Thread by @asvndre

The room is cold. Not because of the temperature— Osamu knows it’s always been a balmy 30 degrees Celsius at all times because his father is from Hokkaido and it’s left him with a general dislike of the /cold/ that drives him to keep his office warm at all times—but because of

the /circumstances/.

Osamu's eyes watch the twirl of the knife in his fathers hand, mesmerized by the spin. Through the fingers, twist of the wrist to bring the hilt spinning over his knuckles, another twist to bring it swinging back down, the momentum caught and maintained by

his thumb and index finger pinching the blade, repeating the cycle again, spinning over and over and over again.

It's a display of unconscious skill as much as it is a /threat/, because Dazai Kazuki's eyes never /once/ leave the woman sitting to Osamu's left, his brown eyes--

normally a /lighter/ shade of golden, especially around his family-- as cold and hard as whiskey-ice, unforgiving and wrathful.

The silence between the group is /deafening/, and Osamu suffers with it. It weighs on him like a boulder, crushing his lungs beneath the heaviness of

his own body, his skin crawling with nerves.

He wishes his father would just /yell/. Or that his mother, perched on the desk only a few feet away, would /cry/, or that knife would stop /spinning/ or that someone would say something. /Anything/. It doesn't /matter/, he just needs

it to /stop/.

His tongue is tied in knots, unable to form words, and he can't even /look/ at his parents. He can only sit there and silently /beg/ for this to be over.

Sasaki, on the other hand, looks nervous but--

Subtly /victorious/. She's gotten what she wanted, and she

knows it and now--

They all have to deal with the fallout.

Kazuki is the first one to break the silence. "How long have you been seeing my son?" He asks, deceptively calm.

That's the danger with him. You'll never know how /angry/ he is until he decides it's the perfect time to

/strike/ and by then?

It's far too late to stop it.

Sasaki blinks at him, her hands folded primly on her lap. She's dressed for the meeting in a prim pantsuit and /heels/, like she's a businesswoman negotiating a /deal/. Even her hair is slicked back into a neat bun, and Osamu

wouldn't even be surprised if she pulled out a /folder/ with a printed out powerpoint presentation on the pros and cons. "/Seeing/ is a strong word, but we met about four months ago."

Lie. It was five months, weeks before Sasaki's father-- the saiko-komon, one of Osamu's fathers

most /trusted/ advisors-- was caught feeding faulty information to the boss in exchange for money and the promise of /power/ once one of the lesser gangs attacked the Port Mafia.

Unfortunately for /everyone/, the Boss is /just/ as smart as all the whispered rumors on the streets

say he is, and it wasn't long before he realized what was happening.

And now they're /all/ in an awkward position, because being a traitor to the Mafia is a crime punishable by death. Most of Sasaki's family is already locked in the dungeons-- besides her coward father, who is

running for his /life/ somewhere in Tokyo--awaiting their execution. Teeth to the curb, three shots to the chest, a brutal taking of justice.

The only one who won't be dragged out into the streets to be made an example of is /Sasaki/.

And all because of the white pregnancy test

with it's twin damning blue lines sitting on the desk in between them all.

Osamu's mother, a tall, elegant woman with long pitch-black hair, leans closer to Sasaki. She's always been the one with a /temper/ between his two parents, so it's with no amount of /kindness/ when she

snarls in Sasaki's face. "You don't seem to be taking this /seriously/. Do you think you won't /die/ for this? My son is /sixteen/."

Sasaki presses back in her chair, rightfully terrified. Despite the way her head is bowing underneath the weight of Sonoko's glare, and the way

her fingers are clenched together so tightly her knuckles are turning white, her voice somehow manages to still be /stubborn/. "He's /seventeen/, and I didn't /know/ he was sixteen when we met-- and you /can't/ kill me, because it would mean killing your /grandchild/."

Wrong

answer.

/Crack!/

Sonoko /slaps/ her,so hard that it makes Osamu jump, flinching away automatically.

He's been /jumpy/ lately, doesn't know why. Flinching at odd sounds, feeling like his skin is crawling unpleasantly whenever someone /touches/ him, always feeling like he needs

to /hide/ whenever someone else is in the room with him.

"/Liar/," Sonoko hisses, and even though she's not mad at /him/--or maybe she /is/, oh god, maybe she's mad at /him/--, the /wrath/ in her voice still has Osamu cringing away. "You are /twenty-one/, Sasaki. I don't believe

that you don't know a /child/ when you see one. Not to mention that you /knew/ of Osamu, years before you even met. Don't act like you're not a /predator/."

Sasaki sniffles,one of her hands coming up and cupping her reddened cheek. Her head is turned in Osamu's direction, and he

can feel her eyes boring into the side of his face like she's begging him to /defend/ her--

And he /can't/. Not only because his tongue feels thick in his mouth and his mind feels blurry-numb, all his thoughts wiped messily away--

But because she's /lying/.

She knew. She knew

that he was young. She knew he was a virgin, she /knew/ they weren't supposed to do anything together--

And he won't say he's /blameless/ in this encounter, because he never told her no, but it was so /hard/ to tell her no. She was /always/ showing up whenever he wasn't with his

parents or his guards.

He’s always been a /lonely/ child— being the son of the Boss of the Port Mafia, which has never been a safe or child-friendly environment— and at first it was /exciting/ to get the attention of someone older than him. He was always /shy/, never good at

making friends because—

He /talked/ too much. He talked about things people his age didn’t care about or didn’t know. He wasn’t allowed to go to public school, he wasn’t allowed to go to local parks without a guard, he wasn’t allowed to be a /normal/ kid because he /wasn’t/ a

normal kid.

And that was /fine/, but as much as he loved his parents—and his parents friends— they weren’t his /friends/.

So when Sasaki started coming around, showing /interest/ in him, listening when he talked, /wanting/ him—

It felt /nice/. Uncomfortable, sometimes, but

Sasaki it was /normal/ to be uncomfortable with your first girlfriend, and Dazai didn’t /know/ any better, so he /believed/ her and just blindly went along with what she was saying.

