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Chapter Text

The rain soaks through Chuuya’s suit. It is Thursday, dreary and gray with the customary humidity of the rain season in Japan and the atmosphere that falls on the small group gathered in the Yokohama War Cemetery. He keeps his eyes trained ahead and his hands clasped behind his back. Somewhere in the distance, a bell begins to toll, and he rises with the rest of the Port Mafia as the Shinto procession begins.

As the urn containing the ashes of Yasunari Kawabata passes, he slips his hat off, presses it to his chest, and bows his head. Beside him, Akutagawa stands silently, and the rain is the loudest sound in the cemetery.

The funeral lasts an hour and twenty minutes—by the Port Mafia vacates the cemetery, Chuuya’s shoulders feel heavier than before.

The minute they return to headquarters, the Port Mafia disperses. Chuuya heads straight for the break room, peels off his still-soaked jacket, and tosses it onto the back of a chair before he collapses heavily onto the sofa. 

Beside him, Tachihara unceremoniously dumps his overcoat onto the ground. “What the hell are we all doing?” he snaps. “The fifth funeral of a Port Mafia higher-up in the span of two and a half months, and we’re just going to sit around doing nothing?”

“What else is there to do?” Chuuya counters just as peevishly. The rest of his clothes stick to him with a damp discomfort, irritating him further until he pulls at the fabric of his sleeve impatiently. “There’s no point on wasting more men, time, and resources on someone who’s constantly twelve steps ahead of us.”

”There has to be something. I mean, come on, even someone like Dostoyevsky has to mess up some time.”

Despite his foul mood, Chuuya can’t help but smile, small and bitter as it might be. Viewing the situation from that perspective is optimistic, but optimism can only do so much in a war, especially since this one has been dragging on for two years. ”It’s a nice thought, Michizou, but the chances of it happening are basically nul. He’s this far ahead because he planned for it ahead of time, he isn’t going to delay the Rats just because we suddenly became more determined to beat him.”

”Who came up with that idea? It was you, wasn’t it, Tachih—oh, Chuuya-san, you’re here too.”

He cranes his head to look around Tachihara at the door, catching a brief glimpse of yellow hair and a black coat. “Hey, Higuchi. And Akutagawa too, I’m assuming.”

”Chuuya-san,” the curt but polite greeting comes, punctuated by coughs. “Higuchi dragged me here.”

”I figured.” It isn’t as if everyone doesn’t know about Higuchi’s long lasting crush on the Black Dog of the Mafia, however well they work together, but Chuuya won’t bring that up. Amid Higuchi’s spluttering protests, he gets up and pulls them both into the break room before any more dramatics take place. “Were you two eavesdropping?”

”Well, Chuuya-san,” Higuchi begins bravely, “it doesn’t count as eavesdropping if Tachihara is loud enough to be heard from the hall.”

”Fair enough.”

“Hey.”

“That said,” Akutagawa picks up, with a glare at Tachihara daring him to interrupt, “he brings up a point of worthy consideration. The demon Dostoyevsky may be twelve steps ahead, but he is still human and therefore able to be beaten.”

Would it that such a breakthrough were possible, Chuuya thinks gloomily, especially this late into the war. He runs a hand through his hair, grimacing when he finds it damp and tangled, and sighs heavily.

His phone buzzes suddenly in his pocket. It takes a bit more effort than usual to tug it out and turn it on, but what he sees on the screen as it lights up makes him groan. And to think he earlier assumed he could return to his room and rest afterwards.

”I have to go, Boss’s orders.” He pulls himself off the sofa, pockets his phone, and nods towards Tachihara as he picks up his jacket. “Everyone, return to your rooms and rest. And for heaven’s sake, someone make sure this idiot doesn’t get locked out of his room again.”

”That was one time—” The door closes on Tachihara’s indignant protest, but this time Chuuya can’t find it in himself to smile. Whether it’s from the funeral, the tension that always comes with being summoned to the Boss, or just the gloomy weather in general, he has no idea. So he dismisses any thought lingering on that tangent and makes his way towards the glass elevator at the end of the hall.

An order from the Boss is not to be refused—the first lesson learned by everyone who’s made it this far in the Mafia within seconds of being recruited. Following that lesson, applying it again and again to mission after mission and being the best at what he does, this is how Chuuya climbed the ranks to land one of three coveted Executive positions within two years of joining. So it doesn’t matter what this mission requires, because in the end Chuuya will follow through to the best of his ability.

The glass elevator lifts off and up, into the heights of the supposed Mori Corporation with the same kind of brutal efficiency the Mafia is known for. Chuuya studies the view rising up before him, of a darkening sky and glittering bay waters, ordinary people walking in the streets below underneath the sea of multicolored umbrellas and continuing their daily lives—no one would even guess that there’s a war going on.

Within minutes, the elevator comes to a stop, and the doors open to the long and dimly lit hallway leading to the Boss’s office. He’s peripherally conscious of many noiseless, unseen cameras cataloging his identity and watching him from the moment he steps out of the elevator to the moment he stands before the doors and turns an eye to the camera just above them, seeking permission for entry.

A click, then a noise like a soft sigh, and then the large double doors push open with a heavy groan, swinging inwardly until a sliver of golden light falls through the crack. Chuuya walks in, quietly taking note of the open curtains, the abandoned children’s drawing on the far left side of the room complete with scattered crayons, and the two figures he doesn’t recognize standing off to the side before he removes his hat and bows.

“You sent for me, Boss?”

”I did. Oda-kun,” Mori’s voice is far too casual. “Please close the door on your way out.”

The pause that follows is cut short as the man in question, the first of the two figures off to the side, bows in deference to the Boss’s wishes, and turns towards the door.

He passes Chuuya on the way there, and their eyes meet in a brief, accidental flash before Oda disappears with the door clicking shut behind him.

“Chuuya-kun.” Mori’s voice pulls Chuuya’s attention back. “Do you know why I called you here?”

“No sir.”

“And just as well; we can’t have such important details drifting around, after all.” The Port Mafia Boss laces his fingers together. “Now then, to business—for the better part of two years, the Gifted organizations of Yokohama have been fighting a war against Dostoyevsky and his Rats, one which we are currently losing. With our safehouses wipes out and five higher-ups murdered, this war has already cost us too much; we cannot gain ground from utilizing the same strategies against what has become Dostoyevsky’s front even if our resources allowed it. Therefore…” he produces a manila folder and pushes it towards the edge of his desk, “…we will use the only card left for us to play. Take a look.”

Chuuya opens the folder to a glimpse of the recent records from their chief statistician of the war, of time, men, and plans, all lost to the mercy of a terrorist equivalent on Japanese soil, crippling one half of Yokohama’s only competent defense. He understands the loss just as well as the Boss does, but that’s where the similarities between them end. His gaze shifts to the mission debriefing underneath, landing on one word. “Infiltration, sir?”

His question goes unanswered, for now, as the remaining figure waiting by Mori’s side coughs nervously.

“Chuuya-kun, how much do you know about the Decay of Angels?”

“Not much,” he admits somewhat hesitantly. The murders of four government officials and the recent surge in police arrests for crime cases that should have been closed years ago come to mind, but it’s nowhere near enough for an accurate assessment of the Angels, rather like stray puzzle pieces put together without an idea of the final picture.

“It is an underground terrorist organization in league with the Rats, though marginally less elusive than them. Yokohama has been their base of operations for some time now, but they are careful enough to keep out of the public eye when necessary; as a result, no records of them exist, and thus, our intel is disparagingly little. However, the one person both organizations have in common is Dostoyevsky. Your job is to infiltrate the Angels and dismantle it from within.”

“With all due respect, Boss, infiltrating the enemy is impossible without enough information, not to mention suspicious. An executive of the Port Mafia entering into their midst at this stage would arouse instant suspicion.”

“Which is why I have been working with the Special Abilities Division on a suitable countermeasure that serves as both defense and offense.” Mori laces his fingers together and levels him with a studying gaze. “So as to avoid misinterpretation, I will say it plainly: Chuuya-kun, I am speaking of marriage.”

Mori’s tone is so matter-of-fact that it takes a moment before Chuuya realizes exactly what he just said, and drops the pieces of a half-formed answer onto the ground. “…What?”

“‘As per the terms for an exchange of equivalent value according to international law, the Port Mafia requests a ceasefire in exchange for executive Nakahara Chuuya as compensation.’ What if this were to become the cover story?”

“You want me to marry a terrorist?”

“Not merely any terrorist.” One long finger taps the next photograph he slides onto the desk. “Him. Dazai Osamu, the newest recruit among the Angels and one of the most formidable weapons they have managed to secure to this day. If the Angels followed traditional hierarchy, he would equate to their third-in-command.”

The photograph in Chuuya’s hand is of a face half-obscured by shadow, with what is visible of it angled towards the light so that a single brown eyes stares into the camera with a bored, disdainful look that does nothing to hide the gleam of sharp intelligence lurking behind his gaze. His first thought is that he wouldn’t want to marry such a person even on normal terms, and he returns the photograph to the desk before he can pursue that train of thought any longer. “Sir, if I may ask…why him specifically?”

“Chuuya-kun, I am sending you on an undercover mission, not your execution. Judging from Dostoyevsky’s habit of anticipating our moves, it would not be unlikely that he will see through this mission and attempt to dismantle it. However, your marriage to Dazai Osamu-kun will be legalized on paper. Attempting to break apart a legal union in the eyes of Japanese Court will take some months to process, and he runs the risk of coming under public scrutiny if he does so, something that he has managed to avoid until now. Besides, his intellect is on par with, if not greater than, that of Dostoyevsky; to know Dazai-kun is to know Dostoyevsky. To have someone capable of keeping up with our intended target as well as keep my most valuable executive alive, this is the optimal solution. Unless you would like to request another husband?”

”No, Boss,” he protests quickly, stung into asperity by the amusement in Mori’s eyes. “It was...I was just wondering.”

”I see. Then there is no problem with the arrangement?”

”... No, Boss,” he says with the briefest of hesitations. If Mori notices, he says nothing.

”Good. Then as soon as this meeting concludes, I would like you to prepare your things as I send an official proposition to the Decay of Angels. Our next move hinges on their reply, whatever it may be, within the next few days to a week, but it is better to be prepared. Speaking of which”—a nod beckons the man waiting quietly beside the wall to join the conversation—“this is Sakaguchi Ango, head of the Special Abilities Division in the government. He will be your informant on the Angels before the mission commences, but you will be reporting directly to me.”

Sakaguchi pushes up his glasses and inclines his body in a bow. Chuuya returns it, albeit hesitantly, before he turns back to Mori.

”Will that be all sir?”

”Yes, Chuuya-kun. Dismissed.”

On his way out, the great oak doors swing shut behind him with a heavy finality, one that he can feel in his bones all the way down the hall. Every step is another jangle in his thoughts, another treacherous whisper of what if, what if. He wonders what Akutagawa would think. He wonders what Tachihara would do, if Higuchi and Gin would ever look at him the same. He wonders if this is what it feels like to betray someone.

He steps into the elevator, the glass doors shutting behind him, and squeezes his eyes shut.

Maybe if he does that, he can put this off for just a bit longer.

Meanwhile, on the outskirts of Yokohama, four men gather around a table, and an emergency council of the Decay of Angels begins.

“The Port Mafia has offered us a proposition: Executive Nakahara Chuuya for a ceasefire. Sigma-kun, you are a businessman—what do you make of this?”

“A rather sudden proposal, to be sure, but not unfounded. After suffering multiple hits to their resources, the Port Mafia must be getting desperate.”

“Be that as it may, I never took Mori Ougai to be one to trade such a powerful pawn.”

“He is a leader. There are times that leaders must make necessary sacrifices.”

“I suppose so. Well, this could be very fun indeed,” Fyodor says, and then turns to the last remaining member, who has not spoken at all, holding out a photograph between two fingers. “What do you think, Dazai-kun? Shall we expect a happy announcement in three days’ time?”

Dazai takes the proffered photograph, face and eyes betraying nothing, and gives it a cursory glance before tossing it back onto the table and settling back in his chair. “Sure. The one who strikes first wins, after all.”

”I agree. Very well, gentlemen, you are dismissed.”

Council concluded, the Decay of Angels rises from their seats, already lost in meaningless conversation. As for Dazai himself, he heads towards the door, towards the hall with the best view of the city to watch the sky fade to rose-pink without truly seeing any of it. His mind wanders elsewhere to the face he’s already memorized, and he stands there, musing about brilliant blue eyes within the privacy of his own thoughts until the sun disappears over the horizon. 

Chapter Text

The wedding is scheduled for three days’ time.

Not that Dazai expects any different—this is the biggest opening the Angels have had in two years, one that no one is willing to be wasted. So within a day of receiving the Port Mafia’s proposal, the response they craft to send back amounts to basically nothing more than an acceptance of Nakahara Chuuya as compensation as well as agreeing to the terms of the ceasefire agreement. 

The part of him that wonders how long it will last is quickly overshadowed by quietly simmering annoyance. Three days to prepare for matrimony without any time spent on assessing the motives of Mori Ougai is infuriating enough that he crumples the paper plane he’d been folding in his hand into a ball and tosses it onto the ground. Why is it, he muses, that the boss of the Port Mafia suddenly decided to present one of his most powerful players on a silver platter and deliver him right to the doorstep of the enemy? Mori Ougai is shrewd just as he is powerful; by letting go of his most valuable executive, he’s either extremely foolish or knows exactly what he’s doing.

A lifetime of collecting intel on the organizations that oppose the Angels suggests the latter, but exactly what he’s doing is anyone’s guess, least of all Dazai’s own.

His thoughts fly apart when his phone rings. His first instinct is to roll his eyes, calling to mind all the times his phone had gone off because Pushkin or Gogol or both of them did something idiotic like go out in public without a disguise, before he flips the phone open, answers the call, and raises the phone to his ear. “Yes?”

”Dazai Osamu, you are a hard man to get a hold of.”

”...Ozaki Kouyou-san,” he greets after a minute, turning to look at the door warily. “This is a surprise. To whom do I owe the pleasure?”

”None but my own, though I derive no satisfaction or joy in conversing with a terrorist.”

”Duly noted. What can I do for you, Ozaki-san?”

“This conversation is less about what you can do for me than about what you would do well to remember, especially regarding your people’s answer to our proposition. The Port Mafia is in an uproar; many did not expect the response, particularly because Fyodor Dostoyevsky does not seem the type to agree so readily.”

”And you are one of them.”

“Indeed—I do not trust Dostoyevsky, nor do I trust any of you. Personally I find you and your people a festering sore on the face of Yokohama, and indeed we might do better to do Japan a favor and wipe off the stain you’ve left on the surface of our country. That said, I called to speak to you about our executive.”

“Nakahara Chuuya.” The name of his future spouse leaves his tongue with none of the grace he prides himself on having and all the unfamiliarity of someone learning to be acquainted with another. “What about him?”

”I am well aware that the...arrangement scheduled for three days’ time is for ceasefire purposes, but I would request once you are wed that you take care to keep Chuuya’s welfare in your best interests.”

”In other words, take care of him,” Dazai translates, a corner of his mouth curving into a smirk. “Ozaki-san, you must truly desperate to request this of me. While your concern for him is touching—”

”It is not for him that I am concerned, but you.” He blinks. “I mentioned before that Dostoyevsky’s response startled many in the Port Mafia. With that shock comes distrust and suspicion, rest assured that for the first few months after your marriage that you will be under scrutiny from not only your people, but mine as well. Try anything unsavory, and you may consider the ceasefire agreement null.”

”I was under the impression that your Boss is the only one qualified to make that call.”

”And I under the impression that you understood enough to recognize these as his own words,” Ozaki counters with a smile of her own in her voice. “Be warned, Dazai-kun: the Port Mafia is known for retaliation. Wrong one of our own, and it will be returned tenfold—you would do well to remember that.”

”I’ll keep it in mind. Though why I would think to harm a member of the organization I just signed a peace treaty with, as well as my future husband to boot, is beyond even my comprehension.”

“Do see that it stays that way.”

“I certainly intend to. Have a good day, Ozaki-san.”

He ends the call before she can say more, pocketing his phone and walking to the panoramic window that spans three walls to look out over Yokohama Bay. His gaze sweeps the top of the Yokohama skyline before it drops to the streets below, bustling with life and the vibrancy that attracts visitors from all over the world, and a faint sense of vertigo overtakes him as he morbidly wonders how many tries it would take to break the window in order to hurl himself to the streets below.

”Stressed, Dazai-kun?”

One moment away from probably cracking his skull on the glass, he rolls his eyes. “Hardly. I’m not so concerned about my fate that I would spend all afternoon brooding on it.”

”’Your fate.’” A sigh precedes Fyodor’s footfalls as the Russian walks to join him at the window. “Must you be so dramatic? Matrimony is hardly the worst fate you can be tied to.”

”Full offense, but I’m not planning to take marital advice from the person least qualified to give it.” 

“But you will from others?”

”Sorry, would you mind telling me why you’re here so we can get it over with? I’m busy envisioning my future death, and you’re making it very hard to concentrate.”

To Fyodor’s credit, not that he has a lot of it, he doesn’t react in any way visible, opting instead to direct his response at the sun setting over the bay. “Very well, I’ll be brief—do keep your husband in line, once you are wed. There are some among us who are less than eager about the answer we have sent back to the Port Mafia, even less about the idea of readily accepting an enemy executive so early into the organization. They will be looking to test you both.”

”Do you think I am so easily intimidated?” Dazai tears his gaze away from the view to redirect it at his conversation partner. “Your concern is touching, but save it for those who think I will have a problem keeping my spouse under control.”

Fyodor only smiles mirthlessly, an action implicit with meaning that Dazai doesn’t care to think about at the moment, before he hums and turns away from the window. “I would advise you,” he says over his shoulder, “to reconsider that last statement of yours. This far, you have remained in the Angels’ good graces; try not to fall out of them.”

With that warning hanging in the air, the door clicks shut behind Fyodor, leaving Dazai alone with his thoughts, the view of the city, and the setting sun shining over the bay behind him. 

Sakaguchi is late.

He should have arrived twenty minutes ago, at eight thirty like they both planned—instead, every additional minute Chuuya needs to wait does nothing to dispell the nervous energy making him go in circles around the coffee table. He’s reluctant to assume the worst without more information, but the timing and current circumstances both make him equal parts jittery and frustrated, and lead him to the only possible conclusion.

Before long, a knock sounds at the door. “Chuuya-kun, it’s me.”

He gratefully breaks off his seventy-fifth loop around the coffee table and almost rips the door off its hinges with how fast he opens it. Seeing Sakaguchi on his doorstep sheepishly standing with a soaked briefcase puts most of the worst case scenarios flipping through his head to rest, but still he can’t help but be annoyed. “You know, you could have just texted me.”

“Yes, about that, I, ah...I don’t have your number.”

”All those records you keep in the government archives, and you can’t even find my number?”

Now Sakaguchi just looks puzzled. Chuuya holds back a sigh and opens the door wider. “Come on in.”

As soon as the government agent ducks inside, he shuts and locks the door. Being a Port Mafia Executive has taught him to be careful, and though he made sure to choose an apartment far enough from the city to avoid being conveniently followed, paranoia keeps him in check.

“Can I get you anything?” he calls as he goes into the kitchen and roots through his cabinets, because Sakaguchi definitely does not look like the wine type. “Tea, coffee?”

”Tea would be good, thanks.”

”Got it.”

The few green tea bags he manages to find go into the teapot that has rarely seen use, soaking in piping hot water as Chuuya takes out two ceramic mugs, places it onto a tray with the teapot, and carries the entire ensemble into the living room where Sakaguchi’s perched on his sofa and looking through his briefcase. 

Once the tea bags steep, he pours into a mug and passes it to Sakaguchi. “How much information does the government have on the Angels, anyway?”

”Marginally more than the Port Mafia already has. As Mori-san already mentioned, they are less elusive than the Rats, but just as hard to find. Records we would have had about their members either don’t exist or have all been wiped.” Sakaguchi places a folder on the coffee table before accepting the mug. “This is all the information we have, so far.”

The folder is shockingly light, Chuuya realizes with a jolt; even his own file weighs more than this, and the Port Mafia knows virtually nothing about him before his recruitment. He flips it open, expecting to find documents and finding only photographs and newspaper clipping. “This is really it, huh.”

“Unfortunately yes. Most of our intel is on a few select members of the Angels, and even that is scarce. Take this man, for example.” Sakaguchi fishes out a grainy photograph of a man with pale pink hair and slides it across the table. “Sigma, the only member confirmed to have a business outside of the Angels. He owns a casino located in the sky, out of any national or international jurisdiction and therefore protected from us. His records don’t exist.”

”You’re joking.”

”No.” Sakaguchi pushes up his glasses and sighs. “It’s extremely likely that Sigma is a false name. There could also be a chance that it’s the name he chose for himself when in reality he has no legal name. Since either could be a possibility, Sigma’s file might as well be its own dead end.”

”What about other countries?” Chuuya presses. “A lot of foreigners come to Japan to start businesses. Sigma is the eighteenth letter of the Greek alphabet, he could have picked that for his name if it was the first thing he had conscious memory of.”

”We tried that too. After taking it up with the Prime Minister, he called American and European authorities to search for any possible records, but there were none.” 

Chuuya stares, and then reaches for the remaining mug on the tray. His mind spins—he’s fairly certain it isn’t possible to survive for so long without official records, and yet somehow this man Sigma has done it. But how did that happen? And how did he manage to get clearance to start a business without them? Granted there are more than a few shady individuals in Yokohama’s grimy underbelly willing to pull all sorts of strings, but even they are wary enough to check on the identity of their client before giving in. 

The more he thinks about it, the more curious it becomes. He sips at his tea in an attempt to clear the fog from his brain. “Okay—really weird, but okay. Anyone else I should know about?”

”Two. The first is Nikolai Gogol.” When Sakaguchi sets down the next photograph, his first thought is of a clown, and promptly says it out loud. “His...ensemble might have something to do with his personality. I say ‘might,’ because his situation is identical to Sigma’s—as he is careful enough not to appear in the public eye, and likely only interacts with the Angels, it’s hard to tell. And finally, Dostoyevsky himself.”

Even before the photograph is pushed towards him, Chuuya already knows what he’ll see: a pair of purple eyes, vacant and gleamingly sharp all at once, sunken in a pale face and hidden under dark hair. It calls another photograph to mind, with a single brown eye in place of purple—he pushes the reminder out of his head. 

“We know a little more about him than we do the rest, only because he has resurfaced so often recently. He is Gifted, and can kill on touch, though it isn’t restricted to skin-to-skin contact. Though he has been put behind bars once before, there is no prison that can hold him for long—landing in jail is his equivalent of a child’s game, and when he tires of it, he will turn a person’s own conscious mind against them and find his way out.”

Hazel eyes meet his from behind the pair of round spectacles. “In a room full of powerful Gifted, he will be the most dangerous man in the room, and not simply because he has the ability to kill. You will need to be on your guard, Chuuya-kun, else he manipulates you into giving away your ploy.”

The tea in Chuuya’s mug has gone cold. He studies it wordlessly, tracing the grooves in the mug with an absentminded finger. “One more thing,” he adds after a long moment. “What can you tell me about Dazai Osamu?”

The silence that follows the question stretches on for eleven seconds, tiny passing eternities where only the sounds of traffic fill the room. 

“It’s like Mori-san told you,” Sakaguchi finally responds. “He and Fyodor Dostoyevsky are the same.”

Chuuya studies the man, reading the defeat in his shoulders, the quietness of his voice, his telling refusal to look anywhere but his briefcase. There is a story behind this reaction and how it became associated with his future husband’s name, one that he already knows isn’t going to be voiced aloud during this particular meeting. So he lets it go for now, and sets his mug back on the tray.

The files and photographs find their way back into Sakaguchi’s briefcase, and the agent himself looks about ready to leave. Chuuya lets him find his way to the door, and rises from his seat to see him off. He leans against the door, watching Sakaguchi struggle to balance the briefcase in one hand and put on his shoes with the other, before he speaks. “Be careful out there, Glasses. It’s going to rain harder tonight.”

Sakaguchi visibly wrestles between commenting aloud on the unexpected nickname and taking the warning for what it is. “Same to you, Chuuya-kun. I wish you the best of luck.”

Chuuya nods, waves him off as the other man gets into a cab, and watches it leave until he can’t see it anymore. As he goes back inside after shutting and locking the door, he can’t get rid of the suspicion unfurling in the back of his mind that he’s going to need all the luck he can get.

He wakes some time later, on his bed that he doesn’t remember falling asleep on, with the faint inkling of something feeling off.

The apartment is silent, oppressively so, and though the rain outside competes with late-night traffic for the loudest sound, it isn’t enough to mask the faint crinkling coming from the direction from the living room. 

Being significantly more awake than he was seconds ago, his antennae are well and truly quivering. A quick glance around his room gives no indication of anything wrong, but looking back towards the living room gives him the vague feeling that he’s heard, maybe even seen, something. It’s that thought that makes him reach under the pillow and close his hand around the knife there, pulling it free within a fraction of a second and climbing quietly out of bed in the next. 

The truth of the matter is that the Port Mafia has enemies, many of them. And though most are neither smart nor bold enough to do something as bold as follow an executive to their home to kill them in their sleep, there have been a few who will always try. Mori and Kouyou had explained this to him a number of times, drilled him on the necessary precautions until he can recite them in his sleep, and instilled into him the habit of situational awareness until not a spare second was wasted not guarding himself even if it appeared his attention was elsewhere. And now, he had to wonder if some old foe’s grudge against his person had not flowered into lethal animosity.

Chuuya goes silently down the hallway, knife in his hand angled downwards, eyes trained for anything moving through the darkness until he reaches the living room. With one hand positioned over the light switch, he sweeps his eyes one last time across the wide expanse of space. And then, taking a deep breath, he takes a risk and flicks on the switch.

Nothing happens—no one leaps at him, no one makes a last minute retreat to the shadows of the kitchen. In fact, nothing is out of the ordinary, not the living room, not the kitchen, nothing. Chuuya releases a breath he didn’t release he had been holding, about ready to declare himself officially gone crazy, when his eyes land on the coffee table.

Nothing out of the ordinary either, nothing except a small, wrapped box that was definitely not there before he fell asleep. He approaches the table warily, keeping the knife angled outward until his fingers brush against the box.

Paper, his mind tells him helpfully, brown wrapping paper. He pulls the box towards him on a sudden impulse and carefully undoes the wrapping, setting it aside before slowly taking the lid off the box. 

Inside, nestled on a cushion of red velvet, is a single strip of leather in pristine condition, thin, black and carefully oiled save for the silver buckle at the center. 

Chuuya loses his breath in the quiet breath rushing out of him, the small box suddenly heavy with implication. No name comes with it, but there doesn’t have to be; he knows very little about his future husband, but only Dazai Osamu would be daring enough to send him something like this, a message and a mockery all on its own even though he hasn’t even met the man yet.

Emotions push and pull at him from one conflicting suspicion to another until he feels like driftwood, tossed about the waves and unable to find a solid grip on shore before being pulled out to sea once more. He places the lid back on the box, and rises to find himself some wine. There is no way he can sleep now.

Chapter Text

The next two days fly by, keeping Chuuya busier than he has been in two years.

Mori drills him on every piece of intel they have on the Angels, explains to him the proper methods of reporting back to him a number of times until he can repeat them in his sleep, and forces him to acknowledge that any weakness he shows or slip he makes will count against him, and that the Angels are looking for any and every opportunity to exploit him.

Kouyou teaches him the subtleties of wordplay, hiding intention behind innocence and purpose behind a look meant to downplay his intelligence; she goes over poise, balance, lessons much more suitable for a courtesan than for a fighter, until every movement he makes with or without his ability contains nothing less than fluid grace.

Sakaguchi gives him files, reports detailing the lives of the four murdered government workers leading up to their demises.

And in the face of those forty-eight hours, the fact remains that ever since the agreement to the terms of the Port Mafia’s proposal as well as the subsequent ceasefire, the Angels have been silent, suspiciously so. It lodges itself into the back of Chuuya’s mind, prodding at it whenever it gets a chance, turning and twisting until it can’t be ignored, and by the time he finally acknowledges it, he has already come up an alpha, eight hours before his wedding day.

On that day, for the first time since his initiation into the Mafia, he goes without the hat, that iconic staple that has followed his career all the way until now, opting instead to twist his hair into a bun, escaping tendrils and all. In doing so, his nape is laid bare for the first time in years, bring with it an odd sort of vulnerability that only increases the moment his gaze falls onto the dresser. 

He hasn’t told anyone about the choker, mainly because it’s a matter that he doesn’t know how, and is reluctant, to bring up. Anyone with a half wit of sense will recognize this as another of the games Dazai Osamu is known for, proof that the long reach of his arm extends even to the Port Mafia in a ploy designed to intimidate. Now this same so-called gift sits in plain view on top of his dresser, still nestled in the velvet bed it came with, and though Chuuya is far from intimidated, the idea of wearing it lends some degree of hesitation before he reaches out and slowly lifts it from the box.

The oiled leather is smooth between his fingers, the coolness from the silver buckle a welcome respite from the heat in his fingertips. He turns it over, half expecting to find a threat imprinted into the back and raising his eyebrows when there is nothing even remotely suspicious. 

If he thought the character of his about-to-be husband was unclear to him before, it definitely is now. Suspecting that Dazai would have tampered with the choker somehow, or do something designed to give him the advantage, is not so unrealistic of an assumption to make, but there’s nothing. Chuuya turns the thin strip of leather over in his hands once more, before he inhales, exhales, and fastens it around his neck. 

Unconsciously he lifts his gaze to the mirror, his perception of his own view at odds with the one he sees there. One hand still lingers on the choker, running his fingers along the leather even though it’s soft enough that he can barely feel it, adjusting it until the buckle sits at the middle of his throat.

There’s some irony in how that prompts him to knot his tie and fix his cuff links—for all that he could care less about impressing his future spouse or wearing a token of the man’s questionable intentions, the mission has already begun, and Chuuya refuses to go into battle without some visible sign that he will not lose without a fight.

A knock sounds on his door. “Chuuya-san, it’s time.”

Few people know the number of his hotel room, fewer are trusted to guard it, but standing outside the door is a woman with Chuuya’s absolute trust and unwavering faith in her abilities to keep him safe. Akutagawa Gin’s reputation equals her brother’s in skill and commendation, and he would have it no other way. 

“Any activity I should be aware of?” he asks as he walks towards the elevator.

”Nothing yet, sir. We have people watching the roads leading up to the hotel, but there hasn’t been movement other than normal traffic. The Angels have not arrived yet, but we have reason to believe that they will arrive a bit later due to the rain. So far, there is nothing out of the ordinary.” Her posture is relaxed, deceiving the many who would be surprised to find a knife in her sleeves and a harness under her suit. She is the first one out of the elevator doors and casting an eye around the hall before she allows Chuuya to get out. 

They come to a stop just outside of a pair of double doors covered in ornate golden carvings, beautiful and starkly impersonal.  “The ceremony doesn’t start for a few more minutes, but Ozaki-san wants a word with you beforehand. It will just be you, the higher-ups, and the priest inside the shrine.”

That would be himself, the sub-executives, and the priest, as well as some attendants. Less than eight people from the Port Mafia. “Is the boss coming?”

”He hasn’t shown.”

Strange. He would have expected Mori to show and maintain their cover story in public if nothing else. “Thank you, Gin. And hey,” he adds just as she turns to leave. “Take care of your brother.”

”Even though he’s supposed to be taking care of me?”

The cheeky response makes him smile wryly, thankful that at least for the present, there is no animosity between them. “Exactly. I’ll see you around...some time.”

He doesn’t wait for her to respond, but turns and pushes open the door before he can make this harder on her or himself. Immediately he picks Kouyou out among the crowd of intermingled Mafia higher-ups and the ceremony guests. Seeing her, for once dressed in elegant robes different from her usual attire, the reality of it all hits home. By the time she excuses herself from a conversation with one of the attendants and turns towards him, he finds that greeting her is considerably harder than before.

Her eyes soften, and in a moment she’s by his side, smoothing back stray hairs and tucking them behind his ear.

“This is not for forever,” she reminds him quietly. “Though you go into the lions’ den, you are still one of us. You know that, don’t you?”

“It’s not like I can forget,” he says, an attempt at levity that falls short. “Not like I want to be one of them.”

The only response Kouyou gives is a small smile of her own, one that speaks of displeasure with the arrangement despite knowing its necessity, stemming from personal reasons rather than political ones. “Change is inevitable,” is all she says. “I only hope that the change you undergo will be for the better.”

Then her eyes slant curiously. “That thing around your neck...I don’t believe I’ve seen it before.”

He swallows and touches the choker, fingertips tracing the leather cautiously. “It was a gift.”

It takes nothing else to give away the identity of the sender. Her eyes widen in a fraction of a second before they settle, an odd combination of disbelief and resignation swirling within their deaths. “I see.”

There is nothing he can say to that. In a moment, the awareness instilled into every single mafioso upon initiation makes him aware of a lack of movement in his peripheral as the attendants find their way beside the priest and everyone else heads towards the area reserved for seating. The lower half of Kouyou’s face disappears behind a fan, using social propriety to her advantage as her eyes meet Chuuya’s. “Chin up, boy. It’s time to see what you are made of.” And with that, she disappears among the ceremony guests waiting to be seated.  

Japanese tradition dictates that the couple approaches the altar together. But in the current absence of his to-be spouse, there is little else he can do but make the walk himself, with every step feeling like he’s moving on autopilot towards the opposite end of the room.

It’s only when he reaches the altar and turns to face the room that he realizes exactly why it feels emptier than it should—there are no signs of the Angels anywhere. Not a single person from Sakaguchi’s files is present, and for a moment, Chuuya thinks this is it, that their agreement to Mori’s proposal was a sham, intended to lure out the higher circles of the Mafia into the open, vulnerable and unprotected. For a moment, he expects a battle.

Then the doors open, announcing the arrival of one Dazai Osamu, and just as the man himself strides into the room, his gaze slides sideways, and their eyes meet.

This is the first proper glimpse Chuuya has had of his about-to-be husband, grainy photographs from distant cameras discounted, and already the signs of intellect on par with Fyodor’s are all there—brown eyes sharpening the moment they meet blue ones, a scimitar smirk at the corner of his lips like he knows something Chuuya doesn’t, bandages around what’s visible of his neck and wrists like he has something to hide. Sizing up the enemy has always been a game Chuuya’s willing to entertain; he holds the gaze simply because he refuses to be the first one to look away, and Dazai’s smirk widens before he crosses the rest of the room to join Chuuya at the altar.

With how close they are, Dazai is nearly a full head taller than him. His thoughts about that must show, because Dazai quirks an eyebrow in response—Chuuya dimly wonders if it’s socially acceptable to roundhouse kick his about-to-be husband into the wall just so he doesn’t have to see the silent amusement dancing in Dazai’s eyes for longer than he has to.

The ceremony passes quickly. The cleansing, the blessings spoken over them by the priest, all of it passes in a blur before an attendant leads them to the table holding the three sake cups, the last task to be completed before he officially becomes one of the Angels.

The attendant offers him the smallest cup first and pours three times into it. 

His fingers close around the smooth ceramic surface, bringing it just before his mouth, and stops.

No doubt Dazai sees the blink of hesitation that flickers through him, no doubt the slight tremble in his fingers is giving him away as much as the breath he takes to steady himself is. He ignores all the implications of it, steels himself, and takes three sips to empty the cup, handing it back to the attendant so Dazai’s serving can be poured into it.

It goes like this for the next two cups, with every sip he takes wearing away a bit more of his confidence and lending more lie to the promise he made himself that this mission wouldn’t change anything.

By the time they get to the largest cup, he hesitates again, and this time Dazai’s amazement is palpable. If they were allowed to look at each other, Chuuya already knows what he’ll see, an unreadable look tempered by curiosity in brown eyes, picking apart his reactions and analyzing them down to every detail. Dazai is already moving to figure him out, match what he sees to the reports he’s surely been given in an attempt to try and handle him, and it’s that knowledge that provokes Chuuya’s stubborn side into awakening, determined to keep the man from getting ahead.

Three sips are all it takes to empty the cup. By the time he hands it back, he no longer belongs to the Port Mafia.

To say Dazai is intrigued would be an understatement. 

He specializes in reading people, in finding out exactly who they are within five minutes of watching their actions and hearing their speech, but so far, everything he’s seen of Nakahara Chuuya is at odds with the man described in the Angels’ file.

When he walked into the shrine, he expected a man who is temperamental and blunt, who exudes the same arrogance as all fighters with a reputation do. Instead, he found a man waiting at the altar, with an intelligence that can’t be hidden by his attractive appearance, a man whose ability to play at being confident is balanced with uncharacteristic hesitation.

From what Dazai sees so far, Nakahara Chuuya is a paradox, predictable in his unpredictability, and he’s not certain what to make of him.

He allows his gaze to sweep the reception hall, picking out Ozaki and a few other core members of the Port Mafia in their seats, before finding his now husband, off the side with his gaze roving around the hall, and making his way towards him. “You won’t find them,” he says, knowing all too well what the other man is looking for. “There’s a security risk that none of them were willing to breach.”

Chuuya’s eyes flicker to his, scanning him and sizing him up all in the same instant. “Considering the amount of public appearances they’ve made in the past two years, I find that a little hard to believe.”

He shrugs, indicating that he doesn’t care what the ex-Executive believes one way or another, and turns to watch the ceremony guests slowly filing out of the room. “So...chibi, was it?”

”Chuuya.” 

“Details.” He dismisses the very clear scowl in Chuuya’s tone with a lazy flap of his hand. “I must say, you’re not quite what I imagined.”

”What did you imagine?”

”Someone different.” He reaches out to smooth a few wayward strands of hair behind Chuuya’s ear. “Someone who would have broken my hand before letting me do this. And no more than a pretty face, I suppose.”

”I’m flattered. Though I am considering breaking your hand.”

The response is as dry as he expected, but what he finds more interesting is the way blue eyes had shifted to avoid his gaze, as if unused to compliments on his appearance or unsettled by his action. He stores away this information, and allows his hand to drop. “Would it be too much to ask you not to? I don’t like pain, you know.”

A smile quirks at the corners of Chuuya’s lips. “Don’t give me a reason to, and I won’t.”

”I’ll keep that in mind.”

A fighter with a sense of integrity, Dazai muses. They’ve been married for an hour, and already his interest in his husband is growing by the minute.

He opens his eyes to say something else. But when his eyes land on the black strip encircling Chuuya’s throat, he forgets what he had been about to say. “You’re wearing it,” he observes, mildly surprised.

Red brows draw downwards before Chuuya remembers the choker and bring up a hand to touch it. “It would have weirder if I didn’t.”

He agrees. It had been a gamble to send something as intimate as a choker for a matrimonial gift. Gift-giving rituals, dowry, and the like have never interested him, but it had been Sigma’s idea to make the union less impersonal. As ridiculous as the man can be, Dazai has to admit that this is one time going to him for advice had paid off.

“It suits you,” he murmurs.

Chuuya doesn’t blush, nor is there a hitch in his breathing, but the movement of his fingertips along the choker pauses before it resumes once more. “Do you smooth talk everyone you have a conversation with?”

”Only if it’s necessary,” Dazai answers vaguely, eyeing the circle of rapidly dismissing guests with bored detachment. “I suppose it means I’ll have to work a little harder at sweeping you off your feet.”

”Don’t bother—you are many things, but you are not my knight in shining armor.”

“I’ll do my best to keep my occasional chivalrous impulses contained, then.” Once the last of the public has cleared out of the room, he pulls out a phone, one of many in the Angels’ stash of resources rather than his personal, and puts it to his ear with prior hand knowledge of who exactly is going to pick up. 

“Bring the car around. I’m ready to leave.”

He doesn’t bother waiting for a reply before he replaces the phone in his pocket, knowing full well his orders will be carried out to the max. It’s one of the few benefits that come with being third-in-command for a terrorist organization. 

“The car will be here in a few moments,” he says to Chuuya. “Is there anyone you wish to say goodbye to?”

Instead of answering, Chuuya turns in the direction of the waiting room to their left, the din of the reception filtering out from a small gap in the doorway, where it’s extremely likely that the higher-ups of the Port Mafia, including Ozaki, will be found. Six seconds pass in complete silence on both their parts before Chuuya wrenches his gaze away and shakes his head. “I’m not their problem anymore.”

Dazai raises his eyebrows, but refrains from commenting until they reach the lobby of the hotel. “I was under the impression that you and Ozaki were close.”

”The Port Mafia can’t be seen fraternizing with their enemies. Even if it’s only been an hour since I became one of them.”

It’s a surprise to hear only quiet resignation in Chuuya’s tone rather than the bitterness Dazai expects of a man bargained off like property by his own people. In fact, the further they walk away from the reception hall, the more solid and sure Chuuya’s footsteps become. Either he’s faking confidence to numb the reality of walking away from everything he has ever known, or something has slipped right under the Angels’ eyes to head straight for the heart of the organization—both conclusions that Dazai is not able to have confirmed before the car pulls up right as they exit the lobby.

A door slams, and a young man with a criss-cross scar under his right eye races around the car undeterred by the rain to open the door of the passenger side. Dazai turns to Chuuya, who’s examining the car warily. “After you.”

The same hesitation he’d seen in the ceremony flickers across Chuuya’s face briefly before it vanishes in a fraction of a second, and the man slides into the car with a grace unheard of for a former mafioso. Dazai follows immediately after, pulling the car door shut just as their driver races back around the car, gets in, and starts the engine.

”Bit young to be a chauffeur,” Chuuya remarks as the car begins to move. “He looks like he should be in high school.”

”In another life, he might have been. We found him during one of our more...vulgar activities in the underground; apparently he’d been going from slave dealer to slave dealer since he was six years old, amounting to nothing more except the proof of what money can buy. We decided we might as well make use of him.”

”I never would have guessed the Angels had an errand boy.”

”Once you get used to the change, I think you’ll find that we aren’t exactly who you think we are.”

The pause that follows is broken by traffic sounds and rain beating against the windows. For a few moment, neither of them speak. 

“How much do you know about me?”

“Pardon?”

”How much do you know about me?” Chuuya repeats, turning away from the passing views of the city. “I want to know what I’m walking into.”

“You have quite the selective curiosity, chibi,” Dazai remarks. 

“Humor me.”

”Very well.” He mentally adds demanding to the list of things he knows about his husband so far. “I know that you grew up as the leader of a notorious street gang called the Sheep. I know that you started out as a lab experiment in the government’s possession and therefore have no memory of the first seven years of your life. I know that you were promoted to an executive within two years of joining the Port Mafia, as well as your reputation for being the best fighter the Mafia has to offer. And...” his eyes slide to Chuuya. “...I know about your ability.”

Feeling his husband stiffen beside him, he lets himself backpedal a little. “You won’t need to worry about the others finding out. I’m the only one who knows, and I intend to keep it that way.”

”Why?”

”No reason other than the satisfaction of knowing something that many don’t.”

”Are you lying?”

The question makes his lips quirk. “One thing you should know about me, chibi: I never lie unless I can gain something from it.”

Chuuya scoffs. “Who’s not to say you won’t use that knowledge to gain my cooperation?”

”I won’t. You’ll give it to me yourself soon enough.”

The car pulls into a parking garage, one of many located within the inner heart of Kamakura. Dazai leans forward to murmur into the driver’s ear, an order to wait ahead so that he can speak alone with his husband. The boy swallows and nods, exiting the car not five seconds after Dazai gives the order and relocating himself to fifteen feet away to await his passengers dutifully.

”Chuuya,” he says, addressing his husband by name for the very first time and watching wariness settle on his features. “Before we go in, I would like to make some things clear. We are legally wed in the eyes of Japanese law, but don’t expect it to go further than the paper it was officiated on. As far as the Angels are concerned, you are no more than my subordinate—slow me down or hinder me in any way, you might as well abandon the notion that I will come to your aid if one day everyone decides that you can no longer be trusted. I have no need for useless pawns.”

Chuuya considers him for a moment, impassive expression not quite hiding the unmistakable fire of challenge in his eyes. “Then, husband of mine,” he finally says, “you better hope I don’t show you up in front of everyone else. I imagine that would be quite humiliating.”

”I’d certainly like to see you try, husband of mine.”

With that, he exits the car and strides towards the private elevator at the other end of the garage, a smirk curving his lips in spite of himself.

This could be very fun indeed.

Chapter Text

Chuuya watches Dazai’s back fade further into the depths of the parking garage before he steps out of the still-open door, pushing it shut without a glance behind as he strides towards the elevator to join his husband.

His husband. He’ll have to get used to thinking of the man as such eventually, but for now the term makes emotion ripple through his core—disgust, for allowing himself to be bound to the enemy in such an intimate fashion even if it’s for the good of the Port Mafia, and uneasiness, at having the attention of the Angels’ third-in-command solely directed at him. It feels old to have your spouse pick apart your actions and words every time he looks at you even if the man waiting by the elevator doors with arms crossed and an eyebrow arched has been trained to do exactly that since who knows how long.

”Took you long enough,” Dazai remarks once he arrives. “Get lost?”

As if, Chuuya thinks somewhat sourly, considering that the distance from the car to the doorway is thirty straight feet and they both know it, but he says none of this out loud. “Just getting used to the change. Hard to do when for starters, I have no clue where we are.”

”Never been outside of Yokohama?”

”Never had the time.”

Dazai considers him for a moment before he shrugs and reaches behind them to flip open a panel and press the button beneath it. What follows is a facial recognition scan with laser technology that Chuuya knows only few have the time and money to afford, but before he can start wondering about the possibility of a sponsor or a secret vault of cash, he’s shepherded into the elevator and the doors close behind them. 

“We’re in Kamakura,” Dazai explains once the elevator lifts off, “a few miles off from the Asahina Pass. The building were in now has a law firm on the first floor as well as several levels still under construction, but as far as the public is concerned, that’s the extent of it.”

Chuuya turns away from studying the view of concrete walls through the window, his thoughts snagging on a loophole and clicking through it. “As far as the public is concerned?”

Dazai just smiles wryly.

Then, the concrete walls drop away from the windows to be replaced by the night view of Kamakura rising up before them. Chuuya’s attention is caught by the orange and green lights of rapidly moving traffic along the roads that twist and bend in and out of the city, silhouettes of black against a deepening blue sky and the moon that sits above it all. 

“Surprised?”

There’s a note of sardonic amusement in Dazai’s voice that Chuuya refuses to give into, though he doesn’t look away from the view. “Only by the fact that a terrorist organization somehow secured a high rise building in the middle of the city without it looking suspicious.”

“We have our ways.”

In a moment, the elevator slows to a stop and the double doors slide open, revealing a wide hallway lined with floor to ceiling windows spanning its length and rows of golden lights following the seam where the walls meet the ceiling. In following his husband out the elevator, Chuuya steps onto a vast expanse of white marble tiles that must have cost a fortune to install, and wonders how exactly a terrorist organizations found the means to get such a setup.

Once they approach the other end of the hallway, Dazai turns to him. “Mind waiting here a little, chibi? I have some things to take care of, but I won’t be long.”

”Call me that again and I’ll throw you into next Thursday.”

An wry glint flashes across Dazai’s face as he presses a buzzer to unlock a door, wiggling his fingers in a sardonic little wave before he disappears.

Chuuya’s instincts kick in shortly, and he begins to survey his surroundings, turning in a small circle to take in the high ceiling, the sheer emptiness of the hallway, and the almost eagle-eye view he has of Kamakura. He can even see Yokohama from here, the outline of the Cosmo Wheel making the city easy to find.

The convenience of this whole setup is certainly notable, but Chuuya finds the simple fact that it even exists astounding. Even overlooking the fact that this is the home base for the largest cesspool of illegal activity in Japan in the last fifty years, how did the Angels manage it? How did they manage to hide a well equipped base on top of a law firm and several levels of construction, the only barriers keeping them from being sniffed out by the government? Did no one notice their comings and goings, or the sound of activity coming from the upper levels which are supposedly closed to the public? His gaze strays to the lights of vibrant Japanese night markets like he can find the answers there, lost in the circles his mind goes on in order to figure them out, so that a soft click behind him goes unnoticed.

”Enjoying the view?”

That voice shatters Chuuya’s concentration immediately. He tears his gaze away from the view and turns with a question regarding the building when he freezes, at the sudden realization that this voice does not belong to Dazai and that the man who stands in front of him is not his husband.

Fyodor Dostoyevsky‘s eyes look out at him from under dark hair, studying him with a curiosity that feels all too menacing. The most dangerous man in the room, Sakaguchi had said, and Chuuya sees it now in the slow satisfied smile that crawls up his lips as he extends his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you at last, Chuuya-kun. I trust you've had a smooth journey here?”

He shakes the pale hand with wariness thrumming underneath his skin and reminders of this man’s ability blaring in his head, even if he’s good enough of an actor to keep outwardly impassive. “Smooth enough,” he says after he lets go. “Though I wasn’t exactly expecting to leave Yokohama.”

”What were you expecting?”

“I’m not sure,” Chuuya allows, somewhat unsure if he should be telling the honest truth to an enemy even if he’s technically part of them now. “But the change will take some getting used to.” 

“Of course. I imagine this must all be very jarring to you.” Fyodor’s gaze shifts to the windows, taking in the view as Chuuya had been doing up till moments ago. “Speaking of change,” the Russian begins casually, “what do you think of Dazai-kun?”

The question itself is innocent enough. But in beginning to even try to explain his thoughts about a complicated man like Dazai Osamu, there are many layers that need to be peeled away, personal biases and prior predispositions that have to be set aside, before Chuuya finds the foundation on which what would have been his answer rests.

Simply put, he thinks Dazai an enigma, a puzzle of a man who would abandon his own people without a second thought to save his own skin, and just as likely to pull them out of harm’s way if he felt so inclined. This man, who left Chuuya in the car and walked away without bothering to check if he would follow, who still trusted that he would and waited accordingly, is a bundle of contradictions, and Chuuya has no idea what to make of him. 

“Fyodor,” Dazai’s voice drawls as the man himself moves into Chuuya’s peripheral. “I would appreciate if you stop attempting to scare my husband away. Or is that Russian hospitality you always speak of simply nonexistent?”

Fyodor smiles thinly. “Of course—my sincerest apologies to the happy couple. I’ll leave you both to the rest of your night.”

”Please do.”

The ice in Dazai’s tone speaks of an animosity that’s been years in the making, one that Fyodor apparently finds amusing if the way his smile unfurls on his way out is anything to go by. The elevator doors slide shut behind him, and only then does Chuuya dare to approach his husband. 

“Dazai.”

It’s enough to get Dazai’s attention, and the taller man nods and leads the way towards the door he came out of, incident already dismissed, into what Chuuya belatedly realizes is a penthouse suite. 

It’s huge. The same floor to ceiling windows that line the hallway surround him on all sides, offsetting the cliffs of the mountain pass on the east with views of the Kamakura skyline to the west, all topped off by the high ceiling that must extend to at least 30 meters. Dark wooden floors click underfoot as Chuuya steps further inside to inspect it. It’s certainly luxurious, but at the same time, completely impersonal; there’s nothing anywhere Chuuya can see that marks the place as Dazai’s rather than a complex that might be taken for a safe house.

The man in question sweeps past him, unbuttoning his suit jacket and tossing it over the back of a chair before loosening his tie and his cuffs. “Your things are in that bedroom down the hall,” he says with a nod in said hall, “along with a pair of phones on the bed. As of today, you officially have access to this building. I can give you the grand tour, but we can get to it tomorrow if you want to rest.”

When Chuuya doesn’t move from his spot, Dazai turns to look at him. “If you don’t like the suite, I can arrange a different one for you.”

”This is where you live?” Chuuya cuts across him, ignoring the offer.

“Yes. Why?”

”It’s very empty.”

”Ah. Well, I’m a busy man. There are better things to do rather than waste my time on interior decor.” Cuffs loosened, Dazai takes out his phone and begins scrolling through it. “Is there anything else you need?”

Chuuya shakes his head, in response to the offer and in trying to clear his head. “I thought I might retire for the night, first.”

”Of course.” Dazai pauses. “There will be a briefing tomorrow in the main room at 1 pm. Until then, best avoid any plans you might have.” 

Chuuya hasn’t known the man for very long, but he recognizes the finality in Dazai’s voice as an indication of the conversation’s close. So he nods in lieu of an answer, murmurs a soft goodnight, and makes his way down the hall to his new bedroom.

Somewhere between shutting the door and stripping himself of suit jacket, tie, and shoes, he falls asleep without meaning to. By the time he wakes, the sun is well overhead and the unfamiliarity of his room stands out starkly.

Today marks his beginning as one of the Angels, and to maintain some semblance of normalcy, that requires assembling an appropriate wardrobe. As he rolls over in the bed planning to do just that, his back meets something hard—he stops, feeling behind him until his hands snags two unyielding rectangles and pulls them into his line of vision.

A pair of phones, a smartphone and a burner flip phone, and a card doubtlessly linked to one of many offshore banks in the Angels’ possession—he eyes them dubiously before leaving them as he found them, and rising from the mound of blankets and pillows to find some clothing.

It takes some shifting of the boxes containing his belongings until he finds one that is full of clothes, and roots through it until he pulls out the pieces of his usual ensemble. There’s some comfort to be found in pulling on his usual attire in the midst of a foreign setting; his gloved fingers touch the choker around his neck briefly before he decides to leave it on, and makes his way to the main room of the penthouse suite.

Surprisingly, Dazai is already there, draped over one of the couches haphazardly with his eyes closed. 

A small suspicion rises in the back of Chuuya’s mind, and he marches over to the sofa and slams a hand onto the table in front of it. 

Like he expected, brown eyes open without a sign of drowsiness, blinking boredly at him. “If this is the way you wish people good morning, then no wonder you weren’t married off sooner.”

”It’s ten in the morning,” he says without preamble, cutting Dazai off before he continues to spout garbage, “and we have three hours to kill before the briefing.”

”And what do you want me to do about that?”

”I have no idea how things work around here. And there are two phones and a credit card on my bed made for purposes specific to the Angels that I refuse to use unless I know what I’m getting into.” He tilts his head and arches an eyebrow. “Can you help me with that?”

Dazai eyes him for a second before he laughs, a throw-your-head-back kind of laugh that rings loudly in the empty suite and makes a smile of Chuuya’s own twitch at his lips despite himself. “You’re very demanding in the morning, chibikko.”

”I think I made my stance clear on any height-related nicknames last night.”

”Only on the one.” His husband waves off the challenge written in his glare with a lazy flap of his hand. “You’re overthinking this: the phones are an extension of our security measures, and the credit card is untraceable and linked to an offshore bank in Russia. If you plan to go out, I would recommend taking the burner.”

Chuuya frowns. “I was under the impression that the Angels avoid being in the public eye as much as possible.”

”Mm, yes. But as far as the public is concerned, the people that work and live in this building are normal. It’s important to keep up the pretense every once in a while, no?”

That’s the second time Dazai has used that phrase, as far as the public is concerned. “Then the only opinions you care about are the public’s?”

Dazai gives him a side-eye, condescending amusement tempered by a subtle warning to drop the subject. “If I recall correctly, you asked me for help.”

Chuuya gives in, biting back a sigh. When he agreed to this marriage, he hadn’t suspected that talking to his own husband would be so tiresome. “I did. Can you?”

Instead of answering, the taller man rises from the sofa and disappears into the kitchen, only to reappear with two glasses in one hand and a bottle of scotch in the other. He pours the golden liquid into both, handing one to Chuuya and settling back on the sofa holding his own. “What would you like to know?”

Chuuya studies his glass, swirling the liquid inside around thoughtfully. “Anything you can tell me. I’m curious about security, mostly.”

”Then we’ll start with that.” Dazai sips at his drink. “As you saw last night, our main security system is based on facial recognition, though we do have a few technologies at our disposal which use fingerprint scanning. You’ve been given access to the building, which means you can go in and out, whenever you like, and acts as a cover of sorts. However, the only elevator we have that comes straight up here is located in that parking garage, so make sure you come back in through there.”

”And the phones?”

”One burner, one smartphone. The former is disposable, as you know, and that’s the one we take out with us if there are, ah, jobs to be done. The latter is yours—feel free to put any contacts that you want in there, but on both devices the numbers of all the Angels are already set up.”

”By name?”

The twinkle in brown eyes tells him no. “Have fun playing trial and error with those numbers, chibikko. Let’s hope you don’t call Gogol’s on the first try.”

...Whatever that means, but okay. Chuuya sips at the scotch, racking his brain for something else to ask. “When you say jobs, you mean...what, exactly?”

Dazai places his glass on the table and folds his fingers together, a gesture that startlingly reminds Chuuya of Mori. “Clarify something for me first—what do you think the combined goal of the Angels and the Rats have been for the past two years?”

Chuuya swirls the scotch in his glass again as he recalls what he can of those two years, the bleakest part in the hunt for Fyodor and his Rats, calling to mind the only lead that the Port Mafia had to go on. “To get the Book. The one that makes anything written in its pages reality.”

”That’s part of it, though really the Book is only a means to an end. I suppose a better way of putting it is taking the future of all Gifted into our own hands, reshaping it however we choose to.”

