Chapter Text
It’s been a while since Dazai had any reason to walk into Kurokosshi District, just as long since he had a reason to venture into this particular part of the city: an arena run by the deepest corners of the underworld, where one wrong move costs people their lives, their skins, or both.
Good thing Dazai doesn’t plan to die today.
The rain makes it hard to see but eventually he finds the only route into the district - into alleys, past residential districts, behind shrines, until concrete turns to pavement and the only indication that he’s going the right way is the tail of a koi fish graffitied on the street corners. It leads him all the way to a medicine shop so small, it’s almost hidden behind trees and the other restaurants lining along the street. The bell above the door tinkles for his entrance, he smiles at old woman Chiyo behind the counter, and ducks underneath a curtain near the back of the shop.
Into the storage room, reaching behind the racks and pushing a panel on an old Oriental tapestry, stepping back as the wall flips around, stepping in as it closes behind him and walking down a chilly concrete corridor to the green door on the other side.
The man that steps in front of the door as he approaches is yakuza - the edges of his full-body tattoo peek out of his sleeves, curls just a bit too high above his coat collar. Part of his pinky finger is missing. The crest of the Sumiyoshi-kai is just barely visible behind his ear as he stares Dazai down from behind gold rimmed glasses and waits.
Dazai holds back an eye-roll but rolls up the sleeve of his right arm, ripping open the turn of gauze there and pulling until his forearm is bare, letting the man run a black light over the fluorescent koi fish there - among other things. He offers a mirthless smile when the man’s gaze swings back up to him and rewraps the loose-hanging gauze so that the black and blue bruises no longer show.
The man raps sharply on the door and bellows something that might be either Cantonese or a dialect he doesn’t recognize. And then he too stands back, as the door swings open.
The sound of music and distinct chatter, which had been prevalent since Dazai stepped into the corridor, swells to a deafening hub of noise that assaults his ears even before he’s walked all the way in. His feet take him to the painted red balcony just ahead of him. He rests his forearms on the railing and leans over.
Black market auctions to the right, live music and billiards to the left, and a neon-lit bar at the center of everything to top the extravagance off. The air is smoky with a strange mixture of tar-smoke and rain, and there are crowds everywhere. These are the Bone Slums, the lesser known hub of sketchy underworld activity in this region managed by the most shrewd and crafty, and death row for the ones who don't know how to play the top of the food chain. It's small, but it has something for everyone: the thrill of a good poker game, free entertainment, a few good drinks and the promise of a fun night afterwards, and information. Dazai is here for the last.
Something flashes orange, just beneath him. He looks before he can stop himself and then tears his gaze away, nails digging crescents into his palms.
It’s fire, he thinks. Just fire .
His imagination has been running wild as of late. The fire makes the color of Chuuya's hair flash in his mind's eye, a picture that is always, always followed by the smoking memory of the Port Mafia explosion. He sits through more unnecessary councils with his expression shuttered closed and, in what little sleep he manages to get, thinks about purple eyes splattered with crimson and the silver of the bullet he would inevitably, definitely, put through Fyodor's skull when this is all over.
They haven't spoken at all since their exchange in the control room. Between the patrols, the trips to Kamakura's seedy underbelly, and the walks Dazai takes to clear his head, the only times they see each other is in the council room. Fyodor seems content enough with the distance between them, but if they should happen to cross paths in the hallway, his gaze follows Dazai all the way down. Like a reminder that the scales are now tipped in Fyodor's favor.
This little game they entertain each other with has always been something like real-life chess. Right now Fyodor might think he's winning, but the truth is that he's overlooked one important detail: Chuuya is gone, and now there's nothing left to protect Fyodor from the full brunt of Dazai's wrath.
Chuuya is gone , a voice in Dazai's head repeats, words like arrows, shooting through him so painfully it hurts. He turns before he can see the fire flare again, walking off until all it becomes is a single orange point in the distance. Cigarette smoke burns his lungs from the inside out; between that, and every regret he's ever had rising raw and aching to the surface, it's difficult to decide which hurts more.
