Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The rain had just stopped by the time Dazai Osamu left class. The clouds split apart above Yokohama Academy, letting sunlight spill through like liquid gold, and students poured out of the gates in chatter-filled clusters.

To anyone watching, Dazai looked like a perfectly ordinary student — uniform wrinkled, tie loose, and a lazy smile on his face. But anyone who truly knew him — which was a small, dangerous circle — would know better.

He wasn’t normal.

He was Port Mafia.

And the only reason he was still in school was because Mori Ōgai thought it was “good for his mental development.”
Dazai swung his bag over his shoulder and sighed dramatically. “Ah, the monotony of youth. Homework, attendance, and the eternal tragedy of being surrounded by idiots.”

“Speak for yourself,” came a voice from behind.

Fyodor Dostoevsky, the quiet Russian who sat two rows behind Dazai in class, appeared at his side. His uniform was immaculate, his pale fingers tucked neatly into his pockets. Beside him, perched on the school gate like an overly
energetic crow, was Nikolai Gogol, grinning from ear to ear.

“Dazai~!” Nikolai sang, swinging his legs. “Guess what? There’s a party tonight by the docks! Everyone from school’s going! Drinks, games, and people doing stupid things — your favorite combination!”

Dazai raised an eyebrow. “You both know I have… extracurricular commitments.”

Fyodor smirked slightly. “Ah, but even devils need to wear human masks once in a while. Think of it as a field study. Observe the foolishness of ordinary people. Surely, you’d enjoy that.”

Nikolai hopped down beside them. “And besides, what’s the worst that could happen? You might even make a friend.”
“Unlikely,” Dazai muttered.

Still, their words stuck in his head. Maybe a night away from corpses, orders, and Mori’s shadow wouldn’t be the worst thing.

Which brought him here — standing in front of the Port Mafia headquarters that evening, a folded party invitation in his pocket, trying to convince his boss to let him go.

The office smelled faintly of disinfectant and expensive perfume. Elise hummed to herself, spinning on Mori’s chair as the boss signed off documents with a lazy smile.

“So…” Mori began, not looking up. “You’re asking me for permission to go to a teenage party?”

Dazai crossed his arms, feigning calm. “Consider it social camouflage. I’m blending in, maintaining my cover. If people think I’m just another student, they’ll never suspect my… affiliations.”

Mori looked up, amusement glittering in his eyes. “Blending in, you say? That’s an elaborate excuse for wanting free alcohol.”

“I’m multifaceted.”

Elise giggled. “He just wants to dance!”

Mori leaned back in his chair. “You do realize, Dazai, that your education is a privilege. You’re allowed to attend school because I trust you to keep up with your Mafia duties. If this party interferes—”

“It won’t,” Dazai interrupted smoothly. “I’ll behave. No crimes, no corpses, no chaos.”

“Hmm.” Mori’s smirk deepened. “That last one’s a promise I doubt you can keep.”

But after a long pause, he nodded. “Fine. Go. But if I hear even a whisper that you slipped up—”

“You’ll have my resignation on your desk by morning,” Dazai finished.

“Don’t tempt me,” Mori said with a low chuckle.

The party was already in full swing by the time Dazai arrived. The dockside warehouse had been transformed — lights strung from the rafters, music blasting, and the air thick with laughter and cigarette smoke.

Students he vaguely recognized danced or leaned against the walls, some already tipsy.

He slipped inside unnoticed, hands in pockets, scanning the crowd. He was used to the chaos of back-alley deals and gunfire — but this, this noisy burst of youth, was almost foreign to him.

Then he saw him.

A boy with fiery red hair under the dim lights, laughing as he nudged a dark-haired friend beside him — Yuan, if Dazai remembered right. The boy’s sharp eyes gleamed, his voice cutting through the music as he teased his friend for spilling a drink.

There was something magnetic about him — confidence mixed with recklessness, a kind of energy Dazai had only ever seen in battlefields, not school parties.

He was beautiful, in a dangerous way.

Curious, Dazai drifted closer.

“Enjoying the view?” the redhead asked suddenly, catching him staring. His blue eyes met Dazai’s — sharp, amused, almost challenging.

Dazai smiled lazily. “Depends on what the view is.”

The redhead scoffed. “If you’re trying to flirt, you’ll have to try harder.”

“Who said I was flirting?”

“You’re staring. That counts.”

