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Chapter Text

While the bullet hit just slightly above Chuuya’s kneecap, Chuuya collapsed face-first onto the ground with a scream full of pain. He tried to push himself up with his weakened arms and get back on his feet, but it was already a dead end — he didn’t even need to look back to understand he had lost.

“This chase is starting to get boring.”

Dazai Osamu, the familiar voice’s owner and the leader of the Post Mafia, spoke in a tired yet relaxed tone as he walked towards Chuuya’s pain-curled body with slow, deliberate steps. Casually handing the gun in his hand to one of the men behind him, he shoved his hands into his pockets and leaned down towards Chuuya’s face pressed against the ground. With a harsh kick, Dazai struck Chuuya’s body, flipping him onto his back and forcing him to fully face Dazai.

“So this is my bride, huh?” Dazai smirked mockingly. “Not bad.”

Chuuya, breathless from the unbearable bullet wound in his leg and the exhaustion of being chased for the past three hours, still refused to let go of the defiance burning in his eyes. He furrowed his brows and glared at the disgusting man he’d been sold to. “Osamu.” Chuuya’s voice was heavy and thick with anger. He clenched his jaw and spoke with pure hatred. “We finally meet, huh?” As if trying to ignore the bullet wound, he stared deep into Dazai’s eyes with his piercing blue gaze. For some reason, that look made Dazai feel strangely unsettled for a moment. “Are you hiding the devil within behind those bandages?”

The men standing behind Dazai tensed up nervously. They knew all too well that their boss was an extremely angry and psychotic man — if he got pissed off at one person, he could easily send ten others to the afterlife along with them. What made it worse was how everyone referred to Dazai Osamu as ‘No Longer Human,’ claiming he was some kind of ominous, demonic being. Dazai had been abandoned by his own family because of this. If his foster father, Mori Ogai, hadn’t taken him in, he wasn’t even sure what would’ve become of him. Thoughts like these always made him want to leave life behind altogether.

But…

“I can’t wait to meet that demon.” Chuuya spat the blood pooling in his mouth onto the ground, flashing a smug grin with bloodstained teeth. And hearing that, even if just for a moment, caused Dazai’s unseen eyes beneath his hair to widen slightly. There wasn’t a single trace of fear in Chuuya’s demeanor — sure, it was obvious he was in pain, but he was resisting even letting that show. Clearly, if Dazai’s bullets were sharp, Chuuya’s tongue was just as cutting. And for the first time in his life, Dazai couldn’t help but want to see more of this spark that entertained him so unexpectedly.

“I didn’t expect to meet my stubborn little fiancé like this.” Dazai crouched in front of Chuuya, turning towards him with a wide grin on his face, radiating pure confidence. He had always been someone who knew exactly what he took pleasure in. He reached out a hand, his fingers moving towards Chuuya’s feminine, beautiful, and delicate face, gripping his chin and pulling it upwards towards himself. “Were you trying to run away with this short height and tiny body? Your courage is… admirable.”

As Dazai’s hand moved up from Chuuya’s chin towards his lips, Chuuya bit his finger and glared at him with furious, wild, dog-like eyes. He watched as Dazai pulled back, laughing all the while. Chuuya was still drained and sweating from the bullet wound. “Fuck—! I’m going to kill you, you bastard. The moment you touch me, I’ll tear your hands to pieces, I’LL BITE YOU!”

“Oh, I’d love to see that~” Dazai grinned shamelessly. Then, with one hand, he grabbed the writhing boy by the collar and hoisted him over his shoulder. “Relax a little, Chibi. I don’t know if you’re aware, but dogs are my favorite animals. I love their ambition, their ferocity, and their cute little scurrying around. I even had one when I was a kid. But don’t forget — they have four legs, and you’ve only got two. Next time, think about whether you want those lovely, fragile legs of yours to keep running.” Dazai’s mockingly gentle tone turned serious and cold by the end. Chuuya couldn’t stop himself from being both shocked and painfully uncomfortable at the sudden movement. As Dazai snapped his fingers to signal his men to prepare the limousine, the others quickly stood ready before their master.

“Let me go! I said let me go!” Chuuya’s feather-light punches landed on Dazai’s back with less impact than a caress. Honestly, no matter how much Chuuya struggled, he was utterly powerless. “Why are you so calm!? You don’t even want to marry me either!”

“Hm, you’re right. I didn’t exactly have high hopes when my father told me I had to marry for the sake of the deal.” Dazai smiled as he rather unceremoniously threw Chuuya onto the backseat of the limousine. “But I’ve thought it over.” He winked and shut the door on Chuuya. “And life is always full of surprises.”

“HEEYY!! LET ME OUT, YOU BASTARD!—” Chuuya kicked at the glass and the door with his feet. “LET ME OUT OF HERE!”

Chuuya’s screams sounded like a cheerful melody to Dazai; the boy’s voice alone was already enough to arouse and excite him even more. He couldn’t help but think about how beautiful Chuuya was — that boy must have fallen straight from heaven. His red hair cascaded down to his shoulders and framed his face, his blue eyes reminiscent of the sea, and the freckles scattered evenly around his eyes added a unique charm. Even without considering his slim and dizzyingly alluring body, just those dangerous, defiant, fire-filled eyes were enough to make Dazai’s heart race.

Maybe marriage isn’t such a bad idea after all?

—

SLAP!

“How dare you try to run away, you ungrateful dog?! While no one would ever want to buy a stubborn and ill-tempered male whore like you, Master Mori took you in, and this is how you show your loyalty?! Don’t forget what will happen to you if you ever disrespect your future husband, Dazai-sama, again!” Kouyou scolded him, landing another slap that sent Chuuya crashing to the floor.

As always, things escalated quickly once they returned to the mansion. Chuuya’s attempt to escape had failed, and now, after being slapped down by his older sister, he would be scolded and humiliated for a long while. After all, that was his fate — to be a worthless whore. The only ones left of Chuuya’s biological family were his older sister Kouyou and his older half-brother Paul, born from a different mother. Paul had abandoned them long ago and joined the mafia, perhaps becoming a hitman or something even more dangerous. Kouyou, on the other hand, had found a way to survive by selling her younger brother to motel rooms full of filthy men.

Chuuya was a beautiful boy, even more beautiful than his own sister, so selling him had always been easy. Plus, there was no risk of pregnancy, so since he was twelve, Kouyou had sold Chuuya to perverted men every single day, and with each passing day, he was forced to understand just how worthless he truly was.

Kouyou closed the fan in her hand and struck Chuuya’s face again with its hard edge. “How unlucky I am to have a brother like you! I wish Paul had taken you with him! You’ve brought me nothing but trouble!” Though her face was full of anger, she still managed to keep her composure.

Even as Chuuya pushed himself weakly off the ground, he stayed sitting. They had checked his wounded leg when they brought him back, but even so, he could barely stand. He couldn’t bring himself to meet his sister’s eyes, though deep down, he felt nothing but anger. Spending his nights in the beds of different men was something he’d accepted long ago — but being bound to just one man, and that man being Osamu Dazai, was an entirely different matter.

“I’m sorry, Nee-san…”

“Is an apology enough?” Kouyou clenched her teeth, her eyes narrowing in fury. “What do you think would’ve happened to me if you had managed to run away? They would have taken everything back from me! The money Master Mori paid when he bought you from me, the room he gave me in this mansion, those beautiful expensive clothes — everything!” Her voice echoed throughout the room. “And you? Could you give me any of that, little brother? Could you make your sister rich?”

Chuuya lowered his head, his long red hair hiding the disappointment in his eyes. He couldn’t give his sister any of that. There was no reason for them to even dream of being a happy family. Chuuya was a whore, Kouyou was selfish, and Paul was a runaway. They were bound by nothing but blood. “I’m sorry—”

“Stop apologizing!” Kouyou held her breath, trying to calm herself down. She knew yelling wouldn’t change anything. “Just don’t run away again. Stop trying to run. There’s only one week left until your wedding with Dazai. You haven’t even properly met the man — how can you be so sure you don’t want to marry him? Aren’t you tired of being chased?” Her voice dripped with contempt. “Promise me you won’t run away again. I want to hear it from your lips. Say the word: ‘Promise.’ Speak.”

Chuuya didn’t answer. He bowed his head even lower, closing his eyes. He wouldn’t make that promise. All his life, he had chased after freedom and escape. He had searched for a hand to pull him out of this flawed misery. Even if he had to run again and again to find that opportunity, he would never back down.

When Kouyou received no answer, she clenched her jaw in frustration. She knew her brother well enough to understand how stubborn and defiant he could be. Even if he used it to protect himself, it still never failed to ignite Kouyou’s anger. “You little—” Kouyou raised her fan again, ready to strike Chuuya with the hard end when suddenly, a hand caught her wrist firmly.

Osamu Dazai.

“Hey, Kouyou-san,” Dazai spoke in his usual cheerful tone as he made Kouyou drop the fan from her hand. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve been eavesdropping for a while now. My apologies… but Chuuya and I have already met.”

“You’ve met?” Kouyou blinked in shock, her gaze shifting from Dazai to Chuuya. “Don’t tell me…”

“Oh yes, I was the one who caught him during his little escape attempt. Think of it as a sort of Tom and Jerry moment… or perhaps, love at first sight, wouldn’t you agree, Chibi?” Dazai smirked mockingly, crossing his arms and shrugging. He chuckled as he looked down at Chuuya, whose hair was a mess on the floor and who was gritting his teeth in frustration. Irritating Chuuya was fun for him. It added a certain excitement to his otherwise dull life.

“I… In that case, how did you find my brother? Your father selected him especially for you.” Kouyou spoke as if she were advertising a product, while Chuuya turned his head away in disgust.

“Yes, yes, I know. Just a little amount for him or whatever.” Dazai rolled his eyes, clearly uninterested in the matter. Mori had paid nearly a fortune for Chuuya, but to Dazai, it still wasn’t much. After all, he was ridiculously rich; money was never his priority. In his eyes, Chuuya was almost priceless. Dazai shoved his hands into his pockets and smiled. “What do I think about your brother? He’s priceless.”

Chuuya’s eyes widened slightly upon hearing that.

He was so used to being called worthless…

That word felt completely foreign to him.

Priceless.

Kouyou took a step back. She wasn’t sure if she’d heard correctly. It felt… strange. Her brother was dirty and worthless, a broken human toilet used and discarded since childhood. But Dazai’s words shook her. “W-what?”

Dazai raised an eyebrow. “You heard me right,” he said, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world. He leaned down next to Chuuya and gently tucked a stray lock of hair behind his ear. “Look at the fire in his eyes. I’ve never seen something so entertaining in anyone before. A flame that never dies.” Dazai smiled.

For a moment, Chuuya smiled back at Dazai…

Until…

“Putting out that fire is going to be fun.” Dazai’s smile twisted into something wicked. His grip on Chuuya’s hair tightened.

The devil was finally revealing himself.

…

I can’t wait to meet that demon .  

Chapter Text

The wedding day was exciting—though only for Mori and Kouyou. Dazai was excited too, in a way; honestly, he was fine with marrying Chuuya. He didn’t have any serious objections. But Chuuya was absolutely a disaster. He kept pushing away the people trying to do his hair and makeup, doing his best to make himself look as inappropriate as possible. He was sabotaging the wedding—intentionally, and with dedication. Even with only an hour left until the ceremony, he was still in his pajamas. Dazai simply laughed, watching the other attendants running around in a panic. He was thoroughly amused—more than amused, really. This was the most enjoyment he could possibly get out of a wedding. And truthfully, even in pajamas, Chuuya was the most beautiful boy bride in the world to Dazai.

“Leave me alone!” Chuuya shouted as he threw the flowers in the dressing room and kicked the attendants out. “I said leave me the hell alone and fuck off!” Dazai leaned against the wall outside the door, biting back his laughter as he enjoyed watching Chuuya suffer. Chuuya kept yelling in rage as he tore the entire dressing room apart. Despite being small and short, he was loud and fearless.

Dazai gave a brief glance at the dismissed attendants, gesturing for them to leave, then clasped his hands behind his back and made his way into Chuuya’s room. “Hey, Chibi—” Dazai was ready to tease him with that mocking tone, but the words caught in his throat.

