Chuuya mumbles, curling up sideways in the seat so his back is pressed against the door and his temple is resting against the headrest. "But I just wanna go home."

Dazai hopes he's talking about /his/ home that way, like it's the source of his comfort and the only thing he wants right now.

"Alright," he murmurs, "I'll take you home."

On the straightaway, he presses his knee against the underside of the steering wheel, taking control. It's

not exactly /safe/ to drive with his knees, but it allows him to use his other hand to reach underneath himself and pull out his phone from his back pocket.

Keeping the car carefully in the center of the lane, he offers his phone to Chuuya. "Do you want to order something?

Anything. It should be almost ready by the time we get home."

Chuuya takes the phone with a sigh. He enters in the passcode when Dazai gives it to him, and navigates to the food delivery apps.

Dazai's not worried about him finding anything incriminating. That phone is clean,

not at all attached to his work. He only uses it for legal activities.

Though, Chuuya /might/ be concerned if he sees how many pictures Dazai has taken of him sleeping or unawares.

Chuuya scrolls for a while, making a face every once in a while. Dazai leaves him to it, keeping

his eyes on the road. He's not /rushing/ home but he's not taking his time either.

"I got ramen from the place we usually order from," Chuuya says, getting his attention. "You want your usual?"

The fact that Chuuya /knows/ what his usual is and can order without him having to

tell him makes him feel /warm/. Likes he's being known and accepted.

"Yes," he murmurs back, squeezing his hand gratefully. He hasn't eaten either, since about lunch yesterday. His stomach hasn't started protesting yet, but he's sure it will soon.

"Okay."

A few moments later

and his phone is falling to Chuuya's seat, now that it's use is over. Chuuya tucks it under his butt to keep it from moving, but otherwise just curls tighter into the seat.

By the time they finally arrive home, Chuuya is nearly asleep in the passenger seat. He looks like he's

fighting it, head bobbing up every so often as he blinks himself awake, but it's clear that he can't resist it for long.

The last few days have taken a lot out of him, and the anti-convulsants they gave him, in particular, are making him drowsy. On a normal day, he might be able

to push through it and function well, but when he's fresh out of the hospital and exhausted--

It's a wonder he's not asleep yet. He'll probably sleep the rest of the day away, and maybe even most of tomorrow.

Dazai parks the car in spot outside the house, giving himself enough

room to maneuver Chuuya out of the car. Even if he insists on walking, Dazai won't let him. Not when he looks mostly asleep.

Though, this time, when Dazai opens his door for him, it seems like he's finally accepted his limits. Instead of trying to get out or start walking, he

just raises his arms, Dazai's phone in hand.

He's /light/, but solid in Dazai's hold, his arms slinging over his shoulder.He tucks his nose into his neck, hiding his face from the world as Dazai starts to bring him inside.

"Food's almost on the way," he mumbles, shaking Dazai's

phone in example.

"Alright," Dazai responds, shifting his weight to one hand so he can unlock the front door. He braces himself as it swings open, because even though it's past breakfast time for them--

The dogs are still /much/ more excited to see Chuuya. As soon as the door

opens wide enough, Yoko and Kozo are jumping around his heels, each of them trying to get a good look at Chuuya.

Yoko even rears up on her hind legs and places her front paws on Dazai's hip as a balancing point as she sticks her nose into Chuuya's chest.

"Down, mutt," Dazai

mutters, but his words are soundly ignored when Chuuya drops a hand down and starts petting over Yoko's head. She pushes into it as much as she can, ears perking up at the attention. "You're encouraging her."

"I /missed/ her," Chuuya corrects sleepily, though he stops petting

her and allows Dazai to maneuver him through the door and up the stairs.

The dogs, at least, still have manners on the stairs, but he's resigned to the idea that /some/ of their bad habits have been encouraged to the point where he can't punish them anymore.

For example, Yoko

races them into the bedroom and leaps onto the bed. She's whining with excitement,tail whipping and knocking everything off the bedside table as she hops from foot to foot.

His clean black bedsheets are a thing of the past, apparently. At least Chuuya's smile makes it worth it.

With a sigh, he places Chuuya on the bed. “Be careful with him,” he warns Yoko sternly, but she ignores him in favor of crowding up to Chuuya and trying to lick his face.

There’s sweatpants and comfy sweaters in a section of the closet that has /slowly/ and subtly become

/Chuuya’s/ side of the closet. Dazai pulls out his favorites and brings them over.

Kneeling in front of him, he takes off his shoes and socks, making sure he doesn’t tug too hard. It’s not /sexual/, like most undressing is between them, but it’s infused with a level of care

that Dazai hasn’t shown anyone else before.

It comes...surprisingly naturally.For a long time he was convinced that /caring/ was just not something he was capable of doing. When Shuuji moved in and Dazai didn’t immediately bond with him, it felt like confirmation of that theory.

Like there was something so deeply /wrong/ with him, like some essential part of him had been /stolen/ from him as child, that’s he’d never be /normal/ again.

Like he’d always be the leftover ghost of the Demon Prodigy, too lucky to die.

And maybe he never will be normal.

He’s starting to discover that maybe that’s /okay/ because he has Chuuya and that’s enough for him.

He has someone that leans on him as he tugs the sweats up his slender legs until they’re snug on his hips.

He has someone that needs him, and maybe that’s all he really needs.

Dazai’s phone, tosses on the bed earlier and forgotten, pings with a notification alert.

“That’s probably the food,” Chuuya mumbles, crossing his legs. Yoko takes that as her invitation to prove she’s a lap dog and climbs right on. He winces when her paws land heavily on his

thighs, but he doesn’t stop her or push her away.

Yoko’s big enough that when she sits—awkwardly, with her butt on his legs and her front legs on the bed— that the only thing Dazai can see of Chuuya is his arms wrapping around her and hugging her close.

Kozo, meanwhile, has

taken to sniffing Chuuya’s shoes and making little growling sounds at whatever he smells.

These dogs were born, bred and /trained/ to be weapons, but put them in a room with Chuuya and they become loving house pets. It’s endearing.

“Don’t let her crush you,” he sighs, reaching

past him to get his phone. The notification, when he clicks on it, says the delivery driver is only a few streets away.

"Worth it," Chuuya mumbles, dragging Yoko closer, "Right, Yoko?"

Her answer is a big doggy smile, panting happily.

Downstairs, there's a knock on the door.

Leaving the dogs to smother Chuuya in their love, he heads downstairs. He brings his keys with him because he still needs to get the rest of Chuuya's stuff out of his car and move it into the garage.

On second thought, maybe he should keep his school stuff in the car? Maybe

seeing it so soon after he got the news that he wouldn't be returning this semester would be upsetting? He already has to go about the process of withdrawing, so maybe Dazai shouldn't shove a reminder under his nose?

Eh, he'll just leave his bag in his office. Somewhere /mostly/

hidden so he doesn't have to see it, but still easily accessible.

Another knock at the door, this one slightly louder than the last. They must be getting impatient.

Glad the dogs are upstairs-- they've always /hated/ delivery drivers, for good reason -- he opens the door.

Standing just outside the door on the second step is a young kid, holding the bags of food in his hands. As soon as the door is opened, he's pushing it into Dazai's hands with a big grin. Too friendly, even.

Dazai takes it easily, bobbing his head in thanks. Reminding himself to

send the kid a generous tip on the app-- his wallet is upstairs, and he doesn't want him to stick around to wait-- he shuts the door with a little wave.

Normally he doesn't eat in his bedroom. It reminds him too much of the times where his depression got /really/ bad and his

bedroom was a sea of dirty dishes, empty sake bottles and dirty laundry for /months/.

These days, he keeps his house--and his room especially-- religiously clean, but today he can make an exception. He's not going to make Chuuya come down to eat.

Balancing two bowls and the

little chocolate dessert Chuuya ordered on a tray-- even though it's barely lunchtime--, he brings the food up.

When he pushes the door open with his hip, Chuuya is exactly where he left him. He's leaning even harder against Yoko, like she's the only one holding him upright.

Unfortunately, Yoko /does/ have to get off the bed for this. She's an opportunistic eater, and if Chuuya puts a bowl of ramen under her nose, she'll end up eating it all.

Chuuya stirs when he sets the tray down on the bedside table, blinking heavily at him. When he sees the food

he nudges Yoko with his head. "Down, girl," he orders, pushing her lightly.

After a moment, she goes. She's reluctant and curls up right underneath his feet, but she follows instructions like a good girl.

Dazai hands him his bowl, keeping an eye on him as he slowly begins to

eat. It's more mechanical than anything, without any of the usual enjoyment, but it /is/ eating, so Dazai will take it. He'll make him something for dinner later, maybe he'll like that more. He's always liked homecooked meals better than takeout.

Chuuya manages half of his ramen

and two bites of his dessert before he's pushing it away.

"Tired," he mutters, crawling underneath the blankets. He looks tiny underneath the comforter, curled into a ball with a pillow pulled to his chest. Only the ends of his hair sticks out.

After finishing his own bowl,

Dazai places the entire tray high up on the bedside table where the dogs can't reach it. He'll keep an eye on it to make sure they don't get into it and make a mess, but his /main/ goal right now is sliding underneath the blankets and finding Chuuya. Wrapping his arms around his

waist and bringing him into his chest, curling around him.

"It's too early for you to sleep," he mumbles in protest, though he's arching into his hold and wiggling to get more comfortable. One of his feet slides between Dazai's legs, hooking around the back of his calf.

Dazai

presses a smile against his hair, holding him tightly. "It's never too early for naptime."

But Dazai doesn't let himself nap. He gives himself an hour to just /enjoy/ and bask in the sensation of Chuuya sleep-warm and safe in his arms.

Lets the residual anxiety and worry work

through him in waves, counteracted every time Chuuya mumbles to himself in his sleep or curls up tighter into him.

/Loss/ is an emotion Dazai is familiar with, empty and hollowing, carving out pieces of him and filling them with a strange, endless grief. A grief that doesn’t

/sting/ anymore, it just slowly rots and festers, forgotten.

To think he almost felt it /again/, with Chuuya is—

It’s awful. He hates it. And even though Chuuya is still here, still warm and breathing and safe, Dazai can’t help but think—

/ What if? What if I actually lost

him? What if it was /my/ fault? /

It’s a thought that doesn’t go away.

Eventually, Dazai manages to pull himself away. He still has to get his prescriptions because he’ll need them tomorrow morning. It’s still early on Saturday, so this is a perfect time, when Chuuya is

sleeping and won’t need him.

Giving the dogs the command to guard him and feeling reassured when Yoko hops up to take his place in the bed while Kozo lays across the floor blocking the entrance, Dazai leaves.

He makes sure to put Chuuya’s phone in easy reach, and turns his own

phone onto the highest notification noise possible. If Chuuya needs him he’ll call, and he doesn’t want to miss it.

There’s a pharmacy inside one of the general stores not too far from his house. He goes there because it’s the closest.

The pharmacist takes the prescriptions

from him and advises him that it’ll be a twenty minute wait before they can be filled.

Dazai spends that time wandering the aisles and picking out all the things Chuuya might like while he’s recovering. Most of the medical stuff— like heat pads and Tylenol— Dazai already has

but things like candy— Chuuya has a /love/ for dark chocolate that Dazai will simply never understand and an obsession with sour candies— an extra soft blanket, a face mask or two, never /hurt/.

Besides, he’s pretty sure at least /one/ of his medications require absolutely no

alcohol intake for the foreseeable future so—

He’s going to need a /bribe/ when he tells him that he can’t even take a /sip/ of wine for the next few weeks. A /good/ bribe, one that will stop him from biting him in retaliation or something equally bratty.

When the twenty

minutes are up and his handheld cart is filled to the brim with things for Chuuya, he goes to get his medication.

The pharmacist is nice, explains everything about how the medicine should be taken. Dazai listens intently, memorizing all the information, but doesn’t stay for

small talk. He’s already getting antsy being away for Chuuya this long.

Abandonment issues have /always/ haunted Dazai but now he’s starting to suspect he’s delving straight into /separation anxiety/. Like a dog or something.

When he gets back to the house, he parks the car in

the garage where it belongs. Without Shuuji driving the other car, it’s easy to get all of his vehicles perfectly lined up and parked.

At the last second, he remembers Chuuya’s bag and slings it over his shoulder to bring inside.

Neither of the dogs greet him when he gets

inside. Expected, because they /should/ still be guarding Chuuya.

First, he puts the chocolate in the fridge and the candy in the pantry. The medications he’ll take upstairs to put in his bathroom, same with the new chibi-sized fluffy blanket.

He can vaguely hear someone

talking upstairs; it /sounds/ like Chuuya, but it’s hard to tell.

Maybe he woke up and turned the TV on to watch something? If he’s awake he should eat some more. He’s too /thin/, Dazai doesn’t like how sharp his collarbones have gotten lately. It’s worrying.

He heads upstairs.

Dropping Chuuya’s bag into the corner of his office, he makes his way into the bedroom, medication in hand.

“— daddy?”

Perking up, figuring that Chuuya is talking to /him/, Dazai pushes open the door and steps over Kozo in the doorway—

To find Chuuya on the phone, looking

exasperated. He’s sitting up with Yoko sprawled across his lap, blankets bunched up between them.

When he sees Dazai, he motions to the phone and mouths, “It’s my dad.”

Oh.

Well at least /that/ mix up happened when his father /wasn’t/ in the room, otherwise that might’ve

been awkward for Chuuya.

Giving them a chance to talk, Dazai puts the medications in the medicine cabinet in his bathroom. They’re the only medications in there, the only ones Dazai trusts himself to keep in easy reach.

Then he pads back into the bedroom, going over to drop a

kiss on Chuuya’s forehead before heading downstairs to make him something to eat—

A hand on his arm stops him in his tracks.

Chuuya holds the phone out to him. “He wants to talk to you.”

Dazai blinks at him. “He wants to what?” He repeats, figuring he heard wrong or—

But no:

"I said he wants to talk to you."

Ah. Well, that's /awkward/ for Dazai.

He's never spoken to the parents of his partners before. He's always been careful never to let it get /that/ far, and most of sexual partners wouldn't think he was 'meet the parents' material.

Well,he /did/ talk to Sasaki's father once, but that was when he was /sixteen/ and that entire conversation consisted entirely of putting his phone on speaker and letting him scream obscenities at him while Dazai silently played a racing video game.

That probably doesn't count.

But Chuuya's looking at him /expectantly/ and it's already been several seconds since he said it and--

And Dazai /really/ wants this relationship to go well, and he knows that Chuuya thinks a lot of his father, despite their somewhat complicated relationship. He can't just say

/no/, it would be rude so--

He takes the phone, unreasonably nervous, and brings it to his ear. "Hello?"

The voice on the other side of the call sounds /harried/, frayed at the edges with worry. Also /irritated/. "It's Dazai, right?"

Honestly, it's a little /surreal/ to be

talking to man who is /probably/ close to his age (the age difference between him and Chuuya is something he chooses not to think about too hard or too often) and /far/ less powerful than him in terms of economic status and power, as some sort of respected figure. Like a father

in law.

"Yes," he responds, keeping his expression neutral. "And you're Rimbaud."

God, he's so /bad/ at this. Chuuya's staring right at him, expecting him to impress his father, and Dazai's mind is /blank/.

"How long have you been dating my son?"

Here's the tricky part: Dazai

doesn't actually /know/ what Chuuya told his father. He doesn't know if there's a /lie/ he's supposed to collaborate on, or a story that's /already/ been told--

He's /winging/ it.

"Uh," he starts, hoping Chuuya went with the /truth/. "About six weeks...?

The response he gets

isn't /immediately/ aggressive or angry, so it seems he made the right choice. "I don't mean to be rude, you must understand-- it's just a /shock/ to hear that my /son/ is dating someone for six weeks and didn't tell me. Not to /mention/ that he's sick enough to warrant /dropping

out/. I'm sure you can understand my concern."

Slightly hysterical, Dazai thinks about responding with 'yes, as a father, I /completely/ understand' just to see what would happen.

"I do," he mutters instead, sinking down to sit on the bed. "But I can assure you that I'm going

to take care of him and he's going to get better soon."

There's an aggravated sigh, the sounds of papers rustling on the other side of the phone. "For your sake, I hope so. It's too soon for you two to be living together, so I really think he should return home, but he's being

/stubborn/."

That is something they haven't discussed yet. Dazai was under the impression that the silent agreement was that Chuuya would stay with /him/,but they should talk about it. He would understand if Chuuya wanted to go home, but he hopes he stays here with him. It would

make him feel a /lot/ more secure and comfortable with him still in sight and under his protection--

But he's not going to say /no/ if Chuuya wants to go home.

"With all due respect, sir," Dazai grits out, his natural rebellion against authority rearing it's head, "your son is

an adult and he can make his own choices. He's welcome to stay here as long as he likes."

He makes eye contact with Chuuya on the last sentence, making sure to get his point across to him clearly.

He means it. He's more than welcome to stay here. Forever, if he wanted to.

Another sigh. "I guess you're right," Rimbaud concedes begrudgingly, though he doesn't sound /happy/ about it, "Though I do wish he wouldn't. Nothing personal, I'm just not sure who /you/ are. How do I know you're treating him fairly?"

How,indeed.

"I suppose you could ask him,"

he says dryly.

"Well-- let's just say that you /better/ treat him right, because I have some friends in some /very/ high places."

/ Oh, yeah? Well, I have a /gun/, so now what? /

Naturally, he doesn't actually say that, tucking his irritation away. He's always hated

overprotective parents for this exact reason. They threaten and posture, instead of teaching their children how to protect themselves and recognize red flags.

"I understand," he sighs, even though he's /curious/ as to what he means by 'friends in high places'.

Personally, Dazai

has friends in /low/ places, which he finds are often more /effective/, but his father doesn't need to know that.

"I'll keep in touch," Rimbaud sniffs, and Dazai /almost/ reflexively asks him if that's a /threat/ before he reigns it in. "I want to know more about the man my son

is dating."

Lovely, now Dazai has to come up with /another/ cover story that won't be questioned by Chuuya. "Right. Is there anything else you would like to talk about or...?"

"Not right now. I'll have some questions for you later, but I would like to talk to Chuuya again."

Feeling like he dodged a bullet with this impromptu conversation-- which sounds impromptu on /both/ sides, so he's sure there will be an /interrogation/ the next time they talk-- he hands the phone back over.

Chuuya takes it with an irritated. "Are you happy now, Daddy?"

Dazai

winces. He /really/ wishes he didn't call him that, especially when he's /right/ here.

Because--

His /mind/ is telling him that it's innocent and /inappropriate/ to think of it any other way, not to mention that it illustrates how /young/ Chuuya is.

His /libido/ on the other

hand is looking with both eyes /wide/ open, and it feels /wrong/, oh god, it feels /so/ wrong--

Which is probably why he /likes/ it so much.

Why does Chuuya still call his dad that? /Especially/ after calling /Dazai/ daddy? Isn't there some one-daddy-only rule or--

"I /will/,

I promise," Chuuya says, rolling his eyes in a clear sign that he's not /actually/ going to.

Good for him.

"/Yes/, Daddy."

Dazai covers his face with his hands, sighing. When will this call be over?

"I'm /hanging/ up now, okay? /No/. Goodbye-- Yes, /okay/, now /goodbye/."

With an exasperated grunt, Chuuya slams the ‘end call’ button and throws his phone into the bed. His face drops into his hands a moment later, letting out a long groan.

“Sorry,” he mutters, “I tried to tell him no, but he’s stubborn as fuck.”

So it’s /genetic/, huh? Runs in

the family.

“No problem, baby,” Dazai reassures him, reaching out one hand and finding his knee. He squeezes it gently. “It didn’t bother me. It was... /interesting/ to meet him.”

Interesting is one word for it.

“Thanks,” he mumbles back. “Sounded like he liked you though.”

Well, he basically threatened him, which probably counts for /something/.

He shrugs.

“He did give me some advice on how to start withdrawing from school, though. I’ll have to go in on Monday, talk to administration.”

That makes sense. Dazai nods, giving his knee another

squeeze. He’ll probably have to move all his stuff out of his dorm as well.

Maybe he’ll move it into Dazai’s room instead? There’s plenty of room here, everything will fit—

That’s a conversation they’ll have /soon/ but not right now. Right now he needs support for this.

“Okay, I’ll take you in,” he says. “I’ll help you pack too, if you need it.”

Per doctors orders, he /will/ need it, but he doesn’t want to force it on him. There’s a fine line between being /supportive/ and overbearing. It has to seem like it’s Chuuya’s choice.

Chuuya’s

voice wobbles a little as he asks, “Will you help me email my professors?”

Dazai isn’t sure they even /need/ to be emailed about this, but if Chuuya wants to do it and feels it’s necessary, then of course he’ll help. “Yeah.”

Some people, when they feel overloaded, immediately

start to show signs of it. They cry, they yell, they vent, they scream. Arguably, it’s a much healthier way of dealing with their problems.

But some people bottle things up. They hold it in and let it fester. Let it eat away at them, slowly growing bigger and bigger. Slowly

filling them up until it’s a struggle to hold themselves together around the weight of it.

Sometimes it’s the /small/ things that are the straw that breaks the camels back.

In the end, it’s not emailing his professors that makes Chuuya /crack/—

It’s a scratch at the window.

By now, it's evening. Right about the time where Dazai usually feeds the dogs right before making his own dinner. Chuuya's been snacking ever since the phone call ended, so he can only hope that he'll /actually/ eat dinner.

Of course, Dazai has /recently/ taken to feeding one

other being at dinnertime--

The /cat/.

It's routine enough that the stray has started to show up regularly at this time. Dazai wasn't here to feed him yesterday, and so he probably didn't get to eat. Now, Dazai is running a /little/ behind on schedule, and the cat has decided

that he's going to express his disappointment and irritation--

By climbing up to the balcony-- somehow-- and scratching at the window while meowing loudly.

"He keeps on coming back," Chuuya mutters, and Dazai isn't looking at him, so he doesn't see his lip start to wobble.

"Yeah. He's just hungry. He'll go away once he eats, probably."

The cat usually sticks around for attention if Chuuya is dishing it out, but if they ignore him, he eventually wanders off.

"He's /hungry/--" Chuuya's voice cracks here, and here is where Dazai starts to realize

something is /wrong/. "--and he's /homeless/ and he's probably /cold/ and--"

He cuts himself off there with a loud,shuddering inhale like he's trying to hold back the wave of emotion he's experiencing.

Turning his head, Dazai stares at him in concern. He's always been emotional

over the stray, sure, but not enough to have tears pooling in his eyes like that.

What does he /say/?

"He'll probably be adopted soon," he soothes, even though he's not too sure. That cat has been a stray for almost as long as Dazai has lived here. He's not sure anyone else in

the neighborhood wants him or even pays attention to him. His best chance is probably getting picked up by animal control. "And then someone will take him home and love him."

That is the wrong thing to say.

Chuuya's face crumples immediately. "But /I/ love him!" he wails.

And then he does what is, in Dazai’s opinion, probably the /worst/ possible reaction ever:

He bursts into tears.Loud, gasping sobs that wrack his entire body and make him shake. His hands come up to cover his face, but that does nothing to lessen the sheer /force/ of his crying.

Dazai feels like he’s watching his life flash before his eyes, nearly stupid with fear because—

He doesn’t know what to /do/. What happened? How does he make it better, get him to stop /sobbing/ like his heart is being torn out of his chest?

“It’s gonna be okay, baby,” he

soothes mindlessly, reaching out to him.

That’s an even /worse/ thing to say,apparently.

“No, it’s /not/!” Chuuya cries, voice thick and wet. “I have to drop out of school because of my stupid brain and, and—I might have to go /home/ and I don’t want to, and the cat is HUNGRY!”

Dazai hasn’t ever /seen/ Chuuya like this. He’s been emotional sometimes, sure, but it usually gets displayed in shows of irritation or anger.

He’s never seen him /sob/ like this, and it’s shocking, even if he can logically understand why he’s breaking down.

Instead of trying

to talk him down again—because /clearly/ Dazai just makes it worse when he opens his mouth—, he scoots closer and drapes an arm across his shoulders.

He’s not sure if Chuuya would mind between restrained with a hug right now, so he’s testing the waters first.

Chuuya doesn’t

exactly fight him but neither does he really lean into the comfort as he continues to spiral.

“I worked /so/ fucking hard to get into Keio and, and— now it’s /over/ and my /life/ is over and now i’m /behind/ everyone else so I’m never going to get a /good job/ and I’m gonna be

/homeless/ and work at— work at a /convience store/ forever!”

Okay, so he’s /clearly/ not thinking logically right now, because /that/ is a very big conclusion to make just because he has to take a semester off.

Dazai doesn’t /tell/ him that, of course, because even if he’s

being /dramatic/, that doesn’t mean his emotions aren’t valid. Or that he doesn’t have a right to be breaking down right now.

He shushes him, chest aching for him, pulling him closer in an effort to calm him down.

“I’ve always wanted a cat and I’m never gonna have one because

my dad hates them and I’m gonna grow up to be a /failure/!”

Poor thing. Sets such impossibly high standards for himself that he really thinks his life is over at /eighteen/ because he got sick for a few weeks.

Now, Dazai /could/ try to talk him down or just wait until this

wave of emotions passes and they can have an actual conversation about this—

But there is a simple solution to at least /one/ of those problems.

Getting up, he walks over to the balcony door. The cat stares at him as he approaches, eyes narrowed suspiciously.

It’s not like

Dazai /hates/ cats, he just doesn’t prefer them. And if it’ll make Chuuya happy— and give him a reason to stay— and make his recovery easier, then as far as he’s concerned, the cat is already his.

When he opens the door, the orange cat trots inside with it’s tail held high and

waving smugly like he’s saying ‘took you long enough’.

Yoko and Kozo watch from the floor with interest, but the cat ignores them with the arrogance a cat can have, trotting up to the bed easily.

“There,” Dazai announces, shutting the door again. “Now you have a cat.”

Chuuya strangles back another sob, looking up. His face is a /wreck/, face splotchy and tears running down his cheeks. The blue of his eyes looks even more intense with how /red/ they are.

“What?” He chokes out, furiously trying to wipe his face clean. It’s clear he’s not

/done/ yet, but he’s trying to get himself back under control.

The cat, after looking around cautiously, hops up onto the bed.

“I told you earlier, Chuuya,” Dazai reminds him gently, smiling softly, “if you want it, it’s yours. If you want /him/, he’s yours.”

Chuuya looks at

him like he’s lost his /mind/. “You can’t just give me a /cat/, Dazai, what the hell is wrong with you? What if he has /fleas/?”

Even the cat looks offended at that one.

Dazai scratches the back of his head awkwardly, feeling /so/ out of place. “So... you don’t want him?”

“No, I—,” Chuuya lets out a strangled noise at that one, half sob and half angry scream, “You’re /shit/ at this. You’re not supposed to just /stare/ at me! You’re supposed to /hold/ me! Compliment me! Make me feel better. Not give me a /cat/!”

“Oh,” Dazai says, blinking. Now

that he has /instruction/, the task of comforting him feels /much/ less daunting. “Right. Okay.”

He crosses back over to the bed, dropping down beside him and dragging Chuuya into his arms. Chuuya goes willingly, burying his face into his shoulder with a hiccup.

He arranges

him with his legs crossed underneath them, making a seat for Chuuya. His legs are slung on either side of his hips, tucked underneath himself.

Chuuya clings to him this time as the sobs die down but the tears start up again. He’s at /least/ less hysterical, but he’s still

/affected/.

“Baby,” Dazai starts, cupping his face and tilting it back and upwards so he can see. Even with his face red and splotchy, he’s still one of the most beautiful people Dazai has ever seen.

His thumbs brush his cheeks, wiping away tears. “You’re /not/ going to be a

failure.”

Chuuya sniffs miserably up at him, but at least he’s listening.

“You are /so/ smart,” Dazai tells him, leaning down to seal the words with a adoring kiss on his cheek. “And hard-working.” Another kiss.

“Kind.” Another.

“And /beautiful.” Another.

“You’ve worked

/so/ hard to get where you are, and I know it’s... frustrating and upsetting to think that it’s all been taken away from you— but it hasn’t. You can go back next semester, and try again. You’re top /ten/ in your year at Keio— anyone would be lucky to have you.”

Chuuya shivers,

swallowing hard. The tears are slowing now, but maybe that’s just because Dazai is kissing them away as soon as they come.

“And next semester will be /easy/ for you, sweetheart. You’ll already know what to expect, /and/ you’ll be ahead of all the kids in the class because you

already took half of it. You’ll /ace/ it. And— you’ll have /me/.”

That makes Chuuya’s eyes widen briefly, hands tightening on his shoulders. When he speaks, it’s something between hopeful and confused. “What do you mean?”

“Let me help you, Chuuya,” Dazai murmurs, pressing a

smile to his cheek. "Let me take /care/ of you. You can stay here as long as you want, as long as you need. I'll take care of you /so/ good, baby, you'll never need to worry about anything other than acing your classes."

Is it wrong to /tempt/ him like this when he's coming down

from an emotional episode like this? Probably.

But Dazai has never fought /fair/, and if he can tempt Chuuya into staying with /him/ instead of going home to recover, then he'll whisper whatever sweet--and dirty-- promises into his ear that he needs to.

Chuuya presses up into

the comfort willingly, his arms slinging around Dazai's neck and pulling him in close. His breath in slowing into a more stable rhythm now, and the tears have almost completely stopped.

Seems he's coming out of it, now that Dazai has figured out how to /help/.

"Do you really

mean that?" He mutters, voice wobbly. "I don't wanna be-- like a /burden/ or anything, and I know we haven't been dating for long, and it was unexpected so--"

Dazai shushes him again, sliding his hands back into his hair. It's messy again, but not too tangled. "Of course I mean

it," he says, trailing his lips down until they find the corner of his mouth and pressing a kiss there. "You're not a burden, Chuuya. Not at all, not /ever/."

That seems to get through to him, because in the next moment he's letting out a shuddering sigh and turning his head to

catch him in a kiss.

It’s achingly slow and soft. No sense of urgency behind it, just the reassurance of /comfort/ and affection. Every slide of their lips together is a reiteration of how far they’ve come, how much they mean to eachother.

Eventually Chuuya pulls back again,

breaking the kiss. His hands slide away from Dazai’s shoulders, finding the tearstains on his cheeks and trying to rub them away.

“Okay,” he says, clearing his throat and trying to sound /upbeat/, “alright, I’m good now. Everything just...became too much for a second.”

Dazai

can understand that, using his fingertips to tuck Chuuya’s bangs behind his ear. “I know you’ve been stressed and that’s perfectly reasonable,” he says gently, “Do you feel better now though?”

“Yeah,” he answers, sounding a /little/ surprised, but also worn out. Emotionally and

physically.

Understandable. It’s been a very emotional day for him, considering everything, and physically his body is still recuperating. It doesn’t take much to wear him out.

An indignant meow interrupts them, followed by an insistent headbutt to Chuuya’s elbow from the cat.

The action draws out a tired laugh from Chuuya and a few sniffles. “Sorry, kitty,” he mutters, reaching out to scratch him under the chin to greet him.

The purrs start up nearly immediately, loud and pleased. The cat leans into it wholeheartedly, stepping up on Chuuya’s thigh

with its front paws to get closer.

“Can I still keep him though?” Chuuya asks, not looking at Dazai directly. “I know I said—.”

Dazai interrupts him, not needing an explanation. “Yes, you can have him. Though you’ll need to give him a /bath/.”

The cat isn’t excessively

dirty, but he is dusty and he’s been living on the streets for at least a couple years. He could use a bath, even if he doesn’t have fleas like Chuuya said.

The thanks he gets in return for that is an excited wiggle from Chuuya, leaning in to rest more fully against him.

After a long, peaceful moment of Chuuya pressed up against him and soaking up the warmth of affection while the cat paces shortly back and forth to get scratches all over the best parts of him, Chuuya speaks up again. “Sorry I said you were shit at this. I didn’t mean it.”

That

pulls a lopsided smile from Dazai. “No, you were right. I was pretty shit at it,” he huffs,amused.

Reaching down, he offers his fingers to the cat to rub up against, and is promptly ignored. Obviously he has a /favorite/.

“Yeah, you were,” Chuuya says, then bursts into giggles.

Dazai lets him laugh at him for a while, warmth bubbling up inside his chest. At least he’s feeling better, enough to snicker at him for a few minutes.

Eventually Kozo comes to interrupt, propping his chin up on the bed so he can sniff at the cat. When he looks at Dazai, he lets

out a few whines to remind him that it’s /past/ dinner time now.

Like Kozo would ever let him forget. The dog is an eating /machine/, and Dazai’s convinced his only goal in life is to get fat.

Squeezing Chuuya, he says, “I gotta go downstairs and feed the pets and make you

something to eat. Do you wanna come with, or you wanna stay up here?”

Chuuya snuggles closer, slinging the hand that was petting the cat back over Dazai’s shoulder. “Take me with,” he mumbles, letting out a surprised yelp when Dazai hefts him up higher in his arms.

The stairs

are tricky to navigate when there’s a cat determined to get under Dazai’s feet and yowling up at him like he’s personally offended /he’s/ not being carried down the stairs.

They have yet to get an actual food bowl for the cat, so he has to make do with a repurposed Tupperware

placed in the middle of the dining table to keep the dogs from getting to it.

Chuuya perches beside him on the table, one leg swinging beneath the table as he scrolls on his phone and occasionally reaches over to stroke the cat on the back until another ferocious set of purrs

starts up.