”That’s...a very morally gray way of doing things.”

”I never said it was right or wrong. Personally I don’t care one way or the other what happens to us Gifted. As for the rest of them, they’ve been caught in the high of purging fever for a very long while now.”

“But why this?” Chuuya presses. “Out of all the goals in the world shaped by Gifted, why pick this one?”

Dazai tilts his head to look at him, eyes gleaming oddly. “That’s something you’ll have to ask Fyodor, in your own time,” is all he says. “Anything else?”

A lot else, mostly having to do with the man’s relationship with the leader of the Rats. Chuuya hasn’t forgotten last night’s episode, and a small part of him wonders how the Angels manage to get things done if two of their most formidable members are constantly at each other’s throats. 

A sudden thought strikes him before he can ask the question. “Did you eat yet?”

Dazai’s eyebrows lift until they are about to fly off his face and another peal of laughter rings through the suite as the man throws his head back. “Chuuya, really, you know you aren’t obligated to play housewife—”

”I’m serious. Look at you.” Chuuya gestures vaguely, noticing for the first time how thin and lanky Dazai actually is. “You’re lIke a bamboo pole—”

”Flattering.”

”Shut up,” he says, ignoring the fact that he’s just basically told the third most powerful person in this organization to stop talking, “and get dressed, husband of mine. We’re getting breakfast outside.”

Chapter Text

This is probably the most interesting morning of Dazai's life. 

He hadn't expected to be dragged out of the suite by his husband of fifteen hours—both disguised appropriately to hide more telling features like his bandages and Chuuya's red hair—for breakfast at a nearby restaurant, nor had he anticipated having to follow Chuuya as the shorter man bought groceries from a supermarket he didn't even realize was around here, comparing prices and tossing vegetables into a cart. 

The others would laugh if they could see him now, the third most powerful person among the Angels being made to keep watch as his husband plays the surprisingly fitting role of devoted housewife. For his part, he finds it strange, and more than a little amusing. 

"How the hell have you survived this long with nothing in your cabinets and nothing in your head except wool...” 

He tunes back into Chuuya's grumbling, listening to something about him being a massive incompetence and a useless pile of bandages before he addresses his husband. 

"Chibikko, if I could remind you of the meeting we have in one hour exactly?" 

"Well, if you would actually stock your own suite with something other than wine and furniture, we wouldn't have to do any of this." 

"You were the one who dragged me out here."

"As if you'd actually let yourself be dragged out if you really didn't want to be." 

Ah, only the first morning as a married couple and the hat rack already has such a grasp on his personality. That won't do at all. 

He pushes himself off the wall he's been leaning on for the last twenty minutes. "If you're so insistent on playing house, then at least get yourself some milk. I hear it does wonders for your height." 

"One more short joke, I dare you." 

Pointing the end of a radish at Dazai tends to downplay the threat, but he lets it go for now. There are always other opportunities to annoy his husband, after all. 

“As interesting as this little excursion has been, I suggest you rein in your domestic abilities before the briefing begins. The rest of the Angels will be there, and the last impression you want to give them is that of a doting political bride. Not everyone approves of this...arrangement.”

That gets Chuuya’s attention, at least. The smaller man turns to face him, all traces of prior irritation replaced by the same intelligence Dazai has seen during the wedding ceremony. “What sort of impression should I give them then?”

”Nothing other than what you already are—a former Port Mafia Executive with enough potential to become one of our greatest assets.”

“What is that supposed to do? Just because I prove myself capable doesn’t mean they’re going to trust me.”

”Then figure it out.”

”A lot of help you are.”

He shrugs. ”I told you before—I don’t need useless pawns. If you’re half the man I think you are, you will find a way to convince them of your necessity. Then maybe they’ll consider allowing you into their good graces.”

Perhaps other people might have taken the time to study Chuuya closely and see the disquiet lurking just beneath an annoyed exterior. But Dazai is not other people, nor is he a kind man. In this kind of world, kindness gets him nowhere—far better to be aware of the stakes and prepare accordingly so that failure is not on the list of possible options. 

So he leaves Chuuya on that note, and glances at his burner. “Time to go, Chuuya. We have probably forty minutes before we look bad.”

They make it back with fifteen minutes to spare, taking the parking garage elevator back up to the suite to change into something more meeting-appropriate.

As soon as the door shuts behind then, Chuuya places the three bags of groceries inside the refrigerator before heading towards his bedroom. Dazai simply swaps his pullover and scarf for one of his usual dress shirts, buttoning the cuffs while he makes his way towards the kitchen to wait for his husband.

In less than five minutes, Chuuya emerges still pulling on his gloves, having traded the hoodie he was wearing for what must be his usual attire. Dazai eyes the little black monstrosity on his head suspiciously before sweeping his gaze over his husband and reading the tension written into his shoulders. 

“Nervous?”

”Why would I be?”

Dazai shrugs, intrigued despite himself in the fact that no traces of anxiety or hesitation are anywhere to be found in Chuuya’s tone. “You’re handling this quite well, for someone who’s been married to a terrorist for less than twenty-four hours. Most people would have a meltdown within five.”

Chuuya raises an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you actually thought this could break me.”

”The thought crossed my mind,” he admits. “But I’ve been wrong before.“

Eleven seconds pass by with outside traffic being the only sound in the room before Chuuya’s voice drifts into the open, quieter than Dazai’s heard it before.

”You’re different from what I expected as well.”

“Oh? How so?”

Chuuya shrugs. “I’m still not sure.”

Dazai studies his husband wordlessly. He has no clue what Chuuya has been told about him, only that whatever information was left to tell is far too scarce for the other man to put together a full picture of him, but one look at Chuuya’s expression says that the little amount of intel might have been more than enough.

Someday he’ll find out the story behind Chuuya’s expression. Someday he’ll find our exactly what his husband has been told about him. But for now, “It’s nearly time. Shall we go, chibikko?” 

The briefing room is two levels below the floor his suite is located on, at the end of a vast hallway past several doors leading to a private gym, an office, a storage closet, and, for some inexplicable reason, a music room. It’s interesting that this single space constructed out of four walls and a few glass windows could echo one of the Angels’ greatest talents to-date, hiding in plain sight behind a facade of legitimacy that could be easily broken if people cared to look a little closer.

(Most don’t, but that’s why this type of hiding works.)

Dazai’s been in this room countless times, plotting the downfall of all the Gifted organizations that stand in the Angels’ way, along with the other people who make it possible. As the third in command, he holds the authority to have his own commands obeyed and his own orders carried out to the letter, and uses it accordingly.

As the third most powerful person in the organization, it goes without saying that he answers to the second.

When he walks in with Chuuya, Pushkin is the first to greet them. Dark heady eyes flint from beneath bushy eyebrows as a boisterous chuckle booms across the room. “So the happy couple joins us at last, eh?”

”Something like that,” Dazai responds dryly while taking a seat beside his husband, “though I fail to see how that concerns you.”

”Be nice, Dazai-kun.” Goncharov’s empty gray gaze slides over to them. “He’s only offering congratulations; we are all very happy for you both, you understand.”

”How considerate. And how do I know that it isn’t merely the product of your...experiment with our dear leader?”

The man just smiles. And in the background, a laugh begins to sound, growing in volume and crescendoing into a hysterical cackle that makes Chuuya stiffen beside him and threatens to make the windows shatter. Only then does Dazai remember why he has always found Gogol unsettling.

”Now that,” the jester half shouts, with a flourish of his hand more suited to the circus, “that is a very interesting question. Why not answer it, Dazai-kun, hm? I’m sure your husband would be delighted to hear all about it.”

Dazai turns to regard Chuuya with a question in the arch of his brow, faintly curious to watch his husband’s reaction unfold. He isn’t disappointed.

”I’ll pass,” Chuuya addresses Gogol with surprising calm, “though I suppose Dazai wants to tell me about it, then it wouldn’t hurt. Isn’t that right, husband of mine?”

He leans back in his chair and smirks, amused that this is the way Chuuya’s chosen to play. 

Then footfalls sound at the door and Fyodor sweeps in, purple eyes sweeping the room as he takes his place at the helm of the room. They linger on Dazai’s with a flicker of amusement for one brief second before finishing mental attendance and returning to the matter at hand.

”We have three more losses to add to our list of casualties,” he begins without preamble, “a bolthole in Aomori and two of our government informants. The PSIA stormed the former last night and left behind nothing but the foundations it was built on. As for the latter, suffice it to say that conscience is a heavy thing to carry. They took their own lives two days ago.” Fyodor rattles off these facts with his usual bored apathy, as they aren’t worth more discussing than the ground beneath his boots. 

“Sorry, boss.” A meaty hand raises itself in the air. “You know I’m no good at these mind puzzles. I’m the sort that if I’ve got something to say, I say it plainly. So if I might ask, what exactly is it that you’re implying?”

Idiot, Dazai thinks, fighting the eye roll that is moments away from breaking loose. 

”Tongues hath been loosed,” he says out loud, watching the realization ripple throughout the room. “Unless we’re misinterpreting this whole situation, Pushkin-san, it’s safe to say we have a leak.”

A hum of consideration comes from Sigma’s side of the room. “But who would betray the Angels or the Rats?” the businessman muses. “The opportunity cost is much too high, not to mention that there is no way of getting away with it.”

”Indeed, Sigma-san,” Fyodor agrees, “which is why our leak will not. Tonight he will be feeding information to outside sources while on his assignment to track an arms shipment newly arrived from China, signed with none other than the Port Mafia.”

Dazai glances at Chuuya, finding his hands curled into fists beneath the table even as his expression betrays nothing, before going back to study the opposite wall. 

Fyodor could not be more obvious if he tried—this is a test of Chuuya’s loyalties, designed to put him on the spot though it’s far too soon for his ties to the Port Mafia to be broken off so easily. There’s only one solution to their current dilemma, and the murmurs in the room grow in volume as everyone undoubtedly arrives at that same conclusion. Dazai half-expects Fyodor to just out with the question and ask Chuuya directly, since so far he hasn’t been subtle about involving Chuuya with normal Angel activity.

Instead, Goncharov speaks. “And what if the leak is in the room, as we speak? A hasty guess, I know, but it’s important to keep all possibilities accounted for.”

No names were mentioned, but there doesn’t have to be for everyone to know who he means. Including Chuuya.

“I have a name, it’s Chuuya,” his husband says. “And I can tell you right now, I’m not the weak link in the chain. I have no idea where the boltholes are. The Port Mafia’s information on both the Angels and the Rats is too scarce to secure any kind of victory; that’s why the organization took such crippling blows to their resources and manpower for the last two years. I would know, I was Executive until yesterday.”

The little signs of approval circulating around the room from half of the other Angels present aren’t lost on Dazai, but he’s more focused on Fyodor, and the little smug smile on his lips that makes Dazai’s jaw clench.

”In that case, Chuuya-kun,” Fyodor says, “your help would be much appreciated. Going into unfamiliar territory to find our mole is somewhat troublesome, wouldn’t you agree?”

A hint of red catches Dazai’s peripheral. In an instant, his hand moves to cover Chuuya’s, extinguishing his ability upon contact. Chuuya doesn’t acknowledge the warning in any visible way, but when the hand beneath Dazai’s goes slack, Dazai knows Chuuya’s heard it. 

“I’ll go in.”

“Are you certain? Surely seeing your old colleagues again will make this transition harder?”

It’s like Fyodor is deliberately pulling at Chuuya’s strings, as if everyone in the room isn’t aware that Chuuya is their best shot at finding the leak. Dazai wonders for the millionth time since he met Fyodor what exactly the man gains by pressing at people’s buttons to the point where they hold nothing but animosity towards him.

“It’s Port Mafia territory,” Chuuya responds, ignoring Fyodor’s comment. “I know my way around: midnight tonight at Shinko Pier, in the center of the Port of Yokohama near the Red Brick Warehouse. All the Mafia’s overseas shipments come through there.”

Fyodor’s lips curve and he nods. “Then it’s decided. Chuuya-kun, you will stake out Shinko Pier. The rest of us will remain here to keep an eye on your surroundings while you wait for our leak to show. Dazai-kun, you are in charge of communications.”

“And why, pray tell?” Dazai knows the exact reasons for this decision, but he needs to learn if Fyodor is planning to let Chuuya drown, or merely test out the strength of their marriage after a measly fifteen hours after knowing each other. After all, if Chuuya fails, then so does Dazai. “Chuuya can handle himself.”

”I’m sure. But he needs someone to ‘show him the ropes,’ as the saying goes.” Fyodor’s eyes slide to him slyly. “Besides, this is as good an opportunity as any to get to know your husband. You barely know each other after all.”

Dazai vaguely visualizes a bullet sinking into Fyodor’s head—or better yet, two bullets sinking into each one of his eyes. It would dye the violet such a lovely shade of red. “Don’t bother trying to give me marriage counseling, it doesn’t suit you.”

”Dazai-kun.” Fyodor’s smirk is mirthless, scimitar sharp, and dangerous. “Don’t make me order you.”

Dazai would love to see him try, the organization’s second in command trying to put a leash on the one who’s more likely to go rogue than obey any order phrased like a threat.

But as much as he hates to admit it, according to the order of hierarchy he answers to Fyodor. He knows when to back down, and so he acquiesces with a nod.

”Then it’s settled. Chuuya-kun will go into Shinko Pier, with Dazai-kun on open communications. The operation will happen tonight.”

Briefing concluded, the Angels rise from their seats. Dazai heads straight for the door, not caring a bit whether or not Chuuya follows, and turns into the hallway.

It take all his energy not to beeline for the nearest window and smash his fist against it. He pushes the extremely tempting urge out of his head and heads for the elevator, intending to take the rest of the day off and let himself stew when a commotion catches his attention.

When he sees the dull blue of a uniform sprawled on the floor with a ladder, his first thought is marveling at the fact that construction is actually going on below them, his second thought that maintenance must be really having a bad day to get floors mixed up. It isn’t until he sees the vibrant red of Chuuya’s hair that he pays closer attention, watching an awkward conversation about watching where each other is going ensue before the uniformed employee picks up his ladder and walk past Chuuya.

It’s so subtle that anyone would have missed it—a flick of the fingers in what might count as an accidental brush against Chuuya’s hip. But it had seemed to Dazai that the area of the accidental brush was Chuuya’s pocket, and that there had been a definitive flash of white before it had disappeared like it was never there.

The elevator doors slide shut, and slowly but surely, pieces of a suspicion begin to arrange themselves in Dazai’s mind. The more he replays the incident in his head, the more it makes sense, and when the pieces finally all come together, he shakes his head, unable to keep a chuckle contained.

Until now, he’s had no intention to know Chuuya further—as long as a pawn is functional on the board, that’s all he cares about. But with things getting as interesting as they are, he can no longer keep Chuuya at arms length; marriage has never fascinated Dazai, but the mechanisms of chess do, and he’s always found playing an unanticipated game exhilarating.

Time to play, husband of mine. Show me what you’re hiding.

There’s a reason why all overseas shipments to the Port Mafia stop at Shinko Pier.

From a purely strategic standpoint, the high buildings surrounding the dock make it easy to see what is happening, and if everything is going according to plan or going horribly south; the Red Brick Warehouse in particular provides a good vantage point for insurance, because once in a while, there will be a bold client who thinks double-crossing the Port Mafia makes for fun sport. And it’s close enough to water that if a shootout happens, mafiosos aren’t burdened with too difficult of a cleanup job.

Chuuya can’t remember the last time he went to the Warehouse since becoming executive, but he’s less focused on remembering old missions than he is finding somewhere discreet to park the car he’d borrowed from a junkyard in Kamakura. It’s not strictly vital for this operation, but driving like a normal person is less conspicuous than using his ability to fly all the way from Kamakura to Yokohama. 

After driving around in aimless circles for the better part of fifteen minutes, he finally parks in the lot near Sogo Park. After shutting off the engine, he allows himself one moment to sit back in the dark and breathe, one beat of steeling his nerves before he reaches behind him.

In the passenger seats, hidden beneath a blanket, is the Mk13 Mod 7 sniper rifle, the most precise weapon on the market to-date as well as its most silent, heavy with both the weight of everything it’s made of and the job Chuuya has to complete. He supposes he should be grateful that the Angels at least had the foresight to let him use a weapon that won’t attract unnecessary attention, but really he just hopes it’s quick. He’s not eager to stay here any longer than he has to.

His burner screen lights up with an incoming call. Chuuya briefly remembers Dazai’s passing comment about Gogol’s number, calls to mind the cackling jester in the briefing room, and fervently hopes it’s not him before he answers the call and puts the receiver to his ear. “Hello?”

Fyodor’s voice drifts into his ear, low and dangerously even. “There is a security camera to your left. Do you see it?”

He blinks. “What?”

”Do you see the camera, Chuuya-kun?”

Disconcerted, Chuuya presses the burner to his ear and looks out the window. Only a streetlight is in his direct line of vision, but at the very top is a security camera, facing the pier—an ordinary camera with nothing overtly special about it. “What about it?”

”Watch.”

Suddenly, the camera moves. Right before his eyes, it turns away from the pier until it trains on him, and it’s all too easy to think of it as a replacement for Fyodor, the black lens of corporate surveillance watching him in place of twin purple eyes. 

”There is another one right across the street. One at the barracks behind you. And finally, at the top of the building to your right.”

Four different cameras in four different locations. All of them rotate away from their original positions, away from views of late-night traffic to port activity to focus on him, zeroing in until Chuuya knows that between all four cameras, he is the single prey caught within their crosshairs. 

“By now, I’m sure your situation is quite clear to you.”

It takes a moment for Chuuya to find his voice past the mix of shock and wariness in his throat, but he manages. “Is that what this is? A threat?”

“Not so much a threat as it is a friendly warning. You would do well to remember that the same methods I use to control security cameras at will are the same methods I use to put the country’s best in my employ—the rifle you have with you should be proof enough.”

”What’s your point?”

“As of current, I can see everything—from the car you are in to the late night traffic, and in a couple minutes, the group of Port Mafia operatives assigned to handle this shipment.” Fyodor’s voice darkens. “I will make this simple for you, Chuuya-kun: despite your adequate performance at the meeting earlier today, I can hardly believe that twenty-four hours was enough time for your old loyalties to have dissolved, especially now that you will be seeing familiar faces in a few moments. Try anything remotely out of line, and there will be nothing stopping me from killing every last one of them.”

The threat rings sincere in the suddenly suffocating darkness, and suddenly Chuuya’s blood runs cold with the panic-stricken possibility that Fyodor, this demon who sees everything, knows exactly why he has been placed within the Angels. 

“No. No, you can’t. Please, Fyodor, leave them out of this—”

“Why should I? Your entry into the Angels was based solely on a very sudden proposition put forth by a man reputed for taking the life of his predecessor for a blood claim to rule the Port Mafia, who more than likely has insurance to guard the executive he willingly placed within enemy territory, and your intentions as of current are murky, at best. So tell me, why should I listen to you?”

”Because of the ceasefire. Because I have nothing to gain from stepping out of line, because now I’m part of the Decay of Angels. Fyodor, please.”

Ten, eleven seconds pass in which Chuuya holds his breath, terrified that Fyodor’s seen right through him, paralyzed by the possibility that any moment now when he looks into the sniper scope, he’ll see only the bodies of his friends scattered around the pier.

”Prove it.” Fyodor finally says. “I will be watching.”

As the dial tone replaces Fyodor’s voice, Chuuya turns off the burner and rests his forehead on the wheel. 

Not one minute later, the burner lights up again, with another call. “Chuuya, do you have visuals on the situation?”

Dazai’s voice filters into the receiver, taking away the worst of Chuuya’s nerves and reminding him of why he’s there in the first place. He raises his head to peer out the window. “There’s a Port Mafia vehicle parked at the pier, just outside the factory where trade offs and cargo deals are usually made. No sign of the leak yet.”

”Keep watching. The leak probably doesn’t know we’re onto him, but he’s smart enough to play it safe. Give it a couple minutes.” A pause. “Are you alright?”

It’s barely been twenty-four hours since they’ve met each other and Chuuya hasn’t been able to get one solid read on the man without going in circles trying to figure him out. The man he met at the wedding ceremony is not the same as the man who sat down with him to discuss the inner workings of the Angels, neither are the same as the man who left him to fend for himself at a briefing that he wasn’t remotely prepared for, and none are the same as the man who is asking after Chuuya’s well-being like he’s actually concerned.

He knows no more about Dazai now than he did before this all started, and truthfully he has no idea what to make of the man.

”I’m fine,” he answers at length, not quite knowing how to respond. “I’m heading to the top of the Red Brick Warehouse now.”

His husband says something back in reply, but Chuuya can’t hear it over the rush of wind in his ears as he launches himself and the rifle in his hand into the air, nor over the low hum of his ability as Tainted Sorrow takes over and carries him to the top of the Warehouse with a perfect, unobstructed view of the factory.

Setting up the rifle is child’s play, taking the better part of ten minutes to adjust the scope and range the distance from where he is to the tiny group he sees clustered in the factory opening the shipment. 

When Chuuya finally puts his eye to the scope, he immediately has to look away again. He’s wholly unprepared for the wave of stinging remorse that comes with seeing Akutagawa and the Black Lizard, and the knowledge that at least for now he’s no longer a part of them. When he pulls himself together enough to concentrate, he puts his eye to the scope again only to watch a commotion unfold as a figure dashes out in the midst of falling crates and scrambled footsteps. 

Then his mind’s eye links the frantic figure up with the knowledge of where he’s seen this person before, and his eyes widen. “Dazai, the leak. It’s—”

“Anatole Kuragin, non-Gifted, better known as the boy who drove us home. Pity that he can’t keep secrets to save his life.” Dazai’s tone is unreadable. “Chibikko, you know what to do.”

Fyodor is watching. The rest of the Angels are watching. Any one of them would jump at the slightest opportunity Chuuya gives them to point out his hesitation and trace it back to his ties with the Port Mafia, and then there won’t be anything he can do to keep them declaring the ceasefire null and murdering every last mafioso in sight. He can’t let that happen.

So he puts his eye to the scope for the third time, adjusting it and fixing the sniper crosshairs on Kuragin like his body is on autopilot, curls his finger around the trigger. A beat, a breath, and then, with no hesitation at all, he pulls the trigger.

In a moment, it’s all over. Kuragin drops dead with a bullet lodged in his brain, and in the midst of Chinese and Japanese incensed cries, the factory lights up with gunfire. By the time the shootout ends, Chuuya is well on his way back to Kamakura with the Mk13 securely stashed in the truck of the car. 

When he makes it back to the penthouse suite, he walks in to find Dazai waiting for him on the couch. Some treacherous part of him wants to reach out for the familiarity his husband’s presence provides while the rest of him recoils at the very thought of doing so—he spends some time wrestling between the two before deciding to just go to bed.

But Dazai moves in front of him before he can even take a step towards his bedroom, crossing his arms as he leans against the wall. “Get over it.”

”Excuse me?”

Dazai repeats it, enunciating every syllable as if he needs to dumb it down for Chuuya to understand. It makes Chuuya’s blood boil. “I understand that you’re upset, but—”

”Your boss threatened my friends and I’ve just killed a kid, Dazai, of course I’m upset!”

”—but this is nowhere close to the worst we do. Chuuya, look at me.” 

“Move.”

Chuuya sincerely hopes that his attempt to push past his husband will make it clear that he’s not in the mood for a lecture, but it just makes Dazai all the more determined to keep him there. Dazai pushes him against the wall and holds him there, tilting up his chin so that they’re making eye contact.

“Get over yourself,” he repeats quietly. “Killing a child is far from the worst thing that the Angels have done. To be honest, it doesn’t even compare.”

Any other day, Chuuya would have pressed the point. But he is frustrated, he is tired, he can’t stand being this vulnerable, and all he wants to do is sink into his bed and just forget about this entire day for at least a couple of hours. “Dazai, I don’t...I can’t. Not right now.”

Brown eyes study him for a moment before Dazai nods and lets him go. “We’ll talk later.”

He sets off down the hallway without giving an answer, head spinning as he fights the urge to run out of the penthouse and straight back to the Port Mafia. A small part of him hopes that they won’t talk, and that they just won’t bring it up again. Because talking will mean having to confront Dazai face to face—will mean having a repeat of everything that’s just happened in the past thirty seconds—and he’s not sure he’ll be able to keep his cover if Dazai sees him vulnerable again.

Chuuya closes the door and locks it, not bothering to remove his clothes before he collapses on the sheets and closes his eyes. He’s ready for today to be over.

Chapter Text

Dazai stops inviting him to any more meetings. Whether because he proved himself incompetent in the man’s eyes or because Dazai is giving him the space he asked for is anyone’s guess; it doesn’t change the fact that Chuuya feels like he’s been slapped in the face. 

Not only is it humiliating, but it’s also another unnecessary setback. He has it hard enough trying to justify his sudden entrance into the Angels without the additional burden of doing so under pressure to prove that he won’t be the next leak they have to get rid of, finding information to send back to Mori that will actually prove useful in the end pushes him to his limits. Having the identities of all the Angels is good and well, but the information he actually needs is in the briefing room and it’s impossible to be there without Dazai and avoid looking suspicious.

Which brings him to Dazai—the man who is for all intents and purposes his husband, who Chuuya cannot get a solid read on even after two weeks of being married to the man, who is still just as much of a mystery to him now as he was on the day they met. 

What Chuuya’s gathered from observing his husband during the few times they see each other (trivial things, like the bandages he changes late at night, his preference of sake to whiskey, his way of sleeping like a dead-eyed mackerel) is certainly nothing compared to what Dazai knows about him—it’s infuriating. He has nothing to go on, no records, no reports, nothing but first hand experience from his marriage to the one terrorist most likely to vouch for him, and who’d probably sooner slide a knife between his ribs before that happens.

Like he said, infuriating.

The shrill cry of a seagull brings him back from his reverie, into warm wind and the bright glare of the afternoon sun bouncing off the solar panels at his back. 

The roof of the Angels’ high rise offers a view that Chuuya is still learning to get used to, tree-covered hills instead of skyscrapers, temples and shrines in every direction, Mount Fuji closer than he’s ever seen it—a beautiful, coastal view that feels unfamiliar and foreign even though he’s been looking at it for fourteen days.

Maybe under normal circumstances, he would find it peaceful, a welcome respite from the absolute shit circumstances that make up his life at the moment. But peaceful is the last thing on Chuuya’s mind while he is painfully aware of the camera behind him rotating to face him and while Fyodor’s threat hangs over him like a shadow. 

His mind burns with the memory of the number he memorized after the “accident” outside the briefing room. And while he’s aware that there is no way Fyodor or anyone else could actually have seen it, even that awareness feels off, like he’s missed something insignificant.

Chuuya has never doubted his gut instincts, and he doesn’t plan to start now. Which means that for what he’s about to do next, he has to be careful—extremely so.

Facing away from the camera so that all that’s visible is his back, he slides his personal phone out of his sleeve and dials the number, heart pounding with an irrational intensity as he holds the device to his ear and waits for the other end to pick up.

”Chuuya-kun.”

”Boss.” Even just saying the term feels relieving, takes a weight that Chuuya didn’t realize he was carrying off his shoulders. “Sorry about the late report.”

”Don’t apologize; the time doesn’t matter so long as we do not lose communication.” A shuffling sound makes its way into the receiver. “Has Dostoyevsky decided to make another move?”

They’re speaking low enough that their conversation can’t be picked up by the monitors, but still Chuuya can’t help but glance at the camera in his peripheral. “No sir, the most he’s doing at the moment is surveillance and recon. He sends out the Angels out every three days to keep eyes on movement in Yokohama.”

”I see. And have you been sent out?”

“...Not nearly enough to collect valuable intel,” he admits, deciding he might as well be honest with Mori. “They don’t trust me enough to let me near strategy briefings.”

“And eavesdropping?”

”Not an option, sir. There are cameras everywhere that Fyodor can manipulate at will, and if I appear at a briefing without Dazai it only makes me look more suspicious.”

Mori makes a noise of consideration. “Then I would advise this—lay low until they decide to involve you. In the meantime, keep your eyes and ears open for anything that may be potentially useful.”

”Yes Boss.”

”By the way, Chuuya-kun,” Mori continues casually, “how do you find Dazai-kun?”

“...I don’t know.” There isn’t any way Chuuya can accurately sum up his feelings, thoughts, and perceptions about a man that changes his mask like the seasons with absolutely no way of telling which one is real. “I feel like I can’t read him at all.”

The Boss of the Port Mafia hums again, this time with a note of amusement. “As expected of someone cut from the same mold as Dostoyevsky. Give it a little longer, Chuuya-kun; I’m sure he’ll reveal his secrets within time.”

If only saying something was just as easy as making it happen, Chuuya thinks somewhat sourly, or if only he had a fraction of Mori’s optimism. It would certainly make everything a lot more bearable.

“I’ll report back when there’s more information to be found, Boss.”

”Please do. I’ll be in touch, Chuuya-kun.”

Chuuya ends the call before he can start picking apart Mori’s words and analyzing them to the point of another headache; this is one too many mind games that he’s had to engage in, and he doesn’t feel like indulging in another one at the moment. He slides the phone back into his sleeve, sweeps his eyes over the view of Kamakura one more time, and pivots on his heel to walk towards the rooftop exit. He pretends not to notice the camera following him.

Being shunned by the Angels means he has plenty of free time on his hands, more than he knows what to do with. In the Port Mafia there had always been something to keep him busy if he wasn’t assigned on a mission, like training the new recruits or going for a few rounds in the sparring room. Here, with the memory of the Kuragin incident still too fresh in everyone’s minds, his options are limited—he decides to head back to the suite, and hope he finds something to do before he wastes away from boredom.

Just as he makes up his mind, something hurtles towards him in his peripheral. His instincts surge to the surface, and he knocks it away with one blow from a gravity-infused fist before whirling around to face the direction it came from.

The knife embeds itself into a wall, right next to a gleaming smile that emerges with the rest of its body from the shadows. “Wah~ so impressive! I’m shaking in my boots!”

The moment Chuuya’s mind links the voice to a face, he extinguishes his ability with a barely-contained sigh. “Could you not?”

Gogol howls with laughter like the question is the funniest thing he’s ever heard. “Could I not? Could I not? Absolutely not, Chuuya-kun!” he crows, voice echoing down the hall as he sweeps his cloak with a flourish. “There are many things that I could choose not to do, but—BUT! There would no fun in that, you see. And no fun means boredom, and boredom means no fun, and then I’ll have to find a new hobby to keep me occupied before Dos-kun sends me to blow up buildings for the sake of curing my boredom, which comes from not having fun! Also.”

All traces of amusement suddenly vanish. Gogol’s head slowly turns towards Chuuya, a slow deranged smile baring his teeth and sharpening his eyes.

“Also,” he repeats slowly, as if savoring every syllable. “It’s fun. I dodged my own knife earlier, you see, but if I hadn’t...if I had wondered to myself, what would happen if I didn’t dodge and stayed exactly where I was...well. That wouldn’t end very well for you, would it?”

Chuuya returns the look steadily. “What’s your point?”

“The ice is thin, Chuuya-kun; watch where you step. Or else we’re going to be so naughty.”

The high-pitched cackle that he leaves behind rings in Chuuya’s ears long after Gogol is gone. He stares, sighs, and resolves to turn over Gogol’s words at another time as he continues on his way to the suite.

He isn’t surprised to find it empty once he walks in; after multiple instances of waking up to find Dazai gone and being the first to go to bed, he’s grown accustomed to the stillness of being the only one in an empty space and to the realization that his husband won’t inhabit a living space for longer than necessary.

So he shuts the door behind him with a satisfied click and crosses the hallway, intending to change into something more comfortable before he goes about fixing his boredom.

Then he walks into his bedroom, and everything in him stops as soon as his gaze falls on the bed.

A yukata is lying there. Deep blue, draped in such a way that it catches the light of the afternoon sun, with a pair of wooden sandals settled at the foot of the bed. When he finally moves to inspect it further, it’s silken to the touch.

He’s no stranger to traditional wear; growing up under Kouyou fostered an appreciation for wafuku even though he doesn’t wear it himself. But instead of clarifying things, it only raises more confusion since there’s only one person who would leave this for him to find—Chuuya cannot for the life of him figure out exactly why Dazai would go so far to purchase this kind of thing with the very obvious intention of making him wear it when it’s not even close to being mission-appropriate.

If it’s not for a mission, then only one other possibility remains, and Chuuya refuses to consider that option until he’s absolutely sure that his husband hasn’t lost his mind. 

His thoughts fly apart when he pulls his hand away from the fabric and dislodges a card in the process, dropping from the sleeve onto the ground. He picks it up in equal parts suspicion and curiosity and turns it over, to find an address printed on the back with a messily scrawled note at the bottom.

Keep the choker on. Don’t be late.

It’s ridiculous. This whole thing is ridiculous. Chuuya’s actually starting to think that the not-mission option is rapidly becoming reality, and the idea throws him off-guard so much that he actually pulls out his phone and presses the first number without a care as to who might respond.

A familiar, bored tone drifts through the speaker. “Yes?”

”What the hell is this?” Chuuya demands without preamble. 

“So angry.” Dazai actually has the nerve to sound amused. “Does that mean chibi finally got my present?”

“You left the damn thing on the bed, you know perfectly well that I got it. Answer my question.”

”Really, Chuuya, I didn’t think you would fail to recognize our own culture’s—”

“I know what it is, I’m asking why it’s there.”

“If we are going on a date to a summer festival,” Dazai drawls patronizingly, “it only makes sense to dress accordingly, yes?”

Chuuya opens his mouth to retort, blinks, and realizes he has no idea what to say. The silence stretches on for long enough that Dazai has to call his name twice before he startles back into reality.

”We’re going on a date?” he asks, just so he can make sure his hearing isn’t failing him this early.

”I left a card, didn’t I? By the way, it starts at seven. I’d recommend getting ready now.”

“Why?”

”I assumed you would want some fresh air after weeks of being cooped up with nothing to do, but if I was wrong you are completely welcome to stay back and bore yourself to death. Your choice.”

The bored note in Dazai’s tone renews the desire to slug him across the face. “Do you speak like this to everyone you want to take out for the night?”

”I wouldn’t know, would I? You’re the only one I’ve asked.” Some kind of background uproar filters through the speaker. “Do decide quickly, chibikko. I would so hate for my dear husband to miss the fireworks.”

The line goes dead. Chuuya ends the call and sits heavily on the bed with the phone still in his hand, still in a daze.

It’s normal for any couple, married or not, to go on dates; though Chuuya has never had the pleasure he knows this much, and truthfully he can see the appeal of spending time with someone with no motive other than to enjoy their company.

But he and Dazai are the furthest thing from normal, and for the third-in-command of a terrorist organization to offer to take him out for the night is frankly astounding. 

Your choice, Dazai had said. It makes Chuuya want to punch him. 

There’s no doubt that Dazai has been studying Chuuya just as closely as Chuuya has been studying him. By this point, Dazai must realize that the best thing Chuuya has to offer the Angels is working as an active field agent and that he spends his leisure time in the same way. If Chuuya has to pick between spending a few hours with a spouse he barely knows and, as Dazai so eloquently put it, boring himself to death, of course he is going to choose the first one, and Dazai definitely knows that. 

There was never any choice to begin with.

Scowling to himself, Chuuya heads towards the bathroom with a quick glance to the clock. He has roughly an hour and a half before he needs to meet Dazai, enough time for a shower and convincing himself that he doesn’t care about this at all (because he doesn’t). It works until he steps out of the shower, towel wrapped around his waist and wringing water from his hair, and sees the yukata again.

It suddenly occurs to him that he still doesn’t know why this so-called “date” was arranged. Dazai had claimed it was to keep him from being bored, but it makes no sense when Chuuya would have been easily satisfied with a field assignment.

Maybe this is Dazai’s way of distracting him, taking his mind off of the memory of that disastrous mission. Maybe Chuuya is right, and this is supposed to end with him letting down his guard. Maybe...

...Maybe there is no point in analyzing the reasons why when he has a deadline to meet. Chuuya heaves a sigh, makes his way towards the bed, and scoops up the yukata with only minimal hesitation.

It’s simple work to put it on, wrapping the fabric around him left over right and securing it with the gold obi he finds. When he reaches for his hair, his fingers brush the choker. It’s tempting to take it off just to spite Dazai, but on the chance that this is really just to distract him he leaves it on, and sweeps his hair into a bun in an attempt to match Dazai’s surprisingly existent efforts.

When he looks in the mirror, his first thought is that Kouyou would be proud. Not of the circumstances that make him do this, but of the knowledge that the elements of a traditional-based upbringing hadn’t gone to waste.

His second thought is that he looks different. Like himself, but different, and not just because of the deviancy from his usual attire. A treacherous part of him points out the similarity of the yukata’s color to his own eyes—and he shuts down that train of thought before it goes any further. Dazai’s intentions are already unclear, Chuuya doesn’t need anything else to add to that confusion.

With one last look in the mirror, he turns to grab his burner off the dresser, slip his feet into sandals, and strides towards the door before he can change his mind.

Surprisingly, no one accosts him the moment he sets a foot outside the suite, or any moment after that as he walks down the hall to the elevator. Actually, no one acknowledges him at all, save for a smirk or a nod depending on who it comes from. After weeks of barely veiled threats this change is startling, and Chuuya can’t quite decide whether it’s this or the fact that Dazai somehow arranged for a lack of disturbance puts him more on edge.

The doors open to the parking garage. He takes two steps out into the concrete expanse before he suddenly realizes that in the two-minute conversation he had with Dazai, the other man hadn’t said anything about where to meet or how to get there. He cycles through a few options, an Angel-issued car (risky), a taxi (too long), or even hurtling himself across the city with his ability (there are a ton of reasons why that is a very bad idea).

In the end he decides just to take the train, because it’s the safest bet he has. It’s public, it’s fast, it’s crowded, and the people there all have better things to do than figure out if another passenger dressed for a night out is actually a terrorist in disguise. 

With that in mind he turns towards the exit, burner in hand, towards what may or may not be one of the biggest blunders he’s ever made. Either way he just hopes he can catch the next train.

By the time the train pulls up at Yuigahama Station it’s five minutes to seven. The doors open for an influx of passengers stepping onto the platform, businesspeople returning home, tourists making a final destination, and still others dressed for a festival. It’s far too easy for Chuuya to step out and disappear into the multicolored sea of yukatas exiting the station.

This close, Yuigahama is a far cry from the bird’s eye view he saw on the roof earlier. Strings of lanterns stretch from roof to roof, zigzagging between houses and glowing red, gold, and yellow against the blue night sky. Stall of frying meat attract as many customers as the ones further down the lane selling cold summer treats, and children’s laughter competes with tourist chatter in volume. Elsewhere waves crash against sand, and ship’s foghorns sound off in the distance. 

It’s the kind of environment Chuuya might actually enjoy, if he weren’t busy looking for the lanky bastard that called him here.

A card with an address a note, and no designated meeting place means Dazai is already here, but whether or not he wants Chuuya to engage on a wild goose chase around the festival is another story entirely. Probably not, but unless the plan is to accidentally bump into each other on the streets all Chuuya can really do is follow the crowd and keep an eye out for his husband. 

He turns his gaze away from the side stall and very nearly runs into the hand holding a fan to his face. “Chuuya took so long in getting here, I was beginning to think he wasn’t going to show.”

He rolls his eyes and takes the fan from Dazai’s palm as the man emerges from behind a yakisoba stall. “If you wanted me to the come earlier, you could have told me.”

”I did tell you.”

”No,” Chuuya corrects, “you left a yukata and a card for me to find and expected me to follow. That’s not called telling me, that’s a gamble.”

”I don’t gamble on chance.”

”What do you call this then?”

”An educated guess based on what I know about you and what I’ve seen from you in the two weeks we’ve known each other. Someone as used to active fieldwork as you wouldn’t last a minute cooped up inside the suite all day.” Dazai glances at his face and chuckles. “Really, chibikko, it’s almost as if you suspect me of having ulterior motives.”

Chuuya watches him closely. “And if I do?”

Dazai smirks and turns in his heel in the direction of the crowd, an open invitation in the space he clears beside him.  Chuuya reluctantly follows. “I’m not above enjoying a day off, you know.”

“You don’t seem like the type to enjoy this kind of thing.”

”Ah, no, not usually. But there are perks to being another nameless face in a crowd.”

That note of faint wistfulness, that makes Chuuya glance at his husband. A part of him wonders what this willing slip of information is supposed to do, where it’s supposed to lead. This might be the most honest he has seen Dazai so far, and he is wholly unprepared for it.

His thoughts scatter at the burst of flame that roars up from a nearby stand, the smell of sizzling meat and the flames alike attracting spectator and customer. He stares at it until Dazai’s soft laughter brings him back.

”Never been to a summer festival either, then.”

He’d wanted to, back in Yokohama, but... “I tend to avoid things that might get me recognized, even if it looks fun.”

Dazai considers him for a moment. Then with a quickness that surprises Chuuya, he walks towards the yakitori stall and returns with two skewers, one of which he presses into Chuuya’s hand. "Tell me about yourself, chibikko.”

Chuuya looks at his husband sharply, momentary surprise forgotten. “You know everything about me.”

“About your life, yes; that’s not the same as knowing you. Besides,” Dazai’s expression turns mischievous, “I just bought you dinner. Interesting tidbits about Chuuya makes for appropriate recompense, don’t you think?”

”Shameless bastard.”

Chuuya blocks out his husband’s irritating cackle and takes a bite from the skewer, chewing as he racks his brain for what might qualify as interesting. 

“I like wine. My favorite color is blue. I listen to music or read in my spare time.” He debates on telling Dazai about the poetry before he abruptly decides, no. “And...I hate water.”

”You hate water?”

”It’s complicated.” It’s really not, and Dazai already knows about the laboratory, but he would rather not go down that road at the moment. “Anyway, that’s all I can think of right now.”

“That’s all?”

”What, you wanted more?”

”Eh, either Chuuya is incredibly dull or he’s not looking hard enough.” 

Chuuya is patient. He has self-control. He is more than capable of reining in his temper. But at those words, at the implication that he’s not met Dazai’s expectations, something in him snaps.

“Am I supposed to know what you find interesting, after two weeks of marriage and barely seeing you for most of it? Because I don’t. I don’t know what I’m doing here, I don’t know if you find any of this interesting, I don’t even who the hell you are. So the next time you ask me for something give me a damn clue so I know what you’re looking for, or don’t bother talking to me at all.”

He is dimly aware of spectators, adults and children both, passing them with conversations lowered to a whisper or judge mental looks thrown their way, but he doesn’t care. To be considered as nothing other than a passing fancy is insulting even if he doesn’t give a damn about the marriage; maybe at first he hoped about being on better terms with his spouse, but clearly that isn’t going to happen anytime soon. 

Then Dazai is grabbing his elbow, steering him out of the way of a group of tourists and shaking him out of his thoughts, half-pulling him through streets, stalls, and crowds.  

Suddenly Chuuya’s sandals meet something softly solid. Before the novelty of walking on actual sand can sink in, Dazai’s murmured ‘let’s walk’ pushes him back beside his husband, matching him step for step the further they walk from the Yuigahama streets. 

They walk for a while like that, in silence, step for step, listening to the waves crash against the shore and the shrieks of children’s laughter. Chuuya stops once to remove his sandals; Dazai waits for him without speaking, and the seawater that occasionally laps at his feet is nowhere as cold as the silence his husband projects.

”Is that really what you believe?” Dazai’s voice pulls him back. “That I consider you nothing more than a passing fancy?”

They’ve stopped walking. For the first time since they’ve been married, Chuuya feels intimidated by his husband’s unreadable stare, but he refuses to be the first to back down.

He pulls back to look Dazai in the eye.

“Yes. And you know why.”

”Then enlighten me, husband of mine, just so I know I’ve got it right.”

Ultimately Dazai’s sneer is what does him in, all of his pent-up rage making its way to the surface, to his fingertips, to the tip of his tongue. 

“Two weeks I’ve had to keep myself occupied because your people don’t trust me enough to let me near their business. Two weeks I’ve had to deal with constant threats, warnings to watch my back, without even the smallest chance to show that I’m capable of being more than your spouse. All while you were running around Kamakura doing who knows what in who knows where, and yes, Dazai, I’m pissed that you didn’t and aren’t doing anything about it.”

”So that’s what has you so upset? You wanted me to swoop in and save you from the big bad wolves that you are more than capable of handling on your own? Quite honestly, Chuuya, I fail to see how this is anything but a cry for attention.”

”I am not a blushing bride that will wither away without marital affections, I am your husband asking you for help in putting me back out into the field.”

Somewhere behind them the fireworks begin, exploding in bursts of light, color, and sound that draws the rest of the crowd to the beach to cheer. Neither of them pay it any attention.

”I never thought you would be the one to play the marital card, Chuuya.”

”I never thought you would be this difficult to reason with,” Chuuya snaps. “I never thought that my own spouse would be completely fine with leaving me to drown.”

Brown eyes fix on a point just over his shoulder—and honestly that is more infuriating than the lack of response. “Answer me, you piece of—”

”Quiet.” 

With that note in Dazai’s tone, Chuuya stops talking. Dazai’s eyes never leave that point even as he turns Chuuya by the shoulders in a pretense of watching the fireworks.

“Five o’ clock, to your right.”

To anyone else they would look like an ordinary couple, out for a peaceful stroll along the beach and watching the fireworks for a thrilling conclusion to an evening date—and for all intents and purposes, that is what they are.

Except Chuuya’s gaze strays a little too far. It slips past the fireworks to the crowd itself, and a feeling prickles at his neck, the feeling that he's seen something, some tiny thing. 

He squints against the dim lighting, sweeping his gaze along the beach, picking out bystanders who appear out of place—until he locks eyes with a figure at the very back of the crowd. A figure who is definitely not watching the fireworks. 

Another burst of fireworks, another round of cheers ripple over the beach. The darkness shifts, the figure leaps, a gleam of silver comes arcing down—

Chuuya’s body reacts instantly and grabs at Dazai just as steel stretches through the air and plunges into the space where they would have been. His ability rushes to his fingertips when he calls, only to die down as Dazai’s hand locks around his wrist. 

“No time, we have to go.”

”He has a sword!”

He pulls his wrist free to flip it upwards, ability roaring to his palm and creating a shield seconds before the sword slams down on top of it. The motion makes him bite on a curse as he pushes his palm further against the steel threatening to break through. “Shit—”

Then Dazai’s hand is grabbing him, pulling him back by the wrist just as the sword heaves backwards, just as his ability fails. “Run now.”

Fireworks burst in the background, but the cheers have all faded to shrieks of terror as the crowd vacates the beach. Dazai pulls them both into the chaos that ensues, disappearing among the sea of panicked festival-goers. Chuuya’s nerves jangle inside his head, shock fading in light of a new, more pressing suspicion in the back of his mind. It arranges itself inside his head, blooms to fruition among the worst of his thoughts, and by the time they duck into an abandoned alley he’s more than ready to lash out at the man pulling him to safety. 

The moment Dazai releases his wrist, Chuuya turns on him, slamming him against the alley wall. “What the hell was that?”

Even cornered like he is now, Dazai raises one condescending brow. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

”You know,” Chuuya snarls, “exactly what I’m talking about. Bringing me out here, playing it up as another part you have to perfect, being watched by a person that you knew was there, almost getting the both of us killed. The hell are you trying to pull?”

Dazai simply stares him down, darkness large in twin brown eyes, as long fingers close around his wrist.

”The Hunting Dogs,” he says, dead, flat serious. “A special branch of the government tasked with apprehending dangerous Gifted or any other menace to the public safety of Japan. A group known for twisting the law around their fingers and turning it into a cruel weapon to use at their disposal, who have been on the Angels’ radar for some time. They’re looking to take us apart from the inside.”

Chuuya narrows his eyes, clicking through this new information until it all arranges itself in his head, until it fits together so perfectly that his rage returns twofold.

“Start with that next time,” he demands, a hand fisting in Dazai’s collar, “instead of using ourselves as live bait. If something had gone wrong—you bastard, you could have told me going in, at least I would have been prepared.”

”I was planning to tell you.”

”When?”

Dazai’s voice is bored, and far too casual. “Around the same time you were planning to tell me you’re still Port Mafia.”

Chuuya stares at him aghast. His grip on the rumpled collar dissolves minutely, under the shock of ice-cold realization, until it disappears entirely. He sinks back against the opposite wall, knees buckling and head reeling.

He is aware, somewhat, that Dazai is straightening, fixing his collar and brushing himself off, but it’s like all the gears in his head have come to a halt, broken down. His gaze fixes uncomprehendingly onto the pavement, until a pair of black shoes stop in his vision. 

“I have to admit, that little stunt you pulled with the construction worker was really amusing—ineffective, but amusing. It’s almost funny, how you thought that could actually work.” Dazai drops to a squat in front of him, head tilted in that curious assessing way. “Did you honestly think no one would find out?”

Chuuya feels that he must be drunk. Off shock, off something alcoholic he drank without remembering, because any minute now he will wake. He will snap back to reality and realize that this is all a waking dream, a nightmare, not real. 

But ten, eleven seconds tick by, and nothing changes. This is real, his inner voice mocks. Look at what you’ve done. He raises his head to meet Dazai’s gaze, that unreadable, unshakeable gaze.

”Dazai.” It slips out before he can stop it, desperate and much more vulnerable than he wanted. 

Something changes in Dazai’s gaze, something shifts behind brown eyes. The man stands up, abruptly and slowly all at once, and then a hand appears in Chuuya’s vision. “Let’s get out of here.”

From the moment they walk out of the alley to the moment they lock the doors to their individual rooms, they don’t speak again for the rest of the night.

Chapter Text

It’s been a while since Dazai has felt this irritated.

Being up for the better part of four hours, swirling scotch in a glass and watching the sky fade to grey, has done absolutely nothing except be completely and utterly useless, and though he isn’t a man prone  to anger, the urge to slam the glass against the table is way too tempting at the moment.

Wouldn't that be nice, to do exactly that and watch it splinter in his hand, colorless shards cutting into his palm and releasing little rivulets of blood. And to think that one person is the cause for it all.

He needs to think. He needs a change of scenery. This suite that neither he or Chuuya call home is suffocating, and since asphyxiation isn’t his preferred way to go, he needs to get out before he loses his mind. 

Dazai drains the last his glass and carries it to the sink, with a baleful look in the direction of his husband’s bedroom before he makes his way out.

Though he doesn’t have a particular destination in mind pure force of habit takes over soon enough, directing his steps in the direction of the briefing hall and passing gym, office, and storage to stop in front of the music room. 

After some deliberation, he goes in, less from a desire to enter than to avoid looking like a lost fool. The door shuts with a soft click behind him and the lights flicker on, to reveal the few music stands in the room, two chairs, Fyodor’s dastardly cello, and a grand piano near the back.

His gaze falls on this last with an absentminded curiosity. He moves like a man entranced, one pale hand lifting and pushing back the cover, pressing down on a key.

A.

It’s been a while since he last played but he still remembers running his fingers across the keys, the satisfaction gained from breaking down a complex piece into coherent sections able to be pieced together after a few weeks of practice. Back then, he played for music’s benefits, the ability to offer solutions to real-life problems within compositions of frenzied gaiety put to music, with all the cadence of a well-balance mathematical formula. 

And now something within him reaches for that urge again. His fingers twitch at the idea of playing again, and his mind too lays out the benefits in front of him. The ability to offer solutions to real-life problems, he considers with a wry twist to his lips, even including Chuuya and the Hunting Dogs...

Abruptly he sits down on the bench, adjusts it until he is a comfortable distance from the piano. His fingers spread out over the keys, familiar rhythms coming back to him in increments, and press down.

He hasn’t touched a piano in years but muscle memory guides his hands, leads him in scales and arpeggios as if the last time he played was only yesterday and not some several years before. With familiarity comes speed, and he plays faster, flying through each scale thrice until, by the time he shelves those, the memory of the last piece he played stands out starkly in his mind. 

Le Roi du Nuit, it was called, named for the legendary figure who brought a storm in his wake and lay waste to the lands, thousands perishing beneath his hand under snow and bitter winds. The very picture of cold and unforgiving Death that so caught his interest when he played, so different from the warm and certain Death he offered himself up to time and time again. But now the Night King is the last thing on his mind when he plays, his mind drifting to a much closer problem at hand.

Last night was not the first he’d seen or heard of the Hunting Dogs; this branch of the government has been on the Angels’ radar since before this war on the Angels and Rats began. But it was the first time a member had actively sought pursuit, amid a crowded area no less, maybe not with the intention to kill but certainly with the intention to maim. 

The music darkens, and Dazai’s thoughts along with it. 

It means someone is actively tracking them, following every single development. That they struck so soon after the marriage isn’t a coincidence, he’s sure, at this point they must know about Chuuya if they really have been tracking the Angels. Which brings its own entirely new set of problems to deal with.

His earlier foul mood returns in spades, and he presses the keys that much harder, just as the music begins to swell. 

Nakahara Chuuya, his husband by legal Japanese law, the circle in a square box, the one person that’s managed to throw a wrench into every single one of Dazai’s plans. It’s infuriating, it’s frustrating—his fingers fly across the keys, faster and faster, his irritation, impatience, all of it bubbles to the surface, crescendoing until it swirls into climax. 

This is a problem, pretty enough to make a younger version of him rub his hands with glee, twisted enough to make the current him threaten to break the piano keys in a fit of frenzied, unadulterated emotion. The fact that Chuuya is still tangled in the Port Mafia provides a new perspective to this thing, makes it needlessly complicated.

His mind rails and rages blackly. His fingers pound the keys with a sadistic vengeance, crescendoing, swelling, puzzle pieces of a solution?answer?madness swirl around in his head with a feverish frenzy, think, think, think, think, thinkthinkthink, thinkthinkthinkTHINK—

His fingers still, briefly, and finish the piece with absent contemplation, closing the tale of the Night King with a few stray notes, little improvisations that arrange the answer in his head sensibly. 

They’ll just have to risk it.

Solution found, piece completed, he closes the lid of the piano and rises from the bench. In another life he would have stood to applause, hailed as the next Rachmaninov. Here, he departs silently, leaving the Night King in the room behind him.

When he strides into the main room of the penthouse, he doesn’t spare Chuuya a second glance, only looking long enough to confirm that Chuuya is, in fact, awake and watching the sunrise. The other man doesn’t turn his way, not a word is exchanged between them as Dazai walks past him to the kitchen and swipe his phone off the counter before making his way to the window.

Remembering pages of the phone book means nothing to a man who's spent his life playing with strategy—just his luck, Dazai muses, that he happens to have this particular number in his mental archives. He smirks, more from the amusement offered by Chuuya's peripheral glances in his direction than from the act of dialing itself, and puts the phone to his ear. 

In no time, the other end picks up. "Dazai Osamu-kun. This is certainly unexpected."

"Mori Ougai-san," he greets dryly, "I'm afraid I may need to borrow your executive for a little while."

The name of Chuuya's so-called former employer, predictably, makes the man whirl around sharply. Dazai expects it, as he does the blow that comes next, and simply raises a hand to close around Chuuya's fist. "Would that be alright with you?" 

"Is this the part where you so courteously inform me of something that is going to happen anyway?"

"Fufu, Port Mafia boss-san, you're not really in a position to refuse, you know."

"No, I suppose not. In any case, though Chuuya-kun is your husband, I only ask that you keep him out of harm's way, if possible. I would hate for our truce to be broken over something as trivial as sloppiness, you know."

"Ah, well, the chibikko can handle himself." Dazai raises an eyebrow at Chuuya's expression, a comical mix of mortification at the nickname and rage containing future promises of harm. "Isn't that right, husband of mine?"

Mori's amusement rings clear through the phone despite his executive's best attempts to slap the device out of Dazai's hand.  "Well, I'm afraid there are other matters that require my attention. I leave you to your endeavors, Dazai-kun."

Dazai ends the call and pockets his phone, grinning down at his husband. "That went well, don't you think?"

The fist in his hand yanks itself free. 

"What the hell was that?" Chuuya demands. "What do you mean, you need to borrow me for a little while, and how do you have my boss' number, why do you have my boss' number, what kind of game—"

"How do you feel about active fieldwork?"

Chuuya levels six seconds of a stare that swings between incredulous and wary, and then he reaches out; Dazai allows himself to be pulled by the cuff of his sleeve all the way to the couches, sinking into the soft leather of one and being pinned there by blue eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"What are you playing at?"

"Well, since chibikko looked so pathetic after being found out last night, I stayed up all morning to find a solution to his little predicament."

"And what's that?"

"An investigation." He leans back into the couch, back on the familiar ground of negotiation and wordplay, satisfied to find a reluctant listener in his political spouse, and continues. "Conducted separately and entirely outside of official Angel business, to root out the Hunting Dogs at the front door. If Chuuya can find it in himself to get over his shock, we can start immediately."

"What's the catch?"

Dazai raises his eyebrows. "The catch?"

"First you call my boss and basically ask him for permission for something you're going to do anyway, and then instead of selling me out to your coworkers you make me an offer of investigation after pulling me from the field with radio silence for two weeks. What's the catch?"

"Husband of mine, I think you're being a little unfair, making me to be more devious than I am."

"And I’m starting to think you're a scheming bastard who likes to avoid a question when it's convenient. Well?”