Chuuya’s hair had come undone, and the soft red strands cascading over his shoulders were stunning, almost glowing. He wore a white shirt beneath a cropped jacket embroidered with golden roses, its sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His waist was so narrow it looked like an hourglass. Dazai genuinely wondered if Chuuya might be an angel. His white trousers were also decorated with gold details, and he wore low-heeled white shoes. But the most beautiful part was Chuuya’s face—delicate, graceful, impossibly lovely. His sharp blue eyes, the faint freckles scattered over his pale skin, his pink lips, and that striking jawline—he was absolutely perfect.

“Huh? What the hell are you doing over there?” Chuuya placed his hands on his hips and shot a scolding glare. “Are you spying on me, you filthy bastard!?” His voice was laced with a calmer kind of fury now, different from the meltdown moments before—but he still wore the same defiant expression.

For a second, Dazai looked away, unsure of what to say, but quickly slipped back into his usual smug demeanor. He shrugged, shoving his hands into the pockets of his black tuxedo. “Ah, don’t mind me. I was just enjoying how grumpy my bridegroom looks.” He said it just to irritate Chuuya further.

“I told you to stop calling me your bride, you son of a bitch! I’m a man!” Chuuya gritted his teeth. If no one had been around, he would’ve grabbed Dazai by the collar and strangled him right then and there. He wanted to. But he knew if he actually did it, the consequences would be far worse. After all, Dazai was a mafia boss. Chuuya took a deep breath and ran his fingers through his long crimson hair. He really did look like a flawless pearl.

Dazai couldn’t help but smile as he admired Chuuya’s profile. He stepped forward and gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind Chuuya’s ear, then pinched his exposed cheek. “You look even prettier with your hair down. Makes me want to burn every hair clip in the world.”

“You want to do literally anything that’ll piss me off.” Chuuya growled in frustration, shoving Dazai’s hand away and crossing his arms. He didn’t want this wedding to happen. Marrying someone was already a huge responsibility—but being sold off to a mafia boss he despised was something else entirely. If it weren’t for the burden of leaving Kouyou behind, he would’ve tried to escape. But after ten failed attempts, he had lost all hope—especially now, at a wedding guarded like a fortress, held by a high-profile mafia kingpin.

“But isn’t that what marriage is all about?” Dazai said with a wide smile, taking Chuuya’s small hand in his own. “Enduring each other’s unbearable qualities.”

Chuuya nearly gagged. Everything about Dazai made him feel like he was being held against his will. “Say whatever you want,” he muttered, forcing himself to keep holding Dazai’s hand. “Come on… Stop babbling here. They’re waiting for us, aren’t they?” he said, lifting his sharp blue gaze toward Dazai.

Dazai wasn’t sure if this moment was the beginning of a fairytale meant to last a lifetime, or the result of some cursed fate—but his instincts told him that even if Chuuya was a curse, he still wanted to hold on to him forever.

Not that Dazai ever liked fairytales anyway.

—

The wedding was taking place in the grand Japanese garden that opened into the inner courtyard of the mansion. The sun was beginning to set, the sky caught between orange and purple, while the wind gently swept rose petals along the stone-paved path. Wooden lanterns, strung with white paper talismans on red thread, lined the way. The birds had gone silent. Nature had fallen silent for the wedding of Dazai Osamu. At the center of the garden, a low platform. Upon it stood only three things: a table, two glasses, and a bottle of sake. And directly across from them, approaching from the path leading indoors, a white silhouette… Chuuya Nakahara.

As he walked, the stones beneath his feet clinked softly, and crimson leaves scattered on the ground crunched with every step. Chuuya’s head was bowed, yet his posture was perfectly straight. His robe was white, embroidered with gold. His face, even as storms raged within, was noble. No one in the garden spoke. There were only eyes. Dazai’s men, Kouyou’s clap of approval beside Mori, and her delighted, sly expression, the other mafia representatives… Everyone knew this marriage wasn’t about a man — it was about the future of an empire of families. Anyone who looked upon Chuuya’s face and dignity could understand why Mori had forced this young man to marry his son, Dazai.

Chuuya would be a perfect member of the Port Mafia. He would serve as Dazai’s spouse and a covert impersonator, but the real purpose ran deeper. With Mori having known everything about Chuuya’s past from the very beginning, his plans would unfold flawlessly. Chuuya’s family, his ties, and his life — now, and in the future — were all things the Port Mafia sought to possess entirely. Achieving that started with this first step, and they would do it by making Chuuya Dazai’s property.

Chuuya sat down at Dazai’s side and awaited his cruel fate. The officiant approached, carrying three small sake cups on a red lacquer tray. The sky had turned gray, the birds in the garden had ceased their song, even the wind had stopped scattering the flowers.

The officiant spoke with solemn gravity; such scenes usually made Chuuya feel like he was in a drama and made him laugh, but now, he was too furious to smile. The officiant’s voice rang out as if he were conducting a sacred ritual. “Now, to unite the souls of Osamu Dazai and Chuuya Nakahara, the san-san-kudo ritual shall be performed.”

First, Dazai stepped forward. He took the small cup in his hand. For a moment, he looked at the surface of the sake, then, without the slightest hesitation, he drank all three sips. Between each sip, his eyes were locked on Chuuya. But Chuuya, instead of looking at him, kept his gaze tensely fixed on the ground. This moment was a victory ceremony for Dazai, but for Chuuya, it was a suicide.

When it was Chuuya’s turn, the young man slowly rose to his feet. His hands trembled slightly as he reached out. He took the cup, and with the first sip, his throat went dry. The second stole his breath. Before taking the third, he shot a small, fury-filled glance at Dazai.

This was not love. This was captivity served with wine.

As he drank the final sip, he closed his eyes. And in that moment, he was no longer Chuuya Nakahara—he had become Osamu Dazai’s lawful spouse, loyal partner, chosen mate. Whether he wanted to or not.

The officiant stepped forward again and, in that same loud voice, began to speak. Chuuya almost wanted to cover his ears. “Osamu Dazai. Do you accept to unite your soul and destiny with this person?”

Without looking away from Chuuya, Dazai gave a slight nod. His voice was clear, loud, and tinged with a twisted excitement. “Yes! I do!” he shouted, spreading his arms wide, then turned to the spectators with a long, ringing laugh.

Chuuya wanted to punch the man standing in front of him.

Now the officiant turned to Chuuya, and again, with that same gravity, began to shout like a priest in a church. “Chuuya Nakahara. Do you accept to unite your soul and destiny with this person?”

Chuuya’s gaze was sharp and full of hatred. He couldn’t move—he just stared at the crowd before him, tracing the path of his future in his mind. He was afraid. Simply put, he was deeply afraid. At that moment, Dazai leaned in slightly and, gripping Chuuya’s hand tightly, whispered into his ear. “Don’t even think about saying no, Chuuya. Imagine a gun pressed to the back of your head, ready to blow your brains out without a second thought.”

Chuuya shut his eyes tightly and took a deep breath. He was face to face with a metaphorical gun. But the weight on his body was so heavy he could barely bear it. He wanted to faint—or worse, knock Dazai out and run. But it was far too late for any of that, and he knew it all too well. His only chance now was to survive this.

Chuuya lifted his head. His eyes were ice-cold, his voice hoarse. “Yes…”

Yes, I do.

—

After the wedding, Dazai introduced Chuuya to the guests. Chuuya had met most of the staff from the smaller estate next to Dazai’s mansion before the ceremony, but he was still a stranger to the family and to relationships in general. As Dazai placed a hand on his waist while greeting people, Chuuya jabbed his elbow sharply into Dazai’s side, hard enough to make him double over in pain.

“Your elbow’s heavier than I expected.” Dazai whispered, though he didn’t let the pleased, affectionate expression on his face waver, continuing to greet the others without pause.

“You haven’t seen anything yet.” Chuuya muttered through gritted teeth, wearing the same cheerful expression for the crowd while mixing it with a whisper full of fury.

Eventually, Dazai led him toward a table where Mori, Odasaku, Kouyou, Atsushi, and Fyodor were seated. Before sitting down in the spot reserved for them, Dazai pulled out a chair for Chuuya — but Chuuya, without acknowledging the gesture, chose a different seat entirely. It was a small detail, but one that deeply satisfied him, leaving Dazai in a slightly humiliating position.

Dazai took his seat and reached out to drape an arm over Chuuya’s shoulders — only for Chuuya to step on his foot under the table, forcing Dazai to withdraw his arm with a wince.

God, I can’t catch a single damn break.

“This is my stepfather, Mori Ogai. Leader of the Port Mafia and the one who first wanted to bring you here,” Dazai said, gesturing to Mori sitting across the round table. “If it weren’t for him, I’d never have known about a beauty like you, would I—” His attempt at flirting was cut off as Chuuya turned toward Mori.

“Thank you, sir,” Chuuya said in greeting. “My big sister told me what you did for me. I’m grateful you saved me.” His expression was composed, serious. Truthfully, Chuuya should have been grateful to Mori—after all, he’d been rescued from being sold in a brothel market. Worse things could’ve happened. He could’ve been forced to marry some man twice his age. But Mori had only asked him to marry his son, a boy just two years older than himself. That was still bad—terrible, even—but there were worse fates. And Chuuya’s life had never once taken a turn for the better.

“The pleasure is mine,” Mori replied in his usual friendly tone, sipping his tea. “And please, don’t call me ‘sir.’ Kouyou and I already discussed this at length—I’d much prefer you call me ‘father.’ Osamu should start calling your sister ‘Ane-san’ as well. After all, we’re a family now.” That would be fair enough. Unfortunately, Chuuya’s legal guardian was his biological sister Kouyou, who was far too irresponsible for such a role. But now, they were part of this mansion forever.

Sitting right next to Mori, Kouyou blushed lightly and hid her smile behind a floral-patterned fan, giggling. “I thought we’d debated that a hundred times already, Mori-san! I’m not old enough to be called anyone’s sister.”

Dazai rolled his eyes—the boring conversation clearly wasn’t holding his attention. He moved on with introductions, waving his hand toward Odasaku. “This is my older brother, Oda. I grew up with him. He’s a novelist, but—”

“A novelist!?” Chuuya stood up from the table for a moment, causing it to shake and drawing the attention of the other guests. Realizing what he had done, he let out an embarrassed chuckle and sat back down with a small cough. “Oh, I’m sorry, I’m sorry... Well, I really love reading novels. I know many authors from Japanese classics. But I don’t recognize you.”

“Oh, that’s quite normal,” Oda replied with a gentle smile. “I’ve never actually published the books I’ve written. I usually hold a particular stance on emotions and values—I use my writing as a way to put my thoughts about myself into words. But sharing those with others feels like betraying everything they mean to me.”

Chuuya listened to Oda with innocent curiosity. Dazai, to be honest, was slightly unsettled by it—not because he was jealous of his older brother, but because he knew that Chuuya would never be captivated by the kinds of things that interested him. Chuuya loved literature, flowers, elegant and delicate accessories, hats, dogs, and life itself.

Dazai did not love life.

Despite the terrible situation Chuuya was in, his survival instincts and optimistic actions astonished Dazai, simply because all of it was so unfamiliar to him. Dazai had never thought to be grateful. He had never even tried to be.

“And besides, what I’m describing is the most natural state of Metaphysics, and at the same time—” Oda’s words were gently interrupted by Mori’s graceful gesture. It wasn’t the first time Oda had gone on at length, and they didn’t want to keep the other guests at the table waiting.

“Alright, alright, we’ll have plenty of time to talk at home. Oda, you must not be used to having someone listen to you so eagerly and attentively—this must be a first in our circle!” Mori turned to Chuuya with affectionate teasing before introducing the man sitting across from them. “This is my brother Fyodor. He’s the leader of one of the subsidiary mafia groups under the Port Mafia, known as ‘V.’ And right beside him is his son, Atsushi.”

Chuuya raised his eyebrows in surprise. He hadn’t known Mori had a brother. “Hello, it’s very nice to meet you.” he greeted warmly.

“Atsushi was only nine months old when Dazai started visiting often to play with him. They practically grew up like brothers.” Mori continued, his tone full of affection.

Atsushi lowered his head with a bashful and flustered expression, his cheeks already turning red. He had always been extremely reserved and anxious, and it was painfully obvious he didn’t know what to do with himself. Chuuya offered him a gentle smile to put him at ease. “Ah, then I suppose you can think of me as another brother now, Atsushi-kun. I hope we get along well.” he assured softly. Dazai couldn’t help but be taken with Chuuya’s subtle gesture. The young man was thoughtful, kind, and graceful—as if he were a true noble.

