Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

That I’d fallen for a lie
You were never on my side
Fool me once, fool me twice
Are you death or paradise?
Now you’ll never see me cry
There’s just no time to die
No time to die
No time to die

Billie Eilish

The dripping was irritating.

Plop. Plop. Plop.

Dazai’s foggy eyes wandered over the worn tiles of the bathroom, there was a crack at eye-level on the other side of the tub. If he had any strength left, he would lean over and sink his fingernail in, scraping until it broke, and the pain, sharp and searing, would soothe the emptiness in his chest.

Plop. Plop. Plop.

The faucet dripped incessantly, water spilling over the edges and sticking to his clothes. An empty bottle of sake hung from his left hand, and in his right, a knife he didn’t remember picking up, now attracted to him like a moth to the light.

It would be so easy...

The bottle slipped between his numb fingers and shattered on the floor. His phone, on the edge of the sink, vibrated relentlessly. He frowned, barely aware of what was going on around him. He played with the knife, the handle wrapped in gauze and the blade too worn to cut skin and bone, but shiny enough to attract his attention. If he concentrated, he could see himself. Skin worn away, brown eyes lifeless, and dark circles under his eyes too pronounced to remain conscious.

Plop. Plop. Plop.

The phone kept vibrating, disturbing the peace of the bathroom. If he had any energy left, if he wasn’t a fucking coward, he would remove the bandages from his wrists and draw blood furrows on his rotting skin. Maybe, if he dug deep enough, he’d find something salvageable, a glimpse of the human Dazai or irrefutable proof that he was fucked to the core. If he wasn’t a fucking coward, he’d grab the bottle of pills from the top drawer. If he wasn’t... A hint of a smile tugged at his parched lips, his heart pounding against his chest in warning. The knife plunged into the water and Dazai reared back, slamming into the tub.

If he wasn’t...

His phone vibrated until it fell into the sink. His eyelids were so heavy that he could not stay conscious for long. He was a coward, a coward, a coward. One second the damp stains and peeling paint on the ceiling was all he could see, and the next, nothing.

Plop. Plop...

Until someone grabbed him by the armpits and forced him back into the world of the living. Dazai raged like a wild animal, splashing water everywhere and seeking the metallic taste of blood. His captor cursed in garbled Japanese as Dazai managed to bite him.

Someone sighed audibly from the doorway and it was his voice, neither too loud nor too soft, that made him react.

“Stop,” Mori ordered, deliberately slurring the ‘s’.

His heart thundering against his ribs, his breath hitching and his pulse racing, Dazai forced a bloody smile onto his mouth. He stood up in the tub, didn’t even spare a glance at the dog holding his bruised arm, and climbed out, spilling water everywhere. Mori wrinkled his nose as Dazai stepped on the remains of the sake bottle and gave him an exaggerated bow.

“I thought your tendencies were under control, should I change your medication?”

Dazai licked his lips, accentuating his mad smile.

“And here I was hoping for a damn day off. I guess you can’t have everything.”

“It’s been a week.”

Dazai didn’t let the surprise make a dent in his face, so he shrugged. Mori clicked his tongue, dismissed the dog with a nod, and held out a clean set of clothes to Dazai. As tempting as it was to resist or make a teasing comment about Mori’s search of the underwear drawer, the wet clothes clung to him uncomfortably and the bandages stung.

“You’ve got five minutes.”

“Whatever.”

With his hand on the knob, Mori hesitated, pursed his lips, and gave up. Ignoring his reflection in the mirror, Dazai picked up the phone, which had a fresh crack in the screen, and grabbed a roll of bandages from the closet. Seven minutes later, he found his boss in the bedroom. The futon was still on the floor, along with two half-empty sake bottles, takeout boxes and cans scattered everywhere. If Mori had an opinion about his hygiene habits, he refrained from commenting, more interested in the file he offered him.

“I have a mission for you.”

He hadn’t said ‘target’, interesting.

“It must be important for you to honor me with your presence,” he crooned. “What bastard am I supposed to assassinate now?”

“No one.”

That got his attention.

“You will be pleased to know that the deal with the Tanizaki clan went well.”

Frankly, it was irrelevant to him.

“But the Ozaki are still holding out.”

It was no surprise to anyone, nor was it worth wasting time and spit to mention it. The Ozaki clan, along with the Kirishima and Tsushima clans, was part of the old Triad. The rest of the clans, families, and gangs bowed to them as a sign of respect if they wanted to survive in the prefecture. Of the Triad, only the Ozaki were left, and to Mori’s shame, they were untouchable.

Dazai leaned against the wall.

“We found a thread,” he pointed to the file. Dazai raised an eyebrow. “Nakahara Chuuya, 22 years old, bastard son of Ozaki Yoshino.”

Unexpected.

He opened the file and on the first page was a photo of the non-target. He tore it off. He was handsome. Auburn hair, slightly curly, sun-kissed skin and blue eyes. He traced the outline of his face with a finger. Deceptively delicate features, for if he belonged to the Yakuza, Dazai doubted he was a damsel in distress, and questionable taste in fashion, if the choice of hat was intentional.

He looked up to meet Mori.

“How come we didn’t know of his existence until now? Is he going freelance?”

“It seems so,” Mori crossed the room and pointed to a line in the document. “In the eyes of the law, he doesn’t exist. He’s nobody. The only thing he has in his name are the papers for a bar in Ozaki territory. But don’t be fooled, he’s under the protection of his clan. But unlike the heiress, he’s not locked up. Isn’t that interesting?”

It was.

Ozaki Kouyou was the heiress of the clan and, along with her guardian, Paul Verlaine, the public face of the Ozaki. But whenever she appeared in public, she was surrounded by her men. The whole region knew her face, her studies, even her favorite brand of tea, but no one could get close to her. No one could get close to the main family. Nakahara Chuuya, on the other hand, seemed to be too accessible for there to be no cat in the bag.

“How did you hear about him?”

“Little birds.”

Dazai twisted his lips. In theory, he was one of those little birds: orphans, vagabonds, drug addicts, or starving people who would do anything for easy money. In theory, because in practice, Dazai Osamu was much, much more.

He couldn’t talk to Mori the way he did if he were just a little bird.

“And what exactly do you want me to do, get into his pants?”

It wouldn’t be the first time.

“You have complete freedom to proceed as you wish, as long as you gain his trust and find a weakness.”

“What makes you think I can get it?”

Mori grimaced mockingly.

“Have you ever failed?”

Many times, I’m still breathing, don’t you see?

The Ozaki Clan was highly respected among its people and the inner circle of Ozaki Tsugurō, the current leader, was as small as it was inaccessible. No names were known. No one knew anything. Not to mention the rumors that circulated in the slums, among the rats and stray dogs. Money could move mountains, but fear of the unknown, superstition? Oh, that was a force of nature that the Ozaki clan had tamed to their advantage for decades.

“They have something, Dazai. Something that makes them unattainable, and it’s not money or connections or the respect of their people. It’s more than that, and I refuse to believe in superstition.”

The street rats spoke of pacts with the devil.

The drunks talked about human sacrifice.

But in the end, it was just talk.

Mori was a pragmatic man. There was no other way he could have taken control of half the prefecture. All the smaller clans, small families and gangs had fallen into his net like dominoes. First, the Tsushima Clan. When Dazai closed his eyes, he could still smell death and hear the moaning of the shell of the man who had taken everything from him.

With the Tsushima Clan gone, Kirishima fell soon after. The Port Mafia came out of nowhere, took over the Tsushima Towers, and made Yokohama their playground. Were it not for Ozaki, Mori would rule the prefecture and be on the verge of taking over the region.

And wasn’t it strange that Ozaki was still holding out? That no one had stabbed them in the back to ingratiate with the Port Mafia?

“I take it you don’t want a mutually beneficial deal?”

Mori smiled, and it was a tailored smile, one that smelled of disinfectant, rotting flesh, and black blood. It was the smile of Tsushima Gen’emon’s assassin, the mad boss. It was the smile of the man who had built an empire on the ashes of a faltering one, and who had managed to bend half the prefecture in a decade.

It was the smile of Mori Ougai.

“I want the clan reduced to ashes, I want them on their knees swearing allegiance to the Port Mafia.”

Dazai turned the picture over.

“And you think this boy has all the answers?”

“Ten years,” he reminded him, turning his back and walking over to the window. “Ten years of looking for a hole to slip through, a thread to pull... And here it is, in the form of a boy your age and within reach. Isn’t it interesting?”

Dangerous, rather.

But Dazai loved the bittersweet taste of danger as much as he loved good sake or a plate of canned crab. It was worth the risk. Maybe, thanks to Nakahara Chuuya, death would welcome him with open arms. Or maybe, what was more likely, he would get blood on his hands again.

For the Black Wraith of the Port Mafia never failed.

The Flags was a gay bar on the edge of Ozaki territory, in a multicultural neighborhood. It opened its doors at the beginning of the year, there was no waiting list or VIP customers, and anyone could walk in for a drink or a beer without risking their life. There was hardly any information about the owner, Nakahara Chuuya, and if it wasn’t for the fact that the staff were on the Ozaki payroll, from the bouncer to the dogsbody, it would almost seem like a normal queer friendly bar.

Almost.

“This mission will kill you,” Edogawa Ranpo told him as soon as he entered the clandestine clinic. Dazai snorted. He ignored how he did it, but Ranpo was always ten steps ahead. If it wasn’t for Dr. Yosano and Dazai himself, who took the informant under their wing, he would have ended up in a ditch years ago. In this small world, wise guys died young.

To be fair, all died young.

In any case, even if he dressed like Sherlock Holmes himself, Ranpo still had his limits. He was no mind reader and had no ultra-deductive ability. Last night, Dazai had written to him to gather all the information he could find in exchange for a bag of his favorite treats. He sat down on the first available chair.

Yosano clicked her tongue from her desk, but left them alone. She had gotten used to Ranpo invading her workspace and Dazai showing up unannounced.

Dazai turned his chair around.

“What can you tell me?”

“That you stay as far away from that boy as possible.”

Dazai hummed noncommittally.

The sound of a wrapper confirmed that Ranpo was about to eat a candy.

“Iceman is a skilled killer, but he’s not the most dangerous one.” Ranpo opened a drawer and handed him a file. Dazai turned the chair thoughtfully. “Watch out for Pianoman, Albatross seems harmless, but nothing more. There is more information on Lippman. You can Google his name, you’ll see he’s connected to the Ozaki press office.”

“And what can you tell me about Nakahara?” Ranpo popped a lollipop into his mouth and Dazai frowned. “Useful, Ranpo.”

“There is nothing.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“There’s nothing useful,” he corrected himself. “He’s not dirty. He’s got a legitimate, upstanding business, he helps out with the Sheep, a nonprofit that helps orphans, and he lives in an apartment right above The Flags.”

Dazai ruminated silently.

He hoped Ranpo would give him more than the same information Mori had given him. He knew that this small group of outsiders was dangerous and that he could not underestimate them. He had a detailed document on each of them. He was no fool. He wanted information about Nakahara Chuuya, not a list of his achievements and goodies.

He turned his chair once more.

Eventually, he would have to contact Ango. He ruffled his hair and cursed under his breath. He didn’t want to owe that traitorous rat anything or put Nakahara Chuuya in the government’s crosshairs, not when he might have to kill him in the not too distant future, but he had no choice.

“That’s it?” he tried again. “Papers in order? Volunteer at an orphanage and friend of the gays? Seriously?”

Ranpo shrugged.

“Ah, yeah. I stay away because he’ll kill me.”

“I didn’t say that,” he took the lollipop out of his mouth and smiled mysteriously. “I said that this mission will kill you.”

“Very useful, yeah.”

“If you’re done,” Yosano interjected from the door that connected the clinic to the small apartment, rounding the table and taking off her white coat. “Shall we have breakfast? I’m starving.”

Dazai made a face as if he had sucked on a lemon and Ranpo showed her a bag of goodwill. Yosano rolled her eyes, picked up her purse, and slipped on her heels.

“Kids,” she complained. “Close the door on your way out and no mischief!”

Talking to Ango always gave him a migraine, but at least he got a more detailed file. He discarded the information he already had and devoured the new one. Nakahara Chuuya did exist in the Ozaki records, there was a birth certificate and a copy of the family register, but someone had paid a tidy sum to make his name disappear from the public domain. There were two family photos, one of a wobbly boy hiding in his older sister’s skirts, too blurry to be useful, and a more recent one with his sister and Paul Verlaine. According to Ango, he had studied abroad, under the tutelage of Arthur Rimbaud, and until about a year ago there was little current information.

And wasn’t it interesting? Why was he kept hidden? His medical records were out of date, a pneumonia with pleural almost killed him when he was six years old, and his academic record didn’t interest him at all. He stuck to what was important: Kouyou and Verlaine cared about the boy, otherwise they wouldn’t have bothered to keep in touch all these years. There were records of trips to France that, for some reason, they had kept hidden.

“He has social media.”

“Why didn’t you say so before?” he put on speakerphone and opened Instagram. Then he clicked his tongue. “Ango, you’re losing your faculties.”

Ango sighed on the other end.

“And why is that relevant?”

“People like to post their lives on the Internet. Of course it’s useful.”

It wasn’t hard to hit his profile and he was stunned.

His Instagram was... visual, to say the least. Dazai wasn’t often at a loss for words, but as he scrolled through his next target’s feed, he couldn’t explain what was wrong, why his mouth was suddenly dry and his heart was racing. He massaged his chest. He squinted and stopped at a selfie of Chuuya sticking his tongue out at the camera. There was nothing special about the picture. Yeah, he had pretty eyes. And lots and lots of freckles. Five, seven, ten...

“He opened his profile eight months ago.”

Nakahara was objectively attractive, but still…

“Dazai, are you listening to me?”

“Yeah, yeah, see you later.”

“You owe me.”

“That I do, that I do, put it on my tab.”

“Daza—”

He let go of the phone anyway and leaned back, the chair creaking. He ran his hands through his hair and let out a long sigh. It was just another mission, no matter how Ranpo felt about it or how objectively attractive his target was. His blue eyes... could that be the right color? He shook his head and patted his face. He would approach Nakahara with every trick in the book, squeeze him like an orange and then throw him away. As usual. He bit his lip and smiled very reluctantly.

Who knew? Maybe he could have some fun with him. Maybe he could tie him to the bedpost and draw furrows of blood down his body. Maybe he could extract a symphony of sounds from him. He moistened his lips and wondered if he would have more freckles, if his body would be full of them and what he could do with them when the time came. Maybe he would draw them with the knife.

The heat he felt in his belly, churning his stomach and quickening his pulse was about that.

Of course it was.

Tight jeans that made a nice ass, a gray-blue shirt with the first buttons undone and the sleeves at the elbows, revealing the gauze that wrapped his arms and his hair tucked behind his ear with a hairpin. Since it was late, he completed the outfit with a jacket to keep out the cold. According to Yosano, if he didn’t open his mouth, his pretty face and body would do all the work.

Rude.

Iceman stood at the door, smoking a cigarette. Dazai greeted him effusively to make himself noticed. The bouncer replied with an unfriendly grunt and Dazai shrugged, hands in his pockets. With a glance, he spotted Albatross, the blond guy in sunglasses, wrestling with the beer taps behind the bar. No sign of Pianoman or the redhead. Except for a few straggling customers, there was no one worthy of his attention. He chose a table at the furthest end, with his back to the windows and a full view of the bar.

The Flags had two floors, but according to the plans Mori had given him, it had a converted basement set up for private parties. Since it was a workday, he doubted there would be a party that night. It was Albatross who approached his table, dressed in a ridiculously patterned shirt, leaky pants and military boots.

“What can I get you?”

Dazai rested his chin on his intertwined fingers.

“A redheaded dwarf.”

Albatross hesitated and Dazai accentuated his smile. He could have done this a thousand different ways, Ranpo had suggested a less offensive approach, they didn’t have enough information to guess how Nakahara or his guards would react to Dazai’s invasive presence. Normally, he would have listened. He was used to taking things slowly, setting the stage with casual encounters, shy smiles and “Oh, didn’t we meet the other day? Pardon my impertinence, my name is...,” but there was something about Nakahara, about his freckled face and the blue of his irises, that made his stomach turn and his patience burn.

He was in no mood for a timid approach, he wanted to attack and sink his teeth in until the bittersweet taste of danger flooded his palate and numbed his senses. If Nakahara reacted with violence, so be it. Albatross lowered his glasses, gave him a long look, and let out a chuckle.

He was used to the leering, to being stripped of everything that was his, to not seeing beyond his pretty face or his broken body. It was easier that way. Or it should be, if his libido wasn’t fucking Russian roulette. The bottle of pills weighed a ton in his pocket, llike a persistent reminder that something was wrong with his head. Even though he had promised Yosano that it would be his last option, that it wasn’t a good idea to mix blue pills with his medication, he didn’t want to risk his body turning against him when the time came.

Albatross pushed up his glasses.

“Holy shit. I’ll get you a beer.”

Dazai shrugged.

Flirting was an art, and he was an established artist. He pretended to watch the street, the people leaving work. He hid his smile when he felt someone approaching his table. Determined footsteps. He turned in time to see a leather-gloved hand, fingers long and slender, placing a bottle of stout on the table.

A beaming smile broke across his face as his eyes met Nakahara Chuuya’s. And wasn’t it a devastating sight? Nakahara had pulled his auburn curls back into a ponytail, revealing the curve of his neck, and his blue eyes —the photos didn’t do his justice at all— watched him with a hint of interest and innate suspicion. The pink color in his cheeks was subtle but significant. Dazai was no fool, he knew the effect it had on men and women.

He had once despised it, still did.

“Your beer.”

Nakahara’s voice was hoarse, as if someone had been squeezing his vocal cords. Dazai reached out and grabbed the redhead’s wrist before he could escape, taking great care to do so over his clothes. Nakahara tensed, his eyes darkening, and Dazai forced himself to soften his features so as not to appear threatening, just a boy flirting with a pretty boy.

“Hello, my angel.”

“Ha!? What the hell are you doing?”

“Aren’t you going to keep me company? I’m lonely.”

“Excuse me, freak!?”

“Forgiven.”

Nakahara opened and closed his mouth, and shook his head, a nervous chuckle rising in his throat. His cheeks burned. Dazai used the moment to pull him towards him, Nakahara stumbled and had to hold on to the table to keep from falling. They were so close that Dazai could make out the trace of freckles on his face, the cupid’s bow of his full lips and the blue... Oh, he wasn’t wrong, it was the blue of the Yokohama harbors, the blue of his childhood…

It was the blue of his memories.

“Your father loves you, my little prince.”

It was the blue he swore to eradicate at its root. His mask wavered for a second and Nakahara squinted in his direction as if he could see beyond it. If he could, he would tear out his eyes and set them on fire. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that Albatross didn’t take his eyes off them and that Iceman was inside.

Waiting. Waiting for a signal.

“Your dogs look tense.”

“Why shouldn’t they be?”

Dazai moistened his lips and Nakahara’s gaze dropped to his mouth. Predictable. That encouraged him, he pressed his thumb against the redhead’s pulse and was pleased when it swallowed and orbed towards him.

It was a dangerous game they were playing.

“Indulge me, sit with me.”

“And if not, what?”

Dazai loosened his grip deliberately. Nakahara didn’t pull away, on the contrary, he leaned in as if to steal a kiss. The tension was palpable, curling in his stomach, rotting everything in its path and climbing up his throat. He reached for the bottle to take a good swig. Liquid courage. And before Nakahara could leave, he tangled his fingers in the red hair, intending to devour it or break every bone in his body.

Both options were tempting.

But Nakahara surprised him by putting his hand between their mouths. His heart stopped, for at that distance, the blue was devastating. And darker, as if it had been swallowed by the night.

It was the blue that announced a storm.

“Careful,” Nakahara hissed in a whisper. Then he half-smiled. “You have a death wish?”

Dazai pouted.

“Are you shy, or is it that you don’t kiss on the first date?”

Nakahara snorted.

“You’re going to have to try a little harder, Mackerel.”

Dazai leaned back.

“Mackerel? Couldn’t you think of a better pet name?” he asked half offended and Nakahara crossed his arms, to mark the distance. It was a pity. “Does your hat eat your brain?"

Nakahara frowned and put his hand to his head…

“I’m not wearing a hat!”

“And thank God, my poor eyes!”

“How did you know...? Are you stalking me!?”

“Maybe,” he crooned without a hint of embarrassment in his body. “Tell me, my angel, how are you going to conquer my heart?”

“Who said anything about conquering you, freak?” his voice tore into the pit of his stomach. He had to push harder, harder and harder. “Drink your beer and don’t bother my customers.”

It was too easy.

“But I only want to bother you.”

And he winked at him.

“Eat shit and die,” he muttered and turned his back on him. Dazai lowered his gaze to his ass, and Nakahara turned around in anger, his cheeks burning and a fire about to erupt in his blue irises. Ignis fatuus. “And don’t look at my ass, you bandaged bastard!”

“You’ve got a nice ass!” he shouted.

Albatross, on the other side of the bar, collapsed in laughter.

It hadn’t gone as he’d hoped, he hadn’t ended up with a broken bone or a fiery redhead eating his mouth, but it hadn’t been bad at all. A drink to small victories. For the first time in weeks (months), Dazai felt a tug in his jaw, the ghost of a real smile breaking through and not an unpleasant tingle in the pit of his stomach.

There was something about Nakahara Chuuya that attracted him like a moth to the light. It was undeniable. He took a good swig of his beer to decide his next move. How would the night end? In the bathroom with a blue pill on his tongue and Nakahara moaning his name? In the alley with blood on his hands and Mori yelling at him through the phone?

He got up as soon as the last customer left and sat down at the bar with the empty beer bottle and Nakahara wrinkled his nose.

“My angel.”

“Don’t you have anything better to do?”

“Other than looking at you?” Nakahara snarled under his breath. “Not at all, my angel.”

“Don’t fucking call me that.”

“Why not?” He reached out and stole a beer bottle from him. “Hair the color of a fall sunset, sun-kissed skin, and a raging ocean in your eyes.”

Nakahara gasped like a fish out of water.

“Shut up,” he growled, his cheeks turning a deep pink. Dazai was pleased. "Does being an intense little shit ever work for you?”

“I don’t know, you tell me, does it work?” and he leaned over to brush a lock of hair away from his face, Nakahara pulled back and he widened his grin.

To his surprise, Nakahara snatched the bottle from him and brought it to his mouth. It was an indirect kiss. How provocative. And far from disgusting him, as soon as he retrieved his beer, he drank without any qualms.

And neither of them looked away.

“I can’t stand you.”

“You’re interested, admit it.”

Nakahara swore under his breath. He cursed like a trucker, for such an attractive little thing, and his hoarse voice still got to him. Dazai licked his lips and tasted Nakahara on them. Cherry . He had to use some kind of cocoa or flavored gloss, because his beer tasted like cherry, and for some reason, maybe because alcohol and his medication were a dangerous cocktail, it had become his favorite fruit.

Nakahara Chuuya was a sum of contradictions. Dazai spent the rest of the hour silently observing the redhead, registering every little detail in order to disembowel him later with the utmost care. Sometimes, he wanted to reach for Nakahara, to taste his lips and see if his body would deny him, like everyone else's, or catch fire. And sometimes—most of the time—Dazai longed to smash his pretty face against the bar, break every bone in his body and get it out of his system before it was too late.

Maybe he really was a bit intense.

As he finished his second beer and watched Nakahara laughing with Albatross or asking Iceman if he needed anything, he wondered if he was a wolf in sheep's clothing or a lamb in wolf’s clothing.

At closing time, Nakahara dismissed everyone but Dazai. Iceman frowned and met his gaze across the bar. Still, he didn’t protest. It was a fact that had to be kept in mind: even though they worked for Ozaki, they answered to Nakahara.

Dazai turned on his stool, leaned back and smiled half amused.

Nakahara arched an eyebrow in his direction.

“Scared?”

“Not at all, my angel.”

Nakahara nodded, closing the distance between them. Slowly, agonizingly slowly. He looked like a predator sizing up his prey. His heart somersaulted against his ribs, setting his bloodstream on fire and stealing the breath from his lungs. He didn’t move, just waited and watched. There was something wild, unnatural about Nakahara Chuuya, the way his blue eyes lingered on him, the way he smiled, as if sparing his life, and the way he destabilized the ground beneath his feet, as if he could manipulate gravity.

As if gravity was kneeling before him. Unaware of what he was doing, as if Dazai were nothing more than a puppet without strings, he reached out a hand to cradle his cheek, but Nakahara deflected the contact before straddling his lap.

Dazai wrapped an arm around his waist and Nakahara smiled, teeth bared. His fangs were sharp. Dazai licked his lips. He didn’t have time to say anything because when he opened his mouth, he felt a knife blade right in his balls.

His breath caught, his heart skipped a beat and…

“Tell me, Black Wraith, do you want to play or do you want to run?”

And his cock, to his surprise, gave an interested jerk.

Chapter Text

First, the ghost of a caress, a warning that slid down his spine like the deft fingers of a devoted lover, piercing his skin cleanly and infecting his bloodstream, rotting all the way to his heart.

Then a heartbeat that was not his own.

Finally, a thought: You've got to be kidding me.

As soon as Dazai Osamu set foot in The Flags, he knew that his freedom was at stake. His instincts, the electricity coursing through his veins, and the black hole that took the place of his heart and threatened to suck everything into it, screamed kill him, kill him, kill him. He ran for cover in the back room, grabbed the doorknob that separated it from a small staff bathroom, and let himself fall against the door, control slipping through his fingers and he could not let it happen.

He took a deep breath.

He could feel it, if he closed his eyes, if he concentrated hard enough, the heartbeat that didn’t belong to him would overtake him. He smiled against his will and hit the back of his head to bring himself to his senses. He refused to let this human have that power over him, he was no one to force his soul to make a connection. Ane-san, Verlaine, Rimbaud... They were his family, they had gotten under his skin, they nested in him, in his chest, because they had earned that place. This human, on the other hand, was a threat, and his body was warning him.

Dazai Osamu.

Fuck.

He walked over to the sink and reminded himself that threat or not, he couldn’t kill him. His sister would worry, and his uncle... Paul Verlaine would not stand idly by. And his freedom, for which he had fought in the shadows for years, would be shattered. He ran his hand through his hair and cursed his bad luck. He was aware that returning to Yokohama had been a risk, and that just as he had investigated the Port Mafia, soaking up all the information he could from his family’s informants and those who had gone freelance, his enemies could do the same.

It was impossible to go unnoticed in this city.

Dazai Osamu was one of the little birds of the Port Mafia. He had a picture of him on the cork board in his room, dark brown hair, slightly wavy at the ends, a vacant look, and bandages, many, many bandages. He knew from the beginning that there was something wrong with him, and his instincts rarely failed him.

If the enemy had sent the Black Wraith to his door, he was a dead man. He lifted his head to meet his own reflection. His right iris flickered, darkening from the inside out, burning part of his pupil. Another reminder that he could not afford a false move if he wanted to protect his own.

Albatross knocked softly on the door and poked his head inside.

“Chuuya? May I come in?”

He closed his eyes, looked down and grunted in reply.

“Dude, that guy asked for, and I quote, ‘a redheaded dwarf’. I almost fell out of my seat.”

Chuuya couldn’t help it, a laugh split his chest and went up his throat, twisting his features and releasing some of the tension. Albatross gave him a friendly pat on the back and draped an arm over his shoulders, pulling him close to him in camaraderie.

He met his gaze in the mirror. His friend smiled mischievously.

“If you don’t want to eat it, leave it to me. There’s something about him that... Wow, turns me on, you know what I mean?”

Chuuya laughed through his nose, opened the faucet and let the water run before wetting his hands. Albatross leaned against the tiled wall, feet crossed and a curious expression on his face. When he first met him, eight months ago, he knew that this bad-boy, funny-guy attitude was nothing more than a facade, a shield, and time confirmed it for him.

Albatross was attentive and disgustingly loyal.

“Are you going to keep it?”

He combed his curls with his fingers, trying to give himself a disheveled look. Albatross offered him a hair tie.

“You’ve got a neck to bite, use it and you’ll have him on his knees.”

Chuuya made a small noncommittal noise, but he heeded it anyway. Albatross waved goodbye with a military gesture. Chuuya looked at his reflection once more. He didn’t know what Dazai Osamu wanted from him, if he was there to bring him to his knees and put three bullets in his head or what, but what he did know, as he adjusted the collar of his burgundy shirt and the straps of his harness, was that he had no intention of letting him turn his world upside down.

He couldn’t sound the alarm without worrying his sister.

He couldn’t kill him without starting a war.

“Heads up,” he nodded to his own reflection for encouragement. “I’ll act with my head. I can do it. It’s easy. I’ve got it all under control.”

That’s why he ended up on that stupid human’s lap, knife in hand, heart thundering against his ribs. Because he had everything under control. His eyes glowed with a flash of crimson that lit a fire in Chuuya’s veins, as if this waste of bandages had the power to awaken the monster that lay beneath his skin. And the devilish smile he offered him, twisted and false, was accentuated.

He had a knife in his crotch and yet he acted as if he was exactly where he wanted to be.

“You’re not an angel, you’re a fallen angel,” he said with a hint of amusement that made his skin crawl. Dazai leaned into him, their mouths just inches from meeting. “My fallen angel.”

Shit, shit.

The bastard hadn’t denied being the Black Wraith, whatever they called him in the underworld.

He didn’t care about the gossip of the underworld, what the rats whispered about Mori Ougai’s favorite weapon, a monster that hid in the shadows and hunted his enemies slowly and painfully, because he enjoyed the fear he provoked and the stench his prey gave off when they knew they were trapped. Frankly, people were losing their minds very easily, and he was tired of the whole situation.

Having no intention of accepting the fear that whispered in his ear, he could only wrinkle his nose in disgust.

“Have you gotten hard, weirdo?”

“You’re my undoing, Nakahara.”

“It’s Chuuya,” he corrected him without thinking, shaking his head and bringing the knife to the bastard's neck, just above the bandages. He pouted in response as he adjusted his grip on his waist, his hand dangerously close to his ass. “Put your hand up, you bastard.”

Dazai didn’t try to disarm him or even defend himself.

“Chuuya is bad,” he sneered.

“Listen to me, asshole, I’ll only ask you once, and if your answer doesn’t convince me, I’ll slit your throat right here.”

“There are worse ways to die,” he hummed, craning his neck to give him easier access. Chuuya didn’t hesitate as he squeezed just enough to draw a trickle of blood.

“What do you want? And spare me the lines from the psychopath’s Tinder.”

Dazai blinked slowly.

“You have the best of both worlds, my angel.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re free to do and undo as you please,” he pointed at the place with his chin. “You have the protection of your clan, but the leash, if you have one, is very long.”

He was lying.

And he was lying terribly, or he was doing it on purpose.

“Do better.”

“It’s the truth, dwarf.”

Chuuya snarled and saw himself go through skin, muscle and bone. Breathe.

“I’ve checked you out, it’s my duty when someone comes to my town and what I’ve discovered has piqued my interest. I could alert my boss, God knows I should, but I’m bored... I’m bored to death and you’re interesting, is that so hard for you to believe? You know who I am and, dwarf, few people live to tell the tale.”

It was a threat.

“Do you think I’m a fool? Tell that nonsense to someone else.”

That damned human had the audacity to come to him with stories when his life was in danger. He was in enemy territory, Chuuya had every right to demand a blood payment.

But then they would send him away again.

“I just want a friend,” and the way he said it, his voice dropping an octave and his pupils darkening, felt like a forbidden caress. His body responded with a gasp. He hated him, hated this stupid human with all his might, because while he was on the verge of collapse, Dazai looked unperturbed. “You know my reputation, I don’t have to lie to you. Let me have my fun. Have fun with me.”

No.

Chuuya dug his fingers into his shoulder to keep him still, or to remind himself that he shouldn’t allow it. It was too much. His head felt dull, his heart thundered wildly against his ribs and his pulse was racing. He was at his mercy, he knew it, and yet...

His eyes wandered to his mouth.

“Tell me, Chuuya, don’t you feel lonely with so many secrets hanging over you? With me you could…”

“Fuck you! There’s no way I'm going to let my guard down with you, Mackerel.”

Dazai grinned and bared his teeth.

“Challenge accepted.”

However, he played along. He had no other choice.

Chuuya pursed his lips until he drew a thin line. He cursed mentally. He pulled the knife away, shoved Dazai with one hand and stood up from his lap, putting so much distance between them without it seeming strange. This human shouldn’t look like that, so pleased with himself, so in control, while Chuuya’s heart was pounding wildly, his hands trembling and electricity coursing freely through his veins, eager to escape.

Dazai looked so appetizing, legs spread wide, blood on his neck and crimson eyes. It was an invitation.

“A friend, huh?” he chuckled, a hollow sneer on his face, and if Dazai sensed his hesitation and the murderous aura he radiated, he didn’t comment. He had already said it all with his “there are worse ways to die”. He just hoped that it was a facade, that this stupid game would end soon and Dazai would make his move. “Sure, why not?”

Because it had to be a game, his way of buying time for... For what?

He was his new prey.

Dazai came the next day, and the next.

Dazai didn’t miss a single day.

And he didn’t make a move.

And Dazai his.

He checked the Sheep’s chat again, in case it had magically changed, and kicked the air in sheer frustration. His fingers itched with the urge to smoke a cigarette —he wanted to quit, damn it— or get into a fistfight with the first asshole he came across. It wasn’t the first time Shirase had left him stranded, but that Yuan couldn’t accompany him either, and on top of that she had taken Gin with her, annoyed him to an unimaginable degree. He could write to Ryuu, but he could already imagine the face he would make if he asked to visit the children with him, he was allergic to them!

He was not an option. Neither was Yuan and Gin, and Shirase’s rat with its adorable kitten stickers, even less so.

He blocked the phone and put it away, leaning back against the brick wall, weighing his options. He didn’t mind visiting the kids alone, far from it, but he had promised them a Sunday of games with some members of the Sheep, how could he show up alone and break their hearts? All the toys in the world couldn’t make up for that betrayal. Nor could he carry all the supplies by himself.

What if he texted Albatross? Better him than the rest of the Sheep, with whom he could not quite get along.

“Chuuya~!”

No, no way.

Chuuya gasped and opened his eyes wide. Just what he needed! He pulled on his hood and turned to face the wall, because running away with all the boxes stacked beside him was not an option. Hopefully, Dazai would be on his way. Why? He didn’t know, but dreaming was free. Of course, he had no such respect for him. The idiot grabbed his hood and pulled him back, making him stagger, and hugged him around the waist, pulling him close to his body. Chuuya tensed, stomped his foot and whirled around to kick him.

Dazai dodged with the annoying ease of someone who was used to slipping into every alley, dark corner, and exit within reach, and gave a little smile that made his hair stand on end.

A little smile that disappeared as soon as he noticed the boxes.

“Oh, what’s all this?” he circled the boxes with curiosity painted all over his face. “The dwarf is moving?”

“Will you stop calling me…? Don’t open that!”

Too late. Dazai made a funny face as he pulled out the first few cans of food, but his face lit up when they landed on the ones labeled “crab”. To his surprise, he had the nerve to put a few cans in his cargo pants pockets and feign innocence when Chuuya reprimanded him. He lunged at him to retrieve them and they ended up in an absurd fight in which Chuuya pinned Dazai down by climbing on his back and the brunet started screaming as if he were being murdered.

He wouldn’t be surprised if people turned around to avoid walking past them.

“Give back the cans!”

“Chuuya is cruel!” And he bit him, the bastard bit his fucking hand over his gloves. Chuuya tried to choke him with his other arm in reply.

It had been a strange few weeks in which they had circled around each other. Chuuya didn’t trust Dazai, but as the days passed, he had reluctantly accepted that the idiot acted like a stuck-up brat in need of attention. He slept with a knife under his pillow and watched his back, but the brunet hadn’t tried anything except being a nuisance, invading his personal space and flirting with Albatross. If he was waiting for Chuuya to let his guard down or make the first move, he could wait comfortably because it wasn’t going to happen.

But since his patience had a limit, he had given up on keeping his distance and pretending he didn’t know him. A point for the human idiot. He had tried, that had been his plan at first, but all he had managed to do was get Pianoman to pepper him with questions, and if Pianoman started snooping around, it would only be a matter of time before he found out the truth.

He could have left the problem to him, but he made the mistake of looking at Dazai, his blood boiling as he read the challenge in his dark irises. That day, the brunet had dared him to surrender by raising an eyebrow and slightly lifting the corner of his lips in a small smile. And Chuuya had glared at him, or perhaps wordlessly told him to go eat shit, that he wouldn’t be the one to make the first misstep, as if whatever they were doing was nothing more than a damn game with no consequences.

“He’s just an Instagram douchebag.”

“Very handsome, I see,” Pianoman added, a hidden smile in his gaze. “The handsome ones are the most dangerous, mousy.”

Pianoman took his word for what it was: a sign of trust. When Verlaine had introduced him to his team, Chuuya was furious. He didn’t need any babysitters, let alone those five who might stab him in the back if they discovered his secret, or who would return Chuuya to his family with a bow if he strayed from the path.

So he had let Pianoman know in their first conversation.

“Trust is a two-way street,“ he had replied, offering him a glass of wine while Albatross tried to make Iceman laugh and Lippmann picked out a new record. Chuuya just frowned, hiding behind his drink. Pianoman had winked at him, as if seeing past his grunts and scowls. “Earn our trust.”

“Ha?! ”

“Swing or Hot?” interrupted Lippmann with two records in their hands.

“Chuuya! Tell Lipp they've got musical taste in their ass!”

At the time it had seemed ridiculous to him, why should he have to prove anything to them, they worked for him! Pianoman must have read him like an open book, for he returned his sneer with a gentle smile and ruffled his hair affectionately. Now, after months of hard work and forced cohabitation, he understood. By accepting his blatant lie, Pianoman was telling him that he trusted him.

He didn’t want to disappoint him, but the truth was that this, dealing with Dazai, the damn Black Wraith, was too much for him, and that he was being fooled by this snotty, forgiving attitude he was using as a disguise.

He just hoped to be ready to counterattack when the time came.

“If Chuuya wanted to climb me like a tree, all he had to do was say so, no need to hit me on the head!”

“Shut the fuck up,” his cheeks burned and he hated himself for getting lost in his thoughts in front of him, so he marked the distance. He felt Dazai’s gaze pierce his neck. “And don’t steal my stuff!”

“Canned crab is my favorite!”

It was an absurd discussion and he had wasted enough time. He didn’t want to end up with a migraine. He put the cans away and sealed the box. Unfortunately, Dazai didn’t take the hint and continued to hover around him like a fly.

No, he didn’t know what he was doing by not ratting him out, nor what Dazai was planning, but...

“Here, take this and make yourself useful.”

But he could find out if he kept him close.

“I’m your slave now?”

“Indeed,” and he put another box on top. Dazai might have noodle arms or look like a breeze could knock him over at any moment, but he had touched him enough—against his will—to know that he was stronger than he looked. He had to be. “See that van over there? Put the boxes there.”

“Aren’t we going to the bar?” he was surprised.

“Day off.”

“And you’re a pack mule on your day off?”

Chuuya turned, tilted his face, and smiled half-amused.

“No, that’s what I have you for.”

“You’re a freeloader,” and stuck his tongue out at him.

After loading all the boxes, they got into the van. Dazai plugged in his phone. He did not ask where they were going or why Chuuya had allowed him to accompany him. Dazai had vetted him, he knew of the existence of the Sheep and the orphanage they were going to, to pretend otherwise or to argue with him was an unnecessary waste of time.

Chuuya wrinkled his nose as the first song began to play over the loudspeakers. He turned to Dazai with a silent question on his lips, but he had his eyes closed and hummed the song as if he knew it by heart.

He let the first song, the second, but not the third…

“Do you listen to pop!?”

Dazai opened one eye.

“What’s the matter?”

Chuuya opened and closed his mouth. With a finger on his chin, Dazai forced him to face the road. The brunet turned up the volume, and as if he had suddenly remembered that he could be even more annoying, he began to hum out the songs.

“Cause you were so excited for me... to finally drive up to your house~ ”

He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling as Dazai slaughtered Olivia Rodrigo’s song. It couldn’t have been a coincidence, the asshole had a special playlist for car rides, he confirmed as soon as he started the next song.

“It was the best of times, the worst of crimes... It’s Taylor!” and the smile he gave him was so sincere, or seemed to be, the way his eyes crinkled and sparkled, that Chuuya was speechless. “The ties were black, the lies were white... Come on, my angel, sing for me!”

“No fucking way!”

Dazai grabbed a makeshift microphone, leaned over, invaded his personal space, and sang into his ear, sending a shiver down his spine and making him grip the steering wheel tighter than necessary. Fuck. He was obnoxious, clingy, to say the least, and manipulative, because when he wanted to realize it, as they left the city behind, he was making a fool of himself next to Dazai.

He never thought he'd be singing a Taylor Swift song at the top of his lungs next to the Black Wraith, but here they were, and the smile tugging at his lips, the laughter bubbling in his chest, was undeniable.

“Do you have a playlist for everything or what?”

“I hate silence.”

“Why?”

“It’s too loud,” and before he could ask him, Dazai was already singing another song.

Yes, silence could be very loud. Chuuya knew this better than anyone.

Dazai changed his attitude as soon as they reached their destination. Someone had taken the trouble to leave the gates open for them. Not far away, they could sense a weathered brick building. Dazai’s eyes looked duller, almost vacant, and the corner of his mouth was down. Chuuya ignored him, got out of the van and went to the back to unload.

Immediately, the children’s laughter and shouts filled the space between them. Chuuya couldn’t help himself, he dropped the box on the ground and ran to meet the children halfway. This, picking Naomi up off the ground to make her fly, Kyoka standing next to him with her bunny, and Yumeno hugging his leg, made him feel more humanly loved than anything else in the world.

It took him a while to notice Dazai standing a few steps away from them, hands under his armpits and a slight frown on his face. Uncomfortable, he was uncomfortable. Chuuya came panting over, cheeks flaming and a silly grin.

Dazai made a face of disgust.

“They’re children,” he laughed.

“They’re gremlins full of bacteria, snot, and who knows what else.”

Chuuya let out a laugh.

“You’re afraid of kids that don’t even come up to your waist?”

“Am I afraid of you, you dwarf?”

“Careful, Mackerel, or I’ll think you are,” he purred.

Dazai pouted. Chuuya bit his lip, but someone tugged at his hoodie. It was little Naomi, her hair pulled back in a crown of braids and her cheeks flushed. She was much smarter, standing between Dazai and him, facing the brunet with an enviable ferocity.

Naomi raised her chin defiantly.

“Chuu is ours,” she said sharply, the others nodding in agreement.

Chuuya covered his face with his hands, and Dazai, the very idiot, grinned.

“Well, well, what have we here? Little angel, do I have to fight some gremlins for your attention?”

“Shut up.”

Dazai pushed the paddles with his tongue in a somewhat rare smile, much more relaxed than seconds before, and Naomi, to their surprise, kicked him in the shin and hid behind Chuuya to glare at Dazai. It was going to be an entertaining Sunday, if he lived to tell the tale.

Dazai stepped aside to answer a phone call.

Chuuya felt a knot of fear in the pit of his stomach. What if he…? So far, the brunet had behaved in an exemplary manner, helping with the boxes and talking amicably with Fukuzawa, the director of the orphanage, with whom he shared a fondness for good sake and Go, and had won the hearts of the two social workers: Haruno and Hinata.