”Unless you consider working with your spouse to be a catch, then no, I suppose there isn’t one.” When no immediate answer comes, Dazai glances at his husband. “Why the strange face?”

”I’m investigating with you?”

”Flattered?”

”Try curious. Because Dazai Osamu doesn’t seem like a team player.”

”Ah. Well, old habits die hard, as the saying goes. But there are one or two occasions when I prefer to have a partner.”

”Like now?”

”Like now,” Dazai confirms, ignoring both the sarcasm and the scoff coming from across the coffee table. “I pulled you from strategy briefings to see if your skills and competence in the field would lessen after two weeks of stagnant activity. Consider it an entrance exam to decide if you met my expectations.”

There is no need to elaborate further, not when he’s already placed his bid on the table where the both of them can see. Anyone in Chuuya’s position possessing a half wit of smarts would take it, but even knowing that such an offer can’t get more innocuous than this doesn’t seem to be enough for Chuuya. He gets up and Dazai waits, until two scotch-filled glasses meet the coffee table with a clink and his husband sinks back into the opposite couch. 

A silence broken by the occasional noise of traffic settles over them. Chuuya frowns at a point on the coffee table. Dazai reaches for a glass and swishes its contents, taking the time to study his husband— there are the beginnings of dark circles underneath blue eyes, sleeplessness and stress alike, and he spends the better portion of a minute momentarily mesmerized by a single red lock falling from a slim shoulder as Chuuya props his head on one arm.

"Say I agree to your proposition. What exactly would we investigate?"

"Traces. Sightings, rumors, those kinds of things. Even the government's bloodhounds can't get around without leaving some kind of scent, and I have eyes and ears all over the country."

“So you think a little asking around and possibly surveillance is a two-man job?"

“Chibikko, are you accusing me of something?”

That earns him a scowl, but Chuuya does spit it out.

“I've spent two years hunting Fyodor with the rest of the Port Mafia, wasted plans, men, and resources on someone always twelve steps ahead of us, but you know what I found? He never uses other people to carry out his dirty work unless he was planning on doing something much bigger than him. So, partner, why would someone cut from the same mold as Fyodor need to enlist an agent of an enemy organization to hunt down the government's task force when you are fully capable of doing it yourself?"

"Do you honestly think you're that special?" He sets his glass down, a little harder than is strictly necessary, and laces his fingers together.

"I don't need you, Executive Nakahara," he announces, and sits back to watch Chuuya's shoulders tense as his blows hit home. "You're nothing but a matter of convenience to me, expendable in every sense of the word, and I could easily have you replaced if I so desired."

The glare he receives from Chuuya would make a lesser man fall to his knees in apology, and for a moment he thinks that might happen, that Chuuya would flip the couch over and sweep his feet out from under him with one fell swoop. Instead, Chuuya tosses his blows right back to him.

“Then why come to me? Why offer me a place in the investigation when you could do it yourself, or even better recruit any one of your coworkers?"

It's the opening Dazai has been waiting for since this whole conversation started—everything else aside, he was completely serious about the investigation on the Hunting Dogs and like all good chess players he is prepared. So, even as peevish as he feels at the moment, he rises and stalks past Chuuya, down the hall, to his bedroom. He reappears shortly, with a manila folder that he tosses onto the coffee table between them.

It lands with a splat, with photograph and documents spilling across the tabletop like ink over paper. “Because you interest the Hunting Dogs far more than I or any of the other Angels could even begin to do. And this is the proof.”

”What is this?”

”The reason they were able to follow us all the way to Yuigahama last night. Nakahara Chuuya, an agent of the Port Mafia marrying into one of two terrorist organizations at the top of the government’s watch list and stepping into the public eye only fourteen days after the fact. A very convenient opening, really.”

Chuuya glances up at him sharply, and then looks back down. He tosses back the document he’d been eyeing onto the table. “Why me? I have nothing they want.”

“Modesty doesn’t suit you in this case, chibikko.” Dazai sits back down, running an eye over the selection of items splayed out in front of him before picking a photograph to his right. “If a way into the Angels was all they wanted they would have moved years ago.”

That photograph, as if by divine chance, is of the lab, in all its discolored grainy glory, but recognizable nonetheless. Small wonder, he thinks, that the government would want to pick up where they left off after being destroyed by their own experiment—and judging from Chuuya’s expression, he has reached that same conclusion.

”My ability. You think they want my ability.”

”What do you know about two-tier abilities, chibikko?”

”Enough to know that in my case it’s still a working theory.”

He shrugs and carelessly tosses the photograph back. ”Theory or no, it doesn’t matter to them. Just the fact that it’s a possibility is enough.”

”But it’s not even on my records,” Chuuya protests. “Anything relevant to that has only been passed around by word of mouth along the higher ups in the Mafia, so how could they possibly know about that?”

”Mori-san has outside sources to consult when interrogating prisoners doesn’t make the cut. So do we, so does every organization that knows where to look. It’s an unfortunate circumstance but there you have it—the Hunting Dogs know about your ability, and they are every interested in it.” He tilts his head. “So? How about it?”

”You’re bribing me.”

”Naturally! An investigation in exchange for personal information—sounds like a fair trade, don’t you agree?”

That earns him an eye roll and a reach for the second, untouched glass of scotch. “What a shameless person. You do realize Fyodor will know?”

”Of course he will. But it takes a certain kind of bullheaded stupidity to blow off the biggest lead we have on a longtime enemy. If he knows what’s good for him, he’ll stay out of this.”

Chuuya studies him with pursed lips.

Then in the next instant, Dazai’s fingers close around the white blur hurling through the air—the very same card containing the address of last night’s “date.” He turns it over, eyebrows arched upon seeing the inscription at the bottom, and glances at Chuuya.

”It’s a code my subordinates and I use to call for aid,” the other man says by way of explanation. “Don’t make me regret this, husband of mine. I don’t give out second chances.”

How very expected for an executive under Mori’s tutelage, how very telling of the Mafia and their ways; the man must be completely insane, or completely clever, to pair two people like them in this intimate fashion. It makes him smile as he pockets the card without a word, and turns on his heel towards the door.

Halfway there he stops. ”Aren’t you coming?”

The pause lasts one, maybe two, heartbeats—by the time Chuuya’s footsteps join his on the way out of the penthouse the sky is blood red, and the shadows of their footfalls seem to stretch larger than before. 

Fyodor is waiting for them just outside the briefing hall with his arms crossed, body in a casual lean against the wall, and a sly smirk playing on his lips.

Dazai has known the man too long not to be recognize this particular expression, the same one adopted when there is an informant to be questioned or a particularly enthralling move unfolding on Yokohama’s real-life chess board, and as much as he would like to ignore it, he can’t.

Organizational hierarchy, and all that.

He leans down to murmur into Chuuya’s ear, a green light for going ahead first since he won’t be long, and turns both gaze and stride towards the Cheshire smile waiting a good distance away from the door.

“Bringing him back into the playing field, Dazai-kun?”

Dazai settles against the wall and watches the last of his husband disappear through the doorway. “It’d be a waste, wouldn’t it?” he comments idly. “To bench such a valuable asset when he could be so useful.”

“I suppose you’re right,” the other man concedes after a moment. “Fighting the government on one front and the Port Mafia on another…every risk must be calculated in our favor.”

Dazai inclines his head just enough to indicate agreement, as if he hadn’t decided to help a traitor keep his secret not ten minutes ago. As if they were, as everyone seems to think, identical. He considers it for a moment, the ridiculousness of keeping a secret from the demon who likely already knows, and the snort he manages to hold back threatens to shake apart his poker face.

The slide of paper against cardboard recenters him. Reflex makes him hold a hand out to earn a bemused look from Fyodor and a rolled slip of paper. “Death by tobacco seems rather tame for you, Dazai-kun.”

“An occasional habit.” Dazai puts the cigarette to his lips and, once it’s been lit, takes a slow drag. The smoke he blows out is grey-blue. “Though now that I think about it, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Watching me suffocate to death from the tar in my lungs seems like a fitting hobby for a demon.”

Fyodor’s smile only widens as he pulls from his own cigarette. “You intend to include him in your plans, then?”

There is no need to ask who ‘him’ refers to. “Yes.”

“And you can control him?”

It’s a casual enough question. Dazai knows better. “An interrogation, Fyodor? It’s like you’re getting desperate.”

“A god doesn’t become desperate, Dazai-kun. Only impatient.”

Dazai only looks at the Russian man askance and blows the smoke from his next drag right into Fyodor’s face. His display of petulant childishness doesn’t get more than a chuckle, and he crushes the rolled-slip under heel and grinds it into ash before following Fyodor into the briefing room.

Without a glance toward the other Angels he circles to the back end of the long table and takes a seat right beside Chuuya.

His husband looks from him to the door, to Fyodor, and back to him. “What was that about?”

Dazai leans back in his chair with a lazy grin. “Worried for me, chibikko?”

The sudden burst of pain blossoming in his shin would have been followed by angry insults concerning his person and curses worthy of the docks—if they were alone, he’s sure—but alas they aren’t, and Fyodor cuts off the exchange before it can go further.

”Dazai-kun, you were the one who called this meeting. It must be important.”

Ah yes. Dazai turns his attention from the throbbing in his shin to a point on the opposite wall and hums in thought.

”An operative of the Hunting Dogs was spotted last night at Yuigahama. Apparently, he tried to make violent contact with some civilians out for the night, but there were no injuries, casualties, or reports of property damage. Adding this to the list of incidents from Kyoto in 2012, this makes sixteen—it’s safe to say that they are on the move.”

He is careful to keep it brief and concise, never letting slip any mention of the “date” with Chuuya while playing it nonchalant enough to be dismissed, but his words affect the room all the same, travels around to raise murmurings and suspicious glances out the window. 

“Why Yuigahama?” Goncharov ponders aloud, finger on his chin. “Surely there is nothing of interest for them there.”

Fyodor’s eyes slide to him, asking the same question with a deliberate tilt of his head and a glint in his eyes. Dazai returns the look coolly, throwing in a half-shrug for good measure.

”When you can’t find a rat, you overturn every corner of your house to find it. It just so happens that they picked a nearby district this time around.”

”Shot in the dark,” Pushkin comments with a snort. “Though, ain’t it a little too good? This is the closest they’ve gotten in years.”

”The arm of the government is long,” Sigma replies, though he shies away from Pushkin’s lean-in, bug-eyed stare, “with a reach that spans the global. Finding a place like this would be child’s play.”

”Maybe they threw darts on a map.” A high-pitched cackle follows Gogol’s suggestion as if it’s the most hilarious thing in the world. “Wouldn’t that be a fun game to play? Crossing off locations after being stabbed by a pin.”

Dazai wonders not for the last time how exactly this jester made it to the upper ranks of the Angels acting the way he does when all that’s remotely valuable about him is the strength of his ability. But Fyodor nods, as if his suggestion is business of the gravest kind and taking that inane idea into account, and moves on.

”Well, Chuuya-kun, what do you think of this?”

Dazai’s eyes snap to his husband at the same time that five other pairs of eyes do, but his tension from this unexpected invitation is unnecessary. Nakahara Chuuya at fifteen was the leader of the notorious gang called Sheep, spent several years under the tutelage of both Mori Ougai and Ozaki Kouyou, and in the collected calm of Chuuya’s expression, it certainly shows.

”I think,” he begins, “that this bolthole, and Kamakura in general, is too close to Yokohama. For the better part of two years, most terrorist activity was concentrated there; it would make sense for the government to check the cities and districts surrounding that particular hub.”

”And you think that is why they’ve managed to land a strike so close?”

”Not just that. You said the government has been tracking us since, what, 2012?”

That Chuuya would find some way to bring Dazai into the conversation isn’t unexpected, but his eyebrows arch all the same. “I did,” he says.

”Then that means they know what to look for. The government is unreliable, not stupid, and by this point they have seven years’ worth of experience to recognize our patterns.”

Chuuya’s won this round. It’s as obvious as a neon sign in the dark, and as Fyodor dips his head in acquiescence, Dazai feels the corners of his lips curl in a half-smirk.

”Chuuya-kun brings up another good point,” Sigma says thoughtfully, “and that is the fact of the Hunting Dogs’ familiarity with our movements. The same can’t be said for us; apart from the list, we’ve no ammunition left to make a counterattack, which puts us at the disadvantage.”

”Well, what are we waiting for?” Pushkin aims a finger in Gogol’s direction. “You could get that for us, couldn’t ya? Stick the equivalent of a battering ram inside that oversized overcoat of yours and make a distraction in Tokyo long enough to get the files from the Diet?”

”And go to jail in the process?” Goncharov asks dryly. 

“I would love to,” Gogol replies, amid Pushkin’s aw, Gon, lighten up in the background, “but that would put some light on me long enough for them to play twenty questions and...well, if I’m not the one coming up with quiz questions, then it’s no fun, is it?”

”That won’t be necessary.” Fyodor’s voice quests the clamor of the other Angels. “There are other resources to get our ammunition from that are both closer and a much more valuable use of our time.” He lets the comment hang, purple eyes flicking over to Chuuya with a smugness that makes Dazai’s jaw clench.

They’ve been played. 

Slipping something past Fyodor is a difficult, if not impossible, task that only few have been able to pull off—Dazai is one of them. This challenge that Fyodor’s just tossed onto the table is nothing more than a test for the two of them, not to mention dangerous. 

It could work. As an executive, Chuuya knows the layout of the Port Mafia headquarters better than any of them, but every minute he spends looking for the ammunition is another point against him in the Angels’ hierarchy, especially since Fyodor is likely to be watching every minute. Every minute of hesitation is a black tally against his person, and if Chuuya falls, then Dazai will get dragged down with him. 

It’s a bigger problem if he turns down the invitation. Do that, and they might as well flash a neon sign informing Fyodor that they have something to hide. He keeps his face impassive as purple eyes shift to him, but his mind is clicking ahead, finding the loophole in Fyodor’s gauntlet, laying it all in front of him like a player before the chessboard—

“I’ll go in.” 

Dazai’s thoughts fly apart. His eyes cut sharply to his husband.

“You?” Fyodor repeats, as if Chuuya picking up his gauntlet actually surprises him, as if he can’t detect Dazai’s shell-shocked impassivity from the opposite end of the table. “Surely visiting your old haunt will cause you some consternation?”

”I was Executive until a couple weeks ago. I know the layout of the Port Mafia headquarters better than anyone else here, and only the high-ranking operatives get access to the archives. Getting information this way is faster than breaking into the Diet.”

”An excuse, surely.” Goncharov speaks up, an odd look in his eyes offsetting the permanent smile pulled back on his lips. “Could it be you are so eager to run back to your old organization?”

Chuuya eyes him derisively, as if he’s talking to an old friend rather than to a terrorist watching for the slightest misstep in this deadly ballet. “Then you try breaking in, see if you can last more than a minute before you’re caught.”

Dazai stands.

The chair scrapes back against the marble with a screech that pulls every attention in the room to his person. He keeps his posture relaxed, his hands still at his sides, his eyes and a pleasant smile locked on Fyodor though he’s internally seething. “Well, this has been boring like always, but might I be allowed to have a little chat with my husband?”

”Domestic spat?” Fyodor asks lightly, tilting his head.

”Of sorts.” Dazai agrees while he reaches down to tug Chuuya out of his seat. “Come along, husband of mine.”

The moment the door shuts behind them, Chuuya’s wrist knocks his hand off a slim shoulder, and blue eyes fix on him scathingly. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

”I could ask you the same.” And though they’re speaking in hushed tones, he hazards a glance towards the door. “For someone undercover, you are very eager to blow your cover.”

”What, you wanted me to turn him down? And look even more suspicious?”

”I wanted you,” he replies coldly, “to leave the strategies and the bargaining-speak to the people who actually know how to do it. Though I guess that is too much to ask, seeing how you have the knack for throwing a wrench into everything I plan.”

In the next heartbeat, his back slams against the wall, held there by Chuuya’s arm at his throat. And though his spine aches from sure-forming bruises, he raises his gaze to meet furious blue eyes. “Really, Chuuya. I’m starting to think you just like pressing me up against things.”

”I didn’t marry you to become your lackey,” Chuuya hisses.

”You also didn’t marry me to ruin your only chances of proving yourself to the others. And yet here you are, wasting those chances just to pay your old cronies a visit.” Dazai raises one mocking eyebrow. “Maybe Goncharov was right. Maybe you are trying to run back to the Mafia, while playing us all for fools.”

”Maybe I should. It’d give me some peace and quiet, not having to deal with you and all the cards you pull.”

”Then what are you waiting for?” The other man stills. Dazai presses against the arm pinning him to the wall to watch his words find their mark. “I told you before, I don’t need you. There are plenty of other partners I could have that know how to do things other than yap like a useless dog.”

Something flickers in Chuuya’s eyes, a flash of unidentifiable emotion gone too fast for Dazai to pinpoint. The shutters of the other man’s expression draw closed, and the door to the briefing room opens. 

Fyodor looks between them curiously. “Am I interrupting?”

The pressure on Dazai's throat disappears as Chuuya yanks his arm back. "So, that information. When do I need to get it?"

"The operation will happen tomorrow night. As for specifics, you know the territory, as you said; it will be up to you, so long as you don't come back empty-handed."

"That won't be a problem. Now if you'll please excuse me..."

Dazai stays put, not budging even when Chuuya roughly pushes past him. He only massages his throat, his eyes fixed on a distant point on the floor, and pretends not to hear the ding of the elevator or the almost-pitying note in Fyodor's tone as the other man says something about boltholes, checking for hidden cameras and the like might be good for giving them space. 

He walks past Fyodor stiffly, into the room briefly to grab his coat before stalking back out to the elevator. Maybe some fresh air, and not that godforsaken suite, will dull the anger roaring through his veins.

Chuuya doesn't say a single word to Dazai between storming off and the moment he has to prepare for the operation. He has nothing to say to Dazai, doesn't even want to say anything to him really, and has opted to retire to his room early just so he doesn't have to face Dazai and the memory of that last, bitter conversation.

The penthouse becomes a battlefield, of sorts. Every necessary sharing of a room ends with them on opposite sides, every interaction amounts to passing each other wordlessly, and every accidental glance sends Chuuya to the gym and vent out his frustrations on the punching bag.

Their marriage is political. This is why he doesn't care one way or another if Dazai needs him or not. But having Dazai insist on being a thorn in his side and fighting his battles, as if he doesn't know his way around a negotiation table when in fact it is the exact opposite, being called useless to top it all off, it stings. Fourteen hours later he's still smarting from the impact of Dazai's accusations, however untrue they are, and it drives him to roundhouse kick the punching bag off its hooks and onto the floor.

He returns to the suite, covered in sweat and considerably more levelheaded than when he'd entered. This alone makes it possible to walk past Dazai without having his temper flare, leaving the other man with maps of different districts while he beelines to his own room for a quick shower.

When he steps out, fully clad in black and drying his hair with a towel, the sight of Dazai sitting on his bed very nearly makes him stumble. He recovers fast enough to level a scowl at the other man. "Most people knock."

Dazai barely reacts. "Never took you for a prude, Chuuya."

Chuuya's scowl deepens and he opens his mouth to start their quarrel all over again. Then his gaze falls on Dazai's outstretched hand and what he holds in it, and his anger immediately rushes out to be replaced by curiosity. 

"What are you doing with my phone?"

"Adding a shortcut." When Chuuya makes no move to take the phone, Dazai stands and puts it on the dresser. "That tab you see there. If this goes south, type and send the letter O , shorthand for that code you threw at my head. This way I can send someone to get you."

Chuuya narrows his eyes. "What will you being doing?"

"Scouting the boltholes, checking if there's anything amiss. Apparently the Hunting Dogs might have found those too."

"But they're all over the Kanto and Kansai regions."

"Stating the obvious, chibikko."

Chuuya stares at him, bewildered and suspicious at this change in only fourteen hours. Is this an apology? Extending an olive branch? A bribe? "I thought you didn't need me."

Dazai shifts his gaze from the view outside the window to him. "Who else is going to help me hunt down the government?"

How many masks does Dazai have? How many parts has Dazai played to perfection until no one can distinguish one from the other anymore? It's disorienting, and before long he shakes his head and swaps the towel for the phone which he secures to his vest. "I can't understand you at all."

"Neither can I, for you."

Chuuya opens his mouth to retort that compared to Dazai he's an open book but he stops moving at the feel of long fingers in his hair--and he holds his breath, holds in his reflexes, not quite willing to comprehend Dazai carding his fingers through his hair. 

"I knew someone once who was a lot like you." Dazai's voice is quiet, his fingers gentle. "Red hair, blue eyes, a good fighter. He didn't smile much but when he did, it was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen."

Chuuya swallows, nervous for the first time since this marriage was officiated. He can't place the tension hanging heavy in the air, only that it's no longer antagonism but something just as powerful, and the urge to snap out of it, to break free before he lets down his guard, overtakes him.

"I," he begins, and swallows again, too quiet to be heard. "I need to go."

Dazai huffs what sounds like a laugh and a scoff rolled into one, and drops his hand. "Practical as always, Chuuya."

As he speaks, the danger of whatever moment they've just broken seems to fade away. Cautiously Chuuya glances at his husband, to find brown eyes already fixed on him. The phone burns inside the pocket of his vest, heavy with implication, and he swallows for the third time in a row. 

"Be careful," he says, just to match Dazai's efforts for ensuring his safety.

He doesn't see the slight curl of Dazai's lip as he leaves him behind and walks to the window. The frames throw part, the curtains part for the wind, and he launches himself into the night sky, glowing red and carried by antigravity on a trajectory headed for Yokohama.

Chapter Text

‘She eludes us on every side: she repudiates most of our rules and breaks our standards to pieces .’ An apt little piece of philosophy drawn from an innocuous little book on beekeeping, making for humourless entertainment in the face of its increasing relevance to the situation.

So far, in all the Angels’ boltholes, in all the little hiding places located within near inaccessible places all over Kamakura and in the neighboring districts, there are sixty-nine cameras and counting. So much for finding any enemy devices within each and every nook and cranny, Dazai thinks dourly, when they could easily estimate to a hundred within every single one and call it a day. Seventy, he adds to his mental tally, removing yet another one of those blasted things out from a vent, seventy-one, seventy-two .

He strides out a while later out of that last bolthole, the maze of trap-rooms below a small private theatre, exchanging demure greetings with the occasional staff that pass him, to the car parked near the curb. He slides into the backseat without a care towards the startled squeak of his driver. “Pull the car out, I’m ready to leave.”

“Yes, Dazai-san.”

Another kid, Dazai thinks to himself as the car begins to move, another youth that can’t be more than a few years younger than him, in the front seat when he should be in school. What might Chuuya have to say about that, he wonders. Something about keeping the kids from getting their education, probably, or something along those lines.

He reclines in his seat. The ride back to headquarters is not long, and there is time enough to admire the mundane view of traffic lights flying by. He turns his gaze out the window, his thoughts to his husband’s whereabouts, and his mind to unraveling the plan that Fyodor has surely set in motion.

A fire leaps up in the streets. It jumps from skillet to paddle and back again, with a loud hiss of steam that pulls the attention of anyone close enough to watch. Students and tourists, and children also, gawk at the gadgets of the toy and trinket sellers lined haphazardly along the road, and further down a hoarse voice bellows out the many wares inside the izakaya he attends. 

High above it all, Chuuya moves. He touches down on one rooftop, and then another, with small bursts of antigravity powering his every motion until it becomes a sort of dance—a ballet that brings him closer to the Port Mafia headquarters with every step.

The fire jumps again, the crowd shouts in amazement again. He lands behind a fire escape in one of few Mafia blind spots, and slips in through the open window.

He drops into the hall without so much as the whisper of shoes on carpet. Distantly he hears the cleaners with their mops and soap buckets, but what overwhelms him is the silence—muffled and capable of making a pin drop sound like an explosion--and the knowledge that he knows exactly where he is. 

The murmur of the higher circles audible even from here, a full floor above the executive chambers, this is the second of five floors containing enough material to make an information broker swoon—if he were some normal petty thief, this would be where he begins, searching for the proverbial needle in a haystack to get Fyodor’s files.

But he is no petty thief—only a technically-ex-higher-up who has no need for the correspondences archives just now, who can also hear the security system whirring to life beneath the low hum of night traffic.

He moves quickly. The Mafia may still welcome him, but there are eyes watching—a demon’s purple eyes looking for the slightest excuse to have him fail, and overly familiarity with the system, the buildings, or the people would be the perfect ammunition.

Better to be quick. Better to dart out of the cameras’ range and assume the rôle of a burglar, and not encourage the man’s suspicions. Just as the camera closest to him begins to sweep the corner he's in, he darts towards the end of the hall, noiseless, and disappears out the door, all the while feeling several years younger. He hasn't done this much sneaking around since he was fifteen and an orphan running around Suribachi City.  

This is not Suribachi City though, and the reality of what he is doing sets in soon enough. The hallways feel less and less familiar the longer he picks his path through them, and they seem to close in on him until he feels like some unfortunate fool finding his way out through a labyrinth. Every step feels too loud, every breath even louder, and he can't shake the certainty that sooner or later he'll run into a Mafia goon, maybe even one that doesn't know any better about the tradeoff with the Angels, who won't hesitate to pull a gun on him or make enough noise to attract attention.

All brawn and no brains. Dazai's voice narrates the thought; if the man were here, he'd arch a condescending eyebrow to match. Chuuya irritably pushes his husband's voice out of his head and continues his search.

Habit takes over. His footsteps turn solid as a destination arranges itself sensibly in Chuuya's mind, and he finds himself walking through floors containing years' worth of inventory (as well as the records of every trade the Port Mafia has ever made) until his feet pause at the entrance to a supposed storage closet. Supposed, because it doubles as the entrance to the floor containing the Boss' office and extra space to store more important records—the counterintelligence archives. Only the executives and the boss have access to this closet; anybody else would be gutted at Mori's command.

Chuuya wonders briefly, as his fingers find the strength and will to type in the code, if that last statement extends to supposed traitors as well.

The keypad lights green. A soft click unlocks the door. He turns the handle and pushes the door open, giving no thought or mind to the guilt gnawing at his insides as he makes a left turn and begins the search.

He finds out very quickly that he’s started in what might be the smallest section in the counterintelligence archives; the files in the M section number so little that he can easily pick out some names in his memory as he flips through them. Manticore. Martell. Mimic. None of which contain what he’s looking for, so he organizes them and puts them back.

This goes on as he picks his way through the rest of the letters in that part of the archives. N yields the same results as M, and O the same as N. When he flips open one particular folder, he stops short upon seeing a picture of Oda. 

Former assassin, the file says. Sent to kill Fukuzawa Yukichi of the Armed Detective Agency. A ruthless man.

Red hair, blue eyes, the memory of Dazai’s voice says. A good fighter. Someone a lot like you.

He shakes his head, flips the folder closed, and replaces the file before he can begin to wonder what Dazai meant.

Five minutes later, halfway through the second stack of the Q files, his head is throbbing, his eyes are straining to see in the dim light, and all he feels is bubbling frustration. It hadn’t even occurred to him to ask Fyodor exactly who he’s looking for, as if asking would get him anywhere with the man; for all he knows, he might have bypassed the very people he’s looking for. Would that someone come in here and organize the files in a more orderly fashion, maybe by organization, or wanted lists, or something that doesn’t make it impossible to find—

The edge of a blade pressed against his neck makes him still. “Infiltrating the Port Mafia, breaking into our counterintelligence archives, both of which would count as acts of treason. How lucky you are that it is me who caught you.”

He swallows. ”...Ane-san.”

The blade retracts into silken sleeves. Chuuya tilts his head a fraction, just enough to see the light falling through the crack in the door. When no attack comes, he slowly turns to face jade-colored eyes glimmering with disappointment.

”It was you,” Kouyou says. “The one who killed that boy at Shinko Pier.”

Kuragin, Chuuya remembers, the boy who showed in the middle of an arms shipment docking from China. He feels sick. “Yes.”

She says nothing. “Ane-san—”

”I had my doubts about this arrangement. I had hoped that we would not have to send you into the enemy’s lair, and hoped that we would not lose you.” She tilts her head, just enough to show the sadness hidden beneath professional indifference. “Tell me honestly, boy. Have we?”

No. The response lodges in Chuuya’s throat and hitches his breathing. It’s not what it looks like. “I need these,” he says instead. “All the files about current government employees and who they work for.”

“What for?”

 “I can’t say.”

”Chuuya.”

He hears a dangerous evenness in her voice, and he hears desperation. If only he could tell her, find some way to let her know without the risk of cameras or audio recording devices in Fyodor’s employ, if only...

”There’s a situation going on,” he hears himself say, “that’s far bigger than any of us. Those files are the only way to slow it down before it gets to the Port Mafia too.”

”The Hunting Dogs, yes. Mori-dono was kind enough to inform me. But their activity hasn’t been concentrated in Yokohama for years.”

 “But it has been in the Tohoku and Kanto regions, since several years ago. They want Fyodor.”

”Who told you this?”

It slips out before he can stop it. “Dazai.”

”Dazai.” Kouyou says the name like it disgusts her. “You would trust the word of a terrorist?”

”He’s my husband.” And how bold it is of him, to claim Dazai as his husband when they have yet to consummate their marriage, but for once the term sounds right. Finally, it feels right. 

“And he sides with Dostoyevsky, both of who will sell you out to the Hunting Dogs themselves if they knew it could benefit them.”

It’s true enough, for one of them. Chuuya still does not know what to think of the other, but now he has clues. Some relatively solid basis to build his trust on. “He knows about the mission.”

Kouyou stills. Chuuya’s hands quiver. He continues. “He knows I’m still Port Mafia. He hasn’t told Fyodor, or any of the Angels.”

”How do you know?”

Because this is the one thing he hasn’t lied about in the time we’ve been married. “He told me he wouldn’t.” 

“And you trust his word?”

”I have to.”

The response sounds flimsy even to his ears, and for a moment he thinks it won’t be enough for Kouyou. For a moment he expects another onslaught of questions about his feelings regarding Dazai that he is completely unprepared for, given that he doesn’t know the answers himself. 

Kouyou moves first. She glides past him in a swish of silken grace, goes to a shelf he had completely overlooked in his search, flips through some files, rummages through some boxes, and pulls out a flash drive.

Her face is like granite when she turns back to him, but there’s a softness underneath it that Chuuya has learned to find, in her eyes and the gentle way she places the drive in his hand. “I gave the order to one of my more competent subordinates to temporarily disable the cameras in this room and the hallway leading to the fire exit. I would say you have roughly four minutes to get away before you’re caught.” 

Chuuya’s fingers close around the drive and buckle it into a vest pocket. He looks back at her. “Thank you, Ane-san.”

Her hand rests briefly on the crown of his head, as it used to when he was much younger and freshly plucked off the streets. She smiles. “Go, child.”

He goes.

He leaves her in the counterintelligence archives and makes his way to the fire exit. The window there overlooks the back alleys of headquarters and a few restaurants; that’s where he lands, noiselessly thanks to his ability, and able to blend in seamlessly with the crowd of Yokohama’s nightlife. 

The drive in his pocket thumps against his chest with every step he takes, and suddenly he feels light. Now that the job is finished, he can breathe again. Perhaps it’s the euphoria of becoming anonymous in a crowd. Perhaps it’s the fact that he can prove to Dazai that he’s worth something in this mess of a thing they call an alliance. Perhaps—

Perhaps it’s the pinprick of a needle at his neck.

His footsteps become less and less solid. His vision focuses and unfocuses. His head swims. 

Someone grabs his arm, and he feels the blurred haze of panic that he hasn’t felt for years. His lips part around the first name that comes to mind.

Daz—

He reaches, sluggishly, for his phone. It’s plucked out of his hand, clattered somewhere on the ground. Distantly he hears something cracking and splintering, but he doesn’t pay attention because darkness starts to creep in on the edge on his vision.

Dazai, he calls, or thinks he calls. Daz—

And then he remembers no more. 

The notification that makes Dazai's phone buzz comes sooner than expected. Even before he reaches for his phone, he knows what it means--seeing it only confirms his suspicions.

Despite what he had told Chuuya to do if he needed help, there was an alternative way of sending a distress signal instead of pressing letters on a keyboard, something the man would be hard-pressed to do in a tight spot or situation: any physical harm done to the device would send a signal straight to Dazai's own phone with an alert that the system had been compromised, with the wording exactly the same as on the card Chuuya had flung at him.

Those words stare back at him now.

O expectations, stale and dismal airs, leave this body of mine!

I want nothing more but simplicity, quiet murmurs, and order.

Sooner than expected. And a stronger signal than anticipated. Dazai doesn't falter as he tears his eyes from the screen, but his mind clicks ahead and pulls together the faintest threads of a plan.

His next words are to the driver. "Turn the car around."

"But sir, we're almost at--"

"You heard me."

In a moment, the car switches to the far right lane where the next exit will loop them towards Yokohama. For Dazai's part, he returns his attention to his phone and dials a long-unused number. The dark trees shift to city lights as he puts the phone to his ear. 

"Old friend, I need a favor."

Electric shocks jolt Chuuya awake.

It burns and freezes at the same time, somehow, and makes his body seize. It hurts, and out of instinct he reaches for his ability and calls on it.

Nothing comes. Instead of the familiar warmth surging just beneath his skin, it’s another bolt that shoots through his body. He jerks. Stinging, ice-cold fire traveling through his veins with a speed bordering on painful, his body twists and turns. Something chafes at his wrists and his ankles—cuffs, he thinks dimly—and his hands grab onto the first hard surface they find. 

As fast as the shocks comes, they disappear, replaced by lights that Chuuya cringes away from. It’s too bright, it takes his eyes a moment to adjust, and once they blink away the spots coloring his vision, he sees the man sitting in front of him. A man wearing the dark colors of a higher authority, smiling at him like the cat who caught the canary.

”Welcome back,” the man says. “Apologies for the rough treatment but, well, time is valuable as the saying does. You’re not too badly concussed, I hope? You took a hard fall when you were first taken.”

”Where am I?” Chuuya means to sound angry, but his voice comes out in a hoarse croak. His fingers twitch at the emptiness in his veins where his ability should be. “What did you do to me?”

”Ability inhibitors, albeit purer than the cheap ones sold in the underground market. Suffice it to say that you were given a larger dose than would be normal; even without your ability, you are still a force to be reckoned with, but your enemies probably knew that already. As for where we are, it’ll come to you soon enough.”

The man pauses, and even though his eyes are clearly closed he smiles like he can read the expression on Chuuya’s face. ”You are afraid,” he says. “I can hear it, you know: your heart is beating a million miles a minute like a hummingbird’s wings at this very moment. It’s quite fascinating to see how human you actually are.”

Chuuya’s hands clench and unclench, feeling the cuffs shift against his wrists. He could break out of them if he wanted to—if the drug he’d been given didn’t weaken him so much and his head didn’t swim every time he shifted so much as an inch. But he doesn’t, both because he can’t and because his brain has suddenly caught up with his ears. He closes his eyes.

That last comment...no matter which way he looks at it, it’s a dig at his past in the lab. Since the scientists all are dead, there are only a handful of people who know. Dazai, the higher-ups in the Port Mafia, and...the government.

The government—of course. When Chuuya opens his eyes again, he has a better picture of the man standing in front of him, not clear enough to connect all the dots together but clear enough to hazard a guess. “You were at Yuigahama,” he says, fervently hoping that he’s wrong. “The one standing at the back when everyone else was on the beach.”

”Very good. Very close.” The man walks around the table to sit on the edge of it. His fingers curl over the metal surface. “The man you saw on the beach was my partner, who unfortunately can’t make an appearance today—being useless as ever, I imagine. I am only a humble servant of the law, one of those who are hunting down your colleagues as we speak.

”And you,” he continues, “are Nakahara Chuuya, former operative of the Port Mafia and currently affiliated with the Decay of Angels. Which coincidentally happens to be the organization that my team and I have been keeping tabs on for a long time."

"And?" The drug hasn't made Chuuya stupid enough to not know that there is a point to be made somewhere, and definitely not stupid enough to not be angry about how long the man is taking to get there. "If you already know all this, why bring me here?"

His interrogator does not answer, only because he leans over to place something on the tabletop. "Care to explain why you were carrying this on your person, Nakahara-san?"

The flash drive. Suddenly Chuuya realizes exactly what the man in front of him must see, a mafioso-turned-terrorist in a suspiciously short time found with an inconspicuous flash drive in his pocket and an erratic heartbeat. And like he can sense what that realization does to the rest of Chuuya's fraying nerves, the man continues with a smile in his voice.

"Two weeks ago, you married into the Decay of Angels to a man charged with 136 murders, 312 cases of extortion, and 625 cases of fraud, among other crimes--and now you sit in front of a government agent with incriminating evidence found in your possession. It would be very easy to label you as Dazai Osamu's accomplice and have you imprisoned for life, or to have you charged with theft on a terrorist organization's behalf and placed on death row for treason."

"Treason?" Chuuya repeats incredulously. "Joining the Angels wasn't my choice."

"But stealing for them is?"

"I wasn't stealing anything!"

"Your heartbeat tells me otherwise. As does the fact that you perspire even though there is no source of heat to be found anywhere in this room and that you purposefully placed this drive in a pocket that no one could easily reach while you were conscious. I have nothing to go on except your behavior, it's true, but even that leads me to believe you are a guilty man." A beat. "What is in the drive, Nakahara-san?"

Chuuya's throat closes up. What do the accused say when their credibility is on trial and the evidence to incriminate the enemy is in the enemy's hands?  Not the truth, no lies either. He keeps silent.

"I will make this easy for you, Nakahara-san: either you tell me what is in the drive and I let you walk out, unharmed with no charges--or, you don't, and I have every single person in the Port Mafia put on death row for their crimes against the law as well as put out a bounty for your husband’s head. It's your choice."

The Port Mafia or his husband. The people who he's known for most of his life, weighed against a man he's only known for little more than fourteen days. It's so absurd that Chuuya wants to laugh, and something roils beneath his skin.

Not laughter—laughter would have taken him by now, despite the circumstances he’s in. Something darker, more sinister, whispering in the back of his consciousness to destroy him, this man that would dare control him by an impossible choice, destroy this place like he did the—

Something rumbles in the distance. A series of voices follow after, and a clap-back of thunder-like sounds.

Gunfire, Chuuya realizes. Who the hell is stupid enough to open fire in a government facility?

His interrogator tilts back his head with a melodramatic sigh as he moves to snatch the drive off the table. “That would be your husband, I think,” he says, oblivious to the incredulous look Chuuya throws at him. “Well, this has been very interesting. I look forward to more of this soon.”

Something in the man’s tone sets all of Chuuya’s nerves on edge; a faint feeling of dread creeps in his stomach, that this might not as over as he thought. “Why?” he asks carefully.

His interrogator pauses from where he makes to step out the room and turns, just enough that Chuuya can see the smirk curving his lip.

”The government never starts what it can’t finish,” he says. “And the government is not done with you yet.”

One flick of the wrist, one flip of a switch—

—the floor opens up beneath Chuuya, and he falls.

Gravity pulls him into the depths before he’s able to scream, and they close over his head, burn ice-cold against his skin. Instinct flares in his blood, in his skin, the faint crackle of his ability coming to life—he activates his ability, what part of his ability that he’s able to activate, and electric shocks ripple through his body, into the water, shocking him all over again until he remembers he forgot to take a breath.

I can’t breathe.

Red flares again. The shocks come again, the electric currents stabbing him everywhere over and over again until he sees them, hazy pictures of them, the men in white coats and clipboards, and tubes sticking out of him, all over his arms and legs. Pain lances through his side, his arms, his head. ...ake sure you write this down, they say, mangled through the water. Experiment A5158, successful.

A5158. Experiment. White coats. An ancient anger takes hold of him, surging through his veins until his blood is alight with madness. He’s going to kill them all.

Bang. Bang. Bang. 

Three empty shells clattering to the ground, three shots ripping through metal sheets and hitting their marks on the backs of lowly government grunts. Three more aimed at the ones who dare to return fire and followed by muffled curses and heavy thumps. 

Dazai hasn't been surrounded by this much gunfire in years. But it gives him an excuse to use the pistol in his waistband, and the spare hidden by his coat. 

No sign of Chuuya. No sign of the Hunting Dogs. Yet, he reminds himself, because this is Cone Street, which means this is the only place with a connection between the two. It serves as adequate practice ground with real targets after a while without his guns, complete with obstacles and all, but it hardly counts as practice when these government agents are doing a laughable job of keeping him out of their facility and an even more pathetic job of showering him with bullets.

He shoots one in between in the eyes, another in the lung, and ducks out of range behind a van to catch his breath and glance at the building.

What's taking you so long, chibikko?

Stray bullets rattle against the van, undoubtedly ripping holes in the side. Dazai tears his gaze away from the building to the entrance--or exit?--that lies ahead of him. 

From where he is now, it would be a good ten-yard run assuming he doesn't get shot down or shot, period, first. Rather difficult considering he doesn't have anyone or anything to draw the fire away from him long enough to make the run especially when he can't come back out possibly with another person slung around his shoulders and making sure the both of their bodies don't end up on the news. 

In a moment's notice, he draws his gun and swiftly slams it against the head of the unfortunate fool who thought sneaking up on him was a good idea, but not before a bullet grazes his thigh and another sinks into his leg. Damn it, he bites back a curse and finishes the bastard off with a bullet through his skull before taking the first step of the ten-yard run.

It rains dirt, bullets, and empty shells, both the government's and his own. His leg smarts, and the bullet in it lodges deeper every step he takes. Gunfire rips the ground he runs on, and it's because of that, that Dazai doesn't notice the earth rumbling until it rumbles again and knocks him off-balance onto the dirt.

Past the painful haze that momentarily clouds his senses, he thinks earthquake as anyone else might. It's a logical first guess. But the ground ripples beneath him again, and he's forced to reconsider because earthquakes don't make things explode. 

All gunfire stops. Tension hangs in the air, in silence, and even that seems to be vibrating. And then, something comes back to Dazai.

Cone Street. Named for the cone-shaped crater caused by a blast of impact from an escaped experiment of the Japanese military. 

The first time this lab was destroyed, fifteen years ago, there had to have been a force greater than any other from nature, capable of uprooting a building from its foundations and killing everyone inside it in a matter of minutes. There had to be something powerful.

The people gave it a name--a fitting name for a deity shrouded in mystery. The building collapses to reveal a figure surrounded by red-tinged darkness, and Dazai remembers the name it was given.

Arahabaki. 

Red tendrils crawling up pale arms, neck, and face, blue irises swallowed by white insanity, a mad grin pulling where a frown would be with black spheres swirling to life between hands that Dazai had always seen gloved. No report that Dazai has ever received on this corruption seems to do it justice; the deity possessing his husband laughs and laughs, and the black holes coming to life in his hands swallow everything whole. 

I know your ability, he had told Chuuya the night of their wedding. It was a half-truth at best; he knew the theories and the history, and the story that the government couldn't hide. Gravity manipulation and hosting a deity in your body are supposed to be two different things, but here they are not, and if what he sees now in a stunned haze is Chuuya's true ability, then it's not just his ability that Dazai knows.

In theory, he also knows how to stop it.

The government's lackeys are gone, all fled. Arahabaki laughs and keeps on laughing, and launches sphere after black sphere at what remains of the lab. Dazai pushes himself to his feet, ignoring best he can the throbbing in his leg--and he runs.

Every step sends fire through his leg, every step brings him closer to Chuuya. His arm stretches out as he calls his ability to his fingertips. He needs to get closer to him, close enough to touch him--

His fingers close around Chuuya's wrist. The light of No Longer Human glows blue to envelope fading red, and the dust settles until only the two of them remain.

The red marks on pale skin recede. The whiteness of the pupils and the crazed grin disappear. Chuuya blinks blue eyes at him once, twice, before his whole body falls forward into Dazai's arms and knocks both of them to the ground.

Dazai's leg throbs, but it's a distant pain compared to the deadweight in his arms looking much more dead than alive. Blood trickles from Chuuya's nose, his temples and ears. He's paler than he already is, and shivering. His eyes are unfocused, but they lock onto Dazai's with desperation, and belatedly he realizes why he can feel the warmth of Chuuya's body so easily.

Chuuya's clothes are wet. And their "date" hasn't been so long ago that Dazai has forgotten the very last thing Chuuya had told him about himself. I hate water.

"You're safe," he tells his husband, unsure of where the words come from but acutely aware of the passage of time. They need to get back soon. "Rest now, Chuuya."

Everything that follows is a blur, a barely-remembered haze of getting them both in the car that he doesn't remember calling, ordering his driver to get them back as soon as possible, and shutting the door behind him. His leg throbs. The car pulls away from Cone Street, his driver says something incoherent, and then Dazai remembers black.

Chapter Text

The clouds roll in that night, all through the early hours of the morning. The last weeks of Japan’s rain season always end with cloudy nights, but for those associated with the underground and Gifted in Yokohama, those clouds are omens. Harbingers of ill fortune, even greater when the clouds are accompanied by a deep purple sky.

Fukuzawa was never one to believe in weather-based superstitions, for all the good it did him, but with present circumstances, he’s inclined to change his mind. The forecast broadcasted earlier predicted a storm by the end of the week. He knows better; in a small office acting as the official headquarters of the Agency, the storm has already arrived, in the form of front-page headlines that has his lead detective jumping out of his seat.

"So the Port Mafia sells their executive to a group of terrorists, and now a government building has blown up?!”

"Isn't 'sell' a really crude way of putting it, Kunikida-kun?" A crinkled candy wrapper settles on a desk, held there by Edogawa Ranpo's pointer finger as he regards his junior colleague with apparent unconcern. "They married him off to the group of terrorists. One of them, at least."

"Well, either way, the enemy has the advantage now! And one more powerful Gifted on their side." Kunikida huffs, and eyes the newspaper splayed on his desk sourly before opening up his notebook. "Whatever chances we had of bringing Dostoyevsky to justice has gone down twenty percent, even with our alliance with the Mafia. They grow less every single day."

"Heh, don't be so gloomy. Dostoyevsky is good, but even he makes mistakes, you know?” Ranpo pinches the wrapper between his finger and his thumb and holds it up to the light. “Look at it this way. Port Mafia Boss-san made that deal with the demon: Fancy Hat in return for peace. Now that the deal’s gone sideways, the enemy will be too busy keeping out of the government’s vision to make another move against Yokohama.” 

“Did the Mafia have to do it that way, though?” Kunikida rubs his forehead. “I despise the notion of working with terrorists.”

”It’s not like they’re partnering up or anything. It’s just a trade, one object for another. It was the most logical decision at the time.”

“The most logi—the Port Mafia gave one of their most powerful people to the enemy!”

”Who won’t be bothering us anytime soon. Aren’t you all about that silver lining mentality, Kunikida-kun?”

”They’ve fought us many times already, Ranpo-san. You don’t think that the Port Mafia has some kind of ulterior motive?”

”Not this time. Somehow,” Ranpo continues thoughtfully, “I don’t think the Boss was thinking of us when he made that deal.”

Fukuzawa watches Kunikida seethe in consternation and thinks of another time, when he was younger with more temper than composure, when he had been that same young man.

That time had been easier. Seeing the world in grays as he does now rather than in blacks and whites comes with burdens that he must carry the rest of his days, watching an old rival sign away his people to the ones who would have them destroyed not the least of them. He wonders, not for the first or the last time, what the man is thinking.

”Shachou.”

Haruno either doesn’t see Kunikida’s increasing agitation in the corner of the office or is electing to ignore it, but either way she greets him with a polite smile and a black envelope. “This was left on our doorstep for you.”

”Anything suspicious about it?”

”The bomb detection squad from the station had a look at it, and so did some forensic experts from Minoura’s task force. This is probably the least suspicious envelope they’ve seen in their careers, Shachou.”

The contents of the envelope are vague at best: a note penned in a familiar surgical hand, detailing only a time, a date, and a location, and a fresh gardenia blossom. No signature, no return address. He holds the blossom in his fingers, tracing the petals lightly so as not to break them, and addresses his secretary.

”Did you see who left it?”

”No. Well, not exactly. I heard a noise when I went to pick it up, but all I saw was the back of a suit. That’s why I had it examined so thoroughly.” She tilts her head. “Is something wrong?”

Fukuzawa assures her that everything is fine for the present and dismisses her with a reminder to get some rest. The moment she leaves, Ranpo slides over to his desk on his spinning chair, twirling a marble between his fingers. He hums as soon as he sees the note. “Secret admirer, Shachou?”

“It would certainly be easier,” he mutters and passes the note to his ward for inspection. Ranpo plucks it out of his fingers, studies it with uncharacteristic solemnity, and hands it back promptly. His expression hasn’t changed, but there’s a curious note in his voice that says it all for him. 

“This is pretty personal, then.”

Fukuzawa confirms and denies nothing. He tucks his hands into his sleeves instead. “What do you think?”

By now, he knows Ranpo well enough. And in turn, Ranpo knows him well enough to know what he’s actually asking in a matter of seconds—fortunate, because although he is nearly twice Ranpo’s age, he would still prefer to have the genius detective’s insight on a number of problems. Especially this one.

”Your choice, Shachou,” Ranpo says finally. “You know him the best.” 

“I do,” he agrees, “but will it worth it?”

”You two are the ones with a complicated history. Probably better to get that unresolved stuff out of the way before the storm hits.” 

Ranpo doesn't clarify which storm he means before he rolls off to rejoin Kunikida and their whiteboard of clues, but the answer would have been the same either way. And as much as Fukuzawa hates to admit it, the detective is right on this account, as he has been on many others. 

He crafts a response to seal in an envelope of his own, making mention of his gratitude to the sender for sending a prompt request, and hides it within the confines of his sleeves as he gives Kunikida temporary command of the office and makes his way down.

The man standing at the door shouldn't have surprised him, and yet Fukuzawa stills all the same for the briefest of moments before the face and an identity link up in his mind. "Hirotsu Ryurou of the Port Mafia."

"President Fukuzawa Yukichi of the Agency," the Mafia commander greets, monacle and a cigarette spark glinting in the dim lamplight. "Have you a response for the note you received?"

Damn the man, he knows me far too well. Fukuzawa produces the note from the depths of his sleeves and holds it out. "Tell him next time not to send such a suspicious looking message to my doorstep. It's hard to know who is friend or foe in these days."

"As you wish," Hirotsu bows after taking the note in both hands, "but it may be he sent it because you'd know it was from him."

"Did he tell you to say that?"

In the instant before Hirotsu disappears into the black night, a smile flickers across his face. "Mafiosos never reveal their secrets, Fukuzawa-dono."

In Fukuzawa's mind, it is a different voice saying those words and a different face smiling in that way that never fails to make his blood run hot and irritated underneath his clothing. The image stay with him all the way back up the stairs to his desk, where he sets a mental reminder for a meeting in two day's time and attempts to quell the longing rising in his chest.

The clouds that roll in that night paint the Kamakura sky an ashen gray, and Dazai thinks of the first photograph he had ever seen of Chuuya.

The lighting had been similar to this, in retrospect, but that's where the similarities end. From what he remembers about it, the photograph had been of Chuuya on a bridge with his face turned towards the bay and laughing at the camera because he hadn't been expecting the photographer to snap anything of him. In the privacy of his own thoughts after the council debating Mori's proposal had been dismissed, Dazai remembers wondering what Mori was trying to accomplish by pairing someone who seemed so alive with a man who spent the better part of his life trying to die.

The man in his bed is very, very different from the one in that photograph.

Chuuya looks fragile like this, with his eyes shut and his brows furrowed like he's trapped in a nightmare. Pale, too. He always has been, but the gray light filtering through the window blinds drains him of all color until he looks whiter than the walls of this room. His hands lay limp on the covers, and though Dazai is nowhere near close enough to feel his pulse, he knows it would be feeble--a faint thrum not unlike the feverish beating of a hummingbird's wings.

There is no heart monitor or IV, no relative safety of a hospital bed, no nurse to check his vitals. Nothing for a man more dead than alive.

"Have you been sitting here all day?"

Dazai hadn't heard Fyodor approach, let alone push his way through the penthouse door and walk in; it's easy enough to blame it on the blood loss. "Where else would I be?"

Fyodor concedes with a dip of his head. "And your leg?"

Better, if better qualifies at getting a nervous wreck of a driver to take out the shrapnel and do the bandaging with less than steady hands even if the end result was better than expected. Dazai touches the spot gingerly and feels the rough gauze underneath the fabric of his pants. "If only he had aimed for my head instead."

"You have always wanted a clean death," the man agrees before he falls silent. Purple eyes flicker from him to the bed's occupant. "Do you plan on telling me what happened?"

"You mean other than both of us going separate ways to follow your orders?"

"My orders entailled using your respective skillsets without drawing unnecessary attention. Your wound is inconsistent with searching for the government's eyes and ears, and the bruises on Chuuya-kun's arms are inconsistent with stealing files from the Port Mafia."

"Accidents happen. It's impossible to predict every single thing that might go wrong on a mission."

"You have a thousand contingency plans in place for every possibility you dream up. You specialize in turning every worst-case scenario into a victory that makes it hard to believe anything went wrong in the first place. Until now, that is always what you have done." Fyodor's eyes shift back to him. "If you want to lie, Dazai-kun, do it better. Don't expect me to believe that a new factor entering the equation was enough to throw a wrench in your calculations."

Hardly a lie, Dazai thinks, and not so poisonous as the ones you tell to the ones taking the fall for you. "You make it sound like your plans have never failed before. The Clock Tower is dismantled. You no longer have Agatha's support, connections, or resources at your disposal. You've gone and murdered six government agents, and now every eye in the country is watching for the moves you make."

"And yet," Fyodor cuts in, voice gliding like steel, "I am not the one who pulled such a large stunt that it made front-page headlines the next day."

His eyes haven't left Dazai's since this line of conversation started. Dazai returns the look with an unaffected stare of his own, even as Fyodor unrolls a newspaper he had produced from thin air. "Craters found in remains of government-funded facility in the aftermath of an explosion. This was you."

"Was it?" 

Fyodor rolls the paper back up and holds it, tapping his fingers rhythmically against the hollow roll. "Do you remember what I told you before your wedding?"

"Stay safe, use protection?" Dazai suggests lightly. "Try not to lament my loss of freedom now that I'm wed?"

"To keep your husband under control."

"Haven't I been doing that?"

"The stories I've heard tell me otherwise." Fyodor's fingers stop moving; in this light, his eyes seem to glow. "Have you heard them? They are quite interesting. My spies speak of a black beast with hellish eyes that's crawled from the deepest circle of hell to unleash calamity on the world. Others speak of a mass of shadows that simply exists to swallow everything in its path whole. And still others..."--Purple eyes gleam-- "speak to me of a god. A mysterious red god with a shrine of destruction who speaks no tongue but howls in mindless anger until it consumes everything. Would you happen to know anything about that?"

Fyodor will not know. He will not look into Dazai's mind and see the memory of red tendrils crawling up Chuuya's arms, or watch Chuuya lose himself to the insanity he holds within him, for these are not his to see. They are Dazai's, his to turn over within his thoughts, his to rewatch in his sleep until he makes sense of them, and his secrets to keep.

"I've never believed in fairytales," he answers. "Or the words of people with drunken memories."

"Your loyalty is admirable." Fyodor glances towards the bed's occupant. "I wonder if he might say the same."

Whatever comment Dazai means to respond with fades the moment he looks at Chuuya, still and unmoving as if in sleep. "He needs a doctor. He won't last the night without one."

"So be it."

Dazai drags his gaze away to turn it on Fyodor, whose own eyes stare steadily back at him as if he hadn't just suggested leaving a man to die. "Pardon?"

"Pawns are pawns, Dazai-kun." The sympathy in Fyodor's voice is almost kind. "Even if we are married to them."

"If he dies, the entirety of the Port Mafia will be out for blood." It is't as if Yokohama's mafia is Fyodor's biggest concern, but logic has always been one of Dazai's best weapons. "We don't have so many people to spare fighting them and the government both."

"Yet for years, we have eluded them both. Mori Ougai must know that, by now."

"Getting Chuuya was only one part of a deal, do you remember?" Dazai's voice rolls low and dark. "The ceasefire is the only reason that Mori and his people haven't stormed us and finished us off."

"You and I both know, Dazai-kun: it was never going to last."

Anyone who paid attention knows that, his mind rails. Anyone who knew how to play this little damn game knows that, but now Fyodor's on the verge of overturning the board and it's only a matter of time before the pieces shatter on the ground. It's the most reckless the other man has been so far. "I never knew you to be foolish, Fyodor."

"And I," Fyodor returns on his way out the door, "never knew you to care about anything other than yourself."

Dazai vaguely pictures putting a bullet through the man's head. It would dye that stupid ushanka he wears a lovely red, color the rest of him something other than purple and white. It's too much to ask for it now, but watching the life fade from violet eyes in his mind's eye does soothe the worst of the temper that always seems to flare in the Russian's presence. It helps distract him from the bolts shooting through his leg, too, as he heaves himself to his feet and walks--off balance, more limping than anything--to the bedside.

He doesn't claim to be a doctor, but he knows enough medical procedures to know that keeping body temperature consistent is a priority. Hence, the wet cloth on Chuuya's forehead. Hence also why he removes it, now that it's gone warm, to soak in cold water in a washbowl. The tingle of dread as his fingers slip past cold water shouldn't be there, so he pushes it aside for now in favor of wringing enough water out of the cloth.