The rest of the day passed in a similar fashion. Dazai and Chuuya rode in a limousine for about half an hour to the hotel suite that had been reserved for their honeymoon. During the ride, Chuuya, who had never been in such a large car before, examined everything with wide, curious blue eyes. Dazai, as if trying to amaze a child, pressed a button that caused a panel to slide over the mirror separating them from the driver, and Chuuya let out a startled yell.

“Oh my god! Did you see that too?” Chuuya exclaimed, placing both hands on either side of his head, letting out a breath of astonishment. Dazai responded with a loud burst of laughter.

In truth, Dazai didn’t need to love life to be drawn to Chuuya—he just needed to live.

“Hey! What are you laughing at, you jerk!” Chuuya huffed in frustration, trying to calm himself. “The driver must have been so annoyed by your voice that he sealed himself off from us!”

“Pff— What did you say? A driver annoyed by his own master?” Dazai laughed even harder—his most genuine and prolonged laughter in a day. “That was me, you idiot Chibi!” he said, struggling to contain his chuckles.

Chuuya calmed down for a moment and leaned closer to Dazai with an expression of innocent curiosity. “How?”

“By pressing this.” Dazai hit the button again, and this time, the partition between them and the driver slid open. “See, there's a system here—it’s soundproof glass that separates our part of the car. Like this…”

Chuuya stopped listening. His eyes were fixated on the button. He shoved Dazai aside and pressed it multiple times, testing it eagerly. Dazai didn’t stop him—he simply let his husband entertain himself however he pleased.

The driver merely sighed. It was going to be a long ride.

—

After collecting the room key from the reception, they entered their hotel suite. As the door opened with a quiet click, a faint scent of sandalwood drifted out, instantly severing all ties with the chaos of the outside world. The room greeted them with a spacious and elegant foyer, exuding a composed sophistication. The carpet, deep navy like a midnight sea, shimmered with gold leaf patterns scattered across its surface, glinting like starlight under the moon. The walls were adorned with tones of beige, veined through matte white like fractured marble. But the true highlight of the room was its towering glass walls. The illuminated cityscape of Tokyo unfolded before them like a fairytale cast in the depths of night. In the distance, the neon signs of Shibuya seemed to compete with the stars in the sky.

At the center of the room stood a king-size bed, elevated like a sacred stage. Sheer curtains cascaded from each corner, fluttering gently in the soft breeze that drifted in, like translucent dreams come to life. The white sheets possessed a texture lighter than cotton, delicately adorned with red roses—some whole, with their stems, others as single petals. The pillows were so plush that the moment one sank into them, reality itself would seem to dissolve. From the ceiling hung a crystal chandelier that absorbed the day's final light and returned it in a golden glow. In one corner stood a modern bio-fueled fireplace resembling a hearth, radiating a warmth that was not only physical but also visibly emotional.

On one side, there were floor-to-ceiling wardrobe doors inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Dazai’s black coat had been tossed carelessly onto them, landing next to Chuuya’s neatly folded vest—the perfect harmony within disorder, just like the two of them. Beside it stood a minibar encased in woodwork, complete with golden faucets. Inside were the finest whiskies and delicate wines; the top shelf held several French champagnes that catered to Chuuya’s refined taste. The bathroom door had been left ajar, revealing a space clad in the noblest form of marble. A wide jacuzzi filled with floating lavender leaves sat at its center, while soft strains of classical music flowed from a small speaker. The mirrors were misted with steam, gently tinted by a warm red light. Every detail seemed meticulously chosen to complete the romance of the night.

When stepping out onto the balcony, the glass railings allowed for an uninterrupted view. The city stretched all the way to the horizon, representing to Dazai an infinity within himself, and to Chuuya a universe laid out beneath his feet. As a gentle breeze tousled his hair, Chuuya tilted his head back and closed his eyes, overwhelmed by a joy that defied words.

Dazai, meanwhile, was spinning slowly in the center of the room, hands in his coat pockets, his tone playful yet his eyes serious as he said, “This room is dangerously beautiful—might just lead me astray.”

Chuuya watched him silently, then murmured under his breath, “You already lost your way long ago, Osamu.” His voice was both teasing and smug.

“I’m hungry,” Dazai mumbled to himself. “I’ll see if there’s anything decent to eat.” He wasn’t usually the type to feel hungry, but the wedding had lasted forever, and despite everything, he hadn’t eaten anything substantial. He was certain Chuuya was hungry too. “Do you want anything?” he asked.

“Hmm, how unusually polite of you today,” Chuuya mocked with his back still turned to Dazai as he pulled out a few wine bottles from the minibar, inspecting them like precious pearls. “Ahh, these look like they were made for me. Pure gold!” he exclaimed, raising one of the bottles into the air.

Dazai took the bottle gently from Chuuya’s hands and rolled his eyes affectionately. “No, you don’t need this right now. Let’s have some tempura instead.” He wasn’t normally this strict about alcohol, but they were alone, and they were on their honeymoon. If Chuuya got drunk and lost control, Dazai didn’t trust himself. Right now, he just wanted to sleep and wake up to find his beautiful Chuuya by his side. “Aren’t you tired anyway?”

“Sleep? That wedding already put me to sleep!” Chuuya shrugged and pushed Dazai’s hand away, trying to snatch the wine bottle back. “Besides, I want to reward myself a little. It won’t hurt, right?”

“Nah-uh.” Dazai raised the bottle even higher, far out of Chuuya’s reach. “I literally shot you in the foot last week. Don’t test me, shorty. No drinking. If you’re not hungry, that’s your loss. Go shower and get in bed.”

Chuuya rolled his eyes. “You seriously enjoy annoying me, don’t you?” The irritation was plain on his face. “Fine. I’m taking the bed.” He grabbed one of the pillows from the massive bed and tossed it onto the floor beside it. “You’re sleeping here.”

“WHAT!?” Dazai blinked in disbelief as he realized he’d been assigned the floor. This was not what he had in mind. “Why am I the one sleeping on the floor? This bed is big enough for both of us—” He cut himself off as Chuuya sprawled out across the mattress, limbs extended in every direction, claiming every inch. “Oh my god, I didn’t even know your legs could stretch that far, Chibi.”

“This is how I sleep comfortably,” Chuuya replied, stretching out his arms too, as if it were perfectly normal. “But if you still want to sleep with me, go ahead.”

Dazai sighed. The perfect honeymoon morning he’d imagined was clearly not happening tonight. He placed a hand dramatically over his forehead and let out a deep breath. “You really are the most stubborn little creature. Heartless enough to make your husband sleep on the floor.”

“Yeah? And you’re the heartless bastard who shot your future husband in the leg, you savage.” Chuuya stuck out his tongue and winked with one eye. “Pfft.”

“You’re an absolute brat,” Dazai muttered as he rummaged through the hotel wardrobe for an extra sheet. “Have it your way, sweetheart. I suppose your mafia husband will let it slide this once. In honor of our first night.” He threw Chuuya a sly grin.

Chuuya lay sprawled out on the bed, arms folded behind his head in total comfort. “Too bad. I still haven’t forgiven you.”

Dazai pinched the bridge of his nose and groaned, then spread the sheet out on the floor and climbed under it. Contrary to what he’d expected, it was actually kind of comfortable. Still, he would’ve much preferred to be lying next to Chuuya, wrapping his arms around him. Just thinking about it brought him joy. And Chuuya had completely ruined it.

“Hey, Osamu.” Chuuya’s voice broke through the silence as he stared at the ceiling, lost in thought. “How are we supposed to keep going like this?” It was a realistic, direct question.

Dazai felt his stomach twist. From his side, the answer was simple—he loved Chuuya and would gladly keep going. Maybe they had been forced into this marriage, but Dazai didn’t mind. In fact, he was happy about it. But from Chuuya’s perspective, things were different. Chuuya didn’t even seem to understand why he was here. Maybe he had dreamed of marrying a woman, starting a family, living a peaceful, proper life. The idea of it made Dazai feel like he was going mad.

If Chuuya ever fell in love with a woman, he would kill her.

Yes, it was a troubling thought—but entirely true.

“Hey, Chuuya—”

“Are we staying at the hotel the whole time, or are we moving to the manor?”

What?

Dazai raised an eyebrow. What kind of absurd question was that? Did Chuuya even know what a honeymoon was? Wasn’t this exactly what he’d been thinking about? He had to resist the urge to laugh. “What are you trying to say?”

“I just don’t get why we came to a hotel. This can’t be our actual home, right? Besides, Mori-sama said we’d be living in the manor. So what’s this about?” Chuuya spoke while thoughtfully holding his chin. “Or are we just staying here to fool around for a bit?”

“Well… you could say that.” Dazai bit his tongue to stifle a laugh. “It’s called a honeymoon. After the wedding, the bride and groom go on a little trip or stay in a fancy hotel room to enjoy themselves and, y’know, have sex. Never heard of it?”

“I don’t go around marrying people every other day, you idiot.” Chuuya rolled his eyes. “This is my first time. Usually, I just sleep with a different guy every night, but not in hotel rooms—on their ugly, stinking couches.” He laughed at his own trauma, making a joke of it.

Dazai’s brows furrowed slightly. “Well… you won’t need that anymore, right?” he murmured. “After all, I’ve taken you for myself. You’re mine now. So just live your life—relax. As long as you’re mine, nothing will ever harm you.” His voice, for the first time, carried a depth of seriousness that couldn't be ignored.

Chuuya’s eyes softened—just barely.

“But,” Dazai continued, “if you leave me… if you run, lie to me, betray me… if you stop being mine—then I’ll shoot you.”

Oh.

“Good night, Chibi!~” Dazai chirped, his voice switching back to cheerful like nothing had happened. He lay back down, head on the pillow, and flicked off the light.

“Hope you have terrible dreams, bastard!” Chuuya grumbled, hurling one of the extra pillows at Dazai’s head. He then turned his back to him with a huff, curling up in a fetal position and shifting, trying to get some sleep.

Was this what it meant to marry a goddamn mafia maniac?

Chapter Text

Dazai had woken up earlier than he had expected that morning. Chuuya’s unconscious body lay like that of an angel; one arm had fallen to his side, palm facing upward, and his head was tilted to the side. Despite his small frame, the red velvet nightgown hung loosely from his neck and collarbones, far too big for his delicate build. His other arm had slipped to the opposite side of the bed. It was as if he had slept better than ever this morning. In sleep, the boy looked more vulnerable and beautiful than usual.

Dazai watched Chuuya’s quietly sleeping form. Despite his usual bold and defiant demeanor, Chuuya looked peaceful and angelic in his sleep. The red velvet nightgown draped over him was far too loose for his petite figure, accentuating his delicate facial features. Dazai couldn’t tear his gaze away, studying every detail of his serene expression and the slow rise and fall of his chest. The sight was mesmerizing and strangely captivating.

For a moment, Dazai leaned closer to Chuuya’s drowsy face, examining him more closely—so close that their lips were almost touching. For a fleeting second, Dazai couldn’t help but wonder what Chuuya might taste like. Sugar? Honey? Rose jam? Or—

SLAP!

Chuuya’s eyes shot open, and he suddenly delivered a sharp slap to Dazai’s face.

The force of the slap sent Dazai tumbling out of bed and onto the floor. Just moments ago, he had been calling the boy defenseless—now he was watching him turn into a complete monster. Chuuya was definitely stronger than he had thought. For a brief instant, Dazai was completely at a loss for how to react. He held the cheek Chuuya had slapped, his gaze drifting absently to the floor.

Chuuya, freshly woken and still not quite aware of what he was doing, let out a faint groan and pushed himself off the pillow as he yawned. “Ahh! My head hurts like a bitch.” He mumbled, glancing at Dazai on the floor. “Huh?… You okay?”

“Okay?” Dazai blinked and turned to him. “Do you not remember what just happened?” It was almost tragically funny—every time he tried to flirt with Chuuya, he failed miserably, and it was driving him insane. “Just now, you—” He was about to explain the truth but couldn’t bring himself to swallow his pride, not that it mattered since Chuuya had already cut him off.

“Do we have any painkillers or something? My arm muscles are seriously killing me!” Chuuya grumbled, rubbing the arm he’d been lying on. “I usually don’t sleep this much, so I guess my body’s in shock. I must’ve slept for almost ten hours. This fucking morning feels disgusting. I wanna go back tonight and sleep some more.”