It was their secret. It was something he was supposed to keep all to himself because if his

parents knew that he was /dating/ someone that was a /lesser family/ than his, he might get in /trouble/. They’d break them up, and then he’d be lonely again, and all the adults in his life would look at him /weird/.

And it was so /easy/ to follow her lead. He’s been following

his parents directions /forever/, it was just so /easy/ to do what he was told.

She /cried/ when he didn’t and that was terrifying in itself because his mother /always/ told him he should never make a lady or his partner cry.

So he did whatever he could to make her /happy/.

And at first, it was /easy/. It was /good/. She wanted to make out and hold hands, and he wanted that /too/, because he never had a girlfriend before and it was /exciting/.

And then she wanted to touch /him/, and that was—

Uncomfortable at first, but good at the end.

Then she

wanted him to touch /her/, and then she wanted /sex/, and it was all just so /normal/, of course he felt nervous and /weird/, she would take /care/ of him.

Out of all of this, the thing he regrets the most is trustingly using the condoms /she/ procured, not knowing there was

holes poked through it.

And it’s all led to /this/.

A positive pregnancy test, and Sasaki begging for her life from his /wrathful/ parents, and him unable to say or feel anything.

The room is cold.

His seventeenth birthday was not even a month ago, and it feels like his life

is already over.

His parents must /hate/ him right now. He can’t even /look/ at them, staring blankly at the wall behind his father, too afraid to /see/ how angry they must be at him right now.

He’s realized too /late/ that it was all just a trap. An adult he was supposed

to trust, an adult that was /supposed/ to keep him safe, instead /used/ him to get what she wanted out of him, regardless of the cost.

And he /fell/ for it, so fucking easily.

It’s the first time he realizes that even the people closest to him will hurt him for their own gain.

Its the first time he realizes that not /only/ does he have to protect himself from his fathers enemies—

But also his /friends/.

“It wasn’t on /purpose/,” Sasaki sniffles, evidently giving up on the idea of Osamu defending her. “It was an /accident/— and he never said /no/.”

This time it's Kazuki who speaks up, the blade in his hand whirling faster and faster. It's the only outward sign of his agitation, because he's otherwise sitting still and straight. "He is not old enough to say /yes/. Not to you."

Dazai fidgets, the squirmy, uncomfortable

in his stomach rising so quickly he feels like he might /choke/ on it.

Some part of him wants to protest, because he's /not/ a child. He's seventeen, he's been taught for /years/ how to defend himself. How to shoot guns, how to strategize, how to throw a bunch.

He's nearly two

meters tall.

He could've said no. He could've /enforced/ his no. But he didn't.

/Why/ didn't he? Why didn't he just say /no/?

The knife gets driven into the wooden desk with a sharp sound, making Osamu flinch again.

"You've signed your death warrant," Kazuki tells Sasaki,

firmly and without any chance for negotiation. "I hope you enjoy the next nine months."

The flash of his teeth isn't /kind/-- it's a threat display, predator to prey. "It will be your last. Now get out."

Sasaki doesn't have time to protest before Sonoko is taking her by the arm

and forcibly dragging her from the room. Osamu's mother is /not/ afraid to get her hands dirty when she needs to, and her face is gleefully wrathful as she tosses Sasaki out into the hall to be caught and escorted away by the guards.

She'll be monitored closely for the next nine

months, because while Sasaki is a /monster/--

Dazai's--despite /everything/-- have always been extremely protective of their blood, and the life growing inside her is innocent.

(For now.)

When his mother comes back, she perches on the edge of Osamu's chair, the tips of her

fingers achingly gentle as she brushes his bangs out of his eyes. Her voice, when she speaks, is far from the snarling rage it was before, soft and comforting. "Are you okay, guppy?"

Somehow, the corner of Osamu's mouth manages to twitch up at the nickname. His mother tells him

/all/ the time how much he liked to take baths as a kid-- "like a little fish, always in the water"--and somehow the nickname managed to stick for years.

He clears his throat, but his voice still comes out small. "Yeah."

And he must be. He's not /physically/ hurt, so that means

he’s /okay/, right?

Sure, he’s feeling crushed by a feeling that tastes like morphine and feels like graveyard dirt, but that’s just because he’s had a bad day. Too much bad news too quickly, and the thought of being a /father/ looming over him like a specter of death but-

He’s /fine/.

He has to be. He doesn’t know how to handle anything else. Doesnt know how to put anything into words or how to /deal/ with it or how to ask for /help/.

With a quiet sigh, his father comes around the desk and crouches before him.

Kazuki is an imposing man, well

over two meters too and /broad/— Osamu takes after him in more way than one— and absolutely covered in tattoos from his ankles to his /neck/, patches of intimidating black ink peaking out from underneath his suit. His eyes can be pitch black or a golden-brown, depending on his

mood. He’s a weapon in and of himself, cut with muscle and skill, and armed to the teeth at any point in time.

But for his /family/, he can be a surprisingly gentle man, one that used to let Osamu color in his tattoos when he was younger, and whose main mission in life seems to

be keeping his wife /happy/.

There are very few people who would ever describe Dazai Kazuki as a /kind/ man— but everyone know thats he’s /dedicated/ and loyal to a fault.

“It’s okay if you’re not,” he says, resting a gentle hand on Osamu’s wrist, comforting.

(There are many

regrets Kazuki has in his life. Not taking a deal he later learned would be /better/, not telling his mother he loved her enough, being too abrupt and harsh on his son.

There are many things he would change, but the thing he will regret the /most/, the thing he will regret for

the rest of his life, even more than he will regret the decision to take the /car/ on a dark, stormy night four years from now—

It will always be that he didn’t /save/ Osamu. He didn’t notice, he wasn’t /there/ for him, he didn’t protect him. And because of his inaction, the

only thing he can do is /watch/ as his son slowly crumbles under the ripple effect of what happened to him.

He can only watch and /mourn/ as his son grows from solemn, lonely but /happy/ boy, to a man who only breathes because the living won’t let him go.)

Six months later,

tw mentioned suicide attempts

Sonoko will walk in on Osamu in a tub full of his own blood.