It's only when he reaches to replace the cloth that he realizes why that tingle had been there. He'd been keeping watch over his husband for hours now--not well enough, he knows now, because otherwise he would have noticed right away what he failed to see until right now.

Chuuya is not breathing.

The cloth falls from Dazai's hand, forgotten as he moves as fast as he can to bring up a knee on the bed. The motion pulls at his wound, and makes black spots burst behind his eyes as he bites back a cry, but stubbornness prevails as he places his hands, one on top of the other, in the middle of his husband's chest.

It's been years since he had to remember how to do this, years since he's had to concentrate on a faint heartbeat beneath his hands and somehow make it stronger. His balance is unsteady and his hands even more so, from the awkward positioning of his body to the pulsing throb in his leg that's becoming increasingly more difficult to ignore to the reins of his composure unraveling in his grip with every push of his hands against Chuuya's chest. It gives easily under the pressure of his hands, so starkly different from the man that Dazai knows would never pass up an opportunity to fight back. 

So fight back now. Show me how much you hate this.

He tilts Chuuya's head up, pinches his nose shut, and pulls in as much air as his lungs can hold. Then he leans over his husband to seal their lips together. 

A small part of him notes the irony of a man knowing how to save someone's life when that man has always tried to end his own. The rest of him is centered on where his hands are placed at the center of Chuuya's chest, pushing down the moment he pulls back. Minutes pass as he alternates between pushing down on Chuuya's chest and transferring air into his lungs until his own start to burn and his body shakes with the effort of keeping him steady.

Chuuya's chest rises and falls with every breath Dazai gives him--or maybe it's just Dazai himself mistaking his own labored breathing for Chuuya's. He does it again. And again. 

"Breathe, chibikko," he says between breaths, "I know you can." 

Then, Chuuya's whole body seizes. His eyes fly open on a strangled breath and he starts coughing, ragged and uneven and hard enough that they don't even out until Dazai's arm encircles his shoulders and pulls until he sits up. It's only then that Dazai allows himself to relax, only when tired blue eyes look his way that he leans forward and permits himself to feel the warmth of Chuuya's lips, the dampness of his brow, and the softness of his gaze as Chuuya blinks at him in confusion.

His leg throbs. He will have to change the bandages there later, add to the pile of bloodstained bandages in the bathroom trash. And then he's going to have to do something about the fact that the government will have had a day to catch up on their whereabouts. For now, though, he sits with his arm around his husband's shoulders and listening to his breathing eventually even out.

It's been a while since Mori decided to walk this particular route. Not to the Agency--that'd be enough to have whatever eyes and ears Dostoyevsky has spying on him far too happy, and that won't do at all--but to the small cafe on the outskirts of Yokohama that is both civilized and obscure enough to keep its patrons from blabbing.

The bell tinkles as he pushes the door open, greets the people who turn their heads with a smile, and walks to the booth to sit across from his companion. "My, Fukuzawa-dono, I didn't think you'd show."

"I could say the same about you," Fukuzawa returns, rather icily for someone who's been invited to coffee. "Though I am surprised you chose this kind of establishment to meet."

"As much as the usual would be nice," Mori responds after waving down a waiter and giving his order for black coffee with two sugars, "it's better if we both remain sober for the chat we're about to have today."

"Which is?"

"I need you to reserve an open seat in the Agency."

A long pause follows in which Fukuzawa studies him with narrowed eyes over the rim of his coffee and Mori waits for a response. When the waiter returns with his order, he takes an obnoxiously loud sip of the scalding liquid and watches, somewhat gleefully, as Fukuzawa's look shifted to annoyance.

"Could you not?"

"Could I get you for one day without that ugly yellow scarf around your neck? No."

Fukuzawa closes his eyes with a very tired, very long-suffering sigh. "In case you wondered why I wasn't planning on showing, here is your reason."

"Ah, Yukichi, we both know you like me far too much not to show." Mori ignores Fukuzawa's glare in favor of gleefully noting (with some relief) the lack of denial, and taking another sip of coffee. "So?"

"Entrance into the Agency depends on merit of character and proof of their morals. I can't simply reserve a place for someone just because they asked me to."

"No," Mori agrees, "but you are understaffed at the moment, I assume? Having one more employee couldn't hurt."

"Why the sudden interest in my organization, Mori?" Fukuzawa finally asks. "I was under the assumption that you preferred to work in the shadows."

"I doubt that will ever change. But my request is not for me." Mori pushes aside his cup to fold his hands on the table and leans in as he drops his voice. "There is an employee of mine who has proved his loyalty, proved his strengths, and proved his willingness to put the organization before himself. But I think, lately, that he has grown weary of the dark. The light might prove to be a suitable change."

"You would give away your subordinate so easily?"

"Of course not! I would maximize the potential of my employees whenever I see fit. What better way to do so than put him under your leadership and have him contribute what he can to the country that way?"

Fukuzawa regards him quietly, searching his eyes for...something. Mori lets him look, and find whatever he means to find before the leader of the Agency sits back. "This employee you speak of, he's the one you gave to the Decay of Angels?"

"He is."

"Then Dostoyevsky will use him to tear apart the country like he's wanted to do for years."

"Which is why it's better that he joins the Agency in the aftermath. Once we win the war and put Dostoyevsky in chains, his heart will be out for Yokohama and whoever has survived this conflict. If your people will be there to restore law and order like I think they will, he would welcome it." 

He can see the gears in Fukuzawa's mind turning, weighing one possibility against another. In the end, Fukuzawa will give in--his policy against working with criminals would be more difficult if it were anyone else, but it's hardly the first time a con has joined the Agency. Fukuzawa must be following the same train of thought, because his next words are in a mutter. "Why are you so confident that I'll let your employee join?"

"Because I'm the one asking," Mori says simply. It's the truth that they've both been dancing around for more than twelve years. "And because I invited you to coffee to tell you all of this."

"You got here late."

"Yet you still have coffee." Mori looks pointedly at the cup on Fukuzawa's side of the table. "It's only fair, you know."

Fukuzawa snorts, the corners of his lips cracking in a little smile that softens as soon as they make eye contact.

"Then let's win the war first." 

"I couldn't agree more."

Chapter Text

Chuuya opens his eyes and the world is white. The clearing he stands in, the fog that surrounds him, what few trees he can see dotting his surroundings, everything is pale and colorless and cold. Cold, he marvels to himself as he rubs his fingertips together, why the hell is it cold here? And in the middle of rain season too, when even the rain itself is warm.

And where is here, exactly? Somewhere in Europe, maybe? Somewhere else that's cold at this time of the year? He wraps his arms around himself and moves forward, noting the snow-crunch of his footsteps though there is no snow anywhere to be found, to find out. The further he walks into the fog, the more uneasy he feels, and eventually he settles for walking forward with his hand stretched out.

Only, the moment he holds out his hand is the moment when something falls on it--so lightly that he doesn't notice until more of it gathers into clumps on his hand. He pokes at it curiously and feels his finger push past the black flaky stuff. Too solid to be dust, not the right color of a snowflake, not rain.

Ash.

Black flakes drift into his line of vision with the same graceful lightness of falling snow. The sky is still white when Chuuya looks up, but the black rain falling from it is new. Some of it lands on his face and arms; he brushes them off with mounting irritation, ready to yell at the black snow if he needs to, but the second he looks in front of him, his eyes adjust to a spark of brightness in the distance. 

The longer he stares, the more steadily it burns. The longer he stands where he is, frozen, the longer it beckons him, one slow step at a time, closer and closer until he stands in front of a mass of flickering flames.

His hands reaches out despite himself, and pulls back as the more sensible half of him screams at the curious part about what exactly he's thinking, reaching out his hand like that to be burned.

... Except he doesn't think he will be. Call it instinct, or stupidity, or finally going crazy, but something tells him he won't be burned. So he stretches his hand out again, until his fingers brush the closest of the flames.

The world goes dark. The space around him feels much bigger, and much more empty. His hand twitches around empty air, and he pulls it back quickly. Spots dance in his vision until his eyes adjust to the sudden darkness and make out a pedestal a few feet away. And loathe as Chuuya is to step forward in a dark, unfamiliar place, there are no other options to choose from.

His footsteps echo in the muffled silence as he approaches the pedestal. It's just stone, he tells himself the moment he decides to take a long hard stare at it. It's just a block of stone.

Then something inside it shifts. The surface of the pedestal becomes glass, a black obsidian that holds Chuuya's gaze captive and roots his feet to the ground as a new kind of darkness materializes beneath it. A beastly mass of shadows and animal growls with eyes the color of hell, that slams against the glass and roars. 

It's trying to break the glass, Chuuya realizes dimly. It's trying to get free. It's succeeding.

The glass shatters, and the black beast lunges straight for him. Chuuya braces for impact and waits for the collision of rippling muscle and the jaws of the beast sinking into his throat.

But the jaws turn into a hand, and the beast turns into a man. Chuuya stares into cold purple eyes. White coat, white coat, something in him screams, and then the world tips backwards. Water crashes into his face, rushes over his body; he thrashes and jerks and pulls at the tubes connected to his body. Help, he tries to scream but his voice won't work. 

It's too late. The beast is free. No one is coming for him.

Electricity crackles through the water. Cold hands and colder purple eyes hold him down. Water rushes into his mouth, and he screams.

Chuuya snaps awake, in a cold sweat, and immediately closes his eyes again at the wave of brightness that floods his vision. He sees black spots behind his eyelids even when he opens them a minute later, and with the irritation of a person who isn't fully awake yet, he grumbles and brings a hand to his eyes to rub them away.

The motion makes the back of his hand throb. When he pulls it back for inspection, he stares at a bruise that runs black and purple from the back of his hand all the way up his arm. Both arms, now that he checks, and if he touches the side of his neck, it feels tender. "What the hell?" he mutters.

Then he's confronted with a whole new set of questions as his mind finally catches up with his eyes and realizes that these aren't the same clothes he wore to go back to Yokohama. Neither is he still in Yokohama, apparently, but he's not at the penthouse either since this room is much bigger and much more lavish than the one in Kamakura. It's also moving up and down, which is...new.

So, what exactly is he doing here, sleeping in an unfamiliar place wearing clothes that aren't his own, with bruises all over his body?

He decides that it's one of those questions that he needs coffee for. Coffee, a good shower, and a certainly lanky bastard to answer it.

Chuuya spends the next twenty minutes in a hot shower, partly scrubbing his body and mostly letting the water wash over him. It feels good on the bruises and he'd like nothing better than to soak in a bath for the rest of the day, but his curiosity outweighs the luxury, and he's not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

He dresses in the clothes draped over a chair, blue jeans with a long-sleeve and a hoodie--all of them one size too big for him-- and does the best he can to look presentable before he opens the door and walks out.

Almost immediately, he hears the low murmur of voices, a steady tone belonging to his husband conversing with another voice he doesn't recognize. He tracks the sound down the very long hallway, leaning against the wall every now and then as the ground swells beneath his feet, until he arrives at a room.

Dazai is there, also dressed casually, leaning over a table to look at something and exchanging a few words with the blond man next to him. Nothing about that should seem unusual, but the scene makes Chuuya stop straight in his tracks. 

And Dazai sees him then, of course he does. Nothing changes in his expression except for a quick glance over his body before he steps away from the table and towards Chuuya. "You're awake."

Chuuya only nods, because the other man has looked up and is studying him with an odd look that Chuuya isn't sure he likes. "Where are we?"

"Somewhere safe." Dazai nods to his previous conversation partner. "On a yacht, actually. It belongs to Fitzgerald here."

"Not exactly, old sport," Fitzgerald replies in accented Japanese. "Hemingway owns this one but he doesn't use it much, so I take this old girl out for a spin sometimes." He tips his head in Chuuya's direction. "Pleasure to meet you...?"

"Call me Chuuya, everyone does."

"That I will." Fitzgerald glances at Dazai. "It seems we are even now, Dazai-kun."

"That we are," Dazai agrees. "Thank you."

"No need to thank me, old sport. The debt I owe you will never be paid back in full." With a somewhat polite bow, he turns to leave, and Chuuya waits until he's left the room before turning to Dazai.

"How do you feel?"

"Cut the bullshit, Dazai." Catching Dazai off-guard would be funny any other time, but Chuuya's had too many surprises within the last month to properly appreciate another. "Why the hell do you have an American working for you, and what the hell are we doing in the middle of the ocean?"

"Fitzgerald doesn't work for me. After I put his wife's murderer behind bars for life four years ago, he happened to owe me a favor, and last night I just happened to use it. As for what we're doing in the middle of the ocean, the stunt you pulled only guaranteed the attention of the whole country, which means it's no longer safe for either of us."

"And a yacht is so much safer?"

"It's the only place that the Hunting Dogs won't think to look. Not even they can afford enough spies to keep watch on every port in Japan. And Fitzgerald is an old friend, he won't try anything." Dazai tilts his head with the infuriating look he always gets when he tries to analyze something, and it makes Chuuya's blood boil. "You're very suspicious. Do you interrogate everyone who saves your life like this?"

Something snaps within Chuuya. He grabs the collar of Dazai's shirt and watches surprise flicker through his eyes before he slams him against the wall. Pain briefly tightens Dazai's face but Chuuya hardly sees it when his own bruises flare along with his temper. "What the hell do you expect from me?" he hisses. "Gratitude? After everything you've put me through for the last month?"

"I don't need your gratitude, Chuuya, I need your cooperation."

"You've got some nerve demanding things when I'm this close to strangling you."

"Why? Because I know you'll give it to me? We both know I'm not your enemy."

"We also both know that you're not my friend."

"No, but I am your husband. Like it or not, we're bound in the eyes of the law, which means we have to work together if we want to keep the government off our backs. Which also means you're going to have to trust me."

"I don't want to work with you or trust you."

"Then don't. That makes it easier for the Hunting Dogs to find us and dump our bodies into the ocean after they're done, though it's not my preferred way to go."

"Do you think this is a joke?" Chuuya snaps. His arm trembles where it's pressed against Dazai's neck, he hopes the other man doesn't feel it. "For once in your life, could you take something--"

"I am taking this very seriously." Dazai's fingers press warm through his sleeve when they wrap around his arm. "But I've only planned this far; the rest depends on you."

"And whether or not I'm willing to trust you." Chuuya can feel his anger ebbing away in the face of Dazai's rational calm and the distracting warmth of his fingers against his flaring bruises. He lets go of Dazai's collar. "Why should I?"

"You've placed your life in my hands before, even if you didn't know it at the time. What makes this any different?"

Because this time I'll know, Chuuya thinks. Because here you are, telling me to trust you when everyone else says I shouldn't. He opens his mouth to give an answer along those lines, but then he takes in Dazai's stiff posture and the red stain on his pant leg, and promptly forgets what he had been about to say. "You're hurt."

"Ah..." Dazai says when he looks down, "I'd forgotten."

Chuuya huffs a sigh and grabs Dazai's sleeve to pull his husband all the way to the chairs in the center of the room. "Sit. Stay." He ignores Dazai's badly restrained laughter and beelines to the first cabinet he sees. "Where's the first-aid kit?"

"Cabinet behind you, second drawer to the right."

Fitzgerald's first-aid proves to be stocked with more than enough medical supplies. Chuuya thanks the man and his foresight in his head as he fishes out gauze, scissors, and after a moment's consideration a pair of tweezers. In a corner of another cabinet he finds an old rag and a washbowl, and returns to Dazai with all five items in tow, setting them aside to prod gently at Dazai's leg. "I'll have to cut the pant leg."

"Go ahead," comes the dismissive reply. "I have others."

Chuuya rolls his eyes but obliges, and starts snipping away at the fabric. He's being gentle, but when he chances a look at Dazai, his face is tight and his fingers are clenching the edge of the chair with a white-knuckle grip. By the time he peels away the tattered cloth to reveal the mottled purple and black skin underneath, Dazai's breath is coming in small jerks and his forehead is damp with sweat. The red-stained bandage around his leg is messily wrapped, and there's no guarantee that whoever did the wrapping job remembered to clean the wound beforehand.

Chuuya waits until Dazai's breathing steadies to cut the bandage away and start wiping blood from the wound. "I didn't think you were the type to get shot," he finally says, moving the damp rag in slow circles.

"I'm not," his husband agrees, remaining still as Chuuya starts wrapping fresh gauze around his thigh. "But I did the best with the plans I had."

"The plan must not have been very good then, if someone opened fire at such a close range. What the hell were you doing?"

"Trying to get to you before you brought the whole building down on both of us."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because when I finally found you, you weren't yourself. You tapped into the second tier of your ability, turned the facility you were trapped in into a pile of rubble, and caused enough destruction to rival a war zone. The police are probably still sorting through it as we speak." Dazai pauses. "You don't remember?"

To be honest, Chuuya remembers being interrogated by a Hunting Dog and almost nothing after that. But for some reason, he's not nearly bothered by that as he is by the idea that Dazai actually took a bullet for him. He stares at the threads of the gauze he's holding, trying to make sense of it all and failing, as he always does when it comes to Dazai, to understand. "Why?"

"Why what?"

He lifts his head and looks his husband in the eye. "Why did you come after me?"

Dazai looks right back at him with an unreadable expression. "I told you I would, didn't I?"

The sudden honesty makes it hard to hold the gaze, after a while, and Chuuya ducks his head to resume securing the bandage and think of some other conversation topic. "At the first port we reach, you're going to a hospital," he decides. "Your wound's a good forty-eight hours old, and with the first wrapping job, it might be infected--"

"It's not."

"How do you know?"

"Trust me," his husband says with a wry grin, "I just do."

Again with the trust. Chuuya isn't one to advocate for kicking people while they're down, but for this infuriating bastard he might have to make an exception and throw him over the side of the yacht if he so much as mentions that word one more time. "Would it be too much to ask for you to go anyway?"

"As long as you're coming with me." Dazai rises to his feet with a wince and walks to the table he and Fitzgerald were talking over before. If his leg hurts, he's hiding it well. "There's someone I want you to meet, since I happen to know where we're headed."

Chuuya watches him warily. "And where's that?"

"France."

"France?"

"Paris, specifically. Though since Fitzgerald knows the area better than I do, it'd be better to walk around and get familiar with the country rather than just one city."

"What are we supposed to do in Paris?"

"Chuuya remembers the agreement, I hope?" It takes a moment, but once Chuuya recalls the morning after Yuigahama and the proposition that followed, he nods. "The Hunting Dogs have a surprising amount of global connections that they didn't manage to sever completely once the government was finished with them. One of them lives in Paris." A long finger taps a photograph. "Paul Verlaine, forty-three years old, ex-operative of the Special Abilities Division. Assigned to the Arahabaki project, twenty-two years ago, along with--"

"--Arthur Rimbaud," Chuuya finishes with him, feeling sick to his stomach. God, am I ever going to stop hearing that name?

The worst part is he doesn't know how he feels to finally have some answers to his past so close, doesn't think he really wants to know. He'd put Rimbaud behind him years ago and was perfectly happy without knowing that he had a partner. Even if the project is most likely abandoned and Verlaine can't do anything to him once they find him...it's still too much to think about.

"I need a break," is what he says out loud after pressing his hands to his forehead, just in case Dazai doesn't get it. And a drink, if that man Fitzgerald has anything on board.

"Sorry, chibikko." Dazai sounds vaguely apologetic, for what Chuuya has no clue. "But I think sleep is going to be the only break we'll get for a long time."

Something crashes against the yacht, a wave probably. Chuuya's whole body tenses, going into lockdown mode and expecting the floor to give out under his feet or the wave to crash into the room again.

Instead, there's only the brush of warm fingers against the back of his neck. There's no dark room when Chuuya opens his eyes, no stranger threatening to sell out his secrets to the enemy, no water waiting to drown him. Only Dazai, grounding him with an unreadable look and a single touch.

"I'm with you," he says quietly, "and you're with me. You're safe."

A part of Chuuya wants to argue that he's not and neither is Dazai. As long as Fyodor, the Angels, and the rest of them are still out there looking, they won't be safe no matter which country they hide in. But he's tired, so he lets the words wash over him. 

Then Fitzgerald comes back in and Dazai's fingers leave his neck, as his husband returns to what he had been doing when Chuuya found him--poring over maps with Fitzgerald, talking about the fastest route to France, and separate plans saved for when things inevitably go south. Chuuya finds his way to a chair, sits down, and tries to follow the conversation as best as he can without context while trying not to flinch every time a wave crashes against the yacht. 

Every once in a while, Dazai will look over at him, like he's either checking for something or trying to find something that he didn't the first time. And some unidentifiable emotion will always flash across his face, too fast for Chuuya to decipher, before he blinks and returns to the matter at hand. It goes this way for some time, Dazai switching between the conversation with Fitzgerald and looking at Chuuya, and Chuuya trying to figure out both the conversation and his husband's behavior without success in either.

Eventually, he can't stand it. He excuses himself from the conversation and leaves the room before he loses his mind and punches a hole in something. He goes all the way back to the room he woke up in, straight to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face. And then he sits on his bed, staring at the blank wall and trying to assess the situation.

The Port Mafia will be in chaos, now that their executive's gone missing, and by now Mori would know. Chuuya can already see him giving the orders to contain the news so that the only people who know are the higher-ups, and sending the low level grunts to every corner of the underground to cut out loose tongues even though there's probably already more than a few bounties for his head.

Fyodor's probably furious. The Angels are probably tearing the country apart looking for any sign of him and Dazai. The Hunting Dogs have probably got every country in the world on the lookout for them, and are pulling more than a few strings to track down every single person in the Port Mafia. The Agency, Chuuya doesn't even know what the Agency would do in a situation like this, but either their President has met with Mori already or they're starting their own separate investigation, and triggering a four-way conflict in the process.

And here Chuuya is, sitting in a boat in the middle of an ocean, far from the mess he started.

A knock on the door sends his thoughts scattering to the winds. "It's open."

When he sees who it is, Chuuya scoffs, because of course it's him. "Weren't you just with Fitzgerald?"

"I was," comes the reply as Dazai steps further into the room. "Had to make sure you weren't trying to jump off the boat."

"Where would I go? The ocean?"

"Anything could happen when someone's as short as you are, chibikko."

One day Chuuya really will strangle him. One day, since today he hasn't got the energy to do much more than huff a laugh. "Did you come in just to make fun of me, or do you actually need something?"

In answer, Dazai holds out his hand. Chuuya stares at the object laying in it before he looks at his husband with a question in his eyes.

"The clasps broke when you were busy wrecking the building and destroying everything in your way. I was able to get it fixed before we left."

It's the choker. He wonders how he hadn't noticed he wasn't wearing it. "Why are you giving this to me now?"

"It's yours," Dazai says simply. "It will always be yours."

After a moment, Chuuya takes the thin strip of leather gingerly from Dazai's hand and considers it.

The first time Dazai had given it to him was three days before the wedding. His thought at the time was that it was an intimidation ploy or just incredibly twisted dowry. Now, turning it over in his hands, he's not so sure. 

The clasps aren't the only thing that's changed, everything is: their circumstances, their enemies, and their marriage. Especially now that the latter's a little less political than it was a month ago. If Dazai's giving this to him now, it's because he wants to see what Chuuya will do with it. Throw it away, maybe, or toss it in a corner somewhere and deliberately forget about it. 

Chuuya brings the choker up to his neck and fastens it around his throat. And then, he looks at his husband. "Thank you. For stopping me in time."

The corners of Dazai's mouth lift in a smile that's as small as it is genuine. "Get some rest. I'll see you in the morning."

Chapter Text

Until the morning he had woken up on the yacht, Chuuya hadn't considered that he might have needed a vacation. For once, waking up doesn't mean the start of another long day playing into people's mind games or having subordinates drum on his door to submit their reports. He's able to watch the sunset and feel the salty ocean spray against his face for the first time in a very long time, but like every morning in the past month, he does not feel at peace.

France is still a long way off. According to Fitzgerald's estimate, there's more than a good three thousand miles left to go. That's long enough for Fyodor to make a move, if he hasn't already. The Order of the Clock Tower might be disbanded, but in Europe there are most likely more than a few people or organizations fighting on Fyodor's side. And that's not including the Hunting Dogs; fifty days is more than enough time for them to get into contact with Interpol about two fugitives on the run.

And what are they doing, floating at sea a good three thousand miles from any land while everything is going to shit back home? Absolutely nothing. The thought runs hot and irritating under Chuuya's skin, and a gravity-infused wave slaps the side of the yacht in frustration.

"I'll thank you not to slap the boat," Fitzgerald's accented Japanese comes from beside him as the man leans on the railing, "even with water. My friend Hemingway wouldn't take too kindly to it being damaged."

And because getting sued for property damage isn't worth adding to his reputation while he's already a wanted criminal, he takes a breath and releases it until his shoulders relax and the waves hitting the boat go back to normal. "Sorry."

"No worries, old sport." The break in conversation is filled with the sounds of the waves crashing against the boat as Fitzgerald pauses in thought. "So you're him. The one Dazai-kun told me about."

Surprise and suspicion tear at Chuuya in equal halves, one on the part of pride and the other on why exactly Dazai went and spilled their supposedly low-profile union to a foreigner. Suspicion wins in the end. "What about it?"

Fitzgerald shrugs. "Curiosity, is all. When I heard he was getting hitched, I wasn't expecting it to be you."

He slants a sharp look at the American, scanning his body language and his expression for any hint of the sentiments laying behind his statement, but there's nothing in his face, his posture, or his tone to indicate anything. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You don't know?"

 "Why would I? He never tells me shit."

"Well," Fitzgerald says after a bout of raucous laughter, "that's not new then. Dazai-kun's always been the private sort."

Always, huh. "Known him a while then?"

"Four years and counting," the man affirms. "Met in the States when he was doing some solo work--classified information, and all that. He put my wife's murderer behind bars for life, and I've been indebted to him ever since."

Fitzgerald's fingers tap out an old American tune against the bars of the railing. His next words are to the sunrise. "He's a good man, your husband; if you've got to know anything about him, it's that. Try and give him a chance."

And that's too much. On top of being whisked away to the middle of the ocean without a warning and having to deal with two strangers on top of evading enemies on all sides, the implications of what Fitzgerald did and didn't say grate at Chuuya's nerves until it becomes unbearable. He turns to meet Fitzgerald's waiting gaze--so similar to Dazai's and different at the same time.

"The debt I owe you is immense," he begins, "and I will always be grateful for saving my life as well as his. But if you have something to say, say it before I assume you're patronizing me."

To Fitzgerald's credit, and Chuuya's general irritation, the man only grins and jerks his head in the direction of the cabin. "He's waiting for you inside."

There it is. Chuuya huffs a sigh and spares one last glance towards the sunrise before heading inside, to the general monotony of the lush rooms and the reminder of his marriage to the largest pain in the ass that he's ever had the misfortune to meet. By the time he finds his husband in the main room, bending over a low table, his irritation has all but skyrocketed until the scowl he wears feels permanently imbedded into his face.

"Too good to come get me yourself, is that what's going on?"

"Good morning," Dazai says without looking up. "Sit down over here, will you?"

Chuuya honestly contemplates staying right where he is, for no reason other than to spite Dazai, childish petulance be damned, but then Dazai looks up and raises his eyebrows like he knows exactly what Chuuya's thinking. The staring match doesn't last ten seconds before Chuuya gives in and settles across from Dazai, scowl deepening.

"Next time you need me for something," he says to his husband's back, "get me yourself. I don't appreciate being ordered around."

"Upset it wasn't me who was talking to you?"

”No , asshole.” Like he would ever give him the satisfaction, but judging from Dazai’s smirk, he already has. 

Forget about strangling Dazai. At this rate, Chuuya is going to half-kill his husband before this mess is even close to being over. “Just tell me what I’m doing here before I drop-kick you into the ocean.”

Dazai’s eyes glint in amusement as he settles into the opposite chair. “Look at it and tell me what you think.”

‘It’ being the chess game set up on the low table, complete with well-worn black and white pieces that shift across the board every time the boat rocks. It's a strange thing to carry while being on the run, even stranger for Dazai to be the one to have it especially since it seems that Go  would suit him better. 

A small, niggling suspicion rises in the back of Chuuya’s mind. He eyes the pieces of both royal courts before lifting his gaze.

“I think,” he says slowly, “that whatever you’re planning is a waste of time because it won’t work.”

Dazai’s eyes cut to him. His back goes a little tense. Confusion, amusement, and suspicion dance around his face like he can’t decide which one to feel. Like he doesn’t know how to react because it’s the first time someone told him he was wrong about something that is supposed to be his specialty.

No else would have noticed. No one else would have pointed it out, let alone say it to his face. Something warm curls in Chuuya’s stomach, at that thought.

“What makes you say that?” Dazai finally asks.

“We’re being pitted against three enemies. Not one— three . You can’t expect them all to act the same.”

“Every human being, to some extent, operates on the same level of basic psychology. That’s what this is based on.” Long fingers gesture to the chess set. “That’s why this helps in planning the opposition’s moves ahead of time so we’re prepared for anything that happens.”

“But you’re not focusing on all the opposition,” Chuuya points out. “You’re just focusing on one.”

Dazai sits back. He studies Chuuya appraisingly. “Confident, are you?”

He is. Because it’s so absurdly simple that he can’t think why he didn’t notice it sooner.

“You and Fyodor are the same,” he says, crossing his arms and thinking back to what Sakaguchi had said on a rainy afternoon three days before the wedding. “Do you think Fyodor will still play according to the rules if he knows you’ll just predict what he does every single time?”

Something behind Dazai’s eyes shutter closed. Chuuya doesn’t know if that means he’s recalculating his moves or reassessing the situation. If he’s considering what Chuuya said, or if Chuuya’s finally broke him.

He uncrosses his arms to hug them around his waist, and waits.

Eventually Dazai looks up. He looks straight at Chuuya, and the unreadable look in his eyes turns to glinting amusement.

“Learning to read my mind, Chuuya?” he asks. “How flattering.”

Chuuya bites back the retort on his tongue, the one that would have made him say It wasn’t supposed to be. He takes in Dazai’s smile, and the overall softness of his gaze.

This isn’t a terrorist lieutenant. Neither is this the person who can probably bring down Japan singlehandedly if he wanted to. Try and give him a chance, he hears.

“We’re married,” is what he says eventually. “It was going to happen sooner or later.”

“A month ago, I would have bet on ‘later.’” Dazai’s lips twitch a little bit. “And probably, so would everyone else. But now things have changed, haven’t they, husband of mine?”

There’s a slight edge to Dazai’s voice that Chuuya doesn’t care to unravel right now. Mostly because a lifetime in the mafia gave him a sixth sense for accident and injury, and now he can't ignore the way Dazai gingerly crosses one leg on top of the other.

“How’s your leg?” he asks so he can avoid giving the obvious answer to Dazai’s question.

“As good as it can be at the moment. I have your suturing skills to thank.”

“Don’t thank me yet. I’m still planning to drag you to the first hospital I find once we dock.”

“And I have just the one for you to drag me to." Dazai picks up a black rook and spins it between his fingers. "There's a small clinic on the outskirts of the Parisian suburbs that's run by a friend of mine. Not as convenient as the underground hospitals back home, but tongues won't wag here and most people don't bat an eye at outsiders."

That's not what Chuuya is worried about, not really, but he does wonder, "How is it that you have friends on every corner of the earth while you're a high-grade terrorist?"

Dazai's smile is slow and secretive. "It's a long story," he says. "Maybe I'll tell you one day."

Chuuya wakes later to pitch blackness and a terror so great it numbs his tongue and leaves him in a cold sweat. He sits up, kicking the covers from him. His clothes and hair stick to his skin damply, heavily, like tubes along his skin, and he gasps into the room, trying to steady his heartbeat and his breathing. Then a wave crashes against the yacht, a frisson of age-old fear travels along his spine, and his uneven breathing turns into a cry.

The door bursts open. A weight dips the mattress on his side of the bed, and hands appear to brush the hair from his forehead and touch his shoulder.

"Chuuya," Dazai says, keeps saying. "It was a dream."

Not a dream. A memory, because Chuuya remembers being drowned and shocked almost to the point of total blackout until it terrified him, and he wants to tell Dazai so. But terror chokes his throat still and Dazai's touch feels like electricity; he pushes Dazai away and vomits onto the mattress.

Nothing comes out. His eyes burn.

"Chuuya--"

"Don't touch me."

"Chuuya--"

Don't fucking touch me, he means to say again. But the warmth from Dazai's hands is grounding, and comforting, and it's addicting. Desperately so. Dazai's hands brush more damp hair away, something in Chuuya opens like an old wound, and he leans up to press his lips against Dazai's.

Dazai stiffens, and it's then Chuuya knows he's made a mistake. Crossed this invisible line that both of them had avoided up till now. 

He pulls back quickly, scrabbling to put distance between them, mind whirling as he tries to figure out how best to apologize. "I'm sorry," he says. "I--"

Dazai kisses him back. Connects their lips together again and presses forward slowly, until Chuuya's back touches the pillows and his hands rest uselessly on Dazai's shoulders because he doesn't know where to put them.

It's suffocating and intoxicating all at once. It's familiar and it isn't, but most of all it's confusing. Dazai kisses him with a slow languidness that is more fitting for two teenagers shoved together in a closet. For two people who've known each other long enough, people who care. For--

He doesn't know what Dazai sees in his face when they pull apart to look at him so fondly, doesn't know exactly what about that makes his heart stutter in his chest. 

"Was it too much?" Dazai asks, sounding gleeful, and that on its own is more than enough to snap Chuuya out of his funk.

"You kissed me back," he retorts. He can still feel the warmth of Dazai's lips imprinted on his own, the gentleness of his hands on his shoulders. "What the hell does that say about you?"

"That I'm a good kisser."

"Arrogant prick, more like."

Dazai laughs. It's bright and clear and soft, and more than Chuuya can handle at the moment. He pushes at Dazai's shoulders until they give, and sits up, away from Dazai. "I'm fine now. You can go."

He waits for the weight on the mattress to disappear, the soft click of the door as his husband shuts it behind himself on his way out. Instead, the mattress shifts, and Chuuya looks over his shoulder to see Dazai unbuttoning his cuffs. "What are you doing?"

"Sitting here a while, if you don't mind."

"I do mind."

"Oh well."

"Dazai, just go."

It's meant to be a warning, one last red flag before Chuuya loses his temper. But Dazai, as with everything, exists solely to test his patience.

"Why?" he asks, with a tone that says he knows exactly what he's doing, and something in Chuuya snaps.

He whirls back around. Dazai catches his fist before it can connect with the side of his head, and looks at him over the top of their joined hands. "No wonder you weren't married off sooner. You'd just beat everyone who annoyed you to death."

"Let go."

"Why?" Chuuya tries unsuccessfully to tug his fist back. Dazai's hand only tightens over it.

"Why?" he repeats. "What are you so afraid of?"

Nothing. Everything. "It doesn't matter."

"It does. Really, Chuuya, it's childish to act like this after one kiss."

Chuuya lands a punch, this time. The impact of it throws Dazai off the bed, colliding with the wall. Pain tightens Dazai's face, and Chuuya only takes a moment to remember the wound and feel bad about it before the storm breaks and outlines him in red.

"Confident of you, to act like you know me."

"But I do know you. You're Chuuya: short, hotheaded, impulsive, and scared of a kiss."

"I'm not scared of it!"

Dazai lifts his head, meets his gaze steadily. Chuuya can't face the look--the pity-- in his eyes, and he looks away. 

"I'm not scared of it," he repeats. "But it can't happen again."

"Why not?"

"Because--"

Because you kissed me like I mean something to you, and I don't know what that means. Because that sort of thing is for lovers, and that's not what we are. 

He doesn't finish the sentence. He doesn't have to. Dazai can read his mind most days anyway, one more time won't make a difference. 

He moves off the bed towards Dazai, stamping on the stutter in his heart when Dazai reaches for him like he wasn't the one who threw him into the wall. He slings a thin bandaged arm around his shoulders and half-walks, half-carries his husband to his own room two doors down. He helps ease Dazai onto the bed; Dazai looks at him, and suddenly Chuuya has no idea what to say.

"Sorry," he says, for both the outburst and for throwing him against a wall. "I'll look at your leg in the morning."

He doesn't stick around to hear Dazai reply. He heads straight back to his room and closes the door for good measure. Then he gets back in bed, pulls the covers over his head, and tries to forget the whole conversation and the lingering memory of Dazai's lips against his own.

Sleep evades him for a long time, until the sky turns from black to the palest shade of gray. It's only then that Chuuya gives into his exhaustion, and falls asleep.

Chapter Text

Dazai doesn't sleep that night. Though his eyes are closed, his mind drifts to other things like the moves Fyodor must be making now, the uproar that must be happening all along the underground now, and his husband asleep in the other room until it's brought back by the sharpness lancing through his wound and makes him grit his teeth involuntarily.

He's no stranger to pain, but he had always been the one giving it. Now, he's on the receiving end, and it keeps him up all through what's left of the night and into the morning.

When the sun dyes the morning sky pink and he can't stand it anymore, he reaches for his phone--pulling at his stitches in the process and making his teeth sink into his bottom lip for a fraction of a second--and dials Fitzgerald's number.

"Old sport?"

"Old friend," he says, a little unsteadily, "my chess set--"

"Bringing it over now. Thought you'd be here to get it, but I guess today's a bad day for the leg."

"Thank you."

He hangs up. Fitzgerald is opening the door less than a minute later, placing the board within arm's length and setting it up. "Don't mind me," he says, "but I think you're supposed to be resting instead of working."

"What will become of Yokohama if I rest?"

"Your people at home can hold down the fort for as long as you need to be gone, you know."

"Not long enough. Not without me."

Fitzgerald slants a look at him. Dazai ignores it, and leans forward to shift some of the pieces into other spots.

On a ship bound for France, thousands of leagues away, he can only nudge his pawns into the most strategically sound places so that when the storm inevitably hits, they will be best-equipped to handle it. It's the most he can do without actually being there in person.

"You know, I was talking with him yesterday."

There's no need to ask who 'him' is. "I heard."

"Then you also heard what I told him." Fitzgerald pauses. "That should go for you too."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying the two of you should sit down and have a good long conversation soon before everything goes to hell and you lose that chance. I don't know a lot, but from what I gather he doesn't need another reason to distrust you. Keeping secrets doesn't make a marriage better."

Dazai thinks of last night and how Chuuya's lips had felt pressing back against his own. Then he thinks of the secret pocket he sewed into his coat, and the matchbox he keeps inside it. "When we're ready," he concedes. "But not before."

"Then don't wait too long." Fitzgerald places the last knight on the board and straightens. "You two are good at what you do. Being good doesn't mean you'll make it out alive."

He's thinking of Zelda, Dazai knows. She had been high-spirited, in love with life, and good--none of which saved her from being gutted like a pig by a killer's cold blade. 

"Chuuya is not Zelda," he says at last. "A lifetime in the underground has trained him to avoid meeting that same fate."

"I'm not talking about skill, old sport. I'm talking about fire: the one you see in people's eyes when they decide to be strong and embrace everything that comes with life. It's the saddest thing in the world, to watch that fire go out right before your eyes. I pray you will never have to see it happen." 

A lull in the conversation turns Dazai's gaze to Fitzgerald, but the other man's attention is not on him anymore. It's on the window, where orange rays of the sunrise fall through and collect in patches on the floor. Fitzgerald smiles across a distance that only he can cross, to the memory of a face only he can see.

And Dazai thinks about fire in all its different forms. A candle flame, a blistering forest blaze. The sunlight caught in his husband's hair. The rage burning in ocean blue eyes to manifest into a red god capable of leveling a city. Yes, he supposes that it's not so surprising that the entirety of Chuuya's being can be encompassed by the single word fire.

"This war will last longer than I originally thought. I may not get a choice in the matter."

"More opposition than you can handle, is it?"

"That depends. Fyodor is formidable enough on his own but with the right allies and the right connections, there's no telling how quickly he'll move." 

"Well then, all you have to do is move before he does." Fitzgerald moves a white knight, and places the black queen in check. "With you and your husband out of the picture, obviously he'll make a move, but he won't go all out if you're keeping him on his toes. Seems to be doing the trick lately."

"Without me and my husband in the picture, someone else will have to keep him on his toes for us." Dazai toys with a white bishop. "Someone he can overlook as not being a main concern, ordinary enough to slip under the radar and blend in. If you could do the honors...?"

"The American Guild is yours, Dazai-kun. It's not what it once was, mind you, but that may be the reason why we win. It's the least I can do."

Dazai smiles his thanks. "You should forget about your debts, Fitzgerald-san. Nobody remembers what you owe them."

The leader of the Guild only smirks at him, and pats him twice on the shoulder. "Rest up, old sport. We reach port in three weeks."

Dazai shifts on the bed. He reaches for the chess set, snags the spare white queen, and twirls it around his fingers long after Fitzgerald leaves, thinking, planning.

How does one kill a demon? Not by steel, not by bullets, not even by wits, but the same way as one kills a snake: cutting its head off. But first it must be lured out, tempted for long enough for someone to go in for the kill.

But this particular snake has the wisdom of the seas and the mountains to rely on. This one is unfortunately smart. If the organizations under Fyodor's command are still reeling from having the government so close as Dazai thinks they are, then Fyodor won't be lashing out for some time. He'll be in the deepest corners of the sewers deciding what to do next. 

Dazai despises waiting, despises even more the fact that he has no choice. Now, every move he makes depends on Fyodor and the reports that get back to him about what exactly the Russian is doing. For that, he will need eyes that can blend in without drawing a second glance, ears that can catch the scent of a rumor or whisper before it begins, discreet methods of relaying the information to himself, and enough luck to pull it all off. 

Caught up in the swirl of his own thoughts and the smooth wood chess piece gliding against his skin, he doesn't notice the door opening or the new presence in front of him until it plucks the queen out of his hand. 

"It's seven in the morning," Chuuya says, vaguely accusatory. "What the hell are you doing up?"

"Thinking." 

"Right." The next breath Chuuya takes is a huff as he bats irritably at a loose strand of hair in his eyes and replaces the queen on the board. "I don't suppose you can ask your brain to turn off for a few minutes?"

"I'm afraid not," Dazai answers, vaguely amused. "If it were that simple, everyone would do it."

"Not you, though."

"Obviously."

Chuuya rolls his eyes as he tears a packet of fresh gauze open. "So what you're telling me is, you don't sleep?"

"No." Sleep had been the last thing on his mind, a habit built in childhood and made worse in the Angels. He'd end up with a knife in his back if he did. "Is that so concerning?"

"You're human. You're supposed to sleep. I wonder that your friend hasn't talked to you about that."

"Are you threatening me?"

"Why would I? If she's anything like I think she is, she'll knock you out herself."

"Touché." Dazai makes to push himself up further in the bed, but falls back onto the pillows with a grimace as fresh bolts shoot through his thigh. His leg feels stiff, unnaturally heavy, and tender to the touch. He presses his thumb along the outline of a stitch with some morbid fascination; pain jolts through his leg, and he grimaces again.

Then Chuuya's hand brushes against his own, pushing it away. "Stop touching it." There's a hint of exasperation in his tone. "You're useless, do you know that?"

Dazai just blinks at him. "Bit rude, considering I'm doing all the brainwork."

Chuuya rolls his eyes again, and taps his leg. Dazai takes the hint and rolls his pant leg up, watching the hint of a wry grin pull at the corners of Chuuya's mouth in his memory's eye. 

It takes some difficulty to swing both legs over the edge of the bed, but he manages. Chuuya starts cutting through the old, soiled bandages with scissors that squeak with every cut. "What were you thinking about?"

A dozen responses rise to mind. A dozen quips too, each crueler than the last. You, echoes deep in the crevasses of his mind. He shrugs. "How to flush out a rat."

"Do you have a plan?"

"Not at the moment, no," he admits, "but all of my contingencies rest on the moves he makes. If word gets back to me as fast as I've planned, I might begin sorting through them."

Chuuya pauses to give him an incredulous look. "Who do you have watching him?"

"Orphans, obscure shopkeepers, the homeless, people in the slums. People pretending to be from the slums." Dazai waves a hand vaguely to encompass everything in that spectrum. "It's a reliable network. They can get me valuable information faster than hacking into the Diet would."

"And if Fyodor finds out about them?"

"He already has." Dazai holds up a hand to interrupt the outburst he can feel building up inside his husband. "They're safe. They know his face and the faces of his goons, but he doesn't know theirs. A face is hard to pin down if it belongs to a multitude of people."

"Who's to say he won't just kill every civilian in sight when he gets the chance?"

"If you were him and you had a choice between wiping out the common people of a city or eliminating the Gifted organizations that stand in your way, which one would you pick?"

"If I were him, I'd cut off every line of communication from Japan to you so I can take you out of the picture, and then I would eliminate everyone still in my way. Why would he do any different?"

"Because in his own eyes, he is a god. For every game that the universe sets in motion, gods take their places beside the royal courts and they never think to look at the pawns." He looks away from the board, into ocean blue eyes swimming in bewilderment. "Trust me, he won't even consider them."

Chuuya holds his gaze for another moment as if weighing his words against whatever look is in his eyes. Dazai lets him; Chuuya might have been on Fyodor's trail for two years but Dazai was the one who spent that time at the man's side, staring at a war map with him and aiding him in Yokohama's destruction. He's the closest anybody has ever gotten to knowing that twisted Russian mind, and Chuuya seems to realize it too.

Silence settles over the aftermath of their conversation, punctuated by the slow rocking of the yacht and the waves that hiss and splash against its sides. The sun rises higher in the sky and Dazai looks at Chuuya.

His fingers are gentle as they peel off the soiled bandages, warm as they wrap fresh gauze around Dazai's leg. His hair glows red where the rays of the rising sun hit it. And yet, the line of Chuuya's shoulders is fraught with tension, so visibly uncomfortable. His head is bent over the wound as if in concentration, but Dazai knows too well that it's also to avoid looking at him. A way to avoid talking about the events that transpired last night.

He wonders how long Chuuya had lain awake, tossing and turning in bed and trying to forget that the invisible line they both avoided had been completely obliterated. He wonders how Chuuya would react if he knew that the first time they kissed wasn't last night, but the morning after the mission's horribly wrong turn, after Dazai had blown life back into Chuuya's lungs and felt only dizzy relief. 

A touch to the side of his face brings him back to blue eyes clouded with curiosity and concern. "What are you thinking so hard about?"

This time, he gives into the response dancing on the tip of his tongue.

"You," he says honestly, watching Chuuya go tense and his eyebrows draw together. The fingers on his face disappear. 

"What about me?"

"You don't trust me, you hardly call me by my name, and yet you still let me close enough to touch you." Dazai's lips twist into a sardonic grin at his next words. "You confuse me, chibikko. I don't know what to make of you."

Chuuya stays quiet, but his lips purse. His hands still hold gauze as they come to rest gingerly on Dazai's knee, careful to avoid the edges of his wound. 

"I hate you sometimes, you know?" he says, faint irritation dragging through his words. Dazai would laugh, if he couldn't hear the fondness tinting the usually harsh statement. There's not nearly as much bite as there used to be.

As it is, he blinks and tilts his head. "Only sometimes?"

The look Chuuya throws him is exasperated, a borderline scowl, but Dazai pays more attention to the frustration churning behind his eyes. And deeper still, the memory of last night. Ah, so that's what it is. 

"Did you like it," he asks, some of the frustration in Chuuya's eyes slipping away, "when I kissed you?"

"I did." Chuuya's face is pained. He ducks his head and hair falls to cover his face. "That's the problem, I did--"

Dazai leans forward and seals their mouths together. The sudden motion pulls at his stitches and makes his leg burn and there's still hair between their mouths, but Chuuya's kissing back, pressing back with an intensity that's almost fierce. It's interesting to feel that Chuuya kisses just like he fights, fast and hard and violent. Dazai's lips curl up in spite of himself.

When they pull back, both breathless to an extent, the first thing Chuuya does is glare at him. "Stop cutting me off like that.” 

"You wouldn't have it any other way." Dazai plays around with the words until they feel impersonal, until they feel like this new development in whatever they are is all Chuuya's fault, but the fog in his head has cleared somewhat and his leg doesn't hurt as much as it did ten minutes ago. 

He looks again at the chess set. Black and white are evenly matched; both royal courts are out in the open and engaging each other. He moves a rook and castles the white king. 

Chuuya tracks his movement, gaze flicking over the board as he considers. "That won't hold for long."

"No," Dazai agrees. "It only needs to hold for long enough."

Three weeks fly by in a blur, twenty-one days of poring over the chessboard that serves as a war map and watching the rise and fall of the sun over the horizon gone in a blip. The wind blows colder and harder as the yacht moves away from the equatorial line of Africa and closer to the frigid European climate, and for all the furs and heating in the yacht it's sometimes not enough to keep out the chill.

The cold also means that Dazai's leg stiffens. He moves around every day with a dull throb in his thigh that becomes more irritating the more he thinks about it, and sometimes it hurts to walk altogether. But sooner or later he has to reintroduce motion to this leg before it becomes a dud, and soon the burn in his thigh tones down to the equivalent of sore muscles after a workout.

The salty breeze against his face brings him back. He shields his eyes against the glare of the yellow sunrise bouncing off the sea. His leg doesn't hurt quite so much today which means he is able to walk a little further along the railing to squint at the faint outline of land just on the horizon. 

"The Port of Marseille-Fos," Fitzgerald says from beside him. "The main trade port of France, nineteenth-busiest container in Europe. Cargo ship traffic here is quite heavy on the day to day."

"How heavy is that?"

"88 million tons; more than enough to get you two to shore without too much fuss. A lot can be missed in the hustle and bustle of things, it'll be easy to sneak into the fray. No need to thank me," the man adds with an exaggerated wink.

"No," Dazai agrees. His hand comes up to shake Fitzgerald's anyway, both a gesture of farewell and a contract. From here, Fitzgerald will circle back around to Japan, hire some homeless grunt to sail the yacht back to the States; he himself will assume a low profile and blend into the slums as he did when the Guild first fell apart, and report back to Dazai when possible.

It's a dangerous mission, having nothing to do with Fitzgerald's ability to carry it out and everything to do with the enemy's seeming omniscience. "I don't believe you need me to tell you to be careful."

"I've been in this line of work for a lot longer than you, old sport. I know." Fitzgerald throws a look over his shoulder at the approaching port before he turns back to Dazai. "Take care of him, and take care of yourself. I won't have the lot of you dying of carelessness after I spent all that trouble getting you two here."

"I'll do my best."

Marseille-Fos Port, it turns out, is as busy as Fitzgerald said. Container ships, cargo ships, and the occasional military frigate line the edges of the dock. The brisk chill is broken at random intervals by hoarse shouts and bellowed commands as dockworkers secure ships and transferring cargo form ship to shore. Hemingway's yacht is unassuming enough to crowd into a corner not already filled by large vessels, and bobs on the water slowly as Fitzgerald escorts them both onto the docks. 

"Well," he says, "this is as far as I can go."

It's a good thing they already bid each other farewell on board, Dazai thinks. He inclines his head regardless, as a final goodbye.

Fitzgerald returns it with a twinkle in his eyes, and then he turns to Chuuya with an outstretched hand. "Good luck for now, Chuuya-kun. Here's to hoping we know each other better the next time our paths cross."

Chuuya shakes it, polite smile curving his mouth. "Same to you. Safe travels from here."

"That I will." And with a final lopsided grin in Dazai's direction, Fitzgerald is gone, blending seamlessly back into the sea of navy-clothed dockworkers. 

Dazai tears his gaze away from the yacht and turns to look at Chuuya. "Well? You did promise to drag me to a hospital."

The grin that his words receive is probably the first real smile he's seen from his husband.

It's quick work to get a taxi to the underground commuter train, faster work to board it en route to Provins without drawing too much attention. As far as the French public is concerned, they are first-time tourists off to visit the countryside and the little towns that border Paris. The fact that Chuuya speaks fluent French also helps.

"I didn't know you spoke French," Dazai comments after his husband manages to get them two train tickets without fuss.

"That's a first." A note of surprise, and pride, flickers through Chuuya's tone. "I thought you would have found all my secrets by now."

"With most people I would have. You, however, continue to be the exception to many things I've done."

The trip takes six and a half hours. Thought it's only nine in the morning, the underground blackness that colors the windows and the dim lighting have the passengers falling half-asleep in their seats. Halfway through, Chuuya falls asleep on Dazai's shoulder; he allows the weight on his shoulder, and the knowledge that he's somehow earned Chuuya's trust, ground him. 

By the time the train pulls into the Gare de Provins Station, the time is five past three. Sleepy passengers rouse from their seats and move to gather their belongings. Dazai nudges Chuuya awake with little more than a tap on his hand, and they make their way out of the train, out of the station, and into the sunny, provincial air of Provins, France.

Rustic houses line the streets as they walk. Cobblestone towers reminiscent of the Middle Ages loom from every corner, making it all too easy to imagine grand castles and their keeps, and power-fueled conflicts razing the ground on which they walk. The rich green countryside is something that can only be found in the most rural parts of Japan, and even though this is more or less an enforced vacation it's refreshing to be able from the city. 

Dazai chances a look at Chuuya, whose face is tilted towards the sky and watching the clouds surge overhead. He knows better than to believe that he's doing exactly that.

"You have questions."

Chuuya doesn't skip a beat. "How does a Japanese doctor come to live in a medieval town in central France?" 

"A long and bloody story. To summarize, she was eleven when she served in the Great War as an assistant to a nameless physician. Hundreds died on the daily, thousands more were wounded, and it was only by miracle that she and everyone else she worked with were able to revive them."

"She's Gifted."

"With the ability to heal, so long as the people she uses it on are half dead. A Gift like that paired with the magnitude of war, it made for a mess that spiraled out of control." A bird squawks overheard. Dazai tilts his head up to look at it, and catches the corner of a yellow banner. "Her patients were grateful, and then angered, driven insane by being brought back from the brink of death only to go near it again by every day's end. She was nicknamed the Angel of Death and labelled a war criminal though she was only a child. Months after the war ended, she packed what little she had and ran away from home, boarded a cargo ship headed for France, and made her way here. She's been working as an anonymous doctor ever since."

"And she can be trusted?"

To keep their presence in France a secret. To not let any word of their whereabouts slip even while questioned under fire, if it comes to that. Dazai just smiles.

"I'll let you decide on your own," he says. "Next?"

"What do you mean, half dead?"

"Exactly what it sounds like, chibikko. Ah, here we are."

Rue de Martin-Pêcheur, the kingfisher road: a name that is not found on any map, anywhere, known only to the residents of Provins and a select few outsiders. The street is lined with taverns, various small eateries and breweries; it's easy to bypass the unassuming door to the clinic, which looks like it should belong to the tavern a few paces away from which rowdy laughter and yells emerge. All the better to be relatively incognito, hidden in plain sight: only the ones looking for the clinic will find it.

Dazai gives six sharp raps on the door, in a set of four and then a set of two. The door opens a sliver, enough for a head of hair and purple eyes to peer out and take in his appearance before meeting his gaze. 

"You're not half-dead," Yosano says with mild disapproval coloring her tone. 

"Not yet," he corrects her, biting back a laugh at the way Chuuya's eyebrows raise to his hairline. "May we come in, sensei? There's gum stuck to our shoes, and we'd like to scrape it off."

Her eyes narrows and then sweep the street behind them in a single fleeting gaze. It doesn't last a second before the door opens wider and she pulls the two of them in. 

"You're being followed?" she demands the second the door shuts behind them. 

"Not at the moment. But it's better to take precautions." 

One thing Dazai has always appreciated about Yosano is that she takes everything in stride. His warning only makes her nod and set about clicking every lock and latch barring her door in place. She hardly bats an eye at Chuuya when she would normally have her machete on the ready at a stranger in her clinic, but all she does is hold out a hand for him to shake. "Yosano Akiko. Dazai might have mentioned me."

"Nakahara Chuuya," Chuuya says after a moment, shaking her hand. "He's told me a few things. Nothing bad."

"I would hope so, or his bed for the night will be my operating table."

"I'm afraid that's why we're here, sensei." Any leftover adrenaline that might have been coursing through Dazai's body has slipped away now, and feeling returns to his leg in a warm, dull throb. His hand moves to the outline of the bandages on its own accord. "We are...in a bit of a situation."

"You always are." The fond warmth in her voice belies her strength as she slings his arm around her shoulders and throws an order at Chuuya to stay put before they walk into her operating room. Dazai sits on the table as she closes the door, blinking at the harsh glare of the lights and letting his gaze pan across thew newspapers pinned to her bulletin boards and then surgical equipment laid out neatly on her desk. 

"Lay down." He complies and lays back against the table, wiggling a little until he gets comfortable. He feels her fingers prod gently at where he had touched his wound before, and then the rustle of fabric against his skin as she begins to roll his pant leg up.

"You're getting slow, Dazai. I never thought I'd live to see the day where you got shot."

"I didn't plan on it. You know I don't like pain."

Yosano hums thoughtfully and soaks a cotton ball in antiseptic. "Then does it have anything to do with the stranger outside?"

"I--" Dazai cuts himself off with the hiss he bites back as she begins to dab at his wound, waiting until the burn numbs a little to continue through gritted teeth. "Maybe."