He bit his lower lip anxiously. This was the perfect opportunity to strike. Shit, shit . Dazai’s back was turned, but the tension in his shoulders was telling. He moved closer to ask if everything was all right, aware that there was nothing he could do to protect these children if Dazai attacked, when one of the children called out to him to play tag. As the sun began to beat down, he threw off his hoodie and pulled his hair into a high bun. He searched for Dazai with his eyes, taking advantage of the children playing with a ball or jumping rope with Haruno, and tensed when he found him on the swings with Yumeno.

Yumeno was special. He was a very quiet and shy child, who got sick easily and did not tolerate strangers. Still, he didn’t seem uncomfortable around Dazai, on the contrary, but Chuuya couldn’t shake the feeling that he was making a mistake by not intervening, by not keeping those children away from there. Then Yumeno surprised him by smiling so openly, getting off the swing and running towards the other children.

He looked at Dazai, who winked at him as he swung gently.

“What did you tell him...?”

“Me? Nothing.”

“I don’t trust you.”

Dazai smiled innocently.

“And you’re right, I’m not to be trusted, little angel.”

“Chuu!” cried Naomi, waving a sky-blue scarf.

He had to make a very funny face because Dazai was bent in half by the force of the laughter. Chuuya had no chance to protest, suddenly he was surrounded by a group of hyperactive children and Dazai was right behind him, the blue scarf in his hands and a dangerous smile on his lips. He wanted to protest, to refuse to have the scarf tied around his eyes, but he couldn’t utter a word. Dazai’s fingers lingered a second too long in his hair, and Chuuya felt the ghost of his touch on the back of his neck.

“It’s so soft,” Dazai whispered, tangling a finger in one of his curls and tugging gently, “I wonder how it would look splayed out on my bed.”

Chuuya pulled away from his touch as if it burned. He couldn’t see it, but he felt Dazai’s teasing smile like a caress. The children shouted excitedly, Dazai grabbed him by the shoulders and spun him around, around and around, while Naomi sang her own version of The Little Blind Hen. It was all very chaotic, the children yelling contradictory directions and Chuuya walking rather awkwardly for fear of falling. He could feel Dazai close to him, his body responded to him with disturbing ease, and no matter how much he wanted to ignore the heartbeat that did not belong to him, it was gaining strength.

If he wanted to...

“To the right.”

“No, to the right... Sorry, to the left!”

If he wanted, he could take that heartbeat as his own.

No, damn it.

He staggered and someone grabbed his waist with an arm to keep him from eating the ground. His heart was in his throat, fear in his chest and the feeling that there was no escape. Not anymore.

“Gotcha,” Dazai said in his ear, his lips brushing his earlobe and Chuuya jumped. He jerked roughly out of his grip and the children squealed even more excitedly. “Oops, sorry, you have to catch me! Come on, little angel, come and get me if you can.”

Catch me or I’ll catch you.

“I’ll get you, damn it!”

“Language!”

And what should have been an innocent game turned into a pitched battle. The children screamed and took turns passing him in front and behind, trying to confuse him. Dazai, stupid Dazai, kept playing with him, feeding the fire inside him, the electricity coursing through his veins, the storm nesting in his chest.

Somehow, Dazai ended up on the ground and Chuuya on top of him, straddling him. He dropped the scarf and grinned fiercely at his prey —who he wasn’t— beneath him, and Dazai’s gaze darkened in defiance. Chuuya leaned forward, a hand on either side of the brunet’s head, and confusion made a hole in his brown irises, along with something else, something dense and dangerous.

Chuuya felt pleased until Dazai opened his mouth.

“What’s wrong with your eye?”

His heart jumped, and Dazai used the moment to get on top of him. Chuuya's breath caught, the children burst into laughter, some shouted ‘fight, fight’ and somehow they ended up rolling around on the floor, elbowing, pinching and pulling each other’s hair. In the end, Hinata had to call the director and they both got a reprimand, with the children’s laughter in the background.

It was humiliating.

Fukuzawa sighed.

“Go inside and clean up a bit, the food will be ready soon.”

“No need.”

“I insist, Chuuya. You brought more than we needed, the children are thrilled. A warm meal is the least we can do for you.”

Chuuya pursed his lips and nodded in agreement. By some miracle, Dazai remained silent, accepted the clothes offered to him and lost himself somewhere. Chuuya took his time in the bathroom, shook the dirt out of his hair and hurried to change, ignoring the trail of reddish scars decorating his body and putting on his own hoodie. He looked in the mirror, his eyes were fine.

He clung to the sink until his knuckles turned pale. Someone knocked on the door, he grabbed the gloves and cursed through his teeth as the knob turned and Dazai’s head peeked out.

“You’re not naked!”

“Don’t sound so fucking disappointed!”

Dazai closed the door behind him. His gaze fell on the gloves, but if he had a comment, he kept it to himself. After all, his arms were wrapped in bandages. For fashion or whatever, Chuuya didn’t care. They watched each other in silence, sizing each other up. Dazai didn’t look like he was about to do anything stupid. Still, it was not lost on him that they were alone for the first time since their first meeting. If he wanted to attack, now was the best time.

If he wanted to show his hand, it was now or never.

“Why?” asked Dazai.

“Huh?”

“Why are you doing this?”

Chuuya blinked in confusion. Dazai gestured with his wrist to enclose the place. Then he leaned against the door, his hands in his pockets. He had left his cargo pants on, but had replaced the top with a promotional t-shirt that was too small for him, marking his chest and shoulders. Chuuya swallowed. His arms were wrapped in bandages up to his elbows, as far as the sleeve of the t-shirt would allow, and his jacket was tied around his waist.

He had no right to look like that.

“Why am I here?” he probed, because Dazai didn’t seem to want to elaborate.

Dazai nodded.

“Is it because you feel guilty?”

Chuuya hesitated, looked away from his sneakers and dug his fingers into his palms. He knew why he asked. They were Yakuza. Their families orphaned the children, dragged them into their world in the worst way and if not, allowed them to join gangs from the time they entered school. His face tightened and something clutched in his chest, it wasn't guilt or remorse, though it felt like it, and it was uncomfortable as hell.

He hadn’t asked for any of that.

“It’s not guilt.”

“Then what, are you...?”

Chuuya closed the distance between them and punched the door, at Dazai’s eye level. Dazai didn’t even flinch. It was as if nothing could bother him. It was frustrating as hell.

Dazai was not the monster of the two.

”If you say I gain their trust to use these kids on the street or whatever shit the Port Mafia does, I swear I’ll…”

“So?”

“Dazai,” he interrupted him, took a deep breath and stepped back. Then he smiled, though it was more of a grimace than a smile. “Is it so hard for you to believe that I'm doing this because I want to? Without any hidden agenda?”

Dazai wrinkled his nose, either because he didn’t believe him or because the possibility hadn’t occurred to him. Chuuya laughed dryly. It was a lie, or rather, it wasn’t entirely true. He didn’t do it just for the sake of it, he did it to calm the emptiness in his chest that threatened to swallow everything.

“Your mother—”

“Shut up, learn to shut up. My mother is dead, yeah, so what?”

I killed her.

No.

The boy killed her, he didn’t even exist on this plane yet, but the memory was there anyway, right at his fingertips and at the same time far, too far away. If he closed his eyes, he could even feel a sweet voice, an unfinished lullaby and a warm embrace that was not his.

Was it real or the fruit of his twisted mind?

He had to scrape it out, dig his nails into his chest and rip it out before it took root. He didn’t even know if he was referring to that flash of humanity that wasn’t his, or to Dazai, the heartbeat digging into his chest, rumbling in his head, making him want to...

He put as much distance between them as he could in the tiny bathroom.

Dazai raised his eyebrows so high they were lost under his hair and held out a hesitant hand.

“We’re out of here,” Chuuya growled on the verge of collapse, his head shaking and spinning. Dazai tried to approach and Chuuya growled at him.

“What about the food? Director Fukuzawa won’t be happy.”

“Don’t act like you want to stay for lunch and hang out.”

“Why not? I never say no to free food.”

“You’re lying.”

“Me?”

His smile was disturbing.

“What the hell are you playing at?”

They couldn’t go on like this.

“The same as you, my angel.”

Or he would lose his mind completely.

“It’s over.”

“Oh yeah?” Dazai approached slowly with his hands in the air and a smile that screamed danger all around. “Tell me, little angel, how are you going to stop me?”

It came closer and closer.

Chuuya clung to the tiled wall as best he could.

“Are you going to cut my throat with your knife?”

“Don’t tempt me,” he muttered.

Dazai stopped as soon as their shoes touched, lifting his hair with one hand and exposing his bandaged neck. Chuuya swallowed hard. He was cornered, he felt caught in an impossible trap.

“Or will you use your teeth? Bite me, angel!”

Chuuya lunged forward, wrapping a hand around his neck and digging his nails in. Dazai clung to his wrist.

“Harder.”

“I’ll kill you!”

"Harder," he ordered again, and Chuuya squeezed until Dazai’s face contracted and his eyes darkened, taking on a crimson hue. Chuuya raged. He could do it, he could strangle him with his bare hands, he just had to... Dazai clung tighter to his wrist.

Chuuya pushed him away, Dazai staggered, coughed and then laughed, or maybe he was just laughing the entire time. He was unhinged.

“You’re a weirdo.”

“That’s why I love you so much.”

“Ha!?”

“Come on, Chuuya, we’re just playing.”

Who was playing with whom? In the end, who was the prey and who was the predator?

It was cold.

He had never experienced it before. He didn’t like it, it got under his skin, chilled his bones. He hugged himself tightly, digging his broken fingernails into the bare skin of his arms, and his eyes watered, from tears, from blood... He wasn’t sure, he didn’t care.

He huddled against the stone wall, choking back a sob, biting his knuckles, and his body —which was not his own, too small, too fragile— trembled.

He was trapped in a prison of skin and bone.

He was trapped, and if he broke free, he would die.

He did not want to die.

Chapter Text

Her hair was long, silky, and the color of dark chocolate.

Her skin was white as snow.

Her lips were red like blood.

“Be a good boy, okay?” And her voice was a warm embrace for his soul. But her touch was not. Her hand clung to his arm until she drew crescents with her fingers, and he bit the inside of his cheek to keep from making a sound. Her red lips curved into a quivering smile in reply. “Don’t raise your voice, don’t cry... Will you be a good boy for mama?”

He wanted to be good and make his mother proud. She stroked his hair gently and gave him a peck on the cheek before standing up and offering him her hand. He wanted to be a good boy, but fear clutched at his chest, crawled up to his throat, and his eyes filled with tears. He really wanted to be good. He grabbed her thumb, afraid he wasn't brave enough. His mother stopped when she realized he wasn’t moving forward, crouched down again and wiped his cheeks, his eyes.

His shoulders shook, and he could barely hold back the tears.

“My brave little prince.”

“Mommy, I don’t want to.”

He clung to the fabric of her dress. His mother’s smile faltered, her gray eyes tinged with a bitterness and disappointment that should be unfamiliar to a child his age, but he was used to it by now and knew —feared— what would happen next. His face tightened in response, the hiccups intensified, and tears streamed freely down his cheeks.

His mother grabbed his chin hard enough to leave a mark.

“You are the heir to an empire.”

The boy bit his lip anxiously. He didn’t want to go back to this place. He hated it. He began to tremble—one moment he was a bundle of nerves, the next he was sitting on the floor, sobbing and pleading loudly. No one came to his aid, not the housekeepers who passed unnoticed through the family’s property as they went about their work, not the men in black awaiting for orders.

No one.

Never.

His mother dug her fingers into his shoulders, a warning, a threat. Still, it was a bearable pain, better than the needles that would soon pierce his arms, the straps that would leave permanent marks on his wrists, and the black liquid the man in the white coat would inject into him.

“I don’t want to,” he cried out between hiccups and sobs. He shook his head, stuck his finger in his mouth, and denied and denied and denied. “I don’t want to. I don’t want to. I don’t want to! Mommy, please!”

His mother shook him to keep him quiet. He could not contain himself.

She rarely cried. She was a strong, unflappable woman. She had to be in order to survive next to the most dangerous man in town. But on this day, her gray eyes misted over, or perhaps it was the boy who drew tears to her porcelain face, for the alternative was to accept that his mother, the woman who was supposed to protect him, to be his safe place, felt nothing as she dragged him through the hallways and handed him over to the man in the white coat.

He cried and cried that day.

It got worse when he cried.

It got worse when he fought.

Dazai sat up with an exhale, quickly brought his hands to his throat, squeezed until he ran out of air, then he dragged his fingernails over the bandages. It stung, even with the gauze in between, but physical pain had always had a soothing effect, a twisted way of reminding him of what was real. This was a nightmare, he was safe.

He curled his legs into a ball in the tub and rocked to regulate his emotions. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real. As soon as he felt more like himself, he groped around the edge of the tub until he found the pill bottle. He barely had a sip of sake left, so he turned on the faucet and he spat out an expletive as the icy water drenched him. Quickly switching modes, he stuck his head under the faucet to swallow a handful of pills. He coughed, massaged his chest, and stretched out across the tub.

He was very tired.

He picked up his phone from the floor, it had several unread messages: from Ranpo, who wanted more groceries, from Yosano, who showed him the clothes Dazai had been kind enough to buy her that afternoon —despite the fact that they hadn’t seen each other for days—, from his little birds with the crumbs of information they had gathered, and from... Oh, his little angel . He ran his tongue over his lip as he logged into Instagram. Wasn’t Nakahara Chuuya, with his contradictions, a mystery himself? He ignored the chat, the messages the redhead had sent him since Dazai had decided to ignore him —and the whole world— and scrolled through his feed without finding anything new, except for the pink circle on Chuuya’s profile.

He hesitated and clicked. His disappointment was obvious: a series of boring stories about a Pomeranian with a pink bow on its head, Albatross’ tongue in close-up to show off his stupid piercing, some waffles with chocolate and cream, and... Wow, unexpected. The last story, from five hours ago, was interesting. Chuuya posed in profile, showing off his jawline, Adam’s apple and a new necklace, black leather with a heart buckle and a chain.

He swallowed hard.

It was beyond his strength.

you want to be my dog?

I whistle, will you come on all fours? (っ ͡≖ ͜ʖ ͡≖)っ

He went back to the story. What was so special about it to make him feel that way? Chuuya had a pretty neck, full of freckles and whitish marks, as if someone had forgotten to give him some color, and his apple was appetizing, to say the least. He could bite into it. But the necklace? Dazai made a small sound of appreciation, he could work magic with that necklace. He could pull it to make Chuuya get down on all fours and then…

He wasn’t sure what he would do.

His phone vibrated.

It was Chuuya, he had sent him a temporary photo. His heart raced as he clicked on it and the laughter that rose in his throat took him completely off guard. It was a selfie of Chuuya showing his middle finger. Unfortunately, the quality and light left a lot to be desired. Chuuya wore his hair in a braid, looked like he was wearing a giant hoodie and made a funny face at the camera. Dazai responded with an emoji and then moved on in the conversation.

Chuuya was an enigma. Just when he thought he understood how his little head worked, the Yakuza did something that shattered all his plans. Anyone else in his position, upon realizing that he was dealing with the enemy —and how the hell did he know?—, would have used his knife and handed it to Mori with a ribbon attached, or at least raised the alarm in his clan. Not to mention everything else. Dazai had thought that his presence in the Sheep was just for image, to look good in public, but nothing could be further from the truth.

Every time he closed his eyes, they were back in the orphanage. Chuuya’s smile was burned into his memory. It was blinding. He couldn’t look away. The redhead’s eyes crinkled when he smiled, his dimples popped and his fangs showed. That smile could not be faked. Chuuya really wanted to be there, and wasn’t that strange for a Yakuza?

The thought of that day bothered him. He massaged his chest to loosen the knot of unspeakable emotions there and shifted uncomfortably in the tub. Dazai was sure that Chuuya’s right eye had taken on a darker shade, like wood about to catch fire, and wasn’t that stupid, thinking it out loud? It hadn’t lasted a second, barely a blink, but Dazai remembered it exactly. What about the incident in the bathroom and the tension on the return journey?

It was frustrating.

Chuuya was frustrating. Sometimes he wanted to strangle him for being like this —a storm about to sweep everything away— and other times... He didn’t know if he wanted to cut him open to understand how he worked, what he hid inside, or if he preferred to cradle his face between his hands and run his fingers over the line of his mouth, over every freckle, mark or mole he found on his way.

Would he do it with his fingers, with his mouth, or with a knife? He was not sure.

He frowned as he read the messages Chuuya had sent him over the past few days. They had not seen each other since the orphanage. Dazai had kept his distance and retreated to his apartment, refusing to talk to anyone, let alone write a progress report or play the role of the annoying idiot.

The messages piled up and the knot in his chest became unbearable. That was the problem with the dwarf, he did things he could not understand, and worse, he got under his skin with disturbing ease. He infected his body and made him do things that had no logic to them. Thoughtfully, Dazai bit a fingernail.

He should warn Mori.

He should do something.

Oh, the dwarf has missed me

You just had to say it! (^o^)/

It’s 3am, for fuck’s sake!

can’t you be fucking normal?

You wrote me first -_-'

NO, IT WAS YOU

Chuuya bothered me with messages first

Chuuya has to entertain me ^ω^

Call me

Dazai’s eyes widened in surprise and his heart did something strange in his chest. Chuuya had indeed told him to call him, even though they hadn’t exchanged phone numbers. Dazai bit the inside of his cheek to control the smile that broke out on his face and threatened to destroy all his defenses.

Of course, he had Chuuya’s number and a lot of other information. Ango, though a treacherous rat, could be very useful when he put his mind to it. Chuuya took two tones to answer, and his voice, huskier than usual, probably because of the hours, felt like a hug.

“You’re weirder than usual,” he said.

“I just wanted to hear your voice~,” Dazai hummed.

Chuuya choked on the other end of the line, and Dazai smiled calmly as he sank into the tub.

“Fuck you.”

“What are you wearing under your hoodie, my angel?”

“I knew it, I'm an asshole, why the fuck am I answering you?”

“I’ll go first! I’m naked and ready for you.”

“I’m fucking hanging up!”

Dazai laughed.

“Okay, I’ll shut up, I promise.”

“You don’t believe that yourself,” Chuuya spat.

“I missed you.”

“And what kept you from coming to bust my balls, shitty Dazai?”

“Hmm.”

Silence.

“I’ll regret it... Fuck, I already regret it. This doesn’t mean that I care about you or anything like that, huh? But... are you okay?”

Dazai fell silent.

Chuuya cursed between his teeth.

“Are you hurt?” he insisted.

“My brave little prince.”

“I’ve been worse.”

Silence, then:

“I was about to watch a movie.”

“Porn?” he scoffed weakly.

Suddenly he had no energy left for anything, but for some reason he didn’t want to hang up.

“I’ll kill you,” Chuuya growled.

“Sorry, sorry, go on.”

Chuuya hesitated, shifted his position if the noise on the other end was any indication, and cleared his throat.

“It’s a stupid movie not to think. We could watch it together.” Dazai opened his mouth to reply, but Chuuya beat him to it with a shout that made him pull the phone away from his ear. “Each in his own house!”

Dazai pouted.

“But Angel…”

“It's three in the morning, don’t push your luck.”

“And what are you doing watching a movie at this hour?”

“I can’t sleep.”

Oh, oh.

Dazai didn’t want to move, every muscle in his body ached and the thought of lying on his futon made him sick, but he forced himself to do it. He got out of the tub with some difficulty, Chuuya’s voice in the background, and crawled into his room. He ignored the mess around him. Without bothering to change, he undressed and wrapped a blanket around himself.

He unlocked the computer and searched for the movie.

"A romantic comedy? Chuuya, you want to tell me something? I’m all ears.”

“I changed my mind.”

“Just kidding! What a poor sense of humor you have, my angel.”

“I don’t want to hear you or I’ll shut you up.”

Dazai bit his tongue to keep from blurting out, ‘How are you going to shut me up?’ because a part of him, the part that was infected and sick because of Chuuya, didn’t want to miss this, whatever it was. They spent the next hour and a half on speakerphone, criticizing and making fun of an American romance movie from the early two thousands, as if they were just two normal guys and not two yakuzas dancing on the edge of a cliff. At some point, Dazai fell asleep, and when he woke up after eleven in the morning, rested better than ever before, he knew he had a serious problem.

His phone lit up with an incoming call from Mori. He ignored it and went to the log to check the duration of the call with Chuuya.

“Shit,” he ran his hand through his hair in despair.

He has a problem, yes.

A problem he had to get to the root of before it became incurable.

The guy crawled on the ground between moans, leaving a trail of blood. The air smelled of salt, iron, and rotting fish. Dazai stood at a safe distance, his hands in the pockets of his black trench coat, his one uncovered eye gliding boredly over the port. Not far away, people worked tirelessly to bring a hot meal to the table, and in the shadows a cleaning crew waited for orders.

The bodies were piling up and the temperature was dropping as night set in. Dazai pulled his hands out of his pockets, rubbed them together and brought them to his mouth to warm them. The guy was whimpering on the ground, his ankle in an impossible position and his arms barely strong enough to crawl. Dazai wrinkled his nose, kicked him in the side and the guy peed his pants, if the stain on his crotch and thigh meant anything.

“Please, please, have mercy.”

Why was he begging? He couldn’t figure it out, pulled the pistol from his waistband, checked the magazine to see how many bullets he had left —it had been an entertaining hunt — and the whimpering increased, much to his chagrin.

“Why are you crying?” It was a genuine question, he gave him another kick, and the guy had the nerve to try to grab his pants. Another, this time to the stomach. The guy collapsed, spitting blood and saliva, and Dazai clicked his tongue in disgust. “I don’t get it. Help me understand, come on. You’re dead, why this charade?”

“I have a wife and children, please, please.”

Pathetic.

Dazai rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, refresh my memory. When did you say the last time you cared about your wife and children was? I’ll tell you: never.” He tested the weight of the gun in his hand before clicking the safety off, the guy recoiled shakily. “You haven’t seen your wife in weeks and your kids are better off without you, I assure you.”

It was pathetic and predictable.

“I’ll do anything,” he pleaded, clasping his hands together. Dazai looked around, at the containers and beyond. “I have money. Lots of money.”

Dazai let out a laugh.

“The money you stole from us? Funny, I thought it wasn’t you.”

The guy paled.

“Or the one you were promised for stealing from us?”

The problem with rats like him was that when they felt cornered, they would sell even their mother. That’s why Dazai couldn’t understand why he didn’t spill the beans. There was no way this guy, or the others who were resting a few feet away from them, could have managed to steal ridiculous amounts of money without a trembling hand. Someone in the shadows was pulling the strings, and Dazai was growing impatient.

The bandages stung.

And the smell of decay was starting to get to him.

“I didn’t, I swear—I wanted to, yes, but I chickened out! I promise!”

“A name!”

“I don’t know anything! I swear! I swear!”

It was useless, the same as talking to the stray cat that played between his feet for attention after being beaten and abused by others. Shaking his head, Dazai walked around the guy and turned his back. He searched into the pocket at the level of his chest until he found the pack of cigarettes. Perhaps the nicotine would calm his mind. Once, before someone gave him a hand, he used to hang out there, locked in a container, waiting for death to greet him.

He didn’t have a lighter. Shit.

He counted backwards, and when he got to five, the guy gathered his strength and tried to knock him down. He smiled. It was too predictable to enjoy. Dazai dodged him with astonishing ease, hit him in the shoulder blades with the butt of his pistol and kicked him to the ground.

“You bit the hand of the one who feeds you, expect no mercy.”

The guy spat blood, rage twisted his features. Dazai sighed tiredly, crouched down and grabbed a handful of hair, digging his nails into his scalp. Then he smiled. It was a subtle smile at first, and then it broke as the guy’s eyes grew wide with the realization that this was the end.

“A name,” he repeated, smacking him with the gun. “Give me a name and it’ll be quick.”

The man stifled a sob.

Dazai gave him another slap with the weapon and after securing his grip on his hair, slammed his head into the floor, once, twice, three times, until he heard the sound of breaking bones, released the guy and pointed the gun at him. What a waste of time. He fired. He emptied the magazine, threw the gun to the ground, and wiped his hands on the fabric of his trench coat.

Someone cleared their throat. Dazai looked over his shoulder. Hirotsu bowed his head in greeting.

“Grandpa.”

“The boss requests your presence, I’ll be your driver.”

Dazai twisted his lips in disgust, hid his hands in his pockets and forced a smug smile. Mori never called him after a hunt, it was strictly forbidden. After the Black Wraith came out to play, Dazai couldn’t act normal, his stability was hanging on a very thin thread and it was best that he didn't cross paths with anyone, let alone show up at the office for one of Mori’s mind games.

Still, he couldn’t refuse.

“Lead the way,” he crooned.

Hirotsu nodded in agreement.

Black towers crisscrossed the city, rotting it from within.

The ride lasted only a few minutes. Dazai kept his expression blank, more interested in the blood pooling under his fingernails than what was going on around him. Fortunately, Hirotsu was a man of few words and knew Dazai well enough to know better than to talk to him. His pulse pounded as they entered the underground parking. As darkness engulfed them, Dazai pulled out a hangnail. He hissed at the stinging pain that shot through him. He put his finger to his mouth to soothe it.

His heart leapt as he stepped out of the vehicle and his escort bowed to greet him. Dazai barely glanced at them, shoved his hands into his pockets and headed for the lifts, Hirotsu a step behind him. The sooner he saw Mori, the sooner he could lock himself in his apartment and drink himself unconscious.

Mori’s office was located on the top floor of the central tower. The whole room was bathed in an oppressive darkness and the smell of roses was suffocating, entering his nose and throat, rotting everything in its path until it reached his heart. Dazai stopped abruptly as his escort retreated and Mori was warned of his arrival. He pursed his lips into a thin line and reminded himself—as Hirotsu moved his, telling him something he couldn’t understand because his heart was thundering against his ears—that this isn’t real, this isn’t real.

He took a breath before moving forward, digging his nails into his palms. There were no roses to hide the smell of decay, and the darkness in the room was due to the time of day and the fact that Mori liked to play with his head. This isn’t real. This isn’t real.

He was no longer a frightened child, nor did this place belong to the monster. He stepped onto the red carpet in his stained shoes, lowered his gaze by way of greeting. Mori sat at his desk, a pile of reports on one side, his laptop on the other, and what looked like the remains of his dinner. But it was not what caught his attention, that made his heart race again, but the little girl drawing on the floor, surrounded by coloured crayons and sheets of paper.

No, it wasn’t the little girl.

It was the boy next to her.

“Do you like him? He’s the new playmate for our little Elise.”

His name floated somewhere in the back of his mind. The boy’s back was turned, he was wearing a dark blue sweater and hugging a creepy rag doll, but it was his dark brown hair with grayish highlights that gave him away. For a second, Dazai felt his knees buckle and the ground beneath his feet disappear.

Yumeno.

At the orphanage, Dazai had heard Chuuya ask about the child’s health, and now he was there, playing with Elise on the red carpet, in the clutches of the mafia, exactly what Chuuya wanted to avoid.

His ears were ringing and his hands were sweating. Mori had done it on purpose. Chuuya would not like to see Yumeno here. Oblivious to everything, the boy raised his head and his face lit up with a bright smile when he recognized Dazai, even though he was dressed completely in black and it was the Black Wraith, the demon that haunted Yokohama. Dazai forced himself to look unperturbed, as if having this boy here wasn’t a warning.

A message.

“You bought her a kid? Is that what you had me called for?”

Mori narrowed his eyes. Then he softened his expression and gestured for him to sit down. Dazai did so reluctantly, crossed his legs and leaned back in the seat while Elise told Yumeno: “Pink, no, silly, I want it to be red.”

“News?”

“Nobody opened their mouths, but we found two hard drives. They’re with the IT team. If there’s anything useful, Katai will let us know.”

“Not even a name?"

Dazai shook his head, trying not to let his frustration show in his gestures. This conversation, as if Mori didn’t have a report with the most relevant data on his desk, was an absolute waste of time. Dazai wasn’t there, listening to the laughter of Yumeno —one of Chuuya’s kids, damn it— to talk about the details of the hunt.

Still, he played along until Mori revealed his cards.

“They were losers, they couldn’t have done it alone,” Steal money, cover their tracks later. Impossible. “We checked and reconstructed their last movements, and all eight subjects visited the same Internet cafe at the same time, but on different days. It’s only a matter of time before we find a thread, I wouldn’t worry too much.”

Mori thought silently.

“It’s a lot of money, Dazai.”

Dazai twisted his lips.

The problem wasn’t the money, it was the message it left behind. If eight errand boys could so easily rob the Port Mafia, no matter how badly they ended up, what was to stop the rest of the gangs, bands, and groups from turning against them? Mori had kept himself in power by weaving a web of loyalty, fear, and security, and now it was wobbling.

It was no coincidence that holes in that web were appearing right now. Whoever was behind these robberies —in various establishments— was not looking for the money, but for the uncertainty it would create.

Mori tapped his fingernail on the desk. Elise gave an indignant squeal and Yumeno clapped his hands between laughs.

“Eli, honey, why don’t you show Q his new room?”

“Rintarou, we’re drawing. Don’t bother us!”

“Elise,” he warned her.

“Q?”

Dazai felt his blood run cold. No, no, no.

“My name is R.”

“¿R? That’s not a name.”

“What’s yours, smartass?”

Dark hallways. Smell of disinfectant. White coats. Straps.

His ears were ringing, his hands were sweating, and the world was spinning at full speed. Dazai couldn’t stand it anymore. He had to get out of there. Mori didn’t pay attention to him, not with Elise protesting loudly with her arms up in the air, but he didn’t move anyway, didn’t even breathe.

He knew.

He felt so stupid for thinking that Mori wouldn’t know, that he could hide it from him...

“Dazai?”

He gasped in disorientation and looked around. Elise and Yumeno were gone, and Mori was watching him with a raised eyebrow. His dark eyes pierced him, as if he could read his soul if he tried hard enough. He was his doctor, he thought, disgusted with himself, why shouldn’t he know? Idiot, idiot, idiot. He tried to force a nonchalant gesture, to relax in his seat and maintain an attitude that fit the role he had carved out for himself there.

Mori pulled his lips back to say something. Dazai beat him to it.

“Did Ozaki make any moves?”

Mori hesitated.

“Not at all, but I foresee that we will have problems in the future.”

“Why? I thought we would wait until we found out what they were hiding before we made any moves.”

Why else would he waste his time—his head—with Chuuya?

“The negotiations with Chief Taneda are finally paying off,” Mori sighed, took his pen from his desk and signed one of the reports. “We will soon take control of the ports and that will inevitably lead to a confrontation with Ozaki. Because of the old Triad agreements.”

Dazai did not move. Mori continued to speak as he signed the rest of the reports. His intelligence agents had been looking for ways to legalize control of the ports for several years, and four years ago they had managed to lay the groundwork for negotiations with the Special Division at the expense of...

“Excuse me, boss.”

He couldn’t stand there anymore, not when the smell of roses gave way to the spicy curry, whiskey, and the laughter of a group of children. If he looked at his hands, they would be stained with blood. Mori did it on purpose, from Yumeno’s presence to the mention of the ports. He was waiting for a sign of weakness to sink his teeth into him.

“Of course, Dazai. It’s late and you must be tired, you can retire.”

“I’ve even been granted the Silver Oracle.”

“Really? If you wanted my help, just ask me.”

It didn’t take much effort for him to hack into the security cameras, unlock the door, and sneak onto the rooftop. It was child’s play. He clambered over the edge of the rooftop with a certain clumsiness, his body numb from the cold and his heart in tatters. He swayed as his gaze lingered on the city beneath his feet, the one that had seen him born, turned its back on him, and now mocked his misfortune. The hint of a hollow smile tugged at his parched lips. It would be so easy... He savored the possibility —the blood on his gums, the death that had surrounded him since childhood— and made it his own. But the universe liked to trip him up, so his phone chose this moment to vibrate incessantly in his pocket.

Clumsily, he took it out to throw it into the void, but Chuuya’s name made him stop for a heartbeat, two heartbeats . He shouldn’t, not now, when he was hanging on by a very thin thread, when his mind was an uncontrollable chaos and his emotions were swirling furiously. He shouldn’t, but...

He found himself answering.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Dazai blinked in confusion, the numbing haze dissipating just enough to make him frown. Three heartbeats.

“What are you talking about?” he cleared his throat and tried again. “Angel, we can’t go on like this. If you missed me, all you had to do was say so.”

“Eat shit, asshole.”

“I hate cannelés*, sorry.”

Silence, noise and...

“What?” Dazai smiled, knowing what was coming, the shouting and the insults, but they never came. Chuuya sighed at the other end of the line, probably pushing his hair out of his face as he weighed if this, putting up with Dazai, his little games, was worth it. “You have the taste buds of a five year old, don’t mess with me.”

“But my angel, they taste of blood.”

“Cannelé is an exquisite dessert, but what do you know?”

It’s your favorite dessert.

“The dwarf likes the taste of blood, good to know,” he hummed.

“Look, I’m not going to get into this, but let’s be clear, I’m the lesser weirdo of the two of us.”

“Uh-huh, if that makes you sleep like a baby.”

”I for one didn’t get hard when someone threatened to cut my balls off!”

Dazai burst out laughing. It was inevitable. He felt something wet, warm and burning run down his cheeks. He brought his fingers to his face while Chuuya was scolding him. It was tears. He was crying. He knit his eyebrows together in confusion. It had to be Chuuya, it was all the redhead’s fault. It had gotten under his skin and rotted from within.

He couldn’t stop crying.

Damn Chuuya.

He thought about the mental list of contradictions about Nakahara Chuuya: he drank bitter tea but loved excessively sugary sweets, listened to rock and metal while closing The Flags, liked romantic comedies, slasher and old French movies... Dazai bent one knee on the edge of the roof and rested his chin on it, the city he intuited beneath his feet no longer interested him as much as Chuuya’s hoarse voice and what it made him feel.

Why had he called him, and what had he said?

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Dazai?”

“No stars.” The redhead fell silent. “Do you know why not?”

“Because of the pollution?”

“Hmm, maybe,” he shifted his position and lay down on the edge. “Shall I tell you a story? Once upon a time there was a powerful man whose greed led him to build five great towers to reach the stars. He stole them, locked them underground, and stripped them of everything that made them special. He lusted after their power, and when he had turned them into useless stones, he disposed of them.”

“Dazai,” he interrupted, and the brunet detected a hint of concern in his voice. Another contradiction, why should Chuuya of all people sound worried about him?

He raised his hand to catch an invisible star.

“Do you know the worst? It wasn’t enough, he always wanted more, more and more.”

“Where are you?”

Dazai lowered his hand, clenched his fist and brought it to his chest.

“I’m very tired, Chuuya.”

Not my angel.

Not little angel.

Chuuya swore loudly in French.

“Tell me where you are, your fucking location. I’ll come get you.”

Dazai smiled, but it was more of a grimace. He had no strength left to continue.

“Will you rescue your princess at the top of the tower?”

“I’ll blow up the fucking tower to kick your ass, you bastard.”

Dazai fell silent. Chuuya made a lot of noise, probably preparing to run up there.

“I want to kill you,” he confessed.

Chuuya was silent for so long that Dazai thought the call had been cut off, that it had never happened.

“Then don’t do anything stupid.”

It was okay, Chuuya would come and this torture would end once and for all. He would kill him. He had to kill him. This stupid mission would end, Mori would be angry, but everything would go back to normal. So why did his heart beat out of control?

Chapter Text

He could not sleep.

He rolled over, hugging the pillow with his legs and arms, and buried his face in it. His heart contracted, then quickened. He pushed the pillow aside and stretched to take up as much space on the bed as possible. Something wasn’t right. He patted the mattress until he found his phone. It was almost two in the morning, fuck . He ran a hand through his hair, took a deep breath, and decided it was a waste of time to stay in bed when sleep eluded him and something inside of him was stirring restlessly.

Frustrated with himself, he kicked the sheets out and he pulled his hair into a low ponytail on his way to the balcony. The coolness of the night would clear his head, and maybe he could use a cigarette. Ane-san wasn’t there to wrinkle her nose in disgust. He hadn’t finished opening the balcony latch when a pain in his chest bent him in half.

A heartbeat that was not his, nor his sister’s, nor his uncles’, paralyzed him. It was heartbreaking, writhing inside him, damaging everything in its path and sucking the air out of his lungs. The emptiness in his chest became unbearable, his eyesight failed him —he was in his room and in a place he didn’t know at the same time— and he could barely crawl into bed. He put a hand to his chest, clutched his pajama top until it crumpled, and retrieved his phone from the mattress.

Dazai.

Dazai. Dazai. Dazai.

His vision blurred, his heartbeat was out of control—no, not his, Dazai’s—and Chuuya knew, as he unlocked his phone and reached with fumbling fingers for Dazai’s contact, that he would gut the mackerel with his bare hands.

“Pick up, bastard. Pick it up, come on.”

It was too much, he dug his fingers into the mattress, closed his eyes and tried to control the rhythm of his breathing, but his world wouldn’t stabilize again, wouldn’t return to its fucking axis until Dazai answered. Later, much later, he would stop and think about what it meant, what this human meant to him, as if someone had written his heartbeat inside him, right at the level of his chest.

Later, because right now, Chuuya had to go kick his ass in enemy territory. That early morning, he defied more than just traffic laws with his pink motorcycle, but also his own instincts. The bike had been a loan —a gift— from Albatross, who had a penchant for collecting extravagant vehicles, and Chuuya had fallen in love with it the first time he rode it.

With it, he could run without fear.

With it, he could defy gravity, fly without wings.

The bike made him feel free.

Chuuya parked two blocks away from his destination. He clenched his fists and took a deep breath before getting off the bike. He shouldn’t be there, and as he closed the distance to the infamous Port Mafia towers, all his instincts turned against him and the air became oppressive, as if a storm threatened to sweep everything away for his daring. If he crossed the street, if he stood beneath the towers, he would be the prey, not the predator.

His sister would have a heart attack.

Pianoman would be disappointed, because this, crossing the damn city to kick the Black Wraith’s ass, of all people, would shatter the trust they had built up over the months. He adjusted the hood of his hoodie, his hair recognizable from a mile away, and zipped up his leather jacket. He cursed between his teeth, standing in the middle of the street he was too exposed, he had probably already attracted the attention of several pairs of eyes.

“Fuck it,” he muttered, if this was a trap, he'd better screw it all up.

“I’m very tired, Chuuya.”

He noticed movement out of the corner of his eye, but pretended not to notice. If it was a trap, if they were coming for him, it wouldn’t be Chuuya who would get hurt. He raised his head to the starless sky, as if an invisible thread pulled him there. He picked up his phone and dialed Dazai’s number.

“Come down,” he ordered him in a dry voice, and just in case, because the pressure in his chest was still there, he added: “Down the stairs.”

Dazai didn’t answer, but he could hear his breathing on the other end of the line, and he could feel him inside.

“Are you down there?”

“What, do you see me?“ Chuuya scoffed.

“You’re too tiny to see you and... Are you crazy!? Do you have a death wish!? You shouldn’t have come, little angel.”

Chuuya smiled half sideways.

“It’s contagious.”

Dazai murmured something between his teeth.

“Don’t hang up,” the brunet warned.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Chuuya replied.

“I’ll leave that to you, dwarf. You’ve outdone me, I’ll give you that."

What are you playing at? He wanted to ask him, the question nestled in his chest and took root. What the fuck are we playing at? He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his eyes wandering down the street, expecting a team of suited agents to descend upon him at any moment. It didn’t happen. His heart skipped a beat as he turned to find Dazai standing a few feet away.

No, it wasn’t him, the idiot he had put up with for the last few weeks, nor the Black Wraith or whatever they called him, although he looked like him enough, but someone broken, hanging on by a very thin thread and watching him as if he didn’t know what to do with him.

It was mutual.

“I want to kill you.”

That was mutual too.

“Hello, princess.”

Dazai tilted his face, a blank slate that gave him goosebumps.

“You’re pretty short for a prince.”

Chuuya made an obscene gesture.

The possibility had crossed his mind that this was the reason why their paths had crossed in the first place, but if so, why would Dazai prolong the execution like this? Out of boredom? For fun? He had a knife in the waistband of his jeans, if Dazai got tired of this game, he would slit his throat or stab him before he could even blink in his direction.

Dazai closed the distance between them, his face pale and his one uncovered eye empty.

“Have you bathed in blood? Gross,” Chuuya spat and took a step back.

“You want to eat me?” he asked curiously.

“What?”

“You like cannelés,” and he shrugged like it was nothing.

“You know what? I don’t care, I refuse to rack my brain trying to understand you, and why do you have bandages on your face?” Before he could think about what he was doing, he reached forward and ripped the gauze off his face. Dazai grunted and rubbed his right eye. To his surprise, he even sulked. "Only you would cover a healthy eye, for God’s sake."

“It’s part of my personality.”

“Which of all?” He shook his head and pushed the helmet towards him. Dazai looked at it like a nasty bug before looking up, a silent question dancing in his dark irises. Chuuya crossed his arms. “You investigated me, remember? Deal with it.”

“I refuse.”

“I’m in fucking enemy territory, Dazai. Don’t piss me off.”

Dazai opened his mouth to protest, but Chuuya beat him to it, a shit-eating grin on his face.

“Wait, don’t tell me, what... Are you afraid, Shoddy Wraith?”

Dazai laughed through his nose and shook his head, more amused than annoyed, if the twinkle in his eye meant anything. Chuuya scored that before getting on the motorcycle. Dazai hesitated; from the way he pursed his lips, Chuuya feared he would protest. He didn’t. The brunet swung one leg over the seat and wrapped his arms around the redhead’s waist. Chuuya held his breath, his heart fluttering.

“Hold on tight,” he said, his voice hoarse.

Dazai pressed against his back, his breath tickling his ear.

“Whatever my angel says,” he purred, the damned menace.

Chuuya wiped the smile from Dazai’s face as soon as he started the bike. At first, Dazai clung to him like an octopus, squeezing so tightly he could choke him, but as they marked distance with the black towers, and adrenaline surged through him, he loosened his grip. Chuuya felt Dazai’s heart pounding hard against his back and inside him.

It was addictive, and dangerous.

“The Ajuma’s Casserole?” Dazai read the sign slowly, as if he suddenly couldn’t understand a few simple kanji. Then he turned to him and the confusion on his face was even more obvious. Chuuya crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow. “What are we doing here?”

“What do you think?”

Dazai knitted his brows. Chuuya rolled his eyes.

“Let’s go to dinner.”

“You’re asking me out on a date?”

Chuuya felt the heat rush up his neck and ignite his cheeks, so he hurried past him before the stupid human could misinterpret the color in his face, and tapped him on the shoulder. Dazai let out a groan, but didn’t protest. The small Korean restaurant, half hidden in an alley in one of the poorest parts of the city, was practically empty. A woman was eating a bowl of noodles in the back, wearing headphones while watching videos on her phone, and an older man, still wearing his overalls, was listening to the radio next to the owner. She was an older woman, with gray hair pulled back in a low bun and a youthful spirit.

A small smile appeared on his face when the woman recognized him.

“Chuuya, young man, how handsome you look,” the woman pinched his cheek. Chuuya greeted her with a small bow. “You are in your bones, when was the last time you had a proper meal? Come, come.”

“Ajumma, I’ve even gained weight!” he laughed sheepishly.

“Nonsense!”

Despite the cataracts she suffered from, her eyesight was amazing. It was as if she had a gift, an ability that allowed her to see beyond what the human eye could see. She ran the restaurant with enviable mastery, her culinary skills were remarkable, and her kind heart had won the affection and loyalty of all her customers.