Making dinner is peaceful, /homey/. Chuuya is his dedicated taste taster, taking every bite Dazai offers him and making approving noises. They make small talk, carefully avoiding the subject of Chuuya’s prescribed bed rest—

But it’s not /awkward/.

After a while,

the dogs come back inside. Chuuya spends half his time teasing Yoko by wiggling his fingers just out of reach of her nose, and the other half brushing his toes over Kozo’s belly, who has rolled onto his back beneath him.

The cat takes one look at them and turns his back on them,

stretching out on his side along the table.

It feels like /family/. Like love and /home/ and care.

Dazai hasn’t had a family in a long time. Not one that he /felt/ was his family, at least, not one that ever made him feel like /this/.

He doesn’t know what to do with the

building emotion in his chest, so thick and warm he’s half-convinced he’ll get a sunburn just from the brightness of Chuuya’s presence.

He can’t stop touching him, feeding him little test bites and kissing away the extra sauce left on the corner of his lip. Keeping a hand on

his thigh as they eat, thumb rubbing over his inner thigh and defending his bowl from a /very/ interested cat with his other hand.

Carrying him back up the stairs as Chuuya starts to crash with exhaustion again, curling up in bed with him even though Dazai himself isn’t tired.

His entire world, held in the spaces between Chuuya’s breath. The spinning of the universe spurred on by the steady beats of his heart, a precious rhythm Dazai doesn’t know how he ever lived without.

When Dazai eventually does fall asleep, hours later, he wakes up in the middle

of the night to find that the cat had wiggled his way between then at some point, pushing his butt into Dazai’s face as he curls over Chuuya’s head.

Dazai debates kicking him out, because he’s taking up /his/ cuddle time—

But Chuuya looks blissfully and peacefully asleep, a

tiny smile on his face, so—

Dazai huffs into the cats fur and endures.

Sunday is the calm before the storm. The day dawns clear and warm, rays of sunshine collecting underneath the curtains shielding the balcony.

Dazai is up much earlier before Chuuya is, but he luxuriates

in the warmth and comfort of bed until Chuuya starts to stir.

Then it’s time to make breakfast and give Chuuya his first round of medications. The combination of food and medicine makes him drowsy again, so he spends another few hours caught between dozing in bed and lazily

scrolling on his phone.

(Dazai spends that time starting the information hunt about this ‘DOA’ drug, because there’s something /very/ fishy about it.

The Port Mafia has never been huge on drugs. They have a stranglehold on that business and they /do/ deal with drugs, but their

main source of revenue is international trade and security.

The college campus is firmly on Mafia territory, and Dazai does /not/ see a logical reason as to why the Mafia would be pushing a drug that causes such obvious and negative side effects.

It’s like they’re /asking/ for

the government to get involved and start an investigation.

It’s like they’re asking for the tentative willful ignorance between the underground and the upper echelons of the /law/ to come to an end.

It’s like they’re asking to be taken /down/ and dismantled.)

When Chuuya

finally does get out of bed, it’s early afternoon. Dazai wants to check on him, but he’s in the middle of a call.

Once he hears the water start up in the bathroom,and the sounds of the tub filling,he smiles.

When Dazai /does/ get free again,he goes to check on him only to find—

Chuuya, luxuriating in the bath with his hair tired on top of his head and the face mask Dazai bought yesterday layered over his skin and—

The /cat/, showing the signs of a recent washing, fur wet and spiky. Chuuya is repurposing one of the tubs Dazai usually stores towels in,

turning it into a makeshift boat for the cat to lay in and float in the bath with him.

For a cat that /should/ hate water, the damn thing looks /blissfully/ content as he crouches in the plastic boat and floats.

Dazai can’t keep the smile out of his voice. “What are you doing?”

Chuuya doesn’t even open his eyes or tilt his head to the side as he answers, “Taking a bath.”

“With the cat?”

A twitch of his lips, a smile quickly smothered but Dazai sees it. “You said he needed one. Besides,” Chuuya reaches out with his toes, gently pushing the boat so it

goes cruising down to the edge of the tub, bounces off the wall gently and slowly starts to make its way back, “he likes it.”

Dazai’s pretty sure it’s not the /bath/ he likes, but the sheer fact of being close to Chuuya. The cat is in love with his tiny redhead.

Dazai crosses

over, bracing his hands on the edge of the tub and leaning over him. He stares down at him, and when he speaks, his voice is as thick with affection as the air is with steam. “You’re ridiculous.”

Blue eyes crack open, amusement shining from them like stars. “I’m /practical/,”

he corrects, a grin going on his face.

Dipping his hand into the wall of bubbles stacked near the edges of the tub, Dazai puts a blob on the end of Chuuya’s nose and chuckles when he goes cross-eyed trying to look at it.

“Do you want me to wash your hair?” He asks, knowing

that he probably /does/ want to wash all the hospital grime out of it, but isn't feeling up for the task.

Chuuya sighs, stretching out further in the tub. His feet don't come close to touching the edge. "Yes, please," he mumbles.

It's the only time he's given permission for

him to wash his hair-- he's /overprotective/ and picky with his hair-- and Dazai makes sure to do it with the care it deserves.

Cupping his hand underneath the back of his head and holding him as he gets his hair wet. Carefully lathering shampoo into the roots of his hair,

focusing on the spots near his temples when it makes Chuuya sigh pleasantly. Rinsing his hair out again, then working conditioner through all the way to the ends. Taking a comb and carefully untangling every knot until it's smooth.

Chuuya relaxes into his care, letting him

manipulate his head and move his body any way he needs to.

It's peaceful, like time is frozen outside of this room.

(It will not last.)

------ +

In Chuuya's humble opinion, the ordeal of medically withdrawing from college is a /hassle/. Not only does he have to seek approval

from /all/ of his course instructors-- which seems unnecessary and like a /very/ easy way to have the entire process drawn out for an obscenely long time-- and then he has to take all that approval into the administration to get /that/ approved. Then he has to sign a whole bunch

of papers agreeing that him withdrawing means that all his courses for the semester are /incomplete/, he has to return all the funds given to him by his scholarships and financial aid, he has to vacate the dorm, and so on and so forth until Chuuya just feels /numb/.

He didn't

choose this. He didn't /want/ this.

And even though he has a /stack/ of doctors notes saying that he /can't/ be in class without negative repercussions, it feels like he's being /punished/.

He doesn't even get Dazai's support in the office, because Chuuya wanted to do this

/alone/. Dazai looked apprehensive, but he couldn't exactly /argue/, and when Chuuya pointed out that it was probably best if he got a head start on packing up his dorm--

He agreed. That's where he is now, picking up all the things Chuuya owns and packing them away for moving.

(It takes Dazai a few minutes to find where Chuuya's dorm is. He gave him directions, but without any idea as to where to /go/, it takes the help of the directional signs for him to find it.

Using the key Chuuya gave him, he steps inside.

Nikolai is there when he enters, and he

looks /terrified/ when he looks up and sees him standing in the doorway, freezing in place.

Chuuya must not have told him that Dazai was going to help move his dorm out. He can imagine that being /awkward/, considering that Nikolai has been friends with Shuuji for a while.

Unfortunately that means that /Dazai/ has to deal with the awkwardness himself.

Nikolai’s a nice kid— Dazai has done /several/ background checks on him and found nothing out of the ordinary, besides a father that died of alcoholism and a brother that followed soon after— so he

forces a friendly smile.

“I’m here to help Chuuya move all his stuff,” he says, rocking back on his heels a little. “I’m assuming that’s his side of the room.”

He tilts his head to the other side of the room that Nikolai isn’t sitting on, and gets a wide-eyed nod in response.

Great.

It doesn’t look like Chuuya /owns/ a lot of things, because his side of the room is mostly bare. A blessing, because Dazai only has so much room in his car. He doesn’t mind extra trips, but he wants to get this over as soon as possible because he knows it’s going to

upset Chuuya the longer they’re on the campus.

It’s also kind of /sad/, because he’s come to realize that Chuuya is a /nester/ and even though he’s only been staying with Dazai the past two weeks, the bedside table on his side of the bed has already started to fill up with all

the knickknacks and little charms Dazai buys him whenever they go out.

So to see a place for Chuuya that is so /empty/, when he obviously prefers it not to be if he has the option—

Sad. Very sad.

Something occurs to him as he’s carefully folding all of Chuuya’s clothes and

packing them away into a box:

The calls Dazai had made about the DOA drug had turned up little to no information. Chuuya said he didn’t know anything about it when he asked.

But Nikolai has been on campus more consistently than Chuuya has in the past few weeks, so it’s possible

that he knows more.

Looking at Nikolai over his shoulder, he says, “Hey, I wanted to ask—I’ve been hearing all sorts of things about this new drug going around? Think it’s called DOA.Know anything about it?”

Nikolai pales.)

When Chuuya /finally/ gets out of the administration

building, he feels limp and irritable with exhaustion. When Gide told him that he'd be on bed rest, he didn't know it meant he'd be tired out by even the most mundane things.

He's been sleeping so /much/ lately, almost the entire morning yesterday and even part of the evening,

so it feels like a crime that he's already dreaming of going back to bed.

He's hungry too, even though he had breakfast only a couple hours ago.

There's a small cafe between the offices and the dorms, and he makes his way there slowly. The sun pours down on him, warm and

energizing. It's Monday morning, and the campus is as crowded as it usually is. All the students that have class or work today are drawn in by the wafting smell of coffee.

Chuuya joins the crowd, choosing to sit at one of the available outside benches. He needs a cup of coffee

to wake himself up, but he doesn't have any money himself. Using the allowance his father gives him feels /wrong/ now,because he's not in /college/ anymore.

He's not too worried, he'll just text Dazai and ask him to come over and pay--

Someone slides into the seat opposite him.

Chuuya looks up, curious, automatically painting a smile on his face because he's assuming it's one of his friends wondering why he's not in class anymore, already preparing his story in response--

It's not one of friends. In fact, it's not anyone he recognizes at all.

A man,

dark-haired and with a pair of dark violet eyes that seem to /glow/ against the backdrop of the sun. His smile is friendly, the flash of sharp teeth behind it subtle.

He's dressed impeccably well, with a dark purple shirt that matches his eyes. Over it, he has a dark jacket that

/oozes/ luxury, with threads that practically /shine/ silver.

His hair is up in a messy bun on top of his head, secured with what looks like a short piece of red rope.

Interesting.

Chuuya tilts his head, lowering his phone before he can text Dazai. "Can I help you?"

The man

smiles at him. "I think you can."

The way he's /looking/ at him makes him think that he means more than just what he's saying,eyes locked on target like a predator about to /pounce/.

It makes the hair on the back of Chuuya's neck stand up. He shifts,fighting the urge to /run/.

Then the man flips over the menu the cafe leaves chained to the outside tables, opening it. "I haven't come here before;can you tell me what you would recommend to order? I'm /very/ picky with my food, but you look like you have good taste."

Oh. Well, Chuuya can understand that.

He wouldn't want to order something gross either.

"Well, personally, I really like their Americano's and the spinach wrap, but if you like a sweeter coffee, then I suggest a caramel latte. They make theirs with a few pumps of vanilla too, and it's really good."

The smile grows.

"Lovely, solnyshko" the man says. The foreign word makes Chuuya blink in surprise. It sounds /vaguely/ familiar,like a language he's heard before but doesn't understand.

The waving down one of the waitresses who works here. She's a student, someone that Chuuya vaguely recognizes

from some of his classes. She looks /engrossed/ by the man, smiling eagerly at him.

"Can I get a caramel latte, an americano and a spinach wrap, please?" The man asks, lacing his fingers together and staring up at the waitress unwaveringly. There's a tattoo around his wrist that

gets exposed when his sleeve slides up.

It almost looks like a /noose/ wrapped around his wrist, the knot inked into the fragile skin of his inner wrist. It descends further down his arm where the sleeve covers up, blocking him from seeing the entirety of it.

The waitress nods,

scribbling down his order before walking away.

"You must need coffee pretty badly if you're ordering two at a time, and at a place you've never been to, uh--," Chuuya jokes, before realizing that he doesn't actually know this person's name.

The man seems to pick up on that,

offering him another smile. He wets his lips by licking them, tongue sliding deliciously slow over his bottom lip and--

Is that /two/ tongue piercings, one on each side? Chuuya's never seen /that/ before.

"You can call me Fyodor, solnyshko," he offers. "And the Americano is for

you. It would be rude not to offer you something in payment after you've been so /kind/ to me, no?"

He doesn't think that offering his advice on food is worth buying him something to eat, but it's not like he's going to turn down free food. Besides, this way he won't have to

bother Dazai for a while longer. Or go back to his dorm before he's ready to see the thing he's worked so hard for be taken away.

He can eat, have a quick snack with /Fyodor/ before making his way up to his dorm.

"Thank you," he says, giving him a grateful smile. "So if you've

never been to this cafe before, then you must not go here. What brings you to the campus?"

The cafe, nameless as it is, is the most popular one on the campus. Every student, teacher and even office administrators drops by here at least sometimes. If Fyodor were here on business,

then he would know that, right? The cafe is practically a campus staple so--

He must be here on /personal/ business.

"Oh, I'm just visiting an old friend," Fyodor sighs, leaning back in his seat. He's /tall/, almost as tall as Dazai is, and just as broad. He takes up the entire

seat, legs crowding Chuuya's under the table even though his knees are spread wide in a casual display and dominance.

And Chuuya will be honest--

If he wasn't /with/ Dazai, infatuated and very much happy with him, he would be eyeing up Fyodor. With that posture, it's like he's

/asking/ him to stare at the bulge of his crotch.

Chuuya won't, but if he /could/, he might've.

"You see, he's stopped answering my calls recently. Very disheartening, because we are business partners-- but I also thought we were /friends/. So I've come to see why he won't talk

to me anymore," Fyodor continues, and he almost sounds like he's /pouting/.

The waitress comes back then, placing his order in front of him. It isn't Chuuya's imagination acting up when he sees the way Fyodor deliberately brushes his fingers over the back of her hand as he

accepts his drink.

"Thank you," Fyodor says to her warmly, taking a sip. He sighs into his drink when he tastes it, smiling flirtatiously over the rim at the waitress. "Simply /divine/."

Chuuya's Americano nearly gets spilled with how hard her hands are trembling, and he

narrowly avoids getting his spinach wrap dumped onto his lap.

Chuuya can't exactly be /mad/ at her, because Fyodor is /staring her down/,with a smug,satisfied look on his face like he knows /exactly/ what he's doing to her.

Eventually she goes scampering back into the building,

face bright red.

"That sounds terrible. I'd be upset if one of my friends stopped talking to me too," Chuuya says, sympathetic. His spinach wrap, when he takes a bite out of it, is delightfully fresh. "Do you think he'll show up here, or are you buying time until you can find

him?"

Chuuya might think he's procrastinating, but somehow, he doesn't seem the type.

"Oh, I'm sure he'll show up at some point. I've got something he /wants/."

That sounds... slightly ominous, especially with the way Fyodors's grinning hugely at him. Like he has a /secret/.

Chuuya takes a bite out of his food to give himself some time to mull that over. It's normal for friends to exchange things like clothing or house items, stuff like that.

But Fyodor is speaking like he means something /important/.

"In the meantime, solnyshko, would you like to

hear a story?" Fyodor asks, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. His latte is almost entirely gone already, the remains of caramel on the edges of his cup.

Taking a sip of his own Americano--it's stronger than usual, the bitterness more overpowering-- Chuuya shrugs.

Sure, why not? He likes stories as well as anything else, and he's not quite ready to go back to his dorm yet.

He's pretty sure Dazai won't let him lift a finger to help pack anyways, so there's really no point in going back early just to stand there and watch as his entire

college career is packed away into a handful of depressingly small boxes.

He came here with only one box. He's probably only leaving with /two/.

"Sure. What's it about?"

Fyodor leans his cheek in his palm, eyes looking very far away. "Have you heard of the campus fire that

happened a little over eighteen years ago?"

Chuuya tilts his head frowning. "The one the memorial was made for? I thought that was twenty years ago?"

Devil-sharp teeth flash at him in amusement. "Nope. It was eighteen-- though closer to nineteen years now."

"Wasn't that just

a small fire that got out of hand?"

That's what the stories online had said, at least. They'd traced it back to a couple of kids who'd been smoking illegally in their dorm, and when carpet started to smolder because of a cherry that had fallen, it went unnoticed.

By the time

the kids had noticed it and were ready to out themselves by reporting it,it was already too late.

The entire floor and the two below it had been ravaged by flames.

"Well, what if I told you that it was /meant/ to get out of hand?"

Chuuya arches an eyebrow at him, disbelieving

but amused. What's with everyone trying to turn regular, every day tragedies into this /horror/ story? It's already terrifying and upsetting enough, there's no need to spin it into something else entire.

First Yuan,and then Nikolai. Now /Fyodor/.

"What do you mean?"

Fyodor's

hand leaves the table, dipping into his pocket. He pulls out a short piece of rope that doesn't seem to serve any purpose other than keeping his hand busy as he speaks again. "Have you heard of the Port Mafia?"

Chuuya shoots him an unimpressed look, taking his last sip of his

coffee. It doesn't seem to have worked to wake him up.

In fact, he feels almost more tired than he did before drinking it, his eyes heavy and begging to close.

"Yeah, obviously. I do live here, after all," he confirms, fighting the urge to roll his eyes.

Fyodor tsks at him

in reprimand, threading the rope through his fingers over and over again, an unending pattern that Chuuya finds himself fascinated by. "No need to be /sassy/, solnyshko, I was just asking a question."

A question that had an obvious answer to whoever has been living in Yokohama

for any length of time--

But Chuuya supposes Fyodor doesn't actually know anything about him, so maybe his reaction was unnecessary.

He smiles at him apologetically. "Sorry. It's been a rough week for me. Yes, I do know about them."

This time, when he takes another bite of

his wrap, Fyodor's eyes watch his movements closely. When he notices that Chuuya has noticed,he smiles widely.

"Now you can't tell anyone this, because it's a /secret/, but the /real/ story is that the Mafia was involved with that fire," Fyodor says, leaning forward and lowering

his voice like he's sharing a secret.

"If that was true, why wouldn't it be mentioned in the news stories or be otherwise connected to them? I looked up the news articles, and no mention of the Yakuza was made."

Granted, Chuuya only has access to /publicized/ news, which

is obviously biased and scrubbed clean of too many details but--

If the government and news outlets had the /chance/ to garner public outcry from the citizens against the Yakuza, Chuuya doesn't see why they /wouldn't/.

"For the same reason a lot of crimes committed by the Mafia

get covered up, solnyshko-- money. Lots of it. /Someone/ doesn't want that story to be told."

That does make sense.

It's Monday on campus, barely mid-day with students coming and going all over the place--

But suddenly the air is starting to feel cold.

Chuuya's head hurts.

It's not bad--yet-- but he's regretting not taking the Tylenol Dazai offered him earlier this morning. He'd insisted he wouldn't need it because they wouldn't be out /that/ long, but now he's regretting that.

"And what story would that be?" He asks, rubbing his temple to stave

off the growing migraine.

"The story of an adopted son, rebelling against his tyrant father," Fyodor says,with a wicked grin like it's a scary story or some sort of legend to be told over a campfire.

When he notices Chuuya's grimace, his expression fades into a concerned frown.

"What's wrong, little love? Did my story make you lose your appetite?"

The pet name, said in a voice like /that/, all smooth silk nd honey,makes a shiver crawl up Chuuya's spine, and he's /used/ to hearing things like that.

"No," he grumbles, blowing out a breath, "I just have

a headache."

Fyodor makes a sympathetic noise. "Maybe eating more will help? Or I can get you some water? I have some pain pills in my car, but you'd have to come with me to get them."

Paranoia itches at the back of his mind.

"No, I'll just finish my wrap and text my

boyfriend," Chuuya mutters, taking out his phone and opening it. It only takes a few taps on the screen to pull up his messages with Dazai, shooting off a message asking him to come get him and his location.

The last few bites of his wrap taste... sour, almost. Like chemicals.

But--

The ends of these things /always/ take a little funny, don't they?

"Oh, you have a boyfriend?" Fyodor latches onto that piece of information, leaning forward across the table. His hand slides close to the jacket Chuuya had taken off earlier, draped across the edge of the

table.

His fingers dip inside the pocket without Chuuya noticing.

"What's he like?"

Chuuya opens his mouth to answer, but just as he does, a large, /broad/ shadow falls over them both. When he looks up, it's Dazai, looking angrier and paler than he's ever seen before.

"/Fedya/," he practically /snarls/, crossing his arms over his chest. He's vibrating with tension, eyebrows lowered thunderously over his eyebrows.

He doesn't even look at Chuuya, snapping something in a foreign, guttural language that's so /aggressive/ that it makes Chuuya

blink in surprise.

He sounds /angry/. Angrier than Chuuya's ever heard him.

Fyodor leans back in his chair, taking his hands back and folding them behind his head confidently. "Come now, /besy/," he says, flashing a charming smile, "Don't you know it's /rude/ to speak when the

company can't understand you? You don't want to leave this pretty little thing in the /dark/, now do you?"

Chuuya has not been /unaware/ that Fyodor has been flirty with him. He didn't comment on it because he assumed that it was just in his nature-- the incident with the

waitress was pretty damning-- but now he feels like he's being /fought/ over.

Dazai bristling with hostility, Fyodor smug and cocky leaning back in his seat...

It's like watching dogs fight over a bone, except the bone is /him/.

"What the /fuck/ do you want, Fedya?" This time

its Japanese that Dazai speaks in, harsh and cutting and /rude/.

Chuuya shoots him a look, wondering what the /hell/ the attitude is about but--

Clearly these two know each other. Clearly, they have /history/ that Chuuya knows nothing about, and he doesn't know enough to step

in between them.

He only wishes Dazai wasn't so /loud/, because people are starting to stare.

"Me?" Fyodor asks, spreading his hands in front of him innocently, eyes wide, "I don't want anything. I was just telling Chuuya over here a story."

"A /story/?" Dazai repeats,

disbelieving. "A story about /what/?"

Chuuya pipes up, hoping to dispel the tension by making a /joke/. "About some ancient demon prodigy who apparently caused trouble a /really/ long time ago."

Dazai looks like he just got /kicked/, whipping his head around to stare at him.

At least Fyodor seems to think he's funny, bursting into loud laughter.

Dazai gives him a look like Chuuya has /personally/ betrayed him, moving his hand in a 'what the fuck?' gesture.

Chuuya gestures back, wondering what the hell his problem is.

'Me, what the fuck? YOU, what

the fuck?'

"No, he's right," Fyodor wheezes, barely containing himself. "He's /so/ old. Ancient. Decrepit. Probably can't even get it up anymore--."

Dazai cuts him off there, letting out a /loud/ sigh. "I get it. Is that all you wanted?"

He's still stiff with tension, and he's

standing almost /between/ them, like he's trying to block Fyodor's view.

It takes quite a few moments for Fyodor to reign himself back in, wiping a tear from under his eye. The faint eyeliner he's wearing--subtle, but noticeable that Chuuya is actually /looking/-- doesn't get

smudged with how carefully he pats his eye dry.

"Actually, I came to see /you/, besy. You haven't been returning my calls lately, and it's getting very frustrating. I'm starting to get my /feelings/ hurt, and you know how I get when I'm /emotional/," Fyodor responds, blinking up

him with wide eyes.

Without looking away from Dazai, he takes the final sip of his latte, sighing contently. When he wipes his mouth clean of foam, his bottom lip moves and reveals something /black/ on the inside.

What /is/ that? He didn't eat anything black, so it couldn't

be food or anything like that and--

And it almost looks like /ink/.

Curious and forgetting his manners, Chuuya blurts out, "What's that on your lip?"

Violet eyes glance over,flaring with something like teasing, smug heat.

Without looking away, one of Fyodor's hands comes up.

The tips of his fingers hook into his bottom lip, folding it down to reveal the soft pink inside.

And there, written in black ink on the inside of his lip is 'SINNER'.

Chuuya's eyes are /wide/. Doesn't that /hurt/? He can't imagine sitting there getting an /inner lip/ tattoo.

The pain threshold and the /discipline/ it would take to get that done is--

Well, it's /hot/.

Taking his fingers out,Fyodor lets his lip pop back into place. "Lip tattoos fade after a year or so. When I need to get it touched up, I switch between 'sinner' and 'saint'," he says,

then licks his lip slowly. "But no matter what, the tongue remains the same."

He pairs /that/ with an obvious, saucy wink and even though Chuuya is /taken/, he can't help that he's /blushing/.

Dazai bristles, damn near sending the table crashing over as he steps even /closer/.

"There are /better/ ways to get a hold of me," he seethes, jaw clenched.

It clicks for Chuuya, suddenly. He's /jealous/.

"Sure, but how could I /possibly/ give up the chance to meet this /lovely/ partner of yours? You've told me /so/ much about him, it's like I know him

/already/."

(And poor Chuuya.He really does know /nothing/, so he's completely unaware that he just had lunch with a /predator/ that Dazai has been trying /very/ hard to keep him from.)

Chuuya blinks, surprised. If they know each other, that explains why Fyodor knows his /name/

even though Chuuya never told him.

Does that mean he was looking for Chuuya? Or was it a coincidence that he found him sitting at the cafe and came to say hello?

Was this /planned/, an elaborate ruse to trick Dazai into talking to him again?

"Chuuya, are you finished?" Dazai

asks, not looking away from Fyodor for even a second.

Well, yes, he is, and he /does/ want to go home because his head is starting to /throb/ and he really wants a nap--

But it feels rude to just /leave/ Fyodor like this, and so suddenly?

"Uh, yeah," he mutters, stacking his

empty cup on top of his plate. "Is my dorm--"

Dazai interrupts him a clipped "Yep, it's done," and reaches down to urge him out of his seat. He's not /harsh/, but he's clearly urging him to hurry, fingers pressing into his arm.

Fyodor watches with a satisfied look, not saying

anything until Dazai is practically /herding/ him away, pushing him in the direction of where Dazai parked the car.

"Good night, Chuuya," he calls, a hint of /something/ in his tone, something secretive and /smug/.

Chuuya nearly stumbles at that because it's /mid-morning/, what

the hell does he /mean/, 'good night'? That doesn't make /any/ sort of sense?

When they get out of sight, Dazai gets fed up with Chuuya's shorter legs and takes him by the arm. His grip isn't /bruising/, but it is firm and he's practically dragging Chuuya along, forcing him to

awkwardly jog to keep up.

"What is /wrong/ with you?" Chuuya snaps, jerking on his arm. It's no use; Dazai's grip is unyielding.

At no point does it hurt or does Chuuya feel in danger, but it's /frustrating/ and upsetting to be dragged around like an errant child.

Especially

with how /gently/ and affectionately he's been treating him the last few days.

All that care seems to have /evaporated/ right now.

"Do you have /any/ idea how much danger you were just in?" Dazai /hisses/. He sounds /livid/, but at least he's slowing down a little bit, so it's

easier to keep up.

His words make Chuuya gape, because--

/Danger/? Really? Fyodor seemed /sweet/. A little too flirty, maybe, and there was obviously some bad blood between them, but he was /nice/.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Chuuya snaps, throwing his most

cutting glare at the side of his head. People are starting to /stare/ now, whispering to each other as they pass, and it's /embarrassing/.

The car isn't far off now. Chuuya can see it, looming out of the distance.

Dazai pounces on that sentence quickly. "/Exactly/," he bites

out, quickly crossing the distance to the car. "You have /no idea/, so /trust/ me when I say that man is /dangerous/."

Before he can come up with a response to that, they've reached the car. Dazai reaches down to open the passenger door for him, looming over him until Chuuya

gives in with an annoyed huff and climbs in.

The backseat has three small boxes in it. The entirety of Chuuya's college career.

He glares at Dazai through the windshield as he crosses across the front of the car in a handful of long, powerful, quick strides.

The driver door is

/yanked/ open, and Dazai drops inside.

Chuuya greets him with a /snarl/, "Or, instead of asking me to /trust you/, you could /tell me/ what the fuck you mean by that. How is he dangerous? He seemed /normal/ to me!"

Dazai's expression twists into something like angry disbelief,

jamming the start button until the car roars to life. He peels out of the parking lot in livid silence, jaw clenched so hard Chuuya can /see/ the muscle bunched up there.

After a long moment of this--something that feels /almost/ like the silent treatment--, Chuuya loses his

patience. He's /tired/, his head hurts, he's /sad/ because he had to drop out, he's /stressed out/--

And now Dazai is being un-fucking-reasonable.

"You don't get to just be an /asshole/ for no reason and expect me to just /believe you/!" He nearly shouts, twisting in his seat.

"You don't get to just-- to just /say/ things, without any explanation and expect me to /understand/?! Tell me what the hell you're talking about."

Dazai nearly causes an /accident/ when he floors it out of the parking lot, silent. It's the most /reckless/ he's ever driven with

Chuuya in the car, and that just makes him /angrier/, because Chuuya /barely/ got his seatbelt on in time before he got thrown face-first into the dashboard.

Silent. Painful, writhing, /wrathful/ silence, filling the car like a bomb getting ready to burst--

"Oh, so /you/ get to

reprimand /me/ for being 'incapable of communicating' but when I ask /you/ to communicate, you treat me like-- like I'm throwing a /temper tantrum/!"

There's a shout, something that sounds like a /snarl/, and the palm of Dazai's hand /slams/ into the steering wheel loudly.

Chuuya didn't think he was the type to /hit/ things when he was angry, but apparently he was wrong.

"I /CAN'T/!" Dazai roars back, shaking the steering wheel like he wishes it was Chuuya he was shaking some sense into. His grip is so tight his knuckles are turning white, and

they're at least /twenty/ miles over the speed light, flooring it up the hills to Dazai's house.

Chuuya gapes at him. "What the fuck do you /mean/ 'you can't'? If he was dangerous to me, I have a /right/ to know! What if he hurts someone on campus?!"

"Yes, you /do/ have a right

to know," Dazai seethes, taking a turn so fast that Chuuya can feel one of the tires lift off the ground. "But /I/ have a right to disclose my trauma when it is comfortable to /me/ and not when it's convenient to /you/!"

That makes Chuuya pause, fists clenches and jaw working.

Because, as /angry/ as Chuuya is and as /much/ as he wants to sink his teeth into Dazai and tear him into pieces--

He does have a point with the trauma part.

It /hurts/ to admit, because he thought Dazai /trusted/ him. At least enough to tell him things.

But it's also pretty

clear that Fyodor and Dazai do have /history/ between them, and apparently that means a lot of bad blood as well.

Chuuya didn't /want/ to push Dazai into a corner and make him feel like he /has/ to divulge sensitive, painful information, he just wanted to know what he /meant/.

It also doesn't feel /fair/ for Dazai to be yelling at him and making Chuuya feel like a /bad/ person when he started this whole thing. This argument would've never happened if Dazai hadn't been such a /dick/.

Fuming and unsure of what to say that doesn't make the situation

worse or make him seem like the bad guy, Chuuya crosses his arms over his chest and glares out the window silently.

When they finally get home--ten minutes quicker than they usually would-- Chuuya is the first one out of the car and storming inside without even looking at Dazai.

Yoko and the cat-- who Chuuya is debating on naming Mochi but something about the name just doesn't fit-- greet him at the door, and he gives them minimum pets as he pushes his way to the backyard.

He doesn't want to be inside right now. He doesn't even want to /look/ at Dazai

right now, not until he can figure out what he's feeling.

It's all tangled up inside, hurt with anger and sadness and physical pain and depression and--

It's just /so/ much it makes Chuuya want to /scream/.

Dropping heavily into one of the chairs at the outside table, he puts

his head in his heads and just--

Endures.

It's a struggle to calm down when his chest feels tighter than a wire about to snap, but he manages it after a while with careful breathing. He sheds a few tears, wetness collecting in his palms, but at least he isn't embarrassingly

sobbing like he was the day before.

His head hurts even more now, the aftereffects of the yelling.

Eventually the anger just cools down into /misery/,and it just makes Chuuya want to go /straight/ to bed,to forget any of this ever happened,forget the whole day--

"Can we talk?"

Chuuya sniffs, picking his head up and finding Dazai lurking in the doorway between the living room and the backyard. He looks remorseful and slightly awkward, hands pushed into his pockets.

How long has he been standing there?

"About what?" Chuuya asks miserably, wiping the

tears from his face.

The first thing Dazai says isn't what he's expecting it to be. Chuuya's half-tense,prepared for a continuation of their argument, but instead--

"I'm sorry."

Chuuya blinks at him, which makes Dazai's face soften with regret even more.

"I'm sorry; I didn't

mean to yell at you. I was /scared/ and upset, but I shouldn't have taken that out on you. I shouldn't have made you scared or yelled at you for it."

He looks so /genuine/, eyes big and clear, mouth turned down into a slight frown, that Chuuya can't help but believe him.

The

knot in his chest loosens a bit.

"I don't know why you were so /angry/. You were the one who made me worried in the first place. I just wanted to know what you meant," Chuuya says, drawing his knees up to his chest.

Dazai lets out a sigh. "I know, baby, I know," he murmurs,

coming closer. He doesn't touch Chuuya, but he does crouch down beside him so they can have a conversation that's closer to face-to-face.

It's hard to feel /equal/ when Dazai naturally looms over him, but like this, Chuuya feels a little more like he's on even ground. Equals.