"Who is he?"

"My husband."

For a good ten seconds, all that can be heard is the sound of passerby outside, and the drunken voices of those who had been in the tavern they passed. Yosano retracts her hand. "Not by choice, I'm assuming."

"No. Not really."

This time, she looks at him. "That bad?"

She's not talking about their marriage. Dazai props himself up on an elbow and meets her gaze. 

"Fyodor is moving." He knows exactly what her reaction will be even before he sees it: narrowed eyes, a crease in her brow, and a darting glance towards the door. Everywhere in the world, the name Fyodor Dostoyevsky is associated with darkness. "So are the Rats, the Decay of Angels, and the corrupted faction of our government. With enemies on all sides, it's only a matter of time before Yokohama is swamped in chaos."

"And you two are in the middle of it," she finishes. "Which is why you're here and not at home."

"The answers to Fyodor's downfall are not at home, sensei. They were never there in the first place." 

Chapter Text

The thread curled around Chuuya's fingers pulls taut. Loosens. Pulls taut again. Somewhere in the sweater he wears, a section of fabric is unravelling; he wonders if he might just tear off the whole strand to spare it the trouble since they'll have to buy new clothes more suited to the frigid European climate than the ones from Fitzgerald's wardrobe anyway. 

Disguises too; realistically there shouldn't be any need for them, but there is always a chance that someone with sharper than normal eyes might spot them. That someone who has the right connections might put two and two together and identify them as the Japanese fugitives on the run. In that case Chuuya might look around for some hair dye as well. 

He looks at the door again, the eighty-ninth consecutive time within the last ten minutes. Every fiber of the mafioso in him strains to know more, pushing at him to just forget about the damn thread and put his ear to the door to listen for any indication of the conversation going on inside. He won't, only because five minutes with Yosano Akiko was enough to tell him that she would open the door as soon as he did and have him be the one on her operating table rather than Dazai. 

Somewhere outside, a car rumbles. He drops the thread, never mind that it's still attached to his sleeve, and turns towards the window, pulling down one of the blinds just enough to see the street. 

A drop off, apparently: two people dressed in Parisian fashion exit the car, all smiles and laughter, guiding the small child between them to an eatery where their friends already wait for them with jovial shouts and greetings. They go inside, the car pulls away, and everything is quiet once more. Chuuya surveys the street for another minute but nothing else happens.

He lets go of the blind and sits back against the chair. With nothing else to do, he sweeps his gaze around the room, pausing momentarily on the huge machete half-hidden behind the counter and a necklace of dog tags hanging next to a framed physician's license.

His head snaps to the door when it finally opens. Dazai is the first to walk out, looking no more ruffled than he did when he first walked in as he shrugs his coat back on. There's no sign of a limp anywhere in his stride.

Yosano follows just behind. Her gaze follows Chuuya's to Dazai's leg, and she smiles. "Painkillers," she offers. "The non-drowsy kind. There was no infection to drain or open wound to stitch up, so the only thing left to do was clean it and take away the pain temporarily. I've packed a few more doses in this little bag here."

Chuuya takes the bag gingerly and eyes it apprehensively. "How long will it last?"

"A good four hours. Not to be used more than once a day, and even then only when the pain becomes unbearable." She chances a look at Dazai before lowering her voice conspiratorially. "And if it does, do me a favor and make sure he takes it. God knows how stubborn he can be sometimes and I won't be there to boss him around."

"Sensei." Dazai's drawl comes from the door. "If you wouldn't mind cutting your conversation short. My husband and I do have somewhere to be, you know."

Chuuya's eyes cut to the doctor, gauging her reaction. She only snorts, complies, and gives him a little nudge towards the door. "Every day I wonder why I don't dissect you on the spot."

"Who else would keep you entertained? There can't be many people willing to cart around half-dead bodies around here." 

"Plenty others, as long as I pay them."

"You don't pay me," Dazai says, vaguely affronted, as she undoes the locks and latches on the door.

"Mon pauvre," she returns, swinging the door open just enough to let the both of them out. "Now shoo. I've lasted this long by avoiding trouble like the plague and I'm not about to stop now."

"Of course, sensei."

It feels less like a goodbye and more like a momentary farewell by the time they step away from the clinic, bundled up again with their coat collars turned up to ward against the chill as well as to hide their faces to an extent. The painkillers clink together in their glass syringes, and Chuuya takes care to walk a little more carefully.

They enter Gare de Provins Station once more and take the four o' clock train headed for Paris. Neither of them speak until they're settled in their seats.

"Where are we going?" Chuuya asks lowly as the train pulls away from the station.

"To find the one person who knows the answers about you." Dazai responds just as quietly, voice approaching a murmur as he looks away from the scenery. "That was the agreement, wasn't it?"

It was. That's not the problem.

Dazai isn't obligated to hold up his end of the bargain. He could just very well insist on resuming the investigation into the Hunting Dogs and Chuuya would still follow because the end of all of this means he gets to go home. That's also not the problem.

He could ask what does Dazai get out of this because as far as he can tell, there are no benefits to this for the man, long-term or otherwise. He could ask why is Dazai doing this for him. And then maybe he would see something behind Dazai's eyes shutter closed, or maybe watch him laugh it off like it doesn't matter. 

But now, looking at Dazai as a distant part of him realizes Dazai is waiting for an answer, the impulse to ask quails. Probably neither of them expected anything to come out of the original arrangement, of being wed for politics and nothing else, but now something has, and the question of why has too many dangerous answers that Chuuya doesn't want to hear right now. 

"How do you even know where Verlaine lives?" he asks instead. 

"I asked around the first time I came here after finding out about the Arahabaki project. I went to bars, pubs, restaurants, anywhere that was crawling with locals no matter the date."

"And they just told you?"

"Oh, most enthusiastically. The French people are good conversationalists when they want to be, and the ones I spoke to were very excited to share the possibility of an urban legend with an ignorant outsider."

The laugh that comes out of Chuuya's mouth is half-scoff, half-incredulity. A smile of Dazai's own tugs at his lips, as enigmatic as the rest of him.

"Who are you, Dazai?"

Dazai's smile softens. His body moves both with the motion of the train and the small huff he lets out. His gaze returns to the scenery.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

That depends on what you'll tell me, Chuuya thinks. But he doesn't push it. He settles against his seat, watching the trees outside the opposite window go by in a flash. And then, after a moment's consideration, he leans a little further and rests his head on Dazai's shoulder.

Eventually, the man beside him shifts and his head settles over Chuuya's own. The tension twisting itself into knots in Chuuya's stomach unravels, and he breathes easier. They spend the rest of the journey matching each other's breathing and watching the landscape transform into the city. 

From there, it's easy to navigate their way out of Gare d'Austerlitz Station and wave down a driver fifteen minutes later. Dazai manages to communicate with the driver in broken French and tell him their destination--and for a city teeming with crowds at nearly every moment, the driver manages to escape station traffic at record speed and get them to the 19th arrondissement of Paris in under half an hour. 

The scenery changes again, from ornate architecture to simpler snatches of white and green. The sun dips behind the clouds to color the sunset sky orange. The view, they find once the car stops, is even more breathtaking on a hill. 

Stretched out in front of them is an expanse of white and green, of ivy-covered houses and trees towering above them, a picture that bleeds quaint rural charm. Faint yellow lights twinkle to life with dusk's approach. Above it all, the sun is a ball of glowing gold, melting the clouds it hides behind away until it shines bright and warm over the sky.

It reminds Chuuya of home. Not of the skyscrapers around Yokohama or the bay right next to it, but the mountains where shrines and temples would replace these whitewashed houses and lantern light that shines brighter than any lamppost could. 

"Beautiful," Dazai murmurs from beside him, and he's inclined to agree. 

The house they're looking for is half-hidden behind a vineyard, a garden overflowing with flowers and fruit, and rows upon rows of trees. The door to the house is painted green with a brass knob, free of ivy and climbing flowers, waiting at the end of a flagstone path and a rusted gate. Anxiety twists in Chuuya's gut and he stops walking, inches away from the gate. 

All the answers to the gaps in his memory, right behind that door. The partner of the man he killed at fifteen, so close, a literal stone's throw away. A guide to the howling entity encased in his body that rails and thrashes against its confines like it realizes where they're at. If he just passed the gate and knocked on the door...

It's too much to think about. He shoves his hands into his pockets and turns them into fists, painfully aware of Dazai's silent examination. 

"Shut up," he snaps, peevish even though his husband hasn't said a word. Just give me a damn moment, he means to follow up, as soon as he gets past the thoughts and doubts and worst-case scenarios swirling in his head.

Dazai's voice cuts through them soon enough, grounding him. "I'm with you, and you're with me."

Whatever you decide.

Chuuya's hands curl helplessly into fists. Indignation and gratefulness pull at him in equal measures and he wants to punch Dazai again for it--for pretending Chuuya has a choice at all when they've already come so far, for standing by the gate and waiting for Chuuya's word as if they'll both turn around and leave the second he gives it.

"I hate you." 

It's hoarse and a borderline whisper, and undermines the strength of the glare he's throwing in Dazai's direction--not at all how he had wanted to say it.

"I know," his husband says simply.

The gate squeaks as it opens, rusted hinges groaning in protest as they pass the cast-iron railings. The sound of their footsteps on the flagstones grate on Chuuya's nerves and reverberates in the pounding of his heartbeat against his ribs and the rush of blood in his ears.

The wink Dazai throws over his shoulder as he gives two sharp raps on the door isn't reassuring at all. The door yanks open hard enough to rattle the hinges, and his grin stretches impossibly wider. "Monsieur! Long time no--"

"Leave." A voice cuts him off, low and dark and angry. "Before I lose my patience."

"Well, see, I can't really do that--"

"Do not test me, boy. There are limits to my tolerance and I have no more to spare for the games you play and the troubles you bring. Leave," the voice snarls when Dazai doesn't budge. "Or have you forgotten what I promised I would do the next time I found you on my doorstep?"

"There's someone here to see you." Dazai's voice was like steel, cutting swiftly through the man's protest with the sharpness of someone used to being obeyed. He reaches behind to curl his fingers around Chuuya's wrist and tug him forward. "It would be rude to turn him away."

Chuuya knows very little about Paul Verlaine, and what little he knows is from what Dazai had shared with him on the yacht. It doesn't matter because it's not Verlaine that Chuuya sees when he finally looks up, but Rimbaud.

Rimbaud, lying on the warehouse floor of their final showdown, on a bed of broken concrete moments from death. Rimbaud, telling him to live as best he could and smiling at the memory of a face only he could see. 

He wonders what might have been different if he had known the truth at fifteen. How much harder Rimbaud might have fought if he knew his partner was alive and well and looking for him with the same fervor, and if he would have lived long enough to join his partner now in scrutinizing the two strangers on their doorstep.

But the gray stare that falls on him now isn't from scrutiny, nor from judgement or suspicion. It's traces of shock and bittersweet grief, like seeing a long lost friend for the first time in years.

"You." Verlaine's voice, when it comes again, is hoarse. Not angry anymore. He looks as shell-shocked as Chuuya feels. "You are the boy from the lab."

"Yeah," Chuuya says, finally. The tension in his gut burns like a brand. He doesn't know what else to say.

"Arthur mentioned you. In the last letter he sent." Gray eyes take him in, soften at the edges with traces of something wistful and sad when they land on his hat, and then turn to Dazai. "What is the meaning of this?"

"Questions that need answers. Better not to give them out here in the open."

The sun's already gone down. The streets are quiet and one by one, house by house, lights flicker to life. But in the dark everything looks the same; with no way to tell shadow from nightfall, there's no telling who has recognized them already. Chuuya is almost relieved when Verlaine pulls them in, and bolts the door shut behind them.

"The last time someone came into my home with questions, it was for a war that I had no part in, which lasted years because someone felt the need to frame my people for a war crime that another instigated. The last time he came"--with great emphasis on the finger he points at Dazai, who cranes his neck to inspect a particularly ornate grandfather clock-- "he nearly sent the Ministry of Foreign Affairs to my door. And now you are here again, with the vessel for a god standing beside you. What trouble do you bring to my home this time, Dazai Osamu?"

"None about Arahabaki." A lesser man would have trembled at the intensity of Verlaine's glare as it swings away from Dazai, but Chuuya refuses to be cowed. He meets that gray gaze steadily and plants his feet more firmly on the ground. "Tell us everything you know about the Hunting Dogs."

Dazai fills in the pause that follows, evidently done investigating the interior decor.

"Before you were assigned to the Arahabaki case, you worked in the Ministry as an active field agent. Some time later you joined the Hunting Dogs under orders to collect intel as part of an undercover operation to rat out the perpetrators behind the Gifted disappearances all over the country, after it was clear they would accept you into their ranks by virtue of being a Transcendental--someone only few can claim to be."

He rattles off facts without stopping, counting off on his fingers and voice going flat and disinterested as if just speaking about it bores him. He goes on to bring Rimbaud into the equation, never seeing (or ignoring) the twitch of Verlaine's hands and oblivious to the way Chuuya studies him from his place by the wall.

Part of him is watching Verlaine for a reaction. Part of him is listening to the frankly flabbergasting amount of intel Dazai somehow managed to acquire. Part of him wonders why Dazai decided it was a good idea to withhold this information until now and what exactly he stands to gain from both Verlaine and Chuuya hearing it for the first time. 

"I remember it clearly." The voice of Rimbaud's partner pulls him back. "It was my first time to Japan. I was alone. The heat, the bustle, and the language was all foreign to me though I had practiced weeks in advance. But what was foreign to me the most were those people, the hunting dogs. It amazed me that such a small group of people could wreak such havoc all across Europe on such a large scale, it was difficult to comprehend until I watched them in action for the first time.

"There are four members, all born with formidable Abilities. The first is Fukuchi Ochi, the commander. His Ability is called The Lion Dance, which forces any Gifted in a mile-radius around him to lose control of their own abilities until they burn out. However it's his last resort; he prefers fighting with physical combat to continue carrying pride for the Hunting Dogs' skill and reputation. The second is Teruko Okura, their vice-commander and the youngest of them all."

"How young?" 

"A teenager, more or less, but not to be underestimated. She is called the 'Blood-Briar Queen' for good reason; her weapon of choice is a steel whip not unlike the cat-o-nine tails of old England."

"And her Gift?" Chuuya presses. 

"To manipulate the age of anyone she touches, including herself. Hence why she is most often deployed on infiltration missions. I would know," Verlaine adds with a smile that borders on wry and grimacing. "Next are Suehiro Tecchou and Saigiku Jouno, often paired together for missions. The former comes from a long and esteemed samurai lineage, is skilled with a sword, and has the ability to bend steel to his will. The latter is blind."

A fleeting glimpse of a dark interrogation cell flashes across the back of Chuuya's mind. His brows draw together as Verlaine continues. 

"However, he more than makes up for it with the sharpness of his other senses, particularly those of smell and hearing. His extreme sensitivity to his surroundings allows him to hear the heartbeats of people close by, which makes him an invaluable resource during interrogations."

Out loud Chuuya mutters, "We've met."

His comment earns him looks of curiosity but he pays no attention to them; his focus is elsewhere, deep in the river of his memories as he traces them all the way back to the night of the infiltration mission. His next words are to his husband.

"Dazai, before you got to me, there was a man who took me to the ruins of the old lab and interrogated me there. That was him, this man Saigiku."

"How do you know?"

"He kept mentioning heartbeats and being able to hear mine." Focus successfully broken, he looks up to meet Dazai's eyes. "He shouldn't have been there. No one should have known about that mission except the Angels."

"Another leak. You think Fyodor or someone else would willing leak mission details to the people hunting us down?"

"I think there's been one leak all along. And we killed the wrong one."

Chapter Text

"You're certain."

Mori's hands are steepled together, his expression contemplative. His voice is too calm for Ango's liking; he stands a little straighter and pushes back his glasses. 

"Yes. According to my intelligence officers, there is no sign of Chuuya-kun anywhere in Yokohama or otherwise. We have good reason to believe he is no longer in the country."

"I see. And what of Dazai-kun?"

"The same, sir. Although I might add, if Dazai-kun does not want to be found he will not be found."

"Of course not. That's how he managed to slip under our radar for so long, after all." The Boss rises from his chair and walks, hands clasping behind his back, to look out the window. "Call off the search."

Ango blinks. The briefcase under his arm slips, and he barely manages to catch it before it spills all over the floor. "I beg your pardon, Mori-san?"

"Call off the search. The arm of the government is long, but not long enough to find a man who knows how to hide, and we need government intervention for other more pressing matters at hand. Besides," Mori's eyes catch the light and glint as they turn on Ango, "who knows? They may be with each other even as we speak."

"Of course." He spares a fleeting moment to wonder why Mori isn't more concerned that one of his executives has effectively gone missing, who is likely with a man who's spent years under the Demon Dostoyevsky's influence, but he doesn't dare voice it out loud. At Mori's gesture, he approaches the huge oaken desk and puts down the briefcase. 

"Documents," he explains unnecessarily as red eyes rove over the briefcase and the folders he takes out, "not about Dostoyevsky himself or the organizations he leads, but about the one item he's shown considerable interest in."

"The Book." Mori flips through one of the folders and inspects it. "It's in the government's possession?"

"Only a scrap of it, but enough to perform some tests on it. One of our analysts, Sato, was able to confirm its authenticity after a week of experimentation." The file Ango's looking for is labelled F5234, in black ink; he finds it quickly and hands it to Mori. "The experiment began with writing small things into reality, such as the disappearance of a pencil or the appearance of a paper. Eventually, in an effort to find the page's limits, those small things escalated. Although no one in the department was used as test subjects, no one could deny its power by the end of the week."

"And the limits? Were they found?"

Ango swallows. "That...is part of why we stopped the experiments after only a week. With the test trials escalating and no limits anywhere in sight, the only possible conclusion was that there are no limits to the Book. It would certainly make it easier for someone like Dostoyevsky  to remake reality in his image, if it falls into his hands."

"All the more reason we must not let it happen." Mori replaces the file on the desk. "I have spoken to the President of the Armed Detective Agency and reached an understanding. He will lead his people in the search for the Book while we in the Port Mafia will find a way to lure out the rats."

"Dostoyevsky is notoriously difficult to lure out, even more difficult to keep contained." In the past two years, the Special Abilities Division made some extremely close calls; Ango can still remember the instances in which the demon had allowed himself to be caught, moments before the blood and brains of the guards restraining him splattered against the wall. "The next time he shows his hand, he will not be so bold."

At first he thinks Mori doesn't hear him, or is no longer listening. But when he makes to call the mafia boss' name, one finger lifts in a command for silence. "Ango-kun," Mori says, "do you know Sun Tzu?"

The Chinese general, the military strategist whose bestseller went on to influence Eastern philosophy and military thinking for generations. Ango knows for the simple fact that it was covered during basic training after his initiation into the Special Abilities Department, but the reason for its relevance to the conversation is lost on him. Until Mori explains.

"If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles. Arguably one of his most famous quotes and true enough for most situations in modern warfare. But what happens if, in our case, the enemy knows more about us than we know about them? How do we defeat a foe who consistently dances twelve steps ahead of us and is able to predict our every move before we make it?

"We do something unpredictable. We make moves that are out of character. Every human being, to some extent, operates on the same level of basic psychology; Fyodor Dostoyevsky is a monster of the worst and most devious kind, but he is still flesh and blood and prone to make mistakes. Particularly if he gets suspicious." 

"...Suspicious, sir?"

Mori's smile is all teeth. "You have Dazai-kun's contact, do you not?"

Ango stares at him, at his shark's smile and the scarf hanging red over his shoulders, and the pieces of the puzzle Mori set out for him, slowly but surely, begin to click into place. "It's a risky move, sir," he manages through a dry mouth, once the whole picture comes together. "It will put both Chuuya-kun and the mission in danger if circumstances become dire enough."

"Chuuya-kun can handle himself. He has the aid of his husband to rely on, after all." Mori returns to his seat and laces his fingers together once more. "Contact Dazai-kun before the day is over, Ango-kun. And shut the door on your way out."

Ango's body moves on autopilot, bending in a stiff bow and collecting the briefcase and its contents and making his way to the door. Just before he reaches it, his thoughts snag on a corner of Mori's statement and he turns back around. "If I may ask, Mori-dono...how exactly do you know the nature of their relationship?"

Mori's smile only grows.

"Shut the door on your way out," he repeats. 

Oda is waiting for him outside. They fall into step together in silence and take the glass elevator back down to the main level of Port Mafia headquarters. Government agents and mafiosos crowd the floor, going over strategies and documents and evidence in a manner that would have the Prime Minister foaming at the mouth if he knew. Ango stops only briefly to converse with his assistant, bright-eyed Tsujimura, with a request to call off the search for Executive Nakahara and his spouse.

His companion doesn't ask about the sudden change in plans or why he was up there in the Boss's office. Ango in turn doesn't ask him why he was waiting and if Mori had called him up to act as as escort; part of the unspoken agreement they've had since the day they met, to never ask for information unless the other volunteers it of his own volition. Only once their footsteps turn in Bar Lupin's direction and the wind rushes loud enough to cover their conversation, does Ango speak.

"Mori-san wants me to contact Dazai-kun."

Beside him, Oda's footsteps slow. "Contact Dazai? Why?"

"It will give us the upper hand in surprising Dostoyevsky enough for him to slip up and make a mistake. That's what he believes, at any rate."

"Dostoyevsky will have expected this too. All of his plans are based on the moves we make, after all."

"I don't know. If the Port Mafia gave away all their plans, then they wouldn't have lasted this long." At a particularly uneven section of the sidewalk, his glasses slip off the bridge of his nose. He pushes it back up again. "Odasaku-san, be careful now. There's a scheme at work that's bigger than the both of us, and only the Boss, Dazai-kun, and perhaps Dostoyevsky know how it all will play out. If this goes wrong not even your kids will be safe."

"I know." Oda's worry is visible to those who know where to look, the undercurrent of it present just beneath his usual blasé tone and the nonchalant brush of his fingers over the harness he wears beneath his coat. "You too," he adds after a while.

"I know." Both of them, in their own way, understand the coming perils and the knowledge that this might be the last moment of peace for the city before the fray of Dostoyevsky's war comes to claim them all. 

Once they arrive at Lupin, they settle into their usual seats--leaving the one between them empty. Ango orders tomato juice, Oda orders scotch on the rocks, and the bartender sets out a third glass. For your friend, he explains, pouring whiskey into it. The one that hasn't been here in a very long time.

"What shall we toast to today, Odasaku-san?"

"To the city, and everyone protecting it."

In the dim lighting of the bar, with only the bartender and the old photographs adorning the wall as witnesses, their glasses clink together.

Meanwhile, halfway across the world, Chuuya stares at the clouds bunching up in the sky, unable to decide between being thankful for the seclusion from the city or cursing it.

For once, Dazai is not with him. He's in the adjoining room, on the phone with Fitzgerald telling him about the new developments to their situation (after taking the necessary precautions to ensure that neither the phone nor the call is being traced or tapped).

And Chuuya is here, perched on a chair in Verlaine's living room, staring at the window and zeroing in on every single person that walks by the house. His whole body thrums with the knowledge of a mole in their midst, someone cunning enough to slip in and out of the Angels' ranks and then feed information to the enemy, until even the streets of a small village in a country halfway across the world appear treacherous. His skin crawls.

A slippery tongue among the ranks always causes problems. Chuuya knows this. At least half the Port Mafia's prisoners who end up biting the curb with three holes in their chest on an annual basis are the ones who broke the fundamental law of the mafia and spilled valuable secrets to the authorities, and sometimes he's the one kicking the back of their heads and pulling the trigger.

Their current dilemma isn't any different except for one, they have no clue as to who the leak is or how to find him and two, the fact that the leak even exists puts the whole of Yokohama at stake.

Chuuya blows out a breath that dislodges stray hairs into his eyes, batting them away with mild irritation, and tries to think.

Every single Angel was present at the council. Between the moment Fyodor announced the operation and the moment Chuuya actually left the penthouse to carry it out, there was a grace period of twenty-four hours. Which meant that the saboteur must have made contact with someone in the Angels during that time slot and received his due payment then as well, because realistically there shouldn't have been a reason for a government operative to be at the site of a terrorist infiltration mission unless they were told about it beforehand.

Unless they knew the exact nature of the mission. 

Fyodor wouldn't do this. However sour the thought tastes in Chuuya's mouth, even Fyodor wouldn't dare to bring the enemy so close after everything he's managed to accomplish. Keep your enemies closer isn't something that can be applied to a goal that banks on the enemy staying as far away as possible. 

And therein lies the problem, the problem of if not Fyodor, then who? Chuuya can count on one hand the people he suspects might benefit from sabotaging a terrorist infiltration mission, and even then that number isn't very high.

"What are you thinking so hard about, that you're trying to burn holes in my window with only your eyes?"

Verlaine's voice pulls him out of his reverie, and the mug he offers pulling his gaze (and attention) from the streets. He closes his hands around the mug gratefully, letting its heat warm his hands and the smell of freshly ground coffee beans ease the worst of his tension from his mind. 

"It's a long story," he mutters. The weight of sleeplessness tugs at what's left of his energy, and the threat of a migraine throbs behind his eyes. He's spent too much time around Dazai.

"Without a doubt," Verlaine agrees as he pulls out the chair opposite to Chuuya's and sits down with an identical mug of coffee. Traces of Dazai's conversation in the other room drifts through the walls, calm and level in a way that Chuuya could never be in the kind of situation they're in right now. "Tell me, does it have anything to do with the questions you asked me last night? Or the questions you want to ask me now?"

"If you already know, why ask?"

"To hear your thoughts, your side of the situation, if you will. 'Long stories' are often the product of complicated matters, and I've heard that those complications may sometimes untangle in conversation."

"Is that what you're doing?" Chuuya asks with a wry grin.

"Of sorts. And look, we are conversing at this very moment; I'd venture that it's working so far." For the next six, seven seconds, the only sounds are of Dazai's distant murmur and the birdsong just outside the window. "Tell me honestly, boy: what is it that you fear?"

He blinks. "I'm sorry?"

"Yours is a particularly troubling situation; it's written all over your face. You are concerned--about the Hunting Dogs on your trail and the one who provided them with the ammunition to do it."

"Wouldn't you be?"

"It doesn't matter if I would or would not be, this conflict does not involve me. I am not the one who crossed oceans to find answers in a country halfway across the world."

Chuuya takes a mouthful of coffee (scalding, burning, and a poor substitute for alcohol) to distract him, from the conversation and the too-loud laughter of people passing by that puts him on edge. The liquid warmth settles into his veins and the laughter he holds back bubbles frustrated and helpless in his gut.

"Can you blame me? My city's being torn apart. Fyodor Dostoyevsky is playing the government like a puppeteer, the government has an informant that no one knew about until now, and because of that informant it's probably only a matter of time before the Hunting Dogs track us here. Concerned doesn't even begin to cover it."

Verlaine studies him. "And if it does happen? If your fears become reality and the fate of your city rests in the palm of your hand, what will you do?"

"I don't know," he admits. He watches the bubbles in his coffee swirl to the center; storm coming, Kouyou would say. "That's why we're here, to figure it out while there's still time."

Ceramic scrapes against polished wood in a manner that tells him Verlaine's pushed his mug away, dismissing it and all other pretense of a casual conversation from the room. "Boy," he says again, both an admonishment and an encouragement, "what is it that you fear?"

"That we'll fail." The admission makes his head spin, rips his white-knuckle control on his composure away and spills out every last thing that he's bottled up. "That the city I love will be destroyed and...that I'll lose everyone I care about."

"Good. It's only when we acknowledge what we fear, that we can begin to face it."

There's no judgement in Verlaine's voice, or on his face when Chuuya finally looks up. Only wistfulness, a bit of regret, and more than a little grief to hold it all together, in the same expression he wore last night.

Chuuya doesn't feel regret for the lives he's taken; to him it's a waste of time, crippling on his best days and an additional weight to all his other responsibilities as a mafioso on his worst ones. But he watches gray eyes trail to the hat sitting on the arm of his chair, sees them go soft and bitter and sad, and something akin to regret pulls tight in his stomach. "I'm sorry about Rimbaud."

"He died knowing the truth. That was all he wanted, in the end. He told me about you, the frame for a calamitous entity who had a mind and personality of his own. That the god Arahabaki could co-exist with the human Nakahara Chuuya...he called it a miracle."

"I was there when he died. His last thought was of you." Rimbaud had been smiling, Chuuya remembers. "If you were dead like he thought you were, he hoped that it was warm when you passed."

"That sounds like something he would say." Verlaine laughs to himself. His shoulders shake with the force of it and every once in a while his gaze cuts to the framed photograph on the coffee table. "You know who I was before Suribachi City, what I did before I was assigned to your case; Dazai did the courtesy of informing you, if you remember. Arthur was the same; in fact, that was where we met. We were both very young."

"What was he like?"

"Gloomy on his best days, and utterly miserable on his worst ones. Always complaining about the cold even when it was warm, as if it was the last thing he would ever do. But he had many strengths, intelligence and conscience not the least of them. I was intrigued, of course, and a bit envious, though that changed soon enough. Over time, we were deployed together more frequently. More often, the missions our superiors sent us on required our cooperation. And as we did, and we grew closer...well, one thing led to another and we became more than simply work colleagues. I don't believe either of us knew it would happen, and I don't believe we would have cared if we had. We fought together, we lay together, we spent long warm evenings on the roof gazing at the stars and drinking wine from the nearest convenience store. The world went on around us but sometimes, time herself seemed to stand still."

Verlaine isn't looking at Chuuya anymore. His eyes are fixed on a point on a ceiling. The smile that curves his mouth has gone soft, and Chuuya knows without asking that at this very moment, Rimbaud is more real than he is.

"I could tell you everything about him. The day we met. How he fought. The color of his eyes, the shape of his smile. The softness of his touch. I cannot forget, even if I tried. And I have, too many times to count."

"And after all this time," Chuuya asks lowly, "you still..."

"Ah. Fifteen years is a long time to mourn, I know, and to say nothing of love; it is the greatest grief of all, to love someone who is gone. But I did then, and I do now. Perhaps that is the only thing about me that will never change."

The conversation dies to a stillness that permeates the room as both men retreat to their own musings; Verlaine to his memories and Chuuya to the reality of the situation. More laughter drifts in through a crack in the window, more rural soundscapes to drown out the conversation happening in the other room...

He can't hear Dazai anymore, Chuuya realizes suddenly. Birdsong and the distant French inflections from outside, yes, but not the voice he's gotten used to within the past two months. 

"Go to him," Verlaine says, like he can hear Chuuya's thoughts. "He waits for you." He doesn't even respond when Chuuya excuses himself from the room, just bats his hand in a wave that's both long-suffering and knowing.

Dazai's standing at the window, with one hand parting the curtains just enough to see through them. His other hand is a curl on his hip, clearly frustrated even if none of it shows on his face.

"Fitzgerald's a fishing boat's journey from Yokohama," he informs Chuuya. "He made a pit stop in Australia to drop off his yacht there, for a trusted captain to sail en route to America without looking conspicuous. The situation at home, from what he's heard, is more or less what we expected. He'll keep two eyes out and watch for anything suspicious, but he can't promise anything. At least now he knows to be careful."

"So we really have no idea who the leak is."

Dazai shakes his head. Chuuya wants to swear.

It's not as if he expected different, but Dazai was on the phone for at least an hour. If this is all he managed to get from an hour-long conversation, then that means they have no starting point or a shred of evidence to go on. Chuuya rubs the bridge of his nose with his fingers and frustration bubbles hot beneath his skin. "Fuck."

"Calm down, Chuuya."

With that note in Dazai's tone, the frustration boils over. Something in Chuuya snaps.

"No. No, you don't get to pretend like you're calm." Every word takes him further into the room and closer to Dazai. "You don't get to act like none of this bothers you."

"Chuuya--"

"Fyodor is going to destroy everything," he snarls. "He'll use everything and everyone he can to do it, including our own government, while we sit here, half a world away, running around in circles and looking for loose ends that lead to nothing in the end. For fuck's sake, Dazai!" he grabs Dazai's arm and yanks him around. "Would it kill you to care just a bit about everything that's going on?"

Dazai reaches for Chuuya's hand and gently pries it off his arm.

"I do care," he says. Chuuya can see his face now, all pale skin and soft lines beneath a mess of tousled hair. His eyes are tired when they land on Chuuya, and Chuuya feels some of his leftover anger drain away. "But not in the way you think."

"What does that mean?"

Instead of replying, Dazai simply steps around him to get his coat, draped haphazardly over the arm of a sofa. "Walk with me."

He cuts off Chuuya's budding protests. "We can't stay cooped up in here for the whole of our stay, and we both need a break. Fresh air might do us some good."

Chuuya would argue further, because there's always a chance that the leak followed them to France so it's literally not safe to go outside, but Dazai's already holding out his coat with an eyebrow raised in challenge, so there's no point in pressing the issue. He takes it with a resigned sigh, to a smile that curves Dazai's mouth on his way out the room.

The fresh air does feel nice, though, once they step outside. It rushes, chilly and welcoming, against Chuuya's face, a stark contrast to the skyscape that greets them the further they walk from Verlaine's house. The sky is awash with colors from a warm palette, pink and orange and yellow spilling into each other in an endless canvas, and the sun is the ball of molten gold dipping into the horizon. 

Dazai is quiet beside him, from either the cold, thinking, or both. His hands are shoved into his pockets, his eyes tracing the skyline without actually seeing it. It must be exhausting to have a mind that's always running leagues ahead of everyone else, and Chuuya feels ashamed, suddenly, of his outburst earlier. 

They end up at a clothing store. He doesn't realize it until he comes out of his thoughts and realizes that the dirt path beneath his feet has turned to concrete, and the buildings beside them have windows that are long and sleek. After being in a provincial medieval town and a small secluded village in central Paris, such a modern sight takes him by surprise. 

"We're not out here for fresh air, are we?" he asks once they walk inside the store. There's a lot of people, not enough to feel overly crowded, enough that their conversation is masked by a hubbub of other noise. 

Dazai's silence is answer enough. That, and the grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. Bastard. "You know, if you wanted to get disguises you could have just told me."

"Sorry," his husband replies, unapologetic, as he begins leafing through a rack of coats. "But you know now, right?"

"You really love making me mad, don't you?" Dazai's grin only brightens. Chuuya rolls his eyes, this time, and elects to inspect the first woolen sweater he grabs instead of entertaining more of his husband's antics.

It isn't often that Chuuya goes shopping, much less in such an open area; something about the prospect of turning his back to a potential enemy even if most people aren't is something he likes to avoid. His gaze isn't even fully on the clothes he picks out, at first, he's too busy watching the people around him with his muscles tensed in anticipation of anything that might occur.

No one tries anything remotely suspicious, though. They only mill about the store, picking out clothing, trying them on, critiquing them at times, so normal that Chuuya's initial unease fades soon enough. 

It helps that the store's atmosphere is relaxing. Bright golden lights hang overhead and it's significantly warmer in here than it is outside, almost to the point of feeling toasty. Music plays from the speakers in the corners of the store, drifting over everyone going in and out, blending into the French overtones around them. Edith Piaf sings over the noise of the crowd, in the distant edges of Chuuya's consciousness as he looks at sweaters, jackets, pants. Any kind of clothing casual enough to be inconspicuous.

Truthfully French fashion isn't too different from what Chuuya wore every day to work. Then again, the French probably never had to blend in to become another nameless face in a crowd. Must be nice, he thinks as he meanders over the hat section and picks one up, wondering if he should buy one for the sole purpose of hiding his hair. People with natural red hair are rare in the world, there's no reason to think Paris is any different.

He feels Dazai move closer in his peripheral, picking up a thick knit scarf and studies it with a strange expression. It's fleeting attention at best, Chuuya's too busy contemplating the pros and cons of a hat that would completely cover his hair. Right now, he's leaning towards the cons.

"Maybe I should just dye my hair instead," he mutters out loud.

Beside him, Dazai hums flippantly. "If you'd like."

Chuuya's brow furrows at that. He half-turns with the intention to tell Dazai to quit messing around, only to stop at the feeling of Dazai's fingers on the side of his head. "Dazai, what--"

The pad of Dazai's thumb brushes against his cheek and he shuts up. His breath, and everything else, stills as Dazai's fingers sweep over the shell of his ear, tucking wayward hairs behind the curve of it and pressing a bit there to make sure they stay. Then the fingers turn into a palm that curves warm against his face.

"Beautiful," Dazai murmurs, or Chuuya thinks he murmurs. His heart turns sideways in his chest all the same.

They're standing close enough to touch, like this. Chuuya's shoulder would brush against Dazai's arm if he moves so much as a centimeter, and a passing thought tells him they're close enough to kiss if he really wanted to. 

Before he can do something stupid like actually following through with that thought, he reaches up and closes his fingers around Dazai's wrist. Dazai's eyes lock on his, all signs of previous exhaustion gone. Their faces are only inches away from each other, and Chuuya hates that he's so painfully aware of that distance.

He tells Dazai, with not nearly enough bite in his voice, "Stop being ridiculous."

Dazai's laughs fans out over his face. His hand stays on Chuuya's face for another second before he lets it fall.

"Wouldn't dream of it," he says. Then, after a moment he adds, "Husband of mine." He laughs again at what must be the mortified look on Chuuya's face before he saunters elsewhere.

Chuuya takes longer than necessary to pull himself back together, shaking his head and trying his damnedest to wipe the smile off his face. Traces of warmth from Dazai's fingertips linger on his cheek; he resists the urge to touch it as he finally decides on a winter coat, thick and hooded and inconspicuous, and a pair of leather gloves and begins to make his way to the counter.

Then, goosebumps prickle on the back of his neck.

He keeps his body posture casual and his facial expressions neutral, shifting the coat and gloves to one arm. His eyes, though, dart to the entrance, to the three exits around the store, to the people walking around the store. Nothing seems out of the ordinary but he can't shake the feeling that he's missed something, that he's seen some little thing. 

He sweeps his gaze around the store again. He fakes a cough and half-turns to scour the open space behind him. Nothing, and nothing again, until his eyes return to the long window just a few paces away from the register.

A homeless person sits on the end of a sidewalk opposite to the store, shivering in a threadbare coat, holding out a tin cup between gloved hands and begging passerby for alms, money, anything. The cold seems authentic, the distress in his eyes seemingly real.

Chuuya keeps watching anyway. He moves out of a paying customer's way and starts flipping through a rack of jackets, all his attention on the scene happening in his peripheral. A little girl passing by runs up to the homeless man, says something, and drops something in the cup before running back to her parents. The man reaches into his cup as if feeling around for the coin, but his eyes turn briefly to the store, scanning it, and the "coin" had looked to Chuuya like a piece of paper.

They've been discovered.

He finds Dazai in the rain gear aisle. Dazai turns as he approached, not surprised in the least when Chuuya wraps a hand around his nape and tugs him down. To anyone else it would look like a kiss. "We're being watched."

"I know," he replies back just as lowly and turns his gaze elsewhere, to the sweaters folded on a nearby shelf.

Dazai doesn't say anything else but Chuuya recognizes it for what it is, a strategy and a plan, both of which say play along. And he does; when Dazai reaches for his hand on the way to the counter, he doesn't react beyond tangling their fingers together as if it's the most natural thing in the world.

Always maintain an act, Mori would say, until you know it's safe to take off. Their hands stay connected the whole way back to Verlaine's house.

The second the door clicks shut behind them, they drop the charade. Dazai lets go of Chuuya's hand at the same moment that Chuuya lets go of the bags containing their purchases; it lands on the ground with a soft thud, and together they sag against the heavy oaken door.

After a few circles around the general village and spotting a few more watchers in restaurants and bookshops, they had decided to take the long route back. Which meant finding a local who knew his way around and playing the part of dumb tourist, and looping out of the town, back into it, and walking up a slope that alternated between stairs and hill for three hours. Now Chuuya's leg muscles are stiff and aching, and his nose and fingers tingle from the warmth after being so long in the cold; his only consolations are that Dazai is breathing as hard as he is and that no one who didn't need to see them saw them.

"Did anyone see us?" he asks, just to make sure.

"No." Dazai's answer is short, which is only a confirmation of what Chuuya already suspected--that if Dazai knew they were being followed, then Chuuya would have been the first to know--but his voice also sounds tight. Stiff, like he's either holding something back or he's in pain.

Chuuya turns to look at him, following all the telltale signs of hidden pain from the light layer of sweat turning dark hair damp to the hand clutching his injured leg with a trembling grip, and he wants to smack himself for somehow forgetting about a gunshot wound.

"I'm fine," Dazai grumbles, as if Chuuya had spoken aloud. 

"You're not." Chuuya pushes himself off the door with an effort, grimacing as the motion puts weight on his cold-stiffened legs. Then he walks past the dim light falling on the floor from the living room into another hallway.

He doesn't remember much of what happened after questioning Verlaine, only that for the second time in a month he had woken up in a bed that wasn't his own and found Dazai next door in identical circumstances. The bag Yosano gave him is still where he left it, in the armchair beside the bed. He fumbles with the strap until it loosens and finds a bottle full of white pills. He takes one out and heads back to find Dazai slumped on a chaise, leg propped on the arm of a nearby chair.

He holds it out. Dazai eyes it, and something in his eyes changes. Chuuya doesn't have time to think about what it reminds him off before he looks away. He does it again, and again, every time that Chuuya holds the pill in front of him until he threatens to burst Chuuya's patience. "Stop it."

"I'm not doing anything."

"Exactly, now take the damn pill." Dazai stays silent. The muscle of his jaw ticks but he remains motionless, irresolute. "Dazai..."

"You heard Yosano-sensei; I'm supposed to take it only when the pain is unbearable. And it's not that bad right now."

"It looks that way to me," Chuuya fires back. He rubs his forehead, frustrated. He's had to make Akutagawa take cold medicine before but even that hadn't been this difficult.

"Thank God you're not me then."

They stare at each other, at an impasse. Frustration simmers beneath Chuuya's skin as he forces himself to look into Dazai's eyes, narrowed and dark, as he remembers through the anger settling into his arms like bricks that he can't make Dazai do anything. He's known since the day they were wed that anything Dazai does is of his own free will, so far be it from him to do something as simple as swallow a painkiller without causing a fuss. 

He takes a breath. Then another. And then, making sure he's fully in Dazai's view, he walks to the kitchen--a good five yards away from where they are--and sets the pill on the table. Dazai's eyes follow him as he goes back to the living room and sits on the leftover space of chaise.

"Still hurts?" Chuuya asks him, receiving a slow reluctant nod for an answer. He takes one more breath and then reaches for Dazai's hands.

He'd read somewhere that oxytocin helps with pain. That somehow, a simple touch can take away physical pain better than any medicine can. The how of it goes over his head but he tries to put that knowledge to use now. He holds Dazai's hands in his own, rubbing warmth back into them, tracing circles on the back of them with the pad of his thumb. He tangles and untangles their fingers and hopes that it distracts Dazai as much as it does him, because that means Dazai is thinking about something other than the pain.

At some point his hands move to Dazai's face, fitting themselves along the curves of his cheeks as he carefully straddles Dazai to accommodate the change in position, keeping his weight on his knees. He should feel some glimmer of satisfaction when Dazai's breathing hitches but he can't.

Because Dazai is watching him. His face is calm as it always is, his expression inscrutable, his eyes like dark pools in the dim light. His hands fit themselves almost perfectly on Chuuya's waist, supporting him even when the both of them know Chuuya has no issues keeping his own balance. Chuuya stares back, his own breathing going uneven when they make eye contact and unable to comprehend anything other than how intimate all of this actually is. 

I could tell you everything about him, he hears like an echo in his mind. The color of his eyes, the shape of his smile.

Dazai's eyes are brown. The shape of his smile is the gentle curve of a crescent moon, like the one he wears now. He smiles up at Chuuya, and Chuuya's heart squeezes painfully in his chest.

He'd promised. Promised Kouyou and himself that this mission wouldn't change anything. But he's here, practically on top of a man who looks at him like nothing else exists in the world, and he can't convince himself that he's able to keep that promise anymore. 

"Better?" he asks after what feels like hours. 

"Better," Dazai confirms. He tilts his head and leans into the palm Chuuya has against his face. One hand moves from Chuuya's hip to his nape, tangling in red hair and tugging him down until their foreheads rest against each other. "Chuuya."

"I'm here." His voice is softer than he bargained for. Dazai doesn't need softness, neither of them do, but he feels that if he speaks any louder this moment will collapse around them. "I'm here," he murmurs again. "I'm with you."

And you're with me.

He's the one who leans down, this time. The hollow of Dazai's palm curls around his nape and keeps them both steady as their lips slot together, and extinguish all thoughts of watchers or leaks or pain from Chuuya's mind. It's just as intoxicating as the first time; he kisses Dazai again and everything feels warm.

They stay like that for a long time, holding each other and not speaking at all, the silence broken at intervals by the breaths Dazai quietly releases against Chuuya's collarbone. It's only when Chuuya's knees begin to creak from staying in one position too long and fatigue clouds Dazai's eyes that they pull apart. Chuuya moves off of Dazai, careful to avoid his injury, and extends a hand to help him up.

"Come on," he says. "Let's go to bed."

Chapter Text

Dazai's dreams are brown again. 

He hasn't dreamt in a long time but when he does, most of them look like this: going down wooden steps and feeling their solidness against his shoes though it shouldn't be possible. The brown of the steps, the walls, the bar he saunters into, they all blend together until he feels weightless, as though a side-effect of being suspended in sleep is an increase in buoyancy. The air around him feels warm, like water heated by the summer sun that closes over his head. The world slides backwards in slow motion and the inky blackness that colors his vision recedes, bit by bit, until he wakes with crusty eyes and a burn for whiskey.

It's somewhere in early morning, by the pale dawn light filtering through the curtains. Everything is still. Dazai finds himself somewhat unwilling to leave the warmth of the covers as well as the tranquility of the bedroom so he lays in bed a little longer, staring at the ceiling and dragging the chill of the morning air to and from his lungs.

He never lingers long. When he finds it in himself to leave the bed it's to get dressed, rewrapping the bandages on his arms and legs and neck and shrugging on the overcoat he had bought the day before. There are things to think about, pieces to move forward on the board, and he can't do it from within the confines of this house.

He stops by the next bedroom down, pausing against the doorframe to watch the shallow rise and fall of Chuuya's breath. His hands are curled, ready to defend or attack even in sleep. An arm stretches over the vacant side of the bed.

There was a time once when he wouldn't have spared his husband a second glance, when the only thing that differentiated Chuuya from any other person was the label that came with the truce. There was a time when touch was never more than a tool, used only if it would turn the tide in his favor, when he never hesitated to keep up his guard because a room full of friends might also be a room full of enemies. Now a single touch can clear his mind, and hearing the other's voice puts him a little more at ease than before. 

The implications, and an echo of regret, twist deep in his gut. 

The air that rushes cold and brisk against his face soothe away the sting, the cobblestones beneath his feet ground him. The sky stretches wide and vast above him and one by one, the thoughts buried deep under the relative peace of the last few days make their way to the surface.

Things have been far too quiet lately. His eyes and ears prowl the streets in secret, grime-covered clothing and grim-faces giving nothing away and giving him every scrap of intel they can find though very little of it contains what he's looking for. Fitzgerald sails to Yokohama in a vessel that would blend right in with the sooty atmosphere of the port but would take days to actually reach it--effectively in a blind spot. Watchers, yes, a parody of his own spies within the city that tells him Fyodor is holding back.

Why?

Fyodor is a force to be reckoned with, in every sense of the term. Ruthless, cunning, known for uniting two terrorist organizations under him and notorious for outplaying everyone in the country. He always pressed forward when he had the advantage, never hesitated to lunge when a normal person would parry instead, that is how he managed to survive this long. So when the one person whose loyalty was always in question and the mafioso who entered his ranks too quickly to be loyal are both gone from the picture and Yokohama is ripe for the taking, why instead of advancing forward does he choose to hold back? 

To anyone else, quiet would mean the same as peace. In his own mind, quiet has always been the deep breath before the plunge. 

The trill of his ringtone cuts through the stillness. He puts the phone to his ear. "Yes?"

"Dazai-kun."

He almost stops walking but only just. "Ango."

"I meant to call yesterday."  For the most part Ango's voice is steady, but a tremor that Dazai can hear past the static from the other end of the line runs just beneath his tone. "I have a bit of news."

Dazai turns this over in his head, looking up at the sky as a bird caws overhead. "Calling the enemy, behind your superiors' back. Won't that get you fired?"

"Desperate times call for desperate measures. This phone call is proof." There's a shuffle as if Ango has just gotten up to close a door. "Mori-san has reached an agreement with Fukuzawa Yukichi based on the terms of the Tripartite Tactic: the Port Mafia will cease all other operations in order to draw Dostoyevsky and his forces out into the open while the Agency pursues the whereabouts of the Book."

It makes sense. The Port Mafia's power is in numbers and those numbers are better utilized serving as the offense to offset the Agency's work behind the scenes.

"But that isn't all; a scrap of paper made its way to the doorstep of the Special Abilities Department last week." Ango's voice drops. "Recent investigation confirms that it had been torn from a page in the Book."

Dazai's own voice comes back to him in a jolt of memory, lounging on the sofa in the penthouse as he questioned his husband of fifteen hours about what exactly he was able to glean from Fyodor's intentions after two years of fighting a losing war.

To get the Book, Chuuya had said, voice edged. It had been the only lead the Mafia had for years, his tone said that much. The topic of the Book had dissolved during his stay in the Angels, buried beneath mind games and playacting and verbal sparring as three polar opposite people looked each other in the eye to see who blinked first.

And now, months later, it finds its way into the hands of the bureaucracy as an item capable of turning the tide or a warning dire enough to signal a national emergency. "Explain."

"We've known about the Book's existence. We've known of its connection to Dostoyevsky long before he ever was a threat. But  we never knew its whereabouts, never knew its appearance or what to expect if the day comes that we had to deal with it. Last week was the first time the Special Abilities made close contact with the Book and even then we had to run tests to make sure."

"And what of the Book itself? Have you found its location?"

"We had hoped you would have the answer to that." The sudden rush of static from the line blocks out the next five seconds, crackling in Dazai's ear until something shifts on the other end and the connection clears. "Something is coming, Dazai-kun. It may all be a figment of my imagination but Dostoyevsky will make his move soon, as will the entirety of the Port Mafia. You had best get out of range while you still can."

The slow roll of crumbling cobblestone comes from behind him, accompanied by the soft puff of exhaust against cold stone. His time's almost up. "It's a little too late for that, Ango. I'm already involved."

"Where are you?"

"Give my regards to Odasaku. I'll be in touch."

Ango's protest cuts off as he ends the call, sliding his phone back into his pocket and turning around in the same motion. A car's parked just three yards away. The driver leans against it, holding the door open. "Taxi for Dazai Osamu."

"I didn't order a taxi."

"You'll need one where we're going. Orders from on high, you see." His next words follow Dazai into the so-called taxi. "Madame Christie sends her love."

The trip lasts half an hour. Dazai's body sways with the motion of the car as he watches the trees and vineyards outside become passing blurs, replaced by buildings that seem to block out the sky the deeper they drive into Paris. 

Eventually the car pulls up to a curb. The engine shuts off. "She's waiting straight ahead."

If Dazai cranes his head he can make out a splash of red in the lobby past the carousel doors: a rose, always seen pinned to the edge of her hat, which might serve as a fitting metaphor for the lady herself. His gaze slides back to the driver. "And you'll be waiting here, if I'm correct?"

The driver tuts. "Bad manners to keep a lady waiting, sir."

"Worse manners to disrupt me on my vacation."

The Mandarin Oriental is as luxurious as he remembers, posh and elegant and crawling with both businessmen using the hotel as a front and tourists with the money to spare. He declines a fluke of champagne and lets his gaze sweep the room until it catches on that red splash, and makes his way towards the woman sitting among the chairs in front of the fireplace. 

Agatha Christie is a formidable woman. The Order of the Clock Tower ran as efficiently as a well-greased machine under her command, holding sway over European politics until a blunder in the shape of a Russian demon sent her empire tumbling down. Nothing was heard of the Clock Tower after that but everyone always assumed it was because all the queen's horses and all the queen's men couldn't put them back together. In the public's mind the remaining factions of the organization had simply faded into nothingness.

And yet their leader sits here, keeping warm in front of a fire and drinking tea from bone-china.

"Good morning," she says. "Please sit, you must be tired after arriving on such short notice. How was your journey?"

"Uneventful." Humoring a pleasant conversation tends to even the playing ground. "Interesting fellow, that driver. How long has he been working for you, three years?"

"Nearly four. Orwell has been very helpful on many occasions. Such reliable people are hard to find these days, so it's best to hold onto the ones you have."

Her lips tug up, blood-red, at his silence. "It's been a long time, Dazai-kun."

"Madame Christie," he replies. "You've aged since the last time we met."

"Disappointed?"

He smiles thinly. "Why should I be, with such a beauty to grace my sight?"

"I would advise against antagonizing me just now." Cup meets saucer with a soft ceramic clink as she sets both down and laces her fingers together. "We both know that I brought you here for a reason."

"Yes. And we both also know that patience isn't one of my virtues, so if you would be so kind..."

For two heartbeats, the only sound amid the distant conversations happening in the background is the crackle of the fire. "Have you heard the word that's been going on about you since your disappearance? All sorts of interesting things, really. One story says that you are a man who changes faces and takes the most obscure names inscribed on gravestones. Another says you are a foreign spy come to steal classified secrets from the Japanese Ministry and exploit them. And still another says that the man called 'Dazai Osamu' never existed at all. And yet here you are halfway across the world, sitting in the lobby of a costly hotel and having a chat with me."

Dazai leans back against his chair back, eyes lazily tracing the outlines of the fire. "Did a little bird tell you all that, I wonder?"

"A little bird," she agrees, "and more. Tongues can be easily loosened with drink and promises of future favors."

"I didn't realize Agatha-san was so sociable."

"Only to the right people. Only when I get to know things no one else does. For instance," she leans in, voice lowered conspiratorially, "I know why you're here."

Dazai's gaze goes back to her, eyebrow arched. "Do you?"

"Why else would Dazai Osamu leave Yokohama, if not for information that he can't get anywhere at home?" A finger curls toward the guard standing nearest to her. "You're looking in the wrong places. That man Verlaine was a safe bet but anyone with a previous association to the Hunting Dogs will not isolate themselves out in the country; there is another, hiding in plain sight among the masses."

A leather-bound notebook appears in Dazai's vision, worn at the edges and falling apart if not for the recent rebinding of the spine. "The private diary of Mishima Yukio, I trust you'll recognize the name. Have a look at it when you have time; I think you'll find it interesting."

He takes it. He closes his fingers around the soft worn leather and lifts it from Agatha's hand, turning it over and inspecting it. "And here I thought Fyodor still had friends in this part of the world."

"I am nobody's friend, Dazai-kun. I give information to whom I will when it suits my purposes."

"Then why give it to me?"

"Because you won't let it go to waste."

"Wind and words, Agatha-san," he says, referencing the well-known idiom. "How pretentious of you, to assume that you know me."

"But I do know you. Remember?" She wears a smile, the same one capable of bringing an entire country to its knees just to curry her favor. "Though I can't blame you for forgetting. I would in your place, after being among the Angels for so long."

The sunrise must have spilled over the horizon, then, to put the gold-colored gleam in Agatha's eyes as she smirks and returns to her tea, but it isn't the sun that Dazai thinks of when he sees it. It's an office with floor-to-ceilings windows and bookshelves spanning its perimeter, a room standing eye to eye with the sun itself at the right time of day and towering high above everyone else when the night comes to life.

He hasn't forgotten.

"It's a lot of work, isn't it?" he comments. "To keep track of every single member in a growing cast. You must have your work cut out for you."

"We are at war. In times like these, everyone is involved." There's a lull in the conversation, cut short as Agatha holds an envelope out to him between two gloved fingers. "A message, from an old friend."

"Yours or mine?"

"Who can say? Only hell understands what demons say to each other." Her skirt rustles as she stands. "Run along now, Dazai-kun. Do give your husband my love."

"And to you, Agatha-san: God save the queen." 

The ride back is a quiet one. Dazai hardly notices the transition from cityscape to country this time as the notebook sits heavy between his hands and the envelope burns with a painful awareness in his pocket. It's only when the car jolts to a stop that he bothers to look outside the window, scanning the familiar vineyards and villas.

And then he looks at the driver who is still waiting for him to get out, watching the streets ahead instead of watching Dazai. 

It makes it so much easier to erase the evidence.

"How did you find me?" he asks, offhand.

"Recognized you. A man like you, with your reputation, it's easy enough to spot in a crowd if you've got the numbers to do it."

"Little birds," and the driver hums in agreement. "And you're in charge?"

"Aye, that I am. Got straight to work after the missus herself put me in charge. Took only hours to find this place."

"Did you update her? About dropping me back here?"

"Not yet." 

There are windows during the day when every Ability user becomes blind. Segments of time when they forget about every potential enemy and let down their guard. Orwell takes his eyes off the street to fumble in his pocket for the prepaid burner he's surely carrying on his person, and Dazai almost pities him for being so careless in front of an enemy.