“But ajumma—,” he giggled.

She didn’t listen to him, grabbing his arm to drag him to the table, but then she realized he wasn’t alone and curiosity broke across her face in the form of a beaming smile, missing a few teeth. Chuuya tensed, it was an unconscious movement, because until that moment he hadn’t thought about what it meant to bring Dazai there, what the brunet could do with that information or what the ajumma could see in his partner.

Partner? No! He’s a simple human, fuck.

“Oh, and that handsome boy?” The woman walked up to Dazai, who shrank in on himself as she rested her whitish eyes on his face. “You look like a corpse, boy. You smell like one.”

Dazai wrinkled his nose in disgust, and Chuuya could not hold back the laughter that came from seeing his reaction. Ajumma was a very outgoing, free-spirited woman without a drop of shame in her body. At first, her carefree attitude—the confidence she exuded and her infectious enthusiasm—was shocking, especially since no one there was her client, but rather her favorite son, her gangly grandson, or her stray brother.

Chuuya met her shortly after arriving in Yokohama, he had been out for a walk, nightmares wouldn’t let him rest and the world was too strange for him, and somehow he ended up at the door of her restaurant at an ungodly hour. The woman took one look at him, grabbed his arm and offered him a plate of noodles. After that night, he came back a few more times, and it was only on the third night that he mustered the courage to talk, not just listen to this strange woman’s rantings.

“Why?” he murmured, his voice cracking.

“Why what, young man? Be more specific, they don’t charge for words.”

Chuuya shrugged as he stirred the broth with the spoon.

“Why are you so nice to everyone?”

The ajumma blinked in confusion, a smile tugging at her parched lips, and she gave him a friendly pat on the arm.

“The world is cruel enough, I like to be nice to good people.”

Chuuya felt a lump in his throat.

“I’m not a good person.”

I’m not a person at all.

“That’s for me to decide, isn’t it? Eat, your broth is getting cold.”

The ajumma brought him back to the present with a slap on his ass. Chuuya let out a high-pitched squeal, his cheeks flushed pink and his eyes wide as saucers. His heart was beating a mile a minute from the embarrassment he was feeling, he didn’t even turn around to acknowledge Dazai’s presence right behind him, the snort he heard was enough to know he had seen it all.

“Sit down, boys. It's on the house.”

Chuuya felt Dazai’s questioning gaze at the back of his neck.

“What’s the problem?” he spat grumpily.

“First the children and now this place.”

Chuuya immediately tensed up.

“Huh?”

Dazai pressed his lips together, the tension in his shoulders was evident as he took off his trench coat and hung it on the back of the seat. Chuuya’s eyes lingered a second too long on how the gray shirt, not black as he had first thought, clung to Dazai’s shoulders and back. He averted his gaze in embarrassment as Dazai sat up.

Dazai shook his head, grabbed some chopsticks, and snorted through his nose.

“Are you that stupid or are you just pretending, Slug?”

“Ha!?” he pounded the table with clenched fists and leaned toward the brunet. “Stop with the stupid pet names, Shitty Dazai. If you have something to say, say it without tricks or I swear…”

“You’re as slow as a slug.”

Chuuya paused, blinked and leaned back. That seemed to elicit a reaction from him, Dazai narrowed his eyes and twisted his lips in annoyance.

“Stop showing me weaknesses, Chuuya. I could use them against you.”

“Will you?”

“Who knows? Maybe tomorrow this cozy little place will be in the news after an unfortunate accident, or maybe your beloved ajumma will end up in a ditch or on a ship on its way to Thailand.”

His words caused a fire under his skin, the smell of petrichor was accentuated and the sky was illuminated through the windows. They stared at each other, Dazai leaning towards him as if the heartbeat Chuuya felt inside him affected him in the same way. As if they were both attracted by the same gravitational field. Could Dazai feel the storm, the fire raging within him? He could feel the danger in the air, like the caress of a scorned lover? Rain lashed the city and a clap of thunder split it in two, startling everyone except the two of them.

Dazai tilted his face, his dark eyes shone in recognition and Chuuya hid his gloved hands under the table. His heart thundered against his ribs, as the brunet reached out a hand for his face. Chuuya froze, but his fingers never brushed him, they remained mere inches from his eyes. Dazai clenched his fist.

“Your eyes... Your damn eyes.”

Chuuya swallowed hard. His first instinct was to look away, to search for his reflection in the table, on the napkin holder, or the first surface there was, for fear of finding his right iris burned, but then the ajumma came, with a small smile on her face and two well-filled plates of food—a bowl of doenjang jjigae for him, and a plate of curry rice for Dazai—and the world returned to its axis. Dazai leaned back and Chuuya could breathe again.

“Curry?”

Dazai’s breathing became agitated and erratic, and he almost knocked the napkin holder to the floor.

“Dazai! What’s wrong?”

Dazai didn’t look at him, his chest rose and fell and his hands trembled.

“I don’t like spicy food.”

“What?”

Dazai forced a smile that did not reach his eyes. He held the spoon as if he didn’t know what to do with it, took some curry and put it in his mouth. Chuuya was incredulous. Dazai twisted his lips in disgust, cheeks burning and eyes glazed over. He took another spoonful and stuck out his tongue. He nearly choked on the third.

Something was terribly wrong with this human.

Chuuya grabbed his wrist to stop him from eating any more.

“If you don’t like spicy, why the fuck are you eating it? Order something else, you fucking masochist.”

“I can’t even look at curry without wanting to puke.”

Chuuya blinked in confusion, clicked his tongue, and switched plates.

“Eat and shut up.”

“My prince in shining armor,” he sneered.

Chuuya ignored him as he mixed some rice into the curry.

“It’s not that spicy, little princess.”

Dazai looked at the soup, unsure how to proceed, tasted a bit of the broth and his face lit up for a second. His eyes widened and an innocent gleam, unlike anything Chuuya had seen before, found its way into his dark irises.

“It’s delicious.”

“The ajumma knows her stuff.”

Except for the curry. Chuuya looked quizzically at his plate. So far, the ajumma hadn’t failed to read her customers. He shook his head and relaxed, for at least he was dealing with Dazai, not the Black Wraith or the walking corpse, but his Dazai.

It was raining heavily.

“It’s my turn.”

Dazai stretched out his arms and grinned with all his teeth.

“Your turn?” Dazai nodded exuberantly and Chuuya’s frown deepened. “Oi, Dazai, not to tease you, but it’s pouring rain, we can’t take the bike like this.”

“It’s close.”

“We’ll get sick.”

Something strange shadowed the human’s face, but he immediately regained his usual smile, the one that dwarfed his eyes and accentuated his dimples, so Chuuya guessed he had imagined it. Chuuya couldn’t get sick, not like a normal human, but he didn’t feel like testing his body’s resistance or coming home soaking wet.

In an absent-minded gesture, Dazai grabbed his arm to get him to leave the protection of the awning they had taken shelter under. Chuuya stumbled from the unexpectedness of the movement and cursed aloud as the rain soaked his hair and shoulders. But Dazai’s giggling made him forget the reason for his anger for a second and he froze, watching him. And wasn’t it a great view that could rival even a masterpiece? His dark eyes, the color of melted caramel, drew him like a moth to the light. Without thinking, he reached out and brushed the bangs from Dazai’s face.

His smile was wiped away in one fell swoop.

“Sorry, I…” Chuuya tried to pull away, but Dazai grabbed his wrist and forced him to hold his wet cheek.

Chuuya swallowed.

“It’s warm.”

“What?”

Dazai leaned into his hand, closed his eyes and sighed.

“Even with the glove, your hand is warm.”

“You’re a freak.”

A hint of a grin tugged at his parched lips.

“Come, angel, run with me.”

Dazai interlocked their fingers. Chuuya watched their hands before Dazai ran down the street. Defying gravity on his motorcycle, flying without wings and without getting off the ground, while trapped in a cage, could not be compared to anything else. But that early morning, with just a heartbeat , two intertwined hands and two racing hearts, he changed his mind.

In the end, they were soaking wet. Dazai stopped in front of an old arcade. Chuuya tossed his hair back and looked around. It was a shopping street, the street lamp above their heads flickered, and the rain pelted them in retaliation. Chuuya hugged himself for warmth.

“Hey, what are we...?”

Dazai showed him a hairpin, then turned to the padlock on the gate. Realizing what he was about to do, Chuuya stopped him by putting a hand on his.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Oh, excuse me, Mr. Yakuza, do you have a problem with breaking and entering?”

Chuuya blushed.

“Trust me, little angel.”

“Not a chance.”

But he stepped aside anyway. Dazai removed the padlock and Chuuya helped him lift the bars so he could work the lock. The brunet sang a victory chant as the door gave way, gave him a light shove, and gestured for him to go through first. Chuuya rolled his eyes, half amused, half annoyed at his penchant for over-the-top theatrics.

The dust got up his nose and made him cough.

“I used to come here when I was a kid.”

“Really?”

“Don’t look so surprised. Chuuya must know that I was a child too, a lovely one.”

“Sure.”

“I even had braces.”

Chuuya turned around.

“You have pictures?"

“No pictures for perverted little angels.” Dazai fumbled with the wall until he found the switch. “Voila!”

“We’re the same age... Warn me before you turn on the lights, Jeez!”

“Really?” Dazai said in a singing tone.

Chuuya rubbed his eyes. The place was huge.

“Really what?”

Dazai approached slowly.

“Are we really the same age?”

Chuuya tensed, his heart doing somersaults in his chest.

“Are you kidding me? I checked you out too, asshole.”

“You flatter me, I knew we were soul mates.”

“You’re insufferable!”

He wandered around the room, curiosity written all over his face. Dazai pointed out his favorite games and took the opportunity to tell him anecdotes about his time there. Chuuya could tell from the dust that the arcade had been closed for several years, so he was surprised when Dazai managed to turn on one of the machines. He tried to imagine a younger, perhaps more gangly Dazai, with pimples on his face and braces, sneaking away from the mafia to play a few games with the local kids.

A small smile appeared on his face when Dazai called out to him.

It was a fighting game, the pixels hurt the eyes and the characters were horrible, but it had its charm.

“Shall we bet?”

Chuuya tapped the controls hesitantly. He had played games before, but never in company and never in a place like this. He looked over his shoulder and wondered what his childhood would have been like, his teenage years, if he had stayed in Yokohama, if he had been a normal kid. Dazai snapped his fingers to get his attention and pointed his chin at the screen.

“Money?”

“Don’t be boring, little angel. We’ve got enough dough for both of us. Let's make it interesting.”

Chuuya arched an eyebrow in his direction.

“I’ll regret it, but sure, let's make it interesting.”

“If I win, you’ll be my dog for life.”

“Ha?! Why would I agree to that!?”

Dazai pretended not to hear him.

“If you win…” he hesitated, lowered his eyes and then grinned, fluttering his long eyelashes. “If you win, I’ll leave you alone.”

Chuuya’s heart shrank.

“Are you serious?”

“I never lie about important things, my angel.”

Chuuya licked his lips, touched the controls and— to hell with it .

“If I win, you’ll be out of my life forever.”

“If I win, you’ll be my dog.”

Looking back, he should have known better. He lost the first game, the second and the next five. Dazai burst out laughing when Chuuya punched the machine, and accused him of cheating.

“Chuuya will always be my dog~”

“Wasn’t I your angel?” he barked.

“Have you finally accepted it?”

Dazai pinned him against the machine. Chuuya backed away as far as he could and leaned back to meet his gaze. His heart leapt, and a mischievous smile tugged at Dazai’s lips. And wasn’t it ridiculous? The human was no rival for him. If Chuuya wanted to, he could tear this damn machine to shreds, the entire arcade, and Dazai himself apart with a touch of his fingers.

Still, he didn’t move and his eyes fell on the brunet’s mouth.

“My angel, may I...?”

They were too close.

It was ridiculous, extremely ridiculous, but his heart was doing funny things in his chest and a part of him wanted to close the distance between them, to cling to the collar of his shirt and...

“It’s my turn!” he shouted, slipping away as soon as Dazai took a step back. “It’s my turn to show you a place.”

“Chuuya.”

He ignored him in favor of retrieving his leather jacket and tossing the black trench coat to Dazai, who looked at him with slightly disappointed twisted lips, as if this, Chuuya pushing him away or playing along, was against his every wish.

His hand trembled, he brought his fist to his chest and took a deep breath. When he felt more confident, he turned to find Dazai watching his every move. He couldn't decipher his emotionless gaze, but the heartbeat in his chest, taking root and contaminating his blood supply, warned him that something was wrong.

“I want to kill you.”

Was it finally over? He was hyper-aware of the knife in the waistband of his jeans, as well as the fact that Dazai stood between him and the only way out. It had been fun, even exhilarating, he had to give the brunet that, but all good things had an expiration date.

Dazai moistened his lips.

“I want to see the sunrise.”

“Huh?”

Dazai smiled softly, though the gesture did not reach his eyes.

“I want to see the sunrise, my angel.”

The ‘for the last time’ hung in the air between them. Chuuya hesitated, then clicked his tongue in frustration at not being able to listen to his instincts, and motioned with his wrist for Dazai to lead the way. It was no longer raining, the sky was still overcast and the air smelled stormy, but the first signs of dawn were everywhere: birds singing and the sound of a few cars passing in the distance. After retrieving the bike next to the small restaurant, they made their way back in awkward silence. Dazai rested his cheek against Chuuya's back and tightened his grip around his waist, as if he wanted to get under his skin.

If the brunet found it strange that they parked next to The Flags, he didn’t say anything. They didn’t enter the bar, but walked around the building —weathered brick and deceptively sloppy looking— and up the fire escape to the rooftop.

“It’s cold,” Dazai protested once they were upstairs.

It was a modest rooftop, with a few communal clotheslines that no one used, junk piled against the wall so long ago that it had become part of the place. It had its charm; there he wasn’t Nakahara Chuuya, the little brother of the heiress to an empire, but just Chuuya —a speck of dust in a gigantic universe— and for some reason, he wanted Dazai to feel the same way.

If this was their end, he wanted it to be on his own terms.

“Didn’t you want to see the sunrise?” Chuuya reminded him, leaning against the edge with his back to the city.

Dazai tilted his face in genuine curiosity.

“How about showing me your house instead?” he countered, stepping closer to the redhead. “Come on, dwarf. I know the city by heart, your place has a better view.”

Chuuya blew air through his nose.

“The view from here is incomparable.”

Dazai licked his lips and his eyes twinkled with amusement.

“I can swear,” he hummed, tangling a auburn curl on his finger and giving it a gentle tug. “It’s a pretty sight.”

Chuuya blushed, his ears burning and his pulse racing. Dazai’s eyes darkened. His smile, subtle at first, tugged at his lips, and Chuuya’s heart leapt in his chest. He clung to the edge and drew back to meet Dazai’s gaze, the crimson glint he caught in his dark irises sending a shiver down his spine.

Dazai subtly pushed him to the edge, and Chuuya stifled an exclamation.

“Scared?”

“You are going to push me?”

“You’d grab me and we’d fall together, and if I’m going to die like this, I’d rather it be with a pretty girl.”

Chuuya curled his lips in disgust.

“You’re…”

“The worst? I know, I know,” Dazai traced the line of his jaw with his fingertips. Chuuya gasped at the contact and hated himself for losing control like that. Dazai smiled with pleasure. “Tell me, Chuuya, may I kiss you? Just a kiss, my angel, what are you afraid of?”

Dazai’s hand ran down his neck, his chest... No more than a phantom touch, barely a brush, and his body betrayed him by leaning into Dazai, eager for more. The power this human had over him was becoming a real problem. His hand landed on the waistband of his jeans and Chuuya tensed.

“Dazai,” he warned him, his voice cracking.

His heart pounded wildly, his senses numb. The human moved closer, tucking one leg between Chuuya’s and clinging to his waist, their bodies stuck together. Chuuya grabbed the black trench coat and Dazai inclined in until their mouths were inches from meeting.

One kiss.

Just one kiss.

As if he could read his mind, Dazai curved his lips into a mischievous smile.

“And then another and another and another, and maybe I’ll finally get you out of my system, Nakahara Chuuya.”

“And then you’ll kill me?” he scoffed, his voice caught.

Dazai laughed soundlessly, and yet it tickled his chest.

“Maybe, or maybe I’ll let you fuck me senseless. Or the other way around! I'm not picky, we can switch, we’ll see.”

“We’re not going to fuck,” Chuuya barked.

“But will we kiss until we know each other’s mouths by heart?”

“Fuck you, shitty Dazai, I’m not playing that game.”

“But that’s what we’ve been doing for weeks,” he sneered mischievously. Then he pouted. “Don’t back out now.”

“You’re sick in the head.”

Dazai should not have this power over him, but it burned under his skin, crawled through his bloodstream and infected his body, the black hole that slumbered inside him and yearned to break free from its prison to devour everything. Dazai was a threat to his soul .

He grabbed a handful of his clothes and hesitated, his heart in his throat and fear stretching his long fingers.

One kiss.

Just one kiss.

And perhaps the monster—the god—that rested within him would be sated. One kiss, two or hundreds, and then the heartbeat that was not his would take root, rotting everything to the core, and Chuuya would be lost. One kiss, two or hundreds, and maybe the monster would awaken from its slumber, break the chains of bone and muscle and skin, and the storm would finally break.

One kiss, two or hundreds and...

He stood on tiptoe.

His crimson gaze was both a warning and a challenge, the way he smiled to him. It was an invitation for the monster to devour him.

It's a pity, he wanted to tell him, the words dying on the tip of his tongue as he shortened the nonexistent distance between them. It’s a pity you didn’t see me coming, human.

His phone rang, breaking the spell.

Dazai ducked his head, his shoulders shaking from the laughter he tried in vain to hold back, and rested his forehead on Chuuya’s shoulder. Chuuya pushed him away, but Dazai clung to his waist like an octopus. The redhead let it be, and pulled his phone out of his jacket pocket. He didn’t even look at the caller ID, only a few people had his number.

“Dude, sorry about the hours, but there’s a problem in the Totsuka-ku district,” it was Albatross, and he sounded anxious. “It’s the Port Mafia.”

Shit .

“Has any—?”

“Nobody died yet, but all hell is about to break loose, buddy.”

Chuuya closed his eyes and cursed through his teeth before telling Albatross he’d be there in twenty minutes. Dazai was watching him when Chuuya ended the call, and the knife in his hand—short-bladed with a leather hilt—was his. The bastard had stolen it from him at some point. Far from being afraid, Chuuya arched an eyebrow in his direction.

Dazai returned the gesture with a sassy grin.

“Well, little angel, shall we go on playing?”

Chuuya found himself smiling back.

The water dripped incessantly, hitting the bars and feeding the puddle beneath his feet. He dug his fingernails into the badly bruised skin of his arms and shrank into himself, seeking a comfort he didn't even know he craved.

He shivered, wiping his eyes with the frayed sleeve of his pajamas. His throat burned from trying to scream and the pain in his chest was unbearable.

He heard footsteps.

He hated them, hated humans with all his might.

“Here.”

He refused to look at her, her hair was the color of fire and so were her big eyes. Or maybe not. The colors, the sounds... It was all too much. If he ignored her presence, she would go away.

But the human was stubborn.

He looked at her through the space between his arms.

“Don’t cry, it's not worth it.”

“Cry?”

He raised his head slowly. He couldn’t name them. Her eyes. They weren’t fire or blood. They were something warmer.

She softened her smile.

“The water in your eyes.”

She reached between the bars and he hesitated.

“Aren’t you afraid of me?”

“Why should I be? You’re my little brother.”

“Lit-little brother,” he repeated hesitantly.

She widened her smile, her palettes were crooked, but it was pretty. He accepted the piece of cloth she offered him.

And with barely a brush of her fingers, a heartbeat echoed in his chest.

Hers.

Chapter Text

The Triad created the agreements to preserve balance and peace in Yokohama, and Kanagawa Prefecture as a whole.

It was no lie, but everyone knew that peace depended not on a few agreements, on what had once been decided by three greedy and suspicious men, but on loopholes, on concessions. As long as certain minimums—invisible and easily malleable boundaries—were respected, they could do and undo as they pleased without consequence.

Or nearly.

Located on neutral ground, the brothel wasn’t listed in the official records and was the perfect example. It didn’t belong to the Ozaki clan, so it wasn’t under their protection. That was probably why Albatross had contacted Chuuya instead of sounding the alarm. In any case, Dazai wouldn’t question his reasons, not if they served his own interests. Before he stepped through the thin silk curtain, he knew he was entering the lion’s den. Everything, from the soft scents to the choice of decor, screamed Ozaki.

The shadow of a smile danced on his lips and his heart raced with anticipation. It was going to be an interesting evening. There was nothing more addictive, nothing that could turn his stomach in such an exquisite way, than danger.

Or a certain redhead dwarf full of contradictions.

“Stay close,” Chuuya growled at him without raising his voice, a whisper that sent shivers down his spine and made him grin even wider.

Dazai hummed evasively in response.

Ozaki was known for his network of spies.

And assassins.

Delicate little flowers, trained in the noble art of flirtation, lured their prey with sweet promises, subtle caresses, and suggestive glances, and then stole their secrets and murdered them. Evil tongues said that they bathed in flowery perfumes to mask the poison they used on themselves, and that they could kill a man with their mouths alone. The street rats loved to cause hysteria by selling smoke and mirrors, but Dazai had no doubt, as he followed his angel closely, that these little flowers waiting patiently in the ornate armchairs and at the bar were trained soldiers.

Their looks betrayed them—ferocious wolves in sheepskin, the false and intoxicating docility they exuded. A pretty disguise to hide a deadly weapon. It was tempting to kiss their hands, to taste the poison right from their skin. To get drunk, to stop thinking. To die. Chuuya grabbed the sleeve of his trench coat, as if he could smell his intentions a mile away, and Dazai jumped.

“Chuuya is boring,” he wailed.

“Fuck, you never know when to shut up.” Chuuya pulled him closer, and hissed. “You got a death wish? You know what? Forget it, don’t say anything.”

The lack of light didn’t do justice to the intensity of his gaze.

“But my angel…”

He didn’t have a chance to finish his complaint. Albatross, wearing his leaky jeans, a faded shirt and a brown jacket, ran towards them. Dazai raised his eyebrows. He didn’t look like the type who frequented such places, nor someone who needed the services of a prostitute. It was the first time Dazai had really noticed him. Maybe it was the clothing, or just Dazai being in the mood, but Albatross was objectively attractive: tousled golden blond hair, big warm eyes, and a charming smile. Too many piercings for his taste, but he exuded confidence and his body made up for it.

Dazai tilted his face to admire his broad shoulders and arms. The Flags’ uniform didn’t do him justice at all. Albatross could lift him with his biceps and Dazai might even indulge him.

If he was in the mood, of course.

Surprised to see Dazai there, Albatross turned to Chuuya with a silent question in his eyes, which the redhead answered with a shrug. The blond cursed between his teeth at his imprudence.

I hear you, muscle boy.

“Some useless Port Mafia,” he spat viciously, as if the mere mention of the Port Mafia made him gag. Dazai looked up. “The bastards came to mess things up, overdid it with the booze and asked for more than they could afford. They’re neutralized awaiting orders.”

It was a tricky situation. The brothel wasn’t on the official records, didn’t exist in the eyes of the agreements, so theoretically no one there was authorized to demand a payment.

His mouth curved down. Either these idiots were very lucky—or bad, depending on who you asked—or very smart.

“What do we do?” asked Chuuya to no one in particular.

“What?”

Dazai wanted to shake him. Fortunately, Albatross did too.

“These are your people,” Albatross reminded him.

It was terribly annoying that Chuuya didn’t understand something so basic: when the enemy mocks you, you act. If it were the other way around, Dazai would have already put a bullet in the head of every one of those good-for-nothings and sent a message to the enemy clan to come pick up their trash. He stood in front of Chuuya, invading his personal space and preventing him from making contact with Albatross, and sighed audibly.

Then, he inclined toward him. Chuuya tilted his head up to meet his gaze.

“If I were you,” he whispered sweetly, so close that if it weren’t for the lack of light, Dazai could count each of his freckles and lose himself in the blue of his irises. “I would make them pay for their audacity, and tell your boss to be grateful to me for settling for some nobodies.”

Chuuya twisted his mouth and folded his arms defensively. Adorable. Dazai smirked, and let his bangs cover his eyes before continuing:

“But I guess that’s not your style, my angel.”

The redhead swatted his hand away when he tried to tap him on the nose.

Albatross looked out of place, slightly nervous; his gaze was lost across the bar in the direction of the back room. As much fun as it was to tease Chuuya, the situation was problematic to say the least, and if he wasn’t careful, it could blow up in Dazai’s face as well.

Frankly, he didn’t feel like dealing with Mori so soon.

“Is everyone all right?” Chuuya’s question was directed at a middle-aged woman, her copper-colored hair pulled back with an elegant kanzashi, the lines of her face sharply drawn. She walked with a cane, and the hand that held it had the rough skin of an old burn.

The woman nodded.

“My little flowers are fine, but I can’t say the same…” Her eyes wandered to one of the tables in the back, the mess was obvious, a picture of scattered bottles, torn cushions and broken glass. The material damage was repairable, but the reputation... “It was a scare.”

There was no inflection in her voice, it was flat and dull.

It was false.

“I want to talk to them."

The madame tensed at his request. However, she didn’t refuse. Nakahara Chuuya represented the Ozaki Clan. Dazai stood nearby; they descended a metal staircase, the light bulb flickering as they reached the bottom, and at the back were three people bound hand and foot.

Two men and a boy.

Dazai studied their faces curiously, but could not quite place them. Albatross hadn’t been wrong, they were useless. Probably messengers or unimportant little birds. Dazai twisted his lips, how could they have been such idiots to call themselves the Port Mafia? He stepped aside for now, leaned against the wall and let Chuuya do his thing. He wondered what he would do to make them talk. He wasn’t in his element, he didn’t fit the role and Dazai could only watch.

Chuuya exhaled.

There was an open toolbox at his feet, a wrench would do. Dazai had a weakness for pliers, they worked magic. But to his surprise, Chuuya ignored it and wandered around until he found what he was looking for.

A stool.

In disbelief, Dazai could only watch as Chuuya placed the stool in the middle of the room and sat down, legs spread and elbows on his knees. His whole attention was on the three nobodies.

“I’m Chuuya.”

Dazai peeled back his lips and closed them again. He felt the gaze of one of those useless people pierce his face, but it wasn’t his job to interrogate them. He would let the little angel play cat and mouse. For now. It would be interesting, even instructive, to learn what methods of torture someone so tiny—and with so much energy, a miniature sun, wild and untameable, a storm— had in his arsenal. He was salivating at the thought, and without realizing what he was doing, he leaned forward.

To his dismay, Chuuya actually spoke to them, telling them about their situation, the debt they had incurred with the brothel, and how they could pay it off without serious consequences. Dazai was in disbelief, barely able to control his expression. Chuuya couldn’t be serious. Albatross approached the one who seemed to be in charge, a stocky man with a very pronounced receding hairline, and when Chuuya nodded in agreement, he removed the gag.

The guy grimaced, Chuuya interlocked his fingers and rested his chin on them, giving him a chance to explain himself, but the guy just spat at his feet.

Albatross threw a punch that knocked his jaw loose.

Chuuya didn’t pay attention to the useless ones, but had his eyes on Dazai, who hadn’t even noticed that he had stepped forward: shoulders tense and anger gnawing at his face. Forcing himself to play down his recklessness, he ignored the unbearable pressure in his chest and shrugged with an irritated grin.

It didn’t have to be very effective, Chuuya’s pupils narrowed to slits.

“Are you really gonna let us leave without consequences?”

Chuuya blinked, puzzled, then softened his features and gave the younger man a calm smile. He was a boy, about twelve or thirteen years old, maybe even younger. He was red-haired, scrawny, and had a rather nasty bruise over his right eye. He was shivering. Either from the humidity or from fear, which was more likely.

Frankly, Dazai didn’t feel sorry for him at all.

“You’ll help clean up the mess and never set foot in here again.”

“Bullshit,” the stocky man spat.

Albatross cracked his knuckles in warning.

The quieter one still watched Dazai with barely a blink. This time, the brunet returned his gaze, cocked his face to the side and arched an eyebrow in his direction. It was a ‘Come on, spit it out if you’ve got the guts’. He seriously doubted these no-goods knew who he was, or that anyone would believe them if they opened their mouths, but it pissed him off that he couldn’t quite place his face.

He knew this guy.

Fortunately, the useless ones picked up and cleaned up without protest, under the watchful eye of Albatross. Dazai wasn’t convinced, there was something that didn’t quite add up, and it made him itch under the bandages, but that wasn’t his problem.

“Call me if anything happens,” Chuuya said to the madame, who tapped the cane on the ground in agreement. Then he turned to Albatross, who was fiddling with his sunglasses. “Are you coming?”

Albatross glanced sideways at Dazai and shook his head.

“I’m staying for a while, talk to you later, buddy.”

Chuuya massaged his neck and gestured with his chin for Dazai to move forward.

“We’re leaving, Mackerel.”

“Albatross,” Dazai waved goodbye.

“Handsome,” was his reply, crowned with a beaming smile that made him feel nauseous.

Chuuya tapped him on the shoulder as he passed. Dazai made a show of it, rubbing the injured area and pouting exaggeratedly. He even took to walking backwards, dodging the few passersby he encountered with astonishing skill.

“Chuuya is too good.”

“You’ll fall, asshole.”

“How can someone so tiny be so disgustingly good?” Chuuya’s cheeks were a lovely pink, and his blue eyes sparkled fiercely. “I can’t explain it, you’re too small for so much humanity.”

“Do you want to walk like a normal person?”

Chuuya caught the sleeve of his trench coat to keep him from eating a lamppost.

“It will cost you to be so nice,” he crooned.

He moved his arm and Chuuya stumbled, Dazai grabbing the dwarf’s waist and pulling him close. He was alive, terribly alive, and his heart thundered against his ribs. They could dance while the rest of the world began its workday, and perhaps then, from a nonexistent distance, Dazai could understand how the redhead would simply let the enemy escape.

To let Dazai go without a blink.

“For God’s sak—”

Dazai sensed danger before it was imminent, half a life in the mafia gave you that superpower. Chuuya hugged him tightly, constricting his ribs and ripping the air from his lungs, and spun them around. He could do nothing but witness someone—the quieter, useless one from before—rob Chuuya of some of his vitality; his eyes enlarged, a devastating blue, and his mouth emitted a choked sound.

No, no, no, no .

“For the Triad and the revolution!” the guy shouted before running away.

Chuuya fell to his knees, pale as a corpse, blood smeared on his gloves after reaching for the wound in his side. Dazai couldn’t breathe. The redhead stared at the blood in disbelief. His blue irises glowed brightly and something dark, like burnt wood, crackled in his right eye.

Their gazes connected and Chuuya dared to smile at him, a damn joke.

“Oi, wasn’t that what you wanted?”

No, no, not like that.

A gasp brought him back to the present. The boy from before was glued to the wall, a nervous wreck. Dazai let the Black Wraith take control and found himself grabbing the boy by the neck, lifting him an inch off the ground. And a wild, unhinged smile formed on his lips.

Someone yelled and another threatened to call the police.

“Dazai, stop, he’s a child.” Chuuya held him by the wrist, his face beaded with sweat and his eyes glazed over.

The boy slunk away.

“Can’t you see?!” he shouted at the redhead, who staggered back a step. Dazai held him by the elbow and grinned, a wide, mischievous grin. “You’ve been good to them, and this is how they repay you. Welcome to the real world, Nakahara Chuuya!”

His face darkened.

“Don’t talk to me like that,” he warned him and his right eye crackled. Dazai couldn’t look away. “He’s a child.”

“A child?” he scoffed. “There are no children in our world, little angel.”

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a crowd forming and some people raising their phones to record. Damn vultures. With a curse on the tip of his tongue, he took off his black trench coat and tried to throw it over Chuuya.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“You’re hurt.”

The knife was on the ground. He felt himself gag. Chuuya stirred, and a stab of pain bent him in half, and fear paralyzed him. They couldn’t go to a hospital, not without attracting the attention of the wrong people, but Dazai couldn’t let Chuuya go like this, badly wounded, his eyes clouded and trembling.

“To the hospital, no,” he pleaded.

“Don't be so stubborn.”

“It's just a scratch.”

“It could be poisoned.”

“What, why would someone do that?”

Dazai bit his tongue to keep from saying that the Ozakis were the first to like poison; it would do no good and might even be counterproductive. He cradled Chuuya’s face in his hands so that his eyes were on him alone.

“I know you don’t trust me, but I don’t like hospitals either. I know someone.”

Chuuya bit his lower lip, looking sickly.

He nodded, and that was more than enough.

Dazai banged on the door to Yosano’s clinic with a clenched fist, heart pounding in his throat and anxiety in his chest. Don’t die, don’t die . He could barely hold the redhead on his back and his head hung strangely, more unconscious than awake.

Never before had he regretted not sticking to his training plan so much. Fuck, Chuuya, hang in there.

Yosano opened it without removing the latch, suspicion shining in her irises. Dazai almost kicked the door down in desperation.

“What the hell, Dazai?”

“Help him,” he begged, panting.

Yosano removed the latch. Dazai tightened his grip on Chuuya. With her arms on her hips, the doctor glared at him. They had very simple rules, and their friendship depended on their adherence to them. Dazai was strictly forbidden to show up unannounced, let alone accompanied. But Yosano was a doctor first. As soon as she became aware of the problem, her attitude changed drastically.

She ran to the nearest stretcher.

“Put him down here,” she pushed the curtain aside and adjusted the sheet. “What happened to him?”

Dazai sat on the edge of the stretcher to lower Chuuya carefully.

“He’s been stabbed,” he said, stumbling over the words. Chuuya mumbled something, his eyelids fluttering and his eyes, two slits of withered blue, greeted him.

Dazai sighed in relief.

“D-Dazai?” his voice sounded pasty.

“You’re safe, angel,” Dazai whispered, cupping his cheek.

Yosano looked at them, stunned. Fortunately, she didn’t say anything. Dazai took the nearest chair and sat down, moving his foot compulsively. Yosano approached Chuuya, who was struggling to stay conscious, to assess the severity of the wound. The redhead didn’t react well to her presence, pulling away and the sudden movement tore at the wound. He writhed and a hiss escaped his lips. Dazai rushed to hold him up to prevent him from falling off the stretcher.

Yosano raised her hands in a sign of peace.

“Little angel, I promise you she can be trusted.”

“Don’t touch me!” hissed Chuuya and stepped away from him.

“You have high fever,” Dazai noted.

“Mr. Fancy Hat—” They all turned to Ranpo, who was standing in his pajamas by the door that separated the clinic from the apartment. Chuuya narrowed his eyes, radiating suspicion like an alley cat. “You have a fever, either Akiko checks your wound or you run the risk of the poison entering your system and damaging your organs. I suggest you cooperate if you don’t want to end up in an ambulance.”

Chuuya snorted —he snorted, the audacity!— and tried to get up on his own, but his legs failed him and his eyes rolled back in his head. Dazai caught him in time. Chuuya dug his fingers into the brunet’s biceps. He shivered and froze.

“He doesn’t like to be touched.” Chuuya tensed under him. Dazai helped him back onto the stretcher. Then he glanced over his shoulder at Yosano. “He doesn’t like skin-to-skin contact.”

Chuuya raised his head to meet his eyes, the surprise in his gaze so genuine that it made Dazai dizzy. Yosano let out a humming response before turning and pulling on his gloves.

Against his will, Dazai stepped aside. Chuuya sat on the edge of the stretcher, shoulders hunched and eyes downcast. Awkward. He had difficulty removing his hoodie, Yosano stepped in and cut it off. Dazai felt himself lose his balance as Chuuya’s toned back was exposed.

It was a mosaic of reddish scars that stood out against his freckled skin, a thunderstorm that ran down his back, hugged his arms, and lost itself in the waistband of his jeans. Chuuya tensed, his breathing became ragged, and he lowered his gaze.

Dazai understood him, damn it, of course he understood him.

He understood his aversion to physical skin-to-skin contact, his unhealthy need to keep his distance and protect himself with layers of clothing.

Shit, shit.

“Angel,” his voice was hoarse and charged. He swallowed and tried again; if his smile was awkward, no one blamed him. “Angel, I know your feet can’t reach the floor, but you’re going to fall off the stretcher.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

The electrical scars ran down his stomach, across his chest and around his collarbone. It was beautiful, like a car crash. Like a fire. Like a dying man lying on his bed. Dazai moistened his lips, his throat was dry and his heart was trying to make a fool of him.

“You have freckles.”

Are you an imbecile? Dazai, for God’s sake.

“Excuse me?”

“You have freckles all over your body.“ Dazai circled the stretcher and Chuuya covered himself as best he could. Dazai guffawed. “I didn’t know you were shy... Hmm, I like it.”

“You’re a fucking weirdo, Bandages.”

Yosano sighed audibly, attracting the attention of both of them. Dazai pouted and Chuuya looked away in embarrassment. His skin was shining from sweat and the wound didn’t look too good.

“Dazai, get out of my sight,” Yosano ordered him curtly.

Dazai started to protest, but Ranpo gestured with his chin for him to follow him up the stairs. Reluctantly, not wanting to leave Chuuya alone with Yosano, he followed the guy with the air of a 19th century detective.

Ranpo slowed just before reaching the small kitchen that doubled as a dining room.

“What part of ‘he’ll kill you’ don’t you understand, Dazai?”

Dazai twisted his lips, stepped around Ranpo and leaned back against the countertop. The problem with Ranpo and Yosano was that Dazai couldn’t hide in his usual banter with them, couldn’t downplay something that clearly had importance, so he slumped his shoulders and clicked his tongue, much more interested in the coffee pot next to the stove.

Coffee would do him good.

Or a handful of painkillers, whichever would work better.

“I know what I’m doing.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I have everything under control,” he blurted out, more annoyed than anything else. He picked up the coffee pot and poured himself a cup, not because he was thirsty, but he needed to keep his hands busy. “They attacked us in the middle of the street, they did it in the name of…” He banged the coffee pot on the countertop, splashing coffee. “Chuuya, the real asshole, he got in front of them, he protected me. They were after me.”

Either they knew who Dazai was or they suspected it. Dazai Osamu, the protégé of the Port Mafia boss, dead in an alley near a brothel under Ozaki’s protection. The story sold itself. Dazai was aware of the message it would leave, of what it would mean for Yokohama. Mori would be forced to risk everything he had built to save his reputation.

“Reputation,” he rambled in a threadbare voice.

“You feel guilty.” Dazai turned so quickly that he threw the cup to the ground. Ranpo stared at him in disbelief. “Dazai Osamu feels guilty. Whoa.”

“What are you talking about?”

Ranpo shook his head.

“Clean up your shit,” and before Dazai could say anything else, he added, “Check your priorities. You’ve never been so involved with a target. Dazai, you brought him here, you brought him to us.”

“And where else could I take him? He doesn’t want to be touched, he avoids his clan like the plague, and I won’t be the one to force him to set foot in a hospital.”

“No more questions, Your Honor. You’ve already told me everything.”

Dazai slammed the table.

“Mori said ‘complete freedom to proceed as you wish’ I couldn’t just let him die, not when I had been seen with him and had just let that useless bunch go. We don’t want a war.”

“Are you listening to yourself? It’s excuses, excuses.”

“It’s because of the mission.”

“You want me to believe that you exposed us because of a mission?”

“Are you in danger or am I?” insisted Dazai. Ranpo was silent and Dazai nodded. “I know what I’m doing.”

Ranpo shook his head.

“They shouted '’For the Triad and the Revolution,’” Dazai thought aloud. “It’s ridiculous.”

“They cry for an old alliance and try to stab you, the protégé of the one who broke it in the first place.”

Dazai tensed his jaw.

“They rob you to make you look weak from the outside…”

“And some idiots use the name of the Port Mafia to create chaos,” Dazai finished for him.

Ranpo grinned from ear to ear.

“Don’t you find that convenient?” He wiped off his smile and reached over to the shelf to grab a box of cereal. “Dazai, this will be the death of you.”

Dazai let out a chuckle. Hopefully.

“Dazai, I took a sample of his blood to be sure, but the color of the wound, the symptoms he was experiencing... Everything indicates that the blade was poisoned.”

Chuuya pretended to sleep when Dazai sat down beside him. He allowed him to, his own mind, a chaotic hotbed of impulsive thoughts. He was in no mood to maintain his usual carefree facade; his skin itched with a sick need to do something, anything.

He chose the least harmful option.

He downloaded some stupid racing game. He left the music on, knowing it wouldn’t be long before Chuuya revealed himself. Maybe they could fight verbally, stab each other with hurtful words and mocking remarks. Or maybe he just needed Chuuya to silence the voices in his head with his foul vitality and raspy voice.

Or maybe he needed to see for himself that Chuuya was still alive.

Whatever it was, five minutes later, the dwarf tried to snatch the phone from him.

“Go bother somebody else, you bastard,” he barked.

“You want to be left alone?”

Chuuya hesitated and Dazai focused on him. His blue eyes, much clearer than they had been half an hour ago, opened. Dazai didn’t need to take his pulse to know that the redhead’s heart was pounding and that the prospect of being left alone in an unfamiliar place terrified him.

Not that the alternative was any better. After all, Dazai had already let him know that he would kill him.

His car ate a tree and the ‘Game over’ sign took up the whole screen. His mood hadn’t improved.

“Sleep, little angel, and dream of me.”

Chuuya hit the pillow, mumbled something between his teeth that sounded like “I’d rather bathe in a tub full of piranhas,” and turned his head to sleep without looking at him.

A few minutes later, his angel added between his teeth:

“I don’t dream.”

A confession, a concession.

“I can’t sleep,” was his reply.

Chuuya didn’t move. If he heard him, he pretended not to.

Twenty minutes later, Dazai paused the game to admire Chuuya’s back, the map of electrical scars of a wine-like hue, and swallowed. They weren’t new, they weren’t supposed to look like that, but they didn’t look like Chuuya had gotten a tattoo on them either. He got up slowly, put the phone down on the chair, and walked around the stretcher, barely making a sound.

“His scars aren’t normal either.”

Chuuya was sound asleep, judging by the trickle of drool on the pillow. Carefully, Dazai brushed a strand of hair away from his eyes and tucked it behind his ear. The redhead stirred, mumbled something incoherent, and dug his nose into the pillow. He was exhausted, a night of adventuring would do that to anyone but Dazai.

His insomnia was his faithful mistress.

He looked at his own calloused hand, long thin fingers with bitten nails, minus the little finger’s —Dazai had torn it off again and again, it hadn’t grown back— and if it weren’t for the bandages around his wrist, his rotting veins would stand out against his skin.

Dazai wasn’t normal either. What if Chuuya...?

There were traces of blood on the bandages.

Chuuya’s blood . His heart shrank and the images of that night hit him mercilessly.

“And his recovery... It’s not normal.”

“And what does that mean?”

“His injury was serious… It should be, but it doesn’t look like it. Not anymore.”

Chuuya’s eyelids fluttered. Dazai wanted to retreat, but the redhead was faster, grabbing his right hand and clinging to his arm like a damned koala. Dazai’s heart jumped in his chest. Chuuya would be his undoing one day. Maybe Ranpo was right. But he didn’t move, he sat back on his heels and watched Chuuya rest.

He had a constellation of freckles, mostly on his nose and cheekbones. His long eyelashes were a shade darker than his hair. Dazai rested the elbow of his free arm on the mattress and hesitated before tangling his fingers in his auburn curls. They were soft. He leaned closer, his nose brushing Chuuya’s hair, and held his breath.