"That man," Dazai starts, looking thoughtful and almost-pained, like he's trying to decide exactly what to say, "is not a good man. He has hurt dozens of people in every way you could imagine, and he does it all to further his own goals. If he thought that hurting /you/ would get

to me, I have no doubt that he would do that."

That doesn't explain anything, not really. It's so /vague/, and even if Chuuya's mind immediately jumps into the worst scenario possible, that doesn't mean that scenario is /true/. He doesn't /understand/.

"So you guys are...

business partners? Friends?" Chuuya doesn't know any friends that would treat each other like /that/ and still be considered friends, but he can't exactly judge.

"We're rivals, of a sort. We've done business together for a very long time, even if I didn't necessarily /want/ to

work with him," Dazai tells him, looking up at him with an expression that's begging him to believe him and--

Chuuya /does/ believe him. He's never seen Dazai /that/ affected before, so he does believe him, it just--

There's so many details that are missing that it doesn't make

sense to him.

He hazards a guess. "And you're not going to tell me why he makes you so upset or what he did to you?"

"I--," Dazai stops there, blowing out a breath. He looks so /frustrated/ with himself, but also scared. Uncomfortable. "I /want/ to, and it's not just what /he/

did to me, it's-- it's more of a long story of my childhood, and I /want/ to tell you, but it's /hard/ and it's scary."

Today is the first time Chuuya has ever heard Dazai ever admit to being afraid. The man has never so much as /flinched/ at anything else before--besides his

hospital visit, but that would scare anyone-- so to see him so obviously affected and admitting to his fear--

It's sobering. It makes Chuuya's chest pang with sympathy, sadness bubbling up inside him.

Tentatively, he reaches out, brushing his fingers over his cheekbone softly.

He's half-expecting him to flinch away or be stiff under his hands, but Dazai leans into the touch easily, pressing his cheek into his palm.

"You know you can tell me, right? You don't have to be afraid, or think that I'll judge you or anything. You can tell me anything, Osamu."

The thing with fear is that it's not always rational. You can explain it away, you can put it into simple and easy terms, you can dissect it with logic until it's all pretty squares, easily tucked away.

But that doesn't mean it will ever go away, not if you're not ready to let

it go.

Chuuya can see, from the desperate, cold look in Dazai's eyes, from the way he leans into his hand like he's afraid Chuuya will let go, from the way his fingers subtly tremble--

Dazai isn't ready to let it go yet.

Part of Chuuya wants to be angry about that. He's told

him things that he's never told anyone else, and it feels /unfair/ for Dazai to still be hiding parts of himself away.

But he can't force it, and if he tries, he will only be proving him right. He'll just be proving himself untrustworthy and--

Chuuya /wants/ to be trustworthy.

He wants to be the holder of all his secrets. He wants to know Dazai's dreams and wishes and nightmares, and everything about him.

He wants /everything/ and to get everything from him--

He has to be a little patient. They've only been dating for a little over six weeks. He's in

no rush. He can be patient.

They've got forever, right?

(Right?)

"I will tell you," Dazai promises earnestly, eyes shining as he looks up at him. "I will, I just-- I need a little more time, okay?"

Chuuya can give him that. He brushes his thumb over his cheek, trying to

soothe away the lingering pain and anxiety he can sense in him. "Okay."

His acceptance makes Dazai relax, shuddering slightly.

There's a long peaceful moment, and then long fingers are sliding up Chuuya's shins.

"Can I have a hug?" Dazai asks, sounding almost pitiful.

He doesn't /pressure/ him, he just wraps his fingers around his calf and waits for his response, staring up at him.

How can Chuuya /ever/ tell him no? When he looks like that?

Nodding, he lets his feet fall to the floor and leans forward to wrap his arms around Dazai's neck.

Dazai sinks into him with a sigh, burying his nose into Chuuya's shoulder and soaking up all the affection. His arms come up, wrapping low around his waist, pulling him to the edge of the chair.

It's warm. Makes all the tension in Chuuya's chest simmer down and loosen, drifting

away with every exhale like petals on the wind.

Eventually Dazai stirs, mumbling something about dinner, and getting Chuuya his medicine.

The headache has gone away now, mostly. It throbs lightly in the back of his head, but he does accept the Tylenol Dazai puts into his palm.

(And when Chuuya follows Dazai inside the house, his hands slide into the pockets of his jacket and he finds a note that wasn't there before.

A tiny piece of folded paper with ten digits printed on it.

A phone number.

More specifically, /Fyodor's/ phone number.)

------- +

It has been a week.

A very /long/ week, but not in a bad way. In fact, Chuuya would say it was a good week, if adjusting to his new schedule wasn't so hard.

Dazai is ceaselessly doting in a way that makes Chuuya's every want and need feel obsolete. He makes breakfast in the

morning before giving Chuuya his morning round of meds. Those usually put him out of commission for a few hours, making him incredibly drowsy until lunch time is coming around.

Now that he's off the anti-convulsants-- except for on a need-to-take basis, which he thankfully

hasn't needed to because he has yet to feel another seizure coming on-- that's getting better, but his body /is/ still recovering. He's never /needed/ to take a nap in the middle of the day before, and now he needs at /least/ one if he wants to avoid sleeping for fourteen hours

every night.

Lunch and dinner are similarly done, big meals that Dazai cooks for him. Chuuya can understand /why/ Dazai piles his plate high with food every time-- he can see his collarbone sharply in the mirror, and the beginnings of ribs-- it's still /hard/ to handle because

his appetite has yet to return, and if he eats too much he gets drowsy again.

Dazai tries to keep him entertained, watching movies with him and relaxing in the backyard, occasionally taking the dogs to the local park but--

There's only /so/ much they can do when Chuuya is

easily exhausted and practically chained to the medicine cabinet.

He needs his meds twice a day, and he's still on a regimen of Tylenol to keep his headache down.

He is getting better, he knows that. Every day he has more energy, his naps are shorter, his head hurts less. His

attitude is perking up, and he's /slowly/ starting to gain weight again.

It's just frustrating, because he wants to be better /now/ and not in five more weeks. It's /horrible/ going from what he would consider healthy, to essentially being locked in the house.

That's not the

only frustrating thing.

The /most/ frustrating thing is that Dazai has /still/ not talked to him about Fyodor or his 'trauma' at all.

Chuuya doesn't want to /push/ him into it, and he understands a week isn't /that/ long, but it seems to him like Dazai is avoiding the

conversation /entirely/. Not easing himself into it, or revealing little pieces at a time, or testing the waters.

Straight up avoiding it. Any time Chuuya brings up Fyodor or the campus or his own childhood--trying to nudge Dazai into talking about it--, Dazai just clams up.

Says he has to make a call, or let the dogs out, or that he's trying to watch the movie, or literally /anything/ to get himself out of the conversation.

It's not like Dazai has a /due/ date to tell him by, but Chuuya is not naïve enough to believe that he's going to wake up one

day and just /magically/ be okay with telling Chuuya everything.

It takes progress, effort and /time/, and Chuuya is willing to work with him--

But Dazai doesn't seem willing to work at all.

There's a subtle tension in the air now, vibrating between them constantly. Dazai

either doesn't feel it or he's actively avoiding it, because he's been acting /obnoxiously/ upbeat and talkative.

And there's another thing:

Chuuya hasn't thrown away the number he found in his jacket pocket, after he met Fyodor. He hasn't inputted it into his phone or done

anything else with it but--

He hasn't thrown it away.

It feels almost /wrong/ that he hasn't tossed it. Like he's /cheating/ or /consorting/ with Dazai's abuser, or otherwise being a /terrible/ person but--

He's not, is he? Dazai said it wasn't that something that /Fyodor/ did

to him, it was about his /childhood/. Which implies that Fyodor was involved with his childhood, which would mean--

He would know what Dazai is talking about.

For /days/ he wrestles between a terrible, morbid curiosity, and /guilt/. He doesn't want to go behind Dazai's back,

of course, but--

Dazai has /always/ been withdrawn. Even though he's known him for /months/, has been unofficially living with him for two weeks and officially for one.

Chuuya still doesn't even know what he does for his job. His parents names. If they're alive or dead. If he

went to college. If he /didn't/ go to college. How he met Sasaki.

There are /so/ many things about Dazai that he /refuses/ to tell Chuuya and--

At some point, you stop expecting people to do what they say they will when they never follow up. They might /say/ they'll tell you

everything,but will they really?

It's not /fair/ that Dazai practically knows everything about him,while Chuuya only knows the basic scraps and pieces that don't fit together.

And at some point,you start to realize that if you want answers?

You have to go digging for yourself.

Chuuya waits until Dazai goes grocery shopping to restock the kitchen. It feels like a /cheating/ move because it's the first time Dazai has left him alone for any length of time since his diagnoses and he had to /convince/ him that he would be okay alone for an hour or two.

Dazai only goes after nearly half an hour of kisses and reassurances that he'll come back with Chuuya's favorite candy, and /please/ call if you need me at all, for anything--

Really, it makes Chuuya feel /guilty/,because he's essentially playing him.Getting him out of the house

so he can make a /phone call/.

He wastes the first twenty minutes of alone time by pacing back and forth in their bedroom-- /their/ bedroom now, which makes butterflies cascade through his chest, and it's even worse when Dazai calls it /their/ bedroom-- with his phone clutched

to his chest.

He shouldn't. Logically, he knows that and feels /terrible/ about the fact that he wants to but--

It's been months and Dazai has given him nothing.

It's--

It's only fair, right?

Dazai never has to /know/. It'll be his little secret.

His fingers shake as he

inputs the number. He has to backtrack twice to fix a mistake, and has to squint at the paper to see if that's the symbol for 2 or /3/.

Once he has it entered, he almost doesn't do it.

Thinks to himself, /why/ am I doing this--

And then hits call before he can psych himself

out of it for any longer.

He /almost/ hangs up when he hears the dial tone start up, guilt and anxiety flashing up so strongly his heart feels it might burst in his chest--

He promises to hang up on the third ring. He'll take that as /fate/ that he wasn't meant to talk to

Fyodor.

If something stops him at all, he'll take that as a sign, and he won't try again. If he's not /meant/ to know, the call won't go through.

One ring....

An agonizingly long pause.

Two rings, somehow feeling longer than the first...

Pause.

Thr--

"Hello?"

Oh /shit/, he actually answered.

Chuuya didn't actually think this /through/, he has no idea what to say or what he wants to talk about. In his mind, Fyodor just told him this wild regaling story of his and Dazai's childhood, but Chuuya forgot he had to actually have a

/conversation/ with the man.

"Uh, hi," he squeaks, ducking out of their bedroom and onto the balcony. This way he'll see if Dazai comes home before he's expected to, and at least he'll get some sun as he paces back and forth. "It's Chuuya. You know, from the cafe a week ago? You

left your number in my jacket and I was just..."

He trails off there, feeling stupid. He's rambling, trying to cover up his nerves by sheer amount of conversation.

"Ah, yes, I remember you, solnyshko," Fyodor purrs from the other side of the line. His voice is deeper on the

voice, raspier. More /inviting/. "I'm surprised to see you call. Dazai not able to keep up with you anymore?"

Chuuya automatically scowls at that, because this is /not/ a call for an /affair/ or anything. He just wanted answers, and as far as he knew, Fyodor is the only one who

had them. "/No/, it's just-- I was calling because..."

How does he say it without sounding crazy or /invasive/?

This was a mistake. He shouldn't have called.

"Let me guess, love: you want to hear a story, right? But this time about /Dazai/," Fyodor says. The other side of the

line is eerily quiet, like he was expecting a call or he just happened to be in a quiet place.

"Yeah," Chuuya mutters, wrapping his free arm around his middle. "I just... I realized I don't know anything /about/ him, and I didn't know who else to ask. He basically won't tell me

anything at all. You're the only one I've /ever/ met who seems to have known Dazai before this year."

"Ah," comes the answer, but the /next/ words are what makes Chuuya's heart stop:

"He's always been like that with his victims."

/Victims?/ What the fuck does /that/ mean?

It's sunny outside, and the warmth of the sun is enough to keep him from needing a jacket--

Or at least he thought, because he /shivers/.

"What--," Chuuya asks, licking his lips because his mouth feels suddenly dry, "What do you mean by that?"

There's a sigh on the other line.

"You might need a drink for this, solnyshko."

Jokes on him, because Chuuya isn't allowed to have even a /sip/ of alcohol. Dazai has even taken all the wine /and/ whiskey bottles out of the house and locked them in a safe Chuuya doesn't have the combination to.

"Just tell me."

He just needs to know if this was all--

All a /lie/. If their entire relationship has been a /ruse/.

"Well, solnyshko, I should start by saying that Dazai is not a /good/ man. I'm sure he's said the same about me-- and I won't say that I'm /perfect/, but compared to a man like

Dazai, I'm practically squeaky clean."

/Again/, with the vague details and the half-truths. Why does no one ever just /say/ what's actually going on?

"What do you mean by /that/?"

"You remember what I told you about the Demon Prodigy? I assume you've heard more as well,"

Fyodor asks. There's a sipping noise that breaks his speech midway through, like he's drinking something.

Chuuya makes a vaguely assenting noise, turning on his heel to pace back the other way.

"Well, Dazai /is/ the Demon Prodigy. He's been one of the bloodiest people in

Yokohama ever since he was, oh.... fourteen? Fifteen, if I'm being generous."

He's...

He's /what/?

And as much as Chuuya would /love/ to dispute what Fyodor is saying, would love to just hang up and forget this entire conversation ever happened--

It makes sense. It /fits/.

The 'personal protection' business that Chuuya knows nothing about. The guard dogs. The fact that Dazai doesn't seem to have /any/ friends or coworkers. The tattoos.

The secrecy about his life and the /lies/.

It all makes sense. Makes so much fucking sense that Chuuya doesn't

know how he didn't see it /before/.

How could he be so /stupid/?

(Naturally,Chuuya has no way of knowing this, but he's fallen /right/ into Fyodor's trap.

He didn't need to drug anyone, beyond what he told Nikolai to do. He didn't need to force anyone's hand.

All he needed to

do was drive a wedge between them, /tease/ Chuuya with answers--

And wait.

Poor Chuuya will never know he's being manipulated and fed lies until it's too late.)

(Time set: 1 hour, 30 mins.

Tik. Tok.)

"And the /victims/? Those are the people he's-- the people he /killed/?"

His answer is a considerate hum, like Fyodor is debating exactly what to say.

Yoko and Baki-- he decided on a name this week. Arahabaki for /destruction/, because the cat /always/ knocks over his water bowl--stare out the window as Chuuya makes another lap along the rail of the

balcony. When Baki notices him looking, he stands up to put his front paws on the window pleadingly.

"It was, at first. But more recently, Dazai has had a /disturbing/ habit of finding sweet, innocent people like you and /corrupting/ them. Normally, I wouldn't say that's a

/problem/-- but somehow they always end up /dying/."

(Lie.)

Chuuya's heart skips a beat, freezing in his chest. /Dying/? As in--

"He /kills/ them?"

Fyodor makes a hitched grunting noise, like he's trying to cover up a noise he didn't intend to make. "I'm not sure. All I know

is that they disappear. Has he ever spoken to you about any past partners?"

No, not even /one/. Besides Sasaki, that is.

(On the other end of the line, Fyodor fists his hand in a mop of short brown hair, biting back irritation. Green eyes stare up at him teasingly, mouth opened

/wide/ to take in the girth of his cock and--

They /know/ he's trying to conduct /business/ and can't punish them.

Yet.

Brat, he thinks fondly, pulling on hair until it hurts, and daring them to make a noise.)

"No, he hasn't. But I just assumed that was because he hadn't had

any," Chuuya mutters. There were /some/ instances where Dazai seemed just as inexperienced as he was, so he didn't think much of it.

"Would you tell your future victim about your last ones?"

That...

That makes his blood run cold again.

He doesn't want to believe him. He

doesn't want it to make sense. But it does, it fucking does.

Except for one thing:

"Why would you tell me all of this? Dazai said you were /dangerous/, so why should I trust anything you say? What if you're lying to me? Dazai said you two weren't /friends/ anymore, so you

could be /lying/ to sabotage him, or something."

Chuuya is searching for /any/ reason not to believe him. Dazai has been /so/ nice to him, for so long. It makes his heart hurt to even /think/ about it being a trick.

It's not like they teach you in school how to recognize a

predator.

Chuuya's /always/ had good instincts though, and Dazai's never set off a single one. He's /good/, right, he's /so/ good to him--

"I could be lying, little love. I can't /prove/ myself to you. But the question shouldn't be if I'm lying. It should be that if you're

willing to /risk/ it," Fyodor responds. He sounds smug, a little /too/ casual, if you ask Chuuya.

And that is the crux of the matter, isn't it? Who he wants to believe.

Dazai, who has never treated him unkindly, but has always been veiled in a shroud of mystery. Never giving up

any information about himself, always giving himself an escape route carved with money or knowledge.

Or Fyodor, who he has no /reason/ to trust, but has been the first one to actually answer any of his questions. The first one to willingly share information, and the only person

that he knows of that actually /knows/ Dazai.

It's an impossible choice.

And one he doesn't have time to make because--

Dazai's black car is coming up the road, at a steady pace. Chuuya watches as he parks, and exits the car with a paper bag.

"I have to go," he mutters into

the phone, hanging up without waiting for an answer.

(That's fine.Rude,but fine.

Fyodor already has his man in place for the fallout.)

Chuuya watches Dazai enter the front door, heart huge and sick in his throat.

He has questions, and Dazai's going to /answer/ them this time.

Chuuya doesn’t go down to greet him. He does move back into the bedroom, but he doesn’t go back downstairs.

He sits on the bed and waits, trying to cool the trembling in his fingers, trying to calm his racing heart.

Yoko sniffs worriedly at his hands, but he pushes her away

gently. He doesn’t—

Hé /can’t/ deal with that right now. His mind is at war with his heart.

His /heart/ is telling him that Dazai has only ever cared for him. He’s never pushed him, even when Chuuya /wanted/ him to, and he’s always treated him in a way that makes him feel

/treasured/. Cherished. Important.

Loved, in a way that doesn’t need words yet.

However, his mind is /screaming/ that that’s exactly what a /psycho/ would do. A psycho would trick him into falling head-first, wait until every single brick of his defensive walls had fallen—

And /then/ strike. They’d give nothing of /themselves/ while taking everything from Chuuya.

And isn’t that what Dazai’s doing?

Footsteps on the stairs. Quick and loud, like Dazai is /bounding/ up the stairs.

Anxiety /spikes/.

Does he know? Did—

Did Fyodor tell him?

Does he have a /tracker/ on his phone or something? Is that a thing?

Oh god, if he /knows/, then is he gonna—

Is he gonna /kill him right now/?

Is this it?

Chuuya can barely /breathe/, torn between what he knows and how he /feels/.

The door flies open in the next moment,

making Chuuya flinch hard.

“Baby!” Dazai crows, looking /so/ excited with a big grin. The steps he takes closer seem more like /skipping/, like an enthusiastic child. “I /missed/ you.”

Chuuya shakily smiles back at him.

“Look what I got for you,” he continues, pulling his

hands behind his back and—

It’s not a gun or a weapon or anything else Chuuya’s half-hysterical mind would be thinking but—

A bag of candy. A /big/ bag of candy, and it’s his /ultra/ favorite.

Mostly because it’s limited edition and stores don’t sell it that often.

“The

/big/ bag,” Dazai states, sounding /so/ damn pleased with himself, “This one should last you like a week with how quickly you eat them /but/ I got a few extra bags too, ‘cause I know how much you like them. They’re downstairs in the garage.”

He bought him /multiple/ giant bags

of his favorite candy for him, without being asked to. Chuuya didn’t even know they were in /stock/ right now, and he’s only mentioned them a handful of times /maybe/.

“The shop owner said he probably wouldn’t be able to order them again because there’s not much desire for them,

but I’m pretty sure I can wear him down with enough time and money. What do you think?”

He—

He has to know. He can’t bear to look at how excited and /pleased/ Dazai and just—

Let it go. He /has/ to know.

“Dazai,” he says, taking a deep inhale for strength. Dazai seems to

finally realize something is wrong because his smile is dimming. “Are you the Demon Prodigy?”

It’s a chance. He’s giving him a chance. Because if he /lies/ to him then—

Chuuya can’t handle that.

Those last words make Dazai recoil like he’s been /hit/, flinching away and his

eyes widening like it’s a /shock/.

It probably is, because he never intended to /tell/ Chuuya, did he?

Watching all the warmth and happiness drain from Dazai’s expression and be replaced with stricken-cold shock shouldn’t be physically painful.

It is. Chuuya’s chest /burns/.

“I—,” Dazai starts, licking his lips. He’s retreated almost entirely now, back pressed against the wall like he’s /afraid/.

(Fear response: Never expose your back. Protect yourself at all costs.)

“Who told you that?”

Chuuya stares at him. It’s not a /no/, and he’s acting

like it’s a /yes/, but he’s trying to evade the question. Trying to turn the argument /against/ him.

But unlike Dazai, Chuuya /won’t/ lie right now. “Fyodor did. I called him.”

Dazai’s expression goes slack with shock, eyes filling with /betrayal/. “You /talked/ to him? You

said you wouldn’t!”

“No,” Chuuya replies, folding his hands in his lap to cover up the trembling. “I never said that.”

It’s true. He hadn’t /explicitly/ said that, ever. It had been the implicit, silent understanding—

But he’d never /said/ he wouldn’t.

“You didn’t answer

the question though,” he continues, staring up at Dazai with narrowed eyes. “Are you, or aren’t you?”

“/No/,” Dazai says vehemently, /desperately/, like he’s trying to convince himself and Chuuya at the same time.

Chuuya’s heart sinks into his stomach. He really thought Dazai

respected him enough to at least not /lie/ to him when he’s been caught in a lie. “You’re /lying/.”

“No, I’m /not/, I—,” Dazai looks /frustrated/, pained, eyes unblinking and posture stiff. “/I’m/ not— I was, as a /kid/, but /I’m/ not. It’s not me, I never /wanted/ it to be me.”

(Fear response: Do not look away from the thing that hurts you. It hurts worse when you’re not expecting it.)

Here’s another of Chuuya’s conundrums:

Even if Dazai doesn’t have any plans of hurting him, is he really okay with knowing, dating, loving a man that is a /murderer/?

Is he okay with knowing that the man who buys him candy and flowers used to set fires to college campuses and has /blood/ on his hands?

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He asks, morbidly curious. Honestly, he wants to /stop/ talking. He can almost feel them both splitting open the

longer this conversation goes on, pain spilling hot and ugly between them, filling up a space that /used/ to be warm and soft. “I told you /everything/ about me.”

“Chuuya, I—,” this is the first time that Chuuya’s seen him so /obviously/ shook, not knowing what to say, words

fumbling out of his grip like he doesn’t know how to speak anymore, “Look, I /respect/ you,and I know you had a hard childhood,and losing your mother was terrible. I’m /sympathetic/ to that—but you are not a /murderer/. You did not have a childhood of pain and blood and violence.

You are not on Japan’s most wanted list. You are not alive for the sole reason that your body won’t let you /die/.”

The pain in that last sentence is /immeasurable/. Dazai’s never spoken about his attempt, but he’s never /hidden/ it either. It’s like he views it as something

so essential and such a part of himself that he’s not /ashamed/ or embarrassed by it anymore. It just /is/.

(Hi, I’m Dazai Osamu. I have brown hair and brown eyes, and I want to die more than I’ve ever wanted to be alive.

Would you like to commit a double suicide with me?)

“Just because you trusted me with your pain, doesn’t make mine any easier to handle. Doesn’t make /talking/ about it any easier.”

Chuuya presses his hands to his eyes, fighting back the growing headache. He wants to cry. Watching Dazai like /this/, hurt and angry and /scared/

because of him /hurts/.

He never wanted /this/.

“Why did you give me all those speeches about /communication/ when you were hiding something so big from me? Were you /ever/ going to tell me?”

Dazai’s hands come up, and Chuuya is flinching back automatically, unsure of what

to expect when Dazai is clearly so upset and—

Dazai looks /stricken/, staring at Chuuya like he’s in /agony/ or he’s angry at /himself/, every emotion that Chuuya can think of that somehow translates to pain and betrayal and disbelief.

“Baby— Chuuya—,” hearing him correct

himself from the pet name he’s been using for /months/ is like a blow straight to Chuuya’s chest. “I’m /trying/. Please believe me. I am trying /so/ hard, and I would give you /anything/, I just— it /hurts/, and I didn’t want to /lose/ you.”

His hands finish the journey upwards,

fingers carding through his hair and /pulling/, hard, like he can’t get through this conversation without hurting himself at least a little.

Chuuya... regrets.

He shouldn’t have done it like this. He shouldn’t have caused him /pain/ like this, but how was he supposed to /know/?

He got so caught up in his own fear and instinctive panic that he didn’t think of /Dazai/. He didn’t remember that Dazai has /feelings/ and he deserved for Chuuya to be /considerate/ of them instead of jumping him with a question like /that/.

He just wanted to bring him candy.

And now he looks like he’s going to /cry/ or have a panic attack.

Chuuya wishes he could take it /all/ back.

“I’m /sorry/,” he says, looking directly at Dazai even if seeing his wide, unseeing eyes and knotted hair and twisted frown /hurts/. He has to /believe/ him. “It’s just

that Fyodor said...”

He trails off, not sure if he should bring it up—

But Dazai picks up on that, the heels of his hands pressed over his temples like he’s trying to hold himself together. “What? What did he tell you?”

He stares for a long, terrible moment. He doesn’t want

to /say/ it, because he’s pretty sure it won’t help, but—

He’s not a /liar/.

“He said you... had /victims/ that you manipulated, implied you killed them and that I was /next/.”

The silence is heartbreaking.

“And you /believed/ him?”

Chuuya doesn’t answer that, but his

silence is answer enough.

(He should’ve lied. Because this—)

Fear response: Never let anything affect you. Cut it out. Be heartless.

For a moment, Dazai just stares at him like he can’t believe what he did to him. Like the betrayal he’s experiencing is so /painful/ and

shocking that he doesn’t even have /words/.

(Because this? This is the end.)

Then he’s taking a slow, steady inhale, nodding slightly to himself. His hands are dropping away from his head, falling limp by his sides. His shoulders are squaring, but it’s a fragile sort of

strength, one deliberately cultivated to hide the fragility underneath.

And his eyes—

They’re /empty/. Cold, like whiskey ice, heartless and frozen. Like the Dazai /Chuuya/ knows is gone, and all that’s left is his body.

Like everything he knew about Dazai— all the ridiculous

jokes and the goofy smiles, and the early mornings and soft warmth— is /gone/.

Because it’s not for him anymore.

“Right,” Dazai says, and he sounds surprisingly clear compared to before but /disconnecting/, “In that case— I think it’s time for you to go.”

/No/. Panic opens

like a pit in his stomach, drowning him in cold-electric nausea. No, no, no, /please/ no.

“I’m /sorry/,” Chuuya gasps out again, the tears finally welling up in his eyes. He stumbles up off the bed,tripping towards Dazai, hoping he’ll reach out for him, hoping he’ll /catch/ him—

He does neither. He just /watches/, expression totally blank.

“I’m /sorry,” he repeats, “I didn’t /mean/ it, I was just scared and confused and— please, I’m so sorry.”

When Dazai speaks, it’s with this /flat/ monotone, expressionless. “Maybe you didn’t mean it, but I did.

It’s time for you to go home, /Nakahara/.”

That word— that /name/— cuts through him like a /knife/. A dull one, that tears him up to the bone, shredding his soul into tiny, agonized pieces.

Dazai has /never/ called him that. It’s always been Chuuya or baby or doll or sweetheart

or literally /anything/ else. Never /that/, never so cold, never so hurtful.

“But—,” Chuuya’s tears spill over, sliding down his cheeks. Dazai’s eyes watch them go, unflinching, “but I /love/ you.”

He doesn’t mean to say it. Never would have wanted to say it like this.

It’s the first time he’s ever told a boy that loves him. The first time the thought has even /crossed/ his mind. The first time he’s ever felt like this, and he knows this is supposed to be a happy moment—

But it’s not. It’s like trying to fit a bandaid over a bullet wound,

like trying to fix a broken heart with words that should’ve been said sometime else.

It seems to shock something awake in Dazai, because he’s /blinking/ now, and his eyes aren’t dead-black anymore. More of a faded brown, that grows weaker when he sees how close Chuuya is to

/sobbing/.

/ Please, I didn’t /mean/ it. I know I fucked up, but please let me /fix/ it. /

“No, you don’t,” Dazai says, taking Chuuya’s heart in hand and /shredding/ it with cold, emotionless words, “You’re too young to know what that word means.”

People say that their

hearts break when something tragic happens. Some, the dramatic ones, say their hearts shatter.

Personally, Chuuya thinks /shatter/ is too kind of a word. It implies that things can be mended. The pieces will cut your fingers when you pick them up, but if you get all of them,

you can be whole again. Even if you get /most/ of them, you’ll be okay.

Chuuya’s heart does not shatter. That is not a strong enough word for how he feels.

It’s like a /black hole/ has opened up somewhere inside him, with gravity strong enough to shred planets, and is sucking

every fiber of Chuuya’s being inside of it and /destroying/ it. It’s /awful/, like little strips are being peeled off at a time, leaving him raw, exposed, /crying/.

And just like Dazai has always done, since the first time they met, he takes everything that Chuuya is—

“And

even if you did, someone who /loved/ me wouldn’t do this to me.”

— and /escalates/ it.

Chuuya is shaking. He can recognize that in the back of his head, faintly, but he’s too preoccupied with the fact that his chest and throat feel like they’re on /fire/.

God, it hurts.

Hurts much more than breaking his arm during Judo practice, much more than falling the last three steps of his childhood home, much more than seizing out in the hospital with his brain feeling like it’s frying itself with electricity.

It’s /agony/, visceral, hot-blooded agony

that he can barely /see/ past, because it feels like a living thing determined to take all of Chuuya down with it.

“I—,” he gasps, reaching out to grab Dazai. Dazai let’s him, but he doesn’t move into or away from his grip on his shirt.

It’s like he doesn’t /care/ what Chuuya

does anymore. Like he’s so utterly indifferent that he doesn’t even bother to push him off.

“I can come back, right? Tomorrow? Please, I know I messed up, but let me /fix/ it.”

There’s a moment where Chuuya dares to have hope. His vision is blurry through the tears but he’s

close enough that he can see the emotionless mask Dazai is wearing start to fracture.

/Please/, let me come back tomorrow, he thinks desperately, hand fisted in his shirt.

Then the mask /twists/, and whatever hope Chuuya had is once again being used to cut him wide open.

“Why would you want to come back? Aren’t you afraid I’ll /kill you/?”

It’s /seething/, a glimpse into the roiling hurt and anger Dazai must be feeling.

It hurts enough to send Chuuya stumbling backwards again, feeling like his hand was /burned/.

He—

He can’t do this

anymore. He can’t—

Maybe he deserves it, but he didn’t know what else to /do/ and Dazai wouldn’t talk to him, and now he’s begging him not to—

Not to /break up/ with him.

But they did, didn’t they? Dazai basically told him to leave and /never/ come back.

It’s over. It’s

all over.

His life, his college career, his future, his /relationship/. All of it, gone.

And it’s all his fault, isn’t it?

He needs to leave. He can’t even /look/ at Dazai right now without feeling the threads of his self-control and restraint start to shred.

He’s going

to break down and he doesn’t want Dazai to /watch/, but first—

He pulls his hands up, fumbling at the buckle of his collar. He’s not used to taking it off— Dazai usually does it before and after his showers, and he never takes it off for long— and his fingers are shaking so

badly he can barely get a grip on it. He nearly loses impatience and /rips/ it off but—

He loves it. He /treasures/ the damn thing, and even if he doesn’t have the right to wear it anymore, that doesn’t mean he wants to /break/ it.

Eventually the buckle slides free, and the

collar comes off.

Dazai still doesn’t look like he wants to touch him, so Chuuya has no where else to throw it but the floor between them, the burning of the last bridge.

“I’m gonna go to my sisters,” Chuuya mumbles miserably, trying to wipe his eyes so he can at least see.

Every tear that he manages to wipe away is quickly replaced to another. “I’ll, uh, get my stuff later, I guess.”

That’s an agony Chuuya has never experienced before. Giving back all the gifts he was given, digging out all his things out of Dazai’s closet. Taking everything that

is /his/ out of the place he had started to consider /home/.

Dazai eyes drop to the collar lying on the floor between them, and his expression starts to crack. His eyes flare with something like /pain/.

"I'll drive you," he says, moving like he's going to shove off the wall--

"No!" Chuuya nearly /shouts/, because he /can't/ handle that. He can't hold himself together for /that/ long, and he doesn't want Dazai to watch as he breaks apart agonizingly at the seams.

It also /started/ with a ride home, and the idea of ending it with one is too much.

"No, I'll call my sister and have her pick me up."

Dazai hesitates at that, and looks like he wants to argue--

But he can't. So eventually he nods, and his eyes feel like a searing burn on his back as Chuuya turns around and stumbles out of the bedroom.

Navigating the stairs

is /hard/ when he's nearly blind with tears and he's starting to feel lightheaded, but he manages it without falling.

And just when Chuuya thought it couldn't get /worse/--

Yoko is waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs, her ears flattened with anxiety and her head

tilting back and forth curiously. She whines at him as he comes closer, tail thumping hesitantly on the ground.