Dazai chuckled at Chuuya’s groggy morning complaints. “Oh my, should I craft you a sword that turns back time, what do you think?” he teased, propping himself up on his elbows as he watched Chuuya rub the sleep from his eyes. “And you really shouldn’t be this grumpy in the morning. It ruins that pretty face of yours.”

“Fuck off.” Chuuya rolled his eyes. “You do know you’re supposed to say ‘handsome,’ right? People don’t usually call men ‘pretty,’ idiot.” he added, crossing his legs and fixing his hair.

Dazai couldn’t help but grin at Chuuya’s sharp reply. “Ah, I know, Chuuya,” he answered, a playful glint in his eyes. “But I’m not exactly famous for sticking to traditional norms.” Leaning forward, he took in Chuuya’s bedhead and rumpled nightgown. “And when you look as adorable as you do right now, ‘pretty’ is simply more accurate. My beautiful wife~”

Chuuya pressed the sole of his foot against Dazai’s face and muttered before getting out of bed, “Get that stupid face out of my sight.” He stood, turned his back, and walked toward the hotel wardrobe, scratching his hair as he reached for his pants and shirt. “Do I seriously not have anything decent to wear besides yesterday’s tux?” he sighed to himself. “Guess I should’ve called my sister to bring me some clothes.”

Dazai chuckled and dusted himself off as he stood up. “You do know you’re the wife of a mafia boss now, right? I can have anything you want brought to you, so stop being so indifferent.” He stepped closer, pinched Chuuya’s cheek, and winked at him with an annoyingly smug grin.

“OH MY GOD, I’M SICK OF THIS! I’M A MAN, FOR FUCK’S SAKE!” Chuuya pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. He didn’t like being treated as if he were somehow lesser when standing beside another man. Sure, he accepted that he was as beautiful as a girl—he even looked like one—but his voice was unmistakably deep and clear, like any man’s.

“Alright, alright, whatever.” Dazai draped an arm over Chuuya’s shoulder as he spoke. “I’ll have a few things sent over for us, okay? And I’ll pick out some especially great ones for you.”

“Oh? Now you’re trying to control what I wear too? I deserve better than your depressing suits.” Chuuya rolled his eyes and moved toward the window for some fresh air. Opening it, he let the cool breeze hit his face before turning back to Dazai. “Seriously, Osamu, just have them bring me a decent pair of pants and a T-shirt, that’s all I need. I don’t want to wear yesterday’s tux again—it’s hard enough to even walk in it.”

“Why? You looked like an angel in it yesterday.” Dazai wrapped his arms around Chuuya from behind, burying his face in the crook of his neck and inhaling the scent of his hair. It was exactly the kind of touch he had always imagined, the kind that drove him insane—and holding Chuuya’s slender body made him all the more restless.

Chuuya, however, froze for a moment. “Are you… sniffing me, you creep?” He blinked, glanced over his shoulder at Dazai, then quickly shoved his head away and adjusted his hair. “You really are like a dog.” The contact hadn’t affected him in the slightest. He didn’t share Dazai’s feelings—he wasn’t in love with him—and the situation they were in felt perfectly normal to him. This was nothing more than an empty marriage, done purely for survival.

Dazai averted his gaze, trying not to dwell on it. For now, Chuuya was his, and he was Chuuya’s. There could be nothing else. He had paid for him, and now he belonged to him. If it required giving more, Dazai would gladly give anything for Chuuya.

“This afternoon, there’s going to be a meeting with the other mafia bosses we’re allied with.” Dazai pushed forward to change the subject, shoving his hands into the pockets of his pajamas. “As my husband, you should be there to accompany me. I’ll get you a nice suit—”

“I’m not going.” Chuuya spoke indifferently as he held a packet of instant ramen from the hotel’s mini fridge. “I’m not standing around in a place full of mafiosos. Any kind of fight could break out, and if I get shot, what are you going to do then?”

“I’ll torture them for eternity.”

“That’s a little scary.” Chuuya stuck out his tongue, stepped away from the fridge, shut it with his foot, and walked over to where the kettle was to boil some water. “I don’t know how much normalcy this marriage can give me, considering you’re not normal. But at least give me a little free time, huh?”

“What’s that supposed to mean? We’ve been married for less than twenty-four hours! Aren’t you getting bored a little fast? Can’t you stand me even for this short a time?” Dazai couldn’t help but tease, though in truth, it was heartbreaking. Even he couldn’t believe his heart was actually hurting. Maybe he was overthinking it, but he wasn’t sure if Chuuya’s discomfort had anything to do with him.

“I don’t think I can make you understand that I don’t want to be in environments where mafiosos are present!” Chuuya slammed his fist against the counter while waiting for the water to boil and turned to face Dazai. “Let me spell it out for you: I don’t like guns, I don’t like mafiosos, I don’t like killers, I don’t like temporary alliances or power structures, I don’t like men dressed in black, and most importantly, I don’t like you.”

“Wouldn’t you change your mind if I gave you a kiss?” Dazai spoke with a hint of flirtation as he cornered Chuuya against the kitchen counter, thinking it would fluster him and make him blush. But Chuuya clearly didn’t care—in fact, he shrugged as if to say Dazai could kiss him if he wanted to. Chuuya was definitely not a man of romance.

“Go ahead and try if you want,” Chuuya said with tired, indifferent eyes. “I’ve kissed hundreds of people before, so it’s not going to impress me.”

Ah…

Dazai averted his eyes, releasing Chuuya and turning away as he pinched the bridge of his nose. Damn it. Why hadn’t he thought of that before?

Chuuya had been an abused boy for as long as he could remember. From a young age, he had been subjected to terrible things, yet he was someone who deserved the world. He didn’t know what love was. More than that… Chuuya didn’t even know what family meant. His sister was, quite literally, a money-hungry narcissist, and his brother was a runaway. Dazai should have realized long ago that Chuuya didn’t share the same perspective. The reason every single one of his flirtatious attempts failed was because such things had long since become ordinary to Chuuya.

As much as Dazai didn’t want to admit it, he wasn’t Chuuya’s first—and even in his first, Chuuya hadn’t experienced love. Psychologically, the hundreds of relationships Chuuya had endured over the years had been filled with rape, sexual abuse, psychological violence, and falseness. Chuuya had grown numb and was now focused solely on one thing: living.

Living.

What a desperate struggle.

“Then get ready—if I really have to come, I’ll go with you.” Chuuya said, completely unaware that he had just pulled Dazai out of his thoughts—and honestly, he didn’t care. A few minutes later, there was a knock on the hotel door. The receptionist had brought over a few pairs of high-quality designer pants and tops. Chuuya got dressed with ease, not caring in the slightest whether Dazai was watching him or not.

For a moment, Dazai’s gaze lingered on Chuuya’s body clad only in underwear. The young man’s skin was pure white, almost like cotton. His frame was as delicate and slender as a woman’s—thin legs, the slight gap at his thighs, the subtle protrusion of his bones along his back. Everything about Chuuya’s form carried a sacred beauty. But that beauty had come at a price. Dazai flinched slightly before looking away.

“Why don’t you get dressed in the bathroom?” Dazai asked as he set his belongings down on the bed, removing his jacket without looking at Chuuya. The question might have seemed odd for a married couple, but in a way, it was a boundary that felt necessary.

Chuuya turned to him completely naked, raising a brow. “What did you just say?” He blinked as if it was the strangest thing he had ever heard. “My body is public property.” he said with a burst of laughter. “If you want, I could even show you my banned videos from adult sites.” He let out a sarcastic but tired sigh. “So… there’s no need to be uncomfortable. It’s not like I’m someone who asks for privacy—”

Chuuya was suddenly caught off guard when something was thrown over him—a blanket. Dazai had wrapped him tightly in it, then walked over to shut the wide-open hotel window and pull the curtains closed. His eyes held a pure, unfiltered mix of anger and discomfort.

“Public property? You belong to me!” Dazai couldn’t hide his irritation. Chuuya’s nonchalance was driving him insane. Chuuya didn’t belong to anyone—except Dazai. Whether as a person or as possession, it didn’t matter. “You’d better start demanding privacy, because if anyone else even tries to touch you—or so much as glance at you—I’ll shoot them.” His eyes burned with a sharp, dangerous light.

For a moment, Chuuya resisted the urge to roll his eyes, finding Dazai’s behavior ridiculous.

The thought that this could be love didn’t even cross his mind.

He gripped the blanket draped over him and sighed. “Fine then, damn you. I’ll change in the bathroom, alright? Relax.” He waved dismissively and started toward the hotel room’s private bathroom.

“Chuu—”

“Yeah?”

Dazai placed a hand on his forehead and let out a long breath. “Those sites? I’m going to have every single one of them taken down… No one will ever see those videos again—not even me. I’ll make sure of it.” He bit his lip. “And if you want, I’ll gather every person who’s ever touched you into one room and execute them right in front of you.”

“Hmm… Funny.” Chuuya shrugged with his usual easygoing manner and stepped into the bathroom, locking the door behind him. He still suspected nothing. He still understood nothing. He still thought of himself as a broken toy—and refused to let anyone fix him.

Dazai wasn’t someone who could fix anyone. But for the first time, he wanted to try.

—

After eating the instant noodles Chuuya had made, they left the hotel. In front of the entrance, a very expensive and high-quality limousine was waiting—it was newer and pricier than the one they had taken to the hotel yesterday. Chuuya hadn’t even realized the limo was for them until the driver stepped out and opened the door for them. It was the first time in his life he had ridden in such cars, and he was quite happy to be getting used to it. The most expensive car he had ever been in before might have been a Ford Mustang Mach-E, and that had been only because his ex-sex partner used to pick him up in it to take him to a motel—reeking of alcohol inside—a memory he couldn’t help but grimace at. Still, he didn’t ignore the driver’s polite gesture and stepped forward, with Dazai right behind him.

Chuuya sprawled comfortably in the seat, gazing out the window with delight. He was like a little child. Yes, like an innocent little child. In Dazai’s eyes, Chuuya was a completely innocent lamb. What had happened before wasn’t Chuuya’s fault, and Dazai, envious of every breath that had come before him, wanted to erase Chuuya’s entire past.

“Hey, Osamu!” Chuuya turned to his husband with childlike excitement, a small smile playing on his lips, and pointed toward the large shopping mall outside. “Look at that! It’s huge and sparkling—I want to go there!”

“The shopping mall?” Dazai raised an eyebrow, but then smiled with a hint of affection. “If you want, I can buy it—”

“OH MY GOD!! LOOK AT THAT TOO!!” Chuuya nearly jumped out of the limo’s window, pointing toward the foil balloons held by a street vendor on the sidewalk. One had Minnie Mouse, another Lightning McQueen, and others were decorated with various cartoon characters. “Osamu!! Osamu, buy me that one!” Chuuya tugged at Dazai’s arm.

And Dazai felt himself melt at the touch. He didn’t even notice how red his face had gotten before he snapped his fingers, calling the vendor over to the front of the limo. Dazai carelessly tossed a few hundred dollars out the window and took all the balloons. As the vendor bent down to gather the money from the ground, the limousine continued on its way.

Chuuya looked like he could fly from joy at having so many balloons. “This is the first time I’ve ever had a balloon in my life!” He grabbed one of the foil balloons with a Snow White design and pulled it into his lap, smiling. “They’re so pretty!!”

“The first time?” Dazai let out a small sigh. “Kouyou? She never bought you a balloon?”

“Why would Nee-san buy me a balloon?” Chuuya chuckled. “Prostitutes don’t need balloons. Their freedoms are already floating away enough as it is.”

It’s not balloons that float away from their hands—it’s their freedom.

Dazai couldn’t stop his hands from curling into fists; everything he heard unsettled him. Even hearing Chuuya describe himself that way was horrible.

“Well, you’re not a prostitute anymore, after all.” Dazai shrugged and averted his eyes. “Now you have a husband. You’re the spouse of the Port Mafia’s leader. I won’t let anyone lay a finger on you, so you can do whatever you want.”

Chuuya didn’t seem particularly moved by the words, but right now he was far more interested in the thirty patterned foil balloons inside the limo. “How am I going to store these?” he murmured.

“We’ll keep them in a room of your own at the mansion, so you can go and play with them whenever you want.” Dazai spoke as he adjusted his cufflinks. “That way nothing will happen to them, and they won’t be able to float away. And if they pop, I’ll buy you new ones.”

Chuuya’s stomach turned, and he clutched the balloon in his lap more tightly. “But… aren’t balloons made to fly?” It didn’t really seem like he was talking about balloons—more like something else entirely. Dazai didn’t catch the reference.