He smelled of cherry.

Just five minutes, what would it hurt? Dazai rested his cheek on the pillow, Chuuya snuggled closer. Just five minutes and he’d go to see Yosano. He wouldn’t fall asleep, for so long sleep had eluded him that he wasn’t even afraid of falling into it. Just five minutes and he would check his messages. He closed his eyes and matched his breathing to Chuuya’s rhythm.

Just five minutes.

“What the fuck do you mean?”

"I’m going to have his blood sample analyzed. I’ll text you as soon as I know anything.”

By some twisted miracle, however, he fell asleep, and the next time he opened his eyes, he saw the blue of Chuuya’s, so very near that his heart almost didn’t count it.

It was not the blue of a storm.

It was not the blue that washed the ports of Yokohama, nor the blue of his childhood.

It was the blue of a clear sky.

His pulse shot up and Chuuya’s eyes roamed curiously over his face. What did he see? Dazai was aware that he was handsome. He was attractive and knew how to use it to his advantage. Many people had devoured him with their gaze, complimented his dark eyes, his long lashes or his skillful mouth and Dazai had taken advantage of it; but Chuuya looked at him not with lust, but with genuine curiosity.

What did he see? It annoyed him that he couldn’t read him as easily as the rest of his targets. He didn’t know what he saw or what he wanted from him, but there was something, there had to be, if he was still here, if he allowed Dazai to stay close.

Chuuya drew his eyebrows together, confusion creeping across his face and pulling his lips back.

“You have drool on your face,” Dazai couldn’t resist saying.

Chuuya let out a high-pitched squeal and pushed him off the bed. Dazai fell onto his own ass.

“Guys, guys, as interesting as your mating rituals are, I’m starving. Let’s go get some breakfast.”

“Witch, it’s noon.”

Yosano shook her hair.

“Off to lunch then,” she corrected herself without missing a beat. Then her eyes stopped on Chuuya and her face changed. “You too, sweetheart.”

“He was stabbed this morning,” Dazai reminded her through his teeth.

“It was a scratch,” she played it down with a flick of her wrist, but Dazai didn't miss the look she gave him. It was a look that screamed ‘we need to talk’ and that put Dazai on alert.

It was never a scratch, but a stab wound. Dazai blamed it on the rush, the fear that invaded his senses and clouded them. A scratch didn’t make you weak and sickly, it didn’t give you a fever. There was more to it, and Dazai felt stupid for not having thought of it sooner.

He had all the information at his fingertips.

The electrical scars.

His quick recovery.

His eyes—

Dazai retreated to the landing of the apartment to check his messages while the others prepared for lunch.

A smile climbed the corner of his lip when he saw the message from one of his favorite informants. While Yosano was treating Chuuya and Ranpo was having a bowl of cereal for breakfast, Dazai had sent a brief description of each of those useless to one of his informants. He had an address. It was better than nothing. Chuuya might not want to retaliate, but that didn’t mean Dazai would sit idly by.

He didn’t want to think about how he had felt on the way to the clinic, with Chuuya sitting on his lap, shivering with fever and almost unconscious. He didn’t want to relive it, and he had no intention of letting it happen again.

He replied to the message with a thumbs up emoji and put his phone in his pocket.

Only he could kill his little angel.

Chapter Text

His sock had a frayed hole in the heel, slightly blackened around the edges. He clicked his tongue as he took it off and rubbed his foot to remove excess dirt. It was the last pair of socks he had left; his skin hardened, but not enough to withstand the cold stone of the ground or the bone-chilling humidity.

He pulled the sock back on. This time he made sure the hole was in the front. A tiny grin, a curve of his cracked lips, broke out on his face.

Not bad, huh?

His pulse shot up as her heartbeat hit him from the inside out. He grabbed the blanket to cover himself and hugged his knees, expectant, excited.

“Hey,” she greeted him with a stunning smile that tickled his belly but she was missing a tooth. He wrinkled his nose in confusion. She sat down on the floor, still smiling. She tilted her face to the side, her hair falling gracefully over her shoulder. “Oh, that? It’s a baby tooth, you fool.”

“Baby tooth?” he hesitated as if the words were foreign.

She nodded amusedly, the affection in her gaze no longer making him squirm on the ground, nor driving him to lash out. He had long since given up trying to hide his curiosity, so he clung to the bars and looked expectantly at what she had brought him this time.

It was a change of clean underwear, but the shame that invaded him gave way to something else when he saw the blue notebook. His heart raced and he tensed his jaw to control himself.

“More stupid poems?” he asked, feigning a boredom he was far from feeling.

“You like stupid poems,” she mocked. “And your French is terrible.”

That really hurt his pride.

“Je parle parfaitement le français.”

“Ta prononciation laisse à désirer, petit frère.”

He stuck his tongue out at her in reply.

He had grown accustomed to her warm presence, a miniature sun in a frozen hell of gray stone. With a flashlight between them, they read poem after poem. He stammered a few times, and his notes in the margins were awkward and rough, but she was a careful and patient teacher, so it wasn’t hard to keep up with her.

“Shall we play?” she suggested at the end of the lesson.

“With the pogs?” he brightened. He turned and crawled over to his futon, he had kept all his treasures in the pillowcase. The chain around his left ankle jingled as it touched the ground, a bitter reminder that he was trapped there and there was nothing she could do about it. He forced a sly smile as her heartbeat tightened like a noose around his neck. “Or would you prefer marbles? If I win, I want a canelé.”

She arched an eyebrow.

“And if I win, what?”

He tapped his chin thoughtfully.

“If you win, hmm…”

The sound of footsteps startled him; she grew pale and he moved as far away from the bars as he could. That wasn’t enough, the stranger—a burly man with a face full of black ink—grabbed his friend by the hair and lifted her off the ground. She screamed and kicked, demanding to be released if he didn’t want to get in trouble with her family.

“I warned you last time, you little gremlin,” he spat in her face.

“Leave her alone!” he grunted.

He threw himself furiously against the bars, rage taking root in his chest and his blood singing in response. He pulled harder at the bars, which squeaked and a trickle of dirt fell into his hair. The guard twisted his mouth into a sneer and slung the girl over his shoulder.

He grunted louder, the bars shaking under his grip, and small craters were drawn under his feet.

“I said leave her alone, you fucking bastard!” his voice reverberated in the dungeon, against the walls, and the smell of petrichor flooded his nostrils.

As if he had seen a monster, his worst nightmare made flesh and blood, the man recoiled in horror.

“Arahabaki, quit it.”

He gasped as invisible hands pinned him to the ground. He dug his broken fingernails into the bruised skin of his neck and his eyes filled with tears of helplessness. His words—his command—were like needles in his throat and chains piercing his skin, making him a prisoner of a body he was just becoming familiar with.

A choked groan caught in his chest and his vision blurred.

His head fell forward, a puppet without strings. All he could see were the feet and the cane of the man who had bound and caged him.

“Put my granddaughter on the floor now.”

He closed his eyes and covered his ears with his hands. He hated that voice, hated the way it made him feel.

“Little brother,” she sobbed.

I’m not your brother. I’m not your brother. I’m not your—

“Kouyou, get out of here.”

“But—”

“That’s an order, sweetheart.”

Ozaki walked up to the bars and crouched down to his level. He barely had enough energy left to meet his gaze, but he didn’t have to. Ozaki patted him on the head with mock affection. Then he grabbed a handful of his hair to lift his head, and he twisted angrily as if the spell that had held him captive had been broken.

His blue eyes, so similar to his own and so strange, made him want to throw up.

“What did I tell you would happen if you disobeyed me?”

He bit his tongue to keep from bursting into tears.

Ozaki shook his head.

“Look what you make me do.”

He felt a sting in his neck, his eyes widened in fear, and his heart beat wildly. Before the darkness caught him between its jaws, he thought he heard “three lashes as he awoke,” unleashing a storm in his veins.

A storm that was extinguished as soon as he lost consciousness.

His phone buzzed in his back pocket.

Chuuya lifted the edge of his cerulean shirt to check the scar on his side. He winced. It was nothing more than a reddish mark—a curled knot—hidden among the rest of his scars. It didn’t hurt, it had barely hurt once his body had eliminated the poison, but the phantom itch remained, a bitter reminder that his body wasn’t his.

He felt a slight, familiar tug on his chest—a shared lighter, the warmth of a protected flame between his hands, and the crooked smile of a man who finds it hard to show emotion—just as someone cleared their throat. Chuuya met Iceman’s gaze through the mirror. He cursed under his breath in French for not having noticed and hurried to tuck his shirt into the waistband of his black pants.

“Come on in.”

Iceman greeted him with a nod and held out a sealed red envelope.

“Your sister requests your presence at the Ozaki residence.”

Chuuya clicked his tongue in annoyance. Why his sister would use such an archaic method of communication was a mystery. He accepted the envelope, but Iceman didn’t let go immediately, he held it tightly.

“We’re here for whatever you need,” Iceman gently reminded him.

Chuuya knitted his eyebrows in obvious confusion. Verlaine and Kouyou had personally chosen his escort to keep Chuuya safely under control. Honestly, the reminder was unnecessary. He eyed Iceman suspiciously. He was a man of few words, not much older than Chuuya, perhaps two or three years, but his height, build and cold gaze made him seem imposing.

His record was impeccable: he needed no weapons to deal with any threat that came his way. Once a killer, now a bouncer, but still Ozaki’s deadliest man. He was not his friend, he was not loyal to him, no matter how much Iceman pretended otherwise.

Or how much the Flags pretended.

Iceman slumped his shoulders, finally dropping the envelope.

“I’m serious,” he insisted, his voice raspy. He ran a hand through his charcoal hair, and his healthy eye shifted to a point above Chuuya’s head— the mirror. “If there’s a problem—”

“I know,” Chuuya interrupted him curtly. “It’s your job.”

Iceman twisted his lips. The worry in his glare, far from making him feel good, irritated him in advance.

“That guy, Dazai? Albatross told us—”

“Albatross is such a bigmouth.”

Chuuya ran a nervous hand through his hair, clicking his tongue as the auburn curls tangled in his fingers. Dazai, damn Dazai . It was better for them to think he was sleeping with Dazai than for them to know—or even suspect—who the brunet really was. They’d lose their minds. He combed his curls with his fingers, pulled them back with a blue ribbon, and pushed the unruly strands away from his face.

Just to have a little more time to think.

Just to— Shit, why was he still protecting him?

“Don’t worry, it’s just sex.”

“Just sex? Look, Chuuya, be careful, okay? I don’t think it’s a good idea to bring a civilian into our world.”

A slight smile appeared on his face as he saw Iceman’s cheeks turn blush.

“Ice,” Chuuya said, crossing his arms and tilting his face. The amusement on his face was obvious, as was the embarrassment on Iceman’s. “You lose a bet or what? How come you’re the one who comes to tell me this? I’d expect it from ’Tross or Pianoman, but—"

“Just—”

Chuuya raised a hand to cut him off.

“I know what I’m doing, seriously.”

It was a relief that they didn’t know about the incident. Chuuya assumed the stupid human had pulled the right strings to keep it from coming to light. Chuuya hadn’t asked and didn’t intend to anytime soon.

Thinking about him made Chuuya sick.

Dazai had shown no signs of life since that night—and Chuuya didn’t care. He barely remembered what had happened; his memory was a blur of confused images that slipped through his fingers as he tried to catch them. He remembered the cold that chilled his bones, the song of a storm in his veins, and Dazai’s voice caressing the edges of his consciousness.

“Hang on a bit longer, little angel.”

He pursed his lips. Just thinking about that day gave him a headache.

“You can’t die yet, I won’t let you.”

He also remembered with alarming clarity the human’s sleeping face: the way his hair fell gracefully across his forehead, how his long lashes kissed his cheekbones, and the calm he exuded. It was hypnotic. His cheeks burned just at the thought of that moment, the way he reached out to brush Dazai’s hair away from his face, and Dazai’s reaction.

“I can’t sleep.”

Dazai looked so calm.

Chuuya couldn’t resist the temptation to lean into him, and Dazai’s heartbeat, which had grown in his chest with every second they spent together, snatched the air out of his lungs. Chuuya hesitated, his fingers so close to the human’s face, almost a phantom caress. And his heart stopped as Dazai’s eyelashes fluttered in warning, his dark irises welcoming him.

For a second, he held his breath, afraid to break the peace that surrounded them.

Until—

“Chuuya?” Iceman’s voice startled him. Chuuya stepped back and Iceman grabbed his elbow to keep him from stumbling. “Are you sick? You’ve turned red.”

Chuuya released his grip with a strong jerk.

Iceman looked like a beaten puppy when Chuuya met his gaze.

“I’m fine,” he lied and forced a reassuring smile. “If you’ll excuse me, I can’t keep Ane-san waiting.”

Iceman got in his way again. Chuuya clenched his fists at his sides in frustration.

“Tonight we go to the Old World to play pool.”

“It’s your night off,” Chuuya reminded him, there was no need to inform him of their every move.

“You want to come? Lippman are always complaining that you never come. It will be fun.”

“It’s your night off,” he insisted, more annoyed than confused because his stupid heart kept beating in his chest, making him delusional. It wasn’t real, damn it. “Y’all don’t have to put up with me.”

“Chuuya,” he sounded desperate.

“I’m in a hurry.”

Over the months, Chuuya had grown fond of them. And how could he not? Pianoman called him ‘mousey,’ ruffled his hair affectionately, and sometimes they shared a bottle of wine. Lippman would always hum a tune and ask him to dance in the middle of The Flags just for fun, the floor freshly mopped and the fatigue on their shoulders. Albatross would pick the lock on his apartment, climb into his bed, and prattle on endlessly about cars, motorcycles, or anything else that caught his attention. Iceman was always there, even when Chuuya didn’t ask him, and Doc, though his only duty was to check on Chuuya’s health, texted him random daily data.

It was hard not to get attached to them, but he had to be careful if he didn’t want to lose his freedom.

He grabbed the red jacket from the back of the chair and headed for the door. He paused for a second in the frame, biting his tongue to hold back the words that threatened to destroy all his defenses. If they knew the monster that lurked beneath the skin, the emptiness of his heart, they would flee.

His eyes watered and the doorframe groaned under his fingers. It was better that way.

His phone buzzed again.

The Ozaki clan had numerous properties scattered throughout Japan, the main one was located in one of the most emblematic areas of Yokohama. Unlike other clans, which tried to stay out of the public eye, Ozaki Tsugurō preferred to be seen because “when everyone is paying attention to you, it’s unlikely that the enemy will be able to make his move.”

The main building had a network of tunnels that connected the entire city to ensure the family’s safety. Chuuya had never wandered the hallways of the family home, lost himself in the gardens, or snuck into the servants’ quarters, but he could draw the property plans with his eyes closed.

He never belonged there.

He was ten when he first saw the sunlight, half hidden between Paul Verlaine’s legs, with Ane-san holding his hand. She seemed unperturbed on the way to the armored car, except for the slight curve of her lips in disgust. Still, there was no trace of the flame-haired girl who had toyed with him. Ane-san was more like Kouyou Ozaki, the perfect heiress, than her older sister.

Chuuya had only vague memories of that day.

He remembered the burning sensation in his eyes, the anguish that filled his chest, and how he could barely take two steps without stumbling; the tears that stained his face, and the words—the pleas—that hung in his throat, but most of all, the fear of making a mistake and having Ozaki punish him again.

That was never his home.

The buzzing of the automatic gates abruptly brought him out of his memories. He took a moment to compose himself before getting out of the car. The place remained untouched, as if the passage of time had not affected it. A shiver ran down his spine. His escort, a burly man with a face full of tattoos, greeted him with a slight nod.

“Welcome home.”

Ane-san’s rooms were in the east wing. As he walked, he noticed a group of kobun, their unmarked faces indicating their low rank within the family. Nevertheless, Chuuya acknowledged them with a glance.

His sister welcomed him with a tea set and a loving smile. She was beautiful in her pink kimono, her flaming hair pulled back in a low bun, soft waves falling daintily over her face, giving her an ethereal air that didn’t match her fierceness. A quiet melody came from the record player on the dresser. Chuuya relaxed as soon as the doors closed behind him. 

Ane-san wrapped him in a warm hug, and he melted into her arms. She cupped his face to study him closely. Chuuya raised a mocking eyebrow at her unnecessary scrutiny. It had been barely a month since they had last seen each other, and Ane-san couldn’t expect anything to have changed in such a short time.

Everything had changed, but Ane-san didn’t need to know that.

He pushed aside the regret twisting his stomach and forced a reassuring smile. It worked, Ane-san turned around and gestured for him to sit down.

“You look awful,” she noted. “Didn’t sleep well?”

Chuuya paused.

“Work is keeping me busy,” he lied.

Chuuya poured the hot water into the two cups, the smell of ginger, apple, and orange blossom flooding his nostrils. His sister accepted the cup. Her eyes hid hundreds of questions, but Chuuya chose not to linger on them for too long. He held the cup to his nose to inhale its aroma before tasting it.

“It’s nice,” he hummed.

“I thought I’d have to kidnap you to get you to come.”

Chuuya choked on the tea. Ane-san scolded him with a glare for his blatant lack of manners.

“You could have texted me.”

“I did,” she said, raising her cup to her mouth to hide the grin creeping across her face. Chuuya shook his head.

“You could have called, you have my number.”

Ane-san put the cup down.

“I’m your big sister, I don’t have to call you.”

“I don’t read minds," he reminded, a hint of a smile dancing on his lips. He glanced curiously at the tray and picked up a shortbread cookie. “I’m a busy man.”

“Busy man,” she scoffed. “Tell me, what keeps you so busy? Besides work.”

A nasty human.

“My business, the volunteering. Nothing more,” he replied, his voice cracking.

“Uh-huh.”

Chuuya sighed, giving up.

“Why did you make me come?”

“I wanted to spend some time with my little brother. Is that so hard to believe?”

“Yeah, I don’t believe you,” he quickly responded. Ane-san rolled her eyes. He bit his lip to keep from smiling. “Come on, be honest, spill it.”

“Is there someone occupying your thoughts?”

“I knew it,” he grunted, letting go of the cup with too much force. He grimaced. Fortunately, the cup was intact. “Are you spying on me?”

“Chuuya, I’m not spying on you.”

“Ha!”

“Believe it or not, bringing a civilian to a brothel attracts attention all by itself.”

Chuuya crossed his arms sulkily and looked at the wall to his left. It was filled with photos, tickets, and scribbled notes—the most real thing in the room. It was probably the only indication of vulnerability that his grandfather allowed her. Everything else in the room spoke of the Ozaki heiress, not of the girl with flaming hair who enjoyed playing board games and took a private jet to see her brother halfway around the world.

Chuuya relaxed.

He hated lying to her, but—

“Don’t worry, he’s just a boy I know.”

“You can’t bring a boy you only know into our world. I’ve taught you better.”

“You looked into it?” he asked hesitantly. Ane-san didn’t respond immediately, and Chuuya stared at her with uncertainty. There was nothing on her face to make him suspicious, but after all, his sister had become an expert at hiding her emotions. “I was with him when Albatross called. He doesn’t know anything.”

“Hmm.”

“I swear,” he insisted.

It was clearly a lie.

Ane-san let it go anyway.

“He’s handsome,” she said instead.

Chuuya felt his ears burning.

“He’s an idiot,” he corrected her with a snort. He picked up another cookie and crumbled it with his fingers. “He’s the most annoying person I’ve ever met. He never shuts up—he doesn’t know when to shut up, and he’s got survival instinct in his ass! I can’t stand him."

Ane-san raised her eyebrows in surprise.

“Then why do you keep seeing him?”

“He’s a pain in the ass!”

“Chuuya, language,” she scolded him.

“It gets on my nerves,” he half-apologized. He set the crumbled cookie on the saucer. “I hate him, he’s everywhere. If he’s not trying to get in my pants, he’s in my head. ‘It’s just a kiss, little angel’ and ‘What are you afraid of?’ Argh, I hate him. I hate his fucking face, his stupid voice that does things to my chest, and his eyes! His eyes drive me crazy.”

Chuuya stood up, dragging the chair back.

“You say he’s handsome? He’s damn good-looking, and it makes no sense. Have you seen him? That hair hasn’t seen a good shampoo in ages, yet it looks fluffy and stylishly disheveled! The bandages? No comments. Some days he’s completely wrapped in them, other days... I can’t, that’s all. I wanna strangle him or kiss his stupid face until I’m sick of him.”

Ane-san chuckled softly through her nose, causing Chuuya to turn around in annoyance.

“Ane-san, this is serious!”

“Of course it is!”

"He’s a demon!"

“Ah, I see.”

“I hate him! He’s gotten under my skin, infected my brain, and I don’t know how to get him out of my system!”

“Chuuya.”

“He’s here, Ane-san,” he broke down, his face distraught and his hands on his chest, clutching the fabric of his shirt as if he could rip his heart out. Ane-san stopped smiling. “I let him in, damn it, and I don’t know how to get him out or what to do. I’m desperate.”

“Chuuya, dear.”

Chuuya staggered and fell back into his seat, burying his face in his hands as he fought back the tears. He jumped when Ane-san ran her fingers through his hair. He sniffled. She gently untied his hair and began to comb through his curls.

“I’m sorry,” he whimpered, wiping away tears with the heel of his hand.

“Feelings are complicated.”

“No, Dazai is complicated as hell,” he mumbled.

Kouyou smiled sweetly.

“People are complicated,” she agreed as she braided his hair. 

She planted a kiss on the top of his head.

Chuuya hesitantly bit the inside of his cheek. Maybe he could finally be honest with his sister. Maybe he could tell her about Dazai—who he really was—and together they could try to unravel the brunet. Maybe… He peeled his lips back, but just then, there was a soft knock at the door.

Kouyou pulled herself together.

“Yes?”

“Kumichō wishes to invite his grandson to lunch, my lady.”

Shit.

A cold sweat ran down his back, and his ears rang. He couldn’t refuse an official invitation from Kumichō, that would be a crime. Yet, every instinct in him screamed to flee. As soon as the kubon left, his sister turned to him with worry etched on her face. Chuuya swallowed hard, stood up awkwardly, and forced a reassuring smile, though it was more of a grimace than a smile.

What had he been thinking? Just because Ozaki Tsugurō hadn’t called him yet, it didn’t mean that he wasn’t aware of his presence in Yokohama. Stupid, stupid, stupid .

“Chuuya.”

“I’ll be fine,” he assured her. He smoothed out the invisible creases in his clothes and buttoned his shirt all the way up to look more presentable. “How do I look?”

“The boots give you a touch, no denying that.”

Chuuya lifted a foot.

“What’s your problem with my boots? They’re great.”

“They’re high.”

“Ane-san!”

Her giggle was the shot of courage he needed. He was no longer the scrawny, scared little boy huddled in the corner of the cage, baring his teeth for protection, but had become a grown man. Someone who existed outside those walls and couldn’t disappear without attracting attention. Lippman, Pianoman, ’Tross, Doc, Iceman... No, they couldn’t raise the alarm, but Dazai could.

Dazai would not stop until Chuuya was found if he dared to disappear.

The lunch was awkward.

Chuuya sat next to his sister, to her left, and the rest of the seats were occupied by members of Kumichō’s inner circle—the Kanbu. He was familiar with their names, faces, and positions in the chain of command; it would be odd if Ozaki’s youngest grandson, second in line for succession, did not know them. Still, he was surprised to see them taking their seats—what were they doing there?

From the tension in his sister’s shoulders and the way she clenched her fists in her lap, Chuuya knew his suspicion was true. He pursed his lips, feeling trapped. Across from Chuuya sat the So-honbucho. The man had three scars on the right side of his face that disfigured him, wore his old military uniform, and his record was deadly. But Chuuya knew from his sister that despite his position in the inner circle, Fukuchi Ōchi was kind and left the bloodshed on the battlefield; whatever that meant.

The man greeted them both, drawing the attention of the rest of the room, but there was no time for politeness. The two wooden doors creaked open and Chuuya, along with the others, rushed to greet the newcomers. His gaze fell on the strawberry blond-haired man, and Chuuya caught himself smiling. Paul Verlaine, better known as Ozaki’s chief advisor, the Saiko-Komon, looked surprised to see Chuuya, but quickly pulled himself together.

Behind him, Ozaki Tsugurō, wearing a three-piece suit that clashed with the traditional style of the room, motioned with his wrist for everyone to sit down. The tapping of the stick on the floor made him jump. Chuuya forgot how to breathe, his skin burning and his head spinning.

He felt nauseous.

His sister’s hand on his lower back made him react. The service appeared. He took those moments to calm down, digging his nails into his thighs and mentally counting. He grabbed his chopsticks, knowing he could barely take a bite, and focused on the plates around him.

Fortunately, no one seemed to be paying attention to him, much more interested in the power dance at the table. Despite his efforts to focus, he couldn’t find the energy to do so. Nothing that went on there, not the new treaties, the alliances, the ins and outs, interested him in the least.

He wasn’t made for this world.

He wasn’t made for this delicate game of subtle moves and backstabbing.

“Chuuya, my boy,” Ozaki called out to him in a deep voice. Chuuya froze, chopsticks raised in the air, and slowly lowered them. His face remained expressionless as he stared at his grandfather. The years had taken their toll on him; he had more pronounced frown lines, dark circles under his eyes in a disturbing shade of purple, and age spots on his face and bare hands. Yet he was still the same man who had locked him away, abused him, and bound him with invisible chains beneath his skin. “It’s good to have you back home. Have you settled in well?”

A storm began to brew in his chest, rising up his throat, wild and furious. Chuuya hurried to drink water to calm himself. He knew that if he lost control, even for a moment, and let the monster lurking under his skin stir, Ozaki would sense it immediately and not hesitate to take away his freedom.

“Yes, grandfather,” he replied and that word tasted like ash.

Ozaki hummed with satisfaction as he cut into the undercooked meat, blood splattering on the plate. Chuuya’s stomach churned.

“Business is good?” he asked, raising his fork to his mouth. “I hear it’s a trendy place for young people, right?”

Verlaine beat him to it.

“The numbers speak for themselves, Kumichō,” Verlaine pointed out, pulling out his tablet and showing him a graph. Chuuya twisted his lips. That was his damn report. “Soon we’ll be able to hold exclusive events, negotiate with brands—”

Ozaki silenced him with a hand.

“It’s not a business meeting,” Ozaki laughed, a small smile on his lips as he raised his glass. Someone hurried over and filled it for him. “The Flags are a gift for my grandson. It doesn’t matter if it gives money.”

Chuuya bristled.

“It gives money,” he growled, immediately regretting his outburst.

“No exclusive clientele?” someone asked, and the mockery in his voice was obvious.

“It’s a meeting place where everyone is welcome and there is no room for hostilities of any kind,” Chuuya replied through his teeth.

“And it works,” Kouyou rejoiced.

“Haven’t there been any problems?” Fukuchi asked, his interest seemed to be genuine.

“Not at all,” Chuuya pointed out, much calmer, “The parties work too. We soundproofed the basement and transformed it into a pub. Our security is excellent; our customers are satisfied. We’re also seeing an increasing number of regular customers. With Lippman, we’re exploring ways to reward our regulars without scaring off or intimidating new ones.”

He didn’t want his bar to become a nursery for privileged rats. There were already hundreds of such places in the city, both in his territory and in the Port Mafia’s. He wanted The Flags to be a neutral place, a sanctuary.

“I’m glad,” Ozaki addressed him again. The glow in his blue irises, identical to his own, put him on alert. “The waters are calm for now, but we must watch our backs.”

His heart stopped, and a chill ran through his veins.

“Kumichō,” Verlaine was shocked but quickly regained his composure. No one in the inner circle could suspect anything. “It’s good to have you home, nephew.”

Chuuya found it hard to react. Someone knocked on the door—a kubon with ink tentacles sticking out of his shirt collar, almost brushing his jaw. He approached Verlaine to deliver a message.

“Say it out loud,” Ozaki ordered before Verlaine could stand. “We are family. No secrets.”

Verlaine hesitated, glanced around the room, and paused for a millisecond at Chuuya, or maybe Chuuya imagined it.

“Port Mafia has taken over the permits, the ports are under their control.”

“Chief Taneda betrayed us,” Ozaki concluded without changing his tone.

The chaos was immediate. Chuuya reached for the bottle of wine and filled his glass to the brim. Fuck manners, they were about got to the war. His phone vibrated insistently in his pocket. When Chuuya pulled it out, he was surprised by the sheer number of messages. He opened the group chat to find that most were from Albatross, asking why he didn’t want to join them, but there were also messages from the others.

His heart shrank in his chest. It was a pity, he thought as he scrolled through the messages, that whatever he had with them was about to shatter into pieces. Kouyou grabbed his elbow to get him out of the room before Ozaki noticed his presence again.

If they got into a war with the Port Mafia, Chuuya would be nothing more than a weapon.

Another message pops up.

And his heart thundered in his chest—Dazai.

It was time to end their little game.

Chapter Text

His little angel was so frustrating, how dare he ignore him? He slipped his phone into the inside pocket of his trench coat and leaned against the wall, his lips curved downward. Mori’s voice, soft yet commanding, pierced his eardrums and lodged in his head, giving him a migraine. He had barely slept these days, and on top of that, he had to be the boss’s lapdog.

Chuuya couldn’t still be upset about that stupid fight, could he?

Hmm.

The room was in darkness, the only light came from the screens, and the lack of windows felt oppressive. Luckily, executive meetings were held infrequently, once or twice a year, and Mori didn’t always want him here. For security, it was better for the executives to operate from their hideouts. It was their seconds, little birds who had sucked a lot of dicks to climb the chain of command, who remained reachable in the towers.

Mori preferred to weave his webs from the comfort of his office, away from the hungry flies, but the situation warranted a face-to-face meeting. After all, most of them respected the old Triad and acted as if the agreements were a sacred text.

Five executives, five factions, five pillars to keep the balance.

And five superstitious idiots.

Sometimes Dazai wanted to shoot them in the head to end their suffering, or cut them open from Adam’s apple to navel and paint the walls of the Port Mafia with their guts. There were other times, like this afternoon, he was content to ignore them. His mind danced in precarious balance on the edge of insanity, but for once his thoughts were nothing more than a faint, annoying hum.

Chuuya. Chuuya. Chuuya.

He stifled a yawn when Mori gave the floor to Ace, the youngest executive. From the look he gave him from across the room, Dazai sensed that he didn’t like the gesture. The shadow of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. Annoying Ace was fun, but it was not enough to get his interest. He winked at him as he pulled his phone from his pocket, but the grin faded when he saw that his little angel still hadn’t read his messages.

The redhead could do anything he wanted—yell, stab, kiss—except ignore him. He tensed his jaw, rage bubbling in his chest and poisoning his mind, silencing everything around him. Chuuya had no right to stay angry. Dazai ran a hand through his hair and dug his fingernails into the back of his neck in a pathetic attempt to maintain control as his head went into a vicious cycle.

Chuuya. Chuuya. Chuuya.

He curled his lips disgusted. His fingernails were stained with blood, and a hollow laugh rose in his throat. He bit his tongue to hold it back. Stupid Chuuya with his stupid morals and his stupid heart on his sleeve, so easy to break and so full of thorns. On that day, a week earlier, Chuuya had reminded him that he had yakuza blood in his veins by sneaking into his apartment, but also that he was a hypocrite.

His hunt had been a disaster, the trail he had followed leading to yet another dead end. His anger grew with every day that passed without him being able to get his hands on the useless man who had stabbed his angel. As soon as he stepped onto the genkan, he sensed the presence of an intruder. He drew his gun and checked the bullets, tasting the blood in his mouth. What he never expected, not in a million years, was to find his angel in his bedroom, gently stroking the stray cat that often weaved between his legs.

He slowly lowered the gun. His gaze remained blank, expressionless, even as his heart pounded madly against his ribs. Chuuya stared at him through thick eyelashes, his blue eyes studying him with a false calm. Dazai could feel the storm swirling between them, electricity and danger on the tip of his tongue as he stepped deeper into the room.

How had he found this place? How had he gotten in without setting off any alarms? Dazai tilted his face and let the shadow of a smile dance on his lips.

“Little angel, if you missed me so much, you could have answered my messages~” The cat purred louder under the redhead’s attention. “Or you could have called. Are you so desperate?”

Would it all be over today? His pulse quickened. He had his doubts, death eluded him. It would probably be Chuuya, a sum of contradictions, who would end up with a bullet in his chest, painting the walls of his apartment a pretty red.

“Dazai.”

His name on his mouth was like a blade in his jugular.

“My angel,” he replied in a low voice, tasting each syllable as if it were Chuuya’s lips. His angel bristled, and a spark burst into his blue irises.

“Why?”

“Chuuya, angel, you need to be more specific.”

“Why, you bastard?” he grunted, baring his teeth. “I thought—”

Chuuya shook his head, a few curls came loose from his braid and Dazai was tempted to tuck them behind his ear. He dug his nails into his palms to restrain himself. Chuuya let out air through his nose, and the smile that bloomed on his face was so incorrect it made Dazai feel nauseous.

“That’s the problem, right? Expecting something from you, expecting more.”

“Many make this mistake, don’t beat yourself up.”

“You could have warned me! You could—I don’t know, I thought—Fuck, I’m so stupid.”

Dazai frowned in confusion.

“Dwarf, I don’t follow you.”

“The fucking permissions!” he suddenly snapped, closing the distance between them and grabbing a handful of Dazai’s shirt to pull him closer. “And you send me these stupid emojis like you and I—Like we could— Shit . For you, this, the Triad, Yokohama, us , it’ll be a fucking joke, but for me it’s serious. Going to war is fucking serious!”

Chuuya pushed him away, ruffling his hair angrily. Ah, the port’s permissions. Mori had a nasty habit of sending him messages about trivial matters, yet when he actually needed crucial information, Mori chose to remain silent. Dazai clicked his tongue in annoyance, but what really bothered him—what twisted his insides and left an unpleasant taste in his mouth—was not Mori’s silence, but Chuuya himself.

Chuuya. Chuuya. Chuuya.

Chuuya, who judged him with his glare and demanded explanations.

Chuuya, who shouted at him as if he expected something from him, something good and disgustingly human.

Chuuya, who looked at him with a shattered face.

“Oh, angel, my bad,” Dazai grinned. It was in his rotten nature to cause as much damage as possible, to dig his fingers into the wound, to tear it apart until there was nothing left. “We are not friends. I owe you nothing. I admit, it has been fun. Spending time together, teasing you, driving you crazy... It has been intoxicating, much better than mixing pills with alcohol, but you’re nothing to me, just like I’m nothing to you.”

“What?!”

“Hurts?” Dazai inquired, reaching over and putting his hand on Chuuya’s chest. “The truth hurts? Welcome to the real world, my angel.”

Chuuya slapped his hand away.

“Fuck you!”

“Anytime,” Dazai purred, hooking a finger into the buckle of Chuuya’s choker and pulling the redhead toward him. Chuuya moaned against his better judgment. Dazai savored the anger, the desire, the fire in his irises and made it his own. “We can do whatever you want. I can strip you naked, worship your body like a god, and make you mine. Or I can get down on all fours, but we’ll still be nothing.”

“You disgust me.”

“Say that again.”

Their lips were a breath away from meeting. Dazai chuckled as he felt the blade of a knife in his crotch. Predictable. He wet his lips and weighed his options. Was it worth dying for a kiss? He caught the fire nesting in his blue irises and feral grin—his fangs—and knew it was. He pulled the buckle tighter and cupped Chuuya’s cheek with his free hand.

Chuuya melted at the contact.

“Did I break your heart?”

“I’ll break your balls.”

“Do it.” And he pressed their lips together, stealing a fleeting kiss.

The kiss lasted barely a second, but it was still devastating; like balancing on the edge of the cliff and better than a leap into the void. Chuuya stifled a scream and slashed at the air between them with his knife. Dazai hissed once the blade grazed his mouth. He licked the wound, no more than a scratch, and grinned viciously, his mouth stained with blood, his chest heaving and adrenaline vibrating beneath his skin.

It was like brushing the sun with his fingertips. More, he wanted more.

“We’re enemies, what did you expect?” Dazai mocked anyway.

“You came at me talking nonsense,” Chuuya roared.

“So what?” he insisted, raising his arms in a sign of surrender. “Come on, dwarf, we both know how this will end.”

“You make me sick.”

"Y’sure? I can get down on my knees~"

The pink that colored his freckled cheeks did something to his chest. He wanted to tear the knife from Chuuya’s hands, to slit open and rip out that unpleasant feeling that took root and fed the knot of desire in his lower belly.

“Shut the fuck up! Do you want Yokohama to become a battlefield because of your boss’ greed?”

Dazai shrugged.

“Oh, wait, you think you’re going to win, is that it?” Chuuya laughed, it was a hollow, throat-crushing laugh. Nakahara Chuuya was an untamed force of nature on the verge of destroying everything. “You think y’all are so powerful, so untouchable... I’m going to give you a warning. If we go to war, if you take on my clan, there will be nothing left.”

Dazai felt a shiver run down his spine.

“Pinky promise?”

Chuuya came closer with a tiny smirk, everything about him screaming danger. Dazai flinched and lost himself in the curve of his sinful lips, longing for more. His angel draped an arm over his shoulders and rested the stained blade on his neck, just above the bandages. His right iris ignited, burning from the inside out. Dazai held his breath.

“We will raze the city, we will reduce your damned towers to ashes,” he said softly, his hoarse voice heating his belly and preventing him from breathing normally. “And I swear that I’ll kill you with my own hands.”

“Promise me,” he gasped, his voice cracking.

Chuuya huffed.

“Be careful what you ask for, human.”

Chuuya wiped the blood trail with his tongue and Dazai opened his eyes in shock. There was no trace of blue in his right iris; the fire had ravaged everything, staining his sclera with the color of burnt wood. It was mesmerizing, beautiful, dangerously beautiful.

A masterpiece.

“My angel.”

“I’m nothing to you, remember?” Chuuya lowered the knife, his chest rising and falling violently. His hands were shaking, or perhaps it was Dazai who was shaking. “If I ever see you again, I’ll kill you.”

Who had the power? Who had destroyed whom? Dazai felt dizzy. It was much better, much more deadly than the combination of Xanax and sake. He held on to his gun, the magazine full, and as he staggered toward the wall, he wondered if this unpleasant storm of indescribable emotions would disappear with a bullet in his skull.

He brought the barrel to his temple and pulled the trigger.

It didn’t work.

The chaos in the room snapped him out of his thoughts.

Dazai blinked slightly in confusion, it was no surprise that the executives had lost their heads. Except for Ace, the rest had belonged to the Triad: two members from the Tsushima clan and two from Kirishima. Mori gave them a place in his inner circle as a goodwill gesture. They feared the consequences of skirting agreements and being greedy.

For them, defying Ozaki Tsugurō like that was suicide.

He ran his thumb over his lips, trying to capture the cherry and blood remnants of his memories. The cut across the left side of his mouth, from one corner to the other, had not healed well. Mori asked no questions the next day, didn’t even ask him to undress to make sure his tendencies were under control, just put in the stitches and warned him that there would be scarring. Dazai didn’t care. Looking in the mirror would be much easier with Chuuya’s mark on him.

Mori seemed unperturbed, his elbows on the table and fingers crossed. He watched the chaos wordlessly with an impassive gaze, probably weighing the pros and cons of eliminating his executives. He ended the discussion with sharp slaps on the table.

“Gentlemen, I’ll take into consideration—”

“Boss,” Yang, who was in charge of intelligence, interrupted him. His Japanese was sloppy, despite being in the country for nearly two decades. “I think I speak for everyone when I ask you to reconsider your plans. It’s not in our best interest to antagonize Kumi—"

Mori raised an eyebrow. Yang shuddered, fear spreading across his face.

“Are you suggesting I don’t know what’s in our best interest?”

Mori’s voice sounded almost jocular like he was talking to an unruly child rather than one of his executives. The others ducked their heads.

“Not at all,” Yang hastened to clarify. His skin was beaded with sweat and his hands were shaking. “I apologize. What I meant to say is—”

“Ozaki is old school,” Yamamoto interjected. “He believes in tradition, in a code of honor that we—”

Mori’s laughter gave him chills.

“I understand your hesitations, but there’s nothing to be worried about. I’m here, and the Port Mafia is what it is today because of all of you. Ten years ago, I promised you that the changes would be for the better. I vowed to respect the Triad while doing better than my predecessors and to serve you, not the other way around. Have I ever let you down? I’m not looking for a confrontation with Ozaki, you have my word.”

Ace cleared his throat.

“Of course, boss.” Dazai turned away from the wall. There was something about Ace, about his false docility and questionable loyalty, that made him extremely interesting. “But are we prepared for the consequences? I doubt Ozaki feels the same way.”

Dazai almost smiled, almost.

He tried to leave as soon as the meeting was over, but Mori stopped him with a wave. Dazai stayed one step behind, like a loyal little bird, ignoring the looks Asahiko, the older executive and one of the most influential men in town, gave him. He was a capricious man who had sworn loyalty to the former boss and didn’t hesitate to make things difficult for Mori whenever the opportunity arose.

“Boss? A word?”

Dazai despised him with every rotten bone in his body.

His whole system was screaming at him to leave, that it was better to deal with an angry Mori than to share the air with that man, but he couldn’t. His head was throbbing and the man’s hands were everywhere. Dazai dug his nails into his skin until the physical pain blocked his memories and he could breathe without his lungs burning.

“Good boy, go on, deeper.”

Sometimes, Asahiko, when he thought no one was paying attention, would look at him as if he recognized Dazai, as if he could see past the pale skin, the dead eyes, and the bandages as if he could see the truth and bask in it.

“Ah, what a beautiful mouth you have, y-you beauty. Keep it up.”

Asahiko bowed in respect. Dazai tensed when his brown irises rested on him.

“Would it be too greedy of me to ask to borrow your favorite little bird once more?”

Mori grinned. Dazai felt nauseous.

“Swallow it.”

“What could you offer me?”

Asahiko smoothed the invisible creases in his shirt.

“Everything I have belongs to you, boss.” That was his answer, a very clever one, even though all three of them knew it was a lie. Asahiko had paved the way for the downfall of the previous boss, he had the power and the motive to do it again. Dazai wanted to get out of there, his bandages itched and the effect of the pills was wearing off. He had to leave or cut off the dirty old man’s dick. “But I could help calm things down if you’d let me have some time with him.”

Dazai gulped the bile that rose in his throat.

He couldn’t do this sober.

“Tempting. Maybe another day. I need Dazai.”

“Too bad, too bad.”

Asahiko devoured him with his eyes as he passed by. Dazai wanted to bite, to draw blood, to scream, but the moment he felt the weight of Mori’s gaze, he stopped himself. It wasn’t the right time.

“You must have something.”

Inappropriate thoughts, thanks for asking.

Dazai bit his tongue, his mind wandering to Chuuya and his burned eye. He shook his head despite the risk of ending up on his knees in front of Asahiko again. Chuuya was his problem.

“Nothing? Really?”

His electric scars.

His disgusting kindness.

His anger.

His lips crashing against his, his tongue tasting his blood.

Nakahara Chuuya was hiding something, maybe his blood wasn’t as rotten as Dazai’s, but he wasn’t an ordinary person either.

And he belonged to him.

“It’s not that easy.”

Mori held out a yellow envelope. When he opened it, his heart skipped a beat. It was full of pictures. The first two made a knot in his stomach. Chuuya was wearing the same clothes as the last time they met. In the first photo, he was at the Ozaki residence, getting out of a car, and in the other, the worst one, he was leaving his apartment.