Oh, god, /Yoko/. He's never going to see her again. Maybe once when he comes to get his stuff, but this is /goodbye/.

He practically falls to his knees beside her,

flinging his arms around her neck and burying his face into her fur. She's more subdued than she usually is, leaning into him solidly as he smothers a heartbroken sob into her neck.

"I'm /sorry/," he chokes out again, even though he knows she doesn't really understand what's

going on. All she knows is that there's something /wrong/ and that he's upset.

That's the /worst/ part, because Chuuya can't tell her he's not coming back.She'll always be looking out for him and so /sad/ when he doesn't come back for her.

"I /love/ you, baby girl, I /promise.

Okay? I'm sorry. You just-- you just be a /good/ girl, and I'll miss you forever," he whispers into her fur, rising up to give her a wet kiss on the nose.

She licks him back, whining slightly.

After that, he /has/ to go, because he's nearing the breaking point, and if he holds

Yoko any longer, he's not going to be able to /let go/.

Baki is nowhere to be seen, thankfully,-- he runs when voices get too loud, so he's probably hiding somewhere-- because Chuuya can/not/ handle that.

He stumbles out the front door, shutting it behind him for the last time.

His phone is in his back pocket, and he wrestles it out of his jeans as he staggers down the driveway.

He's not thinking anything, he's just thinking he needs to get /away/, he needs to go /home/, he needs to /find/ home because he doesn't have one anymore, it hurts, it hurts,

it /hurts/.

It takes three tries for him to unlock his phone. Partly because of the way the sun is shining on the screen, so he makes his way to the bit of shade between the two houses, partly because his vision is blurry with tears, partly because his fingers are shaking.

It's

been a while since he's talked to Kouyou, so he has to go to his contacts page and scroll--

"Chuuya?"

Startled, Chuuya looks up. There, in the shadows of the alleyway, is someone he /knows/.

"Oh," he mutters, frantically trying to get a hold of himself and not wondering /why/

he would be here, outside like this, at this time. "Sorry, I didn't see you there--."

"I'm sorry, Chuuya."

A painful /slam/ against the back of his head, and Chuuya's world goes blissfully, utterly silent.

Darkness.

-------- +

Dazai is a firm believer in the idea that anything he could ever want will inevitably be lost. Not only because life has been a cruel mistress to him and taken /much/ more from him than she's ever given, leaving him hollow and riddled with teeth-sharp holes--

But also because

Dazai is a master of fulfilling his own prophecies.

It's like a sick cycle, because whatever he /anticipates/ somehow, inevitably, comes to pass and--

He just wants to stop /hurting/ all the time. He's done good, he's /been/ good for a long time, and he's done the best he can

with what he has and--

It's not /fair/ that he /always/ ends up cradling the empty, cavernous, /wrathful/ hole in his chest, where his heart would be if he were ever allowed to have one.

It's the collar that brings him back, eventually. He can't look away from it, lying limp

and discarded on the wooden floor.

It--

It shouldn't be like that. It should be taken /care/ of, should be /treasured/, because it's a symbol of their /bond/, and it should never be thrown away so carelessly.

He's halfway between here and nowhere, feeling horribly disconnected

from himself in a way that fills him with sick-numbness. Everything feels so distant and /visceral/ at the same time, a confusing mix. Everything he's feeling is like a tidal wave of anesthesia in his lungs, numbing him out and drowning him in equal measures.

It's been a long

time since he's felt anything like this, instinct-driven and defensive, so long he almost doesn't know how to find his way /back/. He knows he'll come back down eventually, but he doesn't /like/ it.

But the true thing to bring him back isn't the sight of the collar.

It's Baki.

It’s mid-afternoon now, just around the time where Chuuya usually settles down for his mid-day nap. It’s not scheduled or anything, but it usually works out that shortly after lunch Chuuya will hit a wall and will need a nap to recharge.

For Baki, that means it’s prime cuddle

time. Mostly because Dazai doesn’t dare to interrupt it.

They’ve been in a silent rivalship ever since Baki moved in, a tug-of-war of dominance to see who gets more of Chuuya. Baki /insists/ that because he’s a cute cat, that means he gets /all/ the cuddle time, the best spots

and /all/ the attention.

Meanwhile, /Dazai/ insists that /he/ gets the most attention because he was here first and it’s his house, his bed and his baby—

Not his baby anymore. The thought splinters through him agonizingly.

Anyways, mid-day nap is Baki time, and he’s come

looking for Chuuya. He can tell because the first thing the cat does is good on the bed and look vaguely offended that Chuuya isn’t already there waiting for him.

After a second of sniffing the blankets, he jumps back off the bed and heads into the closet, his questioning meow

echoing from inside.

A pause, and then a louder meow, like he’s calling out for Chuuya and wondering why he won’t answer him.

The next place he checks is the bathroom, and the meows are getting more frequent. Louder, with a hint of distress.

When he pads out again, his tail

is drooping low, a far cry from it’s usually waving in the air smugly.

This time he comes up to Dazai, rubbing against his shin and arching his back.His mew is softer, trailing off sadly, questioning.

That’s what breaks Dazai.Because it’s not him that Baki wants—

It’s Chuuya.

He knows that Dazai /always/ brings him up here. Sometimes Chuuya will fall asleep on the couch or in Dazai’s lap, and Dazai will have to bring him up to the bed so he can sleep well.

Baki knows that. He’s not asking for affection from Dazai, he’s asking him to /bring Chuuya/.

And that—

The realization of the fact that this was Chuuya’s /home/, and all of the pets know and love him, and they don’t understand why he’s not /here/—

That’s what breaks him.

His knees buckle first, his back crashing into the wall and sliding down as his body gives in.

His ass hits the floor hard, sending a shockwave of pain through him that feels insignificant compared to the pain in his chest.

“He’s—,” he sounds remarkably calm at first, but it’s only for a short moment, before everything catches up to him. “He’s not /here/, Baki.”

The

cat peers up at him, not comprehending. He meows again, arching his back and flicking his tail invitingly.

That’s the last straw.

“/Fuck/!” Dazai chokes out, slamming the back of his head into the wall as the tears finally come.

He’s a silent crier. A long ago defense

mechanism that was drilled into him, the idea that calling attention for himself or any weakness of his own would end in /pain/. It takes a /lot/ for him to cry, too, emotional response deadened by trauma after trauma—

But when he does cry, it /pours/.

His cheeks are drenched

in /seconds/, salt-water dripping from his chin onto his arms.

He lurches forward, snatching up Baki and the discarded collar in each hand. Baki lets out a surprised, shocked meow, but doesn't fight when he drags him into his chest to wrap him up in his arms.

The cat tolerates

it, limp in his grip and not fighting but not /loving/ it either.

Dazai buries his face into his fur, clinging onto one of the last pieces of Chuuya he has left. The collar in his other hand feels heavier than it ever has, nearly burning.

"I /fucked up/, Baki," he chokes out,

grief tearing through him like a riptide. Regret is hot on it's heels, filling every tear and scar inside of him.

What Chuuya did-- going behind his back and believing Fyodor over /him/, even though Dazai has never done anything to deliberately hurt him-- was such a /terrible/

thing to come back. Something so unexpected that he didn't know to /prepare/ for it, so when Chuuya /asked/, it--

It's like the words tore /straight/ into the deepest, darkest parts of his mind. The parts he doesn't think about, the emotions he doesn't let himself feel anymore,

the things he put to sleep years ago--

And woke them with a /vengeance/, starting a self-ravaging that leaves him breathless.

Dazai is his own victim, just as much as he is anyone else's. There's unique pain in tearing yourself apart from the inside out, the horror that lurks

inside your bones and calls itself by your name.

He--

He just wanted to give him /candy/ and tell him that he was /trying/ to get a regular stock of it so he wouldn't have to go months without it anymore.

It was like being /attacked/ and--

Dazai fought back. When his back

was against the wall, feeling like he had nowhere to go, he did /exactly/ what he said he would /never/ do--

He /hurt/ Chuuya. In ways he shouldn't have, in ways he didn't /deserve/ because--

Because he said he /loved/ him. It wasn't the right time, it wasn't on /purpose/, but

he could /see/ it there, swimming in Chuuya's eyes.

Could see it building in him ever since Osaka, soft warmth building in summer-blue eyes, like a cloud drifting on the sunrise. Dazai's personal little addiction, something he wanted to cup in his hands to keep it safe, breathe

it in like air.

He knew it was there. He /wanted/ it to be there.

And he /threw/ it away. Took Chuuya's confession-- his /first/ confession, ever-- and told him it meant /nothing/. Threw it to the ground like the collar had been thrown, crushing it underfoot.

It broke him.

He could see it, see the way that the trust Dazai has so /carefully/ cultivated and encouraged after he was treated /badly/ by Shuuji start to crack.

Worse than that, Chuuya /needs/ him. He's sick right now, barely ten days out from a serious medical condition. It may not /seem/

serious because he managed to avoid something like surgery or an extended hospital stay but it /is/ serious. He's supposed to be on mostly bed rest for /another/ five weeks.

Dazai promised to always be there for him. Promised to trust him and support him, and keep him safe and

happy and warm and /loved/ and--

And he didn't. As /soon/ as things had taken even a slight turn for the worse, he'd defaulted straight into the mindset he'd worked so hard to overcome:

Hurt /them/ before they can hurt you.

He's not /stupid/, either, he knows that the reason

went looking for answers is because Dazai wouldn't give him any. He was /avoiding/ it, because he was /petrified/ that Chuuya would--

That he would /leave/ and never come back, and Dazai would be alone again. He doesn't want to be alone anymore. He's gotten used to the sound and

comfort of someone else being here. Sleeping in his bed with him, eating meals with him, being in the house while Dazai was paying attention to something else upstairs.

He got used to not being alone anymore. He doesn't want to go /back/ there, to the coldness of an empty house.

Or the discomfort of a house with Shuuji in it, that silent tension of dislike and irritation infecting the whole house.

He was /scared/ to tell Chuuya because--

Because of /exactly/ what happened today. Miscommunication, mistranslation, the rearing of the ugly head of Dazai's

trauma and defensive responses, hurting each other, /crying/.

He never wanted to make Chuuya /cry/ like that.

And it's just--

God it's just /so/ much, in every way he looks at it, missteps and mistakes made by both of them. So much that he's smothering a fresh flood of tears

into Baki's fur, breath trembling.

How did it all go so wrong so /quickly/? How is it even possible that Dazai was happy and /excited/ barely an hour and a half ago, and now he feels like he's going to drown in his own grief and misery?

It's not /fair/. None of this is /fair/.

Chuuya wasn't fair to /him/, Dazai wasn't fair to Chuuya, it's just an entire fucking mess that ended up hurting them both.

He rubs his thumb over the metal of the heart in the collar, aching.

How are /either/ of them going to fix this? How are they going to be able to move

past this?

Is there a way to move past this, or is this just /it/, everything good they had going up in flames in the span of an hour.

The beeping of Dazai's phone in his back pocket startles him, making him flinch in surprise.

Baki takes that moment to escape his hold,

wiggling out of his arms and relocating to a spot a few yards away to give his ruffled fur quick, offended licks to smooth it back down.

The beeping on his phone is for a reminder to give Chuuya his mid-day dose of pain meds, so he doesn't get a headache later.

His /meds/.

He didn't take them /with/. He went to his sisters house /without his meds/.

The pharmacist said that a single missed dose was alright, but don't double up on doses and don't take them within twelve hours of eachother.

If--

If Chuuya doesn't come back tonight, he's going to

miss a dose. And if he doesn't come back before early tomorrow morning--

That's /two/ doses. When he's only /ten/ days out of the hospital, where his brain swelled so much he /seized/.

Is he going to have another seizure if he doesn't take his meds? Probably. It makes sense.

Panic floods through Dazai so quickly that he barely thinks before he’s calling Chuuya’s number and bringing his phone to his ear.

It’s okay if he’s angry or /hurt/ or he doesn’t want to see or talk to Dazai again—

But he /has/ to come get his meds. Or let Dazai drop them off.

He /can’t/ be hurt because Dazai’s such a fuck-up that healthy communication is basically impossible for him.

The call goes straight to voicemail. Maybe he’s so angry and hurt he turned his phone off?

“Baby—,” he gets most of the way through the word before he remembers he

may not be able to call him that anymore, “— /Chuuya/, I—,” he really hopes that the fact that he’s /obviously/ been crying makes it clear that he regrets what happened, because it’s not often that words fail him, but he has /no/ idea what to say right now. “I know you’re hurt

and you might not want to talk to me and— that’s okay, I just— I didn’t /mean/ it, okay?”

It feels /so/ hypocritical to use the same excuse Chuuya did, and hopes that he believes him.

“I shouldn’t have said those things to you, I was just /upset/, and hurt and surprised and—

I’m /sorry/, so just... at least come back for your meds, it’s only five hours until your next dose. You don’t have to talk to me if you don’t want to, and that’s okay, but just... come get your meds /please/, you need them.”

The silence of the voicemail box is oppressive.

Eventually, he has no choice but to hang up and /hope/.

Silent treatment has never really been Chuuya’s chosen mode of arguments— he /prefers/ yelling, which Dazai both loves and hates. Communication, even angry communication is nice, but the yelling itself makes Dazai’s

stomach squirm unpleasantly— so the fact that he didn’t answer is...

Surprising. Not /unwarranted/, because he wouldn’t want to talk someone like /himself/ either right now, but still unusual.

He balances his phone on his knee, turning the notification noise all the way in

case Chuuya decides to call. Or text.

/Please/ call or text.

In the meantime, he just sits on the floor, feeling too weak to pull himself up to his feet, turning the collar over and over in his hands.

They’ve had a /few/ discussions about what a collar meant to them both

and while they weren’t in a BDSM relationship with clear contracts, rules and boundaries—

The collar was supposed to be a symbol of care and commitment. Something that /both/ of them wanted, a sign that Chuuya was /wanted/ and Dazai would take /care/ of him.

But instead of

doing that, he’d been keeping secrets that could’ve put Chuuya in danger.

That’s when another thing occurs to him.

/Fyodor/.

He doesn’t exactly have a /reason/ to be interested in Chuuya, because the business between him and Dazai has been consistent and relatively peaceful.

Granted, he’s been /avoiding/ Fyodor for the last few weeks, but it’s not like the man doesn’t have his own information channels.

Dazai’s been avoiding the Mafia too, truthfully, and has deliberately not returned Oda’s calls.

It only took a few weeks with Chuya to realize how

/tired/ he was with this whole charade. Tired of playing unofficial king to the Mafia, tired of playing nice with the Rats, tired of threatening and scheming and everything.

He didn’t want to /do/ this anymore. He just wanted to be happy and /okay/, and every time he made

another business deal or hunted down another scrap of information, he just—

It felt /hollow/. Draining. Finding the ghost of who he used to be in the Mafia, and wearing it like a second skin. A mask that was sticky and horrible and didn’t want to come off.

Obviously Fyodor

had shown /some/ interest in him, because there was no reason for him to be on campus, and the /phone call/—

Which means Chuuya is in /danger/.

He calls again, anxiety pulsing as the dial tone starts up. It clicks immediately, and he sits up straighter, hope flaring as Chuuya’s

voice starts to filter through the speaker—

“Hey, it’s Chuuya! You missed me, so leave a message and I’ll call you back if it’s important!”

Oh. It’s just the voicemail again.

/Fuck/.

Okay, he’ll just—

He’ll give him an hour to calm down and cool off. He said he was going

to his sisters and he has no reason to believe that Fyodor is even /going/ to make a move on Chuuya. That fucker would probably just be happy reminding Dazai that he’s not /allowed/ to have anything for himself.

He’s probably safe. Yoko and Kozo would be freaking out if they

sensed anyone they didn’t know, and they’re pretty quiet downstairs. A quiet whine or too, sometimes, because they’re not used to /yelling/, but nothing alarming.

Even Baki, while clearly annoyed, has retreated to his favorite spot on the bed—Chuuya’s pillow— and is serenely

grooming himself.

Still, Dazai can't get over the feeling that something is /wrong/. It's a restless feeling, like electricity pooling in his stomach, driving him up and starting to pace back and forth.

He wishes he had Chuuya's sisters phone number. Or even just a /name/

because he's only spoken of her using 'ane-san'. Or Kyouka-chan, for the middle sister, but she still lives at his fathers house, so that's not where he's going.

He /could/ look her up with the background check he ran on Chuuya so long ago-- he's pretty sure he remembers her

name being Ozaki Nakahara--but he'll need to double-check to make sure...

Or he could check on the tracker he installed in Chuuya's phone.

It's /such/ a violation of privacy that he's avoided using it at all possible, and only glances at the map when he's feeling the seperation

anxiety pretty hard. He /tries/ to avoid using it whenever possible, and since they've been practically living together for the past two weeks, it hasn't been used much.

He--

He just needs to check to see if he's okay. If he's at his sister's house. If he knows where he is,

then he can calm down a little bit. It's been almost an hour, and Chuuya still hasn't answered, so--

He needs to know.He /has/ to know.

Opening his phone again, he hovers over Chuuya's contact before exiting out of the messaging app. The tracking app he uses is one specifically

designed and coded for him by Rokuzou. It's nameless, but it has a skin that makes it look like one of the food delivery apps. Almost unnoticeable unless you know what you're looking for.

He opens it, puts in Chuuya's contact number and waits for the map to load.

And waits.

It takes longer than it usually does, longer than it /should have/, and every second the loading image chases itself across the screen in endless circles, his anxiety ratchets higher and higher.

He wouldn't say he's normally a high-strung person, but now it feels like every

second takes a /year/, heart thundering in his chest--

LOCATION FOUND.

Letting out a relieved breath, he clicks on the map. He's hoping for a building with a street address that he can cross-reference with the owner to confirm his safety--

It's not.

It's /outside/.

Not outside in the city somewhere or even down the street a little bit, it's /right/ outside. Like Chuuya hasn't even left the house, he's just sitting outside on the steps.

Why wouldn't he answer the phone if he was so close? Dazai made sure it was charged before he left for

the grocery store, so there's no /reason/ for it to be off. And if he was waiting for his sister to pick him up, it wouldn't make sense for his phone to be turned off either.

He could just be rejecting his calls, but...

Something is /wrong/.

Baki startles when he /bolts/ out

of the room, taking the stairs two at a time and skipping the bottom half entirely with a massive leap.

He lands heavily, making Yoko and Kozo jerk to attention, but he ignores them both as he makes for the door. Kozo falls naturally into step at his side, ears alert and tail

stiff.

He's the first one out of the door when Dazai opens it, inspecting the steps of the front entrance.

Dazai is half-expecting to find Chuuya on his doorstep, or Fyodor /with/ Chuuya, but he's not expecting to find /nothing/. The yard is empty and the street is quiet.

There's nobody here. not that he can see.

But then...where is Chuuya's phone?

Ignoring the instincts that are starting to scream in his head, Dazai pulls up the map again, forcing it to refresh and zooming in as far as he can.

It's... right here.

It has to be a glitch, right?

Chuuya turned his phone off while he was still here and the tracker just hasn't updated.

It's like a desperate mantra in his head,using any and every excuse to believe that everything is /okay/ and /normal/, telling himself over and over again that there isn't a reason to worry,

that he's just overreacting and there is a perfectly reasonable explanation for everything that's happened that /isn't/ the fact that Chuuya has gotten /hurt/--

The pink collar, loosely wrapped twice around his wrist, feels like a hangman's noose made specifically for him.

Kozo trots down the steps, nose to the ground and snuffling. He's always had a better nose out of the two of them, and Dazai follows in his path, casting his eyes over the ground for any sort of clue.

The silence is oppressive, pressing on his ears until it feels like he's

underwater. Drowning.

Kozo leads him off the yard entirely, toward the little alleyway between his house and the neighbors.He chose this house specifically for that tiny alleyway, because it winds a cramped path between the houses on this street and the one behind it. It empties

out on the next street over, a street that directly connects to one of the several ways to climb down from the residential area back into the city.

Dazai chose it because it's an escape route if he needed it and now--

Now it's been used /against/ him because--

There, on the

ground, looking like it's been stomped on several times, is Chuuya's /phone/.

And this--

This is the moment where Dazai's heart feels like it just /stops/. Freezes in his chest, going numb with despair and /realization/.

(He's always been more effective when he's /cold/.)

His only thought is /no/. This can't be real, this can't be happening.

This is a nightmare. This is all just a nightmare, a fucked up dream concocted by his equally messed up brain to remind him that nothing is permanent. Nothing and /no one/ is safe.

His hands tremble as he

reaches down to pick it up off the ground. Kozo sniffs around the spot.

The screen is completely smashed, like someone stomped on it with their heel. The back of it is all scratched up from being ground into the gravel, and when he presses the power button on the side, half the

screen is completely black. The other half is a mess of glitches and color mistakes.

Chuuya's lock screen background /was/ a picture of them in Osaka. A selfie of them in bed, when Dazai was too drowsy to protest a picture being taken of him. Chuuya had been curled up against

his side, one arm thrown over his chest. His head had been tucked under Dazai's chin, a warm grin on his face and his eyes practically glowing with affection.

Dazai himself had been mostly asleep still, bedhead wild. The only sign he's awake at all is that he has one eye just

barely cracked open, a lazy and indulgent smile on his face.

It was, anyways. Now the screen is completely and utterly broken, and the only thing that can be seen is a sliver of the blanket bunched up at their sides.

A hint of Dazai’s smile, half-formed, broken and twisted.

This was not a mistake. This was not an accident.

Chuuya’s phone wouldn’t get /this/ damaged by accident, and he wouldn’t have left without it.

This was /purposeful/. His phone was broken so he /couldn’t use it anymore/.

Kozo makes a noise then, something between a low growl

and a snuffle.

The noise makes Dazai look up, anxiety rising like the tide.

Kozo is a few feet away, nose to the ground. Dazai paces over, hoping he’s found /something/ interesting. A clue, something Dazai can /use/.

It takes him a few moments to find it in the darkness of

the alleyway. It’s so easy to miss.

Blood. Tiny drops of it in a small patch, looking almost fresh. Not wet anymore but still /new/.

No, no, /no/.

His blood turns cold, aching in his veins, ice-water and numbing grief, hard to breathe.

Chuuya’s gone. He’s been /taken/.
—-+

The first thing that Chuuya registers is that his head /aches/. Pulsing agony centered in the back of his head that radiates down his neck and through the rest of his head. He can feel every beat of his heat, blood pulsing painfully in his head.

That’s what starts to bring him

up out of unconsciousness.

His second realization is how fucking /cold/ it is. An insidious type of cold, one that seeps into his bones to freeze him from the inside out. Like he’s never seen the touch of sun before, all the warmth he’s ever known faded away.

It’s also /wet/.

A disgusting, lingering damp kind of wet, like he's in a place that has never been truly dry. It layers grossly over his skin, making his clothes stick to him and adding another facet to the aching cold.

He opens his eyes, groaning lightly at the rhythmic pulse of pain through

his temples and--

Darkness. Uninterrupted, pure darkness, like it's pitch black in here without any light to speak of.

Why can't he see? He can't see /anything/ at all, even though his eyes are open. He blinks frantically, hoping to clear up whatever is blocking his vision--

But it doesn't go away. It doesn't clear up. He can't /see/.

Panic flashes through him, white-hot and incoherent, and a whimper slides out of his throat. He struggles briefly, trying to bring his hands up to check what's wrong with his eyes--

His hands are tied. He can feel

the rope digging into his wrists, harsh and burning. His fingers have long since gone numb.

It... feels like he’s in a chair? Upright but slumped forward, shoulders burning from the strain of supporting his body weight when his arms are secured behind him.

What the fuck

happened? Where the hell is he?

The last thing he remembers is fighting with Dazai— a pang of remembered breath shocks through his chest at the reminder— and then going outside to call Kouyou to come pick him up and then—

/Nikolai/. With a remorseful look on his face as he—

As he fucking /knocked him out/ with the butt of a /gun/.

And he’s not /stupid/, no one knocks him out and ties him to a chair to throw him a /surprise/ party. In fact, this is pretty much /exactly/ what happens in those movies about the Yakuza or any kidnapping.

A hoarse,

exhausted chuckle escapes him.

It’s not funny. It’s /really/ not funny, he knows that, it’s just so fucking /absurd/ that he can’t help snickering at the ridiculousness of it all.

He’s /only/ eighteen. Barely six months living away from home. He’s had a boyfriend, found out

he was attracted to /dad’s/, has a daddy kink, nearly got run over by a car, went to the hospital, dropped out of college, broke up with his boyfriend—

And now he’s here. Probably kidnapped. A /hostage/.

It’s just so goddamn /ridiculous/. If you had told Chuuya he’d end up

like /this/, he’d ask what movie plot you were describing.

Okay, it’s a /little/ funny. Maybe it’s the brain damage— or maybe the extra brain damage on top of his other brain damage— but it /is/ kind of funny.

He really cannot catch a /single/ break, can he? It’s just

like being strapped into a rollercoaster, and every time he comes back into the station thinking it’s over, someone tightens the seatbelts and sends him, screaming, onto an even /worse/ part of the ride with a kiss goodbye. It never /ends/.

“Ah, you are awake. That is good.”

Chuuya jerks, head whipping up so quickly his mind swims. He didn’t know there was anyone in the room with him until they /said/ something.

There is something uniquely, primally /terrifying/ about having one of your senses taken away from you. You never realize how much you

rely on things like sight and hearing and touch, taste, smell—

Until it’s taken away from you. Leaving you helpless and disoriented, struggling to adjust to a world you didn’t know before.

It’s a throwback to ancient times, before humans had dominated the planet and changed

the face of it to suit their needs. A time when the sun going down meant /danger/, it meant you couldn’t /see/, it meant all the things that could and /would/ kill you came out to play.

Unseen sharks in the water. Silent hunting cats creeping through the underbrush, a quick

glimpse of hellish, glowing eyes in the darkness. Tiny, unseen spiders finding your foot and crawling up, up, /up/—

Someone in the room with Chuuya, who he does not know or recognize. Someone he can’t see or /hear/, no matter how hard he strains his ears.

As he moves, the bag

over his head shifts. The darkness doesn’t let up, but at least there’s a /reason/ he can’t see.

(He couldn’t help but remember that conversation with Gide about /brain damage/. Instead of being the guy who forgot his own husband, maybe Chuuya would be the guy who lost his

vision.

Wouldn’t that be fan-fucking-tastic?)

Chuuya licks his lips nervously, panic spiking in his chest. “Who are you? Where am I?”

This time, when the voice comes, it sounds from /behind/ him, making him flinch in surprise. He didn’t hear the person move at /all/, didn’t

even feel so much as the shift of air currents,but now the person is /behind/ him.

“You’re six feet underground, boy,” the person sneers. Their Japanese is stilted, and their accent is heavy and vaguely familiar.Not a native speaker. “/Death’s/ number. You’re in your own grave.”

Chuuya takes it back. This isn’t funny at all. Not even a little bit.

He opens his mouth to ask again who this person—a /girl/ by the sounds of it, but with a rough and low voice— is, but he’s cut off when a hand finds his head and pushes it.

It’s /playful/, more than hurting,

like a cat batting around a captured bird with it’s paws, claws sheathed. A game for the predator,but /lethal/ for the prey.

Chuuya’s chair wobbles, two legs coming up off the ground briefly. It’s unstable, on uneven ground, and he holds his brief in preparation for the /fall/—

The hand that pushed him changes it's grip, latching onto his hair through the bag and dragging him back onto stable ground.

He winces as the hair over the bump on the back of his head is tugged harshly. It /burns/.

"That was your only question. I will ask them now," the girl

says to him, tapping long claw-like nails over his head.

Then she's /gone/, like she was never touching him at all, disappearing into the darkness of wherever Chuuya is right now. His breathing is oppressively loud in the bag, humidity sticking to his face.

"You are Nakahara

Chuuya, yes?" This time, the voice is slightly to his right, farther off. It echoes oddly off the walls, sounding strangely hollow. Like.. concrete, maybe? An empty room, with only them in it.

Now, Chuuya has a /major/ flaw: when he gets frightened, he doesn't turn into a crying

mess, or starts to beg, or goes silent. Not any of those things, not anything most people would consider a /normal/ response.

No, when he gets scared, he gets /mad/. And when he's mad, he gets /mouthy/.

"Sure am," he says, offering a carefree shrug like his heart isn't pounding

in his chest like a drumbeat calling for war. "What should I call you? I feel like we should be a first-name basis for whatever is about to happen."

"You know Dazai Osamu." The left again, accompanied by the ever-so-slight tinkle of something small and metal.

It's not so much a

question as a statement of fact, but it makes Chuuya's stomach sink.

Oh. That's what this is about. He's being questioned--maybe /tortured/, his brain is quick to remind him-- for information on Dazai.

This isn't about him at all. He didn't do anything wrong at all, except for

the crime of being involved with Dazai.

His silence is apparently answer enough, because there's a loud, screeching noise in the next moment, like something being dragged over concrete.

This time, next to his ear, a whisper as cold as the northern winds: "You will tell me about

him. Everything you know."

But Chuuya doesn't /know/ anything about him, not really. The last few hours-- even longer? He doesn't know what time it is or even what day it is anymore-- have shown him that.

Dazai's fed him nothing but lies of omission, and even if Chuuya was

wrong about the way he went about getting answers--he realizes that and can admit it-- that doesn't mean that Dazai did right by /him/ either.

And now he's paying the price for it. Because he /highly/ doubts that he can tell this girl that he doesn't know anything and she'll

just believe him and let him go. He's pretty sure saying that will just piss her off, actually,and get him into deeper shit.

"Uh, sure," he says, stalling a little bit, hoping his mind comes up with /anything/ useful for him right now, "His favorite color is green, and he really

likes those shitty medical dramas on TV. He usually sleeps from like 4a.m to 9, and he has two dogs. He also likes being called Daddy if that helps you out--ow!"

The bag deadens the blow when he's smacked across the face, but it still stings slightly. Not as much as he /expects/

it to hurt, but enough to startle him. Enough to have him quieting down.

"Where is the USB he has on the Rats? Where does he keep his blackmail?"

This time there's a /slosh/ of water next to the chair, and he's starting to get a really, /really/ bad feeling about this.

"I," his voice quavers in the middle of his sentence, and he has to bring it back under control. "I don't /know/, I don't even know who the Rats /are/."

It's the /truth/, he swears, he doesn't know /anything/. How does he make her believe that.

"I believe you," is his answer,

and for a moment, hope /soars/--

"But unfortunately, that is not enough for me. You know where he keeps his information, his papers. You know more than you think,and you will tell me. Where is his office?"

This time, it's not stupidity or stubbornness that keeps his mouth shut.

It's loyalty. Blind loyalty that urges him to keep Dazai's secrets, despite the fact that he's in a /very/ bad situation. Loyalty that urges him to protect Dazai, at a cost.

He's only allowed a minute of silence, before a hand is knotting in his hair over the bag and yanking his

head back.

He yelps, neck twinging at the sudden movement. His face is turned up now.

"Being stubborn will not help you. Cooperate and I will go easy on you. I will ask you again. Where does Dazai Osamu keep his information?"

He presses his lips together, squeezing his eyes

shut. He doesn't /know/, not for sure, though he thinks they might just be talking about Dazai's office, which is in his house--

It's a room that's /always/ locked unless he's in it, and the only one to see into it have been Chuuya and Shuuji.

There's a /pleased/ hum beside his

ear, like the girl is /happy/ that he's being silent. "You are stubborn. I like that. But I will break you of it, because I've--" another slosh of water, closer, /louder/, and he whimpers automatically. "I've come for /you/, Nakahara Chuuya."

Water pours down on his face.

----+

THREE DAYS AGO. MOSCOW, RUSSIA.

It is a cold year in Russia. Summer has been bleak and mild, and winter—

Winter has come early this year. It brings with it a bone-deep chill, an icy touch that deepens when the sun goes down.

The Moscow skyline is a beautiful sight at night,

the glow of the city lights dulled through a layer of frozen fog that hangs still in the air. Heat rises in the city, before it's trapped underneath the icy grips of the sky.

Taking a long drag of her cigarette, Nika adds to that fog, blowing out a stream of smoke that curls and

folds in on itself before floating away. It's too windy and cold to blow O's, but she thinks the trails of smoke look almost like snakes or dragons tails, which is almost better.

It's late. Half the city is sleeping, and the /other/ half--the half that dabbles in things best

left unseen in the cover of darkness, the half that /she/ commands-- is awake.

She's awake, waiting for the reports to come flooding back in. Resting recklessly on the ledge of the balcony, one leg hanging over the three-story drop, smoking a cigarette as she waits.

Inside,

there's the faint noise of someone peacefully in her bed. A girl that Nika had taken home a few hours earlier, to fuck and show her a good time.

The fresh scratches on her back and shoulders are still painful, but the brisk air cools the sting.

It's not out of a sense of

politeness or consideration that Nika has come out to the balcony-- she likes the cold. Prefers it, really, the way it turns everything sharp and clear, the way it sinks into her bones and brings her to life.

She gets it from her father, among other things.

While she waits, she

idly tries to match up the skyline tattooed on her foot to the skyline in front of her. It's not a perfect match, but it's a fun, silly game, and a reminder of where she comes from. The city that bred and raised and honed her skills to a lethal point, inked on her skin so she can

never forget where she came from.

Who she is.

She's expecting the phone call, screen lighting up the dark balcony with an electronic blue glow.

She is /not/ expecting who the caller is. Her father isn't supposed to check in on her progress for another four days, and it is

dreadfully late in Japan. Or early, depending on your view. The sun must be rising there,ending another night of work.