“Hm? No, they’re only meant for fun. When the time comes, they’ll get dirty, tear, or pop. Then I’ll just buy you new ones.”

Chuuya’s eyes drifted off into the distance. Dazai didn’t understand the reason for this sudden silence—not in that moment. After all, Chuuya couldn’t possibly be comparing himself to an inanimate object… right?

Right?

Maybe he, too, was meant to be held in someone’s hands, only to be let go and disappear when the time came—just like this balloon.

Chapter Text

Chuuya and Dazai had linked arms before entering. Though reluctant, Chuuya gripped Dazai’s shoulder with both arms and rested his head lightly against it. It was mostly an act for appearances’ sake; there was no feeling behind it, but Dazai looked quite pleased with the situation. They stopped in front of the doors, between two massive black marble columns. The gold-plated double doors opened with a heavy sound, and the splendor inside dazzled Chuuya’s eyes.

The hall was enormous; the floor was completely paved with polished golden stones, the lights reflecting off massive crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, leaving a metallic gleam in every corner. Long tables were arranged in rows; crystal goblets, colorful cocktails, expensive wines, and spirits were laid out on top. A thin layer of cigarette smoke lingered in the air, mixing with various scents and perfumes to create a heavy yet luxurious atmosphere.

His eyes immediately caught the crowd. Members of the Black Lizard gang were grouped off to the side; dressed in dark suits with stern expressions on their faces, small golden lizard pins gleaming on their shoulders. In contrast, those from the New Guild stood out with an air of elegance; their suits were modern and expensive, in lighter tones, with sleek, tech-like accessories on their wrists.

The Rats in the House of the Dead gave off the most unsettling vibe. Wrapped in dark coats, silent, faint mocking smiles on their faces, most of them clearly wore gloves. Those from Decay of the Angel, on the other hand, possessed an almost grotesque elegance; outfits in stark black-and-white contrast, adorned with angel wing symbols, but accented with red details reminiscent of blood stains.

Members of the Order of the Clock Tower exuded a severe, rigid presence. All wore uniforms in dark navy and gray tones, clock symbols on their sleeves, and eyes radiating an icy discipline. The Flags, by comparison, carried a far more relaxed air; colorful accessories, a style that was messy yet deliberately so, and at one of the tables, a group stood out for their loud, boisterous laughter.

Dazai had cranked his charismatic leader mode up to the max. Usually known for his laid-back appearance, this time he’d gone all in to showcase that “mafia boss” vibe. He wore a flawless three-piece suit in the darkest shade of black, with a matte satin texture; the jacket, vest, and slim-fit trousers were in perfect harmony. Instead of the classic white shirt, he had chosen a bone-colored one with a subtle sheen. Rather than a tie, he opted for a black silk cravat, loosely draped around his neck for an added touch of elegance. On his lapel gleamed a small but striking silver Port Mafia emblem. His shoes were polished, handmade Oxford style, their soles carrying a faint red tint. His hands, as always, were in his pockets—but his stance screamed, *“I own this room.”*

Chuuya, meanwhile, as the Port Mafia’s ‘husband’ looked both sharp and stylish. Being shorter, he accentuated his frame with a perfectly tailored jacket. He’d chosen a deep navy so dark it was almost black, with a fabric that had a velvety sheen. Instead of white, his slim-fit shirt was a creamy off-white, the collar left slightly open. Around his neck hung a delicate silver chain necklace—not flashy, but eye-catching. His pants were slim cut, ending just above the ankle, and he wore shiny black Chelsea boots with a slight lift at the heel. He hadn’t forgotten his signature gloves; half-finger, black leather, completing the look. His hair, that brilliant copper shade as always, was neater this time, though a few strands falling across his face gave him an even cooler edge.

When the two walked side by side, the contrast was perfect: Dazai’s tall, shadowy silhouette paired with Chuuya’s shorter yet razor-sharp and striking presence drew every eye in the room.

“There are really a lot of people here.” Chuuya muttered toward Dazai as he curiously scanned the room. He hadn’t imagined being in a mafia allied with so many organizations. Not that he knew much about the mafia anyway—he was just a young man trying to survive.

“This is only half of them,” Dazai whispered, a mocking, wide grin stretching across his face. “But the only person you need to care about is me.” He continued, lifting Chuuya’s chin to meet his amber eyes with his own blue ones.

Chuuya smiled, but it was nothing more than a mask, because behind that smile, he had already twisted the hand Dazai had slipped around his waist. Leaning his neck toward Dazai’s ear without losing the grin on his face, he said, “Go to hell.”

The sound of his hand being bent made Dazai wince slightly. He definitely shouldn’t touch Chuuya without warning ever again. Still, he couldn’t deny he was pleased that his partner could defend himself. When they’d first met, Dazai had shot him in the leg while trying to escape, yet managed to endure the pain through a two-hour journey. And when they returned to the manor, he’d even withstood Kouyou’s slaps. Dazai had clearly underestimated him—the guy was stronger than he thought. Yet, at the same time, Chuuya had absolutely no idea what tenderness meant, and that left him emotionally fragile.

Chuuya headed toward the table reserved for the Port Mafia. It was round, with six chairs. Most of the people sitting there were familiar to him—Atsushi was there, with Akutagawa beside him, and on Akutagawa’s right sat a young girl with the same hair color as him: Gin. The others were Ichiyō Higuchi and Ryūrō Hirotsu. All were people Dazai knew well. For a moment, Chuuya couldn’t help but feel like an outsider.

But that thought vanished as a sudden voice echoed out.

“Oi! Chuuya-san!” Atsushi called, waving his hand. Chuuya smiled as he pulled out his chair and sat down. “I thought you wouldn’t come, but then I saw your name on the guest list and was really happy! That chat we had at the wedding was so nice and fun. Dazai-kun usually just makes fun of me…” Atsushi sighed and muttered.

At that moment, Akutagawa slowly moved his arm toward Atsushi’s shoulder, trying to offer some support. “Don’t worry, Jinko. He’s always like that. He makes fun of me every day too,” he said with a shrug. Akutagawa often used the nickname Jinko for Atsushi because he was known as the tiger in the mafia. Despite being very gentle by nature, when angered, he showcased his training to the fullest—fast, strong, and resilient.

“But Ryuu…” Atsushi bit his lip slightly. “Dazai-kun doesn’t joke with you. He means every negative thing he says to you.” he corrected, and Akutagawa’s face froze in a mix of shock and sadness, his eyes widening.

Gin cleared her throat to stifle a laugh, then turned to Chuuya. “Hello, I’m Ryuunosuke’s sister, Gin Akutagawa. I work in the mafia’s administrative division as an assassin.” She extended her hand across the table to Chuuya.

“You say that like it’s the most normal thing in the world,” Chuuya said, taking her hand. “I’m Chuuya Nakahara. I don’t work anywhere, but I do have an incredibly annoying, thick-headed, bandage-wasting, filthy rich husband whose death I’m currently wishing for.” His tone dripped with sarcasm.

“Want to hire an assassin?” Gin whispered softly.

“Nah. I can handle it, thanks.”

As Dazai approached the table, he unbuttoned the front of his jacket and ran his hands through his brown hair. Before coming here, he’d shaken hands with about fourteen mafia bosses, and his cheekbones ached from being overly friendly. Maybe he shouldn’t bother with all this and just shoot them all. Maybe even stick to his old plan and cut off their arms. But for now, he would focus on his malewife.

“Greetings, ladies and those who are not ladies.” Dazai slid into the chair next to Chuuya, crossed his legs, and draped an arm over Chuuya’s shoulder. He pressed a gentle kiss to Chuuya’s temple. “Comfortable, my love?”

“I was—until you showed up.” Chuuya replied, his voice laced with fake cheer.

“Oh, my lovely Chibi, always so witty.” Dazai couldn’t resist pinching Chuuya’s cheeks. Chuuya was honestly so cute and stunning, and after dealing with all those annoying men earlier, seeing this face felt like heaven—it filled him with energy. Maybe that’s why marriage and love were so wonderful. No matter what happened that day, he could look at the man he loved afterward and feel joy again. “So, what have you been up to?”

“Trying to get to know the other guests at our table.” Chuuya spoke while glancing at the blonde woman and the elderly man he hadn’t met yet—not that he cared much. The blonde woman looked painfully shy and avoided eye contact; definitely the exhausting type. The old man sat with his arms crossed, eyes closed as if asleep, though clearly just trying to look cool. “But honestly, I’m already getting sleepy.”

“If you want, you can sleep on my shoulder—” Dazai’s sentence was cut short by Hirotsu.

“Whatever you intend to do with your spouse can wait until you return to your manor, Dazai-san,” Hirotsu began with his usual seriousness. “Apparently your honeymoon wasn’t enough for you, but I must apologize—you have many mafia members to meet right now—”

“Ugh! Just shut up for a bit.” Dazai flushed a deep red, while Chuuya buried his face in his hands. The words sounded so natural, as if Dazai and Chuuya were a real couple—and while Dazai was secretly thrilled about that, he was also embarrassed at how flustered he’d gotten. For a fleeting moment, it all felt so dreamlike, so perfect.

Higuchi slowly turned toward Akutagawa. “Akutagawa-san… Your wine is empty. Would you like me to pour you some more?” she asked with a smile as she stood, lifting the wine bottle.

Atsushi, feeling a twinge of irritation, quickly snatched the bottle from Higuchi’s hand and set it in front of Akutagawa. “He’s got his own arms and legs—he can pour it himself.” Under the table, Atsushi stepped on Akutagawa’s foot and hissed through gritted teeth, “If you ever end up crippled, then you can have other women wait on you, Ryuu..!” His voice carried a faint threat.

The table smelled like love—

Or rather, cheese and wine.

“Dazai-kun, Chuuya-kun, it’s wonderful to see you here.” A soft voice approached the table. The owner of that voice was, of course, Fyodor. Though he ran his own organization, he always kept an eye on the Port Mafia, where his stepson Atsushi belonged. “When I noticed you weren’t planning to come greet me, I thought I’d come to you.”

Dazai rolled his eyes slightly; family dynamics were as tense as ever. He rose slowly from his chair, adjusted his jacket button, and shook Fyodor’s hand. “Good to see you too, Uncle. For a moment, I thought you were a washed-up vocalist who lost his spot at a concert, considering your organization still looks like a bunch of outdated, second-hand rock stars.”

“Haha.” A laugh that was insincere, yet pretending to be warm. “You’re the same as always. Still, sometimes it’s important to show a little growth and try to become a better version of ourselves. Think about that.”

Dazai rolled his eyes again and turned to take his seat—only to notice Chuuya standing up and shaking Fyodor’s hand as well. Chuuya looked completely oblivious to the tension hanging in the air. Then again, Chuuya didn’t share Dazai’s perspective; the redhead didn’t bother anyone who didn’t bother him. That was how it should be—but it wasn’t something Dazai cared about.

“You look stunning.” Fyodor greeted, his voice smooth. “No wonder Mori was so eager to marry you off to Dazai. Anyone would throw money at you.”

“Wouldn’t I know?” Chuuya chuckled, waving a hand dismissively in a mock-casual way. “I’ve heard that from so many men you wouldn’t believe it—but what can I say? This was my first marriage, and I’m glad it’s with Dazai.”

Dazai’s face brightened slightly at those words. Everything they’d done hadn’t been in vain—clearly, Chuuya understood his good intentions and was responding with understanding. Maybe Dazai really had managed to catch his interest by offering something different from all those other men?

But he was wrong.

“Dazai sees me as more of a friend—a brother, even. I’m lucky because I can feel comfortable around him.” Chuuya giggled. “We don’t have feelings for each other, so there’s no sexual attraction between us either, and that actually keeps the peace, don’t you think, huh?”

Oh no. Dazai’s fists clenched tight at his sides, his vision dimming.

Fyodor laughed heartily. “I’m glad to hear that. After all, it’s nice to know you acknowledge it’s only an arrangement between you. Both of you still have your own lives.” Fyodor then took Chuuya’s hand like a gentleman and brushed a kiss across his knuckles. “Would you grant me the honor of a dance?”

The moment Fyodor’s lips touched Chuuya’s hand, Dazai’s smile froze completely. It was as if an invisible weight crashed down on the room—the air thick with the anger and jealousy Dazai was barely holding back. His fists were clenched so tightly his knuckles whitened, but the most disturbing thing was the light that had vanished from his eyes, replaced by a bottomless, black void. A faint smile flickered on Chuuya’s face, but in his eyes, a spark of suspicion ignited.