All the other pictures were of the two of them. Shit .

“Now you’re spying on me?” he questioned with a nonchalance he was far from feeling. “I’m fulfilling my role, that of a guy who spends time with the guy he likes.”

“Just that?” Mori pointed to the photo of his apartment. “Dazai, has your cover been compromised?”

If I ever see you again, I’ll kill you.

Dazai looked at the photo again, then fixed his eyes on Mori.

“No.”

…human.

Mori remained silent.

“Results, soon.”

Dazai grimaced.

“It’s no use for us to rush. We have the permissions, use them to force Ozaki to eat out of your hand!”

“Didn’t you see the circus that was set in a moment?” Mori’s mask fell. That was never a good sign. The smile he gave him, twisted and maniacal, made him sick. Sometimes, looking at Mori was worse than looking into a mirror. “It’s not like you to drag out a mission of this caliber for so long. I thought you hated to spread your legs. Don’t get distracted, don’t get emotionally compromised.”

“I'm not,” he complained through his teeth.

Mori’s smile widened.

“I hope so. I’d hate to have to take your toys away from you like last time.”

A glass of malt whiskey.

A shared cigarette.

A plate of spicy curry.

“I don’t have any toys,” he replied emotionlessly.

In the bathroom, sitting on the toilet bowl, his arm stained with blood and a razor lying on the floor, Dazai dryly swallowed a handful of pills.

Better, much, much better.

He had a new location.

Since Seya-ku was under the protection of the Port Mafia, Dazai dispensed with his usual clothes and bandages to pass unnoticed. He stayed alert, aware of the gun in his waistband and the bullets in his pockets, and took a detour around the neighborhood. The feeling that someone was watching him sunk its teeth into the back of his head, and the lack of little birds and grunts didn’t help.

Kazuko Yuuki.

The useless man who stabbed his angel turned out to be a drug dealer in the service of the Ishiguro, one of the first families to be brought to their knees when Mori came to power. They were worse than cockroaches, feeding on the misery of others and hiding in the worst holes, but they were a necessary evil.

In the genkan, next to a pair of sneakers with dried mud on the soles, was a syringe. Dazai kicked it in disgust. He strained his ears and made his way cautiously down the hallway. His lips tightened as he stepped on something viscous, vomit or maybe blood, it was hard to tell in the dark. He fumbled along the wall until he found the switch. The rattrap was barely furnished—a sofa covered with dirty blankets, a table full of bottles, and an old television on the floor—and the windows were boarded up.

A sweet smell filled his nostrils, turning his stomach. It was terribly familiar, the memory dancing in his mind, elusive and right at his fingertips, but he couldn’t place it. He held his nose and blinked to get used to the light.

Behind the sofa was Kazuko Yuuki, unconscious. Dazai muttered a curse and knelt beside him to check his pulse. He was dead. He clenched his jaw, the uneasiness in the pit of his stomach intensified and the feeling that something was wrong, terribly wrong , crept in. No apparent signs of struggle, no visible wounds. He opened Kazkuko’s mouth to look at his tongue and teeth. It was common for rats like him to be a bounty, but everything seemed fine.

The sweet smell lingered in the air, mixing with the smell of alcohol, humidity, and urine. Dazai wrinkled his nose. He grabbed one of the arms to check Kazuko’s hands and fingernails... There was something under the nails. It wasn’t skin, but silk threads?

Shit, he stepped back, falling on his ass. He swore loudly and ran to wash his hands. His heart pounded wildly against his ribs, the hands of the clock raced against him, and he almost dropped the dish soap bottle on the floor. He leaned against the wall to catch his breath, his knees shaking and laughter bubbling in his chest, rising to his throat and painting an insane grin.

Ozaki poison.

It was an undetectable poison, slow but lethal. Once ingested by touch or, worse, by mouth, death was imminent. A shiver ran through his body, chilling his blood. He could have died here, next to the corpse of a dealer, and wouldn’t it have been a fitting death for someone who didn’t exist and didn’t deserve the air he breathed?

Tragic and pathetic all at once.

He ran his hand through his hair, tossing his bangs back. It was a trap, there was no other explanation. First, the attack on the Ozaki brothel in the name of the Port Mafia, and now the assassination of a Port Mafia member with Ozaki poison. How convenient that the little flowers had left such an obvious trail. How convenient that those useless shouted the name of the Port Mafia and used the Triad as a shield.

How convenient, my ass.

He massaged his sternum to calm the lingering twinges of anxiety. It couldn’t be a coincidence. He had to get rid of all the evidence. Back in the living room, he grabbed one of the bottles—the only one sealed—and took a good swig. As soon as the liquid went down his throat, he started coughing. It was strong, sour, and it burned. Good, it would dull his senses faster.

With the bottle dangling between his fingers, he looked around. There were syringes, cigarette butts, and empty bottles, nothing interesting, as one would expect in a place like this.

“Kill each other,” he hummed, toasting and taking another swig from the bottle. “Disgusting.”

He poured the contents onto the corpse, grabbed another bottle, and did the same with the sofa. Someone was playing a dangerous game, expecting the Port Mafia and the Ozaki clan to kill each other. But while it was a clever move, the execution left much to be desired.

Three bottles would be enough.

“Got a lighter?” Dazai glanced over his shoulder and gave the intruder a half-sideway smile. He had no tattoos in sight, nothing to tie him to a particular family or gang, too bad. “I don’t wanna waste my matches, my old friend wouldn’t like it.”

The guy stared at the body.

“You don’t?” Dazai insisted.

“Who the fuck are you, weirdo?”

That made him smile wildly.

“Depends on who you ask,” he hummed with his hands in his pockets. “I can be whatever you want.”

The guy shuddered. Fear? Maybe. Desire? Sure.

“I don’t want any trouble, Kazuko owes me money—”

“So?”

“What the hell do you mean ‘so’?”

“You have a lighter or not?” The guy knitted his eyebrows, and Dazai sighed lazily. “I guess I’ll have to waste a match.”

“Oi! Don’t you dare—”

“I’d love to stay and chat, but I’m in a hurry.” And he dropped the burning match. “Oopsie.”

“You bastard!”

It wasn’t his best move. The guy lunged at him, Dazai drew his gun, and they struggled as the fire spread through the room, painting a macabre picture, and the gun went off. The pain that gripped him was blinding, his ears were ringing, and his blood was boiling. No, shit. Dazai pushed the man away, recovered the gun, and emptied the magazine. With each shot, his breathing calmed and the cold that accompanies death—the death of others, not his own—stripped him of every last bit of humanity.

“Shit, shit,” he snarled, covering his wound with his free hand as the fire consumed everything in its path. “Why does it hurt so bad?”

He had to check for an exit wound.

He had to call for help, but...

“I hope so. I’d hate to have to take your toys away from you like last time.”

He took a long breath to calm himself. It was only a matter of time before someone smelled burning or saw the smoke from outside and called the police. He had to get out, find a safe place, and assess the damage.

“I’m very tired, Chuuya.”

He didn’t want to die like that.

“Then don’t do anything stupid. ”

It was a nightmare

Or it would have been if Chuuya could actually dream.

His room was in semi-darkness, the light filtering through the curtains was very dim. Chuuya rubbed his eyes to get rid of the last remnants of sleep. His clock read almost one in the morning. He stifled a yawn and blinked slowly. For some reason, his body was tense, waiting. Confused, more asleep than awake, he left the room to get a glass of water.

A thud ripped the air from his lungs.

It was a nightmare, it had to be.

Dazai Osamu lay on the floor of his apartment. Chuuya’s breath caught. He didn’t move, not until he felt the brunet’s heartbeat intertwining with his own, as if they were searching for each other. The relief was immediate, sinking under his skin, stoking the fire in his veins and filling his lungs. He let the air out slowly, crossed the distance—only a few steps—and kicked him in the side.

Dazai writhed in moans and groans.

He was alive, alive, alive.

“Have you come to be killed?” he hissed, slurring his words. He feared that if he raised his voice, even a little, and broke the tension between them, he would lose his mind. Dazai curled up on the floor, almost hugging his knees. Chuuya was armed with patience. “What the fuck are you doing in my apartment, Mackerel?”

He didn’t answer, of course. Chuuya clenched his fists.

He turned on the light and his heart almost popped out of his mouth.

Dazai stretched out an arm, looking pitiful. His hair resembled a bird’s nest, his pupils were dilated, and his skin gleamed with sweat. Chuuya wrinkled his nose, Dazai reeked of alcohol. But it wasn’t that, nor the empty smirk he offered him, that made his stomach turn, it was the tourniquet on his left thigh.

“What the fuck—?”

“I’ve come to die,” Dazai confessed, his voice heavy and his stare blank, “but, my angel, I don’t like pain. Make it stop.”

Chuuya paled and fell to his knees, reaching for the tourniquet, desperation clawing at him, but Chuuya didn’t care. Let Dazai think what he wanted, let Dazai use it against him later, but Chuuya would not let him die.

Dazai howled in pain and grabbed Chuuya’s wrist.

It was the first time they touched skin to skin, and the world had not collapsed, the monster had not escaped its prison to devour everything. He didn’t know how to feel, didn’t know what to think. It was strange. Well, it wasn’t the first time, Dazai touched him all the time and it hadn’t been long since their mouths... His tongue... He pushed those thoughts away, buried them deep inside his head, and concentrated on Dazai’s heartbeat, weak, fragile, but still alive and connected to his own.

They were bound together.

“What happened?”

“The dwarf cares for me? How touching.”

The smell was repulsive, what had he done, bathed in alcohol?

“You drank!?”

Dazai’s smile grew more expansive, but it was still artificial, hollow.

“Little angel, little angel, a word of advice, don’t mix tranquilizers with alcohol. The trip is… Whoa, speechless.”

“Are you kidding me!?” Without letting him answer, he slid one arm under his knees and another across his lower back. Dazai chuckled. “Cooperate, for God’s sake! Hold on tight.”

Dazai dropped his arms and head dramatically. Chuuya spat a curse on his way to the bathroom. As tempting as it was to watch Dazai bang his head on the doorframe, now was not the time.

“Chuuya carries me like a princess?”

“Chuuya will beat you up if you don’t shut up.”

Dazai whined louder when Chuuya put him on the floor. He ignored the fluttering in his chest as he brushed his fingertips across Dazai’s sweaty face, pushing his hair away. His brown eyes, dilated by the Molotov cocktail in his body, collided with his own. Without looking away, his throat dry and his hands trembling, Chuuya loosened his braid and used the rubber band to tie Dazai’s hair back.

There was nothing intimate about the gesture, but touching Dazai unprotected felt like drinking water in the middle of the desert.

Dazai frowned.

“You look ridiculous,” Chuuya grinned, then wiped away all traces of a smile, for as adorable as he looked with a clear forehead, the situation was serious. “You won’t like this, but it will hurt less if you cooperate.”

Dazai tilted his face to the side.

“Chuuya likes BDSM?”

“Even drugged, you’re an asshole.”

Chuuya held him by the back of his neck and thrust his fingers into his mouth. Dazai gagged, tried to resist, dug his nails into Chuuya’s wrists, but his stomach gave way.

“You’re doing great, good boy,” he murmured, stroking his hair.

“I-I hate you.”

“I’ll survive.”

He turned on the faucet to wash his hands and wet a towel. Dazai clutched the toilet awkwardly, his chest rising and falling, and vomit staining his chapped lips. Chuuya wiped him with the towel. He felt Dazai’s gaze on him—heavy, penetrating, inquisitive—piercing his soul. He stared up with a silent question on his face and held his breath. His dark irises, sometimes the color of melted caramel and sometimes, like this early morning, an inhuman crimson, studied him with genuine curiosity.

Dazai tried to sit up, but the pain in his thigh stopped him. “Shit,” he murmured, sinking his face into the curve of Chuuya’s neck. His voice, his breath, the brush of his lips gave him goosebumps. “Angel, Chuuya, make it stop. It hurts.”

Chuuya patted his head awkwardly.

“It’s okay, crybaby, let’s go to my room.”

“How naughty,” he teased without malice, but this time he didn’t protest when Chuuya carried him. On the contrary, he wrapped his arms around Chuuya’s neck and closed his eyes. “What a naughty, little angel.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Dazai pouted.

“But Chuuya, buy me dinner first.”

He was unbearable, but he was alive, alive.

Chuuya slowly lowered Dazai onto the bed. The brunet sat up, resting his elbows on the mattress, careful not to move his injured leg, and watched Chuuya through his thick eyelashes. The redhead’s heart did something strange to see Dazai like this, on his bed, his hair disheveled and the shadow of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

Chuuya swallowed.

And Dazai raised an eyebrow, half amused, if the twinkle in his eyes meant anything.

What the fuck am I doing?

“Take off your pants.”

Dazai’s eyes widened, and pink colored Chuuya’s cheeks.

“Not like that!”

“Angel, love me like one of your French muses!”

“You hit your head?!”

“Or kill me now, your choice.”

Chuuya ignored him for the sake of his mental stability. He went to the closet, grabbed a pair of socks, and stuffed them into Dazai’s mouth.

“I’m going to pull down your pants.”

Dazai growled.

“Come on, crybaby.” His hands trembled, he hadn’t noticed until he tried to unbuckle the belt. Dazai covered his hand with his—skin to skin, again—stealing his breath, and their gazes met.

His eyes burned with tears he refused to acknowledge.

Dazai removed the makeshift gag.

“I wanna die.”

Chuuya pressed his lips together and neither spoke again. With the fabric of his pants stuck to the wound, Chuuya grabbed a pair of scissors. It was a clean wound, blood could be very scandalous, but fortunately there was an exit wound. After cleaning it, he covered it with gauze. Doc had taught him a thing or two, but if the wound was infected, if the bullet…

Dazai tugged at his hair to get his attention.

Chuuya met his glare, a question dancing in the back of his irises. Dazai tangled his fingers in his hair, playing with his curls. He seemed fascinated, and Chuuya couldn’t look away.

“Why are you helping me?”

“You came all this way,” he reminded him.

“To die.”

“Don’t talk nonsense and be quiet, I’ll get bandages.”

He sat up, his knees creaking, and the fatigue of that night—of the last few weeks—washed over him. Dazai cupped his wrist, his fingers sliding down to reach Chuuya’s.

Their hands fit together as if they were made for each other.

“You said—” Dazai shook his head, his jaw clenched. The sincerity in his stare was devastating. False, it had to be, but Chuuya choked on it anyway. “Something is screwed up in your head, dwarf. After all I’ve told you, all I’ve done to you... all I’m going to do to you. And yet you help me. I don’t understand.”

Chuuya pressed their fingers together.

“I’m screwed,” he agreed.

“We’re screwed.”

Chuuya snorted.

“I’ll get more bandages and something to ease the pain.”

“Aren’t you going to ask?”

Chuuya hesitated.

“Do I want to know what kind of trouble you're in this time?”

“No, I mean—”

To the scars, the mosaic of pink and whitish lines, the rough skin.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Chuuya asked quietly. “I’ll listen.”

“One secret for another?”

Chuuya furrowed his brow in confusion, Dazai pulled their hands to trap Chuuya between his legs, and deposited a peck on Chuuya’s bruised knuckles, making him shiver.

Dazai looked up at him through his eyelashes.

“One secret for another?” Chuuya shuddered.

The glint in his dark irises was a warning.

Chuuya ignored it anyway.

“Your eye changes color. Don’t try to deny it.”

“You’re delusional,” he stammered uncomfortably. He tried to wriggle out of his grip, but all he managed to do was land on Dazai. He rested his palms on the mattress so as not to crush the bandaged idiot.

Dazai gave him a mischievous grin.

“One secret for another,” he insisted with a hum, drawing random patterns on Chuuya’s waist. “Everything I care about dies in the end. I'm cursed.”

Chuuya gulped, his heart thundering.

“My eye doesn’t change color, shitty Dazai.”

Dazai held Chuuya against him.

“It's okay,” he surrendered, and his hand went down, Chuuya yelped and Dazai burst out laughing. “I feel naked.”

Chuuya rolled his eyes.

“Stop whining, whose fault is it, asshole?”

“You tore my pants.”

Chuuya collapsed on the mattress next to him.

Dazai turned to him, a pout hanging from his lips. “I want my bandages.”

“Tsk.”

Chuuya went to the bathroom for a roll of bandages and looked in his wardrobe for something that might fit Dazai: gray sweatpants and a red hoodie. Dazai was leaning back against the headboard, playing with a matchbox, when Chuuya climbed onto the bed to reach his bare legs. It felt strange to touch someone without gloves, to brush his fingertips against Dazai’s pale skin, his scars—the new, the old, the real, and the invisible ones—and not get burned.

He caught his breath as he wrapped a bandage around Dazai’s thigh.

He reached for the tape, but Dazai stopped him.

“No need, you can bend the end and—”

Chuuya cut a piece of tape with his teeth and raised an eyebrow in his direction.

“Would you like me to change the bandages on your other leg?”

Dazai paused.

“Okay,” he replied, his voice cracking.

It was strange, much more intimate than it should be.

Dazai threw off the shirt, which got stuck on his head, earning a giggle from Chuuya and a “You’re a mess, Mackerel.” The brunet pursed his lips. He had broad shoulders and a narrow waist; bandages covered him from elbow to wrist, encircling his neck and much of his torso. It had to be uncomfortable to sleep like that, and the skin needed airing, but Chuuya made no comment.

Dazai accepted the hoodie.

“I’ll help you with the pants.”

His left ankle and part of the same foot were wrapped in bandages. Chuuya wondered if there was any reason beyond scars and physical wounds to hide so much skin and if the bandages meant the same to Dazai as the extra layers of clothing and gloves Chuuya hid in.

His hands faltered.

The whirlwind of emotions that swept through him at that moment, from the pit of his stomach to the back of his throat, was devastating. His eyes burned from the tears he refused to shed, and he found it hard to breathe. It was too many emotions, too many things at once. He instinctively searched, as he settled down next to Dazai, for the brunet’s heartbeat, clinging to it like an anchor in the middle of the ocean, trying to calm himself. It was selfish, but above all, it was dangerous.

Perhaps it was precisely because he was hanging on by a thin thread that consented to Dazai resting his head on his shoulder. Perhaps for that reason, because the fire burning in his veins and Dazai’s heartbeat filling his chest made him dizzy... Perhaps for that reason, yes, his hand ended up in his dark hair, his fingers tangled in his strands—slightly matted and greasy from the lack of a shower—and the small waves on the back of his neck. Perhaps it was precisely because he was tired, couldn’t take it anymore, and because Dazai melted between his hands, sighing, that Chuuya jumped into the void, eyes closed.

Perhaps, just perhaps.

One secret for another?

It was strange, much more intimate than it should have been, probably because of that, Chuuya agreed:

“Y’know the story of Arahabaki?”

Chapter Text

“Y’know the story of Arahabaki?”

A knot formed in Dazai’s stomach as he savored the note of sadness that misted his angel’s hoarse voice. For a second, his hand moved instinctively toward the corners of Chuuya’s mouth, yearning to draw a smile, a grimace, anything that might dispel the unease that clung to him.

He restrained himself as best he could.

Was he sick? Was it because he had not wiped off the poison properly? Was it the bullet? He doubted that he could die from something as mundane as a blood infection. Still, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d ended up strapped to a stretcher, pale as a corpse, from tinkering with the limits of his immune system.

He clenched his jaw and unconsciously dug his blunt fingernails into his thigh to keep his racing mind at bay.

Chuuya clicked his tongue, and before he could ask what was wrong with him, why he sounded so annoyed, Chuuya’s hand covered his. Dazai was afraid to move but did so anyway. As soon as he lifted his head, he found his angel studying him, a silent question coloring his blue irises. Or perhaps the question was on the tip of his own tongue. 

He bit it to keep all his thoughts from spilling out.

“Stop, you’ll hurt yourself.”

Chuuya gave his hand a slight squeeze, sending Dazai’s entire nervous system into a tizzy. He tensed at the touch, which only seemed to irritate the redhead. Chuuya tried to relax him by stroking his knuckles.

Why?

He was about to fall ill, there was no other explanation for the goosebumps and the fluttering in his lower abdomen. He had to pull himself together, so he forced the conversation back to neutral ground before he made a mistake.

“The god of destruction?” Dazai fumbled, his voice pasty.

Chuuya blinked slowly, as if he hadn’t understood him, but immediately the revelation filled his face, redrawing his features. Everything happened so fast that Dazai felt dizzy. Chuuya let the air out through his nose and sketched a faint grin. He only curved one corner, the right one, but the gesture still kicked him in the ass.

Why? WHY?

“Not exactly.”

Dazai rolled his eyes, “Or the god of calamity, does it matter?”

He sincerely doubted it, but if Chuuya didn’t start talking, picking apart whatever he wanted to tell him, Dazai would either lose what little sanity he had left, or he would tear himself apart, and he didn’t like either of those options.

Chuuya licked his lips.

“No, what I mean is that he wasn’t always the god of destruction. Or of calamity.”

Dazai’s eyebrows knitted in confusion, not so much because of Chuuya’s words, nor even because of the topic of conversation—ridiculous at best, but preferable to silence or anything that hung between them like a gnawed rope—but because his stupid hand kept covering Dazai’s, and the heat it gave off, far from burning him, shattered all his defenses.

It wasn’t a sting, it was a whole swarm of bees, and they were feasting on his guts.

Was it the craving? His throat still burned from Chuuya’s mistreatment. He wouldn’t be surprised if his stupid body turned against him just when he needed to be one hundred percent. Or at least eighty percent.

“Dazai? Sure you’re okay?”

Chuuya pressed his hand mildly. Chuuya’s hands were delicate yet strong, full of calluses and reddish scars down to the knuckles, which were slightly bruised.

Dazai ran his fingertips over the intricate design of Chuuya’s scars. It was definitely not ink, the skin was slightly roughened and damaged. Chuuya choked and hurried to pull his hand away, but Dazai was quicker and caught his wrist with nimble fingers. They stared at each other, Chuuya’s eyes wide open, fear and surprise fighting for control.

He was devastatingly beautiful. His hair fell messily around his shoulders, framing his face. It was sunset, sun-kissed skin, freckles on his nose and cheeks, disheveled curls the color of fall, and the bluest irises he had ever seen.

He didn’t believe in gods, faith was an abstract concept that slipped through his fingers, but if he had to get down on his knees and pray, he would do it for this disgusting human creature. He inclined down and used his grip on Chuuya to pull the redhead closer.

“Why did you help me?”

He didn’t realize he’d said it out loud until Chuuya wrinkled his nose.

“If you wanted to die so badly, you should have done it in an alley, you asshole.”

And Chuuya jerked out of his grip. He massaged his wrist as if Dazai had hurt him. A part of him, the part that was really fucked up, hoped he had. He wanted to mark Chuuya as Chuuya had marked him.

The redhead hugged his knees and rested his chin on them.

“Arahabaki was a kind god.”

Dazai snorted and Chuuya looked at him with daggers in his eyes.

“I’m serious.”

“Of course, my mistake,” he sneered, but without his usual bite. He was feeling generous or very tired. “Go on, tell me the story of the destructive, kind-hearted god.”

“You’re the worst.”

“Tell me something I didn’t know~”

“I could throw you out on the street.”

Dazai nudged him with his arm.

“Lull me into the arms of Morpheus with a story, pretty please.”

“It’s not—Whatever.” Chuuya shook his head, probably deciding it was pointless to argue with him. Dazai pouted, he liked poking Chuuya, but he figured he could make an effort. “I don’t even know why I try.”

One secret for another.

Dazai felt a pang in his rib cage, sat up, and spun half of his body towards Chuuya, taking great care not to move his injured leg.

“My mother prayed every day, at all hours.” That felt like a punch in the stomach. The curiosity on Chuuya’s face made him feel even worse. Yet, he forced himself to continue. “She prayed to a god who, if he existed, had long since abandoned her. He didn’t protect her when she was shipped from Thailand with false promises of wealth, nor did he protect her when she fell into the hands of a man nearly thirty years her senior.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It didn’t protect her, nor me. Still, she prayed and prayed and prayed for the most absurd reasons. I asked her once why, and do you know what she said?”

Chuuya subtly denied, his gaze blurred with tears. Why? It wasn’t his story, it didn’t have to affect him. Dazai looked away and smoothed out the wrinkles in the blanket.

“She told me she prayed for us.”

“And…?” Chuuya swallowed. “And that was bad?”

“Hypocrite,” he corrected him. Then he glanced at Chuuya, because his mother was a hypocrite, but he was a masochist. “She prayed for us, but she pushed us both into the arms of a greedy monster.”

“Dazai—”

“I don’t want your pity,” Dazai cut him off, perhaps a little too harshly. He cleared his throat and tried to relax his features. He didn’t have to do it very well, maybe because of the swarm of bees, or maybe because of Chuuya. “What I want to say is that it’s okay, whatever you want to tell me, go ahead. I won’t judge you.”

Chuuya nodded in agreement.

“Arahabaki wasn’t always the god of destruction,” Chuuya resumed his train of thought, fiddling with the blanket. “There was a time when he was known as a kind and merciful god, always willing to give a little of his soul, of his power, to protect any human in need.”

It was... well, unexpected.

“And he did this for years, decades... He would give a little piece of his soul without asking for anything in return, and with each little piece, a new wound would appear and his power would weaken. But one day he couldn’t take it anymore and he chose himself. When he awoke, centuries later, humans disowned him and branded him a monster.”

“We are selfish,” Dazai added. “We always want more, more and more. They used the god until he was no longer useful to them.”

“I’m surprised you don’t blame Arahabaki.”

Dazai raised his eyebrows.

“Make no mistake, he should never have helped them. He was a fool.”

“Do you think he has learned the lesson?”

“Has he?”

Chuuya shrugged.

“He continued to help. Arahabaki loved people. And somehow he became attached to a clan. They gave him gifts for every bit of power he gave them. The god was pleased, he felt loved, and these humans only wanted his protection.”

There was more, Dazai felt in the way the redhead hesitated, how his voice cracked at the end. Chuuya rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. His heart shrank as they rested on him, reddened and watery.

“My angel, what—”

“And now he’s trapped, torn to pieces, and helpless—isn’t that pathetic?”

It was unconscious, born from inside him, with the heartbeat Chuuya shamelessly stole from him with his words and what they hid. Dazai knew it was there, what he needed, what Mori expected of him, right at his fingertips. Maybe that was why he pushed this thought deep into his mind and wrapped his arms around Chuuya.

The redhead resisted at first and Dazai almost regretted it, but immediately sank his face into the crook of Dazai’s neck.

“This is all I am,” he sobbed. “A handful of broken pieces that don’t fit together.”

“You’re not broken.”

Chuuya dug his fingers into Dazai’s sides.

“Listen to me, dwarf, because I’m only gonna say this once.” Dazai grabbed Chuuya from his biceps and brought him closer. His breath tickled him. “You are not in pieces. You are not what was taken from you, or what you were led to believe was taken from you. You are so much more than your scars and that stupid legend, which frankly, as a metaphor, leaves a lot to be desired. It’s pathetic.”

Chuuya furrowed his brow and something flickered in his irises. It was subtle, almost imperceptible because of the lack of light, except that they were an inch apart and their noses nearly touched.

It was a spark.

And Dazai longed to start a fire.

“Oi—” Dazai hesitated, maybe it was too much, maybe it was just what he needed to say to gain Chuuya’s trust again. He swallowed, the lump scratching at his throat. “I-I’m here.”

It wasn’t what he meant, but it was better than nothing. Chuuya seemed to understand anyway, his gaze softening and a smile blooming on his mouth. Tiny, full of invisible wounds and everything they kept silent about, but still a smile.

The swarm of bees raged inside him, rendering all his organs useless. Chuuya laid his palm on Dazai’s chest and his heart skipped a beat.

“I’m here,” Chuuya said back.

A strangled chuckle rose up his windpipe. Chuuya’s upper lip quivered and his eyes crinkled at the corners. Dazai hated to laugh, he couldn’t control himself and always broke his masks, but this early morning he allowed himself to burst out laughing and Chuuya joined in. They laughed until their breath was heavy and their cheeks flushed.

That early morning, just that early morning , they allowed themselves to be just Dazai and Chuuya.

Dazai reached for Chuuya’s hand under the sheets, and Chuuya intertwined their fingers.

“One secret for another,” Chuuya giggled.

Dazai brushed a strand of hair away from his angel’s face and tucked it behind his ear.

“One secret for another.”

Oh, Dazai was fucked, really fucked.

Light poured in through the window, tickling him. Sulking because he had barely slept a wink, Chuuya buried his nose in his pillow and draped an arm over it. He was about to fall back asleep when memories of the night before came rushing back.

It wasn’t his pillow.

Dazai was a vision worth billions. Chuuya did not breathe for fear of disturbing the peace that embraced them. Carefully, he brushed Dazai’s bangs from his forehead. The brunet stirred uneasily, muttering something that drew a chuckle from him.

He was encouraged: he went over the line of his jaw and the profile of his nose—a little crooked, as if he’d broken it and no one had bothered to put it back together. They were close enough that he could see the crescents under his lower eyelids and the tiny imperfections in his face. He paused at the scar he’d given Dazai not long ago and his stomach churned.

He clenched his hand into a fist.

Something had changed last night. Chuuya did not know what it would mean for them, but it was undeniable that they had crossed a handful of lines and blurred the rest. Chuuya had exposed himself by talking about Arahabaki, and while he doubted it would be enough to put himself in danger, Dazai now had all the information he needed to destroy him.

…but you’re nothing to me, just like I’m nothing to you.

His pulse quickened and the monster tugged at the chains that held him back, starving.

He had screwed up.

“Angel?”

Great .

Dazai sat up, propping himself on his right elbow as he rubbed the remnants of sleep from his eyes. He then reached out with the same hand to gently cradle Chuuya's cheek.

“I hate physical contact,” Dazai blurted out.

“You touch me a lot,” Chuuya replied, as if it weren’t obvious and as if Dazai weren’t touching him at that moment.

The brunet yawned.

“Funny, that never happens with you,” Dazai said.

Chuuya wheezed.

“Now you’re just talking nonsense to get in my pants.”

Dazai tilted his head and curled his lips into a smirk that was meant to be cheeky but fell halfway short. For some reason, he liked it better that way.

“Is it working?”

Chuuya pinched Dazai’s forearm and Dazai let out a squeal and jerked away.

“Bad angel!”

“Oh, shut up, crybaby.”

Dazai showed him the bruise. Chuuya raised his eyebrows—what exactly did Dazai expect him to see with his arm wrapped in bandages? He must have realized it, or maybe it was written all over his face, because he lowered his arm in annoyance.

“I have more bandages in the bath if you want to change. I don’t have crutches or anything, but we’ll figure something out—”

“I want to kiss you.”

Chuuya craned his neck so fast it crackled.

“What the fuck!?”

Dazai placed his palms on the mattress to get closer. Chuuya did not move. It was ridiculous, Dazai was absurd, to say the least, but even though he knew it, even though it was burned into his skin, he hesitated and his gaze dropped.

His stupid grin widened.

“May I?”

He struggled to start, his tongue weighing a ton and his head spinning, “No way.”

“We bet?”

Chuuya heard static, further blurring what few, if any, lines remained between them.

“Can you be honest with me for once?”

His expression darkened.

“Why?” Chuuya spat, slipping into the space between Dazai’s legs and resting his hands on the headrest. Dazai looked unperturbed, except for a small wrinkle on his forehead. “Tell me, why did you kiss me, why do you want to kiss me again? And most importantly, why did you come into my life?”

“I want to erase our first kiss.”

His foolish heart did something strange. Damn traitor. He sharpened his smile and narrowed his eyes.

“First kiss?” he sneered, not caring that Dazai could feel the bitterness in his voice. “Fuck off! We won’t redo our first kiss, or call it that, there won’t be anymore!”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re not honest!”

“Are you?” Dazai asked and when Chuuya wavered he laughed dryly through his nose. “You just want an excuse to stick your hand in my chest, rip my heart out and stomp on it.”

“What?”

“But you don’t need it, take it, it’s rotten and fucked up, but you can have it. I don’t want it.”

“Do you hear yourself when you talk? You’re out of your mind.”

“But you keep letting me in, that says more about you than me, angel.”

Dazai was provoking him to protect himself.

Chuuya ruffled his hair, cursing through his teeth as his fingers got tangled in his curls.

“Why do you want to erase it? You kissed me.”

“I don’t want it to be our first kiss.”

Chuuya swallowed the “It’s not our first anything, asshole,” which tasted like ash to him.

But it sounded honest, it felt honest.

“Normal people apologize, they don’t say crap like that,” Chuuya pointed out.

“You want me to apologize?” From the look on his face, he seemed to have sucked on a lemon. “It’s pointless.”

“What? Are you saying you’re gonna hurt me again?”

“It’s inevitable. It’s part of our nature, dwarf. We’re made to hurt.”

Chuuya blinked once, twice.

“Who hurt you so badly, Dazai?”

Dazai gasped, he looked like a puppy in front of the headlights of a car—was it real or was it fake? Chuuya didn’t have to strain to reach his heartbeat, it was everywhere, and what he could feel through the bond, though faint, was devastatingly honest.

And as if Dazai knew, he shortened the distance.

“Let me apologize with my mouth, Chuuya.”

He shouldn’t let him.

He shouldn’t, but… Dazai cupped Chuuya’s neck with his hand. Chuuya closed his eyes, a halting sigh born inside him, and lulled by their connection, he let himself be kissed.

It was okay , he thought. We would talk later.

Or he would have let himself be kissed if not for the lingering sound of a blowfly behind his ear.

Wait.

Chuuya nudged Dazai.

“Angel, what?”

“Albatross.”

“Pardon me!?”

And two seconds later, Albatross’ shrill voice burst their eardrums. Chuuya blanched because his idiot friend hadn’t come alone.

They were screwed.

Pianoman studied them with an unreadable expression, making Chuuya squirm on the sofa as if he were a child caught playing the console at bedtime. Dazai didn’t even blink, despite being in the lion’s den.

Albatross munched noisily on a cheesecake Pop-Tart, sitting on the carpet as though he were watching an exciting movie. Lippmann rested against the balcony door, while Iceman prepared breakfast in the kitchen with Doc’s help.

Pianoman uncrossed his legs and bowed forward. Dazai squinted, but if he was uncomfortable with Pianoman invading his personal space, he didn’t mention it.

“So, you’re Dazai.”

“The one and only,” he replied playfully.

Chuuya shot him a glare.

Pianoman sketched a restrained smile.

“I don’t like you.”

Albatross choked, coughing up crumbs all over the place, and Lippmann patted him. However, Chuuya’s attention remained on Pianoman, searching for a glint of silver to warn him of his intentions.

Dazai bared his teeth.

“Oh, yeah? I don’t like your stupid nicknames and you don’t see me saying it out loud. Let’s be honest—Piano man? Magpie?”

“Oi! It’s Albatross, buddy. I thought we connected.”

Dazai faced him, impassive.

“‘Buddy’?” he sneered, his voice dripping with malice. “I'm not your buddy.”

Albatross opened his mouth indignantly, but Lippmann interrupted him. They all turned to them, even Dazai, though Dazai did so reluctantly.

Dazai had to know, had to know who they were.

Still—

“P, Chuuya is not a baby.” The redhead felt his ears burn. Dazai stared at him with a mocking comment on the tip of his tongue. Chuuya made him gulp it with an elbow to the ribs. Dazai groaned and curled up. “They’re not children, you don’t have to give them the talk, and Dazai is probably exhausted. Does your leg hurt, dear?”

People often underestimated Lippmann, possibly because of their delicate appearance, kindness, and angelic voice.

Dazai didn’t, though.

He saw Lippmann for who they were, yet he still chose to flirt with danger. Chuuya should not be surprised.

Dazai’s expression became sharper and filled with so many things that Chuuya knew, long before Dazai spoke, that what he was about to say would not please him.

“Chuuya is a bit wild in bed.”

Chuuya’s shoulders slumped under the weight of Dazai’s words and silence fell over them. Albatross gasped like a fish out of water, his sunglasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. Pianoman frowned and Lippmann ducked their head and burst into laughter, their honey-blond hair covering their eyes.

Iceman peeked around the doorframe. 

“What’s so funny?” he asked.

Doc was standing next to him, one step behind, holding his IV. He was paler, the marks under his eyes were deeper.

“Piano is bullying Chuuya’s boyfriend!” cackled Albatross.

“He’s not my boyfriend!” barked Chuuya, blushing.

And at the same time:

“I wasn’t bullying him,” Pianoman clarified. Lippmann rounded his shoulders from behind and kissed the side of his head.

“You tried, don’t deny it.”

Iceman threw his arms in the air.

“For God’s sake, it’s not even nine in the morning.”

Chuuya had had enough, he stood up, ignoring the fear that climbed up his back, and crossed his arms in the middle of the room.

“Out.”

Silence.

Dazai pointed at himself. When Chuuya arched an eyebrow, Dazai was horrified.

“You’re kicking me out?! They’re the ones who broke into your apartment!”

“And?”

“That’s unfair!”

“Life is unfair, Mackerel.”

“I prefer ‘my love’ better if you ask me.”

“Fantastic, I’ll let you know when I want your opinion. Now get out.”

“Dwarf, you’re hurting me.”

“Call a cab.”

“But—”

“Or I’ll do it for you, but I promise you won’t like it.”

“Is it a kinky thing? I’m listening,” he hummed.

The nerves played havoc in the pit of his stomach. He had to do something, anything, to get rid of this feeling. So he approached the TV cabinet, because if he remembered correctly, he had left a pack of cigarettes in the third drawer. Had he really been about to kiss Dazai? Did he want to kiss him? As he opened and rummaged through it, he let out a curse.

“What about my cigarettes?”

“Smoking kills, angel.”

“So do you, and yet you’re still here.”

My funeral . Dazai looked like a child on the morning of his birthday—all bright-eyed and a dazzling smile. His heart stopped in warning. Now he desperately needed a nicotine kick.

Luckily, Iceman had a pack in his coat.

Back in the living room, Dazai was trying to avoid putting weight on his injured leg while talking on the phone.

“I’ve ordered a car,” Dazai informed. “It’s been a pleasure, weirdos.”

“I’ll walk you down, non-buddy,” Albatross announced.

Dazai didn’t argue.

In the genkan, their gazes collided. Dazai doubted, unsure of his next move. It seemed as if he wanted to shatter the distance between them, but he knew he shouldn’t.

Or maybe Chuuya was projecting. He dug his nails into his palms, almost crushing the cigarette. When Albatross put an arm around Dazai to help him walk, Chuuya was the first to break eye contact.

As soon as the door closed, Pianoman nodded for him to accompany him to the balcony.

Outside, a pleasant breeze blew. Chuuya leaned against the balcony and lit the cigarette. He felt naked without his gloves, but with the first puff, the accumulated tension was dissipated. He exhaled slowly and looked at the cigarette as if it contained the answers to all his problems. His sister would be disappointed. With that, he took another puff and crushed the cigarette on the edge of the balcony, shoving his hands into his pockets.

Pianoman didn’t say anything immediately. For some reason, the little wrinkles on his forehead and the worry in his irises bothered him.

“He’s inoffensive,” he growled under his breath.

“Albatross or Dazai?” Pianoman didn’t sound angry, just curious. “We trust you, but our job is to keep you safe. If you need help—"

“You call that keeping an eye on me?” he bit out.

“Mousey, I thought we were past this—”

Albatross chose this moment to appear, exuding confidence and cheerfulness, and immediately stood next to Chuuya, who eyed him suspiciously. Nothing good could come from an overly energetic Albatross.

He could be worse than a husky puppy.

“You’re one of us,” Albatross declared, rubbing his cheek against Chuuya’s. “Shall we do another rite of passage?!”

“No!” Iceman and Lippmann shouted at the same time.

Albatross pouted, “You guys are such killjoys.”

“I’m not sticking a silicone dick on my forehead again .”

“That only happened once!”

“You used superglue!”

Iceman never raised his voice. Never, except when Albatross was involved.

Against his better judgment, Chuuya huffed. There was little he could do to hide the grin tugging at his lips. Albatross continued to protest loudly to Iceman, who shook his head vehemently before disappearing inside the apartment. The smell of toast and coffee wafted up to the balcony, and his belly roared.

“Shall we have breakfast before those two kill each other?” Lippmann suggested.

“Kids,” Pianoman complained half-jokingly.

Lippmann winked at Chuuya as Pianoman walked past him. Someone had to make sure Albatross didn’t consume more sugar than recommended, he supposed. Doc tended to be very flexible with Albatross, so it was up to the rest to control him.

Chuuya had grown fond of them, but they were still bound to Kumichō by a blood contract. No matter what they said or how much Chuuya wanted to trust them, if Ozaki ordered it, they would turn their backs on him.

Or they would die.

Chuuya would rather surrender the remains of his soul before that happened.

“Then you and Dazai are a thing,” Albatross groped carefully, sitting cross-legged on the carpet.

“Dazai and I are nothing,” Chuuya muttered from behind his cup. It was the fifth time he’d repeated it.

“Dude, he was wearing your clothes and limping.”

Chuuya shorted out.

“We’re eating,” Iceman scolded him.

Albatross ignored him.

“You spend a lot of time together,” he insisted. “He comes to see you at work, you have late-night dates, you let him sleep here, you took him to—No fucks! Our little Chuuya has fallen in love!”

Chuuya wanted to strangle him.

“So,” Pianoman interrupted. “Can you trust him?”

He didn’t ask if it was safe to get involved with a civilian. Nor did he ask if he had checked his background. Chuuya squeezed the cup between his hands, stealing its warmth. It didn’t soothe him; the storm nestled beneath his skin, waiting, but it did give him some room to think.

They knew something. It was impossible that Albatross had only mentioned the brothel incident to Iceman.

Chuuya lifted his eyes.

Pianoman knew or suspected it. Still, he was giving him a chance to confess. Perhaps it was about trust after all.

In the end, it all came down to trust.

There was no point in lying; he wasn’t even sure he could. He set the cup down on the table and wrung his fingers. He could rat out Dazai; they were already on the brink of war. According to Ane-san, Ozaki was spending the day locked in his office with his inner circle.

But who was he kidding?

“Don’t worry. I’ve got it under control.”

Their heartbeats were bound. Dazai was inside him. Chuuya refused to abandon him, not even for his own sake.

But it wasn’t love, it couldn’t be.

He was doomed to the core, right?

A week had passed, he could rest his foot without feeling whiplash running down his leg and he could even walk normally if he gorged himself on painkillers, but the wound still tore at him. Mori had caught him at once; he had called him into his office and ordered him to undress and remove the bandages.

It had been unpleasant, violent, and humiliating.

That Mori did not question his silence after he needed stitches was alarming, but that he did not ask him about the gunshot wound was a danger signal the size of the Tokyo Tower. Nevertheless, Dazai acquiesced. Mori kept an eye on him, and knew that he had spent the night at Chuuya’s apartment. But hopefully, he had more pressing problems with the ports and whatever Ozaki was doing behind the scenes.

He told himself then, as he gritted his teeth and allowed Mori to poke at the wound—the real one and all the others—that it wasn’t worth losing his head over something beyond his control. And he repeated it now, perhaps with a little more force and perhaps forcing the leg more than was strictly necessary.

It wasn’t worth it.

He propped his forearm against the wall and gritted his teeth. The pain that came over him was excruciating, filling his vision with black dots and almost making him stagger. He fumbled in his pockets for the bottle of pills and popped two into his mouth. A shot of painkillers would have been more effective, but if he went near the infirmary, Mori would find out he was abusing his medication again.