She clicks accept, bringing the phone to her ear. "Hello, papa," she greets, swinging her leg in the open air. She's not sure what kind of call this is, so it's

best to be /respectful/, at least in the beginning.

Her father is not a man that is to be /disrespected/, and the only man Nika would /ever/ submit or bow to. The only man who /deserves/ power, and has earned it, in her opinion.

The only man worth listening to. The only one

worth following.

"Hello, kroshka," her father responds warmly, affection clear and obvious in his tone. There's a faint twinge of an accent there, even though they are speaking his native language, a mark of him being too far from home for too long. "I trust you are doing well?"

Her father has never been an overtly /kind/ man, so she soaks up every ounce of affection like it's vodka in the wintertime.

"Da," she responds, sitting up straighter on the ledge. She wobbles slightly, rights herself quickly by placing her fingertips down for a moment. "My

assistant has been sending you email updates. Have you seen them?"

Really, her assistant is a lifesaver. Nika has no time or patience for technology or writing reports. Keeping communication between Russia and Japan is a lengthy process, and her time is better spent overseeing

this section of the Bratva.

Her father entrusted it to her, and she will /not/ fail.

"I have, but that's not what I'm calling about." There's an edge in his tone,something like /excitement/. "I have need of your services."

Oh? Her /services/-- namely assassination and torture

as well as /strategy/-- aren't usually useful to her father in particular. He trained her himself--the /only/ one to be trained by him, his heir and the only one to pick up the /family secrets/-- and he's notoriously self-reliant.

So for him to call on her, it must be a special

occasion. Or something he personally doesn't want to get his hands dirty with.

Twisting to the side, she hops off the ledge of the balcony.The tile is freezing cold under her feet, but her mind is focused and alert. "What can I help you with, papochka?"

There's a pleased hum on

the other side of the phone, the sound of ice clinking in a glass. Her father always drank before bed, to keep his sleep dreamless.

She’s picked up the habit from him.

“You remember what I told you about Dazai Osamu?”

Her lip automatically curls at the mention of his name.

Yes, she knows /all/ about the Demon Prodigy.

An intelligent man, manipulative and cunning. A /bloody/ one, someone who bathed Yokohama in blood ever since he was younger than she is now. Elusive, well-trained, /always/ knee-deep in the flow of information running through the

underground.

A man that has been causing her family trouble for /decades/. First by driving out a fledgling Bratva outpost in Yokohama when he was younger and now...

Causing havoc for the operation her father has worked so /hard/ to develop in the last year.

The /exact/ type

she /loathes/, because all of the blood he’s shed and the pain he causes isn’t for a /purpose/. It isn’t for a /reason/, or justifiable.

He’s the kind of man who proves himself superior by /crushing/ anyone who might oppose him, and then lords over their corpses like a skeleton

king. A man who proves himself better, smarter, faster, stronger, by tearing people apart.

A man /exactly/ like the man who killed her mother.

“Yes,” she mutters, padding back inside the room. “Is he causing you trouble again?”

Her clothes are scattered across the room,

discarded hastily in the heat of lust. She’s pretty sure her panties are half-kicked underneath the bed, but they’re also soaked and useless, so she heads for her leather pants near the doorway.

“Actually, he’s given us an /opportunity/,” her father says, sly smile evident in

his voice. “It’s come to my attention that he’s...romantically involved with the younger brother of the boss of the Port Mafia.

She pauses in tugging up her pants, phone held between her shoulder and ear.

Kouyou Ozaki, boss of the Port Mafia. Low-born, with no known connections

to the Mafia. She joined young, and climbed /quickly/, taking the throne from anyone else who may have wanted it.

Now /that/ is a woman Nika can respect and admire. Fearsome, deadly, /strong/, independent. Ruling with a manicured iron fist. /Beautiful/.

And also /very/

secretive. Most information about her has been wiped clean, and it’s only been after months of digging that they found out that she had a family at /all/.

A sister, a brother and a father. Names, ages, locations unknown.

At least until /now/.

“How do you know you found the

brother?” She asks, pulling her pants up the rest of the way and zipping them up. They cling tightly to her skin, and it takes a few wiggles of her hips for them to settle comfortably against her hips.

“I found a hacker who was /desperate/ for any information on the Azure King.

The best one in the country, and willing to do /anything/ to get the information I had. He’s confirmed it for me.”

She smiles. Her father has /always/ been resourceful and cunning. Using everything to his advantage to turn the tides.

Her shirt and corset are laying on the floor

near the balcony. It’s lucky she chose the one with the hooks, instead of her laced ones. They might’ve been torn off in the struggle to disrobe. “You think he knows about the Mafia and about the Demon?”

It’s /quite/ the coincidence for the younger brother to be dating the

ex-heir of the Mafia. Almost /too/ coincidental.

“Actually,” her father huffs in amusement, breath crackling loudly over the speaker, “I don’t think he knows anything at /all/. Nothing about Dazai, at least, which leads me to believe he’s /completely/ in the dark.”

Another

smile, this one crueler and meaner than the last.

Oh, her father is /so/ good to her.

People who know nothing are her /favorite/ targets. No one really knows /nothing/, and personal information on her enemies is /always/ a boon to have.

It requires /mind games/. Psychological

manipulation and torture. Asking them questions she /knows/ they can’t answer, punishing them when they can’t, and /just/ when they’re on the verge of breaking, desperate to give her what she wants—

She backs off, offers them “easy” questions. Things they don’t think twice

about answering, because they seem so /trivial/ compared to the earlier questions.

Sitting on the bed, she starts to lace up her boots. It’s a good thing she brought her motorcycle, because she’s sure her father will want her on the next flight to Japan. “Who will be in charge

while I’m gone?”

The Bratva can’t survive without /someone/ powerful in charge.

“I trust your judgement, kroshka. I will be returning to the homeland soon. I’ve been away for too long, and it’s time /you/ take the next step in your career. I’ll brief you when you get here. Do

you have any questions?”

Thinking, she finishes lacing up her boots. They’re tall, going all the way up to her knees, and they put her firmly over the two-meter height range.

“Not yet,” she says, standing up.

“Good,” her father says, and it’s clear the conversation is over.

“I will see you soon.”

She makes an assenting noise, giving her father kisses over the phone before hanging up.

She doesn’t say goodbye to her lover as she slips out into the night. She’s got a job to do.

Nika Dostoevsky is going to Japan.

—————— +

Ranpo has a.... a feeling. An itchy feeling that makes him feel...

Itchy.

It’s Tuesday, which one of his /least/ favorite days of the week, but he’s pretty sure that’s not the reason for his bad mood.

It /might/ be the fact that Shuuji has, apparently, taken his invitation

to stay the night when he was wasted as an invitation to stay /forever/. It’s been almost three weeks since he found him in that bar, and he hasn’t left his house yet.

Normally, Ranpo /would/ kick someone out but—

He overheard the phone conversation Shuuji had with his mother

the morning after. He couldn’t quite catch it all, because Shuuji had locked himself in the bathroom and even pressing his ear to the door didn’t make everything clear, but Ranpo got the basic gist of it:

Shuuji was on his own for housing, because his father didn’t want him and

his mother /insisted/ that she had no where to house him because she was hopping from hotel to hotel ‘like a beggar’.

Granted, Shuuji probably might be able to beg his way back into Dazai’s good graces, but Ranpo isn’t /heartless/.

The kid is stupid, stubborn, in college, has

no job and no skills for a job. Even if he /could/ get a job, there’s no way he could afford an apartment on his own. It’s too late in the year to apply for the college dorms, even if his scholarship covered it.

In short, Shuuji really has nowhere else to go.

And that makes

Ranpo sympathetic because—

He’s never had /nowhere/ to go. Even after his parents passed in the accident and he was little more than a raggedy street urchin, stubbornly sleeping on park benches and breaking into cars to sleep in the back seat, he always had /somewhere/ to go.

If he ever needed a bed, or a hot bowl of curry, or somewhere to lay low or someone to talk to—

He always had a place he could go to that would /always/ welcome him.

But while Oda is full of sympathy for misfortunate kids, he is /not/ sympathetic for idiot adults, so it’s not

like he can go /there/ either.

Besides he’s pretty sure Kouyou would skewer Shuuji if she ever found out he tried to run over her little brother, which would inevitably lead to her finding out Chuuya’s dating Dazai, which would lead to family drama of epic proportions. That

almost tempts him into doing it, but Shuuji would probably get his ass executed mafia-style and—

Ranpo kind of /likes/ Shuuji? He’s funny, sometimes. Like a really big, really /stupid/ puppy that doesn’t know how to play.

Except that he eats Ranpo’s candy. That, he /hates/.

The last time he caught him with his hands in Ranpo’s candy jar, he kicked his ass. He thought /that/ would work except Shuuji looked dazed and like he might come in his pants so—

Ranpo’s solution is to keep his candy at /work/ now, which would be okay except there’s a /candy

thief/ at work too.

Clues—or lack thereof— point to Fukuzawa. Which sucks, because he /respects/ Fukuzawa and he can’t be /angry/ at him for eating his candy.

So yes, Ranpo is grumpy. He’s got an intruder in his home—who is recently making noises that they should get a bigger

apartment /together/, which is such a strange thing to contemplate, but he can't say he wouldn't /appreciate/ more room because Shuuji keeps knocking over his trinkets stand which takes an /hour/ to fix-- he's got candy disappearing before he can eat, Kunikida is on some weird

kick with cold cases lately and is trying to bug Ranpo into looking into it, and it's /Tuesday/.

He hates Tuesday's.

He /almost/ makes it through the entire day without incident, too. Manages to shake Kunikida off by sending him on a wild hunt for clues that will eventually

lead him nowhere, he's been playing iMessage games with Shuuji all day and kicking his ass, and it's just--

It's /almost/ a pretty good day.

That is, of course, until /Dazai/, of all people, comes storming into the Agency with less than an hour before it closes. He damn near

/kicks/ the door in, storming in without so much as a hello.

Kunikida looks like he's witnessing the devil rise to earth when he looks up and sees the man he's been hunting for the past two years /storm/ into the Agency, face determined.

"Hey--!" He shouts, rising to his feet

and leaving the case file he was working on spread out all over his desk. "What the hell are you--?!"

Kunikida makes a mistake then, coming around his desk and reaching out for Dazai's shoulder. Probably to stop him from going any further, to hold him still so he can ask him

what he's doing or maybe to try to arrest him--

His hand doesn't even get close.

In a series of movements that's almost too fast for even Ranpo to keep up with, one of Dazai's hands is flying up and wrapping around Kunikida's wrist. Using the leverage, he jerks him forward,

making him stumble in shock. Then then arm closest to Kunikida is coming up--

His elbow /slams/ into his temple with brutal force, with a sharp /crack!/ that makes even Ranpo wince in sympathy.

"I'm not here for you," Dazai says, face expressionless as Kunikida goes limp.

Unconscious.

Dazai isn't exactly /careless/ but neither is he careful as he lets Kunikida drop to the floor. His head hits the wooden floor with another crack that will /probably/ keep him unconscious for a while longer.Or maybe give him a concussion.

The other employees watch

silently as Dazai advances further into the Agency. None of them dare to challenge him, because Kunikida is the second-best martial artist in the entire agency.

The /first/ is Ranpo, who is just silently watching Dazai approach with a raised eyebrow, crunching on his chips.

Dazai must mean business if he's come to the Agency. Coming here is a /risk/ for him, because he /could/ be arrested and taken into custody.

That, combined with the fact that he just /assaulted/ Kunikida--a minor offense, compared to his playbook, but still worth noting-- and

the cold, almost /dead/, expression on his face--

Something happened. Something /big/ happened.

There's a chair a few feet away from Ranpo's desk, and Dazai snags it as he passes,flipping it around so the back of it is facing Ranpo. He sinks into it in a smooth motion, propping

his elbows up on the wood along the back.

"I need your help," he says, without so much as a hello.

Ranpo /figured/,because there's only one reason Dazai would put himself on the Agency's radar like this,and that is if something happened that he couldn't solve himself.

Still,

Ranpo /is/ grumpy, and he /doesn't/ appreciate Dazai storming into the Agency like this when he's not even an hour away from being off the clock, so--

Without saying anything, he fishes out another large chip from his bag,shoving it into his mouth and crunching slowly. His other

hand gets flipped over, so he can glance down at his wrist.

He's not wearing a watch, but it feels like the /right/ tone of disrespectful, just to /remind/ Dazai that he isn't the king here. He doesn't get to barge in and demand help. If Ranpo helps him, it's because he's a

/nice/ person--which he doesn't really think he is, but he has his moments.

Besides, he's already dealing with /one/ of Dazai's messes, and is he getting any thanks for that? No.

When the tension builds to a breaking point and Dazai is /clearly/ about to snap, jaw bunching and

fists clenching--

Kicking his feet up on the desk and leaning dangerously far back in his chair, Ranpo flashes him an enigmatic smile. "What can the Agency help you with?"

The Agency. Not him. He doesn't want to get involved with whatever turf war or dominance fight Dazai has

gotten himself into. He's not a part of the underground, and he will not be utilized in the unseen war that's going on.

"Chuuya's been taken."

The words drop like an anvil between them, cold and heavy with weight. It costs Dazai something to say them, momentary anguish flashing

through his eyes before they settle back into cold, unfeeling darkness.

Ranpo frowns at him. He's sure Chuuya is a nice kid and all, but it's not like Ranpo can do much without information. He's not a /psychic/. "Are you filing a missing persons report?"

He doesn't recommend

it. Missing persons cases are a /wreck/ to handle, especially for adults.

Technically, a person can’t even be reported as missing until they’ve been missing for over 24 hours. Only then can they be filed, and even once the police get a report, it’s never a /top/ priority.

There’s always homicides and assaults and violent crime that take a more immediate precedent. All too often, missing person cases get pushed off to the wayside.

And any good detective knows that the first 24 hours after a kidnapping or disappearance is /critical/.

“No,” Dazai

mutters. He’s leaning over the edge of the chair, like he’s trying to convince Ranpo to /hurry/ with the sheer weight of his presence. “I need to use the computer genius you have holed up here. I need to get into the city CCTV.”

Ranpo arches an eyebrow. Katai /is/ pretty smart,

he will admit, even if ‘genius’ /might/ a bit of an oversell. There’s only room for /one/ genius in the Agency, and that’s /Ranpo/. “Don’t you have someone better? What happened to that one kid? The one that Kunikida has been trying to get to sell you out.”

Dazai’s hands are

clenching open and closed, like he’s missing the weight of a gun in them. “He’s not answering me,” he says through clenched teeth, “and when I drove out to his place, the warehouse had been emptied.”

So he /ran/. That... doesn’t spell good for anyone, really, because Rokuzou

is the type of person that should be /monitored/. Left on his own or working for strangers could end up with /all/ their information leaked.

Kunikida’s going to be pissed. He was working hard on that kid, trying to recruit him into the Agency. Trying to give him a better life.

It's possible that he pushed too hard too soon, but Rokuzou disappearing so soon before Chuuya--who was relatively unknown and protected from the underground, all things considered-- is too much of a coincidence for Ranpo to overlook it.

Still, Katai is not the solution Dazai

thinks he is. "Even if I did introduce you, he's going to be terrified of you. He's useless when he's scared, practically hides in his futon like a child hiding from a monster. Plus, he has this annoying habit where he absolutely refuses to do /anything/ without a warrant."

That is, unless his boyfriend asks him personally, but considering that Kunikida is still passed out on the floor and unlikely to go out of his way to help Dazai--

Katai's a deadend.

Ranpo takes the last handful of chips and tosses them into his mouth before crushing the bag up

and tosses it into the trashcan near his desk. "Look, I am willing to help you because I don't think Chuuya should pay the price for your fuck ups. /However/, I can't help you without any information,and I don't have anyone to /get/ you information. So unless you get me something

to work with, then all you're doing is wasting time."

Time that Chuuya /doesn't/ have. The longer he's missing, the more likely it is that he'll never be found. The more likely he'll run the course of his usefulness, and be executed.

The longer he's missing, the more likely it

is they won't be finding /him/--

They'll be finding a body.

Besides, there's a /better/ organization that will be able to help Dazai, and one that has their /own/ desire to find Chuuya safe and sound.

The Port Mafia.

Dazai probably thinks they won't help him if he asks, or

that he'll have to /force/ them to help by taking control--

Little does he know, though. Ranpo is looking forward to /that/ realization, and he honestly wishes he could be there in the room when Dazai asks Kouyou for help locating her /missing little brother/.

The best drama

always happens when Ranpo can't /watch/, it's annoying. What's the point of knowing all this information if you don't get to /witness/ the fallout?

"Fuck," Dazai mutters, slapping his palm down on the desk. One of the other employees, a conservative girl, gasps in offense at his

language. "Fuck, /okay/, I'll-- If I get you the information you need, you'll help me find him?"

Ranpo shrugs, reaching down to pull out another bag of candy from within one of his desk drawers. "Yeah, sure. But you'll owe me, big. And I mean /big/, you don't even /know/ the

amount of trouble I've been going through because of you."

It's a testament to Dazai's desperation that he doesn't even flinch at the prospect of owing Ranpo a favor. A big one, even, that Ranpo will /surely/ collect at some point.

He just looks at him with a grim expression,

like he's preparing himself for what he has to do.Preparing to slide back into the version of himself that used to have the entire underground under his thumb and use that to get the information he needs.

Like he's letting go of Dazai Osamu and coming back for the Demon Prodigy.

Like he's willing to let go of everything he worked for, to let go of the person he's tried so hard to become--

All to get something /back/. Something so indescribably /important/ to him, he's willing to cross lines he hasn't crossed in years.

Love really does make you stupid,

Ranpo thinks to himself as he pulls out his phone to respond to Shuuji's latest turn on the game of Sea Battle they're playing. It really changes who you are as a person.

"Right," Dazai mutters, standing up.He's /tall/, intimidating with it, towering over everyone in the Agency.

"I'll call you then."

Ranpo frowns, sending off his turn in the game. A hit, taking down the last of Shuuji's tank's health bar. Another stunning win for him.

The Agency closes in less than an hour. They've been known to stay open longer in certain circumstances, but this

hardly counts as one. This isn't even a case that can officially go on the books.

So if Dazai calls the /Agency/, he's bound to just get them both in trouble, and he's not going to get an actual answer from anyone.

He /might/ have Ranpo's personal number, but Ranpo isn't

willing to just /put it out there/ that they plan on working together by just asking out loud. Dazai's already halfway to the door, bypassing Kunikida's passed out body without so much as a wince in sympathy.

Eh, he'll figure it out. The man is resourceful, and if he's /really/

so set on getting Ranpo's help--something he might change his mind about when he confronts Kouyou and realizes she's /just/ as invested in finding Chuuya-- then he'll find a way.

The front doors to the Agency close behind Dazai with a resounding, final sound. Harsh and loud.

The other employees finally let out their breaths when he's gone, relaxing. Unfortunately, people barging into the Agency like this /is/ a somewhat common occurrence, so no one is too broken up or stressed about what happened.

Just a slightly-irregular Tuesday in the Agency.

Eventually Kunikida stirs on the floor, heaving himself up onto his elbows. With a wince, he touches his temple. "What happened?"

Ranpo peers over his desk at him, fighting a smile. "Oh, not much. Just missed your chance catching one of Japan's most wanted, that's all."

His mouth /drops/. "What-- why didn't /you/ do anything? You watched him knock me out and just did /nothing/?"

"Well," Ranpo drawls, unwrapping another piece of candy, "something like /that/ requires a lot of paperwork, and /I/ have plans for dinner tonight. Better luck next

time, buddy."

Kunikida /screams/ in frustration.

Ranpo snickers, attention diverted when Shuuji sends /another/ invite to a game of Sea Battle.

He must really enjoy getting his ass kicked, Ranpo thinks, and sends off the opening shots.

------- +

Backsliding into something—/someone/— you used to be is like coming home. Giving up against the rising tides and finally just letting yourself sink.

The problem is, you never truly realize how much /better/ you’ve gotten until you throw that all away and return to where you

started from.

Looking at the high, soaring tower of Mori Corporation, Dazai feels completely and utterly numb. A /terrible/ sort of numb, one that feels inherently /wrong/. A numbness that leeches into every part of his being, and slowly claims every part of him for its own.

In these moments, Dazai doesn’t feel like a person. He doesn’t even feel like a child.

He’s cold and unfeeling, distant from his body, a machine that runs on oxygen and delivers bloody violence. A war machine, carefully built and cultivated by Mori Ougai, with all the things he

enjoyed or wanted being held against him.

Being numb was just a defensive reaction, but once Dazai realized how /good/ it felt just to feel nothing at /all/—

It was impossible to stop. Pain and sorrow were just things he had to painstakingly cut out of himself, a surgeon with

his own blood on his hands.

Beyond that, distantly, is anxiety. A driving heartbeat buried too deep in his chest to be his own heart, the driving force that urges him up the front steps and into the building.

He /will/ do what must be done. Whether that means toppling the

power structure of the Mafia, claiming what had always been /his/— not by birthright, but by /blood/, the seat of this empire built with the iron of his body—, killing anyone who stood in his way—

It doesn’t matter. He’s always been able to do what needed to be done, no matter

what the personal cost. The cost to himself was always negligible.

He doesn’t take the elevator. That would be foolish because it would give him away. There were cameras in the elevator, and he’s sure /someone/ is watching the feed.

Instead, he takes the stairs that empty out

into the lobby. Every building with more than a single story is required by safety regulations to have stairs that connect to every floor. The larger buildings have two sets of emergency stairs, one on each side of the building.

Mori Corporation is unique in that it has /three/

stairs. Two that are regulation standard, and /one/ that leads up to the highest floors.

The last one isn’t known by most of the legal employees— because Mori Corporation /does/ have a legal operation as a cover— and only a handful of the Mafia members know about it either.

It’s supposed to be a closely kept secret, an escape route known to only the highest members of the Mafia.

Being who he is, Dazai knows all about it.

He bounds up the first set of stairs, ignoring the handful of employees still lingering in the building. It’s getting dark by

now, and most of the legal employees are starting to head out for the night. They look at him oddly as he passes, whispering in his wake, but don’t try to stop him.

The Mafia won’t be in full operation for another hour yet. But the /boss/ should be here, preparing for the night,

and that’s all he needs right now.

Hé bounds up the first set of stairs, ignoring the burn in his thighs and lungs as he ascends high into the building.

He didn’t bring any of his weapons. Very purposefully, a last-ditch effort to avoid violence until the last possible

moment. A way to make sure that the only weapons he used belonged to someone else today.

He'd pulled on gloves before leaving his car parked a few streets down in a parking lot. Skin-tight latex, to make sure he doesn't leave fingerprints behind.

Just in case.

At the top of

the stairs, he has to cross the building and find a hidden doorway tucked into a small, obscure hallway. There's no guards here at the bottom, but he's sure there will be some at the top.

It's only four floors up to the penthouse floor, and he takes /these/ stairs slower. Ears

perked, alert for any movement or noise. His steps echo loudly in the stairwell, heavy boots eliminating any chance for a silent entrance.

Silent isn't what he's going for anyway.

He takes a deep, steadying breath at the top, collecting himself. His focus is razor-sharp,

the deadliest weapon he has in his arsenal. A weapon that had been shaped and honed for years.

Pausing just before the door at the top, he listens for movement outside. It's twilight hours, essentially dawn for the Mafia, so he's not surprised when he doesn't hear much beyond

the door. He's picked the perfect time, before most of the people who /would/ defy him have arrived--

Civilly, he opens the door. It's unlocked, a bad decision for them.

He's calm enough that the lone guard standing outside the door just looks at him for a moment, not

recognizing him for who he is or the threat he represents.

When he does finally move, thirty seconds after Dazai opened the door--

It's too late.

Whip-fast, Dazai snakes his hand toward his lower back, sliding under the guard's loose shirt and yanking out the gun tucked into

the waistband of his jeans.

He starts to shout, jerking forward to try to grab him by the forearm.

With a flick of his wrist, the gun is flipped around in his hand. He holds the barrel, raising it up and slamming the butt of it into the back of the guard's head with all of

his strength.

He reels, dazed, eyes squeezing shut and a stuttered grunt leaving his mouth. Shaking his head, he tries to stumble backwards,giving himself room to try to recover--

Dazai follows, hitting him again in the same spot, and watching with satisfaction as he goes limp.

The guards for this place have really gone downhill in quality. Mori would've /never/ let someone so unskilled and unalert stay in his guard rotation.

He doesn't bother to hide the body. He just lets the guard slump to the floor and steps over him.

The Boss's personal quarters

are in the far part of the floor, but there's a few rooms Dazai can check before he goes there.

The hallways are mostly empty as he stalks through, and the people that /do/ see him fall back when they see him, survival instincts flaring. They know when a more dangerous predator

is hunting, and they know when to stay out of the way.

He finds his target in the third room he checks, a conference room. He can tell it's been used much lately, because of the stacks of papers scattered on the table.

Sloppy, leaving information where it could be found.

And there, near the back of the room, is Kouyou Ozaki, boss of the Port Mafia. She's attended by Odasaku, like always, and it looks like she's having a /meeting/, because Ace, one of the executives if Dazai remembers correctly, is leaning back in a nearby chair.

They both look

irritated, frustrated at something or another. There's another stack of papers between them, and it almost looks like they're arguing over them.

Well, it's a good thing that Dazai's coming in with a /distraction/ then.

This time, he kicks the door in. His boots make a

satisfying /thud/ against the wood before it crashes in with a /crunch/ of snapping wood and metal.

All three people at the table jump, whirling around in their seats as he strolls in,offering them a sardonic smile.

Kouyou goes pale when she recognizes him, and Oda's expression

goes stormy. His hands are crossed over his chest, fingers twitching closer to the holsters under each arm.

"No need to stand up for me," Dazai starts, flashing a sharp smile. The stolen gun is still in his hand and he spins it around in his palm threateningly.

While Oda has

arguably had more training than him, and more practice--

Dazai has /always/ been the sharpshooter of the two, coldly lethal and deadly accurate. He learned to shoot a gun before he learned how to drive, before he even learned how to ride a bike or ride the train for himself.

The grip of the gun--while a fraction too small for his hands, obviously a generic version without any customization- feels like coming home again, to a house he never wanted to begin with.

"What are you doing here?" Kouyou's voice is flat, toneless. Her expression is /forcibly/

blank, like she's fighting off the urge to react. Trying to save face in front of her enemy.

Dazai's smile is /mean/, cutting. "It's time we do business, Boss of the Port Mafia," he says, snide and sneering, sarcasm thick on her title. He doesn't need to /speak/ the words to get

his disdain across.

Meanwhile, Ace, looks like he's having the time of his life, leaning back in his chair with his hands folded behind his back and grinning. He's always been /smug/, always too aware and too invested in the power struggles of the Boss chair.

Kouyou's eyes

narrow on him, folding her hands primly in front of her. Her spine is ramrod-straight, like she can /prove/ her worth by refusing to bend. "Why would I do business with you? Not only did you refuse my /last/ offer-- now you come barging in like you own the place."

Dazai's grin

grows. Technically, he /does/ own the building. Not officially, not legally, but it was always meant to be /his/. Mori destroyed more than a few families to ensure that.

"Because," he says, and he can /tell/ she thinks he's about to threaten her. Point the gun at her hand and

tell her that she has to give into his demands or he'll end her right then and there.

Dazai's not /that/ foolish. He's got a /better/ plan:

He settles the gun correctly in his palm, raising it up and slightly to the left--

Directly at Oda's head.

"If you don't," his tone is

still casually conversational, with just a hint of derision, "I'm going to take something very important to you."

It's not an idle threat. He /loves/ Odasaku but--

Everything he loves will inevitably be lost, right? And if he does not do /something/, if he doesn't get

what he /needs/, then he'll lose the most /important/ thing to him. And for /once/ in his life, he is willing to /fight/ for what he wants, what he loves.

He will do anything.

It's a calculated risk, a gamble. He's staked the odds in his favor-- Kouyou loves Odasaku, he doubts

she would let anything happen to him if she could stop it-- but sometimes, you just have to spin the wheel and /hope/.

There's a moment of tense silence. Odasaku is stock still, unmoving as always in the face of danger. His eyes are focused on the gun in Dazai's hand, mouth

tight and turned down into a frown.

He doesn't move. In fact, he's probably /relieved/ that the gun isn't pointed at Kouyou.

With a drum of her acrylic nails on the table, Kouyou calls his bluff, "You wouldn't dare. Sakunosuke is your friend too."

"I wouldn't?" Dazai repeats,

smile growing so big it makes him feel nauseous. His hand does not waver and his eyes do not leave hers as he pulls the trigger.

/BANG!/

Odasaku /shouts/, ducking, and a bullet buries itself in the wall barely a foot from where his head had been.

Kouyou flinches, going even

paler. There are splinters of wood and dust sticking to her pant suit.

"It would be /unwise/ to underestimate me right now," Dazai tells her, re-aiming the gun as he strolls around the side of the table. His boots make him almost /two/ inches taller, so he's the tallest person

in the room by far. Oda might be /broader/, but that fact is negligible when he's towering over them all and holding a gun to his head. "I have lost something /very/ important to me, and if you won't help me, I'm going to kill him, then Ace and then /you/. Do you understand?"

Violence and blood, it's--

It's not a second skin. It's not a mask Dazai can hide underneath, it's not something that can ever be taken off or put away when he no longer has need or want for it.

Some people, when put through years of trauma and hurt and anger, retreat. They

hide, become jittery, anxious messes, always looking for the knife behind a smile. Always on the edge of /running/.

And some people people choose /fight/ instead of flight. They absorb all that pain and rage, internalize it. They learn by example and when things get /hard/?

They /bite/.

Dazai is biting now. The defensive, instinctive /rage/ boiling up within him,demanding he hurt before /he/ is hurt,demanding he take control of this entire situation.

If he has to, he will take back what was originally his, by force. It won't be the first boss he's

killed on this floor, won't be the first blood of a friend that he has spilled.

Kouyou's lips press together, and her eyes are /hard/. Anyone can tell that she /doesn't/ want to give into him, that she'd /much/ rather tell him to /get lost/.

But she doesn't have that option.

"Fine," she bites out, expression twisting like even the idea of helping him is /horrible/. "What do you need?"

Relief, a tiny drop of dry land among the black raging tides, reigns briefly. "My boyfriend was kidnapped, I need the CCTV for the entire city and any recent movements

from the Rat's."

The information seems to /dumbfound/ Kouyou, because she just blinks at him. "You're... dating someone?"

(Oda is /rapidly/ coming to a realization, eyes widening as the pieces /finally/ come together.)

The question /hurts/, because the answer is /technically/

no, but he's not going to get into /that/ conversation. It's none of her business.

He nods shortly, kicking Ace out of his seat and ushering him out the door. He doesn't need to be here for this.

"What's his name? And what does he look like?"

"Name is Nakahara Chuuya and--"

The tension in the room skyrockets so quickly that the hairs on the back of Dazai's neck stand up.

"His name is fucking /what now/?" Kouyou's voice is /pure/ disbelief.

Dazai frowns, locking the door and turning back around to them.

Kouyou is leaning forward in her seat, palms

flat on the table. She's /glaring/ now.

Behind her, Oda is making a /face/ and gesturing with his hands near his neck, the silent and universal sign for 'please shut up right now'.

Dazai pauses, feeling like he stumbled upon /something/ he wasn't expecting. "Nakahara Chuuya?"

Kouyou just.... /stares/ at him, her face growing redder and redder. "If this is a /joke/," she seethes, "it /isn't/ funny."

That sends Dazai reeling, confused, because--

"Why the fuck would I /joke/ about my boyfriend being /kidnapped/?"

(Love makes you /stupid/, Ranpo once

again thinks to himself, /very/ reluctantly sharing his dessert with Shuuji, and /knowing/ that the drama he's been cultivating for /months/ is going down and he can't /watch it/.)

The silent, /awkward/ tension grows.

When Kouyou finally speaks, the mask of civility masks her

expressions, at first. "So you mean to tell me that not only are you dating my /little brother/--," her hands /slam/ down on the table then, and she's surging to her feet, voice climbing to a furious /yell/, "and you /LOST HIM/?!"

Her what?

Dazai stares at her, looks back at

Oda--is he /recording/ this?-- then back at Kouyou.

And in all his terrifying, near-legendary intelligence, his only response is:

"What?"

Kouyou /lunges/ at him, and she nearly gets entirely across the table before Oda tosses his phone down and catches her with arms around her

waist.

It finally clicks in Dazai's mind, all the pieces coming together. Oh, Kouyou is his /sister/. His /ane-san/.

In his defense, /how/ was he supposed to know? He never mentioned her by name, and both of their records were scrubbed clean and had different names. Kouyou has

been avoiding meeting with him and his calls for /months/, and Oda's, well, /forgetful/ sometimes, so--

How was /he/ supposed to know?

Awkwardly, Dazai scratches the back of his head. "He's gonna be pissed, I'm pretty sure he wanted to break the news himself..."

Of /all/ the

reactions he /could/ have, after the /hellish/ day he's had, that's the first one that comes to mind.

Well, that and--

"Surprise?"

Kouyou doesn't look like she /likes/ surprises, clawing at the air like she's envisioning his /face/. Her face is /red/, and she's making noises

about 'corrupting' and 'my innocent /brother/' and 'scoundrel motherfucker', and really it's all very dramatic but--

Dazai checks his phone. "Can you get over it already? I'm happy to let you yell at me /later/, but he's about to miss a dose of his meds and we need to find him

/soon/ because he can't miss /two/."