When Dazai finally spoke, his voice was so low it was almost inaudible, yet it cut through the air like a blade of ice. “Anyone who wants to dance with the owner of that hand needs to meet my eyes first.” As he said this, he stepped between them, pulling Fyodor’s hand away from Chuuya’s. Each step he took was deliberate, and his voice dropped even lower, stripped of every trace of his usual cheerful tone. “If you ever try reaching for my husband again…” He paused, the corner of his mouth curling into a contemptuous smile. “…believe me, as someone who knows exactly how to silence a brain, I’ll make sure those elegant fingers of yours will never be of use again.”

Fyodor’s laugh was short and controlled. “Aren’t you overreacting, Dazai-kun? It’s just a dance. Besides, Chuuya and I are practically family now—wouldn’t it be nice if we got along? After all, you’re a married couple by arrangement—”

Dazai moved even closer, shattering Fyodor’s personal space. He leaned in from just behind Chuuya’s shoulder—not speaking to Fyodor, but to Chuuya—as his voice dropped to a razor-sharp whisper that sent a chill through the air. “This arrangement…” His head tilted slightly, lips nearly brushing Chuuya’s ear. “…might exist on paper, but in the real world? Chuuya belongs in my territory. Don’t forget that.”

Chuuya held his breath, stunned and trapped between them. Fyodor’s gaze was defiant, though faintly cautious. The darkness in Dazai’s eyes burned with a menacing patience. With Dazai’s hands behind his back and his lips so close to his ear, Chuuya felt an involuntary shiver run down his spine. “Damn it, Osamu…”

Fyodor narrowed his eyes slyly and turned back to Chuuya. “Seems your husband isn’t quite the man you think he is, Chuuya,” he said with a smirk. “But I’m sure you’ll learn the truth soon enough. After all, it hasn’t even been two days since the wedding, right?”

Dazai’s eyes narrowed further, and before he realized it, his hand clamped around Chuuya’s arm—tight enough to hurt. Chuuya noticed and tried to pry his hand off. “Osamu—”

“And Chuuya, do you have a phone?” Fyodor asked casually, casting him a quick glance. “I’d like to give you my number. After all, now that you’re the spouse of a mafia member, you’ll inevitably witness plenty of chaos. If something happens to you, you can call me.”

“A… phone?” Chuuya’s eyes widened slightly. The problem was, he had never had his own phone—not beyond the flip phones his sister once lent him or the household landline. A real phone had never been his. “I don’t have one… or a number.”

“In that case, I can reach you through the manor’s landline, right?” Fyodor smiled with effortless understanding. He didn’t judge, didn’t even let the thought cross his face. “Until you get a new phone, that’s how I’ll contact you.”

A faint spark lit up in Chuuya’s eyes. No one had ever offered him something like that before. No one had ever thought to give him something personal. No one had ever even tried to reach out to him again. Every man he’d ever slept with would hand over a day’s payment to Kouyou and then leave the hotel room without even cleaning up after themselves. Chuuya was always the one left to tidy up. This was something entirely new—and Chuuya was already wearing a smile Dazai had never seen before.

“A new phone?—” Chuuya tried to speak with a wide, genuine grin, but for Dazai, that was impossible.

Because the moment he saw that smile, he felt death creeping in. That smile wasn’t for him—it was for Fyodor.

“He doesn’t need one.” Dazai stepped in front of Chuuya. “I don’t even understand what gives you the right to suggest that. Why would Chuuya need a phone? He doesn’t have friends, no family who cares about him, nowhere to go and no one waiting for him. Why would he need a phone!? To text other men? HAH! Never.”

The room fell into dead silence.

Chuuya’s jaw tightened. His mouth hung slightly open, his eyes wide. It was as if boiling water had been poured over his head. For a moment, he gripped the edge of the table just to keep his legs from giving out.

And that precious smile from before vanished completely.

Fyodor’s smile widened—his attempt to provoke had succeeded. “Why not? You’re not going to lock him up for the rest of his life, are you? Chuuya deserves to have friends too.”

“Chuuya doesn’t need a phone,” Dazai snapped back, his voice like steel. “And he doesn’t need friends either. The only thing he needs is me.” He yanked Chuuya toward him, his grip on the redhead’s arm tightening painfully. “We’re leaving.”

Chuuya’s face was still frozen in shock as Dazai dragged him toward the exit.

—

"Why did you do this to me?"

Chuuya’s words hit him like a bucket of cold water, and Dazai’s steps suddenly halted. It was the first time he had ever heard Chuuya speak in such an innocent voice, as if the boy before him was just six years old and had lost all his hope in that very moment. Dazai turned toward Chuuya with wide eyes. The redhead’s gaze was fixed on the ground, his shoulders slumped. Standing there by the door behind the grand building where the ceremony had just taken place, Dazai let go of Chuuya’s hand.

“I couldn’t manage to love you, Osamu… I tried.” Chuuya looked at him, his eyes carrying a faint mix of disappointment and worry. “I’ve forced myself too many times to love someone, but you know it as well as I do—prostitutes don’t have feelings—”

“Is that all I was to you? Just a damn attempt?” Dazai’s expression twisted into a blend of pain, anger, and disbelief. His chest tightened, the sting of rejection hitting him like a punch to the gut. He tried to hold on to his composure, but his voice trembled slightly as he spoke. “I told you I never saw you as a prostitute. I don’t even care about that!”

“What difference does it make!?” Chuuya snapped, his hands clutching the sides of his fiery hair. “The only reason I’m marrying you is because I’m a whore. I was sold to you, Osamu! I didn’t marry you—I was sold to you! Is that so hard to understand—”

“You think I don’t know that?” Dazai shot back, his tone cold and sharp. “You think I don’t know the circumstances under which I got you? But still, I treated you well, didn’t I? I gave you everything you wanted. I was good to you. What if I had been some vile rapist? What would you have done then? What could you have done? With just two fingers I could’ve driven you insane, and why wouldn’t I want that!? BUT I DIDN’T—!”

“And is that something you think you should be proud of?” Chuuya’s eyes darkened. “How funny, isn’t it? Threatening a prostitute with rape?” His words dripped with mockery, yet not a trace of amusement lingered in his voice.

Dazai’s anger had reached its peak. He wanted to punch something, to break something, to mark Chuuya as his own. The mere thought of Chuuya being in love with Fyodor was unbearable, and his possessiveness was spiraling out of control. With eyes darkened by jealousy, he took another step closer to Chuuya. “So what now, huh?” he sneered. “You gonna pick that bastard over me?”

“Who?” Chuuya’s face twisted in confusion. “What are you talking about—”

“Are you really that swayed by a damn phone? You’d throw everything away just for a damn phone and a little kindness? Are you so starved for attention that you’d fall in love with the first guy who treats you decently?!” The words flew out of Dazai’s mouth before he could stop them. Even he seemed shocked at what he had just said. It didn’t take him long to realize he had crossed the line. No—he had crossed it long ago.

He had crossed it a long time ago.

Chuuya’s hands froze in place, trembling. He tried to process what he had just heard, but everything was a blur. His stomach churned, a wave of nausea overtook him. He felt like he was dying. Nothing made sense, and his body refused to cooperate. When his eyes met Dazai’s one last time, he noticed the look of worry in them.

And then everything went dark.

“CHUUYA!”

Chapter Text

The doors opened with the grace of a late arrival, splitting the murmur in the hall with a single sharp metallic sound. The light spilling from the glittering chandeliers first lingered in the air like a line; then that line slid over the four shadows entering, striking the golden floor. Whispers shifted, blending with the clinking of glasses. Everyone who turned to look thought the same thing; The storm is just beginning.

The ones late to the Society of Mafias Ceremony: the Storm Bringer Mafia.

At the front walked Paul Verlaine. His steps measured like a metronome—neither a tick ahead, nor a tick behind. He wore a dark suit leaning toward gunmetal black; the jacket sharp on his shoulders, the collar immaculate, the buttons matte. His bare hands preserved their clean lines down his sides; the impatience collected in his fingers was not eager to curl into fists, only kept under control. The expression on his face was like the dictionary definition of authority, his gaze the kind that could make one retreat without pushing, the kind of seriousness that didn’t need to shout to silence. Stubbornness cut a line along his jaw, and his eyes held a shade between ice and steel, cold yet alive.

On his right, just half a step behind, walked Arthur Rimbaud, Paul’s right hand and partner. His eyes scanned the hall like devices collecting data: the vibration in a crystal glass, the faint tremor in the waiter’s wrist, the two shadows standing a little too close by the wall, the extra fracture of light in one of the chandelier’s crystals. This was Rimbaud’s role: to hear the silence before the sound, to see the shadow of danger before it arrived. He wore a coat caught between navy and coal black, blending almost into night; beneath its collar, a tie pin like a fine streak of steel. He said nothing; after all, most of Rimbaud’s sentences were his glances.

On Paul’s left, William Shakespeare advanced with a quiet elegance, as though the hall itself had been built as his stage. His suit seamless, the stitches invisible; at his cuff, a faintly visible silver feather motif. Two slim rings marked his finger joints, one with Arabic numerals etched along its inner band, the other set with a black stone. At the corner of his lips lingered a distant smile. A man who never let his shoulders fall, who could spark a dialogue simply with his posture. When he caught a gaze, he didn’t wink; he merely held the contact a breath longer, not to speak, but to reflect others’ words back to them.

Victor Hugo closed the rear line; when he moved, the air seemed to grow heavier. Broad chest, broad shoulders, yet not crude; more like the wall of a cathedral, carrying weight but with fine craftsmanship upon it, a solidity that inspired trust. His collar was fastened, buttons perfectly aligned, and only the corner of a dark handkerchief showed from his pocket. In his hand he carried not a briefcase, but a box that looked like one; it had no shine, but an aura of quality surrounded it. As he approached the tables, waiters instinctively stepped back a pace, leaving not just respectful distance but something more deliberate.

Storm Bringer’s lateness spread through the hall not as a fault requiring apology, but as a decision that set the agenda on their terms. The haze of smoke wavered faintly around them; in the chandelier’s crystals, four silhouettes multiplied. Two men from Black Lizard adjusted their shoulders as if to check their golden badges. Among the lighter suits of the New Guild, a pair of cuffs flashed, then quickly turned back toward their wrists. The Rats in the House of the Dead stared for a moment before grinning; the leather of one glove flung the light back for just an instant. The contrasting colors of the Decay of the Angels made white sharper against black, while their red accents deepened as the four drew closer. Someone from the Order of the Clock Tower glanced at his watch; another didn’t—because their timepieces needed no confirmation from other eyes. On the Flags’ side, the laughter didn’t stop at once; it simply shifted tone, carrying a new gravity.

The announcement came: “Storm Bringer.” Short, rolling like lead. Paul inclined his head the faintest bit, with a shadowless seriousness on his face; no arrogance, no humility—pure protocol.

Paul scanned the hall carefully; he was searching for only one organization, the Port Mafia.

Almost ten years ago, he had abandoned his elder sister Kouyou and his younger brother Chuuya, joining the mafia to give them a better life. Within just a few years he had risen to the very top, then killed his boss to take his place, renaming the mafia and shaping it into what it had become over the past eight years. He had everything he wanted—money, fame, power… Yet he bore the cost of his fear. For if he ever returned to his family, he dreaded that his greatest weakness—his siblings—would be the very thing to be destroyed.

But everything he had heard in the past few days changed his decisions.

His younger brother Chuuya had been sold in the prostitute market to Port Mafia’s leader, Mori.

When Paul first heard the news, his vision went dark, the world collapsed into chaos, and he nearly lost his mind. This was something that should never have happened. How could the Port Mafia dare to lay a hand on his little brother? And how could a vile man like Mori even consider marrying Chuuya off to his own son? Paul wished he had kept everything under control beforehand. He wished he had secretly followed his siblings, helped them… But he wasn’t the only one to blame. Clearly, his big sister Kouyou had sold their brother the same way more times than he could ever count. That knowledge only fueled Paul’s rage further.

The clock inside him faltered for an instant; a delay invisible on the surface, but swelling with memory beneath. When he was still young, Kouyou’s kimono pattern had been home to him. The snip of scissors, the clink of a needle in a glass, the thin paper strips pressed onto Chuuya’s knees that never seemed free of scabs—everyday miracles pieced together by Kouyou’s patience. The day Paul stepped out of that house, the pillar of their family had begun to shake.