“Then I suppose I’m guilty,” Dazai said, chuckling softly. “I’m Dazai. New here.”

“Chuuya,” he replied shortly. “You look like you don’t belong.”

“Funny,” Dazai said, tilting his head. “I was about to say the same about you.”

For a moment, their gazes locked — Dazai’s playful, Chuuya’s defiant — and something unspoken crackled between them.

Yuan, noticing the tension, grinned. “Careful, Chuuya. You attract the weird ones.”

“Shut it, Yuan,” Chuuya muttered, taking another sip of his drink.

Dazai smirked and leaned closer, lowering his voice. “You seem like someone who enjoys trouble.”

Chuuya glanced at him, eyes narrowing. “And you seem like someone who is trouble.”

“Touché.”

They stood there for a long moment, two storms circling each other under flashing lights, unaware that this single meeting would eventually shake all of Yokohama — and the fragile balance between school, sanity, and sin.

Chapter Text

The party had gone quiet.

The laughter and music had faded into a hum of the ocean beyond the pier, and the lights flickered gently against the walls. Most of the students had already stumbled home, leaving behind half-empty glasses and the faint smell of alcohol and rain.
Chuuya and Dazai hadn’t left yet.

They sat together on the balcony overlooking the harbor, the night wind tousling Chuuya’s red hair as he leaned back against the railing, a soft smirk tugging at his lips.

“You don’t talk much about yourself, do you?” Chuuya asked, tipping his head toward Dazai.

Dazai took a slow sip of his drink, watching the dark waves instead of answering. “There’s not much worth talking about.”

“That’s a lie,” Chuuya said, turning to face him. “You’ve got that look. The kind people wear when they’ve seen too much.”

Dazai chuckled lightly. “You read people well.”

“It’s a bad habit.”

They sat in silence for a moment — the kind that buzzed with something unspoken. The distance between them seemed to shrink with every heartbeat. Dazai’s usual grin softened, and when Chuuya met his gaze, something in his chest twisted.

Dazai leaned in slightly. “Careful, Chuuya. If you keep looking at me like that, I might think you’re falling for me.”

Chuuya scoffed, though his cheeks colored faintly. “You wish.”

“I don’t wish,” Dazai murmured, tone low and teasing. “I observe.”

Their eyes held for a long second, and the air grew thick — the kind of quiet that begged to be broken. Dazai could feel the faint warmth radiating from Chuuya, the scent of whiskey and something sharp, something real.

Chuuya blinked first, rolling his eyes. “You’re impossible.”

“Mm. You’ll get used to it,” Dazai said, voice softening.

He didn’t remember who leaned in first. Maybe it didn’t matter.

What mattered was the moment — the quiet crash of the ocean, the soft warmth of another person in a life that usually only offered blood and shadows.

And when they finally dozed off, it wasn’t planned. It was the kind of exhaustion that came after too much laughter, too much pretending.

The next morning, sunlight stabbed through the window blinds.

Dazai groaned, turning over, only to realize he wasn’t in his own bed. His coat was thrown over a chair, his phone was buzzing somewhere on the floor, and—
He froze.

Chuuya was asleep beside him.

The redhead’s hair was a soft mess, his face calm, lips parted slightly as he breathed. For once, he looked peaceful — not like the sharp-tongued firebrand from last night.

Dazai stared for a moment longer than he should have, before reality came crashing in like a gunshot.

“...Crap.”

He jolted up, snatching his phone. 17 missed calls. All from Mori Ōgai.

“Double crap.”

Chuuya stirred, squinting. “What’s your problem?”

“I’m late for work.”

“Work? You mean school?”

Dazai forced a smile. “Something like that.”

He threw on his shirt and coat in a blur, hair sticking up, tie barely knotted.

“Hey—wait!” Chuuya called as Dazai stumbled toward the door. “You’re seriously leaving without breakfast?”

“Afraid my boss is the type to make breakfast out of me if I’m any later,” Dazai said, halfway through the doorway already.

Chuuya blinked, confused but faintly amused. “You’re weird, Dazai.”

“I get that a lot,” Dazai said, flashing him a grin before darting out.

The elevator doors slid open at Port Mafia headquarters, and Dazai stepped out, trying to look like he hadn’t just sprinted across half of Yokohama.
Mori was waiting.

He sat behind his desk, Elise in his lap, and the atmosphere was sharp enough to cut through air.