Kouyou pauses, the fight leaving her momentarily. "Meds for /what/?"

And--

Dazai, /assuming/ that Kouyou knows about Chuuya's hospital visit because his father knows and it's family common knowledge, casually answers, "His encephalitis."

Kouyou's mouth /drops/, and Dazai doesn't understand why she looks so /appalled/ until--

"You gave my brother /AN STD?!?/" She /roars/, struggling beginning anew.

Even Oda looks a bit shocked, looking over her shoulder at Dazai like he's an idiot.

"I--," Dazai sighs, pinching

the bridge of his nose. He can't exactly fault Kouyou for thinking that, because he thought that too at first. "It's not an /STD/, it's a brain thing. Means his brain is swelling, and he needs meds to keep it under control."

Kouyou thinks about that for a second, narrowing her

eyes like she suspects he's lying.

Isn't she in a polyamorous relationship with Yosano, a certified /emergency surgeon/? Shouldn't she be brushed up on her latin language roots or something?

"What the fuck happened to his brain? He was /fine/ two months ago!"

Actually, he was

messing around with /Shuuji/ at that time, which they can all probably agree that wasn't for the /best/, but she doesn't need to know that.

"Doctor said it was probably a virus," Dazai says, shrugging, "but that's not important right now. Are you going to help me find him or

not?"

Obviously, her only answer can be /yes/.

With a huff, she shakes Oda off, righting her pink pantsuit until it's pristine again. She's chosen /modern/ businesswoman today, which is ironic considering the traditional views of the Mafia.

(Meanwhile, Oda picks his phone up

and stops the recording.

He opens his messaging app.

[ ODA ]: You fucker

[ Candy Man ]: LMAOOOOOOOOOOOO VID???? GIVE IT TO ME.)

"Yes," she huffs, pulling out her own phone. Probably to get in contact with the part of the Mafia that handles technology like this. "But if we

find him and he's /hurt/,I'm going to /kill/ you."

Dazai considers that.Then his teeth flash in a lethal smile,putting his hands on the table and leaning forward. His eyes are flat black,menacing."If he's hurt, you will have to find me in the /graveyard/ I make of this city."

+

************ TW mentions of torture via waterboarding + psychological torture, medical trauma, etc **********

The scene ahead will not be HORRIBLY graphic with the torture, but it will be upsetting to those who are sensitive. Skip if needed, there will be a summary at the end <3

Most people say that drowning is peaceful. That, once you get over the initial pain and fear, it's exactly like sinking. Floating away into the endless darkness, as easy as falling asleep. As easy as letting go, the rope of your life slipping away from your hands, drifting away.

In Chuuya's experience, drowning is none of those things.

It's /horrible/. It's all raw, animalistic fear, I can't breathe, I can't breathe, I can't /breathe/.The /person/ that he is overtaken by the /instincts/ of his body, instincts that fight and fight and /fight/, no reason,

no thought, no /logic/. Just pure terror-fueled adrenaline, pooling in his body with nowhere to go, filling him with the need to get /away/--

But he's trapped.

It also /hurts/. His lungs /burn/, water choking him and searing a painful path down his sinuses and into his lungs.

If anything, drowning on dry land is the /opposite/ of peaceful. It fucking /sucks/.

Maybe that's because he's not /allowed/ to drown. Every time he gets close and his body starts to run out of oxygen and the fight drains out of him--

His head is tipped forward, so the wet

cloth sticking to his face and blocking his airways falls. Then he's left to choke and spit and sputter and desperately try to gather himself for the /next/ round.

There's always a next round.

The bag is so /wet/, but Chuuya can't even gather up the strength to be disgusted.

Whatever liquid the girl is pouring down on his fact smells and /tastes/ foul, like it's sea water scooped directly out of the port bay, full of bacteria and disgusting.

Chuuya's face is wet with water and snot and water-vomit, and it's just--

It's fucking awful.

The rest of

his body is wet too, clothes soaked and sticking to him terribly. The cold of the room is beginning to sink in, coating his bones in frostbite, and he's almost too exhausted to shiver.

He doesn't know how long it's been. Hours? Days?

All he knows is pitch-black, freezing

darkness, and wet-burning.

"You know," the girl says, dragging over another bucket of water. Just the scraping sound of metal dragging over concrete is enough to have an exhausted spike of fear running through him.

She's doing it on purpose. She can lift the bucket over his

head with barely even a grunt of exertion, so the fact that she's just /dragging/ the bucket slowly over the concrete is just another fear tactic.

It's working. His breath is already deepening, coming in wet-ragged gasps, trying to stock up on oxygen even though he knows it

doesn't work that way.

"I can keep this up all day. Forever. No breaks, no end. You will wish you won't survive, but you will," the girl continues, sickly sweet. It's a threat, meant to terrify Chuuya into compliance.

On one hand, it /works/. On the other--

He laughs.

Wet, painful, rasping heaves, something that sounds more like sobbing than it does like laughing. Hysterical.

It's not /loyalty/ that keeps his mouth shut. It's simple lack of answers. He can't actually give her what she wants, he's tried. His answers aren't good enough, and by

now, he would consider himself /broken/.

He'd do anything to keep his head out of the water now. Just the /thought/ of water makes his sanity strain, terror threatening to snap him into pieces.

That's not why he's laughing.

No, he's laughing because he /knows/, with a morbid,

dreadful certainty that he cannot survive this for much longer. It's not /giving in/ that makes him feel that way, it's just pure /facts/.

By now, he's surely missed at least one dose of his medicine. Maybe two, or even /three/, depending on how long it's been.

Time doesn't

have a meaning in this place, not anymore. His world is reduced to how many /breaths/ he can take.

Every time water is poured down on his face and he begins to horrific process of drowning on dry land--

He can feel the pressure in his head building.He has a /throbbing/ headache

now, fueled by lack of oxygen and his missed meds and the blunt trauma of being knocked out. His eyes feel like they pulse painfully with every beat of his heart, head feeling so /heavy/.

More than that, he can almost /feel/ a seizure beginning to gather in the background. It's

like an electrical storm, unseen but /felt/, static charges gathering in his body and building momentum. A metallic taste on the back of his tongue that has nothing to do with water or blood or fear. The overload of sensation in his body, the feeling of his mind beginning to

buckle and strain, stretching too thin and holding far too much.

Distantly, he wonders how long it'll take him to seize himself to death. How long it'll take for his brain to give in once the damage begins.

If it'll hurt as his brain swells and swells, crushing itself under

it's own pressure. If it'll hurt /more/ than drowning.

How long it'll take before the damage is too much to recover from. How long it'll be before /Chuuya/ will never be something that lives again, even if his body survives.

"No, I really won't," he wheezes, wishing he could

wipe the snot off his face, because it feels fucking /disgusting/.

Because these people, they forgot to include one little detail in their plans when they kidnapped him:

He's on a limited time frame. It's only a matter of time before his sickness kicks in and takes him away.

He doesn't face the idea of weeks or even months of torture. He doesn't need to hold out until he's rescued or something else like that.

He just needs to wait until his body devours itself whole, and leaves him burning down the path of no recovery.

It's not a /nice/ thought.

It's not a pleasant thought, really, but it does give him some sort of dreadful relief, because--

Because he's not sure if anyone is /looking/ for him.

Dazai and him broke up. Whatever the circumstances were and no matter who was right and who was /wrong/, Dazai basically told

him to get lost and never return. He didn't /want/ him to come back.

And Chuuya said he was going to Kouyou's, and Dazai has never /met/ Kouyou, so it's not like he could confirm that, /if/ he cared to check.

His father will eventually try to contact him, but other than that...

It might be /days/ before anyone realizes he's missing. He doesn't have any classes to be at, no job obligations, he's basically drifted away from all his friends, his sisters rarely talk to him anymore in any serious capacity.

It might be a /while/ before anyone comes looking

for him. Even longer for them to /find/ him and--

Chuuya can't stand much more of this.The idea of /days/ of this,drowning and choking and breathing and drowning and choking and--

He can't do it. He's not like those strong,fearless, stubborn, /indomitable/ heroes in the movies.

He's not--

He's not someone who can /do/ this. Maybe in another life, another story, another him...

It feels /wrong/ to be glad that his body is a ticking time bomb, slowly reaching the end of it's lifespan. It feels /wrong/ to be grateful that his shitty immune system, his

fucked-up body and his /stupid/ brain will give him one last gift--

The gift of /death/.

The scrape of the bucket against the concrete makes him flinch again, tears welling up and dropping to join the wet mess of cloth around his head.

He's so /cold/.

"I'm /disappointed/,"

the girl rasps, her voice sounding like she's in the middle of smoking a cigarette. It reeks too much for Chuuya to tell for certain. "I really thought you'd be more /cooperative/."

A slight spill of water drips on the back of his head, making his breath catch in his throat.

"I dont--," he whimpers out, cringing away from the touch of wet, "I don't /know/, I swear."

Another sigh by his ear, this one even more irritated than the last.

Chuuya is /fully/ expecting for his head to be yanked backwards, neck twinging painfully, taking huge breaths in

préparation, shivers dancing nauseatingly up his spine—

“I believe you.”

Relief bursts through him, and he slumps in reaction, shoulders twinging as even more of his weight settles on them. Thank /god/, she believes him, it’s over—

“So how about I ask you questions you /do/

know, hm?”

Chuuya is so /relieved/ by the idea of not having to go through that again, hope flaring sharp and painful in his chest, that he’s nodding before he even understands what she’s saying.

/ I’ll do anything, just /please/ don’t drown me again. /

This time, her voice

comes from in front and slightly below him, like she’s crouching right in front of him. There’s a touch of warmth near his ankles, body heat. “Do you have any siblings?”

/No, /not/ them./

Chuuya clenches his jaw shut, unwilling to give her /any/ information on his family—

But then there’s the metallic scrape of metal on concrete, the slosh of water, and the fear takes over.

“Yes,” he chokes out, cringing away from the noise. He can’t go far, but he has wet-friction burns on his wrists from struggling anyways.

His mind is whirring-blank, so full

of emotion and flash-fire thoughts, terror and adrenaline, instinct and /I can’t, I can’t, I can’t/, that he can’t even pick out a coherent /thought/ in the mess. Sightless,scentless, thoughtless, an animal in its death throes.

“What are their names?” The question is accompanied

by a light tap on his ankle, so much more painful because it’s /gentle/.

A reminder that he doesn’t /have/ to hurt, she doesn’t /have/ to make him suffer, as long as he gives her what she wants.

“Kyouka,” he mutters, feeling like he’s /betraying/ everyone he knows and loves,

but he can’t /help/ it. Not when he has a /sliver/ of hope, not when he’s facing what he thinks is his /death/, cold and painful and alone.

He’s so /young/, there’s so much he wants to /do/. He shouldn’t be here. It shouldn’t end like this.

“And Kouyou,” he whispers, deflating.

(Meanwhile, Nika is feeling /two/ distinct feelings right now.

/Pride/, because she's getting /exactly/ what she wants right now. The goal was never to get Chuuya to cough up information on the Demon Prodigy. That is a goal too far, and even if they are /dating/, she doubts that

Dazai would be foolish enough to share sensitive information with this...

Child.

Really, he's not much younger than her. A little over six months, but she was /never/ this... /sheltered/. Never this naïve, never this weak, never this unprepared.

It's completely clear that

Nakahara Chuuya was completely and utterly unprepared for something like this.

Which leads to the second emotions she's feeling: /disappointment/.

It's not often she gets to /play/ with her victims. Father often prefers a quick, clean death when dealing with the Bratva, and

torturing victims was something he often considered above Nika's paygrade.

It's been a /while/ since she's been given free rein like this and it's always over too quick.

It's only been six hours. Six hours of /intensive/ work, granted, taking Nakahara's senses from him and

working him over, deliberately making sure he has no sense of time passing. Taking everything away from him that makes him /human/, leaving him a wounded animal desperate for relief.

Which serves her well /now/.

Offering him a shred of compassion, an escape route, and reaping

the benefits. Digging through his cracked-open mind, finding a weak point, and forcing it open.

Personal information is a valuable commodity in the criminal underworld. Most people--especially the more powerful ones--try to wipe everything about themselves from public knowledge.

No birthdays, no legal names, no family, no schools, no medical history, nothing.

They only want to be known on /their/ terms, because every scrap of knowledge that someone else knows can be used against them. Anything and everything is a weapon, when you're building a file on

someone.

Humans are pattern-oriented beasts. They form habits, follow schedules, make their passcodes the birthdays of their significant others. There are /very/ few parts of a person that aren't, in some way, connected to their personal lives. To information that they think

is safe, secret and secure.

Information they think only /they/ know, but because humans are pack animals and inevitably drawn to each other--

Once you know somebody's /pattern/, you know /them/. And nobody knows someone like their /family/, right?

Sibling bonds are such a

curious thing, too. Full of animosity and competition and /trust/.

No one knows Kouyou Ozaki better than her little brother.

And Nakahara Chuuya is going to tell Nika /everything/.

It's all patterns, and Nika is a /very/ good strategist.)

------ +

***** TW SCENE END FOR NOW *****

Summary: Nika questions Chuuya about his sister Kouyou. He answers the questions.

Kouyou watches Dazai pace with narrowed eyes. It's annoying, puts him on edge. Wants him want to pick a fight or /bite/, anything to dispel this restless energy building up inside him.

It's been eight hours since Chuuya went missing. Three since he needed his dose. Nine until he

needs the next one.

A short time, in comparison to many hostage situations-- Dazai himself was once held hostage for almost five days, once, a time he only unwillingly revisits in his nightmares-- but every minute ticks by with agonizing, dreadful slowness.

Tick. Tock.

Torture is not something anyone can really be prepared for. People, especially regular civilians, like to say that /they'd/ be the ones to hold out in the face of unimaginable agony. They wouldn't break. They wouldn't give up their secrets because /they/ are different.

It's

easy to say that when you're sitting on the couch watching TV, or reading a novel. It's easy to say that, until you're the one going under the knife.

It's easier to /prepare/ when you know what you're in for--

But Chuuya /doesn't/ know. Never knew. Kouyou was careful to keep it

from him, and so was Dazai. As far as he know, up until the hour or so before he was taken, everyone he knew was /normal/. He didn't know about the Mafia, or who Fyodor was, or the Yakuza.

He was just a normal college kid. That's what he was /supposed/ to be.

And now he's...

Gone. Being held hostage, /probably/ in the hands of Dazai's worst enemy.

At least, he hopes it's Fyodor because if it's /not/, then he has no clue who took him and /how/. At least they have a direction to look in.

A direction that has led them to dragging up the CCTV for the

streets surrounding his house. They're difficult, because Dazai had Rokozou set them onto a repeating three-day loop /ages/ ago, a loop that never included him or any of his possessions in the frames.

The real footage is sent to a storage facility, to be deleted along with all

the other old footage. Keeps the facilities from overflowing, and it's rare for footage from a year ago to be needed.

Kouyou called... someone Dazai has never met or heard of, to dig the real footage out of the digital dump. It's not a /quick/ process, and every minute it takes

/forever/.

Dazai turns on his heel, pacing back the way he came. His palms itch, aching for the weight of a gun.

The tension between all three of them--Kouyou, Odasaku and Dazai-- has been steadily growing for the past two hours. Odasaku has been soundly ignoring it, texting

someone on his phone and smothering huffs of laughter.

Dazai's been /trying/ to ignore it, but Kouyou has been glaring at him and watching him pace for the last hour or so, and he's quickly reaching his limit. His temper, when he's in this mindset, has never been the best.

Finally, she speaks up. "How long have you been dating my brother?"

She says 'my brother' with a possessive sort of jealousy, like she's staking a claim on Chuuya. She also says it /accusingly/, like she thinks Dazai might've done this on /purpose/.

Honestly, if he were still

the Demon Prodigy, it would've been a solid plan.

But he's not that person, not anymore.

At least, he /wasn't/. Now... he would be, if he needed to be.

"A little over a month," he mutters, not willing to go into the details of their relationship. They might have been

/officially/ dating for only six weeks, but Chuuya's been his for almost four months now.

Dazai's been /his/ for longer than that, infatuated since the day they met.

Red eyes narrow in on him, unhappy with his answer. "You seem pretty upset for someone who's only known Chuuya

for a few months."

The implication that Dazai is faking or /lying/, or any part of this situation was /coordinated/ by him, floors him.

He whirls around, nostrils flaring as he /tries/ to keep his voice in check. "Of /course/ I'm upset?! We're /dating/ and I--"

He barely

catches himself in time, jaw snapping shut around what he /almost/ said. Kouyou doesn't get to hear /those/ words first, and he doesn't get to say it now. Chuuya is the only one who is going to hear them.

/ I love him. /

He rolls the words around on his tongue, tasting them.

The weight of them in his mouth is like truth, like absolution, heavy and summer-sweet, ripe fruit bursting over his starved tongue and giving him a glimpse of heaven.

It feels like the thing he's been looking for, for all these years. The thing he didn't know he wanted or

/needed/.

He turns away from Kouyou, hiding his face as he savors the revelation.

It's probably /wrong/ and undeserved after what he said to Chuuya but--

After so long of being numb and empty, he really thought he didn't have the capacity to love anyone. It felt like he'd

snuffed those pieces of himself out, collateral damage in the war he'd been waging on himself for decades. He was so broken that the damage couldn't be fixed anymore, permanently etched into his being, even after he started the long, painfully-slow process of healing.

Trust

Chuuya to show him that even something he thought impossible /was/ possible,and as easy and inevitable as gravity.

Falling is weightless.

It feels wrong to enjoy it, to say the the words over and over again to himself— /I love him, I love him, I love him— considering everything

that’s happened between them, everything that’s happening right now, everything that can and has gone wrong—

But maybe it’s just fate that Dazai discovered love on a battlefield, and probably lost it before he ever realized he had it. Is in the process of losing it, probably.

Everything he wants will inevitably be lost.... but for now, he has a tiny little flame of warmth and affection, something he can cup his hands around and hope it doesn’t go out. Hope he gets to keep /this/, this tiny shred of love, and nurture it.

He’s not ready to give it up.

Not yet.

/Please/ not yet.

He starts pacing again, frustration bubbling up. This is taking so /long/, but they don't have a lead on what vehicle Chuuya was taken with. The downside of living in the residential area is that quite a few vehicles are always moving in and out of

the neighborhood.

Dazai can recognize quite a few of them, but he doesn't know /everyone/, and even his memory isn't perfect. There's still half a dozen cars that can't be excused away, and while that's less than what they started with, that's still /too many/. They can't track

/every/ vehicle, it would take too much time.

Every minute Chuuya spends in the hands of someone /else/ is too much. They need to find him /now/.

Dazai feels /useless/ here. All his skills and intelligence amount to nothing when he doesn't have a /direction/ to work in.

It's

safe to assume that Fyodor has him, but considering that the Rat's don't /have/ a confirmed headquarters that Dazai knows of,he could be hidden anywhere in the city. Fyodor has been /annoyingly/ insistent in crossing boundary lines with flagrant disrespect, offering meeting spots

on Mafia territory, on no-man's-land, on territory regularly patrolled by the police.

He's been /very/ deliberate about avoiding a pattern, so Dazai can't hazard a guess where his main building is. He knows where the /warehouse/ is, but that seems to obvious a place to be

hiding Chuuya. Especially if he was planning for... an /extended/ session.

Even thinking that makes him sick.

"So when are you going to realize that we /need/ help, and let Oda call him?" Dazai asks, shooting a hot glare at Kouyou before turning on his heel and pacing back the

other way.

"Last I checked you /already/ spoke to Ranpo, and he said he needed information. What more information do we have now than you did when you went to see him? Hardly anything. Akio is working his /hardest/, and he's narrowing down the suspects. When we have a /lead/, we

will call him, but you know as well as I do that calling him before that is just likely to piss him off. Do you want a pissed off Ranpo?"

No..... no, Dazai does not. Ranpo is /mean/.

(In the corner:

[ ODA ]: the girls are fiGHTTTINNGGGGG

[ ODA ]: is that the meme did i do it

right

[ CANDY MAN ]: yes yes gold star what are they fighting about

[ ODA ]: You. Dazai wants to call you, Kouyou wants to wait

[ CANDY MAN ]: LOL

[ CANDY MAN ]: 100 yen says dazai breaks and calls me himself
[ ODA ]: I know better than to bet against you.

[ CANDY MAN]: :( )

Dazai spins back around, letting out a sharp, frustrated noise. "/Why/ does it feel like I'm the only one taking this /seriously/?"

Everyone else is content to /wait/, while he paces himself into the ground, legs thrumming with the need to do /something/. It's impossible to sit

still and /wait/ for information.

Akio clears his throat, shrinking in his seat when Dazai's head swings toward him, pinning him in place with heated, /angry/ eyes. He's shaking lightly. Probably never expected to be in the same room as /three/ of the most powerful people in

Yokohama, the mediocre grunt that he is. Good enough to sit solidly in the middle of the power structure, but not good enough to earn himself an audience with the boss.

Until today, that is. With no one else to turn to, Rokuzou /missing/, all Kouyou has is /this/ guy.

He points

to the screen. "Do you recognize that car? It left right around the same time, and there's a blanket in the backseat that wasn't there when it arrived..."

Dazai looks, eyes narrowing on the screen. It's a grey four door, nothing too flashy or dingy. Just the exact right of

normal to pass by undetected by anyone at a glance. He doesn't recognize it at all.

"No. Did you check the plates on it? Are they registered to that vehicle?"

Akio looks briefly terrified. "I can't get into the government systems to check for sure,but I can..."

He trails off,

exiting out the camera feed and pulling up a regular, protected search engine. Painstakingly, he enters in "license plate number search", clicks on the first website and starts to enter in the numbers.

Dazai looks at Kouyou drolly, like 'Really? This is the best you've got?'.

'A man that can /google/?'.

Kouyou meets his stare head on, gesturing with her hands for Dazai to present anyone /better/, and looking damn smug when he lets out a frustrated huff and looks away again.

"The plates are registered to a car of that make and model...but not that

color. Color is registered as blue," Akio says. It's unnecessary because Dazai /can/ read the screen, thank you very much, but at least everyone is guaranteed to be on the same page now.

It's possible that the owner of the car got a paint job and has yet to report it to the

vehicle registry...

Or, it was never registered to that specific vehicle at /all/ and the plates are stolen.

He doesn’t bother asking if Akio can check for reports on missing plates, instead squinting at the screen to try to catch a glimpse of the driver. He doesn’t recognize

the name offhand, and he supposes they could cross-reference it with the names registered as owners on the nearby houses in the neighborhood—

But Dazai’s got a /hunch/. There’s something about that car and the way it drives /perfectly/ safely that makes it /suspicious/.

"Where do they go?" Dazai asks, gesturing for Akio to get to work with the equipment.

He does, although it takes /thrice/ as long as it would've taken Rokuzou, haphazardly following the vehicle's progress out of the suburbs and into the city using the trail of city cameras. He

makes a few mistakes, jumping to the wrong camera and having to fumble back to the correct one, but he manages the task.

At least until the tunnel systems. There's a section there where the cameras are placed a fraction too far apart, leaving a blind spot the length of a few

dozen cars. It's a fault in the system, and one that's taken advantage of--

Because when the vehicle exits, around the expected time, Dazai /almost/ doesn't catch that the driver is different and the blanket in the backseat looks flatter than before.

Driver switch. They moved

him. And without a /view/ of what happened, Chuuya could've been transferred to another car--any car that exits around the same time.

Their lead is /dust/.

"Now what?" Dazai asks meanly, turning his head to pin Kouyou with a glare. He was patient, he /waited/ while her

half-competent man did what he could, and now they've hit a wall. "You wanna manually check every vehicle for him?"

Sighing in frustration, Kouyou gestures to Oda. "Of course not," she snaps, aiming a dagger stare at him, "Now we can call him. Stop acting like you're the only

one who wants to find /my/ brother. Mishandling the search will just make it take longer."

The /tone/ in her voice, like she's /better/ than him, smarter than him, has more connection to Chuuya than he does, makes him /angry/. He might have no experience in /caring/ for people,

but that doesn’t make him less /worried/. Less capable.

His temper flares, more agitated than he ever remembers being, and he /almost/ lashes out. Almost takes out all his aggression and fear on her.

He bites it back at the last moment, clenching his jaw until his teeth hurt

as Oda dials a number.

It’s hard to /understand/ Kouyou, because she doesn’t have that same ruthlessness that he does. That Oda or Yosano do, a vicious survival instinct that’s been carved into them ever since they were young kids.

Oda chooses to be kind. That’s the kind of

person he is. He creates kindness and compassion, of his own volition.

Yosano can be just as sadistic and heartless as Dazai is, always the other half of Double Black. She’s simmered down as she’s gotten older, but there was a /time/ when she was the most accomplished /torturer/

of the Port Mafia. Skilled and /cruel/, able to carve out answers from any of their prisoners.

Dazai was the only one who could ever keep up with her.

But Kouyou? Kouyou had a /nice/ childhood. Maybe it was never /easy/, but she had a family who loved her. A father who made

mistakes, yes, but one who tried his /best/ to give his kids what they needed and what they wanted. A father who calls Chuuya at /least/ once a week, and he's guessing calls his other children about the same amount.

Cruelty is not innate to Kouyou, nor was it taught to her by

example. She stumbled upon the Mafia by chance, and rose up the ranks with luck and skill, but not by cruelty.

Dazai will admit that attitude is better for the Mafia in the long run--business has never been better for them and relations with the public are reaching a new level

of understanding and complacency-- but it's so /frustrating/ to feel like he's the only one willing to tear down the city to find Chuuya.

It makes him feel like he's a rabid dog, too dumb to understand how to get itself out of a trap, while everyone else is looking on in pity.

He's /not/ stupid. His intelligence is one of the few things that has never been taken away from him, and while he's /riled up/ and anxious right now, that doesn't mean he's /stupid/ or acting out of turn.

It's hard to /think/ when reactionary measures--at least in the present

tense, when reflexes could mean the difference between life and agonizing death-- have been drilled into him since before he graduated middle school.

But he also knows he doesn't have the power here. He gave up his power over the Mafia years ago, and even if he /wanted/ to take

over again, it's not an option now.

Kouyou isn't going to step down willingly, and if Dazai hurts her, Chuuya will /never/ forgive him. He's already screwed things up enough, he doesn't need to add harming his family to his crimes.

And after this, Dazai promises himself that he

won’t ever lie to Chuuya again. It’s probably too little, too late, and he’s under no illusions that it will be enough to solve their fight or earn his forgiveness but—

If Chuuya can forgive him, he’ll make it his life’s mission to make sure he never hurts him again. Dazai

has already forgiven him.

He didn’t give Chuuya a choice either way, and he should’ve known that his curious little baby would go looking for answers. He’s a /brat/ like that.

He just hopes it’s not too late.

On the other side of the room, Oda pulls his phone away from his

ear.

“He’s on his way up. Says everyone in the room owes him a favor, by the way, so I hope everyone is ready to pay up,” Oda informs them, shoving his phone in his pocket.

Behind them all, Akio gapes. “Even me?”

“Yep,” Oda says, popping the ‘p’. “As far as Ranpo is concerned,

everyone in here is ‘incompetent’ and he’s suffering the consequences for it. In his own words, he doesn’t suffer stupidity lightly.”

Kouyou frowns at him. “He called us all incompetent?”

“Well....no,” Oda draws out, shifting on his feet, “Incompetent is the polite form of

what he said.”

Unbidden, Dazai’s lips curl into a smile. Trust Ranpo to have the balls to call the most powerful people in Yokohama a room full of idiots.

“Who is Ranpo anyways?” Akio asks, leaning back in his chair. He seems to have gotten over his nerves and is now enjoying

the perks of being in the same room as them. He’s being eyeing up Kouyou in her modern suit, face turning pink.

He’s lucky that Oda isn’t a jealous man, otherwise he might find his /usefulness/ has quickly expired.

“Ranpo is a detective,” Kouyou explains, straightening from

her place leaning back against the table. She comes around to the front of the room, to where she was sitting before when Dazai barged in. With her long, pink-manicured nails,she begins to gather up all the papers that had been scattered over the table.

Akio’s eyebrows shoot up.

"He's a /dirty cop/? And you're just going to let a dirty cop talk to the Boss like that?"

The last part of the sentence is aimed at /Oda/, with just a hint of sarcasm and disbelief. Poor man has no idea who he's talking to.

Odasaku might /choose/ to be compassionate and kind,

but that doesn't make him less of a /threat/. That doesn't mean he's someone to take lightly.

The personal bodyguard and plaything to the Boss of the Port Mafia is not someone you should underestimate, no matter how unassuming he might act or look.

Dazai aims a smile at Akio,

taunting and condescending. "Why don't you ask him that when he gets up here?"

"A /cop/?" Akio asks, disbelief filtering over his features, "In the Mafia Headquarters?"

This is why the grunts and subordinates don't get sensitive information. They start making /opinions/ before

they even know what they're talking about. /Who/ they're talking about, or what that person is capable of.

This city runs the way it does because Ranpo doesn't care enough to turn them all in. Doesn't care enough to hunt them down and bring them all to justice. He knows enough

to bring all of them down and lock them up for life.

He doesn’t, though, partly because he’s a petty bastard that likes to hold that possibility over their heads to get what he wants, and partly because he understands /very/ well that an uncontrolled criminal underground often

causes more trouble than what it’s worth.

At least Kouyou keeps the drug runners, the prostitues, the illegal arms dealers in /check/. Without a top dog, the rest of the pack quickly becomes wild.

Ranpo must’ve been waiting for a call like this, because it only takes him

twenty minutes before he’s strolling into the room with the sort of casual confidence only he has, hands in his pockets.

“So,” he greets, mischievous glee in his tone, “how’d the family reunion go? Not good?”

Dazai’s eyes snap to him. “You /knew/?” He hisses, outraged.

Ranpo scoffs at him. “Of /course/ I knew? Who do you think I am?”

“And you didn’t /warn me/?” Dazai snaps, throwing his hands up. This entire situation could’ve gone over /much/ smoother if he had /known/ Kouyou was Chuuya’s sister. He wouldn’t have had to storm in here, guns

blazing, and offer to shoot the closest thing he has to a best friend in order to get his demands met. He could’ve just /asked/.

Kouyou crosses her arms over her chest, the imperiousness of her expression completely lost on Ranpo.

“Why would I just give you all the answers?

It's a /lot/ more fun this way," Ranpo says,beelining towards one of the chairs and dropping into it with all the confidence of a king.

"More fun for /you/," Kouyou grits out,looking like she's itching to pull out on of the weapons Dazai /knows/ she has stashed on her somewhere.

"My brother is /missing/."

Ranpo holds up a hand, tsking in annoyance. "That's not on me. I'm not the one who lost him--" Dazai feels the sting of disapproval, making his lip curl, "--and I'm also not the one who refused to prepare him for a possibility like this."

Kouyou

winces, expression closing off.

“Now, you can both choose to be pissy with me because you—“ he points to Kouyou, “are too stupid to think about and Dazai is a coward, in which case I will /happily/ leave to return to my date. Or you can let me have my fun and I’ll help you find

your little pet. Choose quickly.”

He’s in a worse mood than usual, Dazai muses. They must’ve interrupted something important.

With a calming breath, Kouyou gestures to the screen. The picture of the tunnel is frozen there. “We managed to track the car that took him to this

tunnel. After this, we’ve lost sight of him.”

Ranpo hums, rocking back in his seat dangerously far. He pushes his glasses up into his hair, exposing his forehead and piercing green eyes. “Show me the route.”

The silence and tension only grows as Akio painstakingly retraces the

path the car had made. He doesn’t make any mistakes this time, which is good because Ranpo might tear him a new one.

They end on the stillframe as before, a zoomed in view of the now-empty backseat and the different driver. Dazai still doesn’t recognize him, and it doesn’t look

like Ranpo does either, based on his expression.

He tilts his head, eyes unreadable. “Do you have an architectural map of the city? And the service tunnels?”

Kouyou nods, shooting a look at Oda. Her bodyguard disappears from the room without another word, coming back a

few minutes later with twin rolls of paper.

Oda unrolls then in front of Ranpo, weighing down each end with two of the /many/ knives he keeps on him at all times.

The lines of the city map are dark enough that they can be seen even with the tunnel map stacked on top, streets

lined up.

Humming, Ranpo traces the path the car took through the city, pausing when he gets to the tunnel. There's a service tunnel that connects there, but it's not helpful, considering the service tunnels themselves are winding, twisting maze.

"Dazai, you've met with

Fyodor, right?" Ranpo asks without looking up, his finger resting on the service entrance that connects with the main tunnel Chuuya was last seen in.

Dazai nods, pacing closer.

"Put the spots on the map," the detective orders, reaching into his coat and pulling out a /handful/

of tiny throwing knives from one of his many pockets. Makeshift thumb tacks.

It feels wrong to stab a knife into each spot of the map where he'd met with Fyodor, therefore ruining the map with holes, but who is he to argue? He doesn't care to ask for a pencil or something less

/permanent/.

When he's done marking out the dozen or so spots he's met with Fyodor, he leans back, gesturing to Ranpo to work his magic.

A long moment of contemplative silence as Ranpo examines the map with all it's information, green eyes sharp and not missing a single clue.

Then he makes a sharp noise, victorious, followed by a "gotcha".