He raises his gun--not his, Orwell's, slipped off his person, but technicalities--and fires three times. Once in the back of the head, again in the heart, and a third for good measure before fitting the firearm in the dead man's hand and exiting the car. Let the local police deal with a dead man parked far enough from the village. 

Snatches of murmured conversations from the living room drift all the way to the door as he bolts it shut behind him. A few more paces puts him in the room itself, a few yards away from where Chuuya and Verlaine lean over a table and talk.

Chuuya is the first one to see him, eyes widening a little as soon as their eyes meet. He steps away from the table. "Where the hell have you been?"

"Thinking. And investigating." He raises the notebook. "We have a new lead."

Questions flicker through Chuuya's expression, plain as day, a furrow in his brow as he doubtlessly tries to imagine how Dazai secured a new lead when it isn't even nine in the morning yet. He waits for those questions with his grip on the notebook going fractionally tighter, but Chuuya just reaches out, snags his sleeves, and pulls him to the table.

Verlaine eyes him as he approaches. Good. Dazai needs his help today. He holds out the notebook. "Tell me if you recognize the name."

The notebook goes into a callused hand as Verlaine flips the front cover of the notebook open and squints at the smudged writing scrawled into the top corner of it. "Mishima Yukio," he reads, his gaze darting back up to Dazai's and turning to steel. "How did you get this?"

Dazai stares back at him resolutely, unwilling to be the first to back down. Don't ask me that, he thinks. Not now.

"Dazai." Chuuya's voice makes him glance sideways, concentration effectively broken once he sees Chuuya's gaze fix on the notebook before going back to him. "What's he talking about?"

He takes a breath, and then dislodges his hands from where they'd been white-knuckling the back of a chair. "Does the name Mishima Yukio mean anything to you?"

"Should it?"

Not to you. But to me... "Right now, yes. He is many things but first and foremost, he is the true leader of the Decay of Angels."

In the hallway behind them the grandfather clock chimes nine times. The rings fill the silence as two gazes pierce through him, one blue and uncomprehending and the other grey and all too knowing.

"What?" Chuuya finally asks, wary.

"You remember Yosano-sensei?" Of course he does. It hasn't been that long. "Mishima is the same, but his crimes are much more grievous. Several years ago he led an underground militia to a political rally in Kyoto intending to overthrow the current government and restore power to the Emperor. Things went south, military soldiers began attacking, and it turned into a bloodbath between Gifted and the military. The Hunting Dogs had to be called down in order to contain him and his forces but with the help of some secret sponsors, he fled the country and came here."

He reaches for the notebook and plucks it straight from Verlaine's hand, turning it over and looking at all of its battered, worn glory. "This is his private diary. Everything valuable that he has, his ideals, his dreams and aspirations, his plans, they're all in here."

"Then how did you get this?" Chuuya's question echoes Verlaine's. His arms are crossed and there's a look in his eyes that Dazai hasn't seen since this whole mess started. "Someone like him would be careful to the point of being borderline paranoid, if he has been running from the government for that long. He wouldn't have left such a valuable thing lying around."

I made a deal with the devil. "I had a bit of help," he says, setting his jaw and his thoughts against the Clock Tower commander. "Mishima...didn't flee Japan unscathed. The Hunting Dogs had suspected he would try so they had spies watching every port near Kyoto and rigged all the ships in those ports to explode if he made it past the spies. The explosion knocked him out on the spot even though he managed to get away, and now he suffers from severe retrograde amnesia as a result."

"Kyoto in 2012," Chuuya murmurs, looking a bit stunned. Dazai knows without asking that he's remembering the council meeting of the morning following Yuigahama. The first discussion in a long time involving the Hunting Dogs.

He continues. "For all intents and purposes he is a trauma victim and a survivor. It's common for those people to remember the source of their traumas years after the fact, when it's psychologically safe to do so; despite the amnesia, Mishima is no different. His medical records indicate that he sometimes has short spurts of memory. He is, regrettably, our best chance at discovering the lengths the Hunting Dogs will go to if Fyodor manages to sway them against the country. Also," he adds after a moment, "it probably won't be long before he realizes his diary is missing."

"Then what will you do?" Verlaine's voice is sharp as it cuts into the conversation, all attempts at being a casual listener abandoned, but at least he isn't calling Dazai out on his bluff. "You can hardly expect to simply walk into his home and return it to him before he notices."

"Then we wait for an opening. There's opportunity in everything, Monsieur Verlaine, even chaos." He's reached his maximum conversation quota for the day, if the headache throbbing in his skull is any indication. He lifts two fingers to massage at his temples and instantly regrets it as the headache spikes. "...If I could have some coffee..."

Caffeine has never done a thing for him, compared to the alcohol he wishes he was drinking at the moment, but Verlaine sighs and rises with his feet turned towards the kitchen. The moment he's gone, Chuuya looks at him. 

"So when are you going to tell me?"

"Hmm?"

"You're not acting like yourself, that means there's something else. Now out with it, what's wrong with you?"

I do know you. Agatha's voice floats into the back of his mind like a specter with a mocking lilt. Remember?

He wasn't out of it enough last night not to remember what happened. Even now warmth lingers in all the places that Chuuya touched him, as both memory and the knowledge that somewhere along the line he had miscalculated. And now it's too late to do anything other than move forward and concentrate on the game unfolding ahead of them.

"Isn't it obvious?" he replies, letting his voice swing higher. "I woke up way earlier than you."

"I thought you don't sleep?"

"Sleep deprivation is a terrible way to die, Chuuya."

Chuuya rolls his eyes and runs a hand through his hair like he does when he's annoyed, but Dazai can tell that Chuuya doesn't believe him. "Look, if it's your leg..."

"No." But Dazai wishes it were. Pain is arbitrary and easy to deal with, the same can't be said about this. Whatever this is. "There's a lot to think about. Let's just leave it at that, chibikko."

There's a sigh. "Alright, fine."

Chuuya must be tired, he muses, if he's giving in so easy like that. That's the extent of his analysis because in the next moment Chuuya's hand is in his hair, carding through it and untangling the little knots in it. He leans in without thinking and looks in time to catch the edges of Chuuya's mouth curl upwards. "You're an insufferable bastard, has anyone ever told you?"

"Once or twice. Chuuya's the only one that likes to remind me."

"Asshole." But there's no bite in it, or in the way he carefully detaches his hand from Dazai's hair as he joins Verlaine in the kitchen. Traces of conversations drift out only moments later, switching off between rapid-fire French and Japanese, and it's only then that Dazai is able to find the envelope in his pocket.

Dazai-kun, penned in Fyodor's hand, in the curving Russian script that took him so long to recognize, do I have your attention now? Good. I hope you are listening carefully.

By now you will have noticed the halt in my advances on the city, and will be wondering why. That is understandable; I am not known for hesitating and every move I have ever made has been to take the city. Indeed, with you and Chuuya-kun out of the picture, Yokohama might already be mine. In truth, I have pulled back my forces and sent you a message - consider it a proposition.

I will not threaten you, Dazai-kun. Threats are only effective if one has the power to follow through with it and if you are who I think you are, threats coming from me will not force your hand. So instead, I leave you with a choice:

Return to Yokohama. Be reinstalled as my third in command and join me in restoring the city to what it was before the age of the Gifted: a city where all are equal, where being Gifted is not an advantage because in the end, everyone must climb the spider's web. You have a logical mind. You know as well that I do that you cannot run forever; I am not the one in pursuit but even if I was, the consequences of what you have done will find you first. And once they do, even you will not escape unscathed.

Return, Dazai-kun. Let us finish what we started. 

Dazai reads it again. And again. The words stick with him long after he tosses the letter into the fireplace to watch it be consumed by flame and blocks out any thought pertaining to Fyodor Dostoyevsky, after he sits in Verlaine's living room and distracts himself with fragments of a half-formed plan swirling around in his mind. 

Beside him, the coffee he asked for grows cold. Behind him, standing in the doorway, Chuuya watches him with a furrow in his brow. 

Chapter Text

“Why is your hair asymmetrical?”

Dazai’s question comes out of the blue. Chuuya should be used to this by now, given how Dazai’s mind seems to speed light years ahead of everyone else's, but the truth is that if there was a precedent to this question he has no idea what it is. “What’s it to you?” 

Dazai gives a noncommittal hum. “Normally when people cut their hair, they want it to be even.”

A normal inquiry, then. “It’s been like this since I was seventeen. I want to say that it’s less work to grow it out but I made horrible fashion decisions before becoming Executive.” 

Dazai snorts.

“I led a group of delinquent teenagers around,” Chuuya defends himself, a little indignantly, “I had to make some kind of statement. Teenagers are very particular about that stuff.”

“Then that makes sense. Chuuya is the height of a teenager after all.”

“I’ll kill you,” Chuuya deadpans. Dazai laughs lightly and closes his eyes. 

This has become more and more common lately, as the intel they’ve collected over the past several weeks begins to add up and Dazai starts showing up at Chuuya’s room to sit with him, elbows brushing together. Helps him think, he says. 

Dazai has a newspaper today. His eyes are scanning the lines of text but Chuuya knows without needing to see that Dazai isn't really reading it. It's there to help him concentrate, just how the hand Chuuya currently has running through Dazai's hair is there to ground him. 

Strategy has never suited Chuuya. It was necessary, as an executive and a mafioso both. Most of the Port Mafia’s activity revolved around dealing contracts and transactions from yakuza or international brokers that owed them favors, and he can’t begin to count just how many of those transactions would have gone awry if not for the subtleties of strategic politics. And every once in a while, certain missions required a foolproof plan that required him to apply basic strategic principles to achieve a high-success rate. 

But his strengths are physical, to adjust the use of his Ability to the flow of battle around him and end things quickly with one well-placed strike. He has no interest to be known as anything other than what he is, least of all a strategist, but that doesn’t mean he can’t appreciate it when he’s exposed to it.

He watches the slow flutter of Dazai's eyelashes as his eyes follow connections only he can see. Mori and Ango both had said that Dazai is on par with Fyodor in terms of intellect and while Chuuya never doubted it, he sees it now. They're fighting on the same battlefield but it's strange to note that Dazai sees it differently, that what Chuuya might consider a win would be a hollow victory in Dazai's mind, and he can't help thinking back to the letter Dazai burned in the fireplace and the fleeting blink of sadness Chuuya had been looking close enough to catch. 

He hasn’t asked about it yet. Between trying to figure out where Mishima’s diary places in their plans and walking around Paris to look for more leads for the past several weeks, they’ve been too busy to discuss anything other than plans moving forward. 

It’s an endless source of frustration for Chuuya. That notebook is the biggest lead they have so far and best used as a primary source of intel, but the same can’t be said for strategy since the plan they have in mind depends on the man himself anyway. 

He brought it up to Dazai once, but he had only shrugged. Then our only choice is to wait, isn’t it?”

“Seems a bit inefficient.”

“We’re strangers here,” Dazai had reminded him. “It would be suspicious if we did anything else. We just have to wait for Mishima to make a mistake.”

“That could take months. We can’t wait forever.” Impatience had lined Chuuya’s tone then. None of it had been directed at Dazai and it didn’t help in securing a new lead or a new plan, but it had been hard to think of the state Yokohama might be in and not be impatient.

The fact that they sleep in separate bedrooms doesn’t help, even though it’s part of yet another unspoken agreement they’ve come to. Chuuya is glad for the privacy but he finds his thoughts straying to Dazai, as they have been doing so often for the past few weeks, and he can't help but wonder as he slips beneath the covers if Dazai is actually sleeping through the night, if he's taking the painkillers like Yosano instructed him to do.

Sleeping in separate bedrooms also means that Chuuya can't ask about the letter he saw Dazai read. It's obvious, in the way that he stared into empty space for hours after throwing said letter into the fire and his startling familiarity with Mishima Yukio's name, that he knows much more than he is letting on and part of Chuuya wonders when Dazai is planning to tell him, if he's even planning to do it at all. 

Dazai had asked Chuuya to trust him, but trust runs both ways. So far Dazai hasn't given him a clearcut reason to not trust him, but with every day that neither of them mention the letter or Mishima's notebook, age-old suspicion--and fear--curl deeper around Chuuya's heart.

The mattress beneath him dips, pulling him from his thoughts. The newspaper slides out of Dazai’s hand to land with a splat on the floor, and Chuuya absently leans forward to pick it up. 

“You need to take a break,” he says. They've been sitting on his bed for at least an hour and a half already.

Dazai doesn’t say anything for a long time. When he does, it’s to the ceiling. “He’s always in a crowd.”

A few seconds pass before Chuuya realizes what he's talking about, and that he is waiting for a response. He wonders, as he continues to card his fingers through Dazai's hair, if this is Dazai's way of letting him into his head. 

“Maybe that’s how he feels safe,” he suggests. “Safety in numbers and all that.”

“And yet his band of merry militia was obliterated within minutes of setting foot into Kyoto.” Dazai shakes his head and then leans into Chuuya’s touch with a sigh.

Chuuya tries to think, taking a step back from the scene and looking at the intel they’ve amassed over the last few weeks. Mishima's name has earned almost an urban legend status as the man who washed ashore on Normandy babbling about angels and retribution and betrayal, and most of what they heard about him are rumors. The only solid leads they have on him are his notebook and what Dazai knows about him. 

A nationalist fleeing from the other side of the world...

“People knew him in Japan, but not here. It’s easy to be another face in the crowd if no one knows who you are.”

Dazai looks at him then. There’s a small flicker of sadness that Chuuya can’t place before Dazai covers up whatever he was thinking about as quickly as it comes, with a smile. 

 “In that case,” he picks up the newspaper and scans it again, “there’s a festival opening in Paris next week. We should have our opening, then.”

Chuuya peers at the small print over Dazai’s shoulder. Festival du Merveilleux, it reads. “Just because he feels comfortable in a crowd doesn’t mean he’ll show.”

“Apparently this is one of the biggest festivals of the year. If Mishima is who we think he is, then he’ll already have heard news of resurgence in the underworld and he'll be looking for shelter. He may be amnesiac but even he knows that hiding in the middle of a huge public event with hundreds of people is the safest place to be.” 

"Are you sure this isn't just you wanting to go to the festival?"

Dazai's eyes flick to him. A wry grin pulls at his mouth. "Eager for another date with me, Chuuya?"

Chuuya yanks on his hair a little bit in retaliation and his stomach turns on its side when Dazai's yelp dissolves into a placating chuckle, but he can't shake off the memory of Dazai's expression a few seconds ago. How, when he was talking about Mishima feeling safe in crowds, the look on his face was the same one he wore after he burned the letter. 

His thoughts scatter with Dazai's sudden movement, the other man saying something about asking Verlaine for details on the festival as he stands. Appropriately startled, he reaches out and snags Dazai's cuff before he thinks of doing otherwise.

He meets Dazai eye for eye, unwilling to be cowed by the genuine surprise in his husband's eyes. “Are you okay?”

“I am,” Dazai says, voice even. “Why do you ask?”

He doesn't know where to begin, how to mention things like the letter and Mishima's notebook without knowing that Dazai won't close off himself off and offer a vague answer like he's been doing. His face must say it all because Dazai smiles a self-deprecating smile and, in the next instant, kisses him.

Light and held just long enough for Chuuya to reciprocate, it's over before he knows it. Somewhere between realizing it and looking up, his memory of Dazai sitting in the fireplace crosses over with his view of Dazai now, and the smile that curves his mouth looks almost sad. 

“We have work to do, chibikko.”

He glances at the rumpled spot on his covers and sighs, running a hand through his hair before following Dazai's example and walking out. Maybe if he looks over Mishima's diary again something will make sense to him and take a little bit of the burden off Dazai's shoulders, distract him from the thoughts and what-ifs flipping rapidly through his mind.

On the way to the living room he stops by the fireplace, running an eye through charred cinders. Just in case.

Their routine for the last several weeks is the same.

The fact that they have one at all had been enough to throw Chuuya off at first, considering that his life for the past few months had been anything but and not to mention the strange limbo he’s entered with the man he married ever since coming to France. His relationship with Dazai has always veered between two extremes, swinging like a pendulum between partner and spouse depending on the circumstances. To have to reconcile the two, even out of necessity since Mishima’s notebook has enough potential to become a wild card, was jarring, but over the next few weeks Chuuya found himself settling into the new schedule with none of the hassle he expected. 

His day starts in late morning--when he wakes up to his legs tangled with the sheets, soft light filtering through the curtains, and the sounds of his husband moving around in the next room. Chuuya almost always pauses here, to lay in bed a little longer and listen to the floorboards creak or Dazai hum faint fragments of a tune he has never heard.

Sometimes he wonders if Dazai knows he’s listening, because the tune changes every morning. It is almost surreal to realize that Dazai is far more at ease in a stranger’s house halfway across the world than in his own home. 

When Chuuya does get up, it’s to a cup of coffee on the dining room table and Dazai paging through one of Verlaine’s classic novels. They map out the plan for the day like that, exchanging plans back and forth for the better part of an hour because they can’t simply ask around for Mishima’s address without rousing suspicion but they also can’t wait forever for one man in a population of two million to move without wasting time. As a result their focus for the day is often a compromise, alternating between unofficial sightseeing and picking their surroundings apart for anything that might be relevant to the investigation. 

With the situation of Mishima's diary being what it is, the most they can do is, like Dazai mentioned, watch and wait for an opening. So most of the time they walk, posing as tourists or students or a conventional couple on rare occasions, wandering around with the masses to tourist hotspots while keeping an eye out for watchers and an ear out for information. 

Nightfall is when things get interesting.

Every country has circles affiliated with the underworld, illegal organizations that operate within the shadows, brokers who know exactly what is happening in another country's underworld if you know the right people to ask. Some nights they avoid confrontation, spending hours trying to glean information without going directly into the red-light district or slums; other times they charge in, and the name Fyodor Dostoyevsky is usually enough to lower their weapons.

Dazai, master of wordplay that he is, becomes the negotiator. Chuuya stays five steps behind him as the physical presence balancing out Dazai's wits, always in position when Dazai needs him in case things go south. To his surprise Dazai does the same: giving him little hints and cues before springing traps on their opponents, paving the way to let him take them down without even the slightest pound of gunfire. 

Chuuya has never had a partner but if he did, he imagines it would feel kind of like this. 

But when they make their way back to Verlaine's house, the routine shifts again to one that he’s slightly better at, but still learning how to navigate.

He shares the kitchen with Dazai, setting out vegetables for him to cut, tossing out simple instructions over his shoulder as he fusses over their meals. Dazai learns fast and sometimes when Chuuya bothers to watch him stir something in a pot, it seems hard to imagine that this is the same man who lived in a penthouse with an empty pantry. They sit across from each other at the table and eat in silence punctuated by small talk--and other times, questions that carry over to washing the dishes.

Their day ends the moment that they go separate ways, back to their respective bedrooms. What Chuuya does from here depends on how tired he feels; often he trains, honing his physical skills for lack of a sparring partner and doing his best to avoid the furniture in the room. 

Tonight is different. 

The hot shower feels like a balm on Chuuya's back. Steam curls into the air as the muscles in his back gradually loosen under the water pressure. It's late in the afternoon, and after six days of visiting every hotspot in Paris Chuuya wants nothing more than to remain in the shower for as long as he's allowed and have one long overdue evening of leisure. Instead, he steps out of the shower and begins to dry himself off.

Tonight, they're breaking the routine. 

The plan is simple, and nothing different from what they've been doing over the past several weeks: to attend a public venue where there will be crowds, look for a man matching the description that matches the sparse details they have of his appearance, and leave when he does. Their watchers don't matter, here; they can't make a move without drawing public attention to themselves, and so they're in checkmate. Simple, effective, and the best they can do with what they have.

Chuuya scowls at his reflection in the mirror and wonders why he agreed to such a plan.

It's not even about the watchers, it's not either of their first times being spied on and he doubts it will be the last, it's about who they will be watching. If they have been tracking Dazai and his own movements well enough and close enough, chances are they'll know exactly why they are attending the festival in the first place. Considering that neither he or Dazai know who the watchers belong to, they might as well be broadcasting their location to Fyodor and the Hunting Dogs and every last person who wants them gone for good. 

The tension that racked up over the past week hasn't helped: trees and buildings in the city are lined with lights and decorations, gifts are displayed in every shop's window, Christmas markets have sprung out of nowhere, and the buildup of the customary holiday season excitement bleeding into the anticipation for the festival increases every day. It feels like a rubber band pulled taut, on the verge on snapping.

He should have stopped Dazai as soon as the idea left his mouth. 

Gritting his teeth, Chuuya pulls the towel off his hair, runs a hand through it, and eyes the folded garments sitting innocently on the counter.

One good thing about the festival is that people will be too busy watching it to pick out two people that shouldn't necessarily be there, two people who look like anybody else with the right disguises. His for the night is as simple as their plan is.

Perhaps if Mishima felt more comfortable surrounded by people in authority and this festival had been a black tie gala instead, the high-collar coat on the hanger might be a dress and the beanie and scarf bought for the sole purpose of masking his face and hair might be replaced with a wig and a bag full of makeup. Then Chuuya would pick up an eyeliner pencil and get to work, giving himself the illusion of a softer chin and fuller lips, and spend the next couple hours listening to the people trying to impress him inadvertently give themselves away before launching an attack at the right time. 

That would also mean attracting attention, though, and for this particular plan, the last thing he needs to do is stand out to the wrong people.

The length of the coat reaches his knees, thick enough to conceal the knives Chuuya never leaves without and cover the outline of his body from people who might try and profile him. The beanie and scarf double as protection from the frigid European climate and disguise. Brushing down the sides of the coat, he studies himself in the mirror carefully.

If anything about Chuuya's looks has changed in the past five years, it's the sharpness of his features and nothing else; even dressed like this he still looks androgynous enough to pass for a male or female. It brings a slight smile to his face.

Dazai is dressed similarly, he finds upon stepping into the living room. His hands are gloved in leather, as Chuuya's own are, and a long white scarf is coiled around his neck. The tan coat he wears appears to be made for his slim figure but Chuuya knows there is a gun hidden inside the coat and a spare tucked into his waistband. The bandages he normally wears are gone.

This last is a surprise. He's never asked about them but if Dazai's arms and neck are going to be covered anyway, there was no point in removing them. Still, he wonders, "Why a gun?"

The question bounces off Dazai's back and boomerangs back to him, albeit with slightly different phrasing. "Why a knife?" 

"I'm carrying the bare minimum. The festival is inside a museum," Chuuya points out, "and guns are going to cause a scene more than knives will."

"Then I won't go in." Dazai turns but it's to hand him a festival brochure, complete with a map within the covers. "Think you can handle the museum without me, chibikko?"

His voice is dry, and it's a close fought battle to keep from rolling his eyes. In the end, Chuuya just pockets the brochure.

Museums are small fry compared to what he's handled before on solo missions but neither of them have forgotten what happened the last time they split up for a job. Being able to handle himself hadn't stopped Chuuya from activating the second tier of his ability, or prevented Dazai from being shot. "Depends. Where will you be?"

"In the gardens, probably, watching the occasional performance. The brochure said something about a light show."

They went to check out the museum three days ago. They wandered around outside and tried to collect as much intel as they could without actually going in, and found that a good portion of the street was visible from the gardens. It's an ideal spot for keeping watch, which Chuuya suspects is only half the reason Dazai is staying outside. "And Mishima?"

"Might come late."

"What kind of person shows up late to the event he hides in?"

"The kind that looks for an escape route first. Which is why we'll be wearing these."

These being wireless earpieces small enough to go unnoticed even without his hair hiding it for him, and similarly sized microphones that can be easily hidden in his scarf. "Verlaine's?"

"He was adamant," Dazai holds them out. "In the event that Mishima runs, at least one of us should know."

Chuuya plucks both items from Dazai's palm and fits the earpiece in the hollow of his ear. The microphone is a little harder to work but Chuuya manages, pinning it to the folds in his scarf. "And our rendezvous point?"

"Les Frigos." Dazai's pronunciation has improved now, after almost a month. Chuuya is grateful, if only because he no longer feels the need to cringe every time his husband attempts to speak French. "Hope you like street art."

Chuuya does roll his eyes this time, as he wraps the scarf more snugly around his neck. "Let's just get going."

The front of the museum is packed by the time they arrive. Nearly the whole street is blocked off by cones, police cruisers, and lines of eager festival-goers waiting for the doors to open. The noise is even louder; the hoarse shouts of officers on standby, spontaneous conversations, and the faint strains of music coming from within the museum seem to blend into one and drown out everything else. Chuuya scans the scene and picks out students chattering in large groups, tourists taking pictures and businessmen milling around their colleagues. 

"Well then." Dazai's voice brings him back. "I think this is where I leave you."

Ahead of them, the noise of the crowd gets steadily louder, as though Dazai speaking was the cue for the gates to open. Chuuya spares it a cursory glance and reaches up to deliberately untuck Dazai's hair so that it falls across his ear--hiding the earpiece from view a little bit more. 

"Don't get shot this time," he says, only half joking. 

Dazai's mouth lifts in a smirk, one brief reassurance before he turns and melts into the crowd. Chuuya doesn't stay to watch him leave, he spins on his heel and heads towards the gates.

The moment he walks into the museum, he wonders if their plan for tonight isn't a little too simple.

When he sat down with Dazai to go over the logistics of it, they agreed that it needed to be double-edged, a means of hiding in plain sight and bait at the same time. It's why they chose the festival as their cover, an event that would attract a big enough crowd to lure Mishima out without knowing about their trap.

But right now Chuuya is looking at a gallery that's completely packed, full of socialites and average citizens and businesspeople and noise, and the only thought he has is that they severely underestimated how many people were going to attend. It seems as if everyone in Paris is here. 

"What's wrong?" 

"There's too many people." Chuuya can't even be mad about the sudden crackle of sound in his ear, or how Dazai seems to be psychic. "At this rate, finding Mishima is going to take all night. 

"Then it's a good thing he stands out so much," Dazai says. "Besides, I have a good view of the entrance from where I am. No one matching Mishima's description has walked in yet."

Not that the description they have of Mishima is a lot to go on, it's vague at best. Chuuya grumbles a little under his breath and pretends to look interested in the game going on near him. Billiards, of some kind. "So we're here to look for a jumpy person."

"More or less."

"That could be anyone in here."

"It could," Dazai agrees, "do the people around you look jumpy now?"  They both know the answer. Chuuya scowls. "Not many trauma survivors are willing to risk a public meltdown to feel safe. The ones that do tend to stick out like a sore thumb."

"Still," Chuuya mutters, making a show of flipping the brochure in his pocket open. "It doesn't make him stand out that much."

"It makes him stand out enough, then. The festival just started and everyone else is enjoying themselves." There's a smattering of sound from the other end of the lines: either applause or some kind of featured performance. "You'll know him when you see him."

Chuuya hopes so, or he's got his work cut out for him. "Keep me updated."

"Likewise."

The brochure isn't much help, beyond recommending live shows to watch or activities to do. The map at least provides him with the basic layout of the museum, but considering that he'll probably need to circle around at least three times to find Mishima and will most likely have it memorized by the end of the first loop, there's not much on that end either. At some point, Chuuya quits patrolling on his own and joins the end of a tour group; there's less room to look suspicious in a group and it allows him to cover more ground in less time.

The museum is huge: four different venues on their own respective floors, stacked right on top of each other, and the interior decor only gets weirder the higher they go. Everything looks like it came out of a carnival, the dead-eyed angel figure heralding the third floor and a statue of a woman's body with a horse head doesn't help matters. Between listening with one ear to the tour guide's run down of the history and keeping his eyes trained for Mishima or any suspicious activity, Chuuya wonders what about this particular museum made it worth holding a festival. 

"Chuuya." Dazai's voice filters in his ear lowly. "Mishima's here."

Chuuya's eyes immediately dart to the entrance of the gallery he's just entered. "Where?" he asks under his breath as he breaks away from the tour group. 

"First floor, carousel exhibit. Blond hair, glasses, blue coat, hard to miss."

The first floor is just as crowded as before when he gets there, leaning on the railing of the staircase: socialites laugh over cocktail tables, students ooh and ahh and take pictures of the carousel, businesspeople converse while watching the crowd. But Mishima is there.

His hair's been dyed. His coat looks unused, as if he hasn't been outside in a long time. Someone jostles him; the red rectangular frames sitting on the bridge of his nose move, he pushes them back up. It's been less than five minutes since he entered and his hands cannot stay still; he's nervous.

Dazai had said he would stand out. He was right. And chances are, they're not the only ones looking for him. 

Chuuya shifts his gaze, scanning the rest of the crowd for anything remotely out of place. Across the room, right by the carousel, he catches a pair of wandering eyes. A teenager in a green parka and earbuds in his ears is doing the same thing as Chuuya: watching Mishima.

Listening to the pull of his instincts, Chuuya pushes himself off the rail and walks down.

This kid is no mere teenager; a mere teenager would have no reason to fixate so intensely on a man halfway across the room, and Chuuya's seen those eyes cut to him when his head was turned in a different direction. Watchers, he's learned, can take many forms: a homeless man, a couple kissing, a woman walking her dog, or a student. And this particular one, who as far as the public is concerned is either listening to music or talking to someone via phone, is good for someone so young.

He almost pities the kid for thinking he could one-up a mafioso.

When Chuuya is almost within speaking distance, he abruptly changes paths and passes the carousel on his way to the gallery behind it. Sure enough, not three minutes later, the paddle of soft footsteps follow him. The kid is quiet--but not quiet enough. 

He ducks into the curtains that separate the gallery from the main room, clicking off his mic and waiting for the footsteps to trail past him. And then he lashes out, grabs a fistful of black hair and yanks. The edge of his blade presses against the kid's throat. 

"Who are you?" he snarls lowly.

Instead of answering, the teenager only smirks. "Ah. As expected of a Port Mafia executive. You're Nakahara Chuuya, right?"

His laughter cuts off as Chuuya presses the knife harder against his throat. His blood flashes hot, ability running just below the surface of his skin-- he doesn't like killing kids but he will if he has to; this brat already knows too much for Chuuya to just let go free. "Try again."

"Name's Murakami Haruki. Sakaguchi-sensei says hello."

"You've got some nerve thinking that's going to work on me, brat."

The kid shifts in his grip, careful to avoid the blade as he tilts his head backwards so they make eye contact: lazy smile at odds with sharp ice-blue eyes. "Suribachi City," he says, voice low, and Chuuya's fingers twitch against his knife's handle.

Only a handful of people know about that pocket of slums and why it's significant: Mori, Kouyou, Dazai, and Sakaguchi after he'd updated the records. The only way this kid would know about it is if he broke into the Mafia archives or if one of those people had told him about it. And if he had done the first, he wouldn't be standing here with a knife at his throat. 

He reluctantly puts it away, his grip on the kid--Haruki's--hair never relenting.

"What does he want this time? And why did he send a kid all the way here?"

"Sensei got wind of what you're trying to do with Mishima Yukio. He's busy at the moment so he can't come, but he told me to pass along a message."

"And what's that?"

"Don't." An explosion of applause bursts in the main room, suddenly loud compared to the silence of the empty gallery they're in, and Haruki lowers his voice. "Don't engage with Mishima in any shape, way, or fashion."

"Why not?"

"If you're looking for him, then you know about his history, right? A guy with a backstory like that can't be trusted, especially if you want information from him."

Chuuya lets him go then, feeling something pull at his instincts. Haruki can't be much older than him, he has to be younger by a few years at least, but he is already working in the government, specifically with Sakaguchi. He doesn't know when exactly Sakaguchi started taking students but if the Special Abilities Department is recruiting this young, in this time... 

"How much did Sakaguchi tell you about everything going on?" he asks, careful to face away from the curtains lest his voice drifts out into the open. His answer is a shrug.

"The basics. Not enough to understand it all properly but I'm just an intern anyway, so what does that matter."

Chuuya grunts in response, risking a glance around the curtain they're both hidden behind. He can breathe a little easier now that he knows Haruki isn't a threat, but there's still annoyance running like a live wire through his bloodstream; with how long he has been here, Mishima could be anywhere in the museum now. "So he's letting an intern take an undercover job in a foreign country?"

"I'm a very capable individual."

"Really. Then tell Glasses that he'll have to try harder to get me to back off. I don't give up so easily."

"Glasses, huh. I should use that." Haruki takes one earbud out and eyes him curiously. "What do you want with Mishima, anyway?"

Instead of answering, Chuuya jerks his head in the direction of the main room. Strains of a waltz filter in. "Out, brat. And don't get involved with problems you aren't a part of."

Haruki rolls his eyes and mutters something about being treated like a middle schooler, but he goes. Just as his hand is about to push past the curtains, though, he stops.

"There's one more thing," he starts, "that sensei wanted me to tell you: they've recovered the Book."

Chuuya's heart stops in his chest.

"At least, a page of it. It showed up at the Special Abilities Department door several weeks ago, they've been running tests on it to see if it was real. Right now, balance of probability says yes." A pause. "He thought you might have wanted to know." And with that, Haruki pulls up his hood and disappears.

"Chuuya," Dazai's voice crackles in his ear but he can't bring himself to switch the mic back on yet. Not while he still needs to process everything Haruki's just said. 

The last he heard of the Book was at a war council in the Boss's office, only weeks before he married Dazai. Mori had folded his hands together in the way he always did when there was something particularly serious to discuss. Since then it's been months of radiation silence on that front, but Chuuya still remembers that council like it was yesterday.

Change of plans, Mori had told him along with Kouyou and Hirotsu as he announces shifting the brunt of their fire away from Fyodor's forces themselves to the one object he spent years trying to capture. With the Book, Dostoyevsky will be unstoppable. Without it, he will be crippled.

The Special Abilities Department didn't just happen to come across a page of it, and it didn't happen to just show up at the government's front door. The Book is valuable only to the people who know what it is, how to use it, and why it's significant.

Someone's already found the Book. 

Dazai repeats his name and that snaps Chuuya out of his funk. He takes a breath, tries to forget everything that happened in the past ten minutes, and walks out of the gallery, clicking the mic back on. "Here."

"You've been quiet. Everything alright?"

His eyes find Mishima in the crowd easily, blue coat giving him away. The image of Dazai tossing the letter into the fireplace momentarily blinds him, and he wonders if it's possible that Dazai knows about the Book too. 

"I'm fine," he says, instead of I have news. "Mishima hasn't moved from the first floor."

"What is he doing now?"

He wanders over to the nearest exhibit, a painted carousel surrounded by people taking pictures, to get a better look at the target. Mishima is cowering in the darkest corner of the room, bent nearly in half. His hands are pressed against his head and if Chuuya strains his ears, he can make out muttering: a long string of muttering that speeds up with every second.

"He's panicking."

Suddenly Mishima bolts, ducking under the arm of a security guard attempting to steady him and shoving people out of his way to the doors. Chuuya moves at the same time he does, darting into the shadows and taking advantage of the rapidly unfolding scene to cut across the room. "Dazai, Mishima's running."

"Les Frigos. Meet me there." And the line cuts. 

It takes three minutes to wave down a cab, an additional five to reach their destination. By the time Chuuya steps out, the last light of the sun has long faded from the sky and Les Frigos looms over him like a tower. 

There's a man sitting by the gate, wrapped in an old coat and bundled up against the cold. He looks up when Chuuya approaches. "Visiting hours are over," he says in French.

"Not a visitor," he responds, also in French. "I'm supposed to meet my husband here." 

"The gentleman who just walked in?"

After a split-second wondering about what the chances of 'the gentleman' being Dazai are, he nods. Thankfully that seems to be enough for the man.

"Well, go on then. But make it quick, we open early tomorrow."

Chuuya leaves him with a quick thank-you thrown over his shoulder, half-irked that Dazai hadn't said anything about the place being some other kind of museum and half-trying to place the man's voice. 

He has to turn on his phone flashlight when he goes in, it's too dark to see otherwise, but that doesn't prepare him for the burst of color that jumps out at him right as he switches it on: it's graffiti, twisting along the walls and spilling over on the ceiling, bending into different colors and images the further he walks. It's such a sharp contrast from the rest of Paris that he feels like an intruder, like a stranger trespassing on a modern fairytale castle. 

"Dazai," he whispers.

"On your left," comes the answer, both in his earpiece and echoing slightly down the hall in front of him. He turns, just in time to see Dazai step into his line of vision with one hand to his ear.

"What about Mishima?"

"No need. Mishima needs to pass by here in order to get to where he's going."

"Where is that?"

"His house."

Dazai holds a hand out. Chuuya removes the earpiece and the mic and places them into Dazai's palm. "We're not following him there?"

"He puts everything in his notebook, remember? We already have his address."

"He could have changed it," Chuuya mutters, knowing it's a weak argument but feeling like he should argue anyway. 

Dazai finally looks at him. Studies him for a moment and then brushes a piece of hair from his face. "Why did you turn off your mic?"

It's impossible to look Dazai in the eye then, but Chuuya forces himself to hold the gaze. He tells himself, past the guilt pulling at his stomach for daring to assume Dazai has anything to do with whatever Haruki said, that if they are really discussing this now then it's better to get it over with all at once. After tonight he wants to be sure, and not just about Mishima's location.

"There was a government worker at the museum from the Special Abilities Department." He doesn't say, from Sakaguchi. "He said that they found a page of the Book."

Dazai doesn't say anything. He is good at hiding how he feels on the best of days, but the silence is not what Chuuya is paying attention to. Emotion flickers through Dazai's eyes the same way it did when they sat together in Chuuya's room, so fast that Chuuya would have missed it if he hadn't already been watching.

"Did you know?" he asks. Everything in his gut turns to stone the longer Dazai stays quiet. Say something, he thinks desperately. Anything, say anything, damn it.

Dazai's hand drops from his face to his hand, instead. "Let's get back," he says.

He hasn't answered Chuuya's question. 

The next day, Chuuya scowls at the cloudy sky. He's in front of the gate to Mishima's house: a small, plain thing in comparison with others that he has seen plastered all over magazines and real estate shows. The address had been scribbled in the back of the notebook, nearly faded but still legible if you looked at it close enough. 

Between his hands, the notebook feels heavy. Dazai had passed it to him just before he went out, holding it much the same way that Chuuya holds it now. Good luck, he had said, even though they hadn't spoken to each other since coming back from Les Frigos; Chuuya grinds his teeth together at the memory. 

"Focus," he tells himself and then moves, tucking the notebook underneath his arm as he makes his way towards Mishima's front door. 

Three sharp raps get it to open. The face that peers out is the same one he saw at the museum: blond hair loose, red frames threatening to slide off his nose, startled amber eyes blinking at him in curiosity and, if he is honest with himself, a little bit of fear. 

Already this feels like a far, far cry from the man willing to spill blood in the name of restoring the Emperor.

"Are you Mishima Yukio?" he asks to be polite, first in French and repeating it in Japanese. Mishima settles at the second, though his expression remains wary and he doesn't move from his spot behind the door. 

"Sorry." His voice is soft, completely unreadable. "Do I know you?"

In answer, Chuuya holds up the notebook. He can pinpoint the second Mishima recognizes it; his eyes blow slightly wider and his brow knits together. "My name is Nakahara Chuuya. We need to talk."

Mishima breaths a little harder now. A little heavier, faster. His eyes dart from Chuuya to the notebook, and back again. His hands twitch like they want to snatch it right from Chuuya's hands, he locks a frantic gaze with Chuuya as if that will make him reveal how exactly he came by the notebook.

He doesn't. Giving him that information means he loses the little leverage he and Dazai managed to gain over Mishima but like this, with both the notebook and that information in his hands, he has the advantage. It's the same reason why he hadn't hesitated to share his real name; Mishima may know it now but unless he is fine with never getting his diary back, he can't do anything with it. 

Mishima seems to realize that too. He rakes a hand through his hair, pulling out some strands in the process and biting his lower lip, nervous. When he finally opens the door wider, his face is resigned. 

"It's been years since I last spoke Japanese," he mutters, half to himself as Chuuya steps past the doorway. "You'll have to excuse me if I sound a little rusty. How did you find me?"

"Your address is written in the back of your notebook."

"Ah. So it is."

He looks lost, like he's forgotten that he was the one who put it there and is only just remembering. Chuuya can't imagine how horrible it must be to live with only brief flashes of what you did, but the truth is that he would feel worse about taking advantage of it if he weren't already so hell-bent on getting information and getting out. 

"Mishima-san," he says, changing the subject as quickly as it started. "Were you the founder of the Decay of Angels?"

"...Yes. Or so I've been told."

Good enough. "Do you remember any of it?"

Something in the air shifts then, the mood changing like a switch has been flipped. Chuuya's ability rushes beneath his skin, surging to his fingertips at the same time that Mishima's body glows yellow. 

This is not the man who suffered a panic attack and ran out in the middle of a festival, not the meek person Chuuya met at the door. It's the Mishima of seven years ago, ready to take on every single member of the government for the Emperor's sake. His voice burns with his ability, growing in volume, hysteria, and heat to match the redness of his eyes. 

"You can't stop me," he proclaims. "Not now, not ever. You want information? You won't get it from me. I am Mishima Yukio, founder of the Tatenokai and leader of the Decay of Angels, and who are you? A spy? A policeman sent to arrest me? Never! You will never take me alive! I swear to you--" 

Fucking shut up.

The floor crumbles beneath the foot Chuuya slams down. Little pieces of debris rise to circle around him as he lets his ability flare, increasing the weight of gravity on the room and Arahabaki snarls as he locks eyes with Mishima's terrified gaze. 

"You will sit down," he snaps.

Mishima obeys; he sinks to the floor like a rag doll with its strings cut, ability snuffing out upon contact with the tile. Chuuya extinguishes his own ability, holding back a sigh as he squats to meet the other man at eye-level. 

"You're right; I do want information." Amber eyes widen but he's not done. "The same people who exploded the port in Kyoto might do it again to a whole country. I need your help to make sure that doesn't happen."

A few seconds of silence pass as Mishima blinks at the floor. His glasses have fallen off. He feels around blindly for them until his fingers grab the bridge of it and slide the frames back onto the bridge of his nose. Some of that lost expression from earlier comes back.

"Who?" he asks. "Who might explode a country?"

"You know who." Chuuya can't help the frustration that spills into his tone: at Dazai, at himself, at the fact that their entire investigation and Yokohama's fate rests on what an amnesiac remembers. He pushes the notebook towards Mishima. "You know exactly who."

Mishima says nothing at first. His hands tremble slightly from where they hold the notebook, tracing the leather-bound spine. "I don't remember much," he says at last. "Only what people tell me, and what I see when I dream."

Chuuya takes a breath, and then another. Then he settles back, cross-legged, and watches the man in front of him. "Tell me everything."

Mishima tells him, one spotted memory at a time. The puzzle pieces of the story don't make much sense at first, but an hour in and it starts to fit together. The Tatenokai, and the formation of the Decay of Angels as a backup. The crowds, the anger. The fire that ripped through the Kyoto port and blasted away his ability to remember anything coherent from the past. 

And finally, his confession.

"I've made a lot of mistakes," he admits, looking at his diary with remorse twisting his features. "Thinking I could go up against the government with only a hundred men, one of them. Actually doing it, another one. But neither were my worst. I founded the Decay of Angels but I never liked them, never trusted them like I did the Tatenokai. Liars, all of them. At least there were good men in the Tatenokai, honest men. The Angels, they'd stab you in the back in a heartbeat if they thought they could get something out of it."

"Of course they would," Chuuya points out. "They had Fyodor."

"No, not Fyodor. Dazai."

Chuuya furrows his brow.

"That Dazai was the worst of them all. No family, no history, loyal to no one but himself. Fyodor liked him, of course he did: he was good. He was very good. He played the fool, played the friend, played the lover until he got what he wanted. He always knew more than anyone else. And when he grew tired or bored, he stabbed people in the back and made them look like accidents."

Mishima stops for a moment, drawing patterns on the cover of his notebook with his thumb. "You know," he says, thoughtful, "I don't think anyone expected it when he exploded the port."

He continues, oblivious to the way Chuuya's blood turns to ice. "Fyodor did, I'm sure. Maybe that other woman too: what's her name, Augusta? Agatha? She knew, I think; she was always sharp."

"How?" Chuuya's voice is barely a whisper. If he speaks any louder than this, he thinks he might scream. "How do you know it was Dazai?"

"Well, it was obvious. He was always hanging around that other man. Maybe you know him: a little taller than you, eyes that always looked like they're closed. For some reason, he always said he could hear my heartbeat."

"No." Chuuya does speak louder this time. His voice rises with disbelief, with anger. With desperation. "No, you're lying."

For the first time since this whole conversation started, Mishima looks right into his eyes. "I am a diagnosed amnesiac, Nakahara-san. I have forgotten how to lie."

Trust me, Dazai's voice rings in his head. Chuuya shuts his eyes against it, nails digging painful crescents into his palms, blood roaring in his ears but not loud enough. He wants to curse, to scream.

His body is moving before he knows it. He dives at Mishima, shouting Get down! and pulling him onto the ground just as the window implodes in a shower of flying glass. Mishima shakes in his hold, hands coming up to cover his ears and every inch of available skin while muttering no no no no no no. Chuuya stares at the shattered window, at the approaching helicopter he can see just past it, and feels his heart sink in his chest.

No one was supposed to know he was here.

Something glints in his peripheral. He throws a hand in front of him, ability rushing past his fingertips to create a gravity-dense barrier and throw back the next wave of bullets. "Stay down," he yells at Mishima once the pounding of gunfire cedes, already crouching to his feet and hurtling backwards. He finds the back door easily, throws it open and keeps low, running with his body parallel to the ground as his mind races.

No one was supposed to know he was here, definitely not someone who could find Mishima's address so easily or sustain enough ammunition for two waves of gunfire. The only ones who knew are him and--

Ahead of him, the safety of a gun clicks off. 

The clatter of an empty shell against cobblestone makes him freeze, but not because of the bullet; Chuuya hasn't feared bullets since the day he found out his ability protected against them. It's about whose finger is curled around the trigger.

Dazai's eyes are cold and lifeless as he points the wrong end of a gun towards Chuuya.

He was good. He was very good. Mishima's voice plays like a broken record in his head. Played the fool, played the friend, played the lover until he got what he wanted. Chuuya stares back and suddenly, terribly, everything makes sense.

The way he could never get a good read on Dazai from day one. The way he avoided every single question about who he was and where he came from, the way he never answered Chuuya's question last night. The letter he burned, the way he came back with a lead out of nowhere, the way he knew so much more about Mishima than anyone else. 

Who are you, Dazai? 

You wouldn't believe me if I told you.

"Dazai," he says. God, keeping his voice even is so hard. "Tell me I'm wrong."

Dazai doesn't answer. He never answers. Frustration burns behind Chuuya's eyes, spills into his voice along with every last thing that he bottled up for the past several weeks.

"You bastard," he snaps, something desperate opening inside him like an old wound. "Tell me I'm wrong!"

"...No." The answer finally drifts between them, little more than a whisper. "You're not wrong."

It shouldn't hurt as much as it does; Chuuya wanted the truth and he got it. But now that he's heard it, his knees feel like buckling. His hands shake with the effort of keeping Tainted Sorrow--and himself--contained. As he watches everything he thought he ever knew about Dazai dissolve into nothing, pain and cold sick anger rise up to overwhelm him. 

"Why?" he demands. "Why would you do this?"

Dazai's eyes meet his over the barrel of the gun and, just for a second, something like regret flickers behind them. It disappears as quickly as it comes. "Get out of here, Chuuya."

"No."

The shot rings out at the same time that pain slices across Chuuya's cheek. The hand he puts to his cheek comes away red. 

"I said," Dazai repeats, cocking the gun, "get out of here."

Chuuya doesn't bother holding back this time. The pebbles beneath his feet rattle, the air around him ripples, the street shakes with both his anger and his pain. He never thought Dazai would point a gun at him.

"And I said no."

Dazai fires at him again but Chuuya is prepared this time. The bullet lodges into the wall behind him as he dodges, making himself weightless in the blink of an eye and propelling himself at Dazai. His first kick misses him, Dazai blocks the second one. The gun clatters to the ground. Their eyes meet as Dazai's ability cancels out his own, but Chuuya has never needed his ability to fight. 

He roundhouse kicks Dazai, sending him into the wall and pushing off of him to launch himself into the air. If Dazai is smart he won't follow; Chuuya suspects he won't, if only because he was probably acting as the decoy for the helicopter on Mishima's lawn. 

The shower of bullet he expects doesn't come, as he lands in front of Mishima's house with Tainted Sorrow still activated. His eyes scan the lawn, picking out one, two, three armed guards with reinforcements in the helicopter, and cuts across to the woman making her way towards him. The red rose on her hat gives her away.

"You," he snarls, making the ground shake. A memory comes to mind: of a cloudy morning several weeks ago, when he had woken up to find Dazai gone. You, repeats in his head. You made Dazai leave.

Agatha smiles as if he's just said something pleasant. "Pleased to make your acquaintance, Chuuya-kun," she says. "Now please move out of the way."

"Why should I?"

"Because the Clock Tower will be taking Mishima Yukio into custody."

His ability flares. "Like hell you will."

She stops, five feet away from him. It's a distance he can cross easily, she would be dead in less than half a second. Her smile grows. "I want to make this easy for you, Chuuya-kun, for both your sake and Dazai-kun's. Step aside and let us retrieve Mishima, and we will be on our way. No harm will come to you or anyone else you know. Refuse, and we will take Mishima by force, even if that means killing you. Personally I prefer the former."

Chuuya sees movement in the corner of his eye. He turns his head, just enough to see Dazai making his way towards them. The gun is back in his hand.

Their eyes meet again, and hold this time. Chuuya doesn't know what Dazai sees in his face, doesn't know if he wants to run to him or hurt him more, but it doesn't matter either way because he had never been good at hiding how he felt. You lied to me, he screams inside his head, the accusation tasting bitter on his tongue in place of the words he swallows down. What happened to you? Why are you doing this? Is it because of me?

He looks back at Agatha. "The only way you'll be taking Mishima is over my dead body."

Something twists in her face: disappointment, maybe, even respect. "Very well," she says, turning away from him. "Have it your way."

Tainted Sorrow rushes past his fingertips out into the open, forming a gravity-dense forcefield around him just as gunfire begins raining down on him. He doesn't look to see if Dazai is also shooting at him, all his focus is on maintaining the shield. It's only ten people, he tells himself, ten people with machine guns and a finite supply of ammunition. It has to run out some time. 

Except it doesn't. The gunfire keeps coming, each new wave much stronger than the one before. And even though there isn't a limit to how long he can use his ability, there is a limit to how long he can maintain his shield without getting tired. 

It's Agatha's ability, it has to be. He remembers, vaguely, flipping through the contents of the folder filled with everything the Mafia had on her and stopping on the part about her ability: And Then There Were None, the ability to create endless amounts of anything she chose. Bullets, equipment, information.

He wonders, through the haze in his mind, if her gift extends to loyalty as well.

He blinks for a second, and the forcefield around him wavers. Two bullets slip through and sink into his leg at the same time; pain explodes like a firecracker in his leg and it drops him to his knees, a cry slipping from between his teeth, as his hands press outward to keep up the shield. 

Unbidden, his thoughts go to Dazai, like how they have for the past several weeks. He can picture his ridiculous hair falling in waves around his face, the way his eyes shone when something amused him. He remembers, with painfully stark clarity, the gentleness of his touch. It hurts to think all of it had been a lie. 

You lied to me, he thinks as gunfire chips away at his forcefield, as his energy slips away with every minute. You've lied all this time. 

And just like that, anger swallows him whole. 

The strains of the darker power residing within him thrums beneath his skin as the wrath flooding through his body dances closer to madness. Red tendrils crawl up his arms. Fragments of a verse, from an ancient tongue only Arahabaki can understand, strains against his mind: the black fire inside him rails to get free.

Chuuya, he hears Dazai shout, or thinks he hears Dazai shout. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters but this. 

O grantors of dark disgrace , do not wake me--

The noise of whirring blades makes his eyes snap open, eyes he hadn't realized he closed. He looks up, past the forcefield and the gunfire pounding on him, to the outline of a chopper hovering above everything.

Someone moves from inside, sticks his head out. If Chuuya focuses hard enough, he can make out the sunlight glinting off of round glasses.

"Chuuya-kun!" 

Sakaguchi. What the hell is Sakaguchi doing here?

The Clock Tower's gunfire falls away from him, now concentrated on the chopper. Tainted Sorrow sinks back under Chuuya's skin, so heavy that Chuuya's hands have to brace against the ground to steady himself. 

Someone's hand lands on his shoulder. Dazai, he thinks and throws a fist back to knock it off. Instead, a hand larger than Dazai's catches it. 

"Get up," a voice sounds loud and firm against his ear. "Get up and run."

Verlaine?

In the next instant, he's lifted to his feet. "Run," Verlaine says again, pushing him towards the chopper. "Run and don't look back."

"Why? What are you going to--"

Verlaine's hand rests briefly on the crown of his head. He's smiling. His eyes are bright in a way that makes unease twist at the pit of Chuuya's stomach. He's saying goodbye, Chuuya realizes. 

"Go, Chuuya," Verlaine tells him, one more time. And despite the urge to stay pulling at him, despite the emotions burning behind his eyes, Chuuya goes.

He runs, zigzagging even though he doesn't really need to since most of the gunfire is concentrated on the chopper still hovering above the ground. A head of red hair pokes out as he gets closer, instantly recognizable. 

"Jump!" Oda yells at him, one hand returning fire and the other stretching out to Chuuya. 

Chuuya calls on Tainted Sorrow again, makes himself weightless, and jumps.

His hand catches on Oda's, the sudden imbalance of weight makes the chopper swerve. He's pulled into the chopper, Sakaguchi's hand around his arm and holding him steady.

Right as he looks back, Verlaine's body hits the ground. 

Dazai lowers his arm, smoke still curling from the barrel, and stares straight at him with eyes long gone hollow. And with the sound of shattering glass only Chuuya can hear, his entire world collapses.

The air is heavy with gunfire. Sakaguchi's voice rises above it to yell something to the chopper's pilot. Oda is beside him, saying something. Dazai's eyes are dark and cold in a way that has never been directed at him until now, when Verlaine's blood is coloring the ground red. He wants to scream. 

And then, Dazai's arm straightens again. 

Chuuya's blood runs cold as the Clock Tower's firepower gathers behind Dazai, machine guns aimed at the chopper's cockpit and the tail. With that many weapons backed by Agatha's ability, the next wave of fire is going to knock the chopper out of the sky. 

"Glasses. Let go of me."

"Chuuya-kun, you'll--"

"Do it now!"

"Fire!"

Sakaguchi lets him go. Chuuya calls his ability to his fingertips one more time, hangs halfway out the chopper, and throws out his hand. 

Wave after wave of bullets slam red against the gravity-dense forcefield. Every collision feels a bruise against his skin but he holds it, long enough to build kinetic power, long enough to reverse the bullets.

And then, with a push of his hand, he sends it all flying back. 

The sound of impact is drowned out by the whir of the chopper, flying away to leave a mess of battered earth, shells, and bodies on Mishima's front lawn. Chuuya slides back into the chopper, settles against a passenger seat, and buries his face in his hands.

His eyes burn. 

Chapter Text

No one has said a word in over five minutes.

Kouyou's nails drum slowly and lightly on the tabletop as she regards Mori, currently seated behind his desk with his fingers laced together, and wonders exactly when is it that the man plans to acknowledge her presence. She knows, as everyone else does, Mori's tendencies for the melodramatic but now is not the time for them, and her patience wears thinner with every second that Mori pretends to be lost in thought. 

"You called me for me, Mori-dono?" she finally breaks the silence. Mori's eyes flick to her, undoubtedly taking in the tension in her shoulders and the hard battle she's fighting to keep from sinking her nails into the wood.

"I did," he replies, just before he rises and walks around the desk to stand at the window. "I have some news that I thought you might want to hear, about Chuuya-kun."

Her fingers stop moving, splayed over the tabletop. 

"He will be returning on the earliest flight to Yokohama tomorrow, along with Sakaguchi Ango of the Special Abilities Department and handyman Oda Sakunosuke."

Kouyou's eyes slide to Mori, looking hard for any sign of a lie. There is none. But his eyes are fixed on a distant point on the horizon that suggests there is more. That, with the knowledge that the supposed long-term mission has only been active for a few months, puts a damper on her relief. "Then that means..."

"Dazai Osamu is a traitor," Mori finishes, "and the ceasefire is officially null."

He knew this was coming, she knows. And truly, she would expect nothing else from the man who took the Mafia's throne with his own hands. But her thoughts are with Chuuya, and the way he had always been open, honest. He had promised her that the mission wouldn't change anything, but if it did, and it almost always did, then the mission was not the only thing he had lost.

She rises from her seat to join Mori at the window, tracing the outline of Yokohama's nightlife with her eyes. "You are a cruel man, Mori Ougai."

Her words earn a chuckle. "The Mafia gains nothing by being kind, Kouyou-kun. But this does open the door to other opportunities. As you know, Fukuzawa-dono and his Agency have taken on the burden of finding the whereabouts of the Book while we concentrate on luring Dostoyevsky's forces out into the open. With Chuuya-kun's prompt arrival tomorrow, the next logical step would be introducing the two of them."