“Ah, Dazai,” Mori said cheerfully — the kind of cheer that could kill a man. “So nice of you to finally join us.”

Dazai scratched the back of his neck, smiling nervously. “Traffic was terrible, boss. You know how it is—”

“Traffic?” Mori repeated, rising slowly. “Dazai, you missed a meeting with the French Mafia. The French. Do you know how hard it is to schedule with them?”

Dazai laughed weakly. “They’ll understand. They’re French. They’re used to disappointment.”

Mori’s smile didn’t fade. “I could forgive you, perhaps, if you were late because of a mission, or a gunfight… but tell me, Dazai—” His eyes narrowed dangerously. “Did you oversleep after a party?”

“…Define ‘party.’”

“Dazai.”

He sighed, raising his hands in mock surrender. “I’ll fix it. I’ll make it up to them. Consider this a… diplomatic delay.”

Mori leaned in, resting his chin on his hand. “You better, Dazai. Because if you keep slipping up, I might start to wonder if school life has made you soft.”

“Me? Soft?” Dazai smirked faintly. “Never.”

But as he turned to leave the office, the image of Chuuya asleep in the morning light flashed through his mind.

And for the first time in a long while, Dazai wondered if maybe — just maybe — soft wasn’t always a bad thing.

Chapter Text

Yokohama Academy buzzed with its usual Monday chaos — lockers slamming, teachers shouting roll calls, and the echo of sneakers down linoleum floors.

To everyone else, it was just another school morning.

To Dazai Osamu, it was a carefully constructed disguise.

He strolled through the hallway with his hands in his pockets, his uniform half-buttoned, that familiar lazy grin masking the exhaustion beneath his eyes. The night before still clung faintly to him — the scent of whiskey, the feel of salt air, and the memory of a certain redhead asleep beside him.

He’d thought about it all morning, even while Mori lectured him about professionalism and diplomacy.

He wasn’t supposed to feel anything. He was supposed to observe, manipulate, move on.

But the thought of Chuuya — his laughter, his fire, that look in his eyes when the world had gone quiet — refused to leave.

Dazai exhaled softly. “How inconvenient.”

He turned the corner — and nearly collided with the very person haunting his thoughts.

Chuuya Nakahara stood near the vending machines with Yuan, a smirk tugging at his lips as he gestured animatedly about something. His uniform jacket was slung over his shoulder, a few strands of red hair falling across his eyes.

When Chuuya noticed Dazai walking by, his words stopped mid-sentence. For a second, neither moved.

Yuan followed Chuuya’s gaze, then grinned knowingly. “Ohhh. That guy again.”

“Shut it, Yuan,” Chuuya muttered, handing him the half-finished drink. “I’ll catch you later.”

He started after Dazai, his footsteps sharp against the floor.

“Oi!”

Dazai turned just as Chuuya caught up, that sly half-smile forming on the redhead’s lips.

“So,” Chuuya said, crossing his arms. “We’re really doing this thing where you act like you don’t see me?”

Dazai blinked innocently. “See you? I must be dreaming again. The last time I saw you, I thought I imagined the whole thing.”

“Funny.” Chuuya leaned in a little closer, voice low enough that passing students couldn’t hear. “Because I remember enough to know it wasn’t a dream.”

Dazai chuckled softly. “Ah, so now that we’ve… shared a night, you’re following me around? How forward, Chibi.”

“Don’t call me that,” Chuuya warned, though the faint flush at his neck betrayed him. “And I’m not following you. I just thought it was interesting that fate decided to throw us in the same hallway again.”

“Fate?” Dazai’s eyes gleamed. “That’s a romantic word for someone who nearly decked me for stealing their drink.”

Chuuya rolled his eyes, but his smirk didn’t fade. “You talk too much.”

“Only when the company’s worth it.”

The silence that followed buzzed with unspoken tension — familiar, dangerous, addictive.

Then, without warning, Chuuya reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small folded piece of paper. He pressed it against Dazai’s chest.

“Meet me here,” he said, eyes locking onto Dazai’s. “Tonight.”

Dazai unfolded it slowly. In Chuuya’s neat, slightly slanted handwriting, there was an address — and a name.
Bar Lupin, 9 p.m.

Dazai raised an eyebrow. “A bar? Bold move for a high schooler.”

Chuuya smirked. “You think I’d pick someplace boring? Don’t worry — they don’t ask for IDs if you know the right people.”