Everything was his fault.

Rimbaud inclined his head just slightly, murmuring, “The Port Mafia is at the twenty-second guest table, but of the six invitees only four are present. Clearly, the ones we’re looking for and their responsible boss haven’t arrived yet.”

“Was my arrival announced?”

“I don’t think so. I accepted the invitation at the last moment to avoid being checked. Your name was deliberately concealed. There’s no way Dazai or Mori could know.” Hugo spoke while standing beside Verlaine. His voice was clear, edged with sharpness. He had planned everything down to the last detail. After all, they were here to take Chuuya back, not to enjoy themselves.

Just then, one of the representatives noticed Paul and approached him. “Mr. Verlaine,” the representative said. “We’re glad you didn’t refuse the invitation despite your delay.” Clearly more excited about Storm Bringer’s presence than his words suggested, he cheerfully offered one of the two glasses of wine he held.

Paul, hands loosely clasped behind his back, maintained his air of indifference, and instead Arthur raised a hand to signal that Paul wouldn’t be drinking. Then Arthur continued in Paul’s place: “We had a special unit shipment this morning. As you know, we’re not twiddling our thumbs, right?”

“Of course! You’re absolutely right. It’s just that many of our members only agreed to attend this ceremony in hopes of forming an alliance with you, and when we didn’t see you, we grew worried.” The representative mumbled, trying to hold his tone steady while blushing with embarrassment. “Assassination jobs are rampant around here, but your narcotics shipments are the highest quality among the mafias.”

Paul rolled his eyes and strode off toward his designated table, ignoring the representative entirely. Many organizations offered him fortunes to forge alliances and secure his partnership, but Paul was already earning a fortune—why would he want to share it? As he sat at his table, the others remained standing. Paul drew out a cigarette and, when three lighters were offered to him, chose one to light it.

As Paul exhaled his cigarette with ease, his reply came short and plain. “I heard Osamu Dazai was recently married.” he said in a curious tone. It was the first time in a long while he had spoken; even in the presence of great bosses, he usually kept his composure, taking his time. The representative who received a question from him was tense with excitement.

“Yes, Mr. Verlaine. You should have seen his wife, though I heard it was a man Mr. Dazai married. Male prostitutes are always more alluring—especially the feminine ones with delicate, milk-white bodies.” The representative chuckled, trying to recall Chuuya’s face. “I heard Mori bought that boy the moment he saw him in the market. Paid a massive sum, even brought his sister along…”

Paul’s brows furrowed in discomfort. The way they spoke of his brother already pushed his temper to the edge. No one was allowed to speak of Chuuya like that. His little brother—sweet, pure, precious, a child who loved to read and meant well… His blue eyes shone with kindness, his gaze—like a fawn’s, born of innocence—always turned toward anyone in need. Chuuya was someone too valuable to be reduced to anyone’s toy. The thought that Kouyou, who had raised their younger brother, could treat him so horribly filled Paul with fury.

Hugo quietly placed the box in its proper spot on the table. One lock turned, then a second clicked far more softly in tandem. Inside were draft agreements, transfer documents, and, if necessary, a note marked refund—a set carefully prepared. Paul was intent on speaking the language of this hall: the lawless, with its own laws.

But the true intent wasn’t written in a single line of those papers. Paul wanted to take Chuuya back—not as something bought, but as a bond that could never carry a price tag. Chuuya was no object for sale; yet the world had its cruel way of forcing honor through the pockets of those determined to protect it. Paul had turned his pocket into the briefcase where that honor was being laid on the table.

As Paul inclined his head to dismiss the representative beside him, Rimbaud, who had been watching the air currents drift through the hall, noticed something missing. Nearly twenty minutes had passed, yet neither Dazai nor Chuuya was anywhere to be seen.

Just then, a shadow slipped silently toward their table. It lingered there like a blot of black ink—until it spoke. Fyodor. The Rats in the House of the Dead’s unsettling, grinning silence met in him with the patience of a chess move.

“A delayed greeting,” Fyodor said in a calm, even tone. “Storm Bringer’s wind, as always, is right on time—only the calendar is different.” He smiled; not with his lips, but with the tiny creases gathering at the corners of his eyes.

Paul turned his head, giving Fyodor a single second of recognition. But he wasn’t inclined to speak—and he had never liked the man to begin with.

Fyodor rolled the short silence between his fingertips as though turning an invisible bead. “It seems you’re waiting for someone. Normally, you don’t attend such ceremonies.” he asked.

At just half a glance from Paul, Shakespeare checked himself. Hugo kept the box’s lid and locks ajar, ready to close but not yet sealed. Rimbaud shifted his shoulder by a single degree, adjusting his line of sight to cover both side doors of the hall at once.

Fyodor let his gaze drift over the Port Mafia’s table before returning to Paul. “I don’t like delivering bad news,” he said, though his tone carried the unspoken but I will. “The two you’re looking for—or rather, one, and the other who left with him—departed this hall ten thirty-four ago.”

“Who?” Paul’s voice was a period placed on the end of a flat line.

“Chuuya and Osamu Dazai.” Fyodor replied. “Side door. Before the loud announcements, there is always time for quiet agreements. Today was no different. Dazai doesn’t like crowds; crowds don’t like Dazai. When the two meet, one withdraws.” He shrugged, but it was the shrug of knowledge, not arrogance. “Information is a precious thing; I enjoy sharing it—with the right person, at the right moment.”

“Direction?” Rimbaud spoke for the first time. The word was as short as a blade, yet it didn’t cut—it measured.

Fyodor tilted his head just barely to the right. “North corridor, service elevator. When they stepped outside, the wind on the street was still damp on the stone. Dazai doesn’t like to leave traces; that’s why the ones he does leave usually point the wrong way. But today, they were in a hurry.” The small crease by his eye reappeared. “Perhaps someone was about to speak.”

Paul gave Hugo a single look. Hugo quietly locked the clasps; the box was once more ready to be carried. Shakespeare dipped his head in the faintest nod, casting a gentle smile toward the nearby tables—a stage gesture that said, No tension, we’re simply moving places. Rimbaud’s eyes were already mapping the doorway in his mind, the floor plan unfolding with each step he hadn’t yet taken.

As they all moved to leave the hall, a sudden, frantic voice from the twenty-second table caught their attention. Someone from the Port Mafia had shot to his feet in fear and alarm, speaking into a phone.

“WHAT!? CHUUYA-SAN FAINTED?!” Atsushi was in shock at what he heard. He had thought they’d only stepped out for some fresh air. What could Dazai and Chuuya possibly have gone through outside? “Which hospital? Where are you taking him? Is Chuuya-san alright?—”

Atsushi fired off his questions in panic, but Paul had already heard all he needed.

His eyes filled with alarm and disbelief; for a moment he felt himself freeze. What had they done to his brother? He spun sharply toward Arthur. “Go. Find out which hospital.” he ordered.

I’m coming, Chuuya.

Chapter Text

The cigarette smoke drifted slowly from the redheaded boy’s parted lips, defying the sterile scent of the room. Against the suffocating purity of the white walls, the smoke curled in gray waves, fading before it could reach the ceiling; as if it were leaving behind a shadow that didn’t belong to this gloomy hospital room.

Chuuya sat by the window, wearing nothing but the thin hospital gown that was nearly translucent against his skin. The metallic chill of the hospital bed stood silently a few steps away, but instead, he had chosen the only escape that opened out to the world beyond the glass. The tips of his bare toes rested on the narrow edge of the chair, his knees, exposed under the gown in the harsh white light, betrayed a fragile vulnerability—but he sat with a careless, vagabond ease. With each exhale, his eyelids quivered faintly, and his gaze lingered somewhere between the warmth of sleep and the sharpness of rage; drifting only along the dull line of exhaustion and apathy.

His husband, none other than Osamu Dazai, the one who had brought him here, was probably still talking to the doctor. Playing the role of the ever-concerned husband—perhaps because he felt guilty…Chuuya couldn’t care less. After that fight, Dazai was no different in his eyes than the other men he had prostituted himself to.

But his sister Kouyou stood tall right beside him. The fury in her eyes was sharp enough to shatter all the coldness in the room. Her arms were crossed over her chest with scorching anger; her fingers pressed impatiently into her elbows, her breath mingling with Chuuya’s cigarette smoke, thickening the tension even more.

“Can’t you sit still for once without causing trouble?!” she finally snapped, her voice breaking through the room like shattering glass despite her attempt to hold it back. “Your goal was to please Dazai, not to cause him more problems!”

Her words seemed to bounce back from the white walls; in that moment, the emptiness in Chuuya’s eyes cracked just faintly—but the corners of his lips didn’t move. “Oh, so sorry I couldn’t stop myself from fainting, damn it!” Chuuya mocked, but there wasn’t a shred of amusement in his voice.

The red glow rising from the tip of the cigarette was the only warmth that echoed in Chuuya’s weary gaze. The white light of the ceiling lamp was so merciless, so bare, it stripped every shadow from a person’s face, leaving behind nothing but naked fragility. Yet Chuuya, as if defying it, drew the smoke deeper into his lungs. His chest lifted faintly, the burn sliding down his throat curled a bitter smile onto the corner of his lips. But in that smile there was neither joy nor peace; only a careless mockery of life itself.

Once, however, that feeling had been replaced by a heart that lived on hope and fought with all its might. Now, he was just like Dazai had been at the very beginning—waiting to die.

When Kouyou’s voice echoed through the room and then fell silent, for a time only the ticking of the heart monitors could be heard. That silence rang in Chuuya’s ears like a judgment. He could hear the anger hidden in every breath his big sister took, yet he kept sitting there, pretending to be calm in spite of it.

“Please…?” he muttered inwardly, pressing the cigarette tightly between his fingers. Pulling it away from his lips, he crushed it into the ashtray and rolled his eyes halfway. He had no strength to speak, but poison was already dripping from the tip of his tongue. “No one will ever be pleased with me, don’t you get it yet? They’ll be pleased with my body, not with me. This is what I am, this is how I’ve always been. Because I’m not just some sex toy made of flesh, Nee-san.”

Kouyou’s gaze fell on him like a stabbing dagger. Pain and fury were written across the woman’s face. “You’re blaming me, aren’t you? Of course… Blame me! If I had been like our brother who left, you could’ve made an excuse for it — but instead I’m guilty because I chose a path that kept both of us alive, is that it!?”

Chuuya tilted his head and looked out the window. Night hadn’t fully fallen, but even the daylight slipping through the hospital glass looked cold. The flow of people could be seen from afar, as if the world were carrying on as if nothing had happened. For Chuuya, time seemed frozen at a single point inside this sterile room. “I don’t even remember my fucking big brother; why should I feel indebted to him? He’s not worth making excuses for.” Chuuya slowly turned to his big sister. “I wish you had left me, Nee-san… I would have been an orphan waiting to die and never had to go through any of this.”

“What— what are you saying?” Kouyou’s face went utterly still. She had never seen her brother so broken. She had watched him question his identity many times, but he had never deemed his life worthless. Chuuya had always been grateful to be alive; he carried that gratitude with honor. Kouyou felt her chest tighten. “Chuuya—”

“Why don’t you leave now? Maybe you can keep selling yourself to Mori? After all, how much longer can I stay here?” Chuuya smiled at Kouyou with cutting mockery. There was a crazed look on his face. “They could get bored of me any moment.” His words were a direct jibe at what Kouyou had just said.

Kouyou seemed at a loss for words; for a moment she couldn’t speak, then she tore her eyes away from Chuuya, turned her back, and left. Only the heavy smell of smoke and the purest form of despair remained in the room.

As much as Chuuya didn’t want to admit it, there was a chance he saw Dazai as something more than a friend. The truth was, he had never really known his own heart. He had never had the chance to, because he was a prostitute, and love to him was nothing but a tool. A feeling that could be bought, that had a price. That was why he couldn’t even remember if he had ever felt anything for a man or a woman in an emotional sense. He had never truly known himself.

But perhaps the warmth he felt toward Dazai was, in fact, love—and Chuuya would never understand it. After all, love was something abstract, and at that moment the very concept was too difficult for him to grasp.

The things Dazai had said to him still echoed in his mind, still hurting him. Normally, Chuuya had been subjected to countless cruel words throughout his life, from his family, from his friends, from the men who had paid for his body. There were endless slanders about him; he had been stripped of his humanity. None of it had ever wounded him, none of it had offended him. Empathy, after all, wasn’t supposed to be that hard. But Chuuya had accepted himself as nothing more than an object, and so he had cared about nothing.