It’s his first attempt ever, the first in a long string of desperate attempts to /escape/.

Earlier that day, Sasaki has pestered Osamu into coming with her to a doctors appointment,

where he heard his/son’s/ heartbeat for the first time and found himself so /disgusted/ by the sound of it he couldn’t bear to live in the same world as it anymore.

His mother never looked at him the same after that,and perhaps that hurt worst of all.

Three months after /that/,

Shuuji Tsushima— Osamu /insisted/ he did not receive his name— is born. It is a cold day, January 24.

He is born an orphan, the son of a dead woman walking and the legacy of a man who carries graveyard between his teeth.

It is not the beginning or the end of things.

——— +

—— SEVENTEEN YEARS LATER ——

/Knock, knock!/

Eyes cracking open, Dazai stares at the ceiling and wonders /why/. Why can he not catch a break for an /hour/. He specifically asked /not/ to be disturbed, because he's been working his /ass/ off for the last few weeks and he

/deserves/ to have a little break.

Just a /little/ fun and enjoyment, and maybe even a little /sleep/,if he's lucky and his chronic insomnia decides to give him a break.

But not today, it seems.

He barely manages to catch the pink-haired head that's been bobbing up and down on

his cock for the last thirty minutes before she pulls off.

"No, no," he murmurs, threading his fingers through Yuan's hair and pulling it back so he can see her eyes. They're shiny-wet with tears, a reflex from having him so deep down her throat, and he /adores/ the sight of

them. "Don't stop. I'm close."

He reaches out, rubbing his thumb over the wetness gathered under her eyes and gathering it up. Bringing it to his mouth, he flashes her a wicked grin before licking it clean with a long, indulgent swipe of his tongue.

She swallows hard, eyes

fixed on the motion, and the pleasure makes him sigh. He can

feel the orgasm beginning to tighten in his stomach, spurred on by how /good/ Yuan is, and how tired he is.

"Shh," he warns her with a wink, pushing her head back down and clearing his throat to call out to the person

on the other side of the door

“Come in."

Yuan is small enough that she can fit completely under his office desk between his legs. It's a position they've /both/ taken advantage of, having her secretly under the desk warming his cock during his meetings, because the thought of

being caught is /exciting/.

The door opens and Dazai's secretary-- Hana, a shy woman who gets paid /way/ too much to question the antics of her boss, even if they don't always seem strictly /legal/-- peaks her head in.

"Sorry to interrupt, Dazai-sama. I know you said not to be

disturbed, but Mori Ougai from the Diet is here. He wishes to speak with you, and he won't leave until he does," she says, sounding /so/ apologetic that Dazai almost feels bad.

He can be a /ruthless/ boss,but he doesn't want to scare his innocent employees to death.

"Thank you,

Hana," he murmurs, pushing Yuan's head down until he can feel her start to /choke/ and her hand clenches on his thigh. "Tell him I'll be with him in...fifteen minutes."

It's a bit of a power play to make Mori /wait/. The politician /might/ have a lot of power in the legal realms

of the world, and even more sway with the amount of money he has--

But here, in Dazai’s office, he's just a paying customer, beholden to the whims of someone much more powerful, and /meaner/ than he is.

Hana nods, taking her escape and firmly shutting the door after her.

After

the threat of being heard is gone, Yuan is redoubling her efforts on his cock. She's always been /exemplary/ at meeting expectations, and the threat of a time limit only spurs her on, so it’s only a matter of minutes before Dazai’s cock twitches hard along her tongue and he’s

hissing and groaning through his orgasm.

It’s not his /best/ orgasm, but it does the trick, and he practically melts into his chair, all his muscles limp and exhausted.

God, he’s /so/ ready to sleep. He’s not even sure the last time he napped was. A few days ago, maybe?

Yuan pulls off him with a gasp, her voice rough from having his cock so far down her throat. It’s the only obvious sign that she /struggles/ to take him,even as practiced as she is.

With a hum, he pulls her up, wrapping his fingers around her throat with careless possessiveness

and leans in to lick the taste of the condom out of her mouth.

She melts into him easily, slim legs bracketing his hips. Normally he likes to make their meetings much more /even/—even if this is a business exchange at heart—by fingering, fucking or /eating/ her until she cries,

but today he doesn’t have the time.

So instead he just passes her her /usual/ charge, along with a hefty tip, and makes a mental note to visit her again soon. She’s his /favorite/, lately.

“Thank you, love,” he purrs into her mouth, giving her one last kiss.

She goes to sit

on his desk without complaint, fixing up her hair and makeup in the little mirror she always brings with her. With her stance, it’s /glaringly/ obvious that she’s not wearing underwear.

/Tease/.

She watches out of the corner of her eye as Dazai ties up the condom and tosses it

into the nearby trash. “You know, you don’t /have/ to wear those anymore. I’m clean and I told you I was on birth control now, so there’s no reason for you to wear them. Especially when I’m just sucking you off.”

With a few tissues, Dazai cleans up the lingering wetness on his

cock before tucking it back into his pants. “You know how I feel about condoms.”

Which /isn’t/ true, no one knows how he feels because he refuses to ever give the feeling meaning by putting into /words/ but—

She, just like all the other sex workers and one-night stands he’s

ever had, knows that he has /two/ rules:

1. He will /always/ wear a condom. It doesn’t matter /what/ they’re doing or how clean both of them are. If his cock is out, it’s /wrapped/.

2. He provides the condoms and he /never/ uses one someone /else/ brought. Never.

Yuan blows

a breath at him but doesn’t push it, focusing instead on fixing her skirt so that she looks /innocent/ when she walks out of the office again.

Dazai leaves her to her primping, reaching down into the lowest drawer on his desk. It opens with a key that usually hangs around his

neck, and there’s a false bottom that opens if he presses his finger in the /right/ spot—

And inside is a sleek, /clean/ box of the finest cocaine in /all/ of Japan. The sight of it makes his nostrils flare, hands shaking slightly in anticipation.

He wasn’t expecting to use

today. He was /hoping/ not to, actually, because he's running on fumes and desperate for sleep.