“Ah, a rebel. I like that.”

Chuuya shrugged, stepping back with his hands in his pockets. “Don’t be late. I don’t chase people twice.”

He turned and walked off, the morning light catching in his hair as he disappeared down the hall.

Dazai stood there, the note still between his fingers, a rare flicker of amusement playing across his face.

“Bar Lupin…” he murmured. “What are you planning, Chuuya?”

A faint smile tugged at his lips.

For once, he wasn’t sure if he was walking into a trap or a date — and for the first time in a long while, the idea of either didn’t bother him.

The paper crinkled softly in Dazai’s hand as he unfolded it again during his next class. Between the neat scrawl of Bar Lupin — 9 p.m. a string of digits curved along the bottom margin.
Chuuya’s number.

Dazai’s grin crept up before he could stop it. Bold little mafioso, he thought. Leaving breadcrumbs for me.

By the time evening came, he was back at Port Mafia headquarters, half-listening to Mori’s voice echo off the marble walls of the meeting room. Reports about weapons, shipments, the French Mafia, negotiations — the usual. Dazai sat two chairs down from the boss, chin propped in his palm, phone resting discreetly on his knee beneath the table.

A new message glowed on the screen:

Chuuya ★: “Don’t tell me you’re bailing tonight, pretty boy.”

Dazai’s thumb hovered for only a heartbeat before replying.

Dazai : “I never bail. But if you wanted me that badly, you could’ve just said so ♡”
Another ping.

Chuuya ★: “Tch. Flirt less, show up on time.”

He stifled a laugh, shoulders shaking once. The sound was small, but enough.

Across the polished table, Mori’s pen paused mid-note. He didn’t look up immediately, only spoke in that light, dangerous tone.

“Something amusing, Dazai?”

Dazai straightened slightly, masking the smile that still tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Just the elegance of your plan, Boss. Truly inspiring.”

Mori’s eyes flicked toward him — sharp, knowing. A faint curve touched his lips. “I’m sure.”

Dazai’s phone buzzed again under the table.

Chuuya ★: “You’re smiling, aren’t you? Bet you are.”

He typed back with one hand, hiding the screen behind a report folder.

Dazai : “Caught me. But don’t get cocky, Chibi. You might start thinking you’re special.”

A minute later:

Chuuya ★: “Maybe I already am.”

Mori resumed the meeting, voice smooth and clinical, but Dazai caught the briefest sidelong glance — the one Mori gave whenever his prized subordinate’s mask slipped.

For the rest of the briefing, Dazai managed to keep his expression neutral. Almost.

But the soft curve at the edge of his mouth lingered long after the meeting ended.

Chapter Text

The night air over Yokohama shimmered with neon, damp and electric. The narrow street leading to Bar Lupin glowed in the rain-slick light of passing cars.

Dazai arrived five minutes late on purpose — a habit, a test, and a statement all at once. He slipped through the bar’s wooden door, letting jazz and cigarette smoke roll over him.

The place was dim and quiet, the kind of bar where secrets were traded more often than drinks.

And there, at the counter, sat Chuuya.

His jacket was draped over the back of his stool, his shirt slightly unbuttoned at the collar. The faint amber light caught in his hair as he swirled the ice in his glass. He didn’t turn when Dazai approached, but the corner of his mouth curved knowingly.

“You’re late,” Chuuya said.

“I like to make an entrance.” Dazai slid into the seat beside him, resting his chin on his hand. “You clean up well, by the way. I almost didn’t recognize you without the glare.”

“Keep talking and I’ll show you it again,” Chuuya muttered, though his lips twitched upward.

The bartender passed by, and Dazai ordered something light — he wasn’t here to drink. Not really.

The music filled the pauses between their words, smooth saxophone hums wrapping around them like fog.

“So,” Chuuya said, finally turning to look at him. “You actually came.”

“I’m a man of my word,” Dazai replied. “Sometimes.”

Chuuya chuckled, low and amused. “You’re trouble, Dazai.”

“I’ve been told. But you don’t seem to mind.”

He leaned a little closer, enough for Chuuya to catch the faint trace of cologne and danger mixed in his voice. For a moment, the noise of the bar faded, the world narrowing down to two breaths.

And then — buzz.

The sound of a phone vibrating broke the moment.

Chuuya frowned, glancing down at his screen. The light from it painted his face pale. Whatever message he read, it shifted his expression instantly — the smirk slipped away, replaced by something sharp, guarded.