Kouyou leans forward, hands braced on the table, expression fervent and focused. "You found him? You know where he is?"

It's /remarkable/, how Ranpo can be given /scraps/ of information, and manage to come up with

an answer. Even Dazai, who is considered a prodigy by /most/, wouldn't able to do something like that so quickly or easily.

"Well," Ranpo hedges, leaning back in his chair again. "I know where Fyodor's headquarters /probably/ are, and considering that he's the one that took him,

it's a good place to start."

"Where?" Kouyou demands.

Rampo folds his arms over his chest, raising an eyebrow. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves here-- we still haven't discussed what's in it for /me/."

To their right, at the head of the table, Akio sucks in a shocked breath.

That seems to be the last straw for Kouyou, the final push that shoves her over the edge into /rage/. In a flash almost too quick to follow, her hand is diving underneath her skirt and whipping out the knife she had strapped to her thigh.

With a snarl, she drives it into the

table only a few centimeters from Ranpo's hand. "That is my /brother/," she hisses, voice hot and angry, "Not a /bargaining chip/."

Unimpressed, Ranpo raises an eyebrow, haughty. "It's going to take a lot more than /that/ butter knife to frighten me. Even if you /could/ use it

on me."

It's a subtle barb, a /pointed/ one, a reminder that Ranpo is probably one of the highest skilled martial artists in the /city/, and it'd take a lot more than Kouyou to take him down. Not even Oda or Dazai can best him regularly.

They don't have /time/ for this. "What

do you want?” Dazai snaps, uncaring that he’s being rude. He doubts Ranpo cares either, as long as he gets what he wants.

Right on cue, his eyes light up. “I’m so glad you asked,” he says, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his phone. The code to unlock it is quickly

entered, and he presses on the screen a few times. When he finds the page he’s looking for, Ranpo places the phone on the table and slides it over to Dazai.

Curious, he picks it up. It’s an ad listing, for a high-rise apartment near the middle of Yokohama. Expensive, sleek,

newly listed, and /way/ above Ranpo’s pay grade.

“I want that apartment, fully paid for and in my name, by the end of the month,” the detective says, tone firm. He doesn’t sound like he’s in the mood for negotiating.

Dazai clicks through the pictures quickly, wondering why he

needs a new apartment on Dazai’s dime. Besides, letting Dazai know where he intends to live is highly valuable information.

When he gets to the end, he accidentally clicks out and the screen exits into a conversation on a messaging app. The contact name is just one of those

emojis, the one that looks like a dog being walked on a leash. There’s very little conversation that Dazai can see, mostly just Ranpo kicking whoever’s ass repeatedly at Sea Battle.

Whatever. Not his problem, not his concern, and something that he can do easily. “Fine,” he

agrees, sliding the phone back across the table. Ranpo snatches it up quickly, stuffing it back into his pocket.

The next person he speaks to is Kouyou. “I want guaranteed Mafia protection on that apartment, and I want it made /explicitly/ clear to anyone who ever even

considered committing a crime that that apartment is /protected/.”

Kouyou raises a perfectly manicured eyebrow, an expression so familiar that Dazai’s heart pangs with it. She looks so much like Chuuya, how did he miss it until this moment?

“You don’t need mafia protection,”

she points out, and it’s true. Ranpo’s never /needed/ protection.

“You’re right. I don’t need it. I want it. Same way you /want/ to find your little brother,” Ranpo fires back, the curve of his smug grin slightly malicious.

No one is under false impressions here. Ranpo might

be on the side of the “good” guys, and might be a representation of the law—

But if anyone thinks for even a moment that he’s /above/ letting someone die or be tortured in order to get what he wants or to prove a point, they’d be utterly wrong.

Kouyou stares him down for a

moment, evidently testing his resolve before she crumbles and gives him what he wants with an accepting wave of her hand. “Deal.”

Ranpo grins again, folding his hands behind his hand. “Oda,” he calls, louder than before, “I want the secret ingredient to that curry recipe.”

Oda

gapes at him, grumbling, “You cheating bastard, we had a /bet/ that you wouldn’t figure it out.”

“Guess I win that too,” Ranpo crows, victorious, shrugging lightly. “As for the silent guy in the back who thinks he’s escaped my notice, I’ll think of something. You owe me.”

Akio

snorts. He’s too cocky, now that he’s found some solid ground to stand on. “And what if I /refuse/?”

Shrugging, Ranpo turns his head to an almost unnatural degree, pinning the wannabe hacker with a look. “I’ll assume that you have no respect, and I’ll gladly teach it to you

firsthand. Or I could let some information /slip/ to the wrong people and /surprise!/, next thing you know you got government agents knocking on your door and asking to speak with your wife."

Akio goes pale, swallowing hard.

"Tan from the ring you usually wear on your finger,"

Ranpo informs him smugly, rocking back in his chair again.

Too late, Akio takes his hands back and hides them under the desk. "Fine," he mutters, sounding /reluctant/.

Whatever. That idiot isn't Dazai's responsibility to look after, and if he wants to test Ranpo, then let him

find out the hard way exactly why no one fucks with him. Every one finds out eventually.

"You got your deals, now tell us where Fedya's hiding," Dazai says, sharp and demanding. The devil may have gotten his dues but now it's time to /pay up/.

Tsking lightly, Ranpo reaches

for the knife Kouyou had stabbed into the table. He yanks it up, out of the table, moves it over a spot on the map and buries it back into the wood.

"This building, here, overlooks /all/ of those meeting spots in some degree, is in no territory that hasn't already been claimed.

More importantly, it's connected to the service tunnels. He could've easily been moved there, and it's more than likely that Fyodor is in that building. As far as I recall, it's rented space, not owned by any company in particular, which makes it perfect for his tastes."

Great.

That's all Dazai needed. A direction to go in, and the beginnings of a plan.

"I go high, you go low?" He offers, shooting a look at Odasaku and Kouyou. He's assuming Kouyou is up to speed on Odasaku's and his unique form of language, or that her boyfriend will bring her up to

speed.

Dazai will be bait, making a ruckus near the top of the building, where Fyodor will probably be making his office, while Odasaku and his team scour the service tunnels for Chuuya. It's not foolproof or even that great of a plan, but it's already the middle of the night.

Chuuya's been missing for /eight/ hours now. He's four past his scheduled dose, and only another eight until he misses another one.

Anything can happen in eight hours. A person can die in eight hours, they can be /tortured/ in eight hours, they can be /broken/ in eight hours.

The longer they wait, the more likely it is that Chuuya will outlive his /usefulness/, and wind up as a body somewhere in the tunnels.

The longer they wait, the less likely it is that /Chuuya/ will come back at all, and be /okay/.

They need to go work /now/, before Fyodor

gets it into his head to /move/ him.

If Chuuya is moved, then they might never find him again. Dazai will have lost--/again/-- the only thing he finds worth living for. He will have lost anything he wants and everything he loves.

"Yeah," Odasaku agrees, that friendly mask he

was wearing while he bantered with Ranpo dropping away. Instead of the friendly and approachable man that likes to provide housing for orphans, now he's the calm and lethal bodyguard, eyes like frozen ice chips. He crosses his arms over his chest, his dark gray silk shirt

tightening over his biceps.

The holsters under his arms are holding twin pairs of pistols.There's a knife strapped to his thigh as well, what looks like the twin to the one Kouyou had.

"Low and mean?" Oda asks, confirmation.

Asking if he should shoot to /kill/.

Lips peeling

back from his teeth, Dazai grins, sadistic. "You know it."

As far as he's concerned, everyone in that godforsaken building /deserves/ death for /touching/ Chuuya, for /hurting/ him, for even being /associated/ with the people that took him. They all deserve a /death/ sentence,

and Dazai is not afraid to give them one.

Chuuya might not be the /reason/ he left the mafia for a ‘normal’ life, he might not be the reason he first put down his guns—

But he’s the only thing that makes it all fucking /worth it/, and Dazai will rain /hell/ on anyone who

tries to take that away from him. He’ll burn this whole damn city to the ground, he doesn’t /care/.

“I’ll call,” he says, pushing off the table and stalking towards the exit. If he’s going to do this, if he’s going to storm into Fyodor’s office, he needs to be prepared. He

needs to go home first.

Ranpo watches him go, a thoughtful look in his eye.

(Sure, love might make you stupid— but it’s also one of the few things in this world that will make a man tear down his own limits. A driving force that burns hot and pure and vicious, a force that

will make it so /no/ price is too high, no deed too far, no limit unbreakable.

What was the saying? Demons run when a good man goes to war?

Ah, but even the devil himself trembles when a man in love picks up his discarded guns again.)

Dazai has to break quite a few traffic

rules to get home quickly, but he doesn’t even blink at blowing through /several/ red lights on his way there. If someone dares to pull him over because it—

Well, Yokohama will lose a dedicated policeman.

No one does though, and he’s able to screech to a stop outside the

house without a single delay, throwing the door open so he can storm inside.

Home is—

Empty. Painful.

Over the past month or so, he’s stopped thinking of it as /his/ home, and started thinking of it as /their/ home. His and Chuuya’s.

There were his shoes in the doorway,

joined by a few /much/ smaller pairs, lined up neatly. Chuuya’s jacket draped over the couch, his favorite cereal in the pantry, his /candy/ in the garage, his clothes in the right side of the closet, his pink toothbrush next to Dazai’s. A dozen— a /hundred/— tiny little things

that meant little in themselves, but added up to—

That made a /home/. Made it /their/ home.

Every where he steps as he heads upstairs is littered with signs of /Chuuya/, little pieces of settling in and comfort and /love/.

It all hurts. His chest aches for air that never

seems to come, sour and stale. Every beat of his heart feels like it /throbs/, squeezing painfully with earth-shattering pounds.

But the worst thing isn’t the candy or the shoes or the toothbrush. The /hardest/ thing to see are the /pets/.

Usually the dogs greet him as soon

as he walks in the door. Yoko is always the most excitable, but Kozo is diligent in giving him the sniff-over before he’s allowed to come further into the house.

Today... Yoko is nowhere to be found, and Kozo perks up when Dazai first comes in but when he’s not joined by someone

smaller and /brighter/, Kozo’s ears start to droop. He doesn’t come closer to greet Dazai,eyes morosely following his path up the stairs. Eventually the dog lets out a heavy sigh and lays his head on his paws again,gaze fixed on the door.

Waiting for someone /else/ to come home.

When he gets to the bedroom--/their/ bedroom, with /their/ bed, with Chuuya's side and his side, the pillows stacked on Chuuya's side because he's a /cuddler/-- he finds Baki perched on the mountain of pillows and /wailing/.

He's always been loud, and his first reaction tends to

/cry/ whenever he wants something or his food bowl gets a little too low for his tastes. The cat takes after Chuuya that way, loud and /needy/ and adorable.

He stops for a moment when Dazai barges in, but quickly starts up his cries when he doesn't see Chuuya follow him. It's

the middle of the night, the time when Baki is /usually/ cuddled up with Chuuya and peacefully snoring away. He's upset.

He knows something is /wrong/.

He's not the only one, either. Yoko is upset too, she's just /quieter/.

Chuuya is slightly messy, especially with his dirty

laundry. It usually means that the clothes that need to be washed end up as a pile in the back of the closet, one that grows until either one of them finally decides to do laundry.

A pile of clothes that Yoko is now curled up on, head on her paws with her ears drooping. Her

breathing has the slightest hint of a whine on the exhale, quietly whimpering to herself.

Dazai's heart /aches/ for her, because she doesn't /understand/. He, at least, knows what happened, and can rationalize it, even if it hurts.

Yoko can't do that. All she knows is that

Chuuya left /crying/ and upset, and he hasn't come back for /hours/. It's night time, and the schedule for the past few weeks means that Yoko expects them all to be curled up in bed and asleep.

Everything has changed now.

Dazai joins her in the back of the closet, pushing

past rows of hanging clothes. Sighing in sympathy, he crouches down beside her, giving her a few reassuring pets on her head.

She doesn't move, letting herself be petted but not searching for more herself.

"Don't worry, girl," he murmurs to her, "I'm gonna bring him back. I'm

gonna bring him back home to you.”

He /swears/ he will, if it’s the last thing he does. The people and things he loves are /counting/ on him, and he’s not going to let them down.

Not again. Not ever again.

——— +

There's a bad taste in his mouth. Metallic, stinging, like he's bitten down on a metal fork and his teeth are arching from it. Like blood, almost, except no matter how many times he swallows, it never goes away.

His head hurts, so much the pain has passed into dreadful, ominous

pressure that just builds and builds and builds.

At least Chuuya can breathe though. Small mercies, even if it smells /awful/, and he's started to shiver. It's cold in here, freezing all the way to the bone.

The girl-- he wishes he had a better name to refer to her by, but he

doesn't, and every time he's asked, it's lead to.. consequences--has been asking him questions the entire time and he doesn't understand /why/ any of the mundane answers matter, but he answers them anyway.

The searing guilt is better than having water poured over his head again.

He just wishes he could /warn/ his sisters, because this bitch is /sick/, and obviously focused on /them/, but he's pretty sure he's not going to get the chance.

His head feels like it's too heavy and too light at the same time, crackling with energy. It won't be long now, he

thinks. He can almost feel the end coming, the seizure building up momentum at the base of his skull.

The room is still relatively quiet, beyond the sound of him shaking in his chair, the intermittent sounds the girl makes as she drags the metal bucket over the ground to

intimidate him, the metallic clinks of tools that he doesn't /want/ to know clicking together, the slosh of water. It's hard to hear much past his own loud breathing in the wet bag.

But he /does/ hear the sound of a phone notification going off with a /ding!/, interrupting

whatever question she was about to ask. It's the first sound of the /outside/ world that he's heard so far, and for some reason, it makes a choked sob catch in his throat.

After a while, this place really did start to feel like his grave. Cold, wet, painful and /lonely/,

like the real world didn't exist anymore. He was in a place of suffering, of /death/, and nothing else existed anymore.

The girl pauses, and there's a hint of footsteps shortly afterward. When she speaks, she sounds farther away than she was before, and she speaks in a language

he doesn't /know/, but vaguely recognizes from Dazai's phone calls he sometimes overheard.

The memory of it makes him miserable and angry at once. Miserable, because his heart /still/ aches from their fight earlier and he stills feel guilty for going behind Dazai's back like he

did, still feels guilty for stomping on his trust like that--

But /furious/, because if /this/ was a possibility, if winding up in this exact situation was something that always a possibility, then he should've /known/. If he was going to get /hurt/ because of Dazai, then he

should've known. It's not fucking /fair/ that he has to suffer because Dazai is--

Well, because of who Dazai /is/.

If he had known this was a possibility...

Maybe he wouldn't have stayed. Maybe he would've chosen safety over his feelings. Maybe he would've chosen his /family/

over his relationship.

It's too fucking late now though, and because of /that/, because he wasn't given a /choice/, wasn't given a /chance/, there's /rage/ boiling behind the misery.

Honestly, /fuck/ Dazai.

The conversation his /torturer/ is having ends on a sharp, assenting

noise from her, followed by the sound of a phone being flipped shut. Must be a burner phone, because not many people Chuuya knows still have a flip phone in this day and age.

"It seems to be your lucky day," the girl sighs, sounding frustrated. This time, her footsteps are loud

and /aggressive/, like she's angry over something and stomping back over to him.

Personally, Chuuya would go on record to say this is probably one of his /worst/ days, but that's a matter of perspective, he guesses. It's not like he's being asked either, so he very /wisely/

keeps his opinion to himself.

It's a good thing too, because in the /next/ moment, there's something sharp and cold being pressed to his arm, and he's automatically tensing, thinking this is it, this is how it ends, that's a /knife/ right against my wrists, it's all over--

The

ropes holding his hands in place are sliced off, and he almost falls over when his arms flop back to his sides, completely numb from restricted blood flow.

What? What's going on? Why is he being untied? Don't they only let people go when they're about to /kill/ them? That's what

happens in the /movies/, and that's really all he has to go on right now, so.

"Move it," the girl snaps at him, one of her hands wrapping around Chuuya's upper arm and yanking him along.

She must be taller than him or she walks /very/ quickly, because she practically drags him

out of the room. Chuuya has no choice but to stumble after her, blind and freezing and near-deaf, arms numb with blood restriction and his feet so cold he can barely feel them, heart pounding in his throat.

"Where are we going?" He croaks, daring to speak up. It burns to speak,

throat sore from all the water forced down his nose, but it's an oversight compared to the throbbing in his temples.

There's a disapproving tsk, another pull on his arm. "You're going to meet someone /very/ important. I suggest you watch your manners, or I will beat them back

into you."

Sure. Chuuya's a nice guy, a /reasonable/ guy, he has no reason to be /rude/. Though, he doesn't want to meet 'someone important' if he had a say in it. He's had enough of 'important people' and he just wants to go /home/.

"Stairs," is his only quick warning before

his shoe hits a concrete step and he nearly falls on his face. Only her hand on his arm keeps him upright, and she's /surprisingly/ strong as she hauls him up the stairs.

He has to scramble to keep up, and it's /hard/ to navigate stairs when he can't see them and he doesn't have

a handrail to hold on to, and he's not allowed to take them at his own pace, but he somehow manages to keep himself from face planting and giving himself a broken nose on top of everything else.

He's not sure how long the stairs are, or the hallway that comes after them, but he

recognizes the sound of an elevator being called and the sound of the doors opening with a mechanical whir.

So they're going upstairs? To a different part of the building? He would /guess/ that there's a secret underground entrance somewhere, because they probably don't want to

/flaunt/ that they have an underground torture room. At least, that's what he's /assuming/, but he only has movies and /novels/ to go off of, so. He could be wrong.

He just hopes the bag gets taken off his head soon, because it's still wet and he has to lean forward to make sure

it doesn't stick to his mouth and nose, so that he can breathe. He can't see a damn thing, and being yanked around while he's defenseless makes him /nervous/.

Now that he's untied though, he could fight. He's not sure he could /win/, considering how off-balance he is and how

numb his hands are but--

He could. Maybe it'd land him nowhere except in more pain, but /fuck/. Is he really going to just stand here and take being /tortured/ when he has the ability to fight? When his hands were already tied when he woke up is a different story, but now...

He can /do/ something about it. /Wants/ to do something about it, because the idea of going down /nicely/, without a fight, makes him want to bare his teeth. This is the /reason/ he became a Judo champion, and as soon as he gets a little more feeling back into his hands, he's

/going/ to do something.

It's amazing, how much /life/ and fight he can get back, now that he's up and moving.

The elevator lurches upwards,and he tries to count the floors by how long the ascent takes, subtly flexing his fingers. They're so cold that it hurts to move it hands

because of how stiff they are, but it's warmer up here and the more he moves them, the easier it gets.

He does the same with his toes in his soaked sneakers, wiggling them and trying to get feeling back into them.

If the girl tries to shove him into another torture room or

tries to tie him up again, or anything along those lines, he's going down /swinging/.

It's a long ride up to the top, punctuated hilariously by the serene sounds of elevator music playing faintly in the background. The girl is quiet again, hand bruisingly tight on his arm but

otherwise quiet. That feels like an /ominous/ sign, like she's preparing herself for the next series of events.

Like /he/ should be preparing himself.

Then the elevator slows to a stop with a too-cheery /ding!/ and he tenses, fully expecting to be thrown out of the elevator or

for someone to reach /in/ and drag him out, anything--

But nothing happens except for the girl stepping forward herself and taking Chuuya with her.

Outside the elevator is /silence/. Pure utter silence that makes their every step echo too loudly, like it's a room full of

/nothing/.

Better a room full of nothing than a room full of /cruel/ things, right? Should this be a good sign? Should he be /glad/ that he doesn't hear anything or anyone? Not everyone is as /quiet/ as the girl is, and he's straining his ears so hard his head gives a twinge of

pain in protest, but he can't hear anyone else even breathing.

It sounds like they're alone again.

He feels the girl beside him lurch forward, reaching forward with her other arm, and then the sound of doors opening.

Before he can react, he's being /shoved/ forward, damn near

tossed on his /face/, and he yelps. His hands connect with the floor painfully, barely able to catch himself. Sharp pain rockets up his right wrist, arm nearly collapsing under his own weight.

Behind him, the doors shut again with a resounding slam.

He scrambles upward, right

arm held to his chest as he struggles to get back to his feet. His heart is pounding sickeningly in his chest, and his thoughts are /racing/, wondering where the next touch is coming from, wondering where the pain is going to come from, bracing himself.

Nothing happens, and he's

able to get to his feet without incident.

"You can take that off now," someone says, further in the room. The voice is /deeper/, more fluent in Japanese,the accent buried deeper. It's /familiar/, someone he's heard twice before.

Three times now. /Fyodor/.

Reaching up, Chuuya

grabs the wet cloth over his head and yanks it off. It feels disgusting against his hands, water dripping down his hands and wrists. His hair is dragged along with it, tangled, as he pulls it off completely.

Light bursts in his eyes, bright enough to make him wince and squint.

The relief of being able to /see/ almost makes him choke again, blinking rapidly to clear the too-bright stars from his eyes.

The cloth bag drops to the floor with a disgustingly wet slap.

When his vision finally clears, thirty seconds of agonizing terror where he's /still/

helpless, waiting for the /catch/, the sight he's greeted with is a well-furnished luxurious office, decked out in red's and blacks. The very picture of wealth and power, and at the head of it all, reclined confidently at a large desk, is Fyodor Dostoevsky himself, all sharp

smile and devils eyes, dark and dangerous.

"I underestimated you, Nakahara Chuuya," he greets, like that /means/ something. He takes a bottle perched on the edge of his desk, pulling out two shot glasses and placing them in front of him. Opening the bottle, he pours some of the

clear liquid in each glass, an exact equal amount in each one. "Drink?"

It's probably a /bad/ idea to take a drink from someone who had him /waterboarded/,but Chuuya could /use/ one. He comes closer slowly, eyeing Fyodor warily.

He's not sure what he means by /underestimating/

him, considering Chuuya spilled every little secret and piece of information he could come up with, but what does he know. Maybe he knew more than Fyodor expected him to.

He sinks into one of the offered chairs, grimacing slightly when his wet pants stick to his skin and squelch

disgustingly underneath him as he sits.

A shotglass is slid over the table at him, and Chuuya squints at it suspiciously. He saw it poured, and he saw the clean glasses, but he's not /completely/ sure if the alcohol can be trusted.

As if sensing his distrust, Fyodor raises his

own glass with a knowing smirk, and swallows it in one gulp.

And,well--

Chuuya isn't /supposed/ to be drinking right now. It's dangerous on /principle/ and he's not supposed to mix alcohol with his meds but--

Fuck it, right? He doesn't want to die /completely/ sober, and it's

not like anyone is /looking/ for him, and it's not like he can fight his way out of the entire building. He just /can't/, and you know, maybe he doesn't /deserve/ to after spilling all of his family's secrets like they were candy.

Sighing, he leans forward and takes the glass.

He gives it a cursory sniff, making a face at how strong it smells. Not surprising that Fyodor has the /good/ stuff.

Holding his breath, he downs it in two gulps. It burns going down, and hits his empty stomach hard. He's still not sure what time it is, but from what he can see

of the sky through the windows, it's dark. Judging by that and the rumbling of his stomach, it's /late/. Way past dinner time, probably about the time he'd be curled up in bed with Daz--

Swallowing hard, wishing he had something to chase it with, he dares to ask, "Why did you

take me?"

He's expecting...

Well, /hopefully/, a damn classic evil-villain monologue, where Fyodor lays out all his plans and gloats about his victory, all that nonsense. Or he'll laugh in Chuuya's face before telling him what he's about to do with him. That sort of thing.

He's not expecting for Fyodor to lean back in his chair with a heavy sigh as he pours himself another drink. Waving the bottle at Chuuya, he offers him another shot.

This one,he declines, already feeling uncomfortable heat roiling in his stomach.

"You're a special man, Chuuya,"

he says, swirling the vodka inside the glass. "Dazai, I can handle. Even the Port Mafia, I was prepared for. But the Armed Detective Agency? I wonder what makes /you/ so special that you can get nearly the entire city up in arms over /you/."

The speech makes his breath catch.

Because--

He didn't think he was /unloved/, but neither of his sisters knew where he is, and Dazai either didn't /care/ or he didn't know he was missing, and he just--

He just didn't /know/ that anyone was coming to look for him. He'd convinced himself that no one was coming,

that he was /alone/. That by the time anyone realized what was happening, it’d be too late for him.

The question slips out of him unconsciously, shock and relief too much to hold back entirely. “Dazai’s coming?”

A dark eyebrow, perfectly shaped, arches in response. “Did you

think he wouldn’t?”

Chuuya doesn’t answer, the lingering taste of alcohol turning sour on his tongue, because—

Because he really thought he /wouldn’t/. Not necessarily because he thought Dazai was a bad person, or that he wouldn’t care, but because Chuuya had broken his trust

so badly that he wouldn’t /save/ him. That this was sick karma for what Chuuya did— for what both of them did— and that he deserved this.

“Poor Dazai,” Fyodor sighs, shaking his head in disapproval, “No one ever has any /faith/ in that man. They’re always waiting for a reason

to suspect the knife behind his back. I barely had to say /anything/ to you to get you believe that... what was it? He was a serial killer that had targeted you? Very disappointing.”

Guilt drips down Chuuya’s spine, ice cold. It hurts because it’s /true/. It only took a fifteen

minute conversation for him to be questioning everything he knew about Dazai. Everything that Dazai has /showed/ him and told him, every caring act suddenly in question.

“Why are you telling me this?” Chuuya asks, not addressing that jab. “If Dazai’s coming for me then why are

we having a conversation instead of—“

He cuts himself off there because he /doesn’t/ want to give Fyodor the idea of killing him, or even remind him that that is an option. Judging by the way his sharp smile widens, though, he already knows.

“This is our last chance at

a conversation, figured I’d make the most of it,” Fyodor says, folding his hands over his stomach. Despite everything, there’s a calm, authoritative aura radiating from him.

Chuuya goes cold, his next breath catching in his throat. “Are you gonna—?”

He can’t even /say/ it.

When he was hopeless and convinced that there was nothing in store for him but /pain/, the idea of death was a relief. It was better than staying down there with the girl— who has disappeared now, nowhere to be seen— and he almost /wanted/ it.

But now he has /hope/, and he

doesn’t want to /actually/ die. He wants to go /home/, he wants—

He wants to see Dazai again. Things are complicated now and it hurts but he wants to see him again. Hug him, hold him, kiss him.

He’s not /ready/.

“Are you asking if I’m going to kill you?”

Chuuya stares at

him, trying not to show the fear that is rapidly rising in him.

“Tempting, but no. While the idea of teaching Dazai a lesson is /appealing/, I’m not willing to have all the work I’ve done here destroyed. I didn’t anticipate the Agency getting involved, and that’s a mistake I

can’t fix. So, lucky day for you. You get to go home today.”

Chuuya collapses backward in his seat, relief rushing through him so strongly he feels lightheaded from it.

He gets to go /home/. He gets to be /okay/, gets to see another sunrise and see Dazai again. See his sisters

again, see /Yoko/ and Baki again. See all his friends again.

Something occurs to him then. “Then why did you say that this is going to be our last chance at conversation? Not that I /want/ to talk to you, but if you’re still going to be working with Dazai then...?”

There’s a

sparkle in his eyes that makes Chuuya think he /finally/ asked the right question. “Considering just how many people I upset with this move, I’ll be going back home. I’ve done enough work here, and it’s time for my daughter to step up.”

Chuuya blinks. “You have a /daughter/?”

“Oh yes. You’ve met, though I don’t believe you liked her. She has that affect on some people.”

Oh. It clicks for him then. The similar accents, the stilted Japanese, the /questions/, the phone call.

It’s /her/, the girl who was bucket-happy with the water boarding. What a

/lovely/ family.

Of course, now that he knows Fyodor isn’t going to hurt or seriously maim him, Chuuya starts to get a little /bold/. His head is still pounding and it makes him /irritable/. “Isn’t that kind of cowardly? Leaving your daughter to deal with the fallout of what

/you/ did. Don’t you have a wife or something? Won’t /she/ be pissed that you’re putting her in danger?”

Fyodor scoffs, smile growing with amusement. He reaches up, brushing his black hair away from his face. The silver rings on his fingers shine in the light of the overhead

lamps. “Trust me, Nika is /more/ than capable of handling herself. She’s been /dying/ to get her hands on Dazai. More importantly, everyone knows that the Mafia has a soft spot for children.”

She’s a /child/? She can’t be much younger than himself, with how tall and strong she

was, but he can’t imagine any sort of /child/ doing /any/ of the things she did to him, let alone being in charge of a /gang/. That’s—

That’s /bad parenting/.

“No wife though, if you’re interested,” Fyodor continues, raking his eyes down Chuuya’s soaked and disheveled form

in a blatantly appraising look that makes him feel /dirty/.

“Then what about her /mom/? Why are you letting a /kid/ do... all of that stuff? I mean, don’t you /care/?”

Another tsk, a disapproving shake of his head. “Of course I care. But we aren’t /soft/ like you. Power is in

her /blood/. It’s her birthright, and the thing she’s been working towards since the day her mother died.”

Chuuya /can’t/ wrap his head around that, but he supposes he’s in no position to talk morals with a criminal who kidnapped and tortured him. A conversation like that won’t

end well in an agreement or end well for him at all.

Sure,Fyodor might’ve said he wouldn’t kill /him/,but he’s mentioned nothing about his /sisters/, so he should play nice until he can /warn/ them.

“Sorry for your loss,” he mutters, dipping his head. He wants this conversation

to be over with. Let Fyodor say what he wants to say, and then Chuuya will...

Walk outside and find a public phone, or something. He doesn’t have his, and he doesn’t know where he’s at either.

“Yes, it was very tragic. Killed by one of my rivals back in Moscow. Nika was very

young. Just a little girl, so precious,” Fyodor says, pouring himself /another/ drink and raising it up in a silent salute before he downs it. His eyes are still razor sharp and intent, even though he’s taken three shots—that Chuuya has seen— in the span of ten minutes. He must

have a hell of an alcohol tolerance.

“I’m sorry,” Chuuya repeats, unsure of what else to /say/. He’s not /glad/ that anyone died, and he can certainly empathize with the woman, but marrying a crime boss comes with it’s risks. Certainly— /hopefully/— she knew that.

(The irony

of /that/ line of thinking won’t hit him until later, when he’s lounging in an outdoor garden in France, only a mile away from a prestigious winery.)

“Oh, don’t be,” the Russian boss says, waving a hand with a charming smile. “She knew the risks. She knew what would happen if

her crime was discovered.”

The confusion must be written all over his face, because Fyodor continues with an impish, self-satisfied grin, “Annika was killed by her husband when he discovered that the daughter he had been raising was not his blood, but /mine/.”

Oh. That’s...

That’s certainly /interesting/. He’s not sure if /death/ is the acceptable punishment for cheating on your husband and having a child with another man but—

What does Chuuya know? He’s not /Russian/, he’s not rich or powerful, he’s not a gang boss. He’s just a normal, ordinary

guy who’s first reaction probably wouldn’t be /murder/, and instead would be...

Couples therapy? Divorce? Split custody arrangements?

“Right. That’s, uh... unfortunate,” Chuuya draws out, wondering what the /fuck/ he’s supposed to say to that.

Wondering what the hell he’s

supposed to say to /any/ of this, because he certainly wasn’t expecting a damn /conversation/ with his kidnapper. Is he supposed to be nice or just... sit here awkwardly?

“You must understand that if you tell Dazai /any/ of this, Nika will be /very/ upset. She’s not... very

understanding when it comes to things like this.”

Chuuya passes a hand over his face, confused as hell and on the verge of breaking into tears. “Why are you even telling me this if you’re just gonna tell me not to tell anyone? That doesn’t make any sense.”

He feels like a

rat in a /cage/, making his way through the maze to get the food and hoping he doesn’t get /shocked/ for it.

“Simple, solnyshko— I want to see how well you /obey/. You must be /very/ good for Dazai to be so infatuated with you,” is his answer, one that automatically makes his

nose wrinkle in response. The idea of Fyodor hitting on him might’ve been appealing /before/ but now it’s /not/. Now it makes him feel /cornered/, because he obviously can’t /tell/ the man to go take a dive off a balcony.

“Call it an insurance policy. You talk, Nika comes to

say hello.”

Right. That makes sense. Fine. That’s okay.

Fyodor sighs when he doesn’t go to answer, pouring himself /another/ drink. The dark purple of his shirt matches the dark color of his eyes. “You aren’t very talkative, are you?”

“Somehow,” Chuuya says, eyeing him, “I’m

not really feeling up for conversation.”

“Understandable— but at least make it /entertaining/ while we wait,” Fyodor responds, tone thick with disappointment. He sounds like a lecturing professor, sitting down with an antisocial student. Way too casual for /this/ kind of

situation.

“Wait for what?”

Just then, there’s /commotion/ outside the door Chuuya came in through, something that sounds like /shouting/ and a muffled gunshot. The noise makes him flinch, heart jumping in his chest.

Fyodor doesn’t seem surprised, head tilting. “For him.”

/Dazai/. Dazai’s /here/, he has to be here, he /came/ for him.

Heart pounding for a whole different reason, Chuuya twists in his seat to watch the door with wide eyes. Even though the noise outside is getting /louder/, and should be scary considering all he went through—

He

doesnt feel anything except /relief/, so visceral and overwhelming that tears are welling up in his eyes from it. The feeling of water on his face when they spill over makes a reactionary twinge of fear spark through him, but it’s easily ignored.