That's why he asked Yuan to visit. A quick blowjob to drain the tension out of him and make him tired before he crashed on the couch in the hidden room attached to his office. A few

hours of sleep--even shitty sleep-- would do him /wonders/.

But since that's not /happening/ anymore, Dazai needs his mind clear and sharp for whatever Mori wants. It's not often that a member of the National Diet visits him in his own territory /or/ speaks with Dazai directly.

It must be /urgent/ and important, and Dazai needs to be at his /best/ to make sure he handles this correctly.

The first line-- long and thick-- goes down like sweet chemical fire, cold-sharpness in his nose and clearing the fog from his brain and the exhaustion from his body.

The second bump jumpstarts his mind, putting his reflexes on a razor-sharp timer. He feels /alert/ now, firmly in his body, his reaction time shorter than ever.

And the third?

Well, that ones for good luck.

Yuan watches him with distracted interest. She's never been one for

drugs, but she /does/ like the /focus/ Dazai gets when he's on them, /especially/ when it's on her but--

He taps her thigh lightly, putting away the box again. "Time for you to go, doll."

Everyone knows that sex work and drugs are flourishing in Japan, especially with the onset

of globalism and tourism, but it might be a little /heavy-handed/ to flaunt that in front of a politician. It's smarter to keep Mori guessing.

Besides, he's sure Yuan doesn't a Diet member to know what she looks like.

"Are you going to see me again?" She asks, gathering up her

skirt and hopping off the desk. She's cleaned herself up now,no hair out of place or even smudged mascara to hint at what they'd been doing just a few minutes before.

Dazai is torn because he /likes/ her, he does--

But she also likes /him/, and he's beginning to think she likes

him /too/ much. Not just for his money or his power or his /skills/ in bed--

But because she wants something /more/ from him. Something committed, something /permanent/.

And Dazai can't give her that. /Won't/ give her that. Won't subject her to the monstrosity that is his life,

that blood and violence that is his career, and the /horror/ that he has become.

He's not good for her. Not good for /anyone/, and he's self-aware enough to realize that.

He smiles at her. "We'll see, sweetheart. Run along now."

With another sidelong glance, she does as she's

told and exits his office.

Dazai gives himself another second to breathe and prepare himself for whatever walks through the door next,and then gives Hana to go-ahead to let Mori in.

The scene when the politician walks in is almost straight out of a movie. A spotless,/expensive/

office, filled sparsely with decor and furniture. It almost looks like Mori’s office at the Diet building, all clean and cold professionalism.

And at the head of it all is /Dazai/, a man that looks /remarkably/ like his predecessor. His hair is messy on top of his head, falling

into his forehead almost boyishly. With how covered he is in bandages,it’s hard to tell how much of his body is covered in mafia-black ink.

He doesn’t /look/ like a dangerous man.

Appearances can be /deceiving/.

Dazai smiles at Mori, reclining back in his chair. The politician

is overdressed for the occasion, in a /prim/ black suit that lends him an air of /importance/ and power. His back is straight, unbending.

And yet he’s come to beg at the seat of Dazai’s power. Quietly corrupt, as most men in power are.

“Hello, Mori. What brings you here today?

It’s too /early/ for your payment, and you never bring it yourself. It’s quite unusual.”

Mori’s been paying for Mafia protection for /years/ now. Nothing he would ever admit to the public, and nothing on /record/ but—

He pays to be protected. For his businesses and his assets

to be /conveniently/ be included in the Mafia's silent reign of territory, for his /house/ to be overlooked when the business of insurance fraud and robberies gets a little too lucrative to ignore, pays to make sure him and his are protected from the Mafia and from anyone else

that might want to harm him.

It costs him a pretty penny, which Dazai lovingly takes advantage of.

Mori sits on the other side of his desk, brushing his tie down to make sure it sits properly. Dazai doesn't know /why/ he's trying so hard. Appearances don't matter here.

Unless

he's trying to /impress/ Dazai, which would make this early Thursday afternoon quite a bit more /fun/.

"Your payment will be on schedule, the same routine we've always done," Mori answers, /slightly/ stiff. He's nervous, a bead of sweat on his temple.

It makes Dazai smile.

"I wanted to discuss something else with you today."

"Oh?" Dazai asks, folding his hands together over his stomach. He cocks an eyebrow,fixing Mori with an unimpressed stare. "Go on, then."

"As you well know, the National Diet will be voting soon to pass the new tariff increase

on imports as well as a more stringent security measures on imports. This will not be good for business."

Dazai knows. The new laws are going to cost him /quite/ a bit in money, and a sharp loss in products. It's going to be tougher than /ever/ to smuggle items across borders,

and even /harder/ to make a profit off sales. He's already had one ship captain on his payroll come to him demanding a raise and threatening not to let his products on board.

He's been working on it silently, trying to use his power to delay the laws until the Diet stopped

convening for the year. It seems like Mori must be reading his mind.

The politician knows it too, offering him a sugar-sweet ad-worthy smile. "The vote looks to be tied right now-- /but/ I can vote to strike it down. At least twelve of my fellow members will follow my lead, and

more will follow /them/. If we come come to a deal today, then I can almost guarantee that the law will not be passed,and you can return to business as normal in a few months."

Admittedly, that's a /good/ bargaining chip. Mori is one of the senior members of the Diet, his career

as a politician going on twenty years strong. He's respected, admired by his peers, well-liked. Everyone in the Diet wants to be on Mori's good side, and he's considered to be one of the /smarter/ members.

So if he votes a certain way, it's almost inevitable that an entire group

will follow his lead.

But that offer doesn't come without a /price/. He narrows his eyes at Mori, noting the way he's still /stiff/, like he's anxious. "What do you in return?"

A slight breath for courage, and Mori says it bluntly. "I want personal protection for my daughter."

That is a /hefty/ price indeed. The Mafia isn't in the /business/ of personal protection. They aren't bodyguards or professional hand-holders. They're /violent/ criminals, and while they /can/ be bought, personal protection is a /high/ order.

He arches a brow. "What for? I was

under the impression that no one was causing you problems?"