Dazai noticed. “Bad news?”

Chuuya quickly slipped the phone back into his pocket, downed the rest of his drink, and stood. “Something like that.”

“Leaving so soon?” Dazai’s tone was light, but his eyes followed every move carefully.

“Yeah. Sorry, I’ve got to handle something.”

He grabbed his jacket and hesitated for half a second — enough to show it wasn’t nothing. “Rain check?”

Dazai smiled faintly. “You make it sound like there’ll be a next time.”

“There might be,” Chuuya said, flashing that quick grin again. “Depends on how much trouble you cause.”

And then he was gone — out the door, into the night, his phone lighting his path down the narrow street.

Dazai sat there a moment longer, the glass untouched in front of him. His reflection in the amber liquid smiled back, faint and unreadable.

He leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing toward the door Chuuya had disappeared through.

“Interesting,” he murmured. “So, Chuuya Nakahara… what secrets are you hiding, I wonder?”

Outside, thunder rolled low over Yokohama — a storm brewing on both sides of their worlds.

Chapter Text

The next day came cloaked in gray clouds and the faint smell of rain-soaked iron — the kind of Yokohama morning that promised tension before anyone spoke a word.

Dazai stood beside Mori Ōgai in one of the upper meeting rooms of a luxury hotel downtown. The place reeked of money and menace, its windows tinted, its furniture black and expensive. A long table separated the Port Mafia from their guests — the French Mafia.

Mori’s smile was sharp as ever, his voice smooth as silk. “It’s been far too long since our organizations cooperated directly, Verlaine-san. I trust your journey was comfortable?”

Paul Verlaine — tall, elegant, and far too composed for someone with his reputation — smiled faintly in return. “Comfort is not something we chase, Mori-san. But Yokohama has its charms.”

Dazai’s gaze, however, wasn’t on Verlaine.

It was on the person standing quietly just behind him.
Chuuya.

Dressed differently now — darker coat, gloves, no school uniform in sight. The confident tilt of his chin, the alertness in his eyes — gone was the high school student who laughed under neon lights. This Chuuya carried himself like someone who had seen blood and knew how to spill it.

Their eyes met for the briefest second.

And in that heartbeat, everything clicked into place.

So that’s why you left the bar so suddenly.

Dazai’s fingers twitched slightly at his side, but he said nothing. He couldn’t.

Mori was talking business, Verlaine was replying in that clipped French accent, and a single misplaced word could turn this room into a war zone.

Mori’s voice cut through the tension. “You’ve brought someone new, Verlaine-san. A protégé?”

Verlaine’s pale eyes flicked toward Chuuya. “You could say that. A promising partner — he has a rare… talent.”

Dazai’s smirk was small, sharp, and hidden behind a sip of tea. Partner, huh?

Chuuya, for his part, didn’t look at him again. He kept his gaze straight ahead, jaw tight. But Dazai saw it — the slight shift in posture, the tension around his mouth. The recognition he was trying to suppress.

The entire meeting became a slow, silent exchange between them — glances when no one was watching, the unspoken realization that both their worlds were more tangled than either had guessed.

When Mori leaned forward to discuss numbers, Dazai felt Verlaine’s eyes flick toward him.

“You must be Dazai Osamu,” Verlaine said smoothly. “I’ve heard interesting things. The prodigy of Yokohama’s underworld.”

Dazai smiled lazily. “Flattery won’t get you a discount, monsieur.”

Verlaine’s chuckle was quiet, but his glance toward Chuuya was unmistakable. “It’s strange. My partner here has mentioned a name once before — Dazai. I assumed coincidence, but…”

Chuuya’s hand tightened on the edge of the table. “Verlaine,” he warned softly.

The Frenchman waved him off with a faint grin. “Ah, forgive me. I didn’t mean to embarrass you in front of your… school friend.”

Mori’s eyebrow lifted just slightly. “School friend?”

Dazai chuckled under his breath, smoothly recovering. “What can I say? I’m charming enough to leave an impression everywhere I go.”

Mori’s eyes flicked toward him, unreadable — a silent warning not to let this get personal.

The rest of the meeting passed in careful words and sharper glances. Every time Dazai spoke, he could feel Chuuya’s attention flicker toward him — and every time Chuuya replied to Verlaine, Dazai’s gaze followed the curve of his voice.