Until…

“You think I don’t know that?” Dazai shot back, his tone cold and sharp. “You think I don’t know the circumstances under which I got you? But still, I treated you well, didn’t I? I gave you everything you wanted. I was good to you. What if I had been some vile rapist? What would you have done then? What could you have done? With just two fingers I could’ve driven you insane, and why wouldn’t I want that!? BUT I DIDN’T—!”

“And is that something you think you should be proud of?” Chuuya’s eyes darkened. “How funny, isn’t it? Threatening a prostitute with rape?” His words dripped with mockery, yet not a trace of amusement lingered in his voice.

Dazai’s anger had reached its peak. He wanted to punch something, to break something, to mark Chuuya as his own. The mere thought of Chuuya being in love with Fyodor was unbearable, and his possessiveness was spiraling out of control. With eyes darkened by jealousy, he took another step closer to Chuuya. “So what now, huh?” he sneered. “You gonna pick that bastard over me?”

“Who?” Chuuya’s face twisted in confusion. “What are you talking about—”

“Are you really that swayed by a damn phone? You’d throw everything away just for a damn phone and a little kindness? Are you so starved for attention that you’d fall in love with the first guy who treats you decently?!” The words flew out of Dazai’s mouth before he could stop them.

Chuuya narrowed his eyes, a childlike whimper escaping as tears streamed down his blue irises. Thinking of those memories filled him with unbearable sorrow. He should have treated Dazai better. He should have been worthy of his love. He should have thought of himself as in love and learned the meaning of the feeling. Maybe then, he could have even become human.

Human.

He bit his tongue, the metallic taste of blood mixing with the stale reek of cigarettes, leaving a deep bitterness in his mouth. His long, slender fingers tangled in his crimson hair, pulling at it as though trying to tear his very brain out. His nails dug into his flesh, carving it, as though trying to scrub away the filth of his body. With every moment he hurt himself, his body whispered that the torment would soon be over. That finally, he could burn in hell in peace.

“It’ll end…” Chuuya’s sobs choked his throat. His body trembled. The air was warm, yet he was freezing. He was tired… too tired to sleep. Too tired to live. Too tired to even cry. Tired enough to want to disappear. “Help me… God… please help me…”

As blood dripped from his pale, fragile arms, he kept muttering and tearing at himself. He didn’t even notice the door opening. He didn’t notice the hands trying to stop him, the screams shouting his name. He only squeezed his eyes shut and wrestled for his eternal rest.

“CHUUYA!!” Dazai was the first to burst through the door, grabbing Chuuya’s arms and holding down his thrashing body. For perhaps the first time in his life, the young man’s face was carved with sheer despair and devastation. “CHUUYA! No, no, no— stop! DAMN IT, LET GO OF YOUR ARM!”

“HELP! GOD, HELP ME! LET ME DIE!” Chuuya continued to writhe as he was pressed into the bed. His sobs turned into great screams. His head spun on the hospital mattress, his eyes still tightly shut. He didn’t even try to open his eyes to see the world’s darkness. As Dazai grabbed both of his arms and pressed them together against his chest to restrain him, Chuuya fought this time with his exposed, fragile legs. “GOD, LET ME DIE!!”

“CHUUYA!” A sob ripped from Dazai’s throat; the pleading in the hospital room doubled. One was crying to die, the other to keep him alive. “DON’T! PLEASE— PLEASE DON’T! OPEN YOUR EYES AND LOOK AT ME!—”

When the nurses finally arrived, they were prepared. One moved to Dazai’s side and firmly held one of Chuuya’s bleeding arms that had been pinned to the bed. Another, holding the sedative, tried to steady Chuuya’s other arm in the same way. The third nurse took hold of the red-haired boy’s legs that were trying to push himself off the mattress and pinned them down.

Dazai sank down onto the cold floor of the hospital room as he pulled back; his hands, which had just tried to hold Chuuya, were stained with the boy’s blood. Chuuya’s blood was drying on his hands. For the first time in his life he felt a cold helplessness. “Damn it…” his voice choked with sobs, his crying growing with each moment. The background pleas from Chuuya increased his pain. Dazai, trying to awkwardly wipe the blood from his hands, was going more and more mad. “No, no, no, no— NO!”

The nurse leaned over Chuuya’s writhing body in the bed and carefully injected the sedative into the red-haired boy’s arm while the others tried to hold him steady. As the needle entered Chuuya, the screams rose painfully.

Dazai, uneasily crouched on the floor, bowed his head and ran his hands through his brown, wavy hair, covering his ears and eyes. “It’s over… It’s over… Calm down…” he tried to soothe himself, thinking from where he was that he was comforting Chuuya. “It’s over… It’s over…”

As the sedative took effect, Chuuya’s screams faded and the red-haired boy’s body went limp in the nurses’ hands. He lost consciousness, making small, broken-toy sounds in the bed.

—

Atsushi, Ryunosuke, and Gin had rushed into the hospital. After Kouyou’s call, everyone was worried about Chuuya. The boy was considered the weak link of the family. After all, he was small and frail, beautiful and delicate. In a mafia family as powerful as theirs, he was Osamu Dazai’s spouse. It wasn’t strange that everyone worried about him. At the very least, they were relieved that it wasn’t a stabbing or shooting this time.

“Don’t worry, Jinko.” Akutagawa placed his hands on his crying boyfriend’s shoulders as they sat in the hallway and gave him an encouraging smile. “You know, I get stabbed and shot nearly every week. My ribs break three times in a single month, and yet I’m still perfectly healthy—”

“THIS ISN’T THE SAME!” Atsushi growled. Why did his boyfriend have to be such an idiot? Most of the time he was an emotionless mutt, but still, this idiot was his idiot—and damn it, he loved him. “Did you call Dazai?”

“I let it ring, but he didn’t pick up.” Akutagawa pulled out his phone again, the screen full of missed calls. Dazai rarely answered his calls anyway, so he didn’t find it odd. “He should be with Chuuya.”

Gin stood right behind her big brother, speaking on the phone. “Yes, we’re at the hospital right now. Reception told us he’s in room A258, but we can’t seem to find the door. Dazai-san will let us know when he comes, understood. We’ll talk later.”

“Who was that?” Akutagawa asked, turning to his sister.

“Mori-sama. He must be worried about Chuuya—or at least, that’s what I think. But it sounded more like he was expecting someone else to show up. He kept insisting we keep an eye on the hallway.” Gin glanced around. Nothing seemed suspicious. To change the subject, she turned to Atsushi. “Kouyou-san should be in the garden. Would you like to go outside, Atsushi-san?”

Atsushi sniffled and nodded. “Yeah, getting some fresh air would be good.” He murmured as he leaned against Ryuu’s arm. Together with Gin and Ryuu, he started down the corridor toward the exit. Mori’s words to Gin echoed in his mind. Why had he wanted them to keep watch over the hallway?

The fact that Dazai still hadn’t reached out by now was troubling to Atsushi. Normally, the family was all too familiar with hospital incidents; every day, someone or other was bound to get injured, and Mori, being a doctor, ran a large, sterile medical room back at the mansion. They were always calm when it came to health matters and kept in immediate contact. But this time, there had been nothing. No word at all.

As they were leaving, Paul was arriving.

Rimbaud walked close at the side of his boss, Paul Verlaine. At first, Paul hadn’t wanted anyone to come with him, but in the end he had accepted his right-hand man’s offer. Rimbaud had always been the one he trusted most. Finding the hospital hadn’t been as hard as he thought. All he had needed to do was take advantage of the opportunity Mori had given him and follow Akutagawa’s car. To avoid drawing suspicion, Paul had dressed plainly, just pants and a shirt. No extravagant hat, no sunglasses. After all, only the underground mafia knew his face and his true name. Outside of that, in a place like this, he didn’t think he needed to hide.

“Are you alright?” Rimbaud asked, his voice edged with concern. As they climbed to the floor where room A258 was, he gently placed his hand on Paul’s shoulder, trying to comfort the man he cared for. “It’s been a long time for both of you. Are you sure you want to see him now, at a time like this?”

"He needs my help." Paul spoke with his cold-blooded mask. "If I’m going to take him the moment he’s discharged, then I need to show myself now. I’m sure he’ll be glad that I’ll be the one taking him. The bad days are over now, I won’t let my brother be treated like trash in a place he doesn’t want to be. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to raise Chuuya the way he deserves. He’s still so young. He can still go to school, at least study for exams through distance learning, and even get into university with early placement. I’ll put every opportunity in his hands. If he doesn’t want to study, I have all the means to secure his future anyway. I can take care of him. I just can’t find it in myself to face him…"

That last sentence made Rimbaud raise an eyebrow and look at his boss with curiosity. "Why would you think that? Because you abandoned him? You had to do it—if you hadn’t, you wouldn’t be standing against them now with this kind of strength. If you’d taken them into the mafia, they would’ve died—"

"It doesn’t change the fact that I’m the reason Chuuya went through such horrible things." Paul closed his eyes and paused before taking the last step up the stairs. His back was turned to Rimbaud, and his face carried a wounded expression. "Kouyou and Chuuya share the same mother and father, but I was only born because our father had an affair with a French woman. Not long after I was born, my father went back to my big sister’s mother, and that’s when Chuuya was born. When Chuuya and Kouyou’s mother died during childbirth, this time my mother and I started living with my father. My mother…" Paul’s throat tightened for a moment. He was telling this to someone for the very first time. "The reason Chuuya was raped was because of my mother."

Rimbaud’s eyes widened in disgust and shock. He hadn’t expected that. He had assumed anything could be possible, but this was revolting. It wasn’t Paul’s fault. Yet it was a horrific, stomach-turning act of abuse against an innocent child.

“N—How?” Rimbaud’s mouth hung open, as if he didn’t even know what to say.

“I… I don’t know how to put this into words.” Paul pressed his hand to his forehead and rubbed it. Then, after reaching the top step, he turned toward Rimbaud. “It started when Chuuya was five… We were really going through poverty. One day, my mother took Chuuya and didn’t come back until evening… When she returned, she had a wad of cash in her hand.”

Rimbaud, utterly shocked, quickly clapped a hand over his mouth.

Paul’s expression was still made of stone. Rimbaud could tell how hard he was trying to hold himself together, how he was forcing himself to look strong. Paul was exhausted, yet he still kept fighting, still wore that stoic mask, still carried the crushing weight on his shoulders. Guilt, grief, and pain.

“Verlaine—”

“Let’s keep going.” Paul turned his back and continued down the corridor without giving Rimbaud a chance to speak. He walked toward room 258 in corridor A.

The hospital room’s door was half-open.

Paul had never liked eavesdropping or spying on people. He was just about to knock on the slightly ajar door when he noticed the scene inside. For a moment, his fists clenched painfully, and the stern mask on his face cracked.

His baby brother… looked so small in the hospital bed, pale as a sheet. A few strands of his red hair had fallen across his face, while the rest spilled onto the pillow. His head had tilted slightly to the side; his unconscious, drowsy face seemed unchanged, as if he had never grown older, still carrying the same innocence as when he was twelve. Right beside him was Dazai, holding tightly onto Chuuya’s limp, frail hand with one of his own, while with the other he gently brushed back the strands of red hair that had fallen over Chuuya’s face. Another thing that stood out about Dazai was that he was crying.

“Ihhn…” Dazai swallowed as he tried to stifle his sobs, bowing his head and pressing his forehead against Chuuya’s hand. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry… I’m disgusting, I’m sorry…” he murmured in a broken voice. “I’m sorry for being the vile man who stole your joy of living…”

This was the last thing Paul had expected to see. At the very least, he hadn’t thought Dazai would treat a ‘whore’ he’d been forced to marry this way; maybe he would have taken him to the hospital, stayed around as if he cared, and then grown bored and left when things dragged on. If there was some tabloid-worthy drama, he might have lingered. But seeing such a troubled, detached, dark man crying for Chuuya—Paul hadn’t imagined it.

Dazai… was he crying?

Impossible.

Paul stepped closer to the room. If Dazai hadn’t been so focused on Chuuya, a trained mafia executive like him would surely have already heard Paul’s footsteps and turned to face him. But before Paul could fully enter the room and reveal himself, a hand pulled him back. The hand belonged to the person standing right beside Rimbaud, staring at Paul as if looking at a corpse.

“Paul..?”