Since Mori /pays/ for Mafia protection and all his businesses and buildings are in Mafia territory, no one that Dazai controls would dare target him. It'd be a death sentence.

Not many of the other Yakuza clans have

the balls or the /power/ to cause problems on Mafia turf, so it's /strange/ that Mori has been encountering a problem.

"I--," Mori starts, looking briefly frustrated, "I think she has a stalker or something. There have been notes showing up around the house and my work. I've

already taken them to the police, and they can't do anything. Nothing has happened so /far/, but I'd rather be safe than sorry. I think whoever is targeting her is going to strike soon."

Well, stalkers /can/ be dangerous, that's certainly true. Wouldn't want the little brat to

get hurt because of police incompetence, right? "Do you have a picture of her?"

There's a second where Mori eyes him warily, clearly looking for hidden motives.Dazai gives him a benign smile and waits him out.

Eventually, he fishes his wallet out and pulls out a polaroid photo,

sliding it across the desk.

Dazai picks it up and looks, careful not to put his fingerprints on the face of it.

Somehow, he was expecting a /little/ girl, a young child. He personally doesn't keep up on Mori's information, so it's a bit of a shock when he sees a young /woman/.

Short and slim, with red hair that tumbles to her waist. She's dressed plainly,with jeans and a baggy shirt that doesn't quite hide how slender she is,but she still manages to leap out of the picture.

The most /vibrant/ feature is the incredibly grumpy look on her face, scowling

at the cameraman. Like she doesn't /want/ to be photographed.

She's cute, but there's something about her /stance/, the way she's hunched over, and her bangs are falling in her face and the rest of her hair doesn't look like she puts a lot of effort into it--

Something about

her gives Dazai the impression of /profound/ discomfort. Sadness, too, with how big her eyes are, and the way she keeps trying to hide herself away from view.

His thumb brushes over her face, delicately so he doesn't bend the photo. "The Mafia is not your personal bodyguards,"

he reminds Mori, going to push back the photo. "I don't have time to be watching a little girl."

It's tourist season in Japan, which means he's /horribly/ busy. Taking advantage of tourists, selling more product than ever with the influx of people in the city. It's the busiest

time of the year for Dazai.

Mori doesn't take the photo back, leaning forward. His hands,when he lays them on the table, are gripping so hard his knuckles are turning white. "I'd also like to remind you that the current Prime Minister is dying of sickness. Another one will need

to be elected soon, and /I/ will be one of the canidates. If I'm chosen-- which I most likely /will/ be-- then you will have my ear."

Now /that/ is an offer Dazai can't quite pass up. Even if it /is/ slightly ambitious and /risky/ because his win isn't guaranteed, it's still a

/lot/ of power. To have the ear of the minister is more than the Mafia has /ever/ had before.

The Mafia's power mostly lay in underhanded, shady dealings that ignore the legalities of the government, but /this/? Having an /active/ say in what laws get passed, having power over

the /military/, the power of legal action--

It's more power than the Mafia has /ever/ had at their disposal.

Dazai /likes/ power. Likes to be the uncrowned, undisputable /king/ of the world.

He sits back in his chair, thinking it through. Protection is /easy/ in name but

harder in practice. Doubly so when he doesn't know anything about what he's protecting her /from/, and he's assuming that she isn't supposed to know that she's being protected by the Mafia.

"She'll need to be in my care," he decides on eventually, staring steadily at Mori. "I

can provide a safehouse for her, but keeping her in your home will be too much risk. She'll be monitored and you'll receive weekly updates."

Mori stares back at him, lips pressed together. His expression is wavering, like he's suddenly questioning his decision and wondering if

it's really /necessary/.

Understandable. Handing over your child to the Mafia is never without risk and always frightening.

"You /swear/ that if I give you what you want then she'll be safe? We won't end up in a...hostage negotiations situation?"

Dazai smiles. "Of course not."

Dazai Osamu is many things. He is a murderer, a Yakuza boss, someone who indulges a little /too/ much in drugs, a whore, a ruthless businessman, a dead man walking--

But he is not, by nature, a liar. If he gives his world, then he'll keep it. If only because /lying/ is bad for

business.

"Alright then," Mori says,sagging in his seat with relief. "I'm sure it will only take a few weeks to figure out who is targeting her and then I'll be able to bring her back home."

Truthfully, if someone is smart and brave enough to go around Mafia protection to leave

/notes/, as Mori says-- which is an already /ballsy/ move and speaks to an intention for a /longer/, targeted campaign-- Dazai doubts that they'll be found so easily. Or stopped.

But who is he to tell the politician that? Let him think that it'll only be a couple weeks. It

isn't /Dazai's/ prerogative to be /friendly/.

Besides, how else is he going to secure his payment? The current Prime Minister might be /sick/-- lung cancer, he thinks-- but he's not out of the game yet, and it takes /time/ to run an election.

Dazai can take his /sweet time/

tw dead naming / misgendering

helping to find the stalker while waiting for the benefits to roll in. There's no /rush/.

"What's her name, by the way?"

Mori eyes him. "Nakahara Chiyo."

He arches an eyebrow. "Different family names?"

Not entirely uncommon, but still rare in

this day and age. It /used/ to be an attempt at protection by severing the social connection between two people and lessening the chance of someone being used as a revenge plot, but now anyone can just google that sort of information.

This time, Mori's smile turns a little

bittersweet, faded at the edges. "She takes after her mother."

----- +

Three days later finds Chuuya nearly /crying/ with frustration in the mirror.

He's been trying to follow along with one of those youtube tutorials that show you how to style long hair to make it look like

shorter hair and it's /not/ working. For one, his hair is /ridiculously/ long and thick, which makes it a pain to work with even if he did take care of it properly. Which he doesn't, because he /hates/ looking at the length of it and feeling just how /much/ there is of it.

He'd

rather just let it get tangled so much that he had no option than to cut it all off, because /seeing/ it, feeling it, makes him feel /so/ bad.

But he /can't/ do that, because his father threatened to send him to an /all-girls/ private school if he so much as trimmed his hair. He

says Chuuya should be /grateful/ that he has such unique hair and that he inherited it from his mother.