The alcohol helps a little, burning down his throat so that he focuses on that rather than the rest of the thoughts running feverishly through his head. To be honest, he doesn't remember actually getting to the bar, only that suddenly the bartender was pushing a drink towards him. He needs at least a few more to feel the buzz, but for now this is enough - he lifts the glass to his lips against and zeroes in on the conversation happening near the billiards.
"--telling you, you can forget about the deal. It was only a small cargo shipment anyway, hardly anything valuable, and besides you're no stranger to failed transactions. None of us are."
"The Port Mafia was our biggest trading partner, and our most successful one. With a man like Mori Ougai at the head, are you telling me one small explosion was enough to wipe them out?"
"If it were that easy, then they'd have died off years ago. And the fuck do you mean small, it sent half of their base crumbling to the ground."
"And the other half? Where is that then?"
"Scattered around Yokohama or dropped off the face of the earth, more likely. But I'd steer clear of there for now - whoever blew them up knew what they were doing, and I'm not planning to risk my neck finding out what."
Smart man, Dazai thinks as he eyes them out of his peripheral, two mid-level bosses enjoying a billiards game and blissfully unaware of the fact that the what who blew up the Port Mafia is sitting on a bar stool not five yards away.
There's motion to his right as someone sits down beside him. Dazai pretends to toss back the last of his drink, head lolling backwards as one hand slips inside his jacket.
He moves the same time the other does, wrapping his fingers around the gun in his waistband at the same time another hand closes around his arm and stops him from pulling it all the way out.
"Careful," Dazai comments. "I wouldn't want to kill you by accident."
"No," Jouno Saigiku agrees. "That would be embarrassing on both our parts--but, we both know this is the only way to get your attention. Put the gun away, Dazai-kun."
"Let go and maybe I will."
Neither of them move. Jouno sighs and leans closer. "Put it away, Dazai-kun. I won't ask again."
"Or what? You'll make a scene?" Dazai tilts his head towards the center of the room - full of people with some kind of weapon hidden on their person. "You're out of your depth here, Hunting Dog-san. The moment they all realize there is a government agent in their midst, you'll be dead before you even finish threatening me."
"I won't threaten you, though I'm sure you've acquired a taste for it by now." Jouno smiles thinly. "You're here for information, yes? I have the bits you want. I'll tell you if you put away your weapon."
Dazai laughs. He can't help it. "Really. What do you have that I could possibly want?"
"Information about your husband. His wellbeing, his whereabouts, what he's doing now." Jouno tilts his head, smile widening. "That's what you want to hear, yes?"
He's lying. But it's tempting. Dazai fixates his gaze on the floor, looking anywhere but at Jouno and trying to keep his heartbeat even. "My husband is dead," he forces himself to say. His mouth is dry. "If you want to lie, do it better."
"That's my line, I believe." Jouno lifts a glass Dazai hadn't even seen him holding to his lips. "Your heartbeat right now is unsteady. It has been ever since I mentioned Nakahara Chuuya. You are not as good a liar as you think you are."
"Don't," Dazai snaps. Jouno raises his eyebrows but goes quiet.
It seems so long ago that Dazai had knelt in front of the lab's remains with Chuuya like deadweight in his arms, but he remembers - every detail of it. He remembers how wet Chuuya's clothes had been and the shivers that wracked through his body because of it. He remembers Chuuya trying to stay awake, not trusting himself to be unconscious because he might still be underwater. He remembers Chuuya telling him I hate water and then being viscerally angry that someone had known, and used it against him.
He's angry now, but for another reason. "Don't," he repeats. "You have no right to say his name." Not after what you did.
That earns him a smile, so pitying it makes Dazai's insides crawl. "Don't blame me, Dazai-kun. After all, you are the one who sold him out to me."
Dazai doesn't reply. With no way to dispute the other, with Chuuya's voice in the back of his head (--you betrayed me from the first--) and his own knowledge of what he'd done rising to the surface, it feels like he's been slapped.