"I was under the impression that the Agency has a policy of not working with criminals, or anyone perceived to be on the wrong side of the law."

"Fukuzawa-dono has made an exception this once, now that there is a common enemy to defeat."

"Kind of him." If Mori heard her, he says nothing. He knows of her disdain regarding the president of the Agency despite his reputation as a good and just leader, about the way he refuses to dirty his hands even when it is most necessary. Hard decisions are a part of the life; the difference between those in the light and those in the shadows is the willingness to make those decisions. 

"He will make a good ally for the time being," is all he says. "In truth, I summoned you to ask your opinion of this next step. You have always been one of my most trusted advisors; your words hold weight."

Kouyou considers this, raising her gaze to be level with the skyline and trying to be objective. 

"Chuuya will not be happy once he hears of the alliance," she chooses her words carefully, "for the same reason that I hold little faith in the Agency, but he will understand its necessity. The Agency's presence will aid in overcoming any legal obstacle we might face in the foreseeable future and the organization is comprised of individuals with powerful abilities; so long as both he and Fukuzawa-dono can look past their initial bias, it would be an opportunity to scope out the other's character."

"My thoughts precisely, Kouyou-kun." The red scarf passed down to every Mafia boss snaps in the air as Mori turns, sweeping through the office to a cabinet in the corner. "Then can I entrust you with the task of notifying the organization?"

Kouyou dips her head. The folds of her kimono rustle on the way to the door. "And what will you being doing, Boss?"

Mori's voice reaches her just as she crosses the threshold. "Meeting an old friend."

She takes the elevator back down to the first floor and strides out the moment the doors open. Not long after, someone else's footsteps fall into step with hers.

Kouyou does not know much about Akutagawa Ryuunosuke, only that he can turn the coat sitting on his shoulders into a weapon at will and that one must prove their strength in order for him to follow by his volition. Additionally, he is Chuuya's protégé. 

She slows down so that their paces match. "If you were following me, Akutagawa-kun, try to be a little less obvious next time. The enemy will not wait for you to correct yourself before they strike."

His cough is both an acknowledgment of her words and a question meant only for her. "Boss said Chuuya-san is coming back tomorrow," he rasps, as they pass by a group of lower-level grunts. They look torn between fear and awe at seeing them. "Is that true?"

"Call the Black Lizard," she says instead of answering him. He looks displeased, but he mutters into the burner phone he pulls out of his pocket anyway.

The camera above the elevator they stop in front of blinks red. One scan over both of their face, cataloging their identities as Mori's executive and the Black Dog of the Mafia, and the metal doors slide open to carry them all the way to the war room. It's only then that Kouyou bothers to talk to him again. "Have you seen them at all today?"

"They've just returned from quelling small fry riots in the Sakuragi-Cho District. Hirotsu-san estimates it will be another two minutes before they're up."

Kouyou's eyes slant to him. "You didn't go with them?" she asks, mildly surprised.

Akutagawa returns her gaze. "Rashoumon has excellent offensive abilities, but it is better served as defense," he says. "Boss wanted me to stay here."

In case Dostoyevsky attacks. Her lips purse as she wonders how many uprisings they will have to quell, how much they need to spill in the underground before they can be free of that Russian vermin. "Just as well that our strongest fighter is coming back," she murmurs. Akutagawa turns to her, frowning, but before he can ask, the doors open to reveal the commander of the Black Lizard.

"Ozaki-dono." Hirotsu sweeps the floor in a bow, which Kouyou returns.

"It's good to see you back safe, Hirotsu-san. Where are the others?"

The senior veteran's eyes cut to the war room. "We all arrived promptly after receiving Akutagawa-kun's message."

Four faces greet her as she walks into the room to find that it's exactly as Hirotsu told her. She recognizes Akutagawa's sister, Tachihara, and Higuchi all seated around the table with varying degrees of respect, confusion, and dread on their faces.

"I will be brief," she begins. "As of five minutes ago, the Boss has commanded me to inform you all that Chuuya will be returning tomorrow on the earliest flight to Japan."

Akutagawa coughs violently into his hand. Hirotsu merely nods, as if he expected this all along. The rest of the room sits stunned as they visibly wrestle with expressing their shock and keeping their composure under control. Of them Higuchi is the first one to speak. 

"If Chuuya-san is coming back so soon," she asks, shrinking a little when Kouyou's gaze lands on her, "are we assuming that Dostoyevsky has learned about his mission?"

"Assuming that the enemy knows our plans is always the smartest thing to do, it ensures that we are prepared for anything that could go wrong. In this case it's extremely likely that Dostoyevsky has known all along."

"Then what was the point?" Tachihara's voice bursts in, loud and upset. "Why send Chuuya-san to do something so dangerous if Dostoyevsky already knew about it anyway? What, old man?"

This last is to Hirotsu, who levels him with a warning stare until Tachihara slumps back in his seat with a huff. "The goal was not to fool Dostoyevsky, Tachihara-kun," he says. "It was to make him underestimate us. That can be just as effective as an all-out attack, and just as crippling besides."

"Indeed"--every gaze in the room swings back to Kouyou--"which is why Chuuya will be immediately informed of our alliance with the Agency upon his arrival. If for the past two years Dostoyevsky has been able to know our plans and evade them, the chances that he knows of the disagreements between Boss and President Fukuzawa are high; a collaboration between the two will be the last thing he expects."

"Kouyou-san." Akutagawa's gaze is piercing when it meets her eyes. "Chuuya-san won't be happy to hear about it. Not on top of what the damage the mission has done to him already."

Neither of them confirm exactly what damage he means, but Kouyou knows. There are times when she is alone that she still grieves for the man she loved, who lost his life for a freedom that he was never meant to have but reached for anyway. Marriage, even for political reasons, is a bond unlike any other; when it breaks, it feels like losing half of your soul. She understands better than most in their line of work how Chuuya must feel, right now. 

"He won't," she confirms quietly, "but he will understand. And we will be there to help him, if he needs it."

"So we tell Chuuya-san everything," Higuchi summarizes, "and then we meet with the Agency. And then...what?"

"Then, we make sure Dostoyevsky never steps foot in Japan again."

The helicopter lands on an open field enclosed by a stone wall, turned gray against the rain. Neighboring houses block it from view, the dense wood that surrounds it severely limiting entry and exit routes to a small side gate easily overlooked. Farther ahead is an old unfinished train track that slopes downwards into concrete moss-covered walls rising from the ground. 

Dazai gets off first, glancing between the track and the gaping black maw just barely visible past the trees. His shoes are already soaked through. Agatha pauses briefly beside him, red-painted lips curving into a smirk as she registers his unspoken question, and continues without a word; the two mercenaries carrying Mishima's hooded and unconscious body between them shove him forward. He obeys.

The whirring of the helicopter's departure dissolves into the howl of the wind, but it's muffled as soon as they walk into the maw: a tunnel burrowing deep underground with only the fluorescent bulbs placed along its course to light the way. Dazai's gaze travels from the tracks to the graffiti staining the walls, and to the platforms themselves--fully intact and littered with rocks of different sizes.

"Where are we?" he asks, to no one in particular. Agatha's voice answers him. 

"Saint-Martin, the ghost station of the Paris Metro. It was closed twice during its lifetime, once at the start of the second World War, the second time because of its proximity to another station. Twenty years ago the city ruled to have it demolished to make room for new apartment complexes, but the bill never got passed. Now it's nothing more than a relic of a bygone era."

The track they are following seems to stretch for ages before it divides into two. And from there, two more, with a cross-platform interchange covered in street art, political slogans, and faded advertisements: relic indeed, and small wonder that the remnants of the Clock Tower were never found. No one would even think to look below the streets, at the secrets spots that not even locals who've lived in the city for years know about.

Rusted locks and old graffiti speaks to the disuse of the door they stop in front of. One of the goons carrying Mishima reaches under a particularly thick section of moss sticking to the wall and pulls out a key; the door groans and opens outwards. 

Electrical lights flicker on to reveal a space that looks, for lack of a better comparison, like a storage room. Four metal dressmaker's racks bulging with clothes take up a quarter of the floor space, and the bookshelves lining the walls are filled with old books, boxes of syringes and medical equipment, and canned food. Two rickety chairs creak in the corner, right next to the water closet. Behind it is another door, one that leads to a small side room boxed in by three cement walls with chains dangling from one of them. 

Dazai realizes, too late, why the room is there. Agatha stops just beside him, and there's not even the hint of emotion in her face as she watches her mercenaries toss Mishima none too gently onto the ground. 

"Well, he's all yours, Dazai-kun. Try not to hurt him too badly." 

The door shuts behind her, and then it's just the two of them in the room. Not even a minute goes by before Mishima's whimpers dissolve into hiccups, pitiful sobs that make the muscle in Dazai's jaw tick. When he pulls back the bag covering Mishima's face, watery amber eyes stare back at him; something twists in his stomach.

He wonders what Chuuya would think if he saw him now.

"It's been a while, Mishima-san," he says. "Remember me?" 

The interrogation that Agatha undoubtedly wanted goes sideways within the first five minutes. Mishima alternates between cursing him to hell and back when his memories flare and crying for mercy though Dazai has barely moved from his spot ten feet away from the man. When he's not doing either of those things, he's babbling: about compensation, about letting him go, about whatever comes to mind.

An hour in, Dazai shoots him between the eyes.

Mishima's body slumps gracelessly to the ground; he steps over it on his way out, pushing the door open. Fyodor's eyes look back at him calmly, travel behind him to eye the blood spilling over the ground, and go back to him. "Dazai-kun," he says chidingly. "There was no need to kill him."

Dazai holds the gaze as he lets the door swing shut behind him, noting Agatha's absence in his peripheral. "There was nothing else he could have told me," he settles on. "He was only babbling in the end."

"How merciful of you," Fyodor chuckles, as if mercy is the reason there's a dead man not fifteen feet away from them. Mishima got lucky with Dazai as the interrogator; one minute with Fyodor, and his brains would be splattered across the wall after he gave Fyodor everything he needed. 

"Aren't you going to ask why I'm here?" he asks. "I imagine you must be curious."

"That would imply that I'm interested." Dazai takes the seat beside him. "And I'm not."

His answer earns him a hum, and nothing else. It's just as well: Dazai doesn't think he has the patience to deal with whatever mind games Fyodor has ready for him at the moment. 

Silence stretches between them for a long moment. And then, Fyodor speaks again. "I apologize, Dazai-kun. I know it must be hard."

Through the exhausted haze in Dazai's mind, he wonders what would happen if he killed Fyodor right then and there.

Mishima's blood is still on his hand. His coat is still splattered with Verlaine's. His wrist still hurts from where Chuuya kicked the gun out of his hand, but Fyodor is sitting within spitting distance; it would be so easy to wrap his hands around his scrawny neck and throttle him, watch him struggle for air and the life drain out of his eyes little by little. 

Dazai could kill him right now, and no one would ever know.

In his head, he does exactly that, and Fyodor's body continues to cool long after Dazai makes his way out of the tunnel.

In reality, his eyes fixate on a spot on the bookshelf in front of him. And his voice, when he collects himself enough to speak, is just as innocent as Fyodor's. 

 "Small talk doesn't suit you, Fyodor."

Fyodor smiles thinly, but concedes. "Several weeks ago," he changes the subject as quickly as it comes, shifting in the chair, "a page from the Book made its way to the Special Abilities Department. Your sources will already have told you as much, I expect."

There's not the slightest inflection in his voice, not a hint of any emotion as he delivers the news casually like they are discussing the weather. Dazai does look at him this time. "You're calm about this," he remarks. "I thought you would be more upset about your favorite toy being in the enemy's keeping."

"Why would I be when I was the one who gave it to them?"

Purple eyes flick downwards. Dazai follows the gaze to the object resting in Fyodor's hand: a notebook the size of one of Verlaine's classic novels, leather bound, with a faded blue cover fraying at the edges. 

The shock hits him slowly, and then all at once. It runs like a live wire through his system as he stares back at Fyodor and understands, past the horror twisting in his gut, that the Decay of Angels had never been looking for the Book. Not really, because they never had to.

Fyodor has had it all along.

"What have you done?" he asks lowly.

 The answer never comes. Fyodor rises to his feet, tucking the Book back into the folds of his coat, and then offers him a hand up.

"Come along, Dazai-kun. We have work to do."

"You're up early."

Dazai's fingers pause over the next button of his coat. "Ten in the morning is hardly early, Monsieur Verlaine."

"For most people your age, it is." Verlaine scans the room. "Where is he?" The implication of who he's talking about is obvious.

"Returning Mishima's notebook, and getting answers if he's able to. If all goes well, he should be back in an hour or so."

"Is there a reason that he was the one who went and not you?"

The question itself could be interpreted any number of ways: the illogic behind sending Chuuya out to conduct an investigation in a city that, between the two of them, Dazai knows better, the fact  that both he and Verlaine know his strengths lie in getting people to talk. It's not the word choice Dazai is paying attention to, but Verlaine's tone and the undercurrent that says he knows much more than he's letting on.

"Chuuya can take care of himself," Dazai says, the words heavy in his mouth.

"Then why are you getting ready to leave?"

He lets his silence speak for him. Verlaine's mouth twists.

"It was you," he says. "Everything that happened in your home to lead you both here, it was all your doing."

Verlaine had been thinking along the same lines of thought as him, about the only two reasons why Dazai will ever go behind Chuuya rather than with him: as his backup in case his safety is compromised, or as the one going off-plan and intentionally compromising Chuuya's safety. And they already established that it's not the former.

Dazai's fingers fall away from his coat. He turns to face Verlaine. "Are you asking for a confession?"

"With the way you're speaking now, I think I already have it."

A few seconds of silence stretch out between them as they regard each other. Dazai is the first to look away.

"So what now?" he asks. "Are you going to kill me?"

Verlaine is quiet for two more heartbeats before he speaks again. "Think about whether or not your death will make a difference in this situation, and then ask me again."

Dazai huffs a laugh, still not looking at the other man. "You've gotten soft since the last time we met, Monsieur."

"If that were true I would have turned you away the moment I saw you on my doorstep, whether or not Chuuya was with you. But I've seen how much he needs you, how much you need him. Killing you will solve nothing." Verlaine pauses, then sighs. "Does he know?"

"He isn't supposed to. And neither were you."

The silence from earlier returns, hanging heavy this time. Dazai knows, without looking at Verlaine or asking him, that the other man understands exactly what he's saying.

It's not his choice to put Chuuya in danger. Neither is killing Verlaine. It's just that he has no other option.

He turns his head, at a rustle of cloth behind him. Verlaine is shrugging on his coat. "Then I 'm counting on you, Dazai," he says, with the certainty of a man walking towards his own demise and not regretting it in the least. "Do whatever must be done. And take care of him."

Dazai looks away again. He pretends he doesn't see Verlaine touch his fingers to his lips and press it to the framed photo behind him--one last farewell between him and Rimbaud. "I will."

The bump of the chopper against the helipad makes Chuuya open his eyes, only to immediately close them. He hadn't been sleeping, it was just easier to keep his eyes closed, but the lights that hit his eyes are too bright to keep them open for very long anyway.

A blast of cold air hits him as the door to the chopper opens and then Oda's hand is on his arm, steadying him as they both get off. On some level, the familiarity makes Chuuya prickle with irritation--they've only ever had one interaction and besides he doesn't need the support, he's fine--but his leg chooses that moment to throb painfully. He hangs onto Oda a bit more gratefully, after that. 

Sakaguchi walks ahead of them, pausing to speak with the guards stationed at the door in front of them. A minute later, it swings open, and the cold air rushing inside with them turns to warmth.

"We're at the Embassy of Japan, stationed in Paris," he explains as the three of them walk down a hallway. "Since the French national ambassador and I know each other personally, he's been kind enough to allow us to stay here for the night before we fly back in the morning. Chuuya-kun, if you want to get your leg treated--"

"No," Chuuya cuts him off before he can finish the sentence. "I'll do it myself."

Sakaguchi and Oda exchange glances; the latter shakes his head just a bit and that seems to be enough. "The first-aid kit is in the cabinet below the sink," Sakaguchi relents, passing him a room key and a slip of paper. "Here is my contact in case you need anything."

Chuuya removes his arm from where it's been slung across Oda's shoulders. The motion makes his leg scream in protest, but he bites down through it and takes both items from Sakaguchi. "Thanks."

The government agent offers a faint smile. "Get some rest," and then, with Oda behind him, he walks away.

By the time Chuuya locates the first-aid kit and brings it onto the bed, his pant leg is soaked through with blood. He cuts away the fabric, breath catching in the places it clings harder to his skin, and peels it away to reveal two angry red holes in his thigh. 

The wounds look clean, at least: no bruising, only a little bit of swelling, and it doesn't seem like the bullets have shattered into shrapnel. With how much he moved around after he got shot, though, it's very likely that the bullets have sunk in deeper. It just means that he'll have to get them out sooner or later.

Chuuya's teeth leave marks on his belt as the tip of his knife digs in. It isn't the first time that Chuuya has had to patch himself up, and it definitely won't be the last time, but he's forgotten how painful removing a bullet can be. The knife catches underneath the bullets, pushing upwards, and firecrackers explode in his leg.

Three minutes later, two bloodstained bullets sit on a paper towel by Chuuya's bed. His shredded pants and dirtied shirt are in a pile on the floor, exchanged for the traditional pajamas he found in the closet. He's wrapping clean gauze around his leg when there's a knock on the door.

"It's Oda. May I come in?"

Some of his earlier irritation comes back, even as he swallows the first curt answer that springs to mind. Is it too much to ask to be left alone? "I'd rather you didn't."

"It's about Dazai."

Chuuya's hands stop moving over his leg, heart turning over painfully in his chest. He shuts his eyes, briefly.

When he finally finds it in himself to open the door, Oda comes in without a word. If he notices the bullets or the clothes on the ground he doesn't comment on it, just makes his way over the bed to sit down on its edge. His expectant look makes Chuuya sit down, too.

"You knew, didn't you?" Chuuya finally asks after a while, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. Oda's silence only confirms it. "You knew, everyone else knew, and no one thought that I should know about it?

"Boss's orders," comes the answer. "And Dazai's, as well."

"Go figure."

"He wanted to tell you. Nakahara--"

"Chuuya."

"Chuuya," Oda amends. "He wanted to tell you. He cares about you more than anything else in the world."

"Don't." he snaps. The painful sting in Chuuya's chest makes it hard to breathe past the anger, and heartbreak, rising to overwhelm him. "He lied to me."

"He had to. If he didn't, neither of us would be here to have this conversation right now." Oda's eyes flick to the door and then back to him. "Dazai isn't with Fyodor, or the Angels, or anyone else. He's one of the Mafia."

Chuuya stares at him. The room suddenly feels suffocating.

"Don't say that." His voice breaks at the end. "Enough fucking people have lied to me already."

"I'm not lying."

"You--" Chuuya feels like he's been slapped. "Since when?"

"For a long time. Even before you joined."

Warmth burns behind his eyes; it's too much. He presses his palms into his eyes and takes an unsteady breath, uncaring if Oda sees him.

"Start from the beginning," he says from behind his hands.

And Oda does. He tells him about Dazai's first meeting with Mori, when he hadn't been anything more than a boy trying out different ways to die and Mori hadn't been anything other than the Port Mafia physician aspiring to take the previous Boss's position. When Mori finally did kill the Boss, Dazai was his witness, and apparently that was around the first time Fyodor made his move.

Infiltrating the Decay of Angels had been Dazai's first major mission, only because he was a new recruit and Fyodor had information on everyone in the Port Mafia except for him. When Mori first sent him undercover, Oda explains, one of the only things he knew was that eventually Fyodor would find out, and he had to have a countermeasure already in place when that happened. And that was when they found Chuuya.

"So the past two years, tracking Fyodor and building up intel on the Rats..."

"Was preparing you for this mission." Oda's voice is gentle. "And for meeting Dazai."

"Why?"

"Boss saw something great in the two of you. If Dazai had still been in the Mafia when you joined, the two of you would have been partners."

Chuuya's hands twist into the sheets. The threat of a migraine looms behind his eyes, and the sudden need to be alone pulls desperately at him.

"I--" he swallows and tries again. "I need to think."

After a moment, Oda nods. The mattress creaks as he stands.

"I know you're angry," he says. "You have every right to be. But...try and understand why he did what he did. For his sake."

The door shuts behind him, and it's only then Chuuya is able to breathe. The hand he runs through his hair trembles, just slightly. 

And then, his phone rings. 

He doesn't have to look to see who's calling, doesn't need a second before all his anger and all his grief come rushing back. Before he can throw it across the room and let it shatter on the opposite wall, he picks up the phone and answers it.

"How did you know so much about Mishima?"

No answer. It's a hard-fought battle to keep from screaming into the phone. "Kyoto was seven years ago," he says, trying hard to keep his voice even, "you joined right around that time, there was no need for a new recruit to know so much about the man you blew up. How did you know?"

"If you're asking me that," Dazai finally says after a moment, "then you already know."

His voice is low. Chuuya can barely make sense of it over the guilty relief he feels from hearing Dazai's voice again, over the bitterness that screams louder than the rush of blood in his ears. 

"I want to hear you say it. Just so I know I've got it right."

"Seven years ago, I joined the Angels under Mori-san's orders to gain Fyodor's trust and flip the organization inside out. Thanks to the intel that he and the Special Abilities Department already collected on them, I knew enough to make a convincing first impression and was initiated into the organization without much fuss, but there were a few blank spots I needed to fill in. I was put in touch with the Hunting Dogs and they gave me the rest of the story."

"Just you?"

"Me, and Boss by extension. Whatever I reported to him, he reported to the government through the terms of the Ability Business Permit. It went like this for years, me giving away the Angels' secrets on a bi-weekly basis and gaining valuable information on the members themselves."

Dazai takes a breath. "But Fyodor grew stronger faster than we anticipated, and became harder to defeat. I became desperate, and I started pressing the Hunting Dogs to tell me more. They put me in touch with Jouno Saigiku," he says, and Chuuya remembers the man who could hear his heartbeat. "He was...difficult to negotiate with. He knew how to defeat Fyodor but he wouldn't give me the information unless..."

Unless he got something in return. Neither of them say it out loud, but the implication is there. Chuuya's heart sinks.

"He would give you intel," he says, dread pooling in his stomach and hoping to whatever god is out there that he is wrong, "in exchange for what?" 

"...Arahabaki." Dazai's voice is heavy. "The more I told, the more I got. And I told him everything except your name. That's where I was, the two weeks after we married."

Chuuya's never known how suffocating gravity could be: the room presses in on him, every emotion on the human spectrum lodging in his throat until every inhale feels more painful than the last. He feels confusion first, and then shock. Betrayal slams into his chest next.

"That man tried to kill me because of your information."

"I didn't know he would come after you. I never meant--"

"You asked me to trust you." Trust me, he hears like an echo in the back of his mind. And with that, his anger spills over. "Then you went and sold my secrets to the people who took an eight-year-old child and shoved a god inside of it, you gave away my location to Fyodor's ally, you killed my friend, and you lied to me."

"Chuuya--"

He sees red. His fist slams into the wall, and Dazai shuts up. For the next few seconds, the only sound in the room is Chuuya's heavy breathing.

"You betrayed me," he spits out, one final accusation tearing him open from the inside out, "from the first."

"...I'm sorry."

On some level, Chuuya heard the window open, hears Dazai's footsteps stop just behind the bed. Hears his voice, heavy with regret. Anger, relief, pain, age-old want all tear at him, but he doesn't turn around. He doesn't know what he might do if he did.

"I never meant for you to get caught in the middle of it. I thought I was keeping you safe, in the only way I knew how." Dazai pauses. When he speaks again, he sounds anguished as Chuuya feels. "Please, Chuuya--"

The knife lodges into the wall, inches away from Dazai's face. Chuuya brings his arm back down, fist clenched, shaking with the effort of standing through the burning in his leg as he finally, finally looks at Dazai.

It's only been hours since they last saw each other, but Dazai already looks different. He's swapped out his tan coat for the black one he wore when they first met. Bandages cover his throat and wrists, now, and his hair is a mess. His eyes hold a reflection of Chuuya's own grief and for once, Chuuya finds himself wishing that it was the cold lifeless gaze from earlier instead. At least, like that, Dazai had been easier to hate. But now...

He wants to kiss him. He wants to kill him. Chuuya doesn't know which is worse, so he deals the only way he knows how. 

His fist unclenches with conscious effort on his part. "Get out," he managed through the Don't leave clogged in his throat. "If you ever try to look for me again, I'll kill you."

The air seems to freeze then, and the silence is almost deafening. The words hang in the space that stretches between him and Dazai, and though every part of Chuuya wants to take them back, the same pained anger that makes his whole body tremble won't let him. He can only stand there, glaring at the man he thought he knew and trying to keep himself together at the same time.

Dazai opens his mouth, and closes it. His eyes slide shut, briefly. The next breath he takes, both of them hear it. 

"Fyodor has the Book," he says. Chuuya's breath catches in his throat. "He was the one who sent it to the Special Abilities Department. He's planning to use it the moment we get back to Yokohama. I thought you should know." A beat. "I'm sorry."

Chuuya squeezes his eyes shut, fighting back the burn behind them. By the time he opens his eyes again, Dazai is gone. 

Chapter Text

Once upon a time the biggest threat to Yokohama had been vigilante mobs and yakuza, whose skirmishes lit up the night with gunfire and painted the streets and every back-alley red. Now, it’s a man from a frozen wasteland with an army at his back that’s capable of turning the whole world upside down in the blink of an eye. By the time Chuuya opens the door the next morning, this fact is accompanied by the worst headache he’s had in months--that, and the man waiting outside his door.

“What now,” he grouses at Oda. His body feels heavy with sleep despite the fact that he hadn’t slept all that well, or all that long, and the cold sending goosebumps along his arms is also making his leg throb.

Oda is probably just as tired, but he’s a lot better at hiding it. “Ango sent me. We’re leaving Paris in half an hour since that’s when the jet will be ready.”

“It’s six in the morning. And what do you mean, jet?”

“He’s more qualified to explain than I am.” The plastic bag in Oda’s hand crinkles as he holds it out. “This is for you.”

Chuuya takes it, already knowing that if he were to look inside, he would see clothes: similar enough to what he wears every day and close enough to his size. The idea of a government worker going out to find clothes for him would be funny enough under normal circumstances, but not now.

“It’s six in the morning,” he repeats, having an inkling about why Sakaguchi wants to leave this early. “It’s also suicide for the Clock Tower to move out so soon after everything that happened yesterday.”

“It’s not just about the Clock Tower; the director of the Special Abilities Department ordered Ango to return as soon as possible, after we found you. That’s part of why we’re using a jet.” 

Oda pauses. “A lot has happened while you were gone,” he says after a while. “It would be easier to update you when you can get all the answers, and not while we’re halfway across the world.”

Clock Tower. Hunting Dogs. Fyodor. The Book. Yokohama. Dazai. One problem after another, swimming before Chuuya’s eyes and making the headache already pounding away in his skull worse. He runs a hand through his hair, pulling slightly at the strands, and sighs. 

“Give me twenty minutes.”

He shuts the door. The contents of the bag that he dumps onto the bed are a coat, a jumper, and slacks. No message accompanying it, no card with an address inscribed on the back, no note of any kind. 

It's so drastically different from the last time someone left him clothes that he wants to laugh. The attempt he makes lodges in his throat, until his eyes burn with dryness and something else that he doesn't care to unravel right now. Twenty minutes, he told Oda, which leaves him ten minutes to shower and change his wrappings, another five to get dressed, and another five to find out exactly what the man means when he says jet.

So that's what he does. He spends the next ten minutes in one of the hottest showers he has ever taken in his life, raking shampoo through his hair and scrubbing at the dried blood flaking around his injury, and drying himself off to rewrap clean gauze around his thigh. A spare towel sits around his shoulders when he moves to dress himself, pulling on the jumper and slacks and slipping on his shoes.

When he shrugs the coat over his shoulders, the backs of his fingers brush against the choker.

Breathing becomes just a bit harder then, as his hands stop right where they are.

He's nowhere near a mirror, and he barely remembers the choker's existence on the best of days, but now it feels like a neon sign on his throat. The thought of continuing to wear something that Dazai gave him, after the past twenty-four hours, is enough to make him close his fingers around it with every intention of ripping it off and crushing it beneath his heel until everything he associates with it becomes nonexistent.

But he can't bring himself to pull. Not even when his phone buzzes with a text, or when anger bubbles underneath his skin: for caring so much about an accessory, for being amateur enough to let his feelings interfere with a mission. For getting so distracted he couldn't see the truth that had been in front of him the whole time. 

"Damn it," he mutters, letting his fingers slip. The sudden need to leave Paris behind overwhelms him; he's out the door within the next two minutes, pushing his hat onto his head with more force than strictly necessary and striding towards where Oda is waiting for him by the elevators.

Oda doesn't ask, if he's noticed Chuuya's foul mood, nor does he try to make conversation. The only noises that interrupt their silence on the way up the stairs to the roof exit are the ones that comes from the morning commute on the streets. 

Sakaguchi is already waiting for them when they finally step out onto the roof, with a couple of armed sentries and a sleek black aircraft behind him. He really hadn't been kidding about the jet.

"Odasaku-san, Chuuya-kun," he greets, looking at him. "Sorry about the last minute notice."

Chuuya shakes his head, dismissing the apology. It wasn't as if he got good sleep last night anyway. "What's with the jet?"

"Ah." Sakaguchi glances at it like he's forgotten it was there. "Protocol that every country has to follow. Interpol set international regulations long ago in case there was ever a day that Gifted terrorism actively endangered the public; this jet is one of the procedures for evacuation. It was specially modified to be one of the few silent aircrafts in the world and built with chameleon shields that come up after takeoff."

"This isn't an evacuation."

"Yes, but as far as the Ministry of Foreign Affairs is concerned, you were the target of a terrorist organization that everyone thought disappeared from the public scene. They need to take action accordingly." The sentries standing nearby retreat to the door when Sakaguchi waves, and the man adjusts his glasses wearily. "Besides, it's better that we leave before the Clock Tower notices we're gone. Or alerts Dostoyevsky of our location."

Too late, Chuuya thinks bitterly; if Dazai could find him so easily, then it's not so far a stretch to say that Fyodor already knows. His hands turn to fists in his pockets, but he says nothing. And they board the aircraft. 

He steps off the stairs into a lounge that looks comfortable as it does pristine: white sofas and seats lining along the windows, dark tables in front of them, and a carpeted pathway that opens up into a space wide enough to be a living room with a drinks bar at the other end. Fancy enough for a means of evacuation, but the sheer size of the whole jet could easily pack at least eight hundred people. 

"Make yourselves comfortable," Sakaguchi's voice comes from behind him. "It's only an eight-hour flight, but the route we're taking will make it feel longer."

The seat Chuuya picks is at the far right corner of the cabin, next to a window that offers a good view of the outside. He drops into it, suddenly exhausted, and rubs a hand over his face. Eight hours is nothing compared to the flights he's been on for overseas missions, but right now his patience is on thin ice.

He can hear them talking, Oda and Glasses. Fragments of their conversation drift over even though they're keeping their voices down; his name comes up a few times. So does Dazai's. It doesn't take long to put two and two together after that. 

"Did you tell him?" he hears Sakaguchi ask. Oda must have nodded, because what follows is a sigh. "That was cruel, Odasaku-san."

"Not telling him would be worse. He needed to hear the truth, Ango."

"Dostoyevsky will strike again, this time with Dazai-kun back at his side. How do you think Chuuya-kun will feel when that happens, regardless of it being an undercover mission?"

"Dazai cares about him too," Oda reminds him. "At least he'll have that if nothing else."

Chuuya stops listening after that, letting his head sink forward to rest on his arms and closes his eyes. God, he's tired.

He doesn't know how long it's been before the jet takes off, and the low hum of the chameleon shields coming up vibrates through the whole aircraft. He doesn't care. Someone sits down next to him, irritation prickles in his hands, and then he does care. 

"I'm fine," he snaps, raising his head. Except the face he looks at doesn't belong to either Oda or Sakaguchi. "...Yosano."

The good doctor herself snorts, but it softens into a smile. "Surprised?"

He huffs a laugh, at that. Surprised doesn't begin to cover it. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm going home." One of her hands reach up to touch the butterfly clip in her hair. Her smile brightens. "That agent, he came to the clinic and had a nice long chat with me. Apparently everything I did in the last war no longer counts against my record because the physician who ordered it confessed to everything. Since my name is officially being cleared, I'm free to go home."

She's happy, of course she is; it's obvious in the way she can't stop grinning when Chuuya tells her he's happy for her, even if she does try to roll her eyes like it's no big deal.

"So what's next for you?"

"Same as you: fighting Dostoyevsky."

Chuuya's eyes cut to her only to find her already staring, with an expression daring him to convince her otherwise. "I've been gone a long time, but I know what's happening over there. You need all the help you can get, and it would be better for everyone involved if there was a doctor on standby."

"We do have a doctor."

"A real doctor," she amends, rolling her eyes. "The one you have is busy leading the Port Mafia."

"You have to be sure," he warns. It's not as if she isn't making a good point: healing abilities are one of the rarest in the world and it would save both time and resources that could be better used in the fight against Fyodor. And he is no more qualified to tell Yosano how wars work than she is to explain to him the mafia's way of doing things, but he feels like he has to protest at least once. "We only have one chance to do this right."

"Do I look like I'm going to change my mind any time soon?"

Her jaw is set, the smile on her face completely gone. She looks about ready to cut someone down. Kouyou would like her, Chuuya thinks; they both have iron-clad wills and the same stubborn tenacity to get things done. He looks away after a while. "I guess not."

In context of the conversation, the nudge she presses against his shoulder doesn't fit in anywhere. It's barely anything more than a light pressure, but it pushes him back against the seat. "Get some rest," she says, soft enough to tell him that she knows even if she doesn't ask. "Doctor's orders."

Not my doctor, he thinks at her, just to be stubborn. Either it shows on his face or he actually says the thought out loud, but it makes Yosano laugh. His head falls against the wall when she leaves, eyes sliding shut; a minute later, he's asleep.

The pilot's intercom wakes him up hours later, with an announcement about turbulence that comes just as the jet hits an air pocket. He rubs at his eyes and rolls his shoulders back, wincing when his neck cracks from staying in one place for too long. When he looks out the window, it's dark.

"Finally awake, Executive?"

"That's 'Chuuya-san' to you," he takes the cup of water that Haruki holds out and finishes half of it. "Why are you still here? Shouldn't Glasses have sent you back already?"

"Intern, remember? He couldn't if he tried. In any case, it's probably better that I stick with sensei when everything is going to shit at home and everywhere else."

"Odd timing to pick up an intern," Chuuya mutters under his breath. "Why did he do that, anyway?"

"Y'know, I asked him one time, and he didn't really say. But now I think I know." Haruki picks up the cup, still half-full. Then, under Chuuya's gaze, the cup glows green and the water inside wells upwards until it's completely full again.

"My ability lets me make little changes to reality," the kid explains, "small things like refilling this cup here, or make my grades all straight As. Nothing big enough to permanently alter it. On a larger scale, concentrating on a person lets me see all the possible futures for that person and shows me how they happen. When I do that, I get headaches and LSD fever dreams, though, so I have to be careful with it. Otherwise, it's pretty similar to that Book, isn't it?"

Not just similar, almost identical; Chuuya knows very little about how exactly the Book is supposed to work, but he remembers hearing something about karma. Working according to the big picture of whatever reality someone wants to create, as long as the baby steps are done manually, and only with the future. The fact that Sakaguchi managed to find this kid with everything else going on, and recruit him into the department, is almost impressive. 

"Yeah," he says, watching Haruki restore the water in the cup to a half-full state. "Pretty much."

The jet hits another air pocket, only this time it's accompanied by the ding of the overhead lights turning on and the crackle of the intercom that's too soft to be heard. A hand lands on Chuuya's shoulder.

"Hey," Yosano greets. "Look outside."

She doesn't say anything else, but she doesn't have to. He has a pretty good idea of why her eyes are shining.

It's a miracle that he manages to get the window open without accidentally crushing the cover first, from all the anticipation building in his stomach. When he looks out, the green lights of the Cosmo Wheel stares back at him--and behind that, all of Yokohama stretches out before him like a sea of glittering stars. His next thought runs warm and giddy through his bloodstream as his own grin brightens to match Yosano's: we're home.

The five sister buildings that make up Port Mafia headquarters come into view. As the jet circles around the tallest building, Chuuya can see tiny specks on the roof even from here--most prominently the five all gathered in a group, one of them waving wildly, one whose black coat flaps violently in the wind, and one whose bright pink attire makes her stand out from all the rest. 

Everyone's here, he realizes with a pang. Everyone who's spent the last few months waiting for him to come back alive. The thought banishes any misgivings he might have had about returning from a failed mission, and as soon as the jet powers down, he's already bursting through the exit.

Kouyou reaches him first, pulling him into a hug that's so different from her usual unflappable composure. She smells like flower petals and jasmine tea, everything he hadn't realized he missed until now. He wraps his arms around her, feeling very much like a child as everything in him begins to ache. "Ane-san."

"I know." Her arms tighten around him, briefly. "I know."

Tachihara's ear-splitting crow pulls him away from her and to the Black Lizard subordinates that straighten as soon as Chuuya lays eyes on them. In front of them, along with Tachihara, are Hirotsu, Gin, and Akutagawa.

"Bout time," Tachihara says, grinning widely. "It's been too long since anyone's bothered sassing me around."

"Watch your cheek, Michizou," Chuuya replies without heat, at the same time that Gin steps on Tachihara's foot and Hirotsu clicks his tongue. "He hasn't changed at all, huh?"

"We've all been awaiting your return, Chuuya-san." Hirotsu bows, even though he's smiling. Gin does the same, looking happier than he's ever seen her with a mask on. "Welcome back."

Akutagawa's expression doesn't change as he walks forward, but something about the way he stands next to his sister and bows feels strange, if not unwelcome. It's the closest Chuuya will ever get to a welcome back from him so it doesn't bother him too much.

He places a hand on his subordinate's shoulder. "It's good to see you again, Akutagawa." Akutagawa coughs a bit at the greeting, but nothing else.

"Chuuya-kun." Sakaguchi looks sheepish, as if embarrassed to cut the reunion short. His phone is pressed against his ear and his brow is furrowed in a way that means business. It's a look that Chuuya himself has worn many times, which is why he knows exactly what Sakaguchi will say before he says it. "Mori-san is requesting your presence. Immediately."

It feels like deja vu when the glass elevator lifts off and shows him a view he's seen many times over: Yokohama at night framed by glittering bay waters and neon lights, and the sky heavy-set with stars too shy to breach the city's glow. So does walking down the corridor to the Boss's office, even if every step closer to the doors makes him feel less sure of himself. 

He doesn't know what Mori wants, this time.

Sakaguchi should have already given him an update as well as a report on everything that happened in Paris. And he's probably known about the Book, and how it factors into Fyodor's plans, for much longer than anyone else. There's nothing else that he can say for himself, other than completely botching a high-profile mission. 

Mori is standing at the window with his hands clasped behind his back, when Chuuya enters. Instinct makes him go down on one knee, with his hat pressed against his chest, and bow his head. "You wanted to see me, Boss?"

"Stand up, Chuuya-kun." It's not just the order that compels him to obey; Mori's tone is conversational. Normal, even, with no trace of the disappointment or anger that Chuuya expects. He rises, more than a little confused, to meet the amusement dancing in Mori's eyes. "Do you think I called you here to tell you I'm upset?"

"It's the most logical thing I can think of." Isn't it? 

"Under normal circumstances, you might be right. But in this case, the most logical thing is to move forward." Mori studies him for a little while longer before  moving towards his desk. "Since returning took first priority, I take it Ango-kun and Oda-kun haven't told you what we'll be doing from here: have they?"

Chuuya shakes his head wordlessly. Answer enough for Mori, apparently, who takes the nonverbal response in stride. 

"I'm not angry that you failed your mission, Chuuya-kun; against someone like Dostoyevsky, it was doomed to fail from the very beginning. But the truth of the matter is that, what I called the optimal solution is no longer effective now that Dostoyevsky has advanced faster than we imagined he would. Hence, our next step."

One gloved finger slides a photograph across polished wood. This time, of a man Chuuya recognizes. "This is Fukuzawa Yukichi, Director of the Armed Detective Agency, as you know. We will be working with him and his organization until the war against Dostoyevsky is won."

Fukuzawa Yukichi is a force to be reckoned with. That much is evident from the steel in his gaze, and the stories that go around around the more exalted circles of the underground about him. Chuuya studies the photograph and then pushes it back. "The Agency won't work with criminals."

"The Agency is founded on former criminals. Fukuzawa-dono himself was a former assassin. The information broker in the Agency's employ used to be a hacker who tapped into the Diet's security system on a near-daily basis. Even the two students and farmhands working there committed minor misdemeanors related to property damage. Besides, Fukuzawa-dono has personally agreed to an alliance now that there is a common enemy to defeat. He and his ward will be coming tomorrow to meet you."

"His ward?"

"Edogawa Ranpo. Or rather, the reason why the Agency exists in the first place." The Mafia Boss laces his fingers together. "An eccentric, if interesting, character. His gift allows him to see the truth of a certain crime or situation and find the necessary evidence and whereabouts of a culprit almost immediately. As you might have already guessed, he will be the key to unravelling Dostoyevsky's mind."

No photograph accompanies this profile but Chuuya can already picture it: someone prideful, who has an ego just big enough to accommodate such a useful ability, and eyes sharp enough to see through everything. Just the thought makes his stomach roil. "Why me?"

"You were the center of the mission. You've been in the heart of the enemy's lair and observed Dostoyevsky from up close. It has to be you."

"No, Boss." Fukuzawa's face stares at Chuuya from the photograph, reminding him of a day long ago when Mori had set a different photo in front of him. Reminding him also of the only reason why he isn't in Paris anymore. He doesn't look at Mori. "Why me?"

Up here, on the highest floor of the building, the silence is nearly deafening. At last, Mori sighs heavily. "Why you," he muses quietly. "Simply because it had to be."

That's not an answer, Chuuya nearly shouts, however out of line it may be. A hand in the air stops him before he can say it out loud.

"Dazai-kun is clever, I would go so far as to say cunning. You have heard me say he is Dostoyevsky's equal in everything but name, and that has been true for the years that I have known him; it extends also to his ability." Mori pauses. "But nullification requires close contact to work and Dostoyevsky does not need his ability to kill; if he wanted Dazai-kun dead, all it would have taken is one knife. One well-aimed stab between the fourth and fifth ribs, straight to the heart. What he needed was protection: someone with a long-range ability who could act as the countermeasure against Dostoyevsky if the day came that he decided Dazai-kun was no longer worth anything."

Chuuya bites down the instant response that comes to his lips, past the sting in his heart, the one that says Dazai will always be worth something: if not his smarts, then his ability. And if not that... "Is that why you recruited me?" he asks testily. "To complement everything he lacks?"

"I recruited you for what you had to offer in service to the Port Mafia: your loyalty, the skills you honed on the streets, your leadership, not least of all your ability. It wasn't until Dostoyevsky began to seriously move that I realized I had the solution to an inside scoop of Dostoyevsky's forces and Dazai-kun's safety at the same time."

The lull in conversation makes Chuuya lift his gaze to where Mori stands in front of him. "I will not apologize for lying to you, Chuuya-kun: we mafiosos lie by occupation, and I would do it again if it meant we could reach the most desirable outcome. But I hadn't anticipated the level to which the mission would affect you and Dazai-kun both so personally. And for that I apologize, for not taking it into further consideration before sending you on the mission."

There is nothing he can say in response to that. Mori simply watches him, not saying a word as he waits for Chuuya to pull the tattered bits of his composure back together long enough to go back to the usual script. "Will that be all, Boss?"

"For now, yes. And Chuuya-kun? It would benefit everyone if you got some rest; expect to hit the ground running tomorrow."

"Yes, Boss."

With nothing else to do, he heads to his room. People clear a path for him as he walks, either out of respect or of how exhausted he looks, but their whispers follow him all the way down to the door. Whispers of praise, labelling him a hero; laughable, and ironic, for someone in this line of work. He's curious about how that assessment would change if they knew exactly why he's back in Japan. 

Somehow, he's not surprised when Kouyou slides open his door. It became habit, when he was younger, for her to visit him after particularly grueling missions that left him physically and emotionally ragged. This would count as one of those times, he supposes. "Ane-san."

"Chuuya." She waits until shutting the door behind them to rest a hand on his head. "You look tired." The nice way of saying he looks terrible.

"It's been a long few months," he manages a smile. The nice way of saying how the past few months have been shit. "Boss updated me."

"About the Agency." Her mouth draws into a line when he nods, and she turns to kneel at the low table. "I had hoped he would allow you time to rest before, but...the sooner you know the better, I suppose."

He follows suit, noting the presence of a clay teapot and two small cups as he draws his knees into seiza. His eyebrows lift in surprise, at her tone. "You don't like it."

"Neither do you," she returns, pulling back her sleeve to pour tea into the cups, "but we do what we must. Having the Agency on our side, however long that may be, offers the Mafia benefits and assets that we wouldn't have been able to secure on our own."

The tea tastes good, as always, but the reminder of their 'next step' turns the mouthful sour in Chuuya's mouth. "Yeah, well, that would work just fine if their Director didn't plan on bringing along his brat detective." His fingers ache from holding the hot clay cup. "I've had enough geniuses and their mind games to last me a lifetime."

It's not an admission. But it feels dangerously close to one. Kouyou sits quietly, no doubt reading the way he avoids her gaze and putting it next to the details she inevitably got from Mori. The cup clinks brightly against the table and her voice, when it comes, is gentle. 

"I'm sorry about Dazai-kun."

Chuuya can't stop the way his fingers twitch around the cup anymore than he can stop the words from rushing through him, carving out an aching canyon in his chest, and leaving. He hasn't let himself think about Dazai more than he has to since the hotel room, but here in the quiet tranquility of his room, everything comes flooding back. Clogging his throat with the weight of it all. "Did you know?"

"Not at first. It was only after you left the country with him, that Mori-dono elected to share the details with me." Kouyou's eyes turn kind, then, from whatever she sees in his face. "You are allowed to miss him," she says. "You know that, don't you?"

Logically, it makes sense. He's married to Dazai; even if it was for political purposes, they are connected by one, if not the most, intimate bond that two people could ever share. Logically, he is allowed to miss Dazai.

But all he can think about is the night before, when Dazai called him, when he bared himself for Chuuya to see even knowing that the truth would drive him away. When Chuuya gave into his anger and his hurt and threw a knife at him. And he finds that he can't allow himself to miss Dazai: how could he, when he was the one who told him to leave?

"I told him I would kill him."

"That's understandable."

"Why?" It's a hard-fought battle to keep from snapping. Dazai's face in that moment, desperate and pained, burns itself into Chuuya's mind at the same time that it opens up something raw in him. An old wound, tearing open again, and it's so conflicting that it takes everything just to put down the cup and not fall apart in front of Kouyou. "Why does it have to be understandable? He lied to me and I told him I would kill him. There's nothing to understand about that."

"Perhaps not. I don't know Dazai-kun like you do. But you were angry, and upset. And he thought he was doing what was best for the both of you." She bends to pick up her tea and raises it to her mouth. The paint on her lips shines wet when she places it back down, and studies him. "First loves are never easy, Chuuya, particularly in what we do."

His response is automatic. "I don't love him."

"Don't you?"

This is not a conversation Chuuya is prepared to have. Not now, while he's tired and annoyed and definitely jet-lagged, and not anytime later when he has to sort through the mess that is whatever he feels about Dazai now. But the implications of Kouyou's response settle into his chest, and he can barely breathe through it long enough to meet her eyes. 

"Can we do this another time?" he asks. Please.

After a moment of deliberation, she acquiesces with a nod and a comment about the late hour. His knees creak as he rises to walk her to the door, where snatches of distant conversation filter in. Just before she leaves, her hand settles on his head again.

"I'd like to have you over for tea again," she says, "some time when this is all over."

An invitation, and a warning: her way of saying that the conversation isn't finished, only put on pause. Her way of giving him space to figure things out on his own before she steps in. He sends her a brief smile that he hopes looks grateful as he feels, despite the emotions curling within him.

"Sure, Ane-san."

Chapter Text

The training grounds of the Port Mafia is by no means vast: it stretches a humble eighty by sixty feet, a sturdy space walled in by cement walls and added surfaces, resembling a dojo with the way that it's stocked to the brim with staffs, knives, and other weapons of all sizes and functions. Since the organization never sleeps, and has a reputation to keep up, there is almost always someone on the grounds long after everyone else has been sent out on night patrols or retired to their rooms for the night, training. Honing their skills until they become faster, and better, than the enemy.

Today, it's Chuuya's turn.

He hears Rashoumon before he sees it. And like every other time, he sidesteps it, letting gravity take control and pull him to the ground, building up momentum in the balls of his feet before pushing off and lunging.

Akutagawa flicks his wrist forward. His ability howls and snaps forward just as Chuuya's nearly close enough to touch its owner, ensnaring him and using his own momentum to fling him overhead and onto the ground. He lands with the breath knocked out of his lungs and jolts of pain lancing white through his thigh, but he's grinning: this is an improvement from last time. 

He's back upright with a burst of his ability. The foot he stomps onto the ground glows red as gravity inverts itself and turns everything, except the equipment and racks bolted to the ground, weightless. Akutagawa's eyes widen as the glow of Tainted Sorrow envelopes him and lifts him above the ground; to his credit, though, the shock lasts only for a second as his arms cross to block the next kick Chuuya aims at him.

"Good," Chuuya tells him. The crease in Akutagawa's brow smooths out. "Again."

Chuuya attacks first this time. He stomps on the ground again; the rubber discs, in place of actual rock or debris or even bullets, glow red and, with a flick of his finger, hurtle towards Akutagawa at the same time he jumps. Rashoumon's jaws open wide, devouring both the discs and the space between them, but it's too late; Akutagawa lands on the ground, face-first, with one arm twisted behind his back.

"Good work today," Chuuya says from above him, and he means it. This is a far cry from the orphan newly recruited off the streets, so full of anger and violence, and willing to use his ability for anything and everything. Though it pays to have his leg throbbing anew, Chuuya's own muscles feel sore with the afterache that comes after a good fight, and his knees don't creak as he stands to pull Akutagawa to his feet. "But you're still relying on your ability too much."

"Rashoumon is powerful," Akutagawa says. "Using it to end a fight is the most efficient way."

"Not in most fights. You're more likely to be facing off with someone who is more experienced or has a stronger ability, but in either case you wouldn't want Rashoumon to be your only weapon." He tosses his subordinate a towel. "Your ability isn't just a tool, Akutagawa, it's part of you. It's your arm. You're not going to fight using only one arm because you're not going to win, you're going to win when you use everything. Hand-to-hand, included."

There's no response as Akutagawa mops his forehead with the towel, but Chuuya knows he's thinking it over in a way he wouldn't have only months before. It makes a half-smile pull at his mouth, as he runs the towel along the back of his neck. 

"Chuuya-san!" Higuchi is standing at the gate. She's bent in a bow that lasts for only a couple of seconds, the look in her eyes instantly wiping the smile from Chuuya's mouth. "Ozaki-san sent me to get you. The Agency's on their way."

He swears under his breath but already he's straightening the folds of his jacket, moping the sweat on his brow away. He figures he should look presentable to meet this Fukuzawa, no matter his disdain for the Agency; an alliance is an alliance, after all. 

"Higuchi, ready a platoon on standby. The Agency probably won't do anything, but it's better to be safe. Akutagawa, go with her. Both of you, report to the lobby immediately after."

Kouyou is already waiting for him, hands hidden in her sleeves. She looks every bit the picture of sophisticated grace, but the thorns are there for those who know where to look for them; Chuuya knows better than anyone about the knives she keeps within the folds of her kimono. He falls into step with her as best as he can, pushing his hat on his head.

"How many?" he asks.

"Two," she replies promptly, knowing what he means without needing to ask, "just as the Boss said: the director himself and the ward in his care."

"No guards?"

"None that we could detect. Though for all intents and purposes, this is supposed to be a peaceful meeting." The corner of her mouth twists wryly. "All the better for us, then, that the Agency is understaffed."

"That might not mean anything. The director is an ex-assassin; what does that say about the people he's leading?"

"Either that they are incredibly useful or incredibly dangerous. We will find out which it is soon enough."

Their arrival at the lobby, apparently, is a signal: thirty mafia grunts snap to attention, holding their guns at the ready, backs ramrod straight along with the other two units Chuuya didn't remember rounding up. His eyes land on Mori, standing ahead of everyone else including Higuchi and Akutagawa, and suddenly it makes sense--it would be just like him to display the might of the Mafia even for a peaceful meeting. 

Mori doesn't look away once from the entrance even as he greets them, thanking them for a prompt arrival. Kouyou returns it, albeit nonverbally, with a slight bow before turning to follow his gaze. "And where is the Director?"

At first glance, her tone appears casual, as if discussing the weather. But Chuuya remembers how she had been the one to coach him on subtle wordplay before he joined the Angels. How just the slightest inflection on a word or a syllable could change the entire meaning of the spoken word without sounding out of place. She isn't asking where Fukuzawa is, but rather why he isn't here.

He's not the only one to notice. Mori doesn't so much as turn his head, but the curve of his mouth turns amused. "My, Kouyou-kun. If I didn't know better I would think you were eager to meet him."

Now it's Kouyou's turn to wear a thin smile on her lips, demure and convincingly apologetic. She knows better than anyone the time and place for talking back to the Boss, as well as the consequences of doing so in a public setting. 

For Chuuya's part, he surveys the entrance. Higuchi hadn't mentioned how long it would be before the Agency president and the detective showed up, but since Mori looks like he's been standing here for a while, it might be another minute or two.

"Kind of bold, isn't it," he mutters. "To walk so openly into Port Mafia headquarters when Fyodor could be watching."

"Fukuzawa-dono is aware of the dangers," Mori replies evenly, "and I believe he has already taken all necessary precautions. If not, then I've misjudged him."

Then the doors slide open, and anything else Chuuya might have thought to say dies a swift death upon seeing who walks in: it's Sakaguchi. Sakaguchi, with his hair unruly from the wind and carrying a briefcase; definitely not Fukuzawa or his kid detective, and for a moment Chuuya thinks either there's been a mistake or the Agency suddenly couldn't make it and decided to send a government rep in their place instead. 

But then the doors shut, Sakaguchi pushes up his glasses, and that's when Chuuya sees it: a glowing green speck falling from nowhere, like snow. Sakaguchi's form instantly dissolves in a swirl of green pixels; standing in his place, when the lights clear out, are the Agency director and Edogawa Ranpo.

Fukuzawa Yukichi is a force of nature. Despite the fact that he is the only one in the room wearing traditional dress, the steel-set glint in his eyes, his purposeful stride, and the way he barely reacts to the guns suddenly trained on him scream dangerous. A startling contrast from Edogawa beside him, wearing what could pass as a child's detective costume with his hands laced behind his head and somehow managing to slouch while walking. His eyes are closed. 

Mori is the only one who looks unperturbed, as he steps forward to meet the Director halfway. "Fukuzawa-dono. I do wish we could have met under better circumstances."

Whatever Fukuzawa says in reply makes Edogawa snort softly and then stretch, as if tired just from being bored of the conversation. But then his eyes fly open and he looks right at Chuuya.

It feels like he's being pierced, in a way. Stabbed through the stomach with an icicle. Chuuya feels, suddenly, that the center of this man's attention is a very bad place to be; his eyes are as sharp as Dazai's.

"Come forward, Chuuya-kun," Mori says, pulling his attention back though his gaze stays interlocked. Edogawa smirks a little, and the familiar look of it makes something within him burn; he sets his shoulders and strides forward, hyperaware of both the spiking tension in the room and the detective's gaze still on him but refusing to be the first to give in, until he stands a respectable--and safe--distance from the Agency director.

Fukuzawa Yukichi does not extend a hand for him to shake. Nor does he dip his head in lieu of a bow, the way he did with Mori: he simply studies him for a mere five seconds before addressing him. "Executive Nakahara. For the sake of the city, it is good to see you safe."

"President Fukuzawa." Introductions aren't necessary, they both know who the other is, but formalities are. That, and also because it helps dispel some of the awkwardness if Chuuya follows the formula he's been given. "I appreciate it."

"I'll get straight to business. As I understand it, you were assigned an undercover mission within the Decay of Angels and topple it from the inside." Fukuzawa pauses, waiting for confirmation. "That was around four months ago. Have you learned anything that could be of use to both our organizations in the war?"

"It depends," Chuuya mutters. "What part is the Agency playing in the alliance?"

"The part that works behind the scenes." Fukuzawa's eyes slide to Mori momentarily, as if wondering why he hadn't said any of this, before looking back. "Mori-sensei and I reached an agreement while you were away: the Port Mafia's focus will be on luring Dostoyevsky and his forces out into the open while the Agency searches for the Book."

"Then you're out of luck." Silver eyes narrow, and Chuuya cuts off the questions he can feel coming before they come. "Fyodor already has the Book."

Dazai had told him as much, and he believes it; trusting Dazai isn't an issue when it comes to this, because in their own ways the Book, and  Fyodor's intentions with it, concerns both of them.