Chuuya would rather shave it all off. His mother would understand, even if he's too /scared/ to tell his father /why/ he wants to cut it off.

So his only option is either

to stuff it all in a beanie so he doesn't have to /look/ at it-- which works fine, most of the time, except it just tangles his hair further and his dad /nags/ him about it-- or trying to style his hair in a way that makes him /feel/ okay when he looks in the mirror but also

doesn't hurt his neck or give him a headache from the weight of his hair.

It's /frustrating/ and every day Chuuya has less energy than the day before to care. Most days it's a struggle to get out of bed with how /heavy/ his body feels.

How /wrong/ it feels, how /ugly/ it is.

"Chiyo! Come down!"

Chuuya /winces/ when he hears his father call out from downstairs. He hasn't told Mori that he picked out a new name yet.

Hasn't told him /anything/, actually, because he knows better than to expect he'd be /accepted/. His father might love him, but by the

way he talks on the TV and his answers on social media--

He does /not/ like gay people. Or transgender people. Or really, anyone that isn't 'normal' in his own view.

And Chuuya's not sure if his love for his child will extend /past/ his hate, but he's too afraid to find out.

Because his dad is the only thing he /has/. He doesn't have any siblings, he graduated high school but he hasn't gone to college yet, doesn't have his /mom/ anymore, he doesn't have a lot of /friends/ because he's sheltered and depressed, has /never/ had a job and doesn't even

know how he would get one. He doesn't even know how to /drive/.

His dad is all he has, and he /wants/ Mori to love him. Even if it hurts sometimes.

A lot of the time.

With a sigh, Chuuya finishes up the braid he was making and pins the end to his head. It's not as nice or as

neat as the person's in the youtube video, but it works. It's also not /obvious/, so Mori will probably just think it's an elaborate hairstyle.

He trots down the stairs to meet his father in the kitchen, greeting him with a slightly-strained smile.

There's a pot of coffee in

the corner, already hot and brewing. Chuuya beelines for it, pouring himself a big cup.

"Oh, /sweetheart/, you shouldn't be drinking coffee so early in the morning. Have you even eaten yet?"

No, and with the way his stomach feels today, he's not going to. "Yeah. Had a snack in

my room."

Mori squint at him suspiciously, trying to catch him in a lie.

Chuuya's been using /that/ lie to get out of eating in front of him too often. He'll have to come up with a new one soon, because if Mori even /suspects/ that he has an eating disorder, he'll probably ship

him off to the nearest asylum.

Which would be /fair/, and caring in a way, but Chuuya can't do that. He can't be 'fixed', he can't be helped, and he doesn't /want/ to.

He just wants his body to be /easier/ to live in, and he's doing what he can to get there.

After a moment,

Mori seems to take him at his word and moves onto a different subject. "Are you ready to go today? Someone should be picking you up soon."

Chuuya frowns into his coffee because the whole situation is confusing as /fuck/. His dad came to him two days ago and said that he was

going to be sent off for a few weeks so he can have better 'security' and more protection.

Which, Chuuya /kind of/ understands, because the weird notes they've been getting and the times the house alarm had gone off in the middle of the night /is/ creepy and scary but--

Mori

didn't tell him /anything/ else. Not where he was going, not how long he was going to be there, not /anything/.

He basically told him not to pack a lot of things-- because he doesn't want to tip off their so-called stalker that he's not going to be here-- and do what he's told.

Which isn't /reassuring/. Sure, Chuuya could probably handle himself fairly well-- he was a brown belt /almost/ about to be promoted to a black belt in Judo before Mori pushed him into dropping out-- but that doesn't mean being dropped off in a random location with a bunch of

strangers he's /supposed/ to trust with his safety isn't /scary/.

"What did you say the company was called again?"He asks,looking at his father over his cup.

The unfortunate thing about Mori is that he has an /excellent/ poker face and it's so hard to tell what he's /thinking/.

It's impossible to tell if he's just placating Chuuya when he says, "Sohgo Security Services."

That /could/ be true-- it's not like Chuuya regularly goes online to check what security services there are in Japan-- but he still finds the whole situation /weird/.

Because doesn't

personal protection mean that bodyguards come to the /house/? Or better alarm systems are installed or even getting guard dogs?

He's never heard of protection that requires someone to /move/ besides witness protection in crime cases. Which is /not/ what is happening.

"Do they

normally do this kind of stuff? Relocating people?"

Mori shrugs, cutting a piece out of his egg and popping it into his mouth. "It's a new protocol, I think."

Something about that feels /off/,but Chuuya doesn't know enough to /argue/.

Besides, he knows his father wouldn't take

no for an answer. Chuuya doesn't /have/ a choice in going, unless he wants to make a huge scene that probably won't change anything either.

He's too tired to make a scene these days. It's easier just to /hide/ and do what he's asked so no one looks at him for long.

"Do you have

your stuff ready?" Mori asks again.

Chuuya nods toward a backpack he stuffed full with all of his necessities. Again, it's /weird/ that he's not allowed to bring an entire suitcase, but his father promised to give him the money to buy anything he needed when he was away. "Yeah."

There’s a knock on the door then, and both of them just /look/ at each other for a moment, because they know that their time is up. None of their neighbors are what you would call /friendly/ and they have no appointments today so—

Whoever is at the door is here for Chuuya.

And it’s weird because—

Chuuya’s never been away from home for that long. He’s been on vacations and sleepovers but home has always /been/ home.

Part of him is excited because he won’t be under the watchful eye of his father, so he won’t constantly have to be putting on this

/act/ being what he thinks he’s supposed to be, always double and triple thinking his moves and actions to make sure he doesn’t give the wrong message because he /doesn’t/ have an explanation for the things he thinks and enjoys and /wants/. Not an explanation he can put into

/words/ easily, not an explanation his father would be /happy/ with, not an explanation he’s still figuring out /himself/.

It’s complicated. And the more he thinks about it and himself, the more convoluted his own relationship with himself gets. It’s hard, being raised a certain

way and realizing...

He might not fit in with that way of living. Not just because he doesn't /like/ it, but because he /can't/.