When it finally ended, Mori shook hands with Verlaine, smiling like a wolf in a silk suit. “Let’s continue this alliance in peace, then.”

“Of course,” Verlaine said, returning the smile. “Until our next transaction.”

The French group turned to leave. As Chuuya passed by Dazai, their eyes met one last time.

No words.

No smiles.

Just that heavy silence full of recognition and frustration — the echo of what had happened, and what couldn’t be said here.

Then Chuuya was gone again, following Verlaine out of the room, leaving behind only the faint scent of smoke and rain.

Mori waited until the door closed. “Dazai,” he said softly.

“Yes, Boss?”

“That boy — the one with Verlaine.” Mori’s voice stayed calm, but his eyes were razor-sharp. “You know him.”

Dazai smiled faintly, tucking his hands into his pockets. “Know him? Maybe. Hard to forget red hair like that.”

Mori studied him for a moment longer, then turned away with a hum. “Don’t get distracted.”

“Me?” Dazai said, his grin flickering. “Never.”

But as he walked out into the cool hallway, his heart was already miles away — chasing red hair disappearing into the rain.

Chapter Text

Yokohama’s back alleys shimmered under the drizzle, a quiet hum of rain and neon weaving through the night. Dazai waited in the half-light behind an abandoned warehouse, hands deep in his coat pockets, that familiar lazy smile curling at the edge of his mouth.

He didn’t wait long.

Chuuya’s voice cut through the rain, low and sharp. “You really have a death wish, showing up here, huh?”

Dazai turned toward him with a grin. “If I die, it’ll be from boredom, not from you.”

Chuuya rolled his eyes as he stepped closer, the rain tracing down the brim of his hat. “You shouldn’t be here. If Mori finds out you’re snooping around French Mafia territory—”

“He’ll scold me again?” Dazai interrupted lightly. “Already covered that.”

“Then why are you here?”

Dazai tilted his head. “To ask you the same thing. You disappeared from our date, and suddenly I find you working for Verlaine. Quite the coincidence, isn’t it?”

Chuuya crossed his arms. “I’m just helping him navigate the city. The French and Port Mafia have a truce right now, in case you forgot.”

“Mm. A fragile one.” Dazai stepped forward, his voice lowering, teasing. “You really expect me to believe it’s just business?”

Chuuya’s jaw tightened. “It is.”

“Then why won’t you look at me?”

Chuuya’s eyes flicked up, meeting Dazai’s—and the air between them shifted. The alley felt smaller, the rain quieter. Dazai’s smirk softened, his usual playfulness turning to something warmer, almost unguarded.

“You know,” he murmured, “you really shouldn’t blush in the rain. It gives you away.”

“I’m not blushing,” Chuuya shot back too quickly.

Dazai’s grin widened. “Of course not.”

He reached out, brushing a strand of damp red hair from Chuuya’s face, fingertips lingering just long enough to make him freeze.

“Dazai…”

“Mm?”

“You’re impossible.”

“Then stop trying to resist.”

And before Chuuya could come up with a comeback, Dazai leaned in.

It wasn’t a deep kiss—just a quiet, fleeting touch, soft as the rain between them. Enough to still Chuuya’s breath, enough to make Dazai’s smile falter for half a heartbeat.

When he pulled back, the world felt suspended—just two heartbeats and the sound of falling water.

Chuuya stood frozen for a second, eyes wide, mouth parted. Then he turned away quickly, tugging the brim of his hat down to hide the color rising to his cheeks.

“Y—you’re out of your mind.”

“Probably,” Dazai said with a faint laugh, voice lower than before. “But you didn’t stop me.”

“Don’t push it,” Chuuya muttered, starting to walk away. “Next time I won’t be so nice.”

“Promise?”

“Goodnight, Dazai.”

Dazai watched him disappear down the alley, the rain swallowing his figure until only the echo of his footsteps remained. He leaned back against the wall, letting out a quiet sigh that sounded suspiciously like a laugh.

“Beautiful chaos,” he murmured again.

The rain fell harder, but Dazai didn’t move. He just stayed there, replaying that single, stolen moment—something warm flickering under all his practiced indifference.

Chapter Text

Dazai barely made it through the Port Mafia’s front doors before Elise pointed a dainty finger at him.

“Mori wants you,” she said in a sing-song voice. “Right now.”

Oh.

So it was that kind of morning.