Jouno's smile grows wider at his silence. The next time he moves, it's to release his grip on Dazai's arm and push another drink towards him with the same hand. "Put the gun away, Dazai-kun. Then, we'll chat."
No, Dazai recoils vehemently. I should kill you now. I should put a bullet in your head like I promised Fyodor I would do to him: you're not that different from him anyway.
He puts the gun away without a word, securing it out of sight as Jouno's smirk burns the back of his head. And then he signals the bartender for another drink. "You're here to talk," he says once the burn of alcohol in his throat soothes him, somewhat. "So talk."
"Let's start with the obvious, shall we." One pale finger dips in the alcohol and runs around the glass rim. "Your husband is alive."
Dazai's heart skips two beats in his chest. For the longest time he stares at where his fingers rest against the glass, twitching every time he so much as considers the possibility, not trusting himself to speak.
Finally he settles on, "Obvious?"
"If one strategically placed explosion was all it took to kill him, he would not have lived long enough to meet you. Currently he is, to my knowledge, alive and well, though I can't say where." Jouno waves a hand in the air. "Most of it is hearsay, of course, but I can assure you my sources are very reliable."
Dazai stares at him steadily, looking long and hard for any sign of a lie. There is none, and that's what makes it dangerous. "What's your point?"
"The same one Mori Ougai made when he first sent you to Dostoyevsky." His hand disappears inside his coat, only to come back out with a scrap of paper that he pushes towards Dazai: a newspaper clipping. "You know about Nikolai Gogol's broadcast and the explosion at the Port Mafia base, perhaps less about both of Yokohama's Gifted organizations disappearing under the radar, all of which have Dostoyevsky's fingerprints all over them."
"Brilliant deduction." Jouno smiles thinly, but doesn't finish; he doesn't have to for Dazai to understand what he's saying. "Has it occurred to you, Jouno-san, that the only reason Fyodor allows me so close is because he saw through the lie from the start?"
"Of course it has. However, this war against Dostoyevsky has come to a bigger standstill in the past few months than it has in the past few years--a standstill you contributed to."
"I have my own way of doing things."
"Indeed, and it chained you to the enemy for several years, with only minimal degrees of success in your mission. Not an entirely successful method, wouldn't you say?" Jouno finishes off the last of his drink. His smile, when he places the cup back on the counter and slides off the bar stool, runs like poison. "Find out what Dostoyevsky is planning and report it to whom you will. And quickly, before I lose the little patience I have with you."
"I thought you weren't going to threaten me."
Jouno keeps his smile in place as he leans in until his breath tickles Dazai's ear. "It would be wise to avoid testing me for the time being, Dazai-kun," he says lowly. "Your husband is alive; I can give him to you. I can take him away just as easily."
The counter rattles as Dazai's hand flies to his gun again, one word away from cold-blooded murder, but the muzzle points only to open air; Jouno has long disappeared, vanishing into the slums like he was never here in the first place.
He takes one breath, takes another, and then pries his hand from its white knuckle grip around the gun's handle. No one saw him, they're too busy focusing on the light show happening in the front. When the bartender asks him if he wants another, he shakes his head and slides a 5000-yen note across the counter. Then, with one last look around the Bone Slums, he takes his leave.
There's a full-blown storm raging outside by the time he gets back to the penthouse; the rain beats with a vengeance against his so-called waterproof and the wind drives both chill and water straight into his clothes until he reaches the door feeling somewhat like a drowned cat. He stops long enough to toe off his shoes, grimacing as rainwater sloshes around inside them, and heads to his room while making a mental note to dry them out later.
It takes longer to take off his bandages than it does to take off his clothes, because they stick so hard to his skin; he has to work through the bruises covering his arms, aching from the cold and sensitive to touch, flaring every time his fingers accidentally brush against them, until peeling off the gauze feels a bit like pulling teeth.