(For now.)

The noise outside

come to a sharp crescendo, with the sound of something that sounds like /glass/ being shattered.

After that, it stops completely, and Chuuya’s entire being feels like it’s hanging in the resulting silence, focus zeroed in on the door, vibrating with anticipation—

The door

opens with a /slam/, kicked in by one of the knee-high boots that Dazai is wearing. They look heavy, each step resoundingly loud as he stalks into the office.

/Finally/. The end is in sight.

Another round of tears is started, and these ones Chuuya has to reach up and wipe

away because the feeling of water trickling down his face makes him /itch/, in a bad way.

Dazai must not have been expecting him to be here, because his expression is tight with fury when he enters, black coat flaring behind him, and when his eyes find Chuuya in his seat—

They widen with surprise, mouth going slack as he takes him in. He looks /shocked/, relieved, concerned, so many emotions flashing over his face so quickly that Chuuya can’t keep up.

Just as quickly, his eyes are hardening again, turning flat black with anger, gaze snapping up

to find Fyodor behind him.

“I thought you knew better than to touch what belongs to /me/,” he hisses, half-feral, teeth sharp and possessive. He’s holding a pair of guns, one in each hand.

Chuuya’s never seen a /real/ gun before. He’s only seen them in the movies and the way

the black metal seems to eat all the light to leave a dark, lethal hole, it's--

It's /menacing/. More than the vicious tone in Dazai's voice, the dark possession in his words, more than the lingering smell of top-shelf vodka and oiled ropes.

For the first time, Chuuya is

seeing who Dazai /really/ is. What he is.

Not the charming father or the suave boyfriend, or the doting and caring partner. Not any of those other facets of Dazai that he has seen and known and /loved/.

This is not Dazai. This is the /Demon Prodigy/, laced and booted for war,

dangerous. The type of man that can, will and /has/ killed someone, and might again. The type of man that causes whispers of dread and fear in even powerful men.

The type of man that-- despite everything that happened, all the secrets and hurt feelings and mistakes, despite all

the mistakes and thelittle pieces of themselves that have been broken and damaged,despite the fact that Chuuya probably /shouldn't/--

Despite everything,he is /still/ the man that Chuuya goes to,when he slides one gun into a holster under the opposite arm and holds out his hand.

Pushing out of his chair feels as natural as breathing, stumbling towards him is inevitable as gravity. Chuuya doesn't /care/ about those other things right now. He can be upset later, but right now, he wants /Dazai/ and he wants to go home.

"Oh, come in, I'm not busy," is

Fyodor's response, followed by a slight shuffle of movement behind Chuuya.

In a flash,the gun in Dazai's non-dominant hand is coming up, pointed unerringly at Fyodor.

Chuuya freezes, caught between fear and the urge to drop to the floor and cover his head, thinking frantically

about what action is the /best/ one to keep himself safe, if he should duck or dodge or run or just /freeze/—

Dazai’s fingers curl at him, beckoning, encouraging him forward. Relieved at being given /directions/, Chuuya creeps forward again, shivers running up and down the

length of his spine.

“Oh, relax, Dazai. I’ve been nothing but /cordial/ to your little pet and I’m even giving him back to you without a scratch on him. I just wanted to /talk/ with him,” Fyodor chides, followed by the sound of glass clinking as he pours himself another drink.

The idea of what happened to him being considered /nothing/, like it could’ve been /worse/ so he has no right to feel upset or affected by it, like they’re both /overreacting/, makes a trembling keen rise up in Chuuya’s throat.

It’s not /nothing/. It was /awful/.

The stroke of

Dazai’s knuckles over his cheek, achingly gentle, when Chuuya finally stumbles close enough makes the noise fade away before he can release it.

Falling into him is easy, and Dazai is warm and reassuringly solid as he wraps his arms around his waist and buries his face in his

chest.

Fingers slide gently down his neck and over his shoulder, gripping him gently and tugging him back at the same time Dazai takes a step forward. Blindly, Chuuya follows the pull, ending up hugging Dazai’s side and half-tucked behind him.

“I should /kill/ you for this,”

Dazai seethes. The arm on Chuuya’s side has dropped around his shoulders to hold him close, but the other one still has the gun aimed directly at Fyodor.

Who doesn’t look phased in the least, by the way. Like staring down a gun is a regular occurrence to him.

(It is. Russian

Roulette is a /favorite/ past time of his. It’s a game he wins every time.)

“Maybe,” he answers, shrugging and swirling his drink in its glass, “but you won’t do it now. Not in front of him,”—he nods toward Chuuya, which makes him grimace— “and my flight leaves in...four hours.”

“That’s enough time to come back. I work fast when I’m motivated.”

/Honestly/, Chuuya has had /enough/ of this conversation. He wants to go /home/, and while he appreciates Dazai being /protective/, he doesn’t want to drag this out any longer.

He just wants it all to be over.

Everything. All of it. He just wants to /sleep/, forever, and just wake up again when everything is going to be fine.

Fyodor’s smile widens, wicked. “Are you sure you want to leave him unattended again? Remember what happened /last/ time?”

Chuuya shudders at the reminder, arms

tightening. He doesn't remember /everything/ that happened during his kidnapping, but he /does/ remember Nikolai's remorseful grimace, the apology, and then the world going black.

He remembers waking up and being /terrified/.

He can't do that again. Not /ever/ again. He won't

survive.

Dazai looks like he's going to stay something in response to that, face twisting with /wrath/, but when Chuuya leans harder against him, thoroughly exhausted by his ordeal, he rethinks it.

"We'll settle this later," he decides on instead, silently urging Chuuya

backwards and towards the door. His gun hand doesn't waver, still locked on Fyodor unerringly, but now he's actively trying to /leave/.

Fyodor's manic grin doesn't dim. "Sure. See you later, /Chuuya/. It was very nice chatting with you."

On second thought, maybe he /wouldn't/

mind if Dazai put a bullet through Fyodor's head, if only so he would stop /smiling/ at Chuuya like that. Like they've got a secret, like they're friends, like he still has /plans/ for Chuuya.

Chuuya has to let go off his death grip on Dazai so he can walk properly, stumbling

in an awkward sideways stagger, because he doesn't want to turn his back to Fyodor completely. The idea of that feels a bit like putting his back to a lethal predator, turning away from a loaded gun.

He transfers his grip to a desperate hold on Dazai's forearm, because he's

still unsteady on his feet, lightheaded. He also doesn't want to take the chance of being /alone/ again, desperately holding onto the idea of safety in numbers. Refusing to let go now that he has something to hold on to.

The door to the office is still slightly ajar, the wood

near the knob broken and bent inward from the force of Dazai's opening kick.

Damn. He knew Dazai was /strong/, of course, but its' one thing to know how strong he is and another to see the results of it.

Chuuya pushes through the small gap, using his foot to push the door open

farther so Dazai can follow him out into the hall.

The hall outside is... a mess. There's broken glass littered over the floor, from the windows looking in on the other offices. Some of the furniture that had decorated the hall has been smashed to pieces.

Sticking out from one

of the rooms is a black boot, completely still.

Chuuya manages to peek as they pass by,Dazai pushing him along on a brisk but unforceful pace towards the elevators. He wants to get out of here just as quickly as Chuuya does.

Behind the boot is an entire body, outfitted entirely

in black. He can't make out a face or even if the person is /breathing/ before they've passed by and the person is out of sight.

"Did--," Chuuya hesitates as Dazai reaches out to call the elevator, wondering if he even wants to /know/, "Did you /kill/ that person?"

Dazai's

expression is strange. Not /angry/, not anymore, and not any emotion that Chuuya can pick out, but a strange sort of forced blankness. Like he's shut part of himself down, the part of him that normally breathes life into his eyes and body.

"Not that one. He's unconscious."

Oh. So Dazai didn't kill /that/ guy...but he did kill someone else.Chuuya swallows hard, wondering if he's supposed to feel bad about that because--

He really doesn't think he /does/. He doesn't feel anything more than passing flicker of pity.

The elevator doors slide open with

a too-cheery ding, and Chuuya is only mildly anxious as he steps inside. He didn't like the first elevator ride, but now that he's able to see and move on his own power, there's only a light thrum of constant anxiety.

Besides, as soon as the doors are closed, Dazai is /on/ him.

All that forced blankness, that near-dead look in his eyes, all that violent rage and destruction drains out of him so quickly that Chuuya can barely believe it. One moment he’s a protective, biting beast and the /next/—

Large hands frame his face, tugging his head upwards so

a frantic gaze can look over his features, taking in every inch of skin with a unique form of desperation.

“/Baby/,”— the pet name makes Chuuya’s heart jump in response, because there were a /few/ parts of the last day that made him /really/ think he was never going to hear

that sweet sound rolling off Dazai’s tongue again, would never get to hear that /overload/ of affection and care packed into one, tiny, adoring word again— “Are you okay? Are you hurt? Do you need a hospital? I need you to talk to me, baby.”

His own hands come up, gripping onto

his forearms as his eyes close, swallowing hard. He’s not okay, but—

With Dazai here, he’s finally starting to believe that he /will/ be okay, eventually. Finally realizing that there /is/ light at the end of this horribly damp tunnel, and he just has to reach for it.

But that

isn’t what he’s asking, not right now. They can talk about the /affects/ of this later, but for now—

“No,” he rasps, wincing at how rough his voice feels, “I’m okay. I’m not hurt, I’m just— my head hurts.”

While the throbbing hasn’t increased any, and the ominous

electric-metal taste in the back of his throat has washed away, his headache isn’t /gone/.

One of Dazai’s hands leaves his face, and Chuuya is too weak to forcibly make him stay. He holds on tighter to the other forearm, hoping he doesn’t /leave/.

“Here, take these,” Dazai

mutters, reaching into one of his many pockets. There’s a rattle of pills in a bottle as he digs. “I don’t have water but I have a granola bar.”

He extracts Chuuya’s meds from his pocket, and Chuuya could /cry/. His meds were on the far end of the list of things he was worried

about, but Dazai didn’t forget. He brought them /with/, and even brought a /snack/ to eat them with before he’s not supposed to eat them on an empty stomach.

God, he cares /so/ much.

He lets go with one hand so Dazai can shake the pills into his palm, paired with the strongest

does of Tylenol he can take. Hopefully that’ll help with the throbbing of his head, and if not—

He’ll let Dazai take him to the hospital. He’s not as /stubborn/ as he used to be before, because he really doesn’t /want/ to lose his memory functions. It might be embarrassing but

he’d much rather deal with the embarrassment of a too-early check-up than deal with other consequences, like—

One thing at a time, Chuuya, he reminds himself.

Dry-swallowing the pills is harder than it’s ever been with how sore his throat feels. He ends up having to chew a

bite of the granola bar and swallow it down alongside the pills to be able to get it down.

The food hits his hollow stomach hard, sending an uncomfortable pain shooting through him before settling down. He’s not hungry, actually hungry— he feels too hollowed out for that,

like something precious in him has been broken and carved out, too exhausted to even think about going through the motions of life— but he chews mechanically anyways.

“God, you’re soaked,” Dazai mutters to himself, fingers picking at the damp fabric of his shirt, “What did they

do to you?"

The question makes his stomach rise in his throat, squirming nauseous discomfort. It makes him want to /run/.

He knows what happened to him. Knowing the /term/ for it-- waterboarding, declared as cruel and unusual torture almost universally by every major country

that exists today, something that’s considered a /war crime/— doesn’t make it any easier to reconcile. Doesn’t make the fact that the feeling of his wet shirt sticking to his skin makes shivers of fear crawl up his spine. Doesn’t make the raw animalistic instinct of /survival/

any easier to think past.

He doesn’t want to talk about it. Talking about it makes it /real/, makes it visceral, puts it into terms that everybody /knows/ but not many people will /understand/.

It’s not /fair/ that something so terrible can be summed up so neatly in a short,

hideous sentence. How the /fuck/ are words supposed to encapsulate that awful experience?

“Um,” he stalls, blinking away another instinctive round of tears. He /hates/ the idea of water,and he’s honestly /glad/ that Dazai forgot to bring some with him,because he’s half-convinced

he’d be sick at the sight of it, “Can I tell you later?”

Wide-eyed, Chuuya silently begs Dazai not to push the issue. He /will/ talk about it, he swears, just—

Not right now. Not when he /still/ doesn’t feel completely safe, not when he’s only a few stories away from the room

of his nightmares, not when it's still so new and fresh and terrible.

Concern darkens Dazai's eyes, and his eyebrows draw together. He's smart, he can probably put together what happened without Chuuya needing to /explain/ it to him. Maybe he can even empathize. Who knows what

happened to him when he was...in the mafia.

Before Dazai can say anything, the elevator doors are opening again. The lobby outside is empty, perfectly clean and serene. It looks like an office after hours, after all the employees have gone home.

It's creepy, kind of. Unnatural.

It feels /wrong/, and Chuuya creeps silently out into the lobby in response, feeling on edge.

Dazai is right beside him, and he seems torn. He's never more than a step behind, and his hands flutter around Chuuya, like he /wants/ to touch him and help him, but he's not sure if

he's allowed to. His head is also on a swivel, paranoia evident in the way his gaze is constantly searching the lobby for any trace of movement.

Chuuya leaves him to it, his gaze fixed on one point, his entire focus narrowed in on the door. He can see the street outside through

the glass doors, and the sight makes him choke up a little bit.

/Fresh air/. He wants it so bad he can almost taste it, hastening his pace even though his feet are still half-numb and the wet fabric of his jeans rubs the skin on his thighs raw. His shoes make disgusting wet

squishing noises with every step, filthy water oozing up between his toes and making him grimace.

He wants to go home. He wants to /shower/, he wants to curl up in bed, he wants to hug Yoko and Baki and go to /sleep/.

“Here,” Dazai says, catching his attention. In two long

strides he’s ahead of him, pushing open the door for him. He holds out one hand as he passes by him.

In it, is his phone, already pre-dialed with a number Chuuya knows /very/ well.

“Call your sister, let her know you’re okay.”

How does he know Kouyou? Sure, Chuuya’s mentioned

her, but only in terms of ‘his ane-san’ and he /absolutely/ didn’t share her number with Dazai.

How does she even know he was /missing/? He can see the time on the phone screen and it hasn’t even been /twelve/ hours yet. She wasn’t expecting him to call today, so there’s no

way she /should/ know and there’s no way Dazai should’ve been able to tell her—

Unless he used his old mafia contacts to, like, stalk her or something? Get her information with a background check or something? Isn’t that a thing?

Too weary to argue, Chuuya takes the phone from

him and presses dial. If she’s worried, then she deserves a call to reassure her that he’s okay.

Well, mostly, anyways. Okay enough to breathe and walk and mostly function. At least for the moment.

“I’m gonna pick you up,” Dazai warns him, only a few moments before arms come

around his back and under his knees, swooping him up into a bridal carry effortlessly.

Normally, Chuuya might protest, but not today. Now, he just snuggles in close, feeling distantly guilty that he’s getting Dazai’s clothes damp with disgusting water.

He’s warm, much warmer

than the cool air outside, much warmer than the freezing damp of his clothes.

Maybe he shouldn’t do this, but Chuuya doesn’t /care/ right now. He blindly seeks out comfort, tucking his nose against Dazai’s neck and making a space for himself under his chin. It’s the first time

he’s felt like he can take an untainted breath since he got kidnapped, a sweet sense of safety and relief swirling through him.

It gives him the strength to press call on the phone and bring it to his ear.

It only rings twice before the dial tone cuts off sharply.

“Dazai?”

...How does she know Dazai? She sounds /familiar/ with him, and she obviously knows this is his phone number if she's starting with that greeting.

"No," he mutters, curling closer as Dazai speeds up, speed-walking away from the building. The wind makes him shiver. "It's me."

"Chuuya?! Oh my god, are you okay? What happened? Where are you, I'll come there right now--"

Chuuya cuts her off, because as much as he wants to reassure her and make sure she's not worrying--

He is /not/ up for handling smothering right now, especially by more than one

person. Dazai is /sure/ to smother him a bit, or at least Chuuya is assuming he will, and while they both mean well, it's /too much/.

He just--

He needs some /time/, to process and to handle what happened, and to come to terms with it.

"I'm okay," he says, filling his voice

with as much conviction he can muster, making sure none of the shaking comes through. Kouyou's /stubborn/, just like everyone else in the family, and if she thinks he's lying, she'll come to check up on him whether he likes it or not. "I'm with Dazai. He'll take care of me."

The arms around him squeeze, a silent confirmation and reassurance.

They're almost two blocks away from the building now, and getting farther fast. With how late it is-- in the middle of the night, judging by how dark it is and how high the moon is-- this part of the city is

nearly completely empty. From what Chuuya can tell, it's the business sector, where most of the offices can be found.

The lack of people means Dazai can take advantage of his long stride, hurrying out of the district. Hopefully, he parked his car somewhere nearby, because

the idea of taking the train right now is nauseating.

He doesn't want anyone else to look at him, with how bad he must look.

There's a moment of silence, where he can tell that Kouyou is clearly disapproving. "Are you /sure/ you're okay? I can come pick you up, or take you to

a hospital?"

"I just have a few bumps and bruises, so I don't need a hospital yet. I'll let you know if anything changes," Chuuya relents, fingers tightening in Dazai's jacket.

He takes a turn, down a narrow alleyway that's almost hidden between two larger buildings. It looks

abandoned, but Chuuya can just barely make out the shape of Dazai's car near the back. A decent hiding place, if a little half-assed. Anyone could've come down here.

Switching his weight to one arm, Dazai manages to unlock the car with one hand. Opening the door is a little more

difficult, and he has to eventually set Chuuya down on his feet so he can slide into the passenger seat.

The car is warm and safe compared to the outside. He curls up in the seat, kicking his disgusting shoes off. They flop wetly to the floor, but its better than wearing them.

When Dazai shuts his door and starts to walk around to his side of the car, Chuuya takes his chance to ask Kouyou, "How do you know Dazai?"

It's not that he's /hiding/ the fact that he asked, he just wants to hear her side of the story first.

There's a long beat of silence,

like she's deciding what to say. She /always/ does this when she doesn't want to answer a question. When she's deciding if she's going to /avoid/ it or not.

"It's...best if I tell you in person."

Miraculously, a sluggish spike of irritation crawls through him. He's sick and

tired of everybody keeping /secrets/. Giving themselves outs by saying he didn't need to /know/, or that is was /safer/ if he didn't know, or that they were scared of his reaction.

He's fucking /tired/ of being left in the dark and inevitably suffering the price for it.

"Fine,

whatever," he snaps, "I'll let you know if anything changes."

Then he smashes the end call button before she can respond, feeling a vindictive satisfaction at having the last word. If she doesn't want to tell him, there's no need to talk to him at /all/.

The driver side door

opens then, allowing Dazai to slide in and start the car. As soon as the car is running, he’s putting it in drive and pulling away.

Chuuya is grateful he seems as eager to leave as he is. If he doesn’t see that damn building ever again, it’ll be too soon.

“Do you want me to

take you to your sister or do you want me to take you home— our hou—my house?”

Dazai’s question is quiet and unsure, an uncharacteristic show of insecurity. Chuuya’s noticed that even if he /feels/ unsure, he will often cover it up with bold words or actions so no one looks too

deeply.

So the fact that his hands are wringing the steering wheel in rhythmic, self-soothing motions and he stumbles over the end of his question is telling. He’s /nervous/.

He also has no reason to be, but Chuuya doesn’t have the energy to bring up their past fight and

everything that happened before.

“Take me home,” he mutters, resting his head against the headrest. He’s so /tired/, and his eyes want to close but—

The sight of complete and utter darkness is /scary/. He can’t see what’s coming, can’t prepare. Can’t protect himself if he

closes his eyes.

His answer is a deep exhale from Dazai, the turn of the car onto the road that leads them home.

After a few moments, the curiosity gets the best of Chuuya and he /has/ to ask. “How do you know my sister? How do you know where she lives and her number?”

More

silence, and Chuuya swears he’s going to /scream/ if Dazai pushes the question off again.

In the drivers seat, he looks hesitant, fingers drumming on the wheel. “I will tell you, if you want,” he eventually settles on, “but I do want to say that you’ll probably want to hear it

from her.”

That...doesn’t sound good. But either way, she /had/ her chance to tell him herself,and she pushed it off. He’s /tired/ of respecting people’s privacy, only to get taken advantage of.

“Just tell me.”

Another deep breath. “Your sister is the boss of the Port Mafia.”

What? That’s /wrong/, that doesn’t make any sense. She’s an /accountant/ at Mori Corporations. She went to /college/ for it, she’s the head of her department and has her own employees. There’s no way she’s—

“That’s not funny,” Chuuya says sternly, hoping that Dazai’s joking or

lying or just /misinformed/ because—

There’s no /way/ his sister has been lying to him for /years/. There’s no way she would hide something this big, this life-changing from him. There’s no way she would go as far as to fake company meetings and vacations and a /degree/.

Dazai shoots a look in his direction, one that is quietly sympathetic. “It’s not a joke, chibi. Kouyou has been the head of the Mafia for almost four years now.”

That’s—

/That’s/—

What the /fuck/?

Chuuya presses his hands to his eyes, trying to reconcile the idea of his

sister— his sister, who practically raised him and can’t cook and has /pink/ bath towels and lavender-scented candles— is the /leader/ of one of the bloodiest organizations today.

He doesn’t want to believe it, but Dazai doesn’t have a reason to lie about that. It doesn’t gain

him anything and—

Despite everything, Chuuya still trusts him, and he doesn’t think he’s lying.

It doesn’t make sense any other way. That story explains perfectly why Kouyou knew Dazai, how he had her phone number, and why she knew he was missing.

“Did you know? That she

was my sister?”

He doesn’t want to think it but—

What if this was Dazai’s plan? Getting close to him? Chuuya doesn’t know how that’d /work/, but it’s a /big/ coincidence for the ‘Demon Prodigy’ to somehow end up dating the little brother of the leader of the Mafia.

Maybe too

much of a coincidence.

“No, not until a few hours ago. I’ve never met her until today, and both of your records had been scrubbed thoroughly. I was just as shocked as everyone else,” Dazai responds, voice sincere.

“Why did you meet her today? What changed?”

Thé look on

Dazai’s face implies that he /should/ know the answer already, and he shouldn’t have to spell it out for him. “You went /missing/, Chuuya, and I couldn’t find you on my own. I needed help.”

Oh. That makes sense, and it’s /sweet/ in a way. Chuuya knows his past with the Mafia

probably isn’t clear-cut, dry or easy to handle, based on what he’s mentioned of it before.

It makes a spark of warmth bloom in his chest to realize how far Dazai would go for him.

Chuuya lets more silence fall, unsure of what to say or think or feel. He’s swinging between

incensed betrayal and /hurt/ and indignation, trying to understand why no one ever trusts him enough to /tell/ him important things, and sheer, apathetic exhaustion.

Luckily, the car ride home passes by in a blur. It’s mostly silent in the car, beyond the sound of the heater

running full blast. Even the seat warmers are on to their max setting, something that usually makes Chuuya feel like his ass is getting fried—

But now, it barely seems to make a dent in the ice that seems to spread all the way down to his soul.

Eventually he has to crack a

window when the smell of the foul water heating up begins to waft through the car. It makes his nose wrinkle with disgust, and his eyes prick with tears.

He’s such a disgusting mess right now, and he /loathes/ it. He wants nothing more than a shower and clean clothes.

When

they finally arrive home, Dazai parks the car in the driveway and is the first one out of the car.

Unbuckling his seatbelt takes more energy than Chuuya thought it would, the button more stiff than he remembers. By the time he gets it undone, he feels like he’s about to /cry/

with how weak his body feels. Like it’s about to give out at any moment.

It’s nearly 4a.m now, which means that he’s been awake for almost twenty hours, not including the time he spent knocked out. It’s a record since he got sick, and he can feel the exhaustion weighing on him

like a physical thing, dragging at his arms and legs and pressing down on his chest.

Dazai pulls him out of the car when Chuuya is too slow to do it himself, leaving his shoes on the floor. He hikes him into his arms again, taking all his weight and supporting him so that he

doesn’t have to find the strength to walk himself.

Chuuya leans into him easily, hooking his chin over his shoulder and relaxing. His head still hurts, but it’s slowly starting to fade away, now that he’s taken some pain meds.

Yoko greets them at the front door, more excited

than she’s ever been, jumping and barking and wagging her tail so furiously that her entire body shakes with it.She nearly knocks Dazai over entirely when she jumps up to shove her nose into Chuuya’s back, sniffing loudly.

For the first time since everything happened, he smiles.

It’s small and fragile, barely there, but it /is/ a smile.

Yoko’s such a /good/ girl, it’s impossible not to love her. Even when Chuuya feels /awful/, he always knows that at least Yoko will love him unconditionally, and she won’t ever fight with him or leave him.

He always

has Yoko. Baki, too, even though he hasn’t seen him yet, and Kozo. They won’t /ever/ hurt him.

Dazai takes him up to the master bathroom, cautiously making his way through the house with Yoko and Kozo practically stepping on his heels. Baki meows loudly when they come into the

bedroom, standing up on the pillow he's claimed for himself and arching his back in clear invitation for pets.

He's still curled on Chuuya's side of the bed, in the same spot he would be if Chuuya were sleeping in it. Like he was waiting for him to come home and take his spot.

(In that moment, Chuuya realizes something that will stay with him for the rest of his long life--

Home isn't the house you return to at the end of the day. /Home/ are the people and things that love you and wait for you to come back, no matter how long it takes.)

Dazai lowers

him to his feet in the bathroom, slowly enough that Chuuya can find his balance before he pulls away.

"Do you want to shower?" He asks quietly, unobtrusive. He hasn't made a single comment about the /smell/ or the way he looks, and he doesn't put pressure of him. If Chuuya said

no, he's sure Dazai would just help him into a clean set of clothes without a single word of complaint.

Except Chuuya /does/ want to shower. He's filthy and achy, and frozen to the bone. Some parts of him have been rubbed raw by his damp clothing, and he doesn't even /want/ to

know what his hair looks like right now. His face feels gritty and he needs to wash the phantom feeling of wet cloth off his face--

There's just one problem, one that he /should've/ expected:

Water.

Just the thought of water pouring down on him makes him shiver in cold fear.

The thought of being /alone/ in there, water pouring down on him, over him, soaking him, and the lights will be on, but he has to close his eyes sometime, cold dark alone wet /pain/--

"Um," he says, stalling, trying to breathe through the rising tightness in his chest, "Will you

come in with me?"

It's not a /sexual/ thing, he just doesn't want to be /alone/. He doesn't want to be left by himself in there with the /water/.

Kneeling in front of him so he can peel off his socks, Dazai looks up at him. He looks concerned at first, slightly confused, like

he doesn't know why he's asking. Like he thinks he's asking for the wrong reasons.

Chuuya gives him a pleading look, silently begging him not to ask and not to refuse.

Whatever expression he's wearing must be enough to convince him, because he's giving a slow nod after a

moment. Thankfully he doesn't /say/ anything, because Chuuya has no idea what he'd say to any questions right now.

His clothes are peeled off carefully. It's a struggle to shrug out of his wet shirt, and his jeans resist Dazai's fingers pulling on the waistband, but eventually

he's standing there naked and shivering, arms wrapped around himself. Vulnerable, all his defenses stripped away.

Dazai reaches over to turn the shower on so it can warm up before he takes his own clothes off.

For once, Chuuya curses the excellent water pressure because the

sound of the water hitting the tile hard makes him flinch. It sounds like rain, sounds like water falling, dripping, crashing onto the floor--

Grabbing the sleeves, Dazai shrugs off his coat. It's long and pitch-black, nothing Chuuya has ever seen before. It also looks the

slightest bit too small, straining over his shoulders as he pulls it off.

His heavy, knee-high boots are next. Dazai props up his foot on the toilet seat, reaching into the boot and extracting a long, sheathed knife.

Was that in there the /whole time/? Not only did Dazai bring

at /least/ a pair of guns-- probably more, because the sound the coat made as he draped it over the laundry basket was /heavy/-- but a knife in his boot too? Was he preparing for /war/?

Watching Dazai-- this Dazai, which seems like a /different/ Dazai than the one he's used to--

get undressed is a /process/. He's got weapons that Chuuya hasn't even /heard/ of, tucked into places he never would've suspected. His boots have to be unzipped and then unlaced before they can be pulled off. The holsters around his thighs and hips need to be pulled off before he

can get to his belt. Same thing with the holsters under his arms.

Dazai seems practiced, efficiently getting everything off while Chuuya just...

Stares.

It's like something out of a /Yakuza/ movie, the protagonist armed to the teeth with knives and guns and explosives, and

every weapon Chuuya can think of, stashed into tiny places.

It's ridiculous. It's unnecessary. It's /overboard/. It's...

Also kind of hot?

Obviously Chuuya isn't really thinking about /sex/ right now, but the way Dazai casually flips one of the bigger knives and catches it

by the hilt so he can set it on the counter is attractive. The confident way he handles /everything/, and the neat lines he makes with the weapons on the bathroom counter is also surprisingly endearing.

Even with the array of knives, Chuuya still doesn't feel a hint of nerves

about it. He knows Dazai would never intentionally hurt him, not like /that/.

Finally Dazai's just as naked as he is and stepping into the shower. He turns around, so the water is pouring down on his back and holding his hand out to Chuuya in invitation.

He can't put it off

any longer. Can't distract himself anymore with other thoughts.

He has to get in.

The /worst/ part is that he wants to. Logically, he does, and he /knows/ its not the same, and he can fucking see and taste and hear and /know/ it's not the same as what happened to him.

There's

no cloth over his face here, no aching coldness, no scrape of metal buckets with disgusting water sloshing in them.

It's different. He /knows/ that.

But his body doesn't seem to get the message, because his heart is thundering in his chest, pulse racing like it's trying to

outrun the fear and panic rising inside him. He's broken out in a cold sweat, shivering faintly, eyes locked on the drops of water hitting the tile. His knees feel weak, like they might give out from underneath him.

"Are you coming in?"

Dazai looks /concerned/, eyebrows bunched

together. His hair is wet now, plastered to his forehead, water dripping down his features. His hand is still outstretched, waiting for him to grab it.

Gritting his teeth, Chuuya forces himself forward a step. Two steps, three, all the way to the edge of the shower, where the

step lowers down into the shower and the water pools briefly before draining back down.

He's not going to let this /rule/ him. He might have been waterboarded and it was /awful/, but he's not going to afraid of his own damn shower. He's not a /coward/, he /will/ push through

this.

The air is hot and humid, steam swirling through the air. It makes it hard to breathe, just slightly, and sticks to his face. It makes him shiver, and despite the fact that he knows it's warm, it feels too cold in here.

Reaching out, he takes Dazai's hand. Their fingers

slide together, wet, before Dazai squeezes and grabs on tight.

He doesn't pull him into the shower so much as he urges him in, providing a barrier with his body that blocks most of the oncoming water. It gives Chuuya a little space to curl into, pressing close until their skin

is sliding together, wet and warm and comforting.

It gives him the time to get used to the idea of being /wet/ without being in pain,letting his heartrate slowly calm. Dazai's hands have come down on his shoulders, slowly and gently enough that Chuuya could protest if he wanted.

When he doesn't, his fingers get to work at slowly massaging the knots out of his shoulders.

It's mindlessly comforting, touch and affection and warmth. Pushing the memories out of his skin, washing away the remnants from his body, revealing the person he was /before/ today.

Rubbing away the pain and fear, and replacing it with safety and security.

Taking a deep breath, Chuuya lets his hand slide outward, fingers coming underneath the spray of water. The initial sensation-- water pouring down on him-- makes him flinch in response, fighting the urge

to withdraw and /hide/.

Just as quickly though, he's registering the differences of it. The water is /warm/, not cold. It leaves him feeling clean afterwards, not gritty with filth. It's clear and with the ceiling light, it looks almost golden.

It's not the same, not at all.

It's just fucking /water/, and that realization shouldn't feel so /huge/, but it does.

It's just water.

He lets it run through his palm, down his arm, carving out little paths of cleanliness. It drips off his elbow, lands on his thigh, and when it's finally swirling towards the

drain, it’s muddy-looking and grey with grime.

Chuuya wrinkles his nose. Gross.

There’s a /minor/ setback when Dazai reaches behind him and offers him the washcloth he normally uses to scrub himself off. The sight of it makes Chuuya’s pulse skyrocket back into panicked racing,

and he shrinks backward, grimacing.

“No,” he says, firm, digging for the /anger/ beneath all the pain and misery, fighting the shudders that want to crawl down his spine. “Not the washcloth. I want the scrubby thing.”

For the first time, Dazai isn’t amused by his refusal to

call the loofah by its proper name, and silently swaps them out. He hasn’t said anything, but by the pained look in his eye and the twist of remorse in his expression, he’s probably already figured out what happened.

Good. If he /knows/, then Chuuya doesn’t have to tell him. He

doesn’t have to put it into neat, horrible little words that will never able to capture the /experience/. He doesn’t have to /acknowledge/ it, and he can just move on without that.

It’s fine, he reasons, lathering up the loofah with his strongest-smelling body wash. He has

quite the little collection now, and Dazai has even installed one of those shower baskets that attach to the wall, so he can store his soaps in it.

The smell is cherry blossoms, almost too sweet. He doesn’t use it often, because it’s a /strong/ smell that lingers in the shower