Dazai sighed dramatically and walked down the hall, hands in pockets, pretending not to feel the faint warmth at the memory of Chuuya’s lips against his. A single soft kiss and he was apparently thinking about it twelve hours later. Unacceptable. Entirely Chuuya's fault.

When he pushed open Mori’s office door, the Boss didn’t look up.

He just tapped his pen against the desk. Slowly.

“Dazai,” Mori said finally. “Would you like to explain why Verlaine personally informed me that you were seen near his sector last night?”

Dazai blinked innocently. “Ah. Was that last night? Time really flies when—”

“When you’re violating truce territory,” Mori finished sharply.

Elise giggled in the corner.

Dazai smiled, soft and unbothered. “I was only taking a walk.”

“A walk.” Mori’s voice flattened. “In the rain. Through French-controlled territory. Immediately after leaving a meeting where Verlaine seemed unusually interested in you.”

“Well, I am interesting,” Dazai offered.

Mori's stare darkened. “You’re a liability if you continue to prioritize personal distractions over Port Mafia operations.”

At the word distraction, Dazai felt something twist in his chest. Chuuya’s face flickered in his mind—rain on his lashes, that stunned little breath after the kiss.

…Okay. Maybe Mori had a point.

Before Dazai could craft a charming deflection, Mori set down a folder on the desk—loudly.

“You’re working with the French Mafia today.”

Dazai nearly choked. “I’m sorry?”

“A joint mission.” Mori steepled his fingers. “To reinforce the truce. Verlaine requested someone ‘competent.’ I, unfortunately, had to send you.”

Dazai groaned internally. “And who’s the French Mafia sending?”

Mori smiled. “You already know…Unfortunately.”

Of course.

One Hour Later – Abandoned Office Building, East Docks

Dazai arrived first, leaning lazily against a support beam, pretending he hadn’t spent the last hour trying (and failing) not to think about last night.

Footsteps echoed down the hallway.

Sharp. Slightly irritated.

Very familiar.

Chuuya stepped into view, hands in his coat pockets, eyes narrowing the moment they found him.

“…You,” Chuuya said flatly.

“Oh good,” Dazai replied, pushing off the wall with a smirk. “I was worried we’d have to pretend we didn’t know each other.”

Chuuya exhaled sharply. “I came here to work. Not to deal with your crap.”

Dazai took a step forward.

Chuuya’s breath hitched almost imperceptibly.

“You sure?” Dazai teased softly. “Your face seems to remember last night pretty clearly.”

Chuuya’s ears went pink.

Instantly.

He whipped his head away. “W—we’re not talking about that. We’re not mentioning that. Ever.”

“Shame. I thought it was nice.”

Chuuya nearly tripped. “Dazai.”

“Yes?”

“If you—if you keep saying things like that while we’re supposed to be working—”

“You’ll what?” Dazai’s grin softened into something real, his voice dropping to a warm murmur meant only for him. “Turn any redder?”

Chuuya made a strangled noise that might’ve been a threat.

Or a plea.

Hard to tell.

Before either could say something dangerous, Verlaine’s voice echoed from deeper inside the building.

“Chuuya. Dazai. Let’s begin.”

The redhead straightened instantly—professional mask snapping into place.

Dazai noticed the shift.

He also noticed the way Chuuya’s fingers trembled for half a second before he hid them in his pocket.

As they walked side-by-side toward Verlaine, their shoulders brushed just once.

Barely anything.

But enough to make Chuuya’s breath hitch and Dazai’s grin return.

This mission was going to be a disaster.

A beautiful one.

Chapter Text

The abandoned office building felt wrong from the moment they stepped inside—too quiet, too hollow, too deliberately intact. Dust clung to untouched desks. Paint peeled in patterns like old scars. Every window was covered, every hallway dark except for the
faint glow of emergency lights humming overhead.

Dazai took it in with a lazy sweep of his eyes.

Chuuya took it in with narrowed suspicion.

Verlaine, meanwhile, walked ahead of them like this was a casual stroll through a museum and not gang-controlled territory.

“At least three rival groups are sniffing around this place,” Verlaine said as he pushed open a conference room door. “Our job is to confirm intel, clear a path, and ensure the truce stays intact.”

Dazai snorted. “So in other words, a date with explosives.”

Chuuya elbowed him—hard.

“Shut up.”

But the heat on Chuuya’s cheeks was unmistakable.