Mori clears his throat and steps closer. Their family has never been an overly affectionate one, so the most Chuuya gets before he's sent off to the

unknown for an unknown amount of time is a rough squeeze on his shoulder.

"I'll call you," his father says, his expression unreadable.

Somehow, Chuuya can't help but think that this is also a way to get /rid/ of him. A way to get him out of the house and out of sight so Mori

can get on with his life. It's all too /convenient/.

And sure, Chuuya was scared when he came home to the doors being unlocked, but is that really enough to send him into /witness protection/?

Or is there something /deeper/ at work here?

With nothing else to do, Chuuya sighs

and heads over to pick up his stuff. He already /tried/ to talk his father out of sending him, but it didn't work. There's no point in arguing now.

Especially when there's someone waiting outside for him.

When he opens the door, the man on the porch is...older than he expected.

Grey-haired, with his hair slicked back out of his face, and a salt-and-pepper beard. He's wearing a /full/ suit with a cane, and even has a /monocle/ over his left eye.

Chuuya feels like he stepped back in time, staring at him. He's never met /anyone/ that looked like they

belonged thirty years ago.

The man has a cane with a dragon figure as the top, and somehow it makes him look /imposing/ rather than weak.

"Hello, Nakahara-kun," the man says, overly polite even though Chuuya never introduced himself. "I'm Hirotsu. I'm here to escort you to your

new housing.”

Right. He isn’t exactly what Chuuya would consider to be the stereotypical bodyguard— even though he can see hard muscle underneath the lines of his suit, and his aura seems to come off as /unshakeable/— but maybe he gets the special treatment because he’s the

child of a politician. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Shooting one last look over his shoulder at Mori and finding him already /waving/, Chuuya steps out of the house and follows Hirotsu down the front yard.

Parked by the curb is a sleek back car with black-tinted windows.

There’s no logo or anything printed on it, and it honestly looks like a normal car except for the guard bars installed over the front.

“Where are we going?” Chuuya asks, dragging his feet. He can’t see into the car and it’s making him /nervous/.

Hirotsu reaches the vehicle

first and reaches out to open the back seat for him.

From here, Chuuya can see the legs of someone /else/ in the backseat. He can’t see their face yet, not from this angle.

“We secured an apartment for you. Completely furnished and completely secure. It’s downtown, about an

hour from here. In the middle of Yokohama. You’ll be watches over there by your bodyguards,” Hirotsu says, not looking particularly disturbed by his hesitation. He waves a hand at the inside. “This is Shuuji. He will be the primary one in care of your safety and security.”

At the mention of his name, the man in the car leans forward until Chuuya can see his face. He looks nice /enough/, with light brown eyes and dark hair, but he looks so /young/. Younger than Chuuya even, and he’s not even twenty yet.

There’s also something about his /eyes/, the

way they seem to see /through/ his clothes and the way he /barely/ looks at his face before zeroing in on his chest and thighs, that makes Chuuya want to /squirm/.

Shuuji smiles at him, and it seems /too/ friendly. “Hello, /Chiyo/. It’s so nice to meet you.”

Normally his dead

name doesn’t bother him /that/ much— his mother picked it out, and he still likes it, which is why he chose something that was so close— but the way Shuuji says it, so /slimy/ and overly familiar, makes him want to back away.

“Nakahara is fine,” he says, trying to be as firm as

possible. He's not trying to be /rude/, he just doesn't like being put on the /spot/ like that.

Besides, is his /bodyguard/ supposed to be... /that/ friendly? Isn't there supposed to be a sense of professionalism and restraint?

He's not supposed to feel /glad/ that Hirotsu--

who he doesn't know either but at least he feels /marginally/ comfortable around-- is in the front seat because of how /close/ Shuuji sits next to him in the back.

Suddenly,this feels /less/ like a weird vacation and more of a prison sentence.

"Is this sort of thing normal for

your company?" Chuuya asks, shrugging off his backpack and wedging it between him and Shuuji. He's already pressed up against the car door, but he still feels like he needs a /barrier/ between them. "Helping someone relocate?"

"Oh, yes," Shuuji answers, smiling at him. "We're

/very/ god at making people disappear when we want to."

That seems more like a /threat/ than a reassurance, and it has Chuuya staring out the window wondering what he's supposed to say to /that/.

Maybe Shuuji senses his uneasiness, because he's speaking up again. "Don't worry

sweetheart, I'll be sure to keep you safe."

That's /so/ unprofessional that Chuuya's temper-- a beaten thing that he's spent years gagging and shoving under the blankets because everyone knows anger is unsightly in /girls/-- begins to bubble up. It tastes like fiery coals on the

back of his tongue.

He doesn't like nicknames. There's something so /demeaning/ about them, like he doesn't even deserve to be called by his /name/.

Hirotsu seems to have a similar thought, because he's shooting such a withering glare at Shuuji in the rearview mirror that he

actually shrinks backwards and gives Chuuya a little more space.

That lets him take a breath. This is already stressful enough /without/ some weirdo harassing him. He already has to put on an /act/,an act he's so familiar with that he could do it in his sleep but one that drains

him nonetheless, one that feels harder to put on every day.

He's so /tired/ of being what he's /supposed/ to be. Bending to other people's ideas and wishes so he can fit in, so he doesn't make /them/ uncomfortable.

When will it be easy just to be himself?

When will he know

who he is? Isn't he supposed to just /know/? He's secretly read so many stories of people like him that just /knew/, from the minute they were born, who they were.

Why isn't /he/ like that? Why has it taken him so long to get /here/-- secretly picking out a different name for

himself that's so similar it's probably /cheating/, and referring to himself with a different set of pronouns-- and where does he go from /here/?

He's so /unhappy/ living like this, but it's not like there's a /manual/ that can tell him how to make it easier. He just has to

figure it out himself--

And when he feels so /lonely/ all the time, it's so hard to do that.

"You're a special case," Hirotsu says, glancing at him in the mirror. Chuuya perks up slightly, because the man /does/ seem nice, like the grandfather he never met. "Your safety is

important, so we're going to lengths to make sure nothing bad happens."