At this hour, there was hardly any movement on the upper floors. Most were at their respective posts—some as part of Mori Corp, some kicking around the streets, and others holed up, surrounded by piles and piles of reports—but it was better not to risk it.

He ran a hand through his hair, he couldn’t strain his leg much longer. He didn’t like to stay in the towers any longer than he had to, but he realized that stretching his leg on the sofa in his office sounded like touching paradise with his fingertips. With a grimace, he resumed his walk, but as he turned the corner, a clump of copper hair rushed past him.

His right corner twitched in displeasure. How convenient that this boy had decided to materialize in his path right now. He reached out and grabbed the collar of his shirt. The boy stared at him, or at least that was his intention, until he recognized him, then his eyes went wide and he paled.

Adorable.

“I-I’m so sorry. I didn’t—I didn’t mean to— Please, please.”

Dazai released him.

The boy let out a pitiful whimper as he fell, but immediately dropped to his knees, resting his forehead on the ground and holding his palms up. He was a bundle of nerves from the way he was shaking.

Dazai nudged his incisors with his tongue and looked over his shoulder, weighing his options. How convenient that there were no gossipers nearby and how convenient, he thought as his gaze shifted to the nearest camera, that he had picked a blind spot. It was as if the boy had done it on purpose. And what was he doing on the upper floors? He hadn’t earned that right, as far as he knew.

The boy continued to make little whines and snotty noises, but kept his head down in anticipation of orders. Dazai tilted his face to the side. He had read his file, right after the brothel incident. When his parents sold him to the Mafia to pay off their debts, he was nothing more than a bruised sack of bones who couldn’t go to the bathroom by himself and had trouble speaking without slurring his words. Now he ran small errands and gathered information.

Since there were no children in the mafia, but rather weapons or toys to use, he prepared for the first strike.

“My master sends you a message.”

“Our boss, you mean.”

He didn’t mean Mori, that much was clear. Children like him, contrary to what evil tongues said, didn’t interest the boss.

The boy didn’t answer.

Dazai shook his head in disgust. He was in no mood for this, whatever it was. He tangled his fingers in the boy’s copper strands until his nails dug into his scalp, tearing a high-pitched scream out of him. His thigh protested, the sting of pain momentarily blurring his vision.

Damn it.

The boy sobbed—and wasn’t that a grotesque sight?

“Karma, right?” The boy sniffled, tears furrowing his chubby cheeks and fear twisting his features. “Didn’t I warn you last time that I would break every bone in your body if you dared to interfere in my affairs?”

He tugged harder at his grip to get the message.

“My master sends you—”

“Your master?” Dazai croaked, pulling harder. Then he leaned forward so he couldn’t hide from his scrutiny. “I can still tie you up in the dungeon and disembowel you if you don’t start singing—”

The boy reached into his pants and held out a crumpled paper. Dazai glanced at it impassively. The boy cried louder, maybe because of the abuse of his scalp or maybe because of the threats. Dazai tore the paper from his hands, the boy touched his head and curled up on the floor. A whistling sound drew his attention. He curled his lips in disgust as he saw the puddle of urine forming beneath the boy.

He unfolded the paper.

“Mori lies?” he read in disbelief.

Next to the words, hastily scrawled in questionable handwriting, was a familiar alphanumeric code. The boy, hugging his legs and barely holding back sobs, peered at him through the gap between his arms.

Dazai crumpled the paper.

“You think this is a game, that I won’t kill you because you’re a child? I will if you don’t tell me what the fuck this is.”

He’d recognize that code anywhere.

“Mori lies.”

He learned to read and write it at a very young age, in black clothes that were too big for him, bandages that didn’t hide the monster he had become, and with fear pumping blood into his veins.

Dazai closed the distance between them. The boy untangled himself and pressed against the wall as best he could.

“Who is your master?”

The boy shook his head violently.

“Killing the messenger sends a message,” he reminded him.

“My master knows you like games. He will show himself to you soon,” the boy muttered, lifting his chin, his upper lip trembling and he was a mess of tears and snot, but he had to give him that, his resilience.

As tempting as it was to drag him into the dungeons, to let the boy’s screams echo through the hallways, the effort wasn’t worth it to him. Mori lied? Obviously.

It was the ancient code the Triad used to send their messages, or at least it resembled it.

“Out.”

“What?”

“Are you deaf, or do you need me to sign a release? Get out.”

He didn’t have to tell him twice, the boy crawled away from his grasp, stood awkwardly, and lost his way down the hallway. Dazai let him go.

It wasn’t difficult to decipher the code, although he wouldn’t say it was helpful. He thoughtfully rubbed his chin as he examined the list of numbers (dates, maybe?) and what appeared to be a file name.

He leaned back in the swivel chair, which creaked in warning. He swung around to turn on his computer. From there, he could access the database. He typed in the combination of letters and numbers and... bingo, nothing happened.

What if the numbers were dates? The years would be missing, but—

Just in case, he tried limiting the search to dates. It would probably be too many files to go through one by one, especially without knowing what he was looking for, but it was better than the “0” the search engine had returned the first time.

Surprisingly, the result was “0” again. Were they locked? He could use Mori’s credentials, but that would leave a record, and then he would have to deal with awkward questions.

It was agonizing to show up at the archives with a hurt leg and barely any sleep for the past few days. The smell of dust made his nose crinkle. He walked up to the counter, leaned his hip against the wood, and struck the small bell that echoed throughout the room.

There were several files in the towers, but there were only two that interested him, the one in Mori's possession, which he would rather not have to use in the near future, and this one.

A girl, not much older than him, with light brown hair pulled back in a low bun, round glasses, and a handful of files between her arms, peeked through one of the side doors.

Dazai put on his best smile, the charming one.

“How can I help you?”

Dazai read the ID pinned to her beige cardigan.

“Scott?”

“Louisa is fine.”

“A lovely name.”

Dazai held out the paper on which he had written the name. Louise adjusted her glasses and unlocked the computer. She hadn’t started typing, hadn’t even touched the keyboard when she stood unusually still.

Paralyzed.

Dazai propped his elbows on the table.

“Everything okay?” he asked gently.

Louise peeled back her lips and closed them. The blush that spread across her cheeks had little to do with Dazai’s presence.

It was something else, the way she treated her lower lip.

“I can’t help you, Sir.”

“How is that? I have access to the whole building.”

She shook her head.

“We don’t use that nomenclature anymore.”

“But we did use it, didn’t we? Doesn’t it show up in the database?”

Louisa avoided his gaze. Dazai’s smile faded.

“It’s not that, it’s just—”

“You want us to call the boss?”

He was bluffing.

“No, that won’t be necessary," she hastened to clarify. So quickly that she even stumbled over the words. “It’s a nomenclature used in the old boss’ time for confidential files. I don’t have access to them.”

Dazai felt as if someone had held his head under water. Louisa kept talking, moving her lips and twisting her fingers, but Dazai couldn’t hear her.

“I don’t even know if anyone has proper clearance or if they’re being kept. This system was shut down four years ago because of a security breach.”

…four years ago.

“Who was in charge of those files?”

He already knew, but he needed to hear it anyway.

“Sakaguchi Ango.”

Chapter Text

An old bar tucked away on a Tokyo street.

A boy who said he didn’t feel anything, drowning in his own emotions—kicking, crying, but no one helped him. With burning lungs and aching limbs, he dragged himself to the shore, packed his feelings into a box, and threw the key into the sea.

An office worker carrying too many secrets, wearing a wristwatch that didn’t belong to him. Its hands stopped moving on a humid night four years ago, the glass cracked, and the leather strap worn thin.

And an errand boy who helped a badly injured boy who collapsed on the steps of his apartment—dressed in a coat too big for him—and made the mistake of sharing a drink, his friendship, his loyalty, with the wrong people.

A matchbox.

A promise.

Lies.

Sakaguchi Ango.

Dazai staggered, colliding the backs of his knees against a metal cart. Louisa reached out to him. The worry on her face drew a dry laugh from him. He dug his broken fingernails into his scalp and yanked. A metallic taste filled his mouth, and an unhinged grin spread across his face.

Mori lies.

He spun around and kicked the cart. Louisa squealed. A sharp pain shot up from his toes, and he bent over, gritting his teeth to stifle a scream. It wasn’t enough. The pain wasn’t enough to drown out the noise in his head. He grabbed the collar of his shirt, the buttons popped, but even the familiar touch of the gauze beneath didn’t help.

A toast.

A flash of a camera.

Blood, his blood.

A shaky “Sir?” made him thrash like a cornered animal; his hand darted to his waistband. Louisa recoiled, and Dazai went pale. His gun was missing. He didn’t remember letting it go, but it wasn’t there.

Someone cleared their throat.

“A cigarette, lad?”

Dazai blinked slowly, tilting his head.

Hirotsu didn’t seem pleased, judging by the deeper lines on his forehead. His gray hair—more white than gray—was slicked back, and he wore the same white gloves and simple suit he always did. Nothing appeared different. Yet, Dazai absorbed every detail as if he were a thirsty man in the middle of the desert.

“Old man,” Dazai greeted, a hint of annoyance in his voice. “You still haven’t retired?”

Hirotsu didn’t bite. Instead, he pulled out a cigarette pack from his jacket and offered Louisa a smile that was meant to be reassuring.

“Miss Scott,” Hirotsu called her. Louisa flinched, her cheeks reddening. “I apologize for any inconvenience this may have caused you. Don’t worry; I’ll take it from here. We appreciate your discretion.”

Dazai grimaced.

Louisa faltered, her gaze drifting to a spot to her right, a security camera. She didn’t look very convinced, but had to come to the conclusion that it wasn’t worth it either. She nodded in agreement.

Hirotsu motioned for Dazai to follow. Reluctantly, he complied. Hirotsu was a man of few words, a veteran who never left the battlefield, and a widower who neither forgive nor forget. He didn’t belong here. Sure, he had the resilience to survive the underworld and the stomach to do what needed to be done, but this wasn’t his place.

It never had been.

Dazai had known from the first moment he saw him.

At that time, Hirotsu had been a low-level grunt, carrying out his job with enviable efficiency. His only flaw, aside from his obsessive need to finish tasks as quickly as possible, was his excessive kindness.

By that point, the old boss had completely lost his mind. Tsushima Gen’emon spent his days locked in his rooms, curtains drawn, wearing a filthy robe that reeked of dried blood, sweet poison, and decay. From there, he threatened to declare war on the Triad.

How someone like Hirotsu—who knelt in front of a kid who smelled trouble and ruffled his hair with affection—could thrive under the shadow of a madman remained a mystery to him.

“A candy?”

“Why?”

“And why not? Take them, kiddo. You can share them with your friends.”

Sometimes, Dazai found himself thinking about that kid who hid in impossible places, rummaged through garbage when no one was looking, and dreamed of the silence that had been taken from his mother.

The silence of death.

Dazai shook his head, snapping back to reality. His sanity was hanging by a thin thread. Hunting helped. Alcohol, pills, and sometimes, drugs numbed him, and made him feel lighter, less significant. He searched for his reflection in the large windows to his left and wondered, not for the first time, if he was doomed to lose his mind. If it was hereditary.

He clenched and unclenched his fists, feeling his mouth dry.

Hirotsu walked ahead of him. What did he intend? To help him? To lecture him? The possibilities seemed so absurd that Dazai didn’t even feel like mocking him. Instead, he followed Hirotsu to the auxiliary elevators. His bandages itched—too tight and rough—and his clothes clung uncomfortably to his skin.

He stopped suddenly.

“Old man,” he called urgently, near the elevator doors.

Hirotsu sighed.

“Let’s have a smoke. I need it.”

Dazai snorted.

“I need something stronger than nicotine.”

Hirotsu didn’t take the bait. He rarely did. He held the door open, and luckily, the elevator was empty.

“Give this old man a treat.”

“Don’t you prefer to share a bottle or two? I’ll pay, I’m feeling generous.”

“It’s noon.”

Only?

“And?”

“Please.”

Dazai rolled his eyes before giving in; he had no other choice. And if the old man thought it strange that he dragged his leg as he entered and pressed his palm to his left thigh; he didn’t say anything.

The five towers were connected to facilitate the movement of delicate goods, the kind that weren’t stored in ports and that Mori didn’t trust to be kept elsewhere. Dazai had hardly set foot there, it felt too claustrophobic, but he knew the layout by heart. They ended up in one of the storage rooms. Nobody spared them a second glance or asked for credentials. Dazai wasn’t concerned about this getting back to Mori; no one there had the connections to send a message to the boss, nor the guts to try.

The smoke filled his lungs. For a moment, he let himself believe it would work. That the silence of this rat hole, the concrete against his back, and the pleasant burn would be enough. He exhaled the smoke slowly, looked at the cigarette, and the ash collected at the tip.

Not this time. He needed something stronger.

“I hate smoking.”

“I hate a lot of things, Dazai, and you don’t hear me complain.”

“You should,” he jeered, the joy bubbling in his chest. Fake, artificial. He took another drag, longer this time, holding the smoke in his lungs for a few seconds. Would it be better to extinguish the flame with his tongue or press it to his skin? “It’s liberating. I do it all the time, at all hours.”

Hirotsu’s lips curved downward slightly. Dazai couldn’t see it. They stood shoulder to shoulder, close enough to keep from drifting, but not close enough to feel the urge to pull away or peel his own skin off with a knife.

Dazai kissed the cigarette once more.

“Unfortunately,” Hirotsu stated. Dazai took another drag, much deeper. His eyes watered, and he coughed, expelling the smoke with difficulty. “You complain too much for your age, lad.”

“Not at all,” Dazai replied, his voice rough.

Dazai let the butt fall to the ground, its tip still glowing. He savored the sour aftertaste lingering in his mouth; the death that filled the air, making it hard to breathe, eluding him like a capricious lover. Absently, he wondered what might happen if everything went up in flames.

Hirotsu stepped on it for him.

“Be careful,” Hirotsu said. Dazai snapped his head so fast it made him dizzy. Confused, he twisted his lips. Hirotsu didn’t look at him; he didn’t need to. “Sometimes it’s better to leave things alone.”

“Speak for yourself.”

“I’m talking about your well-being.”

“I’ll be fine, old man,” Dazai reassured him, dismissing it with a flick of his wrist. “Like always.”

“That’s what worries me." Hirotsu stepped away from the wall, crushing his own cigarette against it. Then, he bent down to pick up Dazai’s. See? Too good, too considerate. “That look in your eyes... it doesn’t bode well, lad. Take care.”

Dazai couldn’t help but scoff.

“I’m a threat, haven’t they told you?”

Dazai took a step forward, balancing on his toes and clasping his hands behind his back. His heart pounded against his ribs, and the small wounds on his palms—which he couldn’t remember making—stung. But it was fine. He would be fine.

Hirotsu shook his head, as if he had given up hope, and patted his arm before walking away.

Dazai didn’t move.

His eyes fell on the burn on the ground.

Ango answered on the third ring.

Dazai had sat with his legs dangling. From up there, he had a panoramic view of the storage. Not far off, someone was giving orders. He pressed the phone to his ear and swung his legs, conscious of the wound on his thigh starting to bother him. He patted his pockets until he found a bottle of painkillers and swallowed three of them at once.

“Dazai,” Ango said, sounding exhausted. “Do you know what time it is? You can’t call me every time you’re bored.”

“Why not?”

“You know why,” Ango muttered. Then he sighed in resignation, just like always. Dazai traced the scar on his mouth with his fingernail, unsure if he wanted to reopen it or simply trace it. “What’s up? What do you need?”

I want you to jump from your office and die.

“I need your help~”

“Has something happened?”

Dazai tensed his jaw.

“As if you care,” he sneered, perhaps with a bit more anger than he meant. He pressed his tongue against his teeth and reorganized his thoughts. “As much as I enjoy hearing your annoying voice, I’m in a hurry. Look, there’s a file I want, but I can’t access it because, oddly enough, no one bothered to rename it when they updated the system.”

Silence.

If Dazai had to guess, Ango was probably pinching the bridge of his nose, questioning his entire existence. Too bad.

“And what does that have to do with me?”

“Oh, Ango, don’t play dumb. It doesn’t suit you.”

“I no longer have nothing to do with—”

Dazai cut him off sharply, “You know what pisses me off? It’s not that you’re lying to me, it’s that this file is cataloged under a system that’s been obsolete for ten years. Yet, for some reason, it was still in use four years ago. Four years, Ango. Quite the coincidence, huh? And you expect me to believe you have no idea what I’m talking about?”

He wasn’t in the mood for games.

“What’s the name?” Ango relented.

He had a bad feeling.

“I’m glad we’re finally on the same page.”

"Just say it, I don’t have all day—"

And that was exactly what Dazai did.

The pieces of the puzzle he’d been avoiding out of fear of what he might discover were now right in front of him, and they didn’t bode well.

“I’d hate to have to take your toys away from you like last time.”

Dazai pulled the phone away from his ear. The call was still connected.

“You’d better drop it.”

Bingo.

“Drop what?” Dazai replied with feigned nonchalance. The taste of betrayal lingered in his mouth, bitter. He lunged forward, gripping the railing until his knuckles turned white. “You owe me, rat. You owe me this, whatever it is.”

You owe me the truth.

“Dazai, if this is about what happened, I—”

“You betrayed us—”

“And I’m paying for it! I pay for it every day!” Ango exploded, his voice cracking at the end. Dazai wanted to lash out, go straight for the jugular. How dare he sound so remorseful? He had no right to. He couldn’t cry to him. “I’m helping. I risk my job every time I—”

“Odasaku died because of you.”

It felt like falling into the void.

Breathless, he laid his forehead against the railing and found himself grinning.

He’d said it aloud.

Four years, and he had finally said it.

“Dazai, I—”

“You owe me. What’s in that file, Ango? You were the only one with access. And don’t lie to me.”

“I—I don’t remember. It’s been so long, why would I remember one file out of thousands? I’m not a supercomputer, I’m just a person.”

You’re a cowardly rat.

Dazai snorted, incredulous. “I told you not to lie. Of course, you remember. You remember everything. It’s the only comfort I have left.”

“Oda wouldn’t want you digging into—”

“Don’t say his name!” he yelled, hitting the railing hard. The sound echoed. He bent his good leg and leaned back. “Don’t you dare say his name. You don’t deserve it, not after what you did.”

“I did what I was ordered to do.”

“Bullshit! You could’ve told us. You could’ve asked for help… Ango, you were a coward. Don’t try to play the victim with me, or I swear—”

“Dazai,” he interrupted weakly, as if they’d had this argument a thousand times in his mind. “I was a double agent, a government spy, do you understand? Mori suspected. I couldn’t attract more attention. I did what I had to do, but if I’d known how it would all end... Dazai, only you could challenge someone like Mori and come out unscathed.”

It was a low blow.

Ango sounded defeated, as if it took him a physical effort when he added, “It’s better not to have this conversation over the phone.”

Dazai ground his teeth. “What don’t I know? What really happened four years ago, Ango?”

Silence fell between them.

“You’re not going to like it, Dazai.”

The rage boiling inside him twisted violently. None of this made sense. Nothing in this conversation did. This—whatever this was—had to be a trick. A provocation. Ango had played with fire, bitten off more than he could chew, and dragged Odasaku into a suicide mission.

That was the end of it. There was nothing more.

There couldn’t be anything more.

He pressed his fist to his chest, curling over himself, his bangs falling over his eyes.

“I’ll kill you.”

“I’ll send you a location. If you insist on having this conversation, it’ll be on my terms.”

He parted his lips, ready to protest, perhaps to insult him again or to remind him that he was in no position to demand anything. He needed to let everything out before it consumed him entirely but the call ended abruptly, leaving a gaping hole in his chest and the weight of it all made him empty his stomach.

He coughed and spat bile, staining his chin and shirt.

He felt something wet trickling down his cheeks. His shoulders shook as a strangled laugh climbed its way up his throat.

Pathetic.

He felt his pockets until he found the bottle again.

The sun blazed high above, imposing and unreachable.

Dazai fiddled with a loose strip of his bandages and squinted up at the sky. A pleasant breeze tousled his hair, carrying the salty scent of the ports with it, and the sunlight tickled his skin. He felt insignificant, just a little bit better.

The pills were beginning to take effect, easing the knots in his limbs and releasing the tension that had built up over the past few hours. He stretched his neck and let out a little hum. Getting rid of the shirt and trench coat ruined by vomit had also helped improve his mood.

He looked out over the city for a moment. It was alive, oblivious to the decay that plagued it. What would it be like to live with a blindfold on, enjoying the little things? A hot meal. The laughter of children who had never known horror. A beer. A first love.

Boring, probably.

Rocking back on his heels, he glanced one last time at the towers.

If only they would burn to the ground.

His heart raced abruptly. Surprised, or perhaps confused, his fingers curled as if trying to catch the beat that gripped him. It thundered against his rib cage, as if it wanted to escape from its prison and was threatening to destroy everything in its path if he didn’t bend to its will.

Wild and indomitable.

Like him.

He felt his glare pierce the back of his neck. Dazai turned around, a smirk dancing on his lips. The traffic light changed. There, across the street, as if the world had to bow down to him just for existing, surrounded by a sea of dull gray suits and blurry faces, stood his angel. Sunset-red hair hidden beneath an ugly hat, a scowl carved into his freckled face, and arms crossed.

Dazai’s smile grew.

Chuuya struggled to breathe, his chest rising and falling as if he had sprinted all the way here. Despite the distance, Dazai paused to study him: dark, torn jeans, high black boots, and a red leather jacket. His throat went dry when his eyes caught the electric scars kissing his exposed stomach.

Why was the dwarf here? For him? It didn’t make sense.

The traffic light changed to red.

Dazai took a step forward.

A car beeped in warning.

Chuuya uncrossed his arms, and panic broke out on his face, blurring his features.

Dazai savored his fear and made it his own. It was better than the barrel of a gun pressed to his temple, much better than pulling the trigger. He imagined himself falling to his knees before the city, spreading the redhead’s legs—caressing his toned thighs, dragging his nails down his scars—and taking his cock between his eager lips just to wipe that expression off.

Or to unleash a thunderstorm, whichever came first.

As if he could read his mind, Chuuya made an obscene gesture at him. Dazai bit his lip to suppress a giggle. His angel was adorable with his flushed cheeks and narrowed eyes that looked like slits of blue fire, softened by the distance.

Chuuya grabbed his phone and urged Dazai to do the same. Dazai complied.

His screen lit up with a call.

“Dazai,” Chuuya panted. Dazai didn’t answer. Hearing his voice on the other end stirred the swarm of bees in his belly for some reason. It was disturbing. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

Dazai frowned.

“How does the dwarf know?”

“I just—I just know, okay?”

Dazai ran a hand through his hair.

“And what do you care, angel?” he sighed, annoyed. With himself? With his angel? Irrelevant. He should’ve closed the distance between them and given him a blowjob, or give him his gun to do what he wanted. Or both. “Do me a favor, worry about yourself and go do whatever it is that chibis like you do.”

Chuuya clicked his tongue in irritation.

“You got stabbed once because of me, remember?” Dazai insisted.

“And so what? I survived. It’s not a big deal,” Chuuya spat, then, much more seriously, added, “If you’re gonna do something stupid, do it with me.”

His heart stumbled.

“Careful, angel. Watch what you say.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Chuuya interrupted him, half-amused. “I got stabbed, and you were an idiot. Well, being an idiot is part of your charm. Sadly, I’ve gotten used to it. Dazai, you kissed me, I gave you that nice scar on your face, you went back to being an idiot, and then you showed up bleeding on my doorstep. I helped you. You saw me— You saw me vulnerable but didn’t use it against me.”

“For now. Who knows what I might do tomorrow?”

“What I mean is that we’ve been through a lot… Whatever it is, I can handle it.”

Dazai let out a dry, almost bitter laugh. “Not a chance, angel.”

“One secret for another,” he reminded, using his words as a weapon. Dazai hesitated. “Tell me what you’re going to do.”

“You first.”

Chuuya cursed under his breath, “Of course you have to choose the hard way.”

“It’s part of my charm,” Dazai crooned.

Chuuya shook his head.

“I can kill someone with my hands.”

That was... a strange way to put it.

“Interesting choice of words, but tell me something I don’t know,” Dazai said. The traffic light changed to amber. Chuuya’s frustration was evident, even from across the street. Dazai felt the need to stoke it up. “C’mon, angel, all those muscles must be good for something! Of course you can kill someone with your hands! Oh! Smother me and I’ll give you a score from 1 to 10, where 1 is ‘pitiful, zero recommended’ and 10 hmm… Let me think about it.”

Chuuya stiffened.

“I’m serious, damn it. I can’t control it.”

Dazai scrunched his nose.

“And that’s why you wear gloves?” Dazai asked, playing along.

“That’s why I wear gloves, yeah, genius.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You don’t believe me.”

“Angel, it’s not that I don’t believe you, but you’re making this very difficult. We’ve touched each other many times. If you don’t want to reveal a secret to me, I get that, but—”

“Look, I don’t care. Where the fuck are you going?”

Dazai pouted. “Cheater.”

“Dazai, I’m serious."

The traffic light turned green.

“Honestly? I have no idea,” Dazai pointed out. He had an address and a time, but he refused to wait. “I’m gonna threaten the guy who caused the death of someone important to me, and then, depending on what he tells me or my mood, slit Mori’s throat.”

Chuuya stopped in the middle of the crosswalk, and Dazai wondered if this would be the moment the redhead finally reached his breaking point. Part of him longed for that; it would make completing his suicide mission much easier if Chuuya abandoned him. However, another part of him—the part that stretched out its long fingers, like a vine full of thorns, and gripped his heart—feared he had pushed too far.

He was afraid that Chuuya might turn away and never look back. Dazai bit his tongue, swallowing the “You owe me a secret, angel. You can’t leave,” that rose in his throat and threatened to consume him.

“Fuck, Shitty Dazai.”

“Sure, why not?”

“Don’t talk nonsense,” Chuuya barked.

“You started~”

“It’s impossible to have a serious conversation with you, damn it!”

It was Chuuya, right?

Dazai closed the distance between them. Chuuya awakened a spark inside him that he thought was extinguished and made him wish for impossible things. The world was reduced to ash as his angel looked up. For a moment, Dazai got lost in his eyes—brighter, bluer—and he knew.

He shouldn’t feel this way, but—

“Will you come with me?” Dazai asked quietly. Chuuya lowered his phone. Dazai did the same.

He didn’t want to be alone.

Never again.

Chuuya raised his hand and rested it on Dazai’s chest as if trying to prove something. His heart fluttered in response. Could he read it? Could Chuuya decipher his racing beat as easily as he seemed to be able to read everything else? It would be so much easier this way, so much more complicated. Doomed to the core and unable to run away, Dazai found himself jumping into the void.

It’s yours, Dazai wanted to tell, the words piling up on his tongue. All yours.

But he couldn’t.

“Touch me without gloves.”

“Ha?!”

Dazai covered Chuuya’s hand with his own and bowed his head, his bangs falling over his eyes. His angel stiffened, but didn’t pull away.

There was no turning back.

Death, maybe.

“Do it, one day,” Dazai added, almost pleading. Chuuya’s eyes widened. Dazai wanted to drown in them. “Kill me.”

"You’re crazy."

“For you.”

“For God’s sake! Will you stop that shit?”

“Will you?” he insisted, despair tinging his words. Chuuya opened his mouth, then closed it. Dazai slid his hand down, like a caress, and captured Chuuya’s wrist in his fingers, drawing circles with his thumb over the pulse, stealing his breath. “Will you come with me?”

Chuuya pressed his lips together into a thin line.

Silence stretched between them.

Chuuya sighed.

“I’ll help you.”

Dazai brightened.

"Not a fucking word!" Chuuya barked, raising a finger.

Dazai intertwined their fingers.

“What the fuck, Shitty Dazai?”

“It’s a promise!”

Chuuya’s eyelid twitched.

The plan was simple, or it should be. But with his angel involved, anything was possible.

Chuuya adjusted to the weight of the gun in his hands before tucking it into the waistband of his jeans. His angel was a cruel man. As soon as he saw the gun, he snatched it out with a “No fucking way” and no matter how many eyes Dazai made at him, he didn’t give in. They were hidden behind a pillar in the underground parking lot of the Special Division. Sneaking in, evading security guards, and finding a blind spot had been easy, but for some reason, seeing Chuuya with a gun—his gun—it was too much.

Dazai wrapped his arms around Chuuya and drew him closer.

“What the hell are you doing now?” Chuuya grunted. Dazai smiled innocently. His angel tried to elbow him, but the beep of an alarm startled them. Chuuya pressed even closer to him, and Dazai’s fingers roamed his stomach, tracing his scars. “Damn it, stay still, you menace!”

Dazai brushed Chuuya’s ear with his lips.

“Can you be quiet for a moment for me, my angel?” he asked in a low voice, almost a whisper. His fingers moved to the waistband of Chuuya’s jeans as Chuuya leaned his head against his shoulder. Dazai covered the redhead’s mouth with his other hand. “Be good, and I’ll make it worth your while.”

Ango was nearing his car. He had a simple routine: every day he had lunch with his grandmother at the residence.

Dazai rested his chin on Chuuya’s head.

“I despise you,” Chuuya hissed, but it was muffled against Dazai’s skin.

“C’mon, little angel. Patience is a virtue.”

Chuuya tried to bite him.

“Bad dog!”

"Shut up, you asshole. And focus, that guy’s getting away.”

As soon as Ango got into the car, Dazai opened the passenger door and sat down beside him with a charming smile painted on his face. Chuuya took the backseat, aiming the gun at Ango. Dazai gulped. Seeing his angel like this made him squirm in his seat.

He promised himself that he would deal with it later.

“Oi, Ango, we need to talk.”

“Are you crazy?" Ango growled, gripping the steering wheel and looking at Chuuya through the rear-view mirror, his face turning pale. “And you brought Ozaki with you? You’ve definitely lost your mind.”

If Chuuya was surprised that Ango knew who he was, or that a Division official tasked with eradicating organized crime was involved with the mafia, he didn’t let it show. He looked unbothered, except for the small crease on his forehead.

Dazai settled into the seat, stretching his legs over the car’s console.

“I told you on the phone—”

“You said it was better to talk somewhere more private, and here we are,” Dazai hummed.

“Not in front of an Ozaki.”

Dazai gave him an impassive look.

“Would you rather we talk over lunch? Grandmothers love me,” he said, holding a hand to his chest and batting his long eyelashes.

“Dazai, cut the crap,” Chuuya spat.

Dazai pouted.

“Don’t worry, Ango. My angel and I have no secrets,” Dazai assured him. Chuuya shot him a disbelieving look, and Dazai blew him a kiss. “Well, let’s start. I wouldn’t want us to end up in a dead-end alley again. I’m pissed, and you looking constipated, so... The nomenclature is from the old boss’ era, and it stopped being used four years ago, right? How curious, why am I just finding out about this now?”

“There’s nothing curious about it,” Ango lied, his stare darting away. A drop of sweat slid down his neck. Whether it was from the barrel of the gun or something else, Dazai couldn’t tell. “If a system works and there’s no reason to change it, it stays.”

“It stopped being used four years ago.”

“Mori would be an idiot if he kept using a compromised system.”

“What don’t I know, Ango?”

Ango twisted his lips, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose.

“It’s better—”

Chuuya drove his knee into the seat, clicked off the safety, and pressed the barrel against Ango’s temple. Dazai’s cock throbbed in his pants. Chuuya met his gaze, his lips curling in disgust, but the blush across his cheeks, much more intense than before, told Dazai everything he needed to know.

Ango muttered a curse. “You’re not going to like it.”

“Talk,” Chuuya ordered, his tone bored.

“Mori kept that system for the more... delicate cases, the kinds of things I don’t know—"

Chuuya grabbed a handful of Ango’s hair and yanked his head back.

“Try again, Glasses, and don’t tempt your luck,” he growled, showing his fangs.

Dazai was fascinated.

He wanted to devour him whole. Maybe he would.

“The experiments!”

Chuuya wrinkled his nose, confusion spreading across his face. Dazai felt his blood run cold. Ango was still talking. He couldn’t understand him, but he didn’t need to. Ango was apologizing. It was the only thing he knew how to do, the only thing he’d done in the last four years.

Dazai couldn’t breathe.

Mori knew.

Mori had known all along, right? And so had Dazai; at least since Yumeno, or maybe even longer, if he was honest with himself. A hollow laugh tore at his throat, choking him. Dazai had been so desperate to forget, to leave it all behind, that he’d clung to Mori without questioning his intentions.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

“Eli, honey, why don’t you show Q his new room?”

“Q?”

“Dazai?”

Far.

“The world will bow down to us, Shuuji.”

A hand.

“Don’t touch me!”

“Help me clean up the city, Dazai.”

“Dazai, what the fuck—?!”

Mori had been the old boss’ doctor, had accompanied him during the last years of his life. Of course, he was aware of the experiments taking place. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. But had he been involved? No, when the boss lost his sanity and the last test subjects died, they shut down the lab. Without children, there were no more experiments. Mori couldn’t—

Or could he?

There was no information. The old boss was so distrustful that he made sure there was nothing left. He wouldn’t have stood for anyone laying hands on his research. His fingers gripped the door handle. He pulled, but the door wouldn’t budge. He shoved with all his might, his mind racing, and nearly fell face-first onto the ground.

If Mori knew that Dazai—?

No, no, no, no.

Dazai crawled, scraping his palms, and clumsily got to his feet.

“Dazai!”

Too far.

Mori stood there, smiling with blood splashed across his face. He extended a hand—the same hand that had wielded the scalpel just a moment before. Dazai wavered, curling into himself. He despised doctors, just the sight of a hint of white down the hallway was enough to push him to the edge. But the madman was dead between the sheets, and this doctor was the one responsible.

Dazai met his eyes while compulsively rubbing his left wrist. It was a reflex, the marks from the straps were nearly healed, hidden under layers of gauze and bandages.

Mori noticed, ever the observer.

“What’s your name?”

“What.”

Mori lowered his arm and leaned in, trying to appear less threatening.

“Will you help me clean this place?”

“Why would I—?”

“I just want to do things right. Tell me, what’s your name?”

Dazai, not yet Dazai, turned his stare toward the desk, toward the pile of books haphazardly stacked. He bit his lower lip and gulped, the fear that this might be some twisted trick, a trap the boss had set for him, still lingered, crawling up his spine and tying knots in his stomach.

Mori waited.

“Dazai.”

“Dazai?”

Dazai nodded more confidently.

Mori’s smile widened. “I’m Mori, and now we’re friends.”

Chuuya cradled Dazai’s face, bringing him back by sheer force of will. Dazai gasped for air. His eyes blurred with tears he refused to acknowledge, and his throat stung as if he had been screaming, as if he had never stopped.

“Dazai, breathe with me. C’mon, Shitty Dazai!”

His angel’s hands burned against his cheeks, like hot iron, and his fingers dug uncomfortably into his neck, just above the bandages. Dazai shook his head frantically.

“Come back to me, dammit.”

Chuuya removed one of his gloves with his mouth and spit it onto the ground. Dazai shivered when he felt his calloused palm, the jagged line of scars, against his skin.

His pulse.

Dazai blinked, disorientated, as his heart struggled to regain its rhythm. A weak ‘Chuuya,’ more of a wheeze than a plea, escaped his lips. His angel was just a blue and red blur, but he was there, holding him.

Chuuya. Chuuya. Chuuya.

“You have to leave, you can’t stay here,” Ango said.

“Shut up, Glasses,” Chuuya barked. He wiped away Dazai’s tears with his thumbs and pressed their foreheads together. And lower, so that only Dazai could hear him, “I’ve got you. I’m with you.”

But Dazai couldn’t let Ango leave like this.

“Odasaku,” he choked, or begged, catching the attention of both. Chuuya scowled. “Tell me no. Tell me he had nothing to do with it.”

Ango apologized with his eyes.

“Dazai—”

“Ango, please," Dazai pleaded, his vision blurring.

“He had nothing to do with it.”

“Then?”

Chuuya cursed under his breath, cocked the gun, and wrapped an arm around Dazai, pulling him to his chest. He aimed at Ango again. He couldn’t see him, but he could imagine the fierceness in his gaze, the storm brewing deep in his eyes, and Dazai wanted him even more.

“He was a cleaner,” Ango finally admitted. Dazai took a moment to process the words. When it hit him, a chill crept down his spine.

“What? Impossible.”

“I’m sorry.”

Ango didn’t need to say anything else. Dazai could read between the lines.

“And Mori knew.” It wasn’t a question. Ango grimaced. Dazai scoffed. “Oh, he didn’t know, did he?”

“He was demoted to errand boy before Mori rose to power.”

“So— why—”

“Mori took an interest in him because— Don’t make me say it, Dazai. You’re not going to use me to hurt yourself.”

Dazai shook his head.

“Ozaki, get him out of here.”

“Shut up, don’t give me orders,” Chuuya snarled.

Ango stepped back, hands raised.

“He died because of me,” Dazai murmured, the words stumbling out. Chuuya slid one arm under his knees, the other around his lower back, lifting him up. Dazai was distant, lost, barely registering what was happening around him. He gripped the red jacket, burying his face in the curve of Chuuya’s neck. “They all die because of me, Chuuya.”

“Not me.”

“Say it again.”

“Not me, damn it.”

Dazai lifted his head. “Is that a promise?”

“Or a threat. Take it how you want.”

They took shelter in an alley behind a dumpster. A scrawny cat hissed at them before darting away.

Their hands were intertwined. Dazai couldn’t remember how he had gone from being in Chuuya’s arms to holding his ungloved hand. He wasn’t even sure how far they had moved from the Special Division. The redhead motioned for him to be quiet while checking to see if anyone had followed them.

Dazai felt empty when Chuuya released him. He doubted Ango would betray them, but his ears were ringing, and memories he’d once locked away threatened to knock him down, so he let his angel enjoy himself.

Chuuya quickly returned to his side and leaned against the brick wall, eyes closed. He had removed his hat, clutching it against his chest, and the crease between his eyebrows didn’t bode well. Dazai guessed he was weighing their options, but he couldn’t have cared less, not while his mind kept playing Russian roulette.

His angel parted his lips, probably to ask what the hell had just happened. Dazai wasn’t ready for this, whatever it was, he doubted he ever would be. His chest shrank just thinking about it. And Chuuya was right there; his angel, his anchor, his downfall. Dazai lunged at him, grabbed the collar of his leather jacket, and pressed their mouths together.

His heart skipped a beat.

Or maybe it was Chuuya’s.

Dazai tangled his fingers in Chuuya’s auburn curls, his other hand cupping his jaw. Chuuya’s breath hitched when Dazai traced the seam of his lips with his tongue, and he melted under the touch. With a low growl, Chuuya caught his lower lip between his teeth, tugging gently before sucking. Dazai let out a groan, and Chuuya giggled, grabbing a fistful of his sweatshirt to pull him closer.

The sky darkened, and petrichor filled the air. It was too much, just what he needed.

Dazai was starving.

Desire swirled in his lower belly, a thorn-filled vine twisting his insides and setting his veins on fire. More, I need more. It was intoxicating. Dazai slid his thigh between Chuuya’s legs, pressing against his crotch. A smirk tugged at his lips, but it faded as his angel let out a low moan, arching his neck and rocking his hips to create some friction.

It wasn’t enough.

Dazai would never have enough of his angel.

“Damn, Dazai.”

Dazai swallowed his name directly from his lips. It tasted bitter to him, because although he wanted Chuuya to shout his name, he wasn’t sure which one. He broke the kiss, feeling powerful and lost, and murmured against his bruised mouth, “Mine.”

Chuuya wrapped an arm around his shoulders, riding his thigh, and moaned and snorted against his ear.

“My dog is desperate.”

“Shut up, damn it. You don’t know— You don’t know when to shut up.”

Dazai nipped, sucked, and kissed the soft skin of his neck. Chuuya threw his head back to give him better access. It was tempting to rip off his choker, trace the line of his throat with his tongue, and remind his angel—and the damn world—that Nakahara Chuuya belonged to him. He wanted to undo him with his fingers and cherish every sound, every little whimper and moan he could make, ruining him for anyone who dared to covet him in the future.

They broke apart, breathless.

Chuuya panted beneath him, flushed, his eyes darkened, and lips swollen. Dazai rested his forearms on either side of Chuuya’s head, leaning in as his breath came in ragged gasps. There was no space between them, but it was still not enough.

“Let me have this,” Dazai begged, voice thick, and before Chuuya could say anything, he took his mouth in a soft lunge. “I need you. I need you. Chibi, Chuuya, my angel.”

Chuuya gently caressed his face, and the flicker of tenderness in his eyes almost brought Dazai to his knees.

“I’ve got you.”

Dazai shook his head.

This, whatever this was, wasn’t the smartest thing he could do, but it wasn’t the dumbest either.

Their gazes collided.

“Mine,” Dazai repeated, louder, with more confidence. Chuuya let out a low growl, a warning. Dazai tasted the danger, the storm, on his lips. Something danced in his blue irises, something dark and ancient and almost animal, sending a shiver down his spine. His cock throbbed painfully in his pants. “You’re mine, angel.”

And let the world burn if anyone tries to take him from me.

Chuuya tilted his head.

“What do you need?”

He could cum just from hearing his voice.

“You.”

Dazai fell to his knees, resting his hands on his waist and holding his fallen angel in place. He licked his lips. He didn’t want to look away—Chuuya was a vision, a merciful god about to unleash his fury on the world—but the bulge in the redhead’s jeans was drawing him in like a moth to a flame.

He was thirsty.

“Your cock.”

Chuuya inhaled roughly and his pupils devoured the blue in his eyes, darkening it.

“May I?”

His angel brushed his bangs away from his face and nodded self-consciously. His irises twinkled. Too good, too considerate. Dazai pulled his jeans down to his knees, reached inside his boxers, and circled his member with his fingers.

Chuuya’s breath caught.

I’m gonna ruin you so you can ruin me, little angel.

He salivated just imagining it.

Chuuya holding his head tightly, digging his nails into his scalp and ramming his mouth roughly, seeking his own pleasure and fucking him until tears came to his eyes—his nose buried in his crotch, his jaw slack and battered, his aching, throbbing cock moistening his boxers.

“Oh, angel, you’re gorgeous.”

And before Chuuya could say anything, Dazai stroked his length from the tip to the base. It felt large, heavy, and throbbing in his palm. It wasn’t very long, but its width would be enough to gag him. Dazai licked his lips and looked at Chuuya through his long eyelashes.

Dazai took his dick into his mouth and relaxed his throat.

Chuuya arched his hips involuntarily. Dazai nearly choked and his eyes watered.

“Fuck, Dazai—slow down, you’re going—”

Dazai released it with a wet plop and without breaking eye contact, he gave the head a little lick. Then he sucked hard. Chuuya emitted a hoarse “fuck” that sent shocks straight to his crotch. It was too much. Dazai continued stroking it, spreading the pre-cum and using his saliva to ease the slide. Chuuya liked it rough; the way he arched and his cock pounded against Dazai’s hand seemed to confirm it. Leaning down, he ran the flat of his tongue over the vein. Chuuya bit down on his knuckles to keep from making a sound. His eyelashes fluttered as sweat clung to his curls and stuck them to his flushed face.

“I wish you could see you, angel. So pretty, so desperate.”

Dazai sucked the head again as he stroked his balls. Chuuya trembled, his lips half-open and his hands twitching against the wall, as if trying to control himself—as if control was slipping away—and his chest rising and falling.

Dazai pressed his thighs together and brought a hand to his own erection. He touched himself through his clothes, and a chest-splitting moan tore a string of expletives from Chuuya.