Dazai smirked. Perfect.

Verlaine pretended not to notice. He always pretended.

But the way his eyes glimmered said he missed nothing.

Inside the Intel Room

Maps littered the table.

Blueprints. Surveillance photos.

A layout of local gang territories overlapping like a messy ink spill.

Chuuya stepped forward, scanning them with practiced precision.

Dazai leaned over his shoulder—very close.

“Get off,” Chuuya muttered, swatting at him without actually pushing him away.

Dazai hummed. “You smell good today.”

Chuuya froze.

Just one second.

Just enough for Dazai to grin wider.

Verlaine cleared his throat. “Gentlemen?”

They both straightened instantly.

Well—

Chuuya straightened.

Dazai casually lounged against the table.

Verlaine tapped a marked area on the map. “We start here. Rival smugglers have been sighted in the basement level. We confirm and clear.”

Chuuya nodded. “Got it.”

Dazai gave a lazy salute. “Oui, monsieur.”

Chuuya groaned. “If you embarrass me in front of my superior one more time—”

“Your superior?” Dazai murmured, leaning in until Chuuya stiffened. “Kinky.”

Chuuya’s fist hit his ribs. Hard.

Verlaine didn’t bother hiding his sigh this time.

Descending Into the Basement

The stairs were dim, the air thick with humidity and dust.

Chuuya walked ahead—small, sharp, and capable of killing three men in a confined space if needed.

Dazai followed behind, hands in pockets, humming softly under his breath.

He was watching him.

Every movement.

Every breath.

That tiny tension in Chuuya’s shoulders he tried to hide.

Because Chuuya wasn’t just focused.

He was nervous.

Not of the mission—

Of Dazai.

Of what last night meant.

Of what working together now meant.

Dazai wished he didn’t find that so… interesting.

Halfway down the stairs, Chuuya slipped on a crumbling step—

Dazai grabbed his wrist instantly.

Pulled him steady.

Pulled him closer than either expected.

Their chests brushed.

Their breaths caught.

And for one suspended second, the stairwell felt too small.

“Watch your step, Chibi.”

Dazai’s voice was soft. Not mocking.

Not teasing.

Just—warm.

Chuuya swallowed hard. “…Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Look at me like that.”

“I always look at you like this.”

Chuuya’s face went pink.
He jerked his wrist free and practically stomped the rest of the way down.
Dazai only smiled.
If Chuuya ran any faster, he’d trip again.

At the Basement Level

The room was already occupied.

Six smugglers—armed and startled.

Chuuya reacted first—

A blur of motion, sweeping kicks and precise strikes, his hat nearly flying off as he launched himself forward.

Dazai watched him work with a lazy admiration that made Verlaine tense.

Chuuya moved like fire.

Dazai moved like a shadow.

Together—

They were terrifying.

And in less than a minute, every smuggler was on the ground groaning.

Chuuya dusted off his gloves. “That’s done.”

Verlaine nodded approvingly. “You two… coordinate well.”

Chuuya stiffened.

Dazai’s smirk returned. “Naturally. We have chemistry.”

“NO WE DON’T.”

The echo of Chuuya’s yell bounced off the walls.

Too loud.

Too defensive.

Too… obvious.

Dazai laughed quietly.

But then—

He noticed something.

Something Verlaine noticed too.

One of the smugglers—

A bruised man near the door—

Was watching Chuuya.

Not in fear.

Not in confusion.

In recognition.

Dazai’s smile faded.

Fast.

“Chuuya,” he murmured. “We’re not alone in this deal.”

Chuuya paused. “…What do you mean?”

The smuggler coughed out a laugh.

“You—you're Verlaine's kid. The redhead.”

Chuuya’s entire body went rigid.

Dazai’s heart stuttered.

Just for a second.

Because that?

That wasn’t a normal association.

And Verlaine was watching.

Too closely.

Dazai stepped forward, placing himself between Chuuya and the smuggler like it was instinct.

Like he didn’t even think about it.

“Careful,” Dazai said softly.

Not to the enemy.

To Verlaine.

Verlaine smiled.

Thin.

Calculating.

“Interesting, Osamu,” he said. “Very interesting.”

A heavy silence fell.

Chuuya’s breath was shallow.

Dazai’s hands were still in his pockets—but every muscle was ready to move.

This mission was no longer just an alliance inspection.

It was a chess game.

And someone had just touched the wrong piece.