"What kind of lengths?" Isn't making him secretly move out of his own house for a few weeks drastic enough?

"For one, you'll be house in a secure location. The apartment is under the Boss's name, so no one

will know you are there. All your needs will be taken care of, and all your movements will be carefully guarded."

Honestly, that sounds a lot more like /prison/ than anything else--

"I do suggest some alterations to your appearance, if you are amendable. Just as a safety

measure."

/That/ gives Chuuya pause because--

He's never been allowed to /experiment/ before. All his clothes are bought for him by his fathers assistants, and everything he orders to the house is thoroughly inspected by his father-- he /says/ it's for safety, which Chuuya can

understand after the serial package bombs sent to politician houses--and whatever he /does/ manage to sneak up into his room, he's not allowed to wear anywhere else /but/ his room.

His father says he has to /look/ a certain way, prim and presentable, because he reflects on Mori.

And at a time where his career could be /advancing/ soon, something as small as a /rebel child/ might cost him the Prime Minister candidacy.

But--

Mori won't /be/ here anymore. He won't be able to supervise what he looks like or how he dresses.

The only one's who will see him

are his bodyguards, who work /for/ him, so they can't tell him any differently.

He can--

He can cut his /hair/. Wear clothes that /hide/ his body instead of highlighting his form.

Suddenly, this doesn't seem so /bad/. It's /exciting/, even! He can finally have some time and

space to just--

Just /find out/ what he enjoys. What /he/ wants in life and for himself.

Yeah, it'll suck when he eventually has to go /back/ to his fathers house--

(He will never return.)

-- but something is better than nothing, right? A /taste/ is better than starvation.

Maybe--

Maybe this won't be so /bad/. Maybe it'll even be /fun/, like a vacation just by himself. He's never been left to his own devices before,and while the idea of freedom is a bit /daunting/, especially because his life has been a direct path that's been carefully-maintained

by someone other than him. He's never had to do...well, /anything/ by himself, he just had to do what he's told.

Without that structure in place to hold him to a certain set of standards-- he can do whatever he wants.

He can do whatever he wants. What an /idea/.

It's probably

not smart to completely gloss over the reason /why/ this is happening-- that is, he's being /stalked/-- but he can't help but be /excited/.

"Who is your boss,by the way? Am I going to meet him?" He asks, practically bouncing in his seat. He doesn't even care that Shuuji is still

pressed way too close for comfort, all his other emotions and thoughts eclipsed by the sudden thought of /freedom/.

He feels like a little kid again, finally permitted to stay home by /himself/. Able to watch as much TV as he wants, stay up as /late/ as he wants, skip on doing

his homework until the very last minute.

Perhaps his question is funny, because Shuuji snorts like he just asked the most inane thing in the world. Before he can actually say something though, Hirotsu is shooting him a look in the mirror and speaking up again. "That's up to the

boss. He's a fairly busy man, so I suspect he'll only meet you if it's for something important. He doesn't have a lot of time."

Shuuji snorts again. "You can say that again."

Something about that makes it feel like Chuuya has accidentally stumbled on a subtle argument that he

doesn't have context to and isn't supposed to understand. It makes for a slight strain of awkward tension, one that he forcibly ignores.

He doesn't know /what/ the issue is between Shuuji and 'the Boss', and he doesn't much care. He doesn't need to meet him anyways, he was just

curious.

Besides, he’s never /been/ under personal protection like this before, so he’s not sure how it works. And there’s not a lot that makes him /more/ uncomfortable than not knowing what’s going on or why it’s happening.

The apartment they bring him to is in the heart of

Yokohama. A tall building, towering high in the sky. The sun reflects off the windows brightly.

It’s not the /tallest/ building in Yokohama— that honor belongs to Kazuki Corporations, only a few blocks away— but it is the tallest building Chuuya’s ever been in. His father never

brings him to work, and the places he /does/ bring him to are usually the long, sprawling buildings of wealth and status. His own home is closer to a mansion than it has any right to be.

He’s never lived in an /apartment/ before. His friend, Yuan, does, but he’s never allowed to

visit. He’s always wanted to, but she’s in college and his dad is /paranoid/.

This is going to be /exciting/.

There’s even an underground parking lot that they pull into, dimly lit. Hirotsu parks in a spot near the elevator, with Chuuya’s side pressed up against a nearby wall.

It means no one can come up beside them and take Chuuya by surprise. It's a casual sort of protection that makes him feel /valued/.

Shuuji slides out of the car first, throwing a glance over his shoulders to check if there's anyone nearby. Chuuya doesn't think his situation is

/that/ serious, to garner such extreme safety precautions, but what does he know? Maybe this is normal.

He slides out with Shuuji gives a nod, clutching his meager bag to his chest. It’s all he owns at the moment, and it gives him an easy excuse to duck out of Shuuji’s grip when

he tries to grab him by the elbow.

He doesn’t need to be guided to the elevator that is /right/ there, thank you very much.

“Do you know how long I’ll be staying here?” Chuuya asks just to fill the void of silence, edging closer to Hirotsu. There’s something about Shuuji that

feels /opportunistic/, like he’s just looking for reasons to touch him and talk to him and /look/ at him.

Unfortunately, Chuuya isn’t /unused/ to attention like this, and it puts him on edge. His first instinct is to dissuade the interest by ignoring him; if that doesn’t work,

he can always ask Hirotsu or the ‘Boss’ to get him a new bodyguard.

It’s /annoying/, but nothing he can’t handle. He didn’t take Judo lessons for three years— longer, if his dad would’ve let him— for nothing.

Hirotsu calls the elevator for them all, politely offering to hold

Chuuya’s bag for him. He refuses with a shake of his head.

“Depends. We estimate only a few weeks, but depending on the investigation goes, it might take longer to find who the stalker is.”

Chuuya perks up at the last sentence. “You guys will be looking for them? Isn’t that

something the police would do?”

Honestly, he was in favor of calling the police /weeks/ ago, the first time Chuuya came home to the door unlocked and a weird note stuck to his window.

But his dad, for some reason he still doesn’t understand, has been weirdly cagey about the