Dealing with the pain afterwards is easier. It always is. His bruises hurt less after he covers them again, enough to subdue the worst aches; there's only so much medical gauze can do even though he's worn them for years. He rummages through his closet and pulls on the first dry thing he grabs, a sweater and slacks, and leans down to scoop up the pile of soiled gauze.
But instead of gauze, his fingers wrap around his phone; the realization strikes him one second after, and he freezes on the spot.
A glance to the coat draped haphazardly over his bed confirms what he already suspected, that his phone had somehow fallen out of the pocket when he had been working himself out of his soaked clothes. But even knowing this, he finds himself hard-pressed to let the phone go; if anything, his fingers close tighter around it.
Your husband is alive.
His hand isn't shaking when his thumb presses against the screen, but it isn't that steady either. He lifts the phone to his ear, hoping against hope, and it's all he can do to keep breathing.
The dial tone feels like mockery. In the back of his mind, Dazai is aware that the passage of time hasn't changed--that time isn't going any slower or faster--but each second still feels like an eternity. Disappointment burns like a dam about to burst; he shuts his eyes.
The sharp burst of static from the other end makes them snap open. Unconsciously he presses the phone harder against his ear, straining for a sound.
"Dazai?"
His breath catches in his throat. He must have made a noise, or something, because Chuuya's voice filters through the static again, louder than before. "Dazai!"
"Chuuya." Chuuya's breath shatters at the other end of the line, and a pang runs through Dazai suddenly, the fear that he'll lose this if he doesn't say something now. "Chuuya, listen to me. I--"
The call cuts out in a wave of static. Dazai lets the phone drop to the bed. The hand he rakes through his hair is unsteady, tremors still shooting through it; he can barely think past the relief clouding his head.
You're alive.
Relief freezes in his throat, suddenly, at the three short raps on the penthouse door. Dazai eyes the time displayed on the digital clock beside his bed: 7:20. He's not expecting anyone.
He lets his hand fall from his hair and rises slowly so that the bed doesn't creak. His gun is on the dresser; he grabs it on his way out of his room, padding quietly all the way to the penthouse door. Just in case, he keeps his trigger arm behind him. His other hand closes around the door handle, twists, and pulls open a crack.
Black raincoat. White hair. A black slit down the center of the left eye. Dazai can't help scowling as he opens the door wider.
Nikolai Gogol grins back at him. Water drips down the front of his hair. "Surprise!"
Dazai does what any sane man would do: he fires five rounds in the man's face.
None of them make their mark; the air ripples and then swallows the bullets, the sound, the impact until only empty air remains between them. If Dazai stays still for long enough, he thinks he can hear the bullets falling somewhere outside. Ah, his ability.
Something moves from behind Gogol. Sigma, he realizes after recognizing the two-toned hair. He lowers his gun, but only just.
"You should be dead."
That's to Gogol, who has gotten over his squawking fit and is smiling like he knows something Dazai doesn't, like the cat who caught the canary. "A magician never reveals his secrets, Dazai-kun."
"And you." Sigma startles when Dazai's gaze lands on him, but for the life of him Dazai can't figure out what to say. He turns back to Gogol, still pointing the gun at him. "You should be dead," he says again. "So what are you doing here?"
There's no dramatic speech this time. No jokes, no riddles that contain the answer Dazai is looking for; only a glint in Gogol's eyes, a finger to his lips, and a photograph that materializes out of nowhere.
A photograph of Chuuya.
The grainy black and white quality says security camera footage, the date says recently taken: this photograph is from yesterday. Dazai knows that Chuuya is alive, he heard his voice not ten minutes ago, but seeing hard proof of it leaves him speechless. He traces the outline of Chuuya's face with his fingertips, and something like longing pulls deep in his throat.
There's a conspiratorial smile on Gogol's face when he looks back up--a smile that he only reserves for the most entertaining, and deadliest, of games.
"Now then, Dazai-kun: shall we chat?"