He was quite a beauty, panting and flushed.

Dazai relaxed his throat.

Use me, he wanted to say. Use me until I can’t think about anything but your cock.

The heat settled in his groin, making him dizzy. His cock strained inside his boxers, and saliva pooled in his mouth. Chuuya’s gloved hand hovered above his head, indecisively. Dazai captured his wrist and guided it to his hair. Tear my throat. The redhead tangled his fingers in his dark locks and pushed him closer, not too hard, but hard enough to make him cry out and gasp against his cock.

“Fuck, Dazai. I’m close. Fuck, fuck.”

Dazai whined.

To his delight, Chuuya lifted his foot and stepped on his clothed erection. Dazai spread his legs and nearly gagged when the redhead rammed his throat. Once, twice, three times.

“You’re mine, human,” Chuuya groaned low. When Dazai met his gaze, clouded with desire, he didn't miss the spark that exploded in his right eye. He watched the fire crackle and devour the blue of his iris, splattering his sclera. Dazai shuddered. “Cum. I want to hear you cum.”

I’m yours, completely yours.

Chuuya jerked his hips sloppily, his head thrown back, tugging at Dazai’s scalp. Dazai responded by wrapping his tongue around Chuuya’s member and scraping it with his teeth. He earned a more guttural moan and felt it grow and throb in his mouth. He was close, terribly close. He kept sucking.

He didn’t look away.

He didn’t touch himself.

His cock pulsed against his tongue once, twice, three times, and Dazai rushed to swallow his orgasm. It was too much. It was exactly what he needed to make his mind go blank. He licked and sucked until he felt it soften in his mouth, but he didn’t stop.

Chuuya stroked him with his boot. Harder.

Dazai didn't stop until Chuuya whimpered from being overstimulated; glazed blue eyes, curls undone, clothes crumpled, reddened cheeks, and lips swollen and bruised from biting so hard.

Dazai groaned and leaned back, sitting back on his heels.

He wiped off with his thumb and put it in his mouth.

“Delicious,” Dazai purred, his voice hoarse from the abuse.

“You’re a fucking menace, you know that, right?”

Dazai shrugged, a smug grin crossing his face. Chuuya snorted and flicked his hair back.

“I'm yours,” Dazai said. Chuuya choked. Dazai stood up and ran his thumb across the top of Chuuya’s lip. “And you’re mine, angel.”

Chuuya’s face darkened.

“Don’t mess this up, Mackerel,” Chuuya warned with a hiss. Dazai tilted his head. Chuuya yanked up his jeans, avoiding his questioning gaze, and grimaced. “Shit, I’m sticky.”

Then, he extended a hand.

Dazai intertwined his fingers with Chuuya’s, unsure of what his angel was trying to achieve. The redhead drew him closer, cupped his cheek, and kissed him gently. It was barely a brush, like the flutter of a butterfly’s wings, but it was enough to make something strange stir in his chest.

His hand lowered and grabbed his cock tightly.

Dazai shouted.

“So needy,” Chuuya scoffed, but without his usual bite. Dazai rested his forehead on his shoulder. “You came alone with my boot? Who’s the dog now?”

…human.

Dazai kissed his neck and Chuuya pulled his hair to lift him up.

“Do it,” Dazai ordered.

“Do it what?”

“Kiss me, hit me, but make it quick, angel.”

Chuuya tiptoed and Dazai met him halfway. He captured his angel’s mouth in a soft kiss. Just to confirm one thing.

He broke the kiss. Sighed, perhaps in resignation, or perhaps disappointment. Slowly, he opened his eyes. Chuuya was looking at him, brow slightly furrowed; not in anger or annoyance, but with confusion. Dazai couldn’t help but press his lips to Chuuya’s one last time. This time, Chuuya kissed him back, parting his lips slightly.

Is this how it feels…?

Dazai left a trail of kisses on the corner of his mouth, the tip of his nose, and the freckles that dotted his cheeks.

Chuuya protested with giggles, his palm pressed to Dazai’s mouth as he tried to push him away. Dazai laughed—an unexpected laugh that came from his chest and rose up his throat against his will—but it was worth it, because the redhead’s eyes widened, and surprise washed over his face.

“What are you laughing at, you asshole?”

Dazai kissed his palm before stepping back.

“Your cock’s been in my mouth, and you can’t even call me by my name?”

“Ugh! I can’t stand you!”

Chuuya covered his face with his hands and shook his head.

“C’mon, angel. Just once. Call me by my name. Just once, pretty please!”

“Get away from me, you bastard!”

It was dizzying. He’d probably try to deny it later—burying those foolish, stupid emotions, biting down hard until it drew blood—but in that moment, as he held Chuuya close and pressed him against his chest, he felt invincible.

Chuuya yelped when Dazai nipped at the lobe of his ear, blowing gently on it just to tease him. His angel had a filthy mouth, his arsenal of insults unmatched, but even so, it still caught him off guard every time.

He could make this work, couldn’t he? They’d take him away eventually, but until then, Dazai could hold on to him—hold on to the warmth that spread from his stomach, filling his chest with things he couldn’t quite describe, tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Just a little longer.

Dazai just wanted to keep him a little longer.

…to be in love?

Lipp, I need info on something, but you can’t tell anyone else

No one

Swear it

No questions either

Alright

But if you’re in trouble...

Lipp, please

You have my word

What do you know about some experiments and the former head of the PM?

And does the name Odasaku ring any bells?

Chuuya, what the hell?

No questions, you promised

I can’t help you

And it’s not because I don’t want to. All info about TG is classified. You know what that means.

My uncle

Fuck

Chuuya, what mess have you gotten yourself into?

You’d better stay away from the PM. Nothing good comes from that

And if this is about that guy...

Lipp, I know what I’m doing

Promise me you’ll ask for help if it gets bad

Night, Lipp

Chapter Text

Chuuya’s apartment felt different without those nosy idiots hanging around like crows circling for fresh meat. More welcoming, less threatening.

Or maybe it was the other way around.

He grimaced as he bent down to take off his shoes. He no longer felt sticky, but he was still incredibly uncomfortable. Chuuya walked down the hallway without noticing him, his incessant chatter hammering at Dazai’s skull.

His angel hadn’t shut up the entire way back, as if he needed to fill the silence with meaningless words, or maybe to quiet the storm inside his own head.

Dazai didn’t blame him.

His thoughts were a dark, filthy place right now; drowning in his angel’s hoarse, broken, velvety voice—even if only for a little while—was a balm he wasn’t about to waste.

Chuuya peeked through the doorway when he realized Dazai wasn’t following, wrinkled his nose, and gestured for him to hurry up. He hadn’t even stepped into the redhead’s room—spacious and bright, curtains swaying in the cool breeze, small details that seemed meaningless but meant everything—when Chuuya flung a towel at his face.

Dazai complained, of course he did but it came out wrong: strangled, hollow. Chuuya just raised an eyebrow and grabbed the hem of his black T-shirt, yanking it over his head.

Oh, wow. Unexpected.

“Want me to get comfortable?” he asked, half amused.

Chuuya looked at him, confused, hair tousled from the rough handling and torso bare. He was a work of art, sculpted by some merciful god. Dazai moistened his lips. Reddish, electric scars kissed his skin in all the right places. They didn’t follow any pattern he could guess.

He wanted to trace them with his tongue.

Wait.

Right there, at rib-level, was a darker, reddish curl.

The knife wound.

Chuuya snapped his fingers.

“My eyes are up here, weirdo.”

“Uh-huh, don’t tell me,” Dazai teased, his gaze lingering on the heart-shaped buckle. He swallowed. “Will my angel give me a striptease?”

“Your angel will strangle you if you put your stinky ass anywhere other than the damn shower.”

Dazai tilted his head.

“Oh, will my angel eat my ass?” he brightened, clasping his hands together, eyes wide. It didn’t work—or at least, not the way he expected—because though Chuuya bristled, his irises dimmed with something like sadness.

Dazai slowly lowered his arms and closed the distance between them.

His heart stumbled.

Or was it Chuuya’s?

He tangled a finger in one of his sunset curls and tugged gently, leaning closer—close enough that Chuuya had to tilt his head back to meet his glance.

“Dazai,” he hissed, his voice trembling.

A warning.

Or an invitation. Maybe both.

His lips curved into a smirk.

“You think you’re special because I sucked your dick?” Dazai asked quietly, drawing out each word.

Chuuya clenched his jaw but didn’t attack, even when Dazai grabbed a handful of curls and yanked him closer.

Too bad.

“Angel, it was you, but it could’ve been anyone.”

“Really?” he scoffed, incredulous.

Chuuya cupped his cheek tenderly, fingers like claws, nails brushing lightly. His breath caught as they grazed over the bandages and traced down to his heart, over his clothes.

One heartbeat.

And a sharp smile.

“Dazai, babe, you can’t fool me anymore.”

He patted his chest to nudge him back.

“And don’t be weird, damn it. Now take your clothes off.”

Dazai tensed.

Demanding hands.

Hungry mouths.

Black liquid.

Chuuya paled and staggered backward, knees hitting the edge of the bed. Dazai dug his nails into his palms so he wouldn’t touch him, not now. He didn’t think he could handle skin-to-skin contact.

His angel must have realized—he had that instinct—because he relaxed and exhaled.

Or tried to.

Dazai could still see the tense line of his muscles, the embers about to burst from his right iris.

He was furious.

Why?

It was too confusing.

“You don’t have to do it here. I have two bathrooms, you can use mine and—”

“No,” Dazai cut him off. Chuuya blinked, taken aback by the sudden outburst. Dazai ran a hand through his hair, pushing his bangs off his forehead, and snorted, annoyed at himself. “I mean— I don’t want to. It’s not that. I want to, but—”

What was he doing?

Chuuya gave a small, knowing smile and tapped his nose.

“Too many emotions for today, Mackerel.”

Dazai was about to protest, but Chuuya silenced him by pulling down his own pants and underwear. Dazai’s throat closed up, and his angel—the cheeky little menace—let out a giggle.

He had created a monster.

Dazai hoped that one day he’d sink his fangs into him.

“Cat got your tongue?” Chuuya purred, more amused than provocative.

“I want to fuck you.”

And he meant it.

Chuuya stifled a scream, or maybe choked on his own saliva, and Dazai’s lips curled into a wicked smirk.

“I want to bend you over, tie you to the bedpost, and fuck you until you can’t feel your legs.”

His blue eyes darkened, pupils devouring his irises, something raw and almost primitive dancing in them.

Just like in the alley.

He didn’t like being looked at like prey, as if he were nothing more than candy to be devoured or a toy to be used and discarded. But with Chuuya, it was different. His body seemed to think so, anyway.

Chuuya. Only Chuuya.

“Or maybe I’ll let you ride me, I’m not too picky.”

Chuuya shook his head.

“Another day, big guy,” he said in an affected voice, strolling toward the closet. Dazai took his time studying him—toned back, auburn curls spilling to his shoulder blades, the curve of his ass. “You better let me hear the faucet running.”

“Huh?”

Chuuya shot a glare over his shoulder, “Stop.”

“Stop what?”

“You’re not a whore.”

Dazai flinched.

“Excuse me?”

Chuuya crossed his arms.

“Whatever you’re doing. Stop. Stop acting like that with me. It makes me feel—”

“How?”

He bit his lip, shaking his head.

“I don’t know, dirty. You’re using me, hurting me, and hurting yourself—that’s the worst. Stop.”

“You’re not special,” Dazai reminded him.

Chuuya mocked.

“Don’t fuck with me— I’m not pretending to be.” Then, before he could lash out, he added, “There are bandages in the second drawer, and if you gimme a moment, I’ll get you a change of clean clothes.”

Dazai cocked his head, confusion swirling in his stomach, inspecting the dwarf like he was some kind of freak.

“Now what?” Chuuya barked, cheeks flushed.

It made no sense.

Oh.

Chuuya strode toward him and covered his mouth with his hand. Burning fire. Marked, warm skin against his lips.

“One more hint and I’ll strangle you with the shower hose and no, it won’t be pleasant.”

Dazai closed his fingers around his wrist.

Chuuya lowered his hand.

“I don’t understand, angel.”

“What don’t you understand?”

Dazai opened his mouth, but the words, though there, stuck in his throat. Chuuya wanted him, Dazai had knelt before him and let himself be used, and he had enjoyed it—but now he was rejecting him? Was he acting like he was better than the rest?

What if…

His angel wouldn’t be stupid enough to—

Chuuya tangled a hand in his hair, nails grazing his scalp, and pulled him until their foreheads touched. Dazai melted, a sigh escaping his parted lips.

His heart thundered wildly against his ribs.

It was too much.

“You can’t tell anyone,” Dazai said suddenly.

“What?”

“What you saw today, what you heard.”

“Who the hell am I going to tell?” Chuuya narrowed his eyes, two slits of blue fire. “You know perfectly well I can’t open my mouth.”

Dazai laughed.

“Is the dwarf afraid of me?”

Chuuya yanked his hair back hard. Dazai yelped.

“You wish, asshole,” he spat, amusement coloring his voice.

“But I’m curious,” Dazai said, dragging out the words lazily. “Are you stupid, or is there a reason you didn’t turn me in that day?”

Chuuya released him.

“Who knows? Maybe I took pity on your nonsense about feeling lonely,” he replied, playing along.

It was a lie.

A useless lie, hanging between them.

Dazai wondered, as he accepted the clean change of clothes, what would happen when one of them finally said it out loud. What then? What would Chuuya do if he discovered the real reason Dazai had approached him in the first place? And what would he do when the mission ended—as it inevitably would—and it was Dazai, not his angel, who came out victorious?

The thought of tracing those reddish scars with the tip of a knife no longer seemed as tempting as it had at first.

But he would do it.

He would root out the problem, even if it meant bleeding himself dry to purge his angel from his system.

“Dazai.”

He frowned.

And there it was again, that strange feeling clutching at his chest.

“I won’t tell anyone. I doubt they’d believe me, or that I’d have anything meaningful to say.”

When he turned, it was to find Chuuya looking at him with an expression so gentle, so devastatingly honest, it shattered every defense he had left.

Terminal, wasn’t it?

“And for the record, I would never force you to talk about something you don’t want to, but I’m here, okay?”

Well, Dazai had survived worse. Unfortunately for him.

“So sentimental,” Dazai murmured weakly.

“Zip it, you bastard.”

He needed a shower, to scrub until his skin was raw, and probably a handful of painkillers.

Or something stronger.

Closing the bathroom door behind him, he rushed to rummage through the drawers. Either Chuuya had thrown out all his medication, or he kept the first aid kit hidden somewhere else.

His phone buzzed. Dazai picked it up without thinking, and his stomach dropped.

Ango had sent him an encrypted email.

M has the original.

I can’t do anything else. I’m sorry.

He clicked on the file. It was censored. Even so, he absorbed every fragment he could. Sitting on the floor, back pressed against the wood, the shower tap running, Dazai let himself embrace the fury nesting inside him.

It was a detailed report on Odasaku.

No, Oda Sakunosuke, but that didn’t make it any easier.

He hated himself for learning such personal details—his place of birth, his blood type—in such a cold, violent way. Odasaku had saved his life that day, lying on the stone steps, clothes soaked in blood, mud, and water. Dazai had wanted to be worthy of his friendship.

Every piece of information Odasaku had entrusted to him—his favorite coffee brand, his recipe for curry, the names of his children—was something he’d earned. Dazai had felt worthy of that trust. This, though, was nothing but a violation.

His memory.

Rage rose in his throat and burning tears filling his eyes. He scrubbed at them. Most of the information—the important parts, everything related to Mimic and the experiments—was censored. The name Dazai reduced to a single impersonal initial.

He scanned the document until he found what he was looking for.

Medium risk level.

Proceed according to protocol. Awaiting authorization. S. A. [10:34 p.m.]

He crawled to the toilet, retched up nothing but bile and saliva, then rested his cheek on the cold porcelain.

Further down.

Authorization granted. O.M. [1:03 a.m.]

Mori had given the order.

Ango had carried it out.

But it had been Dazai who held the gun.

“Dazai?” Chuuya’s voice was muffled by the door, but it still sent a chill down his spine. Dazai breathed heavily. His mouth tasted like lightning and his head buzzed. Chuuya didn’t force the knob. The latch wasn’t engaged. Dazai had, once again, let his guard down. Yet, Chuuya didn’t come in. “I’m here. I’m still here, okay?”

You shouldn’t be.

I’ll kill you too.

It was unfair.

Odasaku wasn’t a threat. He didn’t deserve—

Chuuya slammed his hand against the door.

“Do what I say, damn it.”

Had the dwarf said something?

Dazai tried to focus on his voice, breaking through in uneven bursts.

“Put your hand on your chest,” he repeated.

Dazai snorted.

“Do it. Please.”

“Done.”

“Don’t lie to me, or I’ll break down the door.”

Dazai laughed through his nose but absurd as the request was, he obeyed. His hand found its way to his chest, right over his heart.

Silence.

“Can you feel it?”

Dazai pried his lips apart, sticky with vomit, to sneer but Chuuya kept talking. His hoarse voice, as if someone had crushed his vocal cords, wrapped around him like a protective cocoon and slipped beneath his skin.

If he focused on it—if he let himself be lulled by its cadence—he could feel it.

He flexed his fingers.

A heartbeat that wasn’t his, intertwined with his own.

He laughed soundlessly, shoulders shaking, then louder—a laugh that echoed through the empty bathroom.

“Dazai?”

…human.

“Oh, dwarf, I’m gonna go crazy.”

Chuuya shifted, his bare palm resting against the door. Dazai felt it, fingers trailing down his spine, pressing into his vertebrae, an eager mouth descending.

Dazai pulled his knees up.

“Who are you?”

Silence thickened. Dazai wet his lips, rested his head against the tiles, and let his stare wander across the bathroom ceiling.

“What are you?” he insisted.

His heart skipped.

Chuuya said nothing. Dazai stretched his legs and glanced toward the door. Just the thought of crawling there made him sick, and the weight in his chest—hungry, aching, unbearable—only grew stronger.

It tugged at him.

“You’re too good for this world, my angel.”

“Shut up,” Chuuya shot back, voice strangled, as if holding back tears. Dazai’s phone buzzed with a new notification. “Get out, idiot. Let’s go to lunch.”

Just the thought of eating—

“I’ve got your stupid crab,” he added, reading his mind. “The same cans you tried to steal from me.”

Dazai didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to dwell on the strange warmth spreading from his toes to his chest.

He hesitated.

“Chuuya?”

“Yes?”

Thank you.

“Get rid of that atrocity you call a hat.”

“Ha!? I’m going to kick your ass when you get out of there, you asshole!”

He trusted Chuuya—his prey, his predator.

Yet, he stabbed him in the back. The blade pierced flesh and muscle, wedging itself between bones. Bloodied hands. An empty gaze. A marked face. In the end, they were still playing on opposite sides of a board that was far too big for them: The queen and the king.

Two pawns.

Nothing.

Who was holding the knife?

It burned.

Liquid fire coursed through his veins, clouding his mind, setting him ablaze.

Right through his heart.

His heartbeat.

Theirs.

Verlaine dismissed the kobun with a flick of his wrist.

Once they were alone, Chuuya crossed his legs, laced his gloved fingers over his stomach, and settled in.

“Whiskey?” he asked, a smirk hanging from his lips. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees and legs splayed apart, just to irritate him. “Ane-san would be scandalized, tonton.”

“By your cheeky attitude? I have no doubt.”

Chuuya shrugged.

The exhaustion that loomed over his uncle was concerning. His strawberry-blond hair, usually tied back neatly in a low ponytail, looked dull, almost lifeless. The pale hue of his skin only emphasized the dark circles under his eyes.

This wasn’t like Verlaine, he looked consumed.

The tension in the air was palpable, more so than the last time Chuuya had been here. He’d noticed it the moment he parked his motorcycle, but it wasn’t until his uncle had greeted him without his usual fanfare that he realized how bad things were.

Chuuya glanced down.

A wrinkled suit.

Shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows.

And drinking before noon, with no event to justify it.

He swirled his glass between his fingers, watching the amber liquid shift inside, mesmerized. The memory was right there, blurry, blurred, behind a fog too thick and distressing to try to penetrate.

“It’s lucky she’s busy,” Chuuya remarked casually, keeping his eyes fixed on the ice cube. “And that Randou isn’t here to shoot daggers at you with his gaze.”

That earned a faint smile from Verlaine, a subtle curl of his lips.

“Arthur would be horrified if he heard you call him that.”

Chuuya returned the grin.

“He liked it,” he defended, slightly embarrassed.

“When you were a slippery kid and your French was… questionable, to say the least.”

Those were simpler times. Chuuya missed them—the green fields stretching beyond his limited view, their ticklish laughter and warm hugs, the freedom he never deserved—even though he knew he shouldn’t.

He hadn’t truly appreciated them. Not back then.

Time had no meaning for him now. How could it?

“I’m not saying I’m not glad to see you, but what brings you here?”

Chuuya gripped the glass tighter.

A little liquid courage—just the burn of whiskey down his throat—might help, but for some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to drink. It felt wrong, as though that glass didn’t belong to him.

It belonged to someone else.

To a corpse.

He set the glass down.

In any case, he needed a clear head to tackle this conversation. Sitting opposite him was not only his tonton, the man who’d rescued him from a damp, cramped cage and taken him under his wing to save his nephew’s life—or what remained of him—but also Paul Verlaine, Ozaki’s chief advisor.

Saiko-Komon.

Though, he probably already knew why Chuuya was here.

“Trust is a two-way street.”

Lipp had made a promise. He would trust their word.

Even so, Chuuya had to tread carefully. One wrong move, and he’d put a target on Dazai’s back.

His heart sank, and the burn inside him flared stronger. Thinking of Dazai—his heartbeat, not his own but theirs, pumping blood through his veins, keeping his body, his vessel, alive—felt strange. Violent. Confusing.

It was too much.

“I’m an Ozaki.”

That surprised Verlaine. He sat up a little straighter, eyeing Chuuya with renewed interest. Chuuya couldn’t tell if that was a good sign or a bad one.

“I can’t stay on the sidelines,” he added, clinging to a confidence that felt far from real. This, putting himself in his grandfather’s crosshairs, in the line of fire, was exactly what Verlaine and Rimbaud had tried to prevent.

Verlaine sighed and brushed his bangs from his forehead, his face softening.

“Sometimes, you remind me a lot of your mother.”

Chuuya almost lost his balance. It was an unexpected, traitorous stab.

“Just as fierce, just as determined. You have her strength.”

That was the problem.

It was a lie.

A lie wrapped up in a pretty package full of cracks.

He couldn't talk about a mother he never knew, who would have looked him in the eyes and rejected him.

“What do we know about the experiments?” Chuuya cut him off.

“Pardon?”

Chuuya shifted uncomfortably, heat creeping up his neck. He pulled off his leather jacket and rubbed the back of his neck, trying to shake off the unease.

“I heard—” Shit, focus, damn it. He cleared his throat and lowered his hands, subconsciously scraping the black paint off his thumb. “Tsushima Gen’emon was involved in some experiments. The Special Division was on his trail.”

He had just bluffed, because the truth was, the pieces scattered across the table weren’t clear enough.

Verlaine blinked, clearly confused.

Shit, shit.

He should’ve hunted down that stuck-up four-eyes and saved himself this stupid conversation.

“I haven’t heard anything about that. Where did you get that information?”

“I—”

Verlaine raised a hand, stopping him.

“A word of advice,” he said, a hint of affection coloring his voice. Still, it didn’t do much to calm the nerves gnawing at Chuuya’s insides. “If you want information—or want to make your opponent believe you have the upper hand—you can’t squirm around like you’ve got ants in your pants.”

“Oi!”

“Don’t hesitate, because you’ll end up giving them a loaded weapon.”

Chuuya pressed his lips together, fighting the urge to snap.

“Anyway, everything about Tsushima is confidential, as you know—”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Chuuya muttered under his breath.

“It’s an open secret the man wasn’t exactly right in the head. He was secretive, paranoid, especially in his later years.”

“There has to be something.”

“I don’t know,” he apologized, almost reluctantly. He raised the glass to his lips and narrowed his eyes, silently scrutinizing him. “I wasn’t the Saiko-Komon when he passed away, and wasn’t even part of the inner circle, but—”

“But,” he urged.

“Patience,” he reminded him. Chuuya clicked his tongue. “Patience and manners, don’t rush. Don’t act like a teenager.”

“Is that a joke or something? Should I laugh?”

Verlaine rolled his eyes.

“All I can tell you is that Kirishima was in contact with a European pharmaceutical company that got shut down for negligence about thirteen years ago. I’d have to check the details, but nothing about experiments.”

“And what does that have to do with—?”

“Kirishima and Tsushima often collaborated.”

Chuuya shook his head.

“I thought internal relationships within the Triad were strictly forbidden.”

That was part of the Agreements.

He didn’t remember them by heart; he’d never been particularly interested in the details of an alliance that was real only on paper and never on the streets, not after the Port Mafia had emerged from the ashes of the Tsushima clan.

“For the sake of the Agreements, yes, that was the case.”

“Then?”

Verlaine smiled permissively, though it was more of a grimace. He looked older than he really was. As with his sister, Chuuya always forgot that they were younger and that this cruel and hungry world had robbed them of their youth.

“That never stopped Tsushima, and Kirishima has always been... how should I put it, ambitious.”

The Kirishima clan seemed like a good thread to pull on.

“What happened to them?”

“They were the first to kneel and sell out their own. I know what everyone knows, Mori got rid of the head of the Kirishima when he prioritized his wealth and position over his clan, and his own people hunted down the rest of the main family.”

Chuuya’s blood ran cold at the thought.

“Is there no one left from the clan?” His voice was thin, barely above a whisper.

“Not much. No one from the main family.” Chuuya shuddered, but this was the world he was stuck in—a world where everyone stained their hands with blood and stabbed each other in the back. Verlaine sighed. “You can check our archives. There’s not much, but you might find something useful.”

“Were the connections between Kirishima and Tsushima ever investigated in depth?”

Verlaine was the Saiko-Komon now; if there was anything, he should know.

“Everything is in the archives.”

He was being deliberately vague.

“So, can I look through them?”

“Why not? You are an Ozaki, after all,” Verlaine said, his voice tinged with sadness, enough to make Chuuya bristle. “Chuuya, sometimes I wish I hadn’t let you come back.”

“What?”

Verlaine shook his head, exhaustion making his shoulders sag.

“This world’s no good for you.”

You’re no good for this world.

Chuuya snorted and stood up, brushing invisible dust off his black jeans. Verlaine’s eyes fell on his bare arms, on the reddish scars that hugged his skin, and his face shifted, like he’d just seen something he shouldn’t have.

That morning, Chuuya had felt brave.

He’d looked at himself in the mirror, and instead of feeling repulsed, Dazai’s voice had slid over his skin, a ghostly caress that gave him the courage to not look away.

Those marks, the rotten blood that kissed his body, were undeniable proof of his origin.

But for a brief moment, it was more, much more.

“An Ozaki after all,” he sneered dryly. Then, running the tip of his tongue over his lower lip, he suppressed a deranged smile. “Do you regret it?”

Do you regret saving me?

Do you regret not killing me when you had the chance?

He must’ve seen it in his expression because Verlaine’s jaw tightened.

“I regret many things, mon cher neveu.”

“Great.”

Chuuya stormed out, slamming the door behind him. Tears he refused to acknowledge pooled in his eyelashes, choking him. He dodged the kobun making their rounds in the hallways, slipped down the service stairs, and hurried through the gardens separating the property.

This wasn’t his home.

This wasn’t his place.

He was so lost in his thoughts, in the sadness that sat heavy in his gut, that he didn’t notice the person crossing his path until they collided.

The words “Watch where you're going, damn it” dissolved on his tongue, burning like acid.

They weren’t kobun.

There was no black ink marking their exposed skin, and their clothes—too casual, worn from use—didn’t fit there. His alarms went off, but before he could react, a heavy hand landed on his shoulder. He instinctively tried to lunge, his muscle memory faster than his mind.

Wrap around the intruder's wrist, palm in his armpit, and use his own body as leverage to take him down.

Easy.

“Careful, kid.”

Ōchi Fukuchi.

Chuuya pivoted, somewhere between surprised and embarrassed by what he had almost done. He doubted he could take down his grandfather's war general. The man gave his shoulder a friendly squeeze before his expression darkened as he turned to the others.

His joviality fractured at the edges, the mask nearly flawless.

Nearly.

“Who are they?”

“Business. Nothing you need to worry about.”

“Uh-huh, if you say so—”

“Did you come to see your sister?”

“My uncle, actually, but I was just about to leave.”

“I won’t keep you much longer. It’s good to see you.”

Chuuya watched them go.

One of the men glanced over his shoulder at him, and when he saw Chuuya still watching, he quickly spun away, nearly colliding with another man, who shoved him. Chuuya curled his lip. They didn’t belong here. He couldn’t imagine a situation where his grandfather would allow such rude, rowdy men to wander around his property.

The guy from before with the long hair looked familiar, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t place him.

Maybe from The Flags?

He didn’t seem like a regular, and it wasn’t like Chuuya had spent much time there lately anyway.

He sighed in resignation.

He was about to leave; the atmosphere there was stifling, thick with trouble even with your grandfather away. He liked Fukuchi—he had always been kind to him—but the man was still one of the most fearsome figures in the clan. Chuuya didn’t feel comfortable there. He turned, pulling his leather jacket tighter around him, when he felt a tug on his chest and almost lost his balance.

Ane-san.

Without thinking, he started running, nearly skidding on the ground. The pressure in his chest, where his sister had taken root half a lifetime ago, intensified and spread to his lungs, stealing his breath. He bumped into someone, wrapping his arms around them to keep them both from crashing to the ground—a servant, by the looks of the uniform.

And there, climbing down the back wall using a vine was his sister.

“What the fuck?” he gasped, breathless.

Ane-san landed gracefully, the bitch. Her red hair, like tongues of fire, was neatly tied in a high bun, though a few strands had escaped. Her cheeks were flushed—probably from the effort, or maybe because she’d been caught red-handed. But the worst part was her clothes.

“What the hell are you wearing?”

Ane-san removed her gloves and tucked them into one of the pockets of her cargo pants.

“At least I’m not dressed like a whore.”

“Excuse me?” he squealed indignantly, gasping for air, clutching his side. He definitely needed to exercise more. Iceman would have a heart attack if he saw him like this. “I look divine.”

“You look provocative,” she sneered.

And he laughed through clenched teeth.

Maybe, probably.

And no, it had nothing to do with the desire that simmered in certain amber eyes.

Or his thoughts.

Noisy, like arrows.

He looked at himself—tight black jeans, a backless bodysuit tied at the neck, and a leather jacket cut at the armpits. His reddish scars were the only splash of color, aside from the gloss on his lips.

And the big boots.

But it didn’t matter, not when his sister was climbing a wall.

Or climbing down, for that matter. It was the same thing.

“And you?” he pressed, taking a step toward her. She looked completely unrecognizable, dressed in cargo pants and a hoodie. “Where did you come from? Nice clothes.”

“It’s the latest fashion.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in sneakers.”

She twisted her lips.

“Or without makeup.”

“If you spent more time at home,” she teased.

“Don’t change the subject.”

“And you? What are you doing here?”

Chuuya stood still.

Do you regret it too?

“I had to talk to Verlaine,” he said calmly, almost indifferently. “None of your business.”

“Don’t draw Grandfather’s attention.”

Maybe it was the words, or maybe it was the tone like Chuuya was just a child playing pranks while the adults took care of the real work. Or maybe it was the things left unsaid, the silence that melted on their tongues like sugar.

He squinted.

“And what about you? Isn’t it dangerous for the heiress to an empire to slip away like that?”

“They’re not going to lock me in a dungeon and throw away the key if they catch me where I shouldn’t be.”

A slap would have hurt less. The blow made him stagger back, almost tripping.

Kouyou covered her mouth with both hands.

“Chuuya, dear—”

“No, you’re right,” he spat coldly, his voice dripping with the same venom that flowed down his throat. He laughed through his nose and shook his head. “You're absolutely right. What am I doing here? I’d better go home.”

She reached for his wrist, but Chuuya brushed her hand away.

“Sorry for the interruption.”

Her heiress mask snapped back into place, imposing and regal. She stepped forward, almost placing herself between Chuuya and the two guards, but not quickly enough for him to miss the larger man whose face was stained with ink beyond recognition.

The guard who had tortured him.

The guard who had grabbed his sister as if she were nothing.

A growl rumbled in the back of his throat.

“Kumichō sends you a message, my lady.”

“Speak,” Kouyou demanded.

“No one may enter or leave until further notice.”

A chill ran down her spine.

No, no.

Chuuya had chosen this day on purpose, damn it. He had hoped, foolishly, to go unnoticed.

“Why?”

“The situation outside is delicate, ma’am. Excuse us,” added the other guard.

Kouyou nodded.

“Message received. You may withdraw.”

Chuuya snorted. When his sister turned to him, her face flooded with sorrow, he could only let out a dry laugh and give a small bow.

“I guess I’m a prisoner again.”

He might as well look at those stupid archives. Now he had plenty of time.

The fog chased him, whispering promises of oblivion in his ear. He ran and ran, but he could never escape.

Resistance was futile.

Still—

He moved one finger, then two.

His eyelids fluttered violently as sleep eluded him. He tried to move again; maybe a hand, maybe a foot, he wasn’t sure. But when he realized he was still strapped to the stretcher, fear hit him hard. A cry—half growl, half whimper—tore through his throat.

No more. No more.

A heavy hand pressed against his forehead, and a prick in his neck.

His head fell to one side, and just before the fog dragged him back, his eyes met the dark ones of his old friend. Paler than him, sicker, but still stronger.

“R,” he whispered in distress.

Or maybe no sound at all escaped his cracked lips.

The next time he awoke, chaos reigned around him, and nothing was the same. All he saw was a face that didn’t belong there, eyes wide with a desperation that didn’t fit.

“Hurry up.”

“Bun?”

His eyes welled up.

“There’s no time.”

With a sharp blade, Bun sliced through the straps binding his ankles. He pulled his legs up to his chest.

But Bun didn’t let him rest, he wasn’t kind. His hand closed around his bruised wrist, and he nearly fell off the stretcher. He bit his tongue to keep from whimpering. He couldn’t cry, he couldn’t make a sound. Bad things would happen if he did. Mom had asked him not to, and he would make Mom happy, even if she never came to see him.

Bun spat a curse, tugging the sleeve of his jumpsuit to cover the bruise. He grabbed his elbow with surprising force. What was he doing here? This didn’t make sense. Bun shouldn’t be here. He should be studying, smiling in photos.

Panic gripped him when he realized they were leaving the safe zone without a man in black. No matter how much he protested, kicked, or resisted—his voice slurred from the sleep-inducing drugs, his muscles heavy—Bun didn’t listen.

They passed through metal doors, endless dark corridors, and steep staircases. They kept going, even though it hurt, even though breathing was a struggle and fear crawled up his spine, whispering horrible things in his ear.

They didn’t stop.

Bun didn’t stop.

He had to be strong for Mom. He put his finger in his mouth, an unconscious gesture for which he always received a reprimand, so he quickly took it out, an apology on the tip of his tongue, when he saw black and staggered.

A gasp, a scream, bounced off the walls.

Bun froze, horrified, but as soon as he looked around and found no threat, his fear turned to rage.

“What the hell is wrong with you!? Do you want us both to die?!”

Death.

It was an abstract concept.

He glanced over his shoulder, unable to leave. There was no escape. The fog would catch him. It would make him pay for his disobedience.

“Shuuji! It’s over. You’re not going back down there,” Bun said firmly, like a sentence.

“R,” Shuuji insisted softly, then louder, chin lifted, eyes fierce. Bun shuddered visibly and muttered something Shuuji didn’t understand then, but that would haunt him forever. “R’s down there.”

“R?”

He nodded.

The boy who held his hand when it hurt too much.

The boy who comforted him when his mother didn’t come back for him.

The one who stayed. The only one who stayed.

“He’s my friend.”

“He’s not your friend, Shuuji. He’s just another broken toy.”

Shuuji’s eyes widened.

“Mom,” he sobbed, his shoulders shaking. “I want Mom.”

Bun turned his face away, lips pressed tight.

“Mom’s dead.”

“No... no, I won’t believe it.”

“Silence killed her.”

Shuuji shook his head, refusing to accept it.

“It’s just us now. We’ll be okay. Far away, somewhere far away.”

A scream echoed down the hall, followed by hurried footsteps and overlapping voices. Bun paled, hesitating for just a second—the critical one—before he carried his little brother. Shuuji clung to him, burying his face in the crook of his neck, inhaling deeply.

He didn’t smell like home.

He couldn’t even remember what home smelled like.

A buzzing sound cut through the air.

“You can’t take him, Bunji.”

Shuuji trembled with fear, biting his tongue to keep from making a sound. Something warm and wet ran down his thighs. Bun tightened his grip, maybe to remind him he was still there, or maybe to remind himself that there was no turning back.

“Forget about him.”

“He’s mine.”

“There are other children out there! The city is infested with rats!”

“He’s my heir, and he’s made it through the first stages of the project.”

“And what about that R?” Bun insisted, frantic. “You’ll kill him and be left without your precious heir. You’ll have nothing.”

Shuuji clenched his fist, swallowing the sobs that threatened to rip him apart. But he forced himself to look. The monster of his worst nightmares stood before him, unrecognizable, consumed by rage, power, nothing more than a ghost.

“It’s another failure. His body rejected the last dose. He won’t survive the next phase. This is our legacy, Bunji. Our empire.”

“You mean our ruin, Father,” Bun corrected, disgust clear in his voice.

“What a disappointment.”

The world spun out of control, and the fog closed in, its jaws snapping shut.

He never saw Bunji again.

The paint on the ceiling was peeling from humidity.

Dazai rested his cheek on the edge of the tub, hoping the cold would keep him awake as he scraped the enamel off with his broken fingernail. He’d spent the last few days holed up in his apartment, pretending the world outside didn’t exist.

He saw no point in doing anything else.

He blinked slowly, his eyelids heavy, his body heavy. If he wasn’t careful, sleep would take over, and the fog would trap him in its jaws. He forced himself to sit up, his stiff muscles protesting, and reached for the bottle of sake. He grimaced; there were only a few sips left.

He needed something stronger.

He rubbed his eyes and pulled his knees closer to his chest. His apartment was a mess—walls covered in notes and half-formed ideas, a death trap in the making. He curled up tighter, the constant drip of the faucet hammering in his skull, and the pitiful meowing of that stupid ball of fur standing guard did nothing to ease the discomfort that gnawed at him.

He stifled a yawn.

He should go find Karma, force him to tell him the name of his master with pliers. Or head to headquarters, slip past security just to prove he could, and confront Mori once and for all. But the thought of setting foot in that place, of being swallowed by those endless black corridors, made him sick.

You look like him.

His phone vibrated.

It was lying on the floor next to an empty pill blister pack and a razor he hadn’t dared to use. The familiar pain of the blade drawing uneven lines under the bandages—though oddly comforting—was tempting in the worst way. For a few glorious seconds, his mind would go quiet, and the demons would retreat into the hole from which they’d escaped, but it was too dangerous.

He didn’t trust himself. His self-control was non-existent.

The memory of his angel’s warm hands—rough, scarred, calloused—was enough to numb his instincts for a while.

His phone vibrated again.

Dazai clicked his tongue and somehow found the strength to crawl out of the tub and grab the annoying little device.

Take a shower. Air out that pigsty. Eat something decent.

Don’t make me repeat myself.

Against his better judgment, and for the first time in days, he smiled.

Sure, daddy.

His angel appeared online so quickly it made his heart skip a beat.

He typed, paused, deleted, then typed again.

It was adorable.

He leaned against the doorframe, his ankles crossed.

What the hell is wrong with you?

Take that back, you bandage-wasting machine.

Such nice things you say to me, daddy.

Dazai unconsciously rubbed his chest.

Don’t call me that again

or my fist will give you a new face

The, “And what should I call you, little angel?” tickled his fingertips. His skin burned at the memory of Chuuya and his “human” that he whispered. The possessiveness that permeated that single word awakened something inside him.

He wet his lips.

Angel, take a shower with me.

He expected many things, but never—

I can’t

I have to stay under the radar, things are weird around here.

What do you mean “around here”?

We can’t see each other for now.

The “Because of you” was implied, suspended between them. Dazai left the chat and opened the tracking app. Mori had gotten his stupid permissions, the Port Mafia was operating freely and without supervision, closing in on the Ozakis.

It was only a matter of time before everything exploded.

He zoomed in on the map with two fingers.

“I’ve got you, little angel.”

Dazai threw his head back when something furry brushed against his bare ankles.

He wouldn’t go after Mori yet.

But he was still going to do something crazy.

Unfortunately for him, Mori and Ozaki were more alike than either of them would probably care to admit. They both thrived on fear, craved attention, and wore the targets on their backs like badges of honor. If the world was going to look their way, it would be on their own terms.

They were self-made masters of ceremony, and the Kanto region was their stage.

Which is exactly why they couldn’t stand each other.

Dazai climbed the wall with the help of some trash cans. Getting onto the property wasn’t easy. But he was used to spotting gaps, hiding places, and paths where others only saw obstacles. Besides, Mori had made him memorize the plans months ago.

Even so, he had difficulties.

He didn’t manipulate the security system—he didn’t have the time or the tools to disarm it cleanly. If he got caught, it was better for them to assume he was a sewer rat, maybe a stray little bird or some fool with no survival instinct—anything but a member of the Port Mafia.

Mori would deny it.

And if Ozaki handed over his corpse, he wouldn’t lift a finger.

He slipped past a couple of kobun armed with semi-automatics, cursing his rotten luck under his breath. He could sneak in through the service entrance—and if the stars aligned, he might even go unnoticed—but he doubted he’d make it to the main house without running into someone, or having to pass through at least one or two security checkpoints.

He pressed his back to the wall and peeked around the corner.

He needed to get to his angel.

Although—

His lips curled into a twisted smile.

He stood, back still pressed to the wall, heart pounding violently against his ribcage. Angel, look at me, he thought, almost giddy, as he raised his hands and stepped forward into the open. Then another step. And another. I’m about to do something insane for you.

His blood was singing.

Every step was a scream into the void. An obscene gesture towards Mori, and towards his precious, broken puppet.

“Hey, who’s there?”

What was the worst that could happen? That they’d fill him with bullets, paint the walls with his blood and guts?

“Are you talking to me?” he asked sweetly, savoring every word like a candy. “I’m just a boy in love.”

“What the fuck?”

“Who sent you, motherfucker?”

“What do we do with him?” another voice asked—tense, but hands trembling. “Do we shoot him?”

Dazai took a tentative step toward them.

"Want a suggestion?" Dazai tilted his head, eyes sliding toward the four kobun who’d had the misfortune of crossing his path. They didn’t look particularly bright—the ink on their knuckles didn’t go much further than that. Low-ranking. Easy to manipulate. "Maybe try using your radios. Those black things hanging off your belts. You don’t want to blow the wrong person’s brains out by mistake."

“What the hell are you talking about, asshole?”

“You piece of shit.”

Death permeated the air, reeking of stale sweat and decay. It lingered there, just at the edge of his vision—heavy, suffocating—and crouched, waiting for one of these idiots to pull the trigger.

It was thrilling.

One more step, and all their guns would be on him.

Oh, angel. What a shame you can’t see me now.

A sudden tug in his chest—strong, painful—doubled him over. His face twisted with the spasm, and for a moment, he nearly lost his balance.