Chuuya’s breath fogs white in the air. His hands, clenched into fists and shoved deep into his pockets, are numb. The wind rushes cold against his face and every bit of exposed skin, but otherwise everything is still. Here, his eyes swing to the patch of scorched ground. This had been the lobby. Over there, the doors. Further away, by a bridge that serves as a point of reference, had been the elevator to the Boss’s office.
Until only days ago, this is where headquarters stood.
There’s almost nothing left of it now, Fyodor’s explosion had done that much. The air still smells like smoke. What might count as ruins of headquarters are still taped off to the public, and there are charred blocks of concrete sitting only five yards away stained with either burn marks or blood. Everything else has been turned to rubble.
Something crunches under his shoe at the next step he takes, the sound cracking like a shot in the air and sending his imagination down a rabbit hole. He presses a fist to his mouth before he can vomit, or worse, scream. Just rock. It’s just fucking rock . He refuses to consider the alternative.
“ Chuuya-san. Are you okay?” Tanizaki Junichirou’s voice reaches him through the earpiece Fukuzawa insisted he wear. He must have made a noise, or something. Chuuya doesn’t know him that well, but the concern he can hear in the other’s voice makes him rankle.
“No. I’m fine.” He moves on. And when something breaks underneath his foot again, he doesn’t react this time.
It had been his idea to come back here. “I need to see it for myself,” had been his explanation. Sakaguchi and Suehiro had adamantly opposed the idea, and it took both Yosano and Fukuzawa stepping in for them to let him go, with a few conditions. First was the earpiece to remain in contact with Tanizaki, the illusion ability user assigned to him for his protection. Second, if anything went wrong, he was to get out of the area without engaging anyone in combat. Third, under no circumstances was he to activate his ability.
It had seemed like a good idea at the time. To gain closure, to look for traces that the police might have missed, to look for anything that indicated Fyodor screwed up without meaning to. He hadn’t counted on every step to hurt, as if walking on knives, or that the sorrow choking him would turn into anger and make it hard to breathe.
He wonders if Dazai had watched it happen. If he had, Chuuya wonders if he was angry. The phone call from earlier slips into his mind, and the feeling that he had heard something just before the call cut out. Whatever it was, it hadn’t sounded like anger.
A foghorn blows across the bay, low and grieving. The tape bends upwards in Chuuya’s grip as he walks under it, stepping further into the Port Mafia ruins. Here, the concrete blocks rise higher and steeper than they did outside the tape, and soon he has to hold onto them if he wants to get to the other side without breaking his ankle.
He steps around one, holding onto the jagged edge, and comes face to face with Nikolai Gogol.
Surprise hits him first. Anger follows after. He’s moving before either can fully process, foot arcing in the air to slam against where Gogol had just been a second ago. His hand hovers uselessly at his hip as Fyodor’s joker lands only a few feet away, just now remembering he has neither knife nor gun on him.
This fucker is supposed to be dead.
“Come any closer,” he snarls, Tainted Sorrow running beneath his skin like liquid fire, “and I’ll kill you for real.”
“Hahaha, as expected of Nakahara Chuuya-kun! Very good!” Gogol holds his hands up placatingly as he strides forward with a smile, mindless of the rock now clutched in Chuuya’s hand. “First question: how did I survive?”
“Don’t fucking care.”
“Wrong! But that’s classified, so it counts. Question number two: what am I doing here? Well, that’s obvious, isn’t it? Dazai-kun sent me.”
“You’re lying.”
In answer, Gogol grins and tosses him something: a note in Dazai’s handwriting, reading the same code Chuuya had hurled at his head the morning after the disastrous “date”: O expectations, stale and dismal airs, leave this body of mine! I want nothing more but simplicity, quiet murmurs, and order.
Gogol’s smile has turned conspiratorial, by the time Chuuya looks back up. There’s a finger raised to his lips, and by the time Sigma steps out from behind him, the strange mix of relief and confusion has long faded to wariness.
“Quietly now, Chuuya-kun. We have a lot to talk about.”