One of the kobun’s radios crackled to life—loud, broken static. The one leading the patrol—or maybe just the one with the most brain cells—lifted a hand, motioning for silence as he turned to respond.

“I’m gonna paint the wall with your brains, rat.”

Dazai snorted, amused.

“I’d like to see you try.”

The guy cursed under his breath, lowered his weapon, and closed the distance between them. Dazai could already taste the blood on his lips, could feel the blow before it even came, only it didn’t happen.

“Don’t touch him!” shouted the one with the radio, his voice laced with fear and uncertainty. He was shaking. “Don’t lay a finger on him. Not yet.”

Dazai couldn’t help himself—he played with fire again. If they shot him, if they cut him open, would his blood be black?

“You heard him, crybaby. Careful, or you’ll be eating dirt.”

The hit came fast and brutal. He barely had time to raise an arm in defense before the butt of the semi-automatic slammed into his head. His knees buckled, black spots danced in his vision. He thought he heard someone shout, “Asshole, what the hell did you do?” which would’ve made him chuckle if the fog wasn’t about to engulf him.

Someone grabbed him under the arms and started dragging him away. Maybe to a more secluded spot, to finish him off. Or maybe a dungeon.

Maybe straight into the hands of his fallen angel.

Did it matter?

“…he’s not dead.”

“…miracles do happen—”

“…and weeds never die, Noya.”

Knees hit the floor.

A hand yanked his hair, forcing his head up. His neck protested.

He blinked, trying to clear the fog clouding his vision, and then his heart stopped. Auburn hair, bright blue eyes—a storm on the verge of breaking—and a mouth that invited sin. He feared he’d become addicted to his presence, to the taste of his skin and his lips, but the knot in his stomach dissipated. The chill that kissed his flushed skin had nothing to do with fear, but with Chuuya, his angel, and with the revelation that whatever was happening between them had to be mutual.

Chuuya blanched and instinctively leaned toward him, despite the stairs and the weapons between them.

“Angel,” he exhaled.

“Do you know him, sir?” someone asked.

Dazai didn’t care how his angel responded. If he wanted to offer up his head on a silver platter, disown him, lock him away—it was his choice to make.

It was Chuuya or him; there would be no “them” in the end.

Chuuya parted his lips.

And the storm broke, furious, relentless, and ablaze.

Chapter Text

“He’s my boyfriend!”

Three words.

Just three words were enough to throw him off balance.

It made no sense, and he had no chance to process it, because Chuuya’s hand closed around his wrist—soothing the itch under his clothes and bandages, replacing it with a tingling that spread through his body—and yanked him up the stairs, tripping him.

No one stopped them.

No one questioned why he was there.

“Angel,” Dazai called him.

“Not here.”

Dazai barely noticed his surroundings, not with his heart threatening to burst out of his chest and his head throbbing, blurring his vision. He hoped he wouldn’t faint; it would be humiliating, given the circumstances.

Three words.

Three damn words.

As soon as the door shut behind them, away from prying eyes, death threats, and sharp ears, Dazai stumbled, and Chuuya pinned him against the wall, holding him by the neck. A pitiful sound escaped his lips, and the pain that shot through him blinded him for a few seconds. Even so, he couldn’t control the smile that crept up the corner of his mouth.

His angel was very predictable in his unpredictability.

“Don’t mess with me,” Chuuya warned him in an angry hiss.

His right eye crackled, like burning wood, devouring his iris and staining his sclera. Dazai gasped in awe. Beautiful. His angel’s grip tightened, fingers digging in like claws, cutting off his air.

“What the hell are you doing here?!”

“I missed you,” he whispered, barely more than a breath.

Chuuya growled low, and the sound rattled the walls.

And it went straight to his crotch.

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” Dazai insisted, curiosity soaking his words. But black dots began to fill his vision, and the idea of passing out while Chuuya was here—a natural disaster, a thunderstorm—twisted his insides and left a bitter taste in his mouth. “Angel, if you don’t mind—”

He patted his wrist.

“Don’t take on my family, or you’ll die,” Chuuya barked, loosening his grip but pressing closer, one leg between his, their bodies flush together, and his scent—intoxicating, devastating—drowned his senses. “You’re doomed. All of you are doomed. Don’t you get it!? You can’t win!”

He wasn’t angry. He was terrified.

Dazai filed that away for later.

“My angel underestimates me.”

“I’m serious, damn it!” he exploded, releasing him and slamming his fist against the wall.

Dazai didn’t hesitate, reaching out and cradling his cheek with an almost unfamiliar tenderness. The redhead stiffened at his touch; his eyes widened, maybe in surprise or maybe for something else entirely. It didn’t matter. Dazai found himself stroking his face, warm against his sweaty skin, holding his breath.

It didn’t burn, but it felt like playing with fire.

“I’m here for you, not for the yakuza,” Dazai whispered, like a confession. It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth either. He wasn’t sure what had brought him here, beyond the overwhelming urge to see his angel. “Boyfriend, huh?”

The blush that burst across his freckled cheeks and colored his irises a more vibrant blue made him chuckle.

Chuuya took a step back—a half-step, stumbling—and Dazai’s knees almost buckled at the loss.

“Shut the fuck up. What did you expect me to say? They wouldn’t have just let you walk free, you suicidal freak.”

“How touching,” Dazai panted.

He couldn’t breathe. What an inconvenience.

“It’s dangerous, Shitty Dazai.”

“Were you worried about me? I’m flattered.”

It was a game—it had always been a game—but not anymore. It stopped being a game the moment he lost control of the redhead. When had it happened? That day in the bar, a knife to his crotch and eyes burning like embers? The first time he tasted his mouth? Or was it even earlier, with the children’s laughter and Chuuya spinning blindfolded, a miniature sun with him as nothing more than a piece of earth in orbit? He threw his head back. The room spun. Everything spun.

A lump formed in his throat, and his mouth filled with ash.

It burned, burned, burned.

Chuuya was still talking, but his voice sounded far away. Too far away.

“Is it a crime?” he spat.

Dazai lowered his head, nausea rising.

“What?”

Chuuya’s glare cut through him.

“Is it a crime that I care about you, you asshole?”

Dazai blinked, dazed, and fell forward. Chuuya cursed, catching him. He ran a hand through his hair to push it from his forehead—maybe to check his temperature, maybe to see if his eyes were bloodshot—but then he must have felt the stickiness of blood, because his grip tightened and he dragged him to the bed.

Dazai didn’t even have the strength left for a joke.

“You brainless bastard, one day you’ll be the death of me.”

Fear took root inside him, clawing and scraping.

Climbing

Dazai writhed.

“Chuuya—” he murmured, desperation bubbling up, more plea than request. It sprouted, it bloomed. His hand reached out, brushing fabric, then warm skin. “Don’t touch me.”

Don’t let me go.

“You’re bleeding.”

“I don’t want you to touch me.”

“And I don’t wanna deal with your bandaged ass, but here we are. So suck it up.”

The weight of the bed shifted when Chuuya moved. His hand fell limp, fingers curling and twisting the sheets, and he stared at the ceiling, unable to focus on anything else. If he looked at the redhead—if he met those blue eyes and saw even a hint of rejection—he would go mad.

“Hey, Mackerel, are you still with me?”

Dazai made an incomprehensible little noise in response.

“Don't die,” Chuuya said—an order, maybe a beg.

“Don't—”

Carefully, Chuuya brushed his hair aside to get a better look at the wound and dabbed at the blood. Dazai hissed, writhing like an elusive snake. He felt displaced—somewhere else, back on a stretcher—and Chuuya’s warmth overwhelmed him.

It wasn’t his angel, it was them.

Chuuya cursed loudly and, seeing that Dazai wasn’t coming to his senses, that he wasn’t listening, he immobilized him on the bed, climbing on top of him.

“Stay still, damn it.”

His palm pressed to Dazai’s chest.

“Chuuya,” Dazai whimpered.

“You’re worse than a child. I’m trying to help you.”

His hands found their way to his angel’s hips. They fit as if they’d been made to worship this man rather than ruin everything they touched. He clung to that. Chuuya leaned in, his hair brushing his face. He tried to focus on him, on the freckles that dotted his nose and cheeks, the curve of his mouth—the upper lip slightly thicker—and the line of his neck, free of the choker.

A temptation.

Chuuya, Chuuya, Chuuya.

“It’s not that bad,” Dazai said in a thick voice, minimizing. He didn’t know how to explain that none of it mattered—the bruises that stained his skin purple, the bullets lodged deep in bone, tearing through skin and muscle—nothing would kill him. He wasn’t meant to die. “I’ll be fine, I just need—”

“You never know when to shut up, do you?”

The rag was soaked with blood. Dazai looked away, pulse racing.

Black liquid.

Black blood.

Chuuya sighed, misinterpreting his reaction. “But you’re right. You don’t seem to have a concussion.”

“I told you,” Dazai spat, words stumbling out. His chest rose and fell in short, ragged breaths. He squeezed his eyes shut. Not now, not now. He forced a grin, a dazzling one, but he didn't have to do it very well, because instead of erasing the concern flooding the redhead's face, it twisted it even more. “Seriously, I’m fine.”

“You got hit.”

“Yeah. I deserved it.”

“They touched you,” he hissed, and Dazai shifted uncomfortably. He didn't mind Chuuya's weight on him, nor the darkness lurking in the corners of his eyes, but the murderous aura was unnecessary.

And undeserved.

“Angel?”

“What the hell is your problem!? They could’ve shot you out there! Thrown you in a cell and left you to rot, and I wouldn’t have been able to do anything!”

“Chuuya, my angel—”

The redhead slapped his hand away and turned his face, biting his lower lip with a strange, resentful intensity. His eyes were wet.

He was—

“There would’ve been nothing I could do,” he repeated, voice breaking, almost overflowing with tears that made no sense. “Don’t you understand? You’re here.”

He hit his chest hard.

“You’ll be the death of me, Dazai Osamu. Do you know the power I’ve given you?”

Dazai parted his lips, and two knocks on the door startled them. Chuuya paled. He quickly moved aside, almost falling off the bed. Dazai sat up, elbows on the mattress, dazed as his brain caught up with what that knock might mean.

They were coming for him.

Ozaki shouldn’t be on the property, or Chuuya wouldn’t have had a chance otherwise, but someone might’ve warned Paul Verlaine, or the heiress might’ve wanted to tear him limb from limb for laying hands on her precious little brother.

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry to disturb you, but dinner is ready.”

Chuuya waved him off.

“We’ll dine here. You may go.”

The kobun hesitated, as if the possibility of refusing an open invitation was inconceivable. Dazai flashed his most confident smirk, the one that screamed “trouble” from every pore, and the kobun hastily bowed his head.

Chuuya slammed the door and rested his forehead against the wood.

“Get out.”

“Me? Chuuya, you can’t kick me out like that!” Dazai protested, making himself comfortable at the head of the bed and deliberately ignoring the bloodstained rag. “What would your family say about your terrible manners?”

“Dazai.”

“Chuuya~”

Chuuya ground his teeth.

“Fine,” he relented, shoulders sagging as he marched to the desk and sat down cross-legged. Dazai pouted. “You eat dinner, we wait a while, then you leave without being seen.”

“Will that do any good?”

“Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

“That’s not my intention.” Chuuya raised an eyebrow. Dazai clasped his hands together, pretending innocence they both knew was fake. “They’ve already seen me. If I wasn’t on their radar before, I am now. Hide-and-seek isn’t an option, honey. Dazai Osamu, boyfriend of Nakahara Chuuya, has entered the scene. Believe me, they’re looking under every rock.”

It wasn’t something that especially worried him—kept him awake at night—but Mori had anticipated scenarios like this. His track record was impeccable.

“You’re suicidal.”

He said it like a fact that had only just occurred to him. Adorable.

“And now you realize it?”

Chuuya shook his head in disbelief.

“I’ll kill you first.”

“Can I choose the method? I’ve already been beaten today. How about poison? And one last kiss?”

“You’re—”

“Charming?”

“The worst.”

Chuuya covered his face with his hands and shook his head.

“If this is a trick—”

“It’s not. I didn’t come here with any hidden agenda.”

Chuuya stared at him.

“I choose to believe you.”

A pang.

“I choose to trust you.” Chuuya stood. And wasn’t it a beautiful sight—his little twisted angel, even in those silly, impersonal pajamas. “Since you’re here, I’ll help you, and you’ll help me.”

That caught Dazai’s interest; he tilted his head.

“Let’s sneak into the archives.”

“You want me to snoop through your family’s top-secret archives?” Dazai asked, surprised. “Chuuya, your sudden blind trust scares me. Is this a test?”

Chuuya grinned, showing his teeth.

“I’m crazy about you. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

His heart skipped. Dazai laughed through his nose.

“And why, my crazy, deranged angel, do you want to go to the archives?”

“There might be something there that can help you. Did you know Kirishima and Tsushima were collaborating?”

“Internal alliances—”

“—are forbidden, I know.” Chuuya closed the distance and climbed back onto the bed. There was a fierceness in his gaze that made Dazai’s skin prickle. “My grandfather knew about it. He gathered a lot of information.”

“You’ve been investigating—”

“I want to help.”

Dazai looked down at his feet and grimaced. He was in his angel’s bed with his shoes still on.

“You promised—”

“Dazai, I want to help. I will.” Chuuya brushed his knuckles against Dazai’s cheek, fingers sliding to his chin, cradling it. “I don’t know what’s going on, who that guy was... but you care, and it affects you. Let me help, and don’t pretend you don’t want to poke around in the files.”

“I want to poke my nose into a lot of places, I won’t lie.”

“I hate you.”

“The feeling’s mutual, angel.”

The archives were hidden in a secure chamber within the tunnels connected to the property. Yes, underground. Fabulous. Bringing Dazai along hadn’t been the smartest move, but leaving him behind hadn’t felt safe either. And going there alone? That idea didn’t thrill him at all.

He wasn’t ready.

Chuuya’s skin prickled the instant the door locked with a deafening beep, plunging them into darkness. When he froze, Dazai’s fingertips brushed his arm. Just a casual touch but enough to settle the anxiety curling in his stomach.

He swallowed.

“My angel?”

The concern threaded through Dazai’s tone warmed his chest. Just a little.

“If we get caught here—” Chuuya whispered, his voice faltering at the end.

Dazai’s expression, the way the corners of his eyes crinkled, promised trouble. Chuuya snorted. Dazai caught his hand, fingers intertwining.

A gentle squeeze.

I’m with you, remember? it seemed to say. We’re a team.

His heart stuttered.

“—We’ll just say you’ve got a peculiar fetish and chained me up in a dungeon to do dirty things,” Dazai crooned, a dangerous gleam in his amber eyes.

It was so ridiculously inappropriate that Chuuya burst out laughing. And just like that, the tension gripping him—the ghost of that scrawny, frightened child clinging to his shoulders like a starving beast—dissolved into nothing.

“You’re the worst.”

Dazai winked.

Chuuya shook his head in disbelief, squeezing back. It was a clumsy “Thanks, Mackerel” that made him hyper-aware of his presence beside him, of where their bodies touched, and a “What am I going to do with you?” that was too tender to verbalize. Dazai seemed to read his thoughts anyway.

“Don’t leave my side.”

“I’ll be your shadow,” he purred.

The tunnels were designed to disorient intruders and aid clan members in escape. They could feel claustrophobic; the farther you went, the more the walls seemed to close in, and the darkness only made it worse. But Ane-san had made sure Chuuya knew the maze like the back of his hand.

When she’d handed him the copy, Chuuya had stared at the paper blankly.

“A map?” he guessed, turning it over.

“It’s the tunnel network,” she explained. Chuuya dropped it like it burned. Unbothered, Ane-san picked it up, smoothed it on the table. “Memorize it. Then destroy it.”

“No thanks,” he muttered, shoving his hands under his thighs. “I don’t need—”

She tapped the map with her fingernail.

“I’m not leaving until you do.”

Chuuya grimaced.

“Well, make yourself comfortable,” he replied, annoyed.

His sister crossed her legs, smiling sardonically.

“I’m in no hurry, tadpole.”

“Bitch,” he muttered.

“Brat.”

Dazai leaned close, his breath tickling. “Sure you know what you’re doing, sweetheart?”

“What? You scared?”

The brunet hummed evasively. It didn’t make him feel any better.

Once you knew where to look, finding the archives wasn’t difficult. The door yielded after scanning his fingerprint. When the motion sensor lit the room, Dazai’s puzzled frown gave way to a pout.

“Seriously?” he groaned, stretching his arms to indicate the shelves. “Boxes? Just boxes? Did we time-travel to the 80s? Please tell me there’s a computer.”

Chuuya brushed past him with a shoulder nudge.

“Don’t be such a baby.”

“But Chuuya, my angel, how are we supposed to find anything in all these boxes?”

“Idiot. They’re sorted.”

“Boring.”

“There’s the door.”

Dazai’s eyes widened. “You want me to get lost and eaten by some monster?”

“If you don’t shut up, I’ll devour you myself,” Chuuya hissed.

Dazai wrapped his arms around his waist, chin resting on his head, pressing close. Chuuya held his breath.

Lower, almost a caress:

“Will Chuuya eat me?”

Damn it.

With flushed cheeks and a racing pulse, Chuuya nudged him. Dazai dodged easily—something that might have bruised his pride any other time—but now it drew a smile instead.

He was done for.

“Where do we start?”

He sounded lighthearted, almost amused, as if this whole situation was nothing more than a joke to him. A prank. But if Chuuya paid attention, if he looked for the connection inside, he could feel something else. He raised an eyebrow as Dazai browsed the shelves without really looking at them.

Concern? Anxiety? Discomfort? Maybe Dazai was just as unsettled down here as he was.

He shook his head. No time for this.

“The T.?” Chuuya suggested.

Dazai shot him a mocking glance over his shoulder.

“T. for Tsushima? Wow. How many brain cells did you burn on that?”

“And what does the genius suggest?”

Dazai sighed.

“Sounds like a plan.”

“Then stop whining, damn it.”

It didn’t take long to find the right aisle. Dazai made no effort to help, hands clasped behind his back, whistling tunelessly.

Chuuya pointed at a box above his head.

“That’s the one.”

Dazai spun around on his heels.

“Are you kidding me? They actually have a box about Tsushima? And they wrote his name in giant marker letters?” he scoffed, closing the distance, half-incredulous.

“Shut the fuck up and put those long legs to use.”

“I’d rather wrap them around your little muscular body,” he drawled, though he did stretch up to reach the box.

Chuuya wrinkled his nose in disgust and hid his face in the crook of his elbow to smother a sneeze. He hated dust. Seriously—did no one care about keeping this place remotely clean?

Dust was practically a breeding ground for bugs.

Or something like that.

Dazai pressed his lips together, fighting a smirk.

“Is my angel fussy about a little dust?”

Chuuya blew at the box, and Dazai nearly dropped it when a cloud of dust went straight into his mouth.

“Does a little dust bother you, fish face?”

That glint in his amber eyes spelled trouble. Chuuya snatched the box, fingers brushing against his, and yanked it out of his hands. He crouched and pried off the lid. Inside were neatly dated folders. That couldn’t be everything.

He glanced up, scanning the shelves, wondering just how much useful information might be buried in there.

He bit his lower lip.

What if—?

Dazai crouched in front of him and pulled out a folder, catching his attention. He flipped through it quickly.

“Trash,” he muttered, tossing it aside.

“What the hell?”

He grabbed another at random and tossed it to the floor seconds later.

“More trash.”

“There has to be something.”

“The door wasn’t even locked.”

A muscle in Chuuya’s jaw twitched.

“Only the inner circle and the main family know about these tunnels,” he growled. “And you can’t enter here if you’re not in the system.”

“Chuuya.” His name dripped with condescension, and it made his blood boil. Or maybe it was the look of pity in Dazai’s eyes. “I believe you. I believe it’s easy to get lost down here, that it’s hard to find this place if you don’t know what you’re looking for. But still—don’t you think it’s a little too convenient?”

“There must be something.”

Chuuya dug through the box and pulled out another folder. A photo slipped free.

He picked it up.

“Oh.” He turned it over.

Dazai’s sharp inhale cut through the silence. Written in cursive on the back were the words: Tsushima Family. Tsushima Benji, Tsushima Shuuji, and—

Dazai snatched the photo from his hand, crumpling it.

“Oi!”

“Trash,” Dazai insisted, stuffing it into his pocket. “Just trash.”

But the tremor in his hands and the cold fury burning in his eyes told a different story.

Chuuya hesitated, just for just a second.

“What happened to them?”

“They’re dead.”

“How?”

“Have you been living under a rock?” Dazai snapped.

Heat rose in Chuuya’s face.

“I— I just know they disappeared. A few years before the clan fell, right?”

Dazai snorted.

“Do you really want to know?” Dazai leaned forward, his hands on the floor and his mouth just inches from Chuuya’s. Chuuya didn’t pull away. “They destroyed them. Silence killed the mother, madness killed the father, screams killed the older child—”

“And the younger one?”

Dazai didn’t answer.

“What happened to him?”

“The ambition of a madman,” he murmured weakly.

Chuuya glanced at the folder.

The Tsushima family.

Dazai gestured him with his chin, urging him to open it.

Do it, he seemed to say. Or maybe it was a warning: Dissect those corpses like everything else, as if they were nothing.

Chuuya wet his lips.

“They were just children.”

“And has that ever mattered?”

“I—”

My grandfather locked me in a dungeon and tortured me for years.

He gripped the folder tighter, helplessness gnawing at him from the inside.

He drugged me, strapped me to a table, and cut me open—just to understand me.

He dropped the folder as if it were burning.

He didn’t stop, he never stopped. Not until he broke me. I am his, completely his.

Dazai picked up another folder.

“Maybe we should try Kirishima. You said he did business with a European pharmaceutical company, right?”

“Thirteen years ago,” he said quietly—then shouted, surging forward to grab Dazai by the shoulders. “Thirteen years ago!”

“Are you insane?”

“I have a hunch.”

“A hunch? Chuuya, this isn’t Clue.”

Chuuya ignored him, rifling through the folders until he found the right one.

“Thirteen years ago,” he repeated triumphantly, shoving the folder toward him. He flipped through the pages. “There’s got to be something. Look—check this out. Kirishima’s name comes up several times. I don’t know what these codes and numbers mean, but it’s something, right?”

“Let me see.”

Dazai shoved the box aside and leaned over his shoulder.

“What if we take everything?” Chuuya suggested hesitantly. “There must be a box like this about Kirishima, right?”

“This one only covers the last five years of the clan.”

“So you think there’s more somewhere else?”

Dazai pressed his lips together.

“Honestly? All of this still feels way too convenient. Like someone’s leaving us breadcrumbs.”

Chuuya thought of Lipp and Verlaine, but the dust was thick, untouched for years. It couldn’t possibly be a trap.

Still, Dazai wasn’t wrong.

They’d come this far. Trap or not, Chuuya wasn’t leaving empty-handed. He stood and brushed the dust from his clothes.

“Let’s go find Kirishima’s box.”

It wasn’t hard to locate. Like the other, it only covered the last five years.

“Clock Tower Pharmaceuticals sued for medical negligence,” Chuuya translated, handing the press release to Dazai. It didn’t say much—a supposedly revolutionary drug discarded, an investigator with dirty money on her hands. Alongside the note was a crumpled promissory slip dated a few months later. The text was in English, but the stamps—blurred with age—were Japanese.

He flipped it over. His eyes widened. A name was scribbled across the back. His heart skipped a beat.

“Dazai, when did you say Tsushima Shuuji died?”

Silence.

“I didn’t.”

“Then why is his name on a promissory note?”

“How the hell should I know?”

Chuuya stared at him, weighing his words, the sincerity they conveyed.

“Yeah, you’re right. Sorry. I thought we’d find something useful.”

Tsushima Shuuji.

“This is useful,” Dazai said, pointing at the press release and the two files. “It’s a thread to pull. It’s more than I had half an hour ago.”

The ambition of a madman.

“You think it’s tied to the experiments?”

Dazai stiffened.

“You’d better stop there.”

“I want to help.”

“No, Chuuya. You don’t. Trust me.”

Mori kept that system for the more... delicate cases.

“Kirishima, the failed drug, Tsushima... It’s all connected, isn’t it?”

“What do you want me to say, Chuuya?” Dazai exploded, utterly drained. “Kirishima ran the drug trade. Come on, the pieces are right there—put the damn puzzle together. A five-year-old could do it!”

Dazai turned to leave. His chest tightened, anxiety sliding through his gut, scraping and scratching everything in its path. The “Hold on there, you bastard” burned on his tongue as the lights flickered back on, illuminating the entire archive once more. Dazai froze. Chuuya barely had time to react before the brunet slammed him against the shelf, clapping a hand over his mouth.

Shit, shit.

Footsteps. Two of them. He didn’t need voices to know who they belonged to. His pulse raced.

“This is insane,” Kouyou muttered nearby.

“What’s with these lights?” Verlaine complained as he entered the archive—too close. Panic surged, and Dazai’s hand pressed harder against Chuuya’s mouth. A thud, a squeak. “Kumichō knows what’s best for the clan.”

The words sounded mechanical, magic stripped of its power.

Kouyou’s derisive snort cut through the silence.

“Look me in the eyes and tell me what’s happening out there is fine, and I’ll back off.”

No reply, at least not a verbal one.

“Thought so,” Kouyou spat, and from the direction of her voice, Chuuya guessed she wasn’t far away. It was only a matter of time before they noticed someone else was there, or that someone had been there recently. If they checked the cameras— Shit. “I don’t like that guy. He acts harmless, too accommodating.”

“He’s just a messenger.”

“Exactly!” More noise—were they moving boxes? What were they doing there? “If his master’s so eager to help us, why doesn’t he show up himself? Why send this puppet?”

“The inner circle has spoken—”

“I don’t like it.”

“Look,” Verlaine said, a trace of unease in his voice. “I don’t like how things are going either. It reeks of war. This alliance is shakier than the Triad, but the Port Mafia made its move—we can’t just sit back. And it’s better than exposing—”

Dazai stiffened, brows furrowing. He had no idea what they were talking about either. Another alliance? With who? Chuuya focused, not on what they were saying, but on what they were feeling.

It wasn’t right.

Using the bond to obtain information was invasive, almost violent.

“There’s something you should know,” Verlaine said, hesitation creeping in. “Chuuya asked me about Tsushima.”

“What?” Kouyou’s alarm was sharp. “What did he want to know?”

“Something about some experiments.”

Kouyou gasped.

“Experiments? Do you think he knows—?”

The panic that colored her words clamped tight around his chest.

“I’m not sure,” Verlaine admitted with a sigh. “I told him he could come here, but I don’t know what he knows or where he got it. Still, I doubt that’s why he’s— We’d know. And he won’t find anything here.”

“This is getting out of hand,” Kouyou muttered wearily. “There are too many open fronts. I don’t want this to touch him. I don’t want him dragged in. You promised me.”

“We should’ve never let him come back.”

Chuuya tensed. His words, what they hid, were worse than a kick. Dazai’s hand slid from his mouth to his chest.

Their eyes met.

I’m here. Focus on me. Only me. Dazai shaped the words soundlessly.

“—and then there’s that boy. Where did he come from?”

“Dazai Osamu. Twenty-two. Clean,” Kouyou recited flatly. “He won’t be a problem.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

More noise—boxes stacked, papers shifting.

“Trust me. Not as your niece, but as—”

“It’s fine.”

None of this was fine.

They left soon after, likely with a file or whatever they’d come for. Dazai and Chuuya stayed frozen in silence, the archive swallowed in darkness. If the censors picked up the slightest movement, they’d trigger. Even if they only worked by section, being seen from outside was a risk.

Chuuya didn’t protest, didn’t whisper we’re safe because he’d have to explain how he knew. Besides, he needed this.

He needed to lean on Dazai without guilt.

Just for a moment.

Master.

Alliance.

…I don’t want him dragged in.

“I don’t understand you,” Dazai whispered, tugging him out of his thoughts.

Chuuya clutched his clothes tighter.

“Someone doing something for me without expecting anything in return,” Dazai went on.

“You’ve surrounded yourself with terrible people. You know that, right?”

Dazai pulled back slightly. The lights flickered on. Chuuya blinked, adjusting.

“I’ll take it to Ranpo tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” he repeated, then grabbed a fistful of his shirt. “You’re leaving now.”

Dazai caught his chin and closed the distance, brushing a chaste kiss across his lips.

“Tomorrow,” he murmured against his mouth.

“I said—”

Another kiss.

“Tomorrow~”

Dirty trick.

Chuuya knew it. And yet—

“You’re— I— Stop it!”

Dazai buried his nose against his neck, inhaling his scent. Chuuya shoved weakly at his shoulders but didn’t push him away. Neither of them moved.

“Tomorrow,” Dazai repeated, lips grazing his skin.

Chuuya wrapped his arms around him, fingers tangling in soft curls.

“Tomorrow,” he conceded, embarrassed.

Back in the room, they pushed the desk and rug aside to spread out the paperwork. Chuuya locked the door before settling on the floor, while Dazai snagged a notebook from the drawer. They couldn’t risk taking files off the property. Since the bandaged bastard insisted on spending the night, the safest bet was to sort and return everything before morning.

They were playing with fire.

“I think we’re safe,” Chuuya said cautiously, eyes on the first folder. Dazai raised an eyebrow, waiting. “If my uncle and sister were down there talking openly—”

“—then the cameras aren’t working.”

“It’s possible.”

It was only a hunch. A gamble. In truth, they had no idea. Nothing downstairs had given them a clue about Kouyou and Verlaine’s purpose.

Dazai tapped his chin with the pen, then shrugged.

“We’ll know tomorrow,” he said with a grin. “If they don’t arrest me or kick that door down, you’re right.”

“Fuck you.”

“Chuuya, my angel, you really should laugh more.”

Chuuya flipped him off.

The night crawled on, slipping away in pale shades. Chuuya clipped his hair back while Dazai paced with a report in hand. It was heavily redacted, but the scraps they pieced together suggested the pharmaceutical company had operated in Japan through Kirishima both before and after the shutdown.

Dazai froze mid-step just as Chuuya knelt with another file.

“I’ve got something!”

Dazai leaned over his shoulder. A blurry photo, a handwritten note, a badge number.

“Detective Murase.”

A chill ran through him.

“That’s all it says?”

“That he was investigating the youngest Kirishima son.”

“He’s not the first detective to dig into a clan, and he won’t be the last,” Dazai pointed.

Not much else—just that he’d gotten too close to the inner circle and protocol would be followed. Chuuya shifted uneasily, heat creeping up his neck. He should’ve known what that protocol meant, but between his apathy and his family keeping him out of it, he was clueless.

“Murase,” Dazai repeated, savoring the name. “Alive or dead, I can track him.”

Why had his family gathered all this only to do nothing? It didn’t add up.

The rest were more blurry photos, poor quality—but one made Chuuya’s stomach twist. A figure circled in red, an arrow pointing at it, and scrawled beside it in block letters: TSUSHIMA?

The dates lined up.

Dazai flopped onto the bed and started rolling around. What the hell.

“Dazai?”

Chuuya set the report aside and crawled to the edge of the bed.

“What are you doing?”

“Thinking.”

“By rolling around on my bed?”

So ridiculous it almost made sense.

“Shh. Your annoying voice is distracting me.”

“Ha!?”

He snatched a pillow off the floor and hurled it at his head.

Later, Chuuya circled the lead investigator’s initials in the notebook. A. C.

“Hey, Dazai—”

When he looked back, the brunet wasn’t moving.

“Are you asleep?” He poked his cheek. No reaction. With a sigh, he gave in, resting his chin on folded arms, watching him sleep. His heart stumbled and his cheeks grew warm. He buried his face in his arms. “I’m scared to death.”

Too much information. Too many blank spaces, frayed threads.

“Shit.”

He turned away, hugging his knees, staring at the mess spread across the floor.

Experiments.

Failed drug.

He rolled up his sleeves, staring at the jagged lines etched across his arms, his whole body.

Tsushima Shuuji.

“I hope I’m wrong.”

“The prodigal son is back!” Ranpo cheered the moment he picked up the call.

Dazai twisted his mouth as he crossed the street, already irritated by the man’s impertinent tone. Too early for this—whatever this was. A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed no one was tailing him.

“And to what do we owe the honor? I’m all ears.”

Dazai adjusted his sunglasses.

“I need information.”

Across the street, a woman pushed a shopping cart.

“Akiko was worried,” Ranpo said, suddenly more serious. “She’s unbearable, you know? If you’re going to vanish from her life without warning, the least you could do is make it permanent.”

Dazai sidestepped two teenagers horsing around with their phones on the way to school.

“I’m not going to apologize.”

“Of course not,” Ranpo laughed.

“Look, Ranpo—” Mori threatened to hurt you all. I couldn’t take any chances. I couldn’t let him see I cared. “We’re not friends. This is a relationship of convenience. I don’t owe you an explanation.”

“If that helps you sleep at night—just because you see it that way doesn’t mean Akiko does. She cares about you. You showed up with that guy, put us all in danger, and then disappeared. Akiko thought something had happened to you. You didn’t even come for your medication.”

Dazai stopped in his tracks.

“If you’re not going to help me—”

Ranpo popped a bubble. “I never said I wouldn’t.”

Dazai shut his eyes, a migraine threatening. He had actually slept well, better than in weeks. Yet, leaving that bed, his little blanket-hoarding furnace who slept with his mouth open, drooled on his clothes, and sprawled across more space than necessary, had been almost painful. Torture.

He wasn’t in the mood for this.

“So?”

“It depends,” Ranpo replied. Dazai could picture him in his chair, ankles propped on the desk, fingers laced behind his neck. It almost made him smile. Almost. “What do I get in return?”

“All-you-can-eat of your favorite snacks?”

“Hmm.”

“I’ll call Yosano, okay?” Dazai snapped, exasperated. It wasn’t like Ranpo to play hard to get, especially when snacks were on the table. The detective stayed quiet. With a sigh, almost reluctant, Dazai yielded: “I’ve been through a rough patch—a really bad one. I lost track of time and certain things happened. But I’m fine. Or I will be, once this is sorted out.”

“Be careful,” Ranpo warned. “Alright, what do you need?”

The notebook tucked into Dazai’s waistband weighed a ton.

“I’ll send you the details later.” He spotted the taxi stand at the end of the avenue and quickened his pace. He could’ve called a car—he was far enough from Ozaki territory that it wouldn’t raise suspicion—but he had a bad feeling. “Dig up everything you can on the Clock Tower pharmaceutical company. British, operated in Yokohama through the Kirishima clan thirteen years ago.”

“Uh-huh. What else?”

“Detective Murase, badge number—”

Ranpo cut him off.

“A detective?” His tone was sharper, almost concerned—and that was never good. “Messy business. What’s this about? Be straight with me, or I’m out.”

“You’re out?”

“You said it yourself: we’re not friends. Why should I take the risk?”

“For the joy of proving to the world you’re the best detective?”

Ranpo hummed noncommittally.

Dazai spun on his heels, scanning the street. The sticky feeling of being watched crawled up his neck. He ran his tongue over his teeth, suppressing a smirk. Nothing fazed Ranpo—nothing interested him—except the chance to mock the authorities who had cast him aside for being too much. For him to be picky now was…off.

It didn’t add up.

The “You’re still breathing because of me, remember?” burned on his tongue, but he swallowed them back. Wrong words, and he knew it.

“I can’t talk about this on the phone,” he muttered.

“Then come see us.”

Was that all? Just betrayal, plain and simple?

“I can’t. Not yet.” Too risky. Or maybe he was afraid—afraid of breaking down, of dragging the wrong people into death’s hands. He kept walking. “I recently found out Mori might’ve been involved in a project that should’ve died with Tsushima. And that someone died because of it. Someone—important to me.”

The words tore out of him like teeth being ripped from his mouth—devastating, paralyzing. Suddenly, he felt hollow, adrift. Teetering on a cliff’s edge. Alone, at the mercy of white coats, restraints biting into bleeding skin, black liquid burning in his veins.

He wasn’t ready for this.

He wasn’t ready to talk about the experiments, about what had been done to him as a child, about everything he had left behind—everything he had lost.

His bandages tightened, cutting off circulation, his skin searing with memory.

He needed to stop.

He needed a moment.

He needed—

“Earth to Dazai. You still there?”

“What?”

“You’re boring, predictable, and problematic. Excessively problematic.”

Dazai sneered.

“Will you help me or not?”

“I’m the best detective in the world,” Ranpo chirped, and Dazai could hear him fiddling with his phone. Then came the clack of keys. “But you’ll have to be more specific. What kind of experiments?”

“Does it matter?”

“I’ll find out anyway, but it’d save me time if you gave me a hint.”

“Honestly? I don’t know.”

Dazai raised his hand to hail a taxi.

“You promised unlimited snacks.”

“And I always keep my promises.”

“Call Akiko. Today.”

“You have my word,” Dazai said as he gestured for the driver to pull over.

“Keep a low profile,” Ranpo said, still typing. “Don’t draw Mori’s attention, don’t rush into anything. Stick to your routine.”

Dazai wondered if Ranpo had already pieced together where he was, what he’d done the night before. He rested his elbow against the window, letting his gaze drift over the streets blurring past—a life, or hundreds of them, that didn’t belong to him.

“Let me know when you find something.”

The night before had been madness.

Looking back calmly, he wasn’t even sure what he’d hoped to gain by taking such a risk. He touched his head gingerly. A blow like that could have been fatal, yet once again, death had looked the other way. He grimaced. Had he really been so lost, so adrift, that his only option was to see his angel—no matter the cost?

He sank into the seat and unlocked his phone.

Master.

And a new alliance. The thought gnawed at him. What were the odds someone was setting them all up? To play with the Triad like this—even weakened, nothing like the force it had been a decade ago—was reckless at best. But not impossible.

He stepped out of the taxi.

In front of his building, a black armored car was waiting.

The corner of his mouth twitched.

“Dazai. It’s been a while.”

The smile aimed at him looked friendly, almost affectionate. But there was nothing friendly about a man who wouldn’t hesitate to slit his throat if he dared to rebel. Dazai kept his face neutral, an almost bored expression breaking through like a clean cut as he settled in front of him and the vehicle started moving.

“Not long enough.”

Mori tossed a bulging folder onto the seat; it slid to the floor, spilling snapshots.

His stomach dropped.

Chuuya. Chuuya. Chuuya.

“It was your idea,” Dazai reminded him, forcing himself to look away. He ignored the folder, the photos, everything that might be inside, and focused on the man who had taken him under his wing and ordered Odasaku’s execution. He cackled, almost unhinged. "You asked me to get into his pants, to gain his trust and serve the clan up to you on a silver platter. And that’s what I’m doing!"

Mori tilted his head, unperturbed.

“Prove it.”

His mask faltered.

“Prove it? I don’t know what you want me to say, Chuuya is quite perceptive, and I doubt you want to get in the closet while I fuck him.”

“Don’t be insolent.”

“I need time.”

Mori waved it off like smoke.

“Results soon—or I’ll kindly ask you to leave.”

Dazai bristled.

“He’s mine,” he growled. “My prey.”

“Are you sure?”

Mori leaned closer, uncrossing his legs. And the sweet, cloying scent of roses filled Dazai’s nostrils, tightening his throat and pushing him over the edge. He fell, fell, and fell. It was deliberate; he saw it in the gleam of Mori’s dark eyes.

“Let’s be honest, Dazai,” Mori said, his tone almost paternal. “I’ve given you a lot of freedom—too much, considering the stakes. Normally I don’t care what you do with your toys, but this is beyond you.”

“It’s not that simple.”

Mori raised an eyebrow.

“I can do it,” Dazai insisted, almost tripping over the words. The roses clogged his mouth, their thorns scraping his trachea. He forced a thin smile. “Who else could you send? You think you’ll find another fool who can earn Nakahara’s trust? You need me.”

You need me more than I thought.

“There’s no time. In fact, maybe you’re right—maybe it’s better to just eliminate him.”

A chill crawled over his skin, freezing his blood.

“No.”

“Excuse me?” Mori’s eyes narrowed.

He knows. He always knows.

Dazai swallowed hard, the pressure in his chest unbearable. The thought of someone extinguishing the flame, the thunderstorm that was Chuuya, made him sick.

He had underestimated Mori.

“It’s been a waste of time,” Mori said. “Ozaki is already making his move, and I can’t wait for that boy to spread his legs—”

“There’s more,” Dazai blurted, desperation taking root in his gut, clouding his senses. Or maybe it was just the roses, what they evoked. He clenched his teeth, clung to the thinnest thread. “You must know already—your little birds tell you everything—but last night I got into the Ozaki property. The tunnel network. It’s not much, but… Chuuya said something that stuck with me.”

That caught Mori’s interest, if only slightly.

Dazai dragged a hand through his hair, gathering his thoughts. He needed to shift Mori’s focus away from Chuuya—banish the image of his angel lifeless in an alley, clothes soaked in blood, face pale. He deserved better. Dazai still remembered the devastation in his eyes when he’d told him the story of Arahabaki.

He swallowed bile and curved his lips into a hooded smile.

It half-worked.

“There’s a weapon.”

Don’t take on my family.

Mori’s expression stayed doubtful.

“There is something,” Dazai corrected, forcing calm.

Kouyou and Verlaine’s conversation lingered in his mind, Chuuya’s words—his warning, the panic bubbling in his voice. There had to be something.

“Ozaki hasn’t kept power this long on luck or superstition alone. We’ve assumed it, but now I know—there’s something down there. I just need more time.”

“Can you get back into the tunnels?”

Dazai nodded.

“The access door we used was unguarded. The tunnels are a maze, easy to lose yourself in, but I’ll manage. I have my charms.”

Mori pretended to weigh it.

“I just need more time.”

“Which you don’t have.”

“You’ll have to trust me.”

“Careful. If you’re hiding something from me, if you’re planning to double-cross—”

“I’m not the only one with secrets—”

Mori slapped him. Dazai laughed, bloody-mouthed.

“I saved your life, brat.”

“Did you?” Dazai hissed, venom dripping. “Did you save me? Or just chain me to you because you needed me? I’m not your dog. I’m not afraid of you, and I don’t owe you anything. But I can bite. Don’t forget that.”

Mori tapped the window.

“Your blood is black, Osamu.”

Dazai’s fists clenched, nails digging deep.

“I’d rather not take measures, but I will,” Mori said.

“What do you mean—?”

“Leave, while I’m still in a good mood.”

The lock didn’t look like it had been forced. There was no sign Mori had been in the apartment recently—and why would he? There was nothing there that could possibly interest him. Dazai had made sure of that, turning the place into a dump.

He shuffled into the bedroom, ignoring the hungry ball of fur that had claimed the space as if it had any right to him, and moved toward the wall.

He tore down the crumpled note.

Mori is lying.

Everyone did.

His eyes swept over the wall, drinking in the fragments of information scattered there, trying to connect them with what he’d uncovered. But his mind kept straying back to the redhead—the weight of his head against his chest, the soft curls tangled in his fingers, the steady rhythm of his breathing.

Dazai shook himself and forced his focus. Next to “master?” he scribbled “new alliance?” and “Ozaki?” He stepped back, trying to see it all from another angle, idly spinning the marker in his hands.

The robberies at the Port Mafia casinos.

The attack on the Ozaki brothel.

The battle cry.

The pharmaceutical company and the Kirishima clan.

It was all connected.

The cat meowed pitifully from the doorway.

“Yes. Maybe it’s time to act.”

His phone buzzed.

But first, he would call Yosano.

A blood-red invitation.

A charity gala.

A dance.

And the first stab, not the last.