More than that, it explains everything: why Fyodor hadn't given the watchers on their trail the kill order, why Agatha had been more concerned about getting to Mishima than dealing with Chuuya, and why Dazai had left him alive in the alley behind Mishima's house when he should have had him killed. There was no point, if Fyodor already had what everyone thought he was looking for this whole time. 

"How do you know this?" Fukuzawa asks after exchanging a sharp glance with Mori, above the uneasy murmurs beginning to ripple throughout the room. Chuuya looks at him, and his voice, when it comes, is more even than he feels.

"Dazai Osamu told me."

"He's telling the truth." Edogawa speaks up for the first time, still studying him but with less intensity than before. "It's only going to get more complicated from here, Shachou."

It's here that Chuuya can no longer maintain eye contact, and drops his gaze to the floor tiles instead. Beside him, Mori takes over the conversation. "Perhaps we might move to the war room instead, now that the meeting will go on for longer than planned. I trust you had no other plans for the day, Fukuzawa-dono?"

"You know as well as I do, Mori-sensei, that the city is my priority." And with that, the members of both organizations start towards the elevator.

After so many weeks in Paris, Kamakura feels as one would expect: foreign and out of place, unfamiliar despite being Dazai's home for the past several years. The shrines look like measly altars to gods that never listen, the streets are far too quiet, and the Angels' headquarters are vast and lonely as they have ever been. 

Fyodor is keeping him busy: errands mostly, like patrolling the perimeters of the town or ducking into the seedier parts for whispers of anything happening in Yokohama, little things that somehow manage to become taxing within minutes of starting them. Which is why he finds himself here, walking down one of many lone corridors in the Angels' headquarters only hours after his return, strained from bone-dead exhaustion, jet lag, and everything else he hasn't let himself think about. 

He's been careful to keep any and all thoughts pertaining to Chuuya out of his head, off his own face when there was always a chance Fyodor would see it and know the extent of his miscalculation if he didn't already, but now that he's alone, they surface with a vengeance. And the first one that comes to mind is of the knife Chuuya threw at him: the one that Chuuya had decided, whether subconsciously or at the last second, to not make a kill shot. 

He should have made it one, Dazai thinks, tracing the bandages around his wrist with a finger. It would have been easier for the both of them, and given him what he dreamed of for so long: a permanent solution to the bottomless despair that drains him hollow day in and day out.

To die at the hands of the most important person in his life, how romantic of him. How utterly, foolishly human of him, to want that. He wonders what Mori would say if he knew. Human error, Dazai-kun. An imbalance of chemicals in the brain, nothing more.

Nothing more than a dangerous disadvantage.

A gust of cold air hits him and effectively shatters his thoughts. He bats it away irritably, tempted to scowl, but the impulse fades just as quickly once he sees the culprit: a door left ajar, with a window open inside. The door to Fyodor's office.

If only death would come easy for the likes of Fyodor Dostoyevsky, seeing how the universe gave him anemia along with his self-righteous tendencies, but life is rarely so easy. And as much as Dazai hates to admit it, he needs the man alive for now. He refrains from sighing and pushes the door open all the way as he steps into the room. 

The window clicks shut with a noise like a sigh. Dazai lets his hands fall and walks by the mahogany desk at the center of the room with every intention of leaving as soon as possible. He's tired, he aches for either a blade at his wrists or water in his lungs (or Chuuya), and he needs at least two hours alone in his penthouse suite before he can properly deal with whatever Fyodor throws his way next. 

Instead, his coat catches on a corner and dislodges something: a sheet of paper drifting through the air, landing in Dazai's line of vision as he turns in time to watch it settle. Something in him recoils at the thought of him touching it; it's just paper, he snaps at himself, snatching it up and moving to deposit it back on the desk.

Then his mind catches up with his eyes and his hand freezes, inches away from touching the Book. 

Ah. So that's how you want to play. 

Fyodor never does things without a reason. He never moves without first knowing every single one of his opponents inside and out. Dazai hasn't wondered yet about why Fyodor decided to leave such a valuable thing out in the open, but even if it's as mundane as simply seeing what Dazai will do with it Dazai will find some way to turn the joke on him. So he puts the paper down and picks up the Book. 

He doesn't imagine the shivers running through his hands this time, nor the recoil that goes through him the second his hands make contact. No Longer Human protests within him, trying to snuff out the influence of the Book and thrashing in frustration when it doesn't succeed. 

There are no exceptions to his nullification; Dazai knows enough, has done enough, to understand that. Which leaves only two possibilities about what could be powering the Book: Fyodor's ability or the very First Gift.

The first one makes sense, he muses as he turns the Book over in his hands, considering what he knows about it: Crime and Punishment, an ability that can grasp at another's consciousness and influence it to catastrophe. In other words, mind-reading a person's ideals or desires and, according to Fyodor's judgement, punishing them accordingly. It would explain why Fyodor sought the Book so fervently all those years, if he wanted to use it as a channel for his ability. 

But he's nullified Crime and Punishment before and he knows what it feels like: ice like the steel of a knife, cold enough to burn but still able to be extinguished. If the two were even remotely connected, then he should have felt some similarity between the energy they give off.

But Fyodor's ability feels nothing like the Book, not even close. So if it isn't one, then it's the other: if not Crime and Punishment, then the root of all abilities. The original Gift. 

The silence around him shatters when the ringing of his phone cuts sharply through the stillness. He doesn't react beyond answering the call. "Yes?"

Fyodor's voice filters through the speaker, just like he knew it would. "Nosey, aren't you, Dazai-kun?"

"If you don't want other people touching your toys, then learn to put them away. What is it now?"

"Come to the controls room. Immediately." 

The controls room is little more than what it sounds like: a room walled in by soundproofing and computer screens of every room in the high rise building, and every building in Yokohama. Walking in, the door clicking shut behind him, the flash of orange hair on one screen is enough to make Dazai pause. 

He recognizes the visual's location: the war room of the Port Mafia headquarters, a fact he's only peripherally conscious of because his attention is on Chuuya. Chuuya, seated beside Ozaki, watching the conversations in the room unfold with his mouth in a line and exhaustion in his shoulders. His hands itch to reach through the screen, to touch him and say I'm sorry, and it's all he can do to tear his gaze away. Running an eye around the rest of the Angels gathered, he notes one particular absence immediately.

"Where is Gogol?"

No one answers his question: not Pushkin, not Goncharov, not Sigma, all of their expressions set in varying degrees of anticipation, amusement, and anxiety. No one except for Fyodor, who smiles like a shark. "Patience, Dazai-kun," he says. "All good things to those who wait."

"Stop that."

Chuuya's eye twitches. He doesn't know what he's done to make Edogawa eye him like he's looking at a particularly interesting bug, or have him be obnoxious in the seat right next to his. Kouyou is blissfully unaware of the temper starting to brew inside him; she's talking to a lower-level grunt about security. Which means it's just him, Edogawa, and whatever conversation the man wants to have.

"Stop what?" he asks, annoyed.

"Sulking."

"I'm not sulking."

"Yes you are." Edogawa rolls a marble between his fingers. "You have been ever since you said your husband's name."

There's a sense of unease that Chuuya can't shake as he stares at him. Edogawa isn't supposed to know anything about the mission, even if their organizations are in an alliance now, much less about him and Dazai. His stomach twists as he realizes that Edogawa might not be above revealing things he doesn't want to admit out loud.

"Go talk to someone else if it bothers you so much," he growls at Edogawa as much as it is to keep his mind off the fear churning in his gut. "No one asked you to pry."

Edogawa shrugs. "I'm nosey and I'm a detective; I pry by occupation."

"Maybe it's time for a career change."

"Or maybe you should stop giving me so much information." Chuuya scoffs and is on the verge of moving to another seat, but Edogawa's next words stop him in his tracks. "You know why he did what he did. It doesn't make sense for you to still be upset."

Chuuya sneers at him, fighting to keep his heart rate steady. "Don't talk about things you don't understand, Edogawa."

"Why? Afraid of what I'll see, Mr Fancy Hat?" 

Right before Chuuya's temper snaps, the lights go out. 

His hands are flying to his waistband before he can think about it, drawing both his knife and the gun he never uses, and aiming them at the ceiling in tandem with a thousand other clicks from the mafiosos stationed in the room. Golden Demon is out with her sword pointed at the door. Mori has one hand holding Elise back and the other stretched towards Fukuzawa. He looks about as wary as Chuuya feels. 

And then, the TV at the front of the room turns on. "Helloooooo, members of the Port Mafia and the Armed Detective Agency!"  Something in Chuuya's gut lurches. 

"Chuuya-kun," Mori says calmly, like he can sense it happening, "who is that?"

The screen flickers with broken pixels and colored bars of static but Gogol's face is as clear as day, grinning like he knows Chuuya is watching. And somewhere in his memory, the sound of a high-pitched cackle rings loudly in the back of his mind. "Nikolai Gogol. One of Fyodor's closest associates."

"I'll give you three pieces of information.  First! These high-ranking government officials you see here, I've bound them in a fun little game of mine: a body-cutting show with chainsaws and everything! When the time comes, they'll be cut in two."

Chuuya catches movement out of the corner of his eye: it's Fukuzawa, softly tapping out a beat on the table. Edogawa responding to it, and sliding a pair of black rectangular frames onto his face before opening his eyes to the broadcast. 

"Second! No interference allowed! That's because this is a special broadcast just for you guys, so you have to do everything I say! And last but not least, the third and final piece of information: these people are going to die and there is nothing you can do to stop it. Why, you ask?" A diabolical grin stretches Gogol's mouth even wider. "Because you've made Dos-kun very, very angry, and that is unacceptable. For that, you see, you will all die in this warm wet hell."

Chuuya feels dizzy suddenly. The knife and gun he has trained on the ceiling falters slightly, like some invisible force just passed through him though nobody in the room has moved. And judging from the slightly confused faces around him, he's not the only one who felt it. 

"Something's not right," Kouyou says, on edge. Above her, Golden Demon shifts like it feels the tension in the room escalating. "This kind of mockery is weak even for Dostoyevsky."

"Wait." Edogawa's eyes are still on the screen. There is no trace of humor anywhere in his voice now. "He's not done yet."

"Now then, all of you," this last to the white-hooded guards standing behind the captives, Gogol glances into the camera. Straight, it seems to Chuuya, at him, "take off of your hoods."

The room drowns in screaming, barely able to be heard over the whirring of the chainsaws and the sound of Gogol's maniacal laughter. The white tiles turn red with every body that hits the ground. Something knocks the camera over and it lands with a crack, sideways but still rolling: enough to catch the first white hood come off and reveal orange hair. 

Chuuya's hair. His face, his eyes, his hands pulling off the hood and tossing it away. His thumb, hovering over a handheld activation button. 

"What the fuck," he whispers. It's not just him; Akutagawa, Edogawa, and even Mori himself start at the carbon copies of themselves on the screen, pulling off their hoods and watching the chainsaws cut through the officials like knives through butter. 

"The whole world is watching," Gogol promises. With a start, Chuuya realizes the man is tied to a chair with the same chainsaw used on the officials. When the hell did that happen? "But they won't remember how it started. All they will see is the Port Mafia and the Armed Detective Agency murdering three helpless government officials. And when they turn, and they will turn, it's all over for you."  

Suddenly, the thumb presses down. The chainsaw wrapped around Gogol whirs to life, cutting into him as he smiles at the camera. One final, victorious smirk. "This is a prison break! Over happiness, over that original brainwashing called morality, I choose the freedom of my soul! Listen to the sound of my free will."

Gogol starts screaming. His voice, already high-pitched, verges on bloody murder; his eyes bulge and fill with tears as the chainsaw cuts deeper and deeper into him. "Noooooooo!" he shrieks. For a moment it's almost believable, the fear in his eyes and the panic in his voice. "GYAAAAAAAH! It hurts! It hurts! Someone--someone help me, I don't want to die! I don't want to DIE!"

Bile rises in the back of Chuuya's throat; he can't take any more of this. His chair scrapes back against the wood, the sound lost amid Gogol's banshee screeches, as he pushes his way to the door. By the time he stumbles into the empty hallway, his whole body is shaking. He feels like vomiting, and not even the fist he presses against his mouth is enough to stop it. 

His other hand threatens to snap his phone in half, he's holding onto it so tightly. And for one horrible moment he's tempted to call Dazai, demand answers about what the fuck is going on until his throat runs hoarse; to stay on the line for as long as possible because somehow Dazai is the one thing that makes sense in the midst of all of this. The image of the chainsaw going through Gogol's body--the image (or memory?) of his own finger pressing the button--burns behind his eyelids and it's all he can do to not dry heave right there in the hallway. 

Breathe, he orders himself. Fucking breathe. In, out, letting Tainted Sorrow thrum right beneath his skin just so he knows it's there. 

That's when he hears it: a beeping in the distance, like the countdown of a timer. 

"Chuuya-san?"

Akutagawa's in the doorway, frowning at him. Chuuya stares back and that's when it clicks: the beeping, the too-faint vibrations only he can feel, the inevitability feeling of time being almost up. 

"Get inside." He doesn't wait for a response, only pulls Akutagawa with him as he bursts back into the room. "Boss!"

And then, a noise like thunder rumbles through the building. Tainted Sorrow barely has time to activate before the floor erupts beneath them. 

The impact slams Chuuya against the windows like a tidal wave breaking against the rocks. Glass shatters at his back in an explosion of shards and flame, the momentum of it tossing him out, and as the world turns upside down all he can feel is the fall. 

His whole body throbs. There's a high-pitched ringing in his ears that the rush of wind around him can't quite drown out. His vision swims in and out of darkness, from smoke or a possible concussion, and it gets hard to keep his eyes open. Harder still to concentrate on pulling his ability to his fingertips when even lifting a single finger feels like being electrocuted. 

Focus. 

His fingers twitch; he nearly blacks out just from that, it hurts to even move. Just the air, that's all you need.

In less than a second, the center of gravity shifts. The very air, blackened by smoke and lit by fire, vibrates with the power thrumming through his veins and slows his free-fall. It's a battle to stay conscious, when every so often his eyes slide closed; the next time he opens his eyes, he's on the ground, blinking at the sky and the rest of the war council enveloped safely in the red of his ability.

Thank fucking God.

He's unconscious in the next breath. 

Dazai doesn't remember ever feeling this furious.

It's been years since he felt anything but emptiness in the space where his soul should be, just as long since he's lost his temper in front of someone looking for a weakness to probe. Somehow, with only a live broadcast and a visual of the Port Mafia headquarters going up in flames, Fyodor has managed to make him do both.

The man's voice drifts in the background, dismissing everyone else with a smile in his voice. The smile that only Dazai hears. 

He knows he's giving himself away, like this: with his eyes fixated on the screen and his nails digging bloody crescents into his palms. He doesn't care, because by the time the room empties and he turns around to face Fyodor's serpent smile, the only thing stopping him from wringing the man's neck right then and there is the knowledge that the game isn't over yet. 

"I will kill you."

A promise, a contract that Dazai barely uses, fueled by the same anger keeping his voice ice-cold. A life for a life: Chuuya's for yours. 

Fyodor's smile turns self-satisfied, like he hears him. His own promise echoes in the room long after he leaves.

"I'd like to see you try."

Chapter Text

Endless hours, drowning in hazy darkness and disconnected voices. Arahabaki’s low hum echoing in the deepest corners of his mind, fire exploding dully somewhere he cannot see, Paris covered in fog and flakes of ash. Dazai lying so still on the penthouse floor, bleeding out from the hole in his heart with one lonely hand curled about his head. Sleep keeps Chuuya under, shivering from cold and the almost-nightmares rattling around in his head. 

He wakes up twice. The first time, when purple eyes are the first thing he sees, Fyodor flashes across his mind and then he’s thrashing around, against the hands holding him down and yelling terrible, terrible things at anything and anyone in sight as his ability runs hot beneath his skin and threatens to blast away everyone in the room. Then a needle inserts itself into a vein on his neck, taking away the fight in him and the need to wring Fyodor’s neck for everything ( --for taking Dazai away from him-- ), and sleep pulls him back under. 

The second time, he wakes up alone with his heart racing, the remnants of a dream fading into the background, and Dazai’s name on his lips. It collides with the cool air pushing his breath back; there’s an oxygen mask over his face. He pushes it off his head and sits up, taking in gray walls, a steel desk and chair, and sterile lights above him turning the room white. 

Where the hell is he?

He remembers what happened, but the mental images are vague at best--a broadcast, an explosion, the Port Mafia going up in smoke and flames--and they don't explain what happened during the gap between him passing out and him just now, waking up. There's no clock. His phone is on the desk but the screen is cracked and it's probably dead. Looking down, the hospital gown he's wearing doesn’t look like it belongs to any hospital he’s been to. 

Those facts, all combined together, form a cocktail that only frays his nerves. Paranoia scrapes the edges of his consciousness. His pulse hammers against his ribcage and the adrenaline pumping through his veins leads him out of bed to grab a pen, the only sharp object in sight, off the desk as he quietly approaches the door. 

The door is compact, built with metal sheets an inch thick fixed into place by bolts drilled into them. Not unlike the door to the Port Mafia dungeon, which is how Chuuya knows the wheel in front of him serves as both lock and key--and how, right now, it's unlocked. It gives with the faintest of groans as he pushes it open, holding the pen behind his back, and pokes his head out. 

No one in the hallway, but there are voices drifting from a room only a few doors down from this one, feverish and unstable. He pads towards it, one hand on the wall and the other brandishing the pen behind him like a weapon, keeping his footsteps slow and noiseless in case someone hears him. 

A small sliver of light falls golden through the crack in the door, left ajar like he knew it had to be for a conversation to be heard from the other end of the hall. Some hair falls in his eyes. He pushes it back behind his ear and then, with his breath caught in his throat and tremors in his hand, nudges the door open wider with one finger.

Upon doing so, Chuuya notices a few things all at once: first, the people inside, either guards or government workers, all with their backs turned to the door. Second, the monitors they are watching. Third, what is on the monitors themselves and the fact that the ‘conversation’ he heard was never a real conversation at all. 

He stares at the monitors nearest to him, not daring to breathe as he watches the blackened ruins of the Port Mafia headquarters hiding behind a frantic reporter, her wild gesticulations, and a red bar near the bottom of the screen explaining the explosion of unknown origin that ripped apart the Mori Corporation. 

Another monitor is playing the broadcast. Gogol’s painted face fills the screen, the unnerving serenity of his smile at odds with the agonized screams erupting in the background and the high-pitched maniacal laughter that follows not even a second later. 

The sound grates against Chuuya’s already high-strung nerves, it makes his stomach turn violently. Bile rises in the back of his throat again and he forces himself to look away, to get away before he loses his mind watching the recording of a dead man’s mockery. He makes it back to his room, shuts the door, buries his face in the pillow; it takes a long time before sleep can find him again. 

The next time he wakes is to keyboard clicks, the only sound in the otherwise quiet room. The lights are just as bright as before. He looks away to a more tolerable level of dimness, the back of Yosano's white-coat as she types away on her laptop. 

Eventually she finishes whatever it is she's doing, and laces her fingers together to lift them above her head and stretch. Afterwards she rolls back her chair far enough to see him and smiles.

“Hey there,” she says. “You’ve been out for the better part of two days. Thirsty?”

Yes, he realizes after a moment. He nods, not quite ready to speak, but she seems to understand anyway. She hands him the glass and watches as he pulls methodically from the straw until his tongue doesn’t feel so swollen in his mouth and his throat doesn’t feel like a desert.

“More?”

He shakes his head. His voice is hoarse when he speaks, but he manages. “Where are we?”

“Abandoned military compound. The safest place we could get you and everyone else in the meeting before anything else went wrong.”

Safe, is the only word he can register past the residual hypervigilance sliding out of his system. In light of everything that’s happened, that’s something at least. “And the others?”

"Are doing just fine. Resting and recovering in the other rooms, per doctor's orders. Really," Yosano shakes her head as she replaces the glass, smile turning both fond and exasperated, "what you did was incredible, saving them like that; every single one of them would be worse off if you hadn't acted so quickly. But a minute later, and you would have been too dead to put on my operating table. When I said you all needed a doctor, I didn’t mean so soon.”

Chuuya coughs because his throat is still too dry, but he's relieved. He remembers trying to stay conscious long enough to see everyone to safety but passing out before that could happen, and it was all Murphy's law from there. Everyone safe, alive, and in one piece is a better outcome than he could have hoped for. 

"Anyway you're good as new. I don't think I need to talk to you about watching physically straining yourself. How do you feel?"

"Good." Better than, actually. There's no pain anywhere in his body or even visible traces of it despite the fact that the explosion had been close enough to him to cause damage even with his ability shielding him; in fact, the only thing he can feel is lingering exhaustion and nothing else that can't be fixed with good rest. Even the gunshot wound in his leg is gone. "Your ability?”

"You're welcome," she tells him dryly. And then, after shuffling around in a closet, she tosses him something. "Think you can handle a walk?"

It lands on his lap: a shirt bundle that's seen better days and a pair of cargo pants, neither of them his. Chuuya picks them up, noting the rough slide of fabric against his fingers, and frowns at them, trying to think. "Are we going somewhere?"

“I’m not. But you are.” She turns her back as he begins stripping out of the gown. “Military compound, remember? Those things are like mazes unless you know your way around them, and besides people want you to have a look around.”

“Why?”

“You were at the heart of Dostoyevsky’s lair, and you observed him from up close. I don’t know what Sakaguchi is planning but either way, he’ll need you in the days to come. There’ll be someone coming by to show you around.”

Yosano goes quiet, just as Chuuya pulls the shirt over his head. It says something about how he knows what she’s about to ask, before she asks it, and his stomach twists when she finally does. “What happened, Chuuya?”

He stares down at the glass in his hands. The surface of the water ripples, blurring out any reflection he might have thought to see.  

“Shit happened.” The choker feels too tight around his neck. He’s being strangled with the first thing Dazai ever gave to him, as well as all the other messy emotions that came with it, and it’s sickening how fitting it all seems. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Yosano takes the water glass without a word, and a few seconds go by in silence. 

“Love is hard,” is all she says, finally, and that’s that. 

Another knock on the door comes five minutes later, opening to reveal a tall blonde man with glasses and the same stern disposition as Fukuzawa. He looks familiar, for some reason.

“This is Kunikida Doppo,” Yosano clarifies for him, nodding at the other as he waits by the door, “one of the Agency.” That explains the familiarity then. “He’ll be the one showing you around.”

Not that he looks very happy about doing it; his mouth twists as soon as they make eye contact. Chuuya understands but he can’t help the brief flicker of annoyance that crosses his stomach in response. “Can I pass?”

“You’re already dressed.” In other words, no. He holds back a sigh and grabs his hat off the side table, jamming it on his head. When Kunikida turns and walks out the door, Chuuya is right behind him. 

An elevator capsule waits at the end of the corridor they walk along, protected by rusted metal bars that run its circumference and secure themselves on its iron platform. Once they're inside, the sliding doors seal shut behind them; as the capsule begins its descent, the view outside the glass is of cement walls and lights strategically placed along the elevator shaft. 

"I'll be brief," Kunikida begins, serious as a tomb. His fingers press into the spine of the green notebook he holds. "The Agency is indebted to you for saving Fukuzawa-shachou and Ranpo-san. We're grateful for that and will not forget it any time soon."

"But?"

"But I need to know what your intentions will be from here."

It's a good thing Chuuya knows how to read between the lines, or else he wouldn't have heard everything else Kunikida isn't telling him: I need to know if you're planning to betray the Agency after this is all over. I need to know that your loyalties were never with Fyodor or the Angels . He tears his gaze from the view to eye him. "You really think I save my allies just to kill them later?"

"It's a possibility," Kunikida presses. "You're Mafia."

That, more than anything the other has said or done, makes Chuuya's blood boil like nothing else. He steps forward hard enough to shake the whole capsule, and the way Kunikida tenses makes gleeful satisfaction shoot through him like an arrow. He hopes the grin that splits his face is as feral as it feels. 

"Don't act," he begins, seething, "like you know the first thing about the Mafia. I didn't have to save your President, I'm not obligated to risk my life protecting people outside my own."

Kunikida stares him down with a furrow in his brow, but he looks less defensive. Less sure of his stance. Maybe it would feel more like a victory if Chuuya didn't feel so drained. "Then why--"

"To protect the city, that's fucking why. We've been fighting a war for too long as it is." A loose strand of hair falls in front of his face, he bats it back irritably and his fingertips brush the choker. He swallows, unprepared for the way it makes longing lodge in his throat, and tosses the strand back before Kunikida notices anything. "Do some research the next time you pretend to know shit about me."

He's still irritated. His blood rushes hot and prickly through his veins, something that until now only sparring with a competent partner could quell, and the look on Kunikida's face isn't helping. Before he can do something stupid like punch the expression off his face and threaten the alliance that brought them together in the first place, he scowls and turns to look out the glass.

Somewhere during his conversation with Kunikida, the view outside the capsule changed: the cement walls dropped away and opened up to a vast space that stretches overhead like a dome, ringed with the same golden lights lined along the elevator shaft. There is still a long way down before the capsule lands, but that just means Chuuya can see everything happening below them: a hub of activity and noise, different stations like weaponry and repairs struggling to accommodate everyone bustling around. The tension in his gut eases when he recognizes some of the crowd as Mafia, and he almost forgets that he's mad at Kunikida. 

"I didn't think the Agency had safe houses," he mutters, not quite hiding how impressed he is. 

"Only a few." Kunikida sounds resigned, as if he's also come to the conclusion that argument won't push the alliance forward. "Shachou made a contract with the government years ago in exchange for his services, and was granted access to some safe houses in case his life was ever on the line. This compound is the one he was allowed to keep when he quit to establish the Agency."

"And you've been hiding here all this time."

"For three weeks. And not by choice." Kunikida falls quiet for a moment. When Chuuya bothers to glance at him, he finds the other's gaze fixated on the doors with a tick in his jaw. "Dostoyevsky attacked us too. He tried so many times before, no one thought that he might just have been toying with us. Ashes are all that's left of the Agency now."

The capsule lands with a thud, gears grinding to a halt. As Chuuya moves his gaze to the doors, the looks on people's faces outside are all the same: grim and gray with worry, weary from being on guard for an attack that could happen at any moment. The reality of war-torn Yokohama hits him like a slap to the face, he's unable to think of a single consoling word, the doors slide open, and he follows Kunikida out wordlessly. 

The comms station, he learns, is a short ten-yard walk away from the capsule, past weaponry and intelligence and a bunch of people he doesn't recognize sparring. It's also where they're headed. Sakaguchi is already there, bent over three laptops and periodically glancing up at the three screens hitched up against heavy-duty storage boxes. The blue-haired woman he is speaking to nods once and moves away, and the mousy man behind her with round spectacles, a bedhead, and a futon draped over his shoulders glances at them--at him, fearfully--as they approach. 

Kunikida walks ahead, calling Glasses by name and shaking hands with him by way of greeting before stepping aside with the futon man. For Chuuya, one look at what is on the screens stops him in his tracks.

The first and second screens air what he already saw in that room full of government workers, a news update on headquarters heralded by the same hysterical news anchor and the broadcast from Gogol. But the third screen is lined with photographs taken from security camera footage, all of whom Chuuya recognizes as Fyodor's known associates: Gogol, Sigma, Agatha Christie...and Dazai. 

His hands spasm at his sides. Shock registers first, followed by an ache so deep it carves out a canyon in his chest and turns his voice to sandpaper. 

"What is this?"

"An attempt to trace Gogol's broadcast to its origin and find out where Dostoyevsky is." Sakaguchi's voice stops right behind him. He's looking at Dazai's photograph too. "The people in these photographs are our best chances of doing that."

Chuuya scoffs before he can stop himself. "So, what, we're going to ask them nicely?"

"If it comes down to that," Sakaguchi responds seriously. "In the meantime, if you think you're recovered enough, I'll need to ask you some questions."

"About?"

"Dostoyevsky. What he's like, how he operates, whatever relevant else you learned while undercover. Right now you have intel on him that we don't, and it could mean the difference between winning and losing the war." A cheer surfaces in the background; someone's won the sparring match. "Contact with Dostoyevsky's associates, even Dazai-kun, isn't guaranteed at the moment; it might very well be impossible. You are the best bet we have right now, Chuuya-kun."

Not the best, Chuuya corrects inside his head, the safest; the real best bet they have is deep within enemy territory with nothing to show for it except a photograph on Sakaguchi's monitor. His gaze lingers there, on the hollow despair hidden in Dazai's gaze that only he can see; his heart feels heavier by the time he turns around and gives Sakaguchi his answer. "Don't expect much. I wasn't undercover for that long."

"At this point, anything helps. Come with me."

The side room they go into doesn't look like much from the outside: more gray walls, more LED lights that leave dark spots in Chuuya's vision if he accidentally looks directly at them, a large window covered from the inside by an opaque screen. Except for a long conference table, chairs scattered around, and some variation of a whiteboard standing off to the side, it's virtually empty. 

Just as he starts wondering why a verbal questionnaire about an enemy everyone already knows exists needs to happen in private, his eyes land on the figure already standing by the long table, on the sword strapped to his hip, and his vision goes red.

He's lunging before he realizes his body is moving, one fist moving through the air to connect with a pale cheek. His momentum is cut off midway and then hurled backwards; it's Oda. 

Oda, who pins him to the nearest wall, hands firm and unyielding on his wrists. "Stop it."

"Fuck off." Anger runs through him like a live wire: electric, dangerous, and just a bit unsteady. He looks past Oda's shoulder to glare at a calm, pale gaze. "What the hell is he doing here?'

"Chuuya-kun." Sakaguchi has a hand in the air, like it can pacify him. "We'll explain the situation, but first you need to calm down."

Oda's grip tightens by a fraction, as if preparing for the next time he lashes out again. Chuuya's tempted to laugh in his face for thinking he could keep down a mafia executive, and a gravity manipulator to boot, with that kind of grip on his wrists. Instead he shoves Oda off of him and glares half-heartedly. The lights make his head ache.

"Fine. Explain it to me."

There had been a plan to take down Fyodor from the moment Mori assigned Chuuya the undercover mission. Only Mori, Fukuzawa, Edogawa Ranpo, and a handful of officials from the government knew about it from the start. The reason Suehiro Tecchou sits across from him now is because half the Hunting Dogs were in on it, as part of an elite group trained to take out imminent threats to the country's safety, to make the decoy role he had apparently been playing this whole time feel believable.

"No." 

"Chuuya-kun--"

"One more word, Sakaguchi, I dare you," he snaps. Sakaguchi shuts up. Chuuya's hands shake from anger, from the realization he's been used again in another game he didn't realize he was playing, and they shake when he sends a withering glare in Suehiro's direction.

"You," he all but snarls. "You tried to kill me. I should have ripped you apart when I had the chance."

Suehiro doesn't do anything except calmly return his stare. "I apologize for the misunderstanding that led me to attack you. But I won't for doing my job."

"Is that what your coworker thought when he tried to drown me and finish what you started?"

"I don't condone what Jouno did. I don't make excuses for it either. But there is a common enemy now," Suehiro says, as if Chuuya hasn't heard that line way too many times within the past month. "We are all here because at some point in time, in some way, Dostoyevsky has bested all of us. He will continue to do so unless we work together."

"Fuck no."

What Suehiro proposes is the smart thing to do, he recognizes that. It's the reason why the Mafia-Agency alliance exists, when under normal circumstances both organizations would be like two rabid dogs tearing at each other to draw blood. But his vehement refusal is an impulsive reaction, a knee-jerk reflex conditioned by the number of times he's been screwed over just this past month. "I don't trust you or the rest of your pack to not go turning on everyone else the moment it becomes convenient."

"If I know the rest of 'my pack' as well as I hope I do, then they will be seeing this through till the moment Dostoyevsky is killed or, at the very least, incarcerated. I'm not promising anything, Nakahara Chuuya, and neither am I asking for your trust--"

"Good, because you're not getting it."

"--only that you, who were at the heart of Dostoyevsky's operations, allow the Hunting Dogs to help in manufacturing his downfall. Consider it atonement for the wrongs we've done you."

"Fine." Off to the side, Sakaguchi starts. He had probably been expecting more arguing, Chuuya thinks sourly, more resistance over something that was bound to happen anyway with or without his approval. 

"Fine," he repeats. He pushes himself off the wall and takes one warning step towards Suehiro, hard enough to make the room shake, "but try anything out of line, and I'll put you into the ground in a second. Probably less if I'm feeling kind."

"Understood. I look forward to working with you, Nakahara Chuuya."

Seeing a Hunting Dog, a government worker and the same man who tried to kill Chuuya once, sweep the floor with a bow is strange. A formality that Chuuya doesn't care about, particularly coming from him. He scoffs and turns to make his way out the door, but one step and the world swims before his eyes.

Fatigue, exhaustion, everything tilts his axis of balance sideways until he's falling, falling, falling. The last thing he's conscious of before he blacks out is Oda calling his name.

Some time later he wakes up again, and it goes much like the second time: cold, the lingering touches of a dream fading rapidly into the background, opening his eyes to find himself explicably alone. His body prickles with exhaustion and aches that are there for no apparent reason, all things that Yosano's ability hadn't been able to fix. 

His phone sits off to the side on the desk. By now it’s definitely dead, and he can see the lightning-like cracks spider webbing over the screen even from here. He pulls it to him anyway, running a finger along its edge.

Get out, he hears, the sound of his own voice harsh and unforgiving even in his memory, and suddenly it’s too much. He sets the phone down harder than stricter necessary, making it clatter on the desk, and his eyes burn with exhaustion. Among other things. 

I’m sorry, Dazai had told him just before he left. Chuuya hasn’t been able to forget the face Dazai made while saying those words, desperate but resigned. As if he already knew it would come to Chuuya telling him to leave.

He’s still pissed, about Dazai lying to him; that probably wouldn’t change if Dazai had decided to tell the truth, but they would have figured it out together and maybe things might be different. He’s still upset, but it doesn’t matter: Dazai had put his position in peril to apologize, to give him valuable information, and what did he do in return? Told him to leave, and that he would kill him if he didn’t.

First loves are never easy, Kouyou had said, looking into his eyes like she could see everything he refused to admit even to himself. Edogawa had said more or less the same thing in not so many words than a well-timed taunt, as if he could sense the regret stinging deep within his chest. Maybe he could.

Taking down Fyodor is the main priority. Chuuya feels too old, and too tired, to focus on anything else, much less the very weighty idea of love that still makes him want to flee, and still he aches for Dazai's presence. For the sound of his voice, affectionate even in its mockery, for the warmth of his palms against everything still hurting inside him. His fingers go up to touch the choker. I'm sorry too.

The phone suddenly vibrating to life in his hands surprises him, catches him completely off-guard. For a moment, he just stares at the name popping up on his screen, not quite making the connection yet. And then he's pressing the phone hard against his ear, broken edges scraping against his skin, with his heart in his throat.

"Dazai? Dazai!"

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.”

Chapter Text

Several things happen then.

The first: Tanizaki’s voice crackles in his ear. Again. It’s loud and frantic, and the questions spilling one after another dissolves his patience at an alarmingly quick rate. 

The second: he trembles. Not with cold, not with fear, but with rage—a rage he doesn’t understand until he watches Gogol and realizes one or three things all at once. 

The third: in the span of four seconds, Gogol slams into the nearest concrete block, back first, with Chuuya’s hand around his throat. 

He’s not supposed to be using his ability. But it’s a two-on-one kind of situation, and while Chuuya has definitely faced worse odds with less, there’s something addicting in leveling the playing field when he’s this pissed. His foot smashes into the ground, making the ground crack open and locking Sigma’s shoes to the ground before he can even think of coming to Gogol’s aid. 

But before the dust can settle, he’s aware of only one sound. Laughter.

Gogol’s laughter, rising awful and half-strangled from his throat, growing in volume and hysteria until it drowns out Tanizaki’s voice and the sound of Chuuya’s own thudding pulse, cutting out only when Chuuya’s fingers squeeze hard enough to leave bruises. 

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you where you stand,” he snarls.

It’s more than a threat. For all intents and purposes, Chuuya is dead, or at least missing, to the rest of the world—and Gogol is too. Neither should have been able to find the other here, but now that it’s happened, the prospect of what else Gogol might know about is too broad and too chilling to consider. Killing Gogol here would be safest, all things considered. 

Gogol wheezes out something that might be a laugh. “Such violence, Chuuya-kun! Is that any way to greet an old c—“

Chuuya shoves him back against the concrete, hard. “One good reason. Now .”

“Dazai-kun.” Another wheeze. “He’s the one who sent me to you, after all.”

Chuuya’s grip on his collar loosens and then drops away. Dazai’s note burns like a weight against his palm. “Bullshit.”

“Why?” Gogol stands, rolling his shoulders back with a ‘ ooh, that hit the spot! ’ and rubbing at his throat. “That’s his handwriting on the card you have, isn’t it? Such distrust!” He exclaims when Chuuya steps towards him. “No need; I was there when he wrote it. Though I never realized Dazai-kun liked poetry.”

There are a few ideas floating around in Chuuya’s head to respond to that, most of them some variation of what the fuck is going on, but his mind chooses this moment to juxtapose the broadcast and the very much alive Gogol before his eyes, and what leaves his mouth is this:

“You’re supposed to be dead.”

Both Gogol and Sigma look at him, and somehow that’s more irritating than if they hadn’t listened at all. “In the broadcast. You died, and the whole country saw, so tell me exactly how you’re fucking standing in front of me right now.”

Golden eyes blink blankly at him, right before a strange sort of grin takes its place. “It’s funny,” he says, almost to himself, “Dazai-kun asked me that same thing.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That a magician never reveals his secrets.” His grin widens when Tanizaki’s voice crackles loudly in Chuuya’s ear and makes him wince. “Go on, Chuuya-kun. Won’t you tell them where we are?”

“Why?” The corner of Chuuya’s eye twitches as Tanizaki’s voice doubles in volume, now that he’s responded. “So you can run the second my back is turned?” 

Not likely with Tainted Sorrow still running, but Gogol has a pocket dimension transfer ability; he wouldn’t put it past him to use it now. 

“We won’t run,” Gogol promises, like he’s somehow read Chuuya’s mind. One gloved hand comes to settle just over his heart. “Joker’s honor.” 

It’s probably the most genuine either of them have been since this whole thing started. But Chuuya increases the gravitational density locking them to the ground, just in case.

“Oi Glasses, I know you’re listening.” It might be Tanizaki wearing the other earpiece, but Chuuya is not naive enough to believe that Sakaguchi hasn’t been somehow listening in on the entire conversation. Government agent and all that. “I have two members of the Angels immobilized. What do I do with them?”

Static crackles as the line of communication transfers to a different frequency. “Which members?”

Chuuya opens his mouth to respond, and then frowns. “I asked for Sakaguchi.”

“My training deems me the more suitable one to handle situations like this.” Suehiro doesn’t wait for him to finish scoffing before he moves on. “Which members are immobilized, Nakahara?”

“Clown and casino guy.” Sigma twitches a little. “Now what?”

“Bring them in.”

The transmission sinks in slowly. When it does, it becomes a battle to not crush the earpiece right then and there. “You can’t be serious.”

“Deadly.”

“Are you even listening to yourself?” he hisses. “They’re terrorists.”

“Who happen to be part of Dostoyevsky’s inner circle and have information that could put us twelve steps ahead. It pains me to say, but in this case, the end justifies the means.” More static, more shuffling and muted conversations in the background. “I’ve informed Tanizaki Junichirou of your coordinates and your circumstances, and he will be making his way to you shortly. In the meantime, please prepare to depart at once—with Gogol and Sigma.”

Before Chuuya can do something stupid, like give away who's on the other end of the transmission or lose his temper with a government official, he shuts off the comm. Irritably. Until it's all he can do to not break the damn device just by pushing a button.

"Have a nice chat?"

Gogol doesn't get to see the last bits of Chuuya's patience snap, because in the next instant Chuuya knocks both him and Sigma unconscious, with one strong burst of his ability.

Just in time, too; not two minutes later, green pixels materialize somewhere to his left and Tanizaki stumbles out of thin air. "Chuuya-san!"

"Here, kid." 

"Are you alright? The communications cut off suddenly and--oh." His brow furrows when he sees exactly who Chuuya immobilized. "Are they--"

"No." What is with people and assuming the Mafia just kills everyone, he grouses privately as he reactivates his ability and makes Gogol and Sigma light enough to carry. "Let's get out of here." 

Tanizaki still looks unsure, but he nods anyway and concentrates. And in a swirl of green pixels, they disappear. 

They make it back to the Agency's safehouse in under an hour, to a flurry of commotion that swallows them the second they step into the compound's perimeter: a unit of armed guards sweeping Gogol and Sigma to somewhere under lock and key, another group rushing behind them to seal off the entrance. Suehiro himself, standing with Kunikida at the helm of it all, with his arms crossed and a displeased twist on his lips. 

"What?" Chuuya snaps the second he sees it, as Tanizaki quickly updates Kunikida and runs off. 

"They're unconscious. At this rate, questioning them will need to be put off for at least half an hour."

"You should have been more specific then." Suehiro's gaze snaps back to Chuuya with a noticeable irritation, which only makes Chuuya's own temper flare further. "I brought them back, you could be grateful for that much. Where's my boss?"

This last is to Kunikida, who looks between them quickly before answering. "Awake, but still in recovery with Shachou. He explicitly asked for no one to disturb him."

"Fine then. Where's Kouyou?" Kunikida looks completely lost, and maybe if Chuuya hasn't already blown past his patience quota for the day, he'd be nicer about explaining Kouyou to him. "Red hair, kimono, katana--"

"Also awake. I believe she is in the mess hall at the moment."

"But you won't be joining her," Suehiro cuts in. Chuuya turns towards him, one wrong word away from cracking the cement floor. 

"What did you fucking say?"

"Agent Sakaguchi has questions he would like you to answer about the nature of you undercover mission and proximity to Dostoyevsky. As do I."

" 'Agent Sakaguchi'," Chuuya begins with a sneer, "will tell you that I'll answer those questions when I'm ready and not before."

"We are at war, Nakahara." There's an edge to Suehiro's voice now. "A war that the fate of this whole country hinges on. We don't have time to deal with your childish tantrum--"

Chuuya does crack the floor, this time. His fingers flex, with anger, with the effort of holding himself back, and then curl into a fist. They shake so hard he feels the strain in his forearms, as both a month's worth of frustrations and the hour-old fury stewing in his stomach spill over. 

"A tantrum," he sneers, and just the implications of that word make him want to scream. "Is that what you're calling it now, after someone having a normal reaction to you bringing two fucking terrorists into the only available safehouse?"

"It's like I said earlier," Suehiro says. His voice is low, and Chuuya can barely hear it. "They are among Dostoyevsky's closest associates. They--"

“They blew up my home,” he snarls. “They put my people’s lives in danger, they’ll turn on everyone the second it’s convenient, and we don’t even know if they’ll fucking talk.” The fact that Chuuya has to spell this out to Suehiro —to the man trained his whole life to deal with situations like this, who until now has just been watching from behind the safety of a computer screen and just effectively placed an entire safehouse of people at risk—has his entire body trembling with helpless rage.

He shouldn’t even be here.

He should be at Port Mafia headquarters, in a conference room with Mori and Glasses and whoever else this mission involves. He should be with Dazai, working with him to figure out what to do from here because the intel they have between them is enough to topple Fyodor’s kingdom from the inside out. Most of all he should be doing something about the fucking Book and where is he instead? In an underground military compound with one government prick who won’t give him the time of day. 

There’s so much more he wants to say, so much more that he has to swallow down instead because him losing his temper has already garnered more than enough attention and the last thing anyone needs right now is to get distracted. He forces himself to breathe, and his fingers unclench. 

“I’m going to see my coworker,” he says, pleased when his voice comes out even, “and neither of you are going to stop me.” And when he finally spins on his heel and stalks off, away from prying eyes and pitying gazes, neither of them do. 

Finding Kouyou in the mess hall is easy enough, even without the bright pink kimono to give her away. Years under her tutelage, spent working with her and fighting alongside her, have made it so that he knows exactly where she’ll be: in a corner table facing the rest of the room, where nothing will slip under her guard. If she seems surprised to see him, she doesn’t show it. “Chuuya.”

“Ane-san.” He slumps into the opposite chair, suddenly exhausted. “Eating alone?”

“Well, since everyone else is currently indisposed…”

She lets the statement hang, but it’s enough. Chuuya doesn’t feel like eating with anyone outside the Mafia either, allies or no. 

“You visited headquarters today,” she changes the subject as quickly as it started. “Find anything of note?”

“No.” He pauses, then sighs. “Yes. Two high-ranking Angels were there.”

Kouyou stills, water glasses lifted halfway to her lips. She puts it back down and her eyes sharpen to razor-sharp focus. “Oh?”

Her unspoken question makes him bristle, even if it isn’t accusatory in the least. “It wasn’t me.”

“I know it wasn’t, child. That’s not what concerns me.” Her fingers rest around the glass, painted nails tapping lightly against it. “Our base has been reduced to rubble, nothing more than a crime scene to occupy the police’s time. I find it hard to believe that Dostoyevsky would be interested in it.” 

“He’s not,” Chuuya mutters, feeling her gaze settle on him. 

There’s a bandage on her cheek. He notices how she winces a little every time she speaks, and feels his own aches pile up in the back of his skull. He drops his gaze back to the table, industrial steel that burns cold against his palms. 

“They said Dazai sent them.”

For a long moment, the only sounds are of incoherent conversation and dishes clinking against each other. At long last, Kouyou speaks again. 

“Do you believe them?”

He does look at her then. At the bandage, at the curl of her fingers around the glass, at the look in her eyes that says she knows exactly how he feels. 

“I don’t know,” he admits. It’s hard to, when all he feels at hearing Dazai’s name is a longing so painful it tears the breath from him—he wonders, dimly, if love is supposed to feel like this. “I don’t know what to believe anymore.” 

The hall is starting to empty, now. Meals never take long anymore; the thought of an attack at any moment keeps people constantly on high alert, and there’s no shortage of work or paranoia these days. Kouyou watches the tables around them vacate before she rises from her seat. “Come, child,” she says, not unkindly. “Let’s walk.”

It feels like old times, as he falls into step behind her. Fifteen-year-old him would never agreed so easily, but now, seven years older and tired beyond all hell, he can’t find it in himself to protest. They stop in front of the comms station, in front of another news report on the Mori Corporation explosion, and watch in silence. 

“These Angels,” Kouyou murmurs at length, “I assume Suehiro-kun has them in custody.” 

“More like locked in a little room, somewhere."

“Then they’ll be expecting you soon.”

He knows. And just the thought of spending hours in there, with Gogol and Suehiro and all the rest, is enough to make his stomach turn.

“I wish they didn’t,” he mutters, letting his gaze slide off the screen to blink at a more tolerable level of dimness. He’s so tired. “I want this to be over.” 

They stand there for a little while longer, not necessarily watching the screen. At some point Kouyou reaches out, rests her hand on the top of his head as she used to when he was younger, but she doesn’t speak. She’s always been better out of the two of them at knowing when silence was more effective than words. 

Sakaguchi looks as ragged as the rest of them do, when he finds them. There’s traces of fatigue in every line of his body as he bows to Kouyou, but there’s a pinch in his brow as he turns to Chuuya and lets him know, it’s time. 

Time to play twenty questions. Time to be stuck in a tiny room for a verbal battle of wits that he doesn’t have the energy or the willpower for. Chuuya holds back a sigh and, with a brief nod in Kouyou’s direction, follows on the heels of Sakaguchi’s footsteps. 

Up the elevator capsule, down a hallway, two right turns, to a holding cell with a mirrored glass window. Suehiro is already there, sword strapped to his hip, speaking with Fukuzawa and Mori in hushed voices; beside them, Edogawa, sporting a cut on his face and drinking from a bottle of Ramune. His eyes turn towards the door as they come in. “Ah. Joining us, Fancy Hat?”

Whatever biting comment he means to make dies on his tongue as his gaze catches on the inside of the holding cell—at Gogol, waiting in a steel chair. “Why isn’t he restrained?”

“He is, though not in the way you think." Mori's voice carries as authoritatively as it ever has, even without the Boss's mantle around his shoulders, as he crosses over to join Chuuya at the window. "Ability inhibitor drugs, or so I've been told. Suehiro-kun had the foresight to use them while Gogol was still unconscious."

Chuuya stops listening at ability inhibitor. The sheer emptiness in his veins replacing the warmth of his ability isn't something he wants to be reminded of, even if it was months ago, and his fingers twist around his wrist in an attempt to distract himself from it. "He can do a lot worse with a lot less, Boss."

"And he would have done so already, if he chose to," Mori reminds him. "Besides, he came all this way of his own volition. To suddenly change tactics and attack the people in this room would be out of character, and unwise, even for him."

That makes sense. To an extent. "Who's gone in so far?"

"Every single person in this room. And we all got nothing." Edogawa punctuates the end of his statement with a loud slurp that grates against Chuuya's ears, but for once the detective isn't smiling. His eyes, hidden behind black bangs and the frames of his glasses, are dead serious. "You are the only one he'll talk to, Fancy Hat."

Suddenly Chuuya hates every single person in the room. 

Mori for scheming behind his back. Sakaguchi for going with it. Fukuzawa for proposing an alliance that’s done shit for the war, and Edogawa for being a loudmouth brat about things he knows nothing about. Himself, for everything else.

The painted line of Gogol’s eye stares at him from the other side of the mirrored glass. Watching him watching Gogol, with an unnerving grin on his mouth, knowing that somewhere in the back of Chuuya’s mind his words are rattling around. 

His fingers drop away from his wrist, mind made up. 

“Put me in.”

He’s lost count of how many times he’s stepped inside an interrogation chamber, either to supervise or to participate, to be the one asking the questions or the one carving canyons into skin until it bled. Sometimes both. Stepping inside the compound’s interrogation cell, already feels like a far cry from the Port Mafia’s dungeon.

The overhead lights are blinding. The walls are stained with half-finished paint jobs, and the drop in temperature makes goosebumps shiver along his skin. The door shuts off behind him with an ominous thud, and Chuuya’s pulse pounds so hard he feels it in his fingertips. 

It’s quiet. He can just barely hear the electrical hum of the overhead lights. It’s just him, Gogol, another steel chair, and Edogawa’s voice inside his head.

You are the only one he’ll talk to.

He takes the second chair. Sits barely five feet away from Fyodor’s closest associate and looks him dead in the eye. “Why me?”

Gogol’s eye blinks.

“Why me?” Chuuya’s patience slips through gritted teeth, just for a second, before it’s back in his white-knuckle grasp. He jerks his head in the direction of the mirrored glass. “Everyone else out there is asking the same questions I am.  You could have talked to any one of them and had it easier.”

“Ah, well, I suppose that’s true.” Gogol twirls his braid around his fingers and side-eyes the mirrored glass with a lazy grin. “But they were boring. All work and no play, so dull! You are different.”

“I’m really not.”

“But you are.” That painted line cuts back to him, creasing as Gogol’s mouth tugs up in a smirk. “You are the only one who will truly hear me out, Chuuya-kun.”

“Someone’s confident.”

“I am. Because I’m right.” Chuuya doesn’t respond. The smirk widens as Gogol leans forward against steepled fingers. “You are curious, about what I told you earlier. It’s written all over your face.”

“Maybe because I don’t want to stay in here longer than I have to.”

Gogol wheezes.

Not quite a laugh and not quite a scream, but somewhere in between, harsh and loud and going straight to the migraine building in Chuuya’s skull. He fixates his gaze on a point on the far wall and sits through it until the cackles begin to die down. 

“You—“ Gogol gasps, fanning himself. “You’re a funny one, Chuuya-kun! Truly. I’m almost impressed.” He claps once, twice, and then settles in his seat as the last of his laughter turns into a sharp smile. “You don’t have to hide it from me. I know how much you want to hear about Dazai-kun."

The revulsion at this conversation, at discussing his feelings about the person he cares most about with Gogol, keeps him quiet. But some little thing must show on his face, because Gogol grins wider when he notices. 

“Come now, Chuuya-kun,” he says, “Won’t you ask why he sent me?”

He should. That’s the whole reason he’s in this damn room in the first place. 

But right now, the conversation is in Gogol’s hands—going at his pace, going the way he wants. And people are watching, Mori is watching. If he’s going to do this, then it will be on his terms. 

“No,” he decides. “I’m going to ask how a dead man managed to gain Dazai’s trust and live long enough to tell the tale.”

“Now look, Chuuya-kun—“

Something in him snaps, and he jumps to his feet, knocking the chair a few paces back and not caring where it lands. 

“You were dead,” he snarls. He wishes he had his knife, to grab onto, to pull out, to carve a red smile into Gogol’s throat because he’s so fucking angry, and it’s all he can do to not fucking lose it. “You sliced yourself on half on a live broadcast, and the whole nation saw. So tell me what the fuck you’re doing here, locked in a room with me, before I make this personal.” 

Not the best interrogation method, as things go, but Chuuya’s always spoken better with his fists. 

Gogol is the first to break the silence, with a sigh, a wry twist of his lips, and hands held up placatingly. “You’re no fun, Chuuya-kun,” he pouts. “Very well; I had unfinished business.”

Chuuya scoffs and sits back down. “What, with Dazai?”

“With what he can do for me.” Gogol sits back his chair and tilts his head. “You said it yourself, he doesn’t trust me, and yet I’m sitting here in front of you, the person he cares about most in the world. What do you think I told him in order to do that?”

“I don’t know.”

“The same thing I’ll tell you now.” Gogol closes his eye briefly, as one hand reaches up to tug at the card covering his other eye. It falls away, fluttering to Gogol’s lap, and one unseeing eye stares straight at Chuuya.

“I want to kill Dos-kun.” 

Chapter Text

Fog.

That’s Chuuya’s first thought staring into Gogol’s uncovered, unseeing eye—fog rolling dense over a European countryside, sea foam pulling people under to a watery grave, some other milky white things that generally lead to somebody’s demise. Suffocating and deadly either way.

It’s silent in the cell. Way too silent to the point where he can hear his teeth grinding in his head and his pulse thudding in his bloodstream. Gogol—half-blind, two-faced Gogol—returns his stare with a smile so gleefully wide Chuuya has to wonder if he isn’t seeing the way everything Chuuya thought he knew veering out of control.

Gogol wants to kill Fyodor. 

He’s lying.

“You’re lying,” Chuuya says, heartbeats too late. He has to be. There’s no other explanation. 

“Am I?” Gogol returns just as quickly. The card that had been over his eye balances on one finger, tilting precariously as he moves his hand in time with the tilt of his head. “After coming all this way to you, who would rather kill me than hear me out? It doesn’t make sense.”

“It doesn’t make sense because it’s fucking you.” Breathe, chibikko. The voice in his head sounds like Dazai. Don’t let him get to you. He breathes—and exhales sharply a second later. 

“Fyodor trusts you.” Trust might be an exaggeration, but his point still stands. “The most out of everybody, and that’s probably not one-sided. So why would he do anything to make an enemy out of you?”

“Oh, he hasn’t.” Chuuya blinks. “Silly Chuuya-kun. Dos-kun doesn’t trust anyone, not even me. But he understands. Yes,” Gogol nods like he’s just found the answers to the universe, “he understands. And that’s why I want to kill him.”

Chuuya’s not following. Neither, he thinks, is anyone else outside, except maybe Mori and maybe even Edogawa. It must show, because Gogol laughs lightly and leans back far enough to tilt his chair backwards.

“I suppose you don’t understand. Then again, that’s to be expected. Dos-kun is the only one who understands in the end.” 

Chuuya’s hands smooth out over the fabric of his pants, a nervous—and calming—habit he never grew out of. A suspicion, small but growing every second, roots in the back of his mind, and his thoughts snag on the corner of Gogol’s tone inviting him to ask.

Go on, he can hear the man say. You should just ask, since the man in question is right before your eyes. 

“The broadcast,” he starts, sitting through the way Gogol’s eyes—both of them—seem to sharpen. “The explosion at the Port Mafia base. Both were Fyodor’s ideas.”

The card flips between Gogol’s fingers—an ace of spades. The most powerful card in a deck.

“Why would he put his most powerful player on a suicide mission?”

“Why would he have me dead, in other words? Simple.” The fingers stop moving. “Because in his eyes, my purpose is fulfilled. 

“The strategy was simple: to erase the true culprit from the scene and leave the Mafia and the detective Agency with no room to flee. One small bang, in the grand scheme of things—and once the curtains fell, the show was over. Bang, bang, dead. Or I would have been, without some extra steps.”

“Let me guess,” Chuuya says dryly, “a magician never reveals his secrets?”

“Just so! And it turned out well in the end; if an illusionist were to die restrained, magic tricks would have to be mistrusted.” The card swirls on top of Gogol’s fingers until it’s stopped by a thumb, with the tip of the spade pointing straight at Chuuya. “Do you believe in magic, Chuuya-kun?”

“No.” He’s tempted to laugh. In a world where things like abilities exist, what the hell is magic? A cheap imitation of it? “Should I?”

“Oh yes! But that’s just my opinion.” Gogol’s hand flips palm-up, card held between two fingers as the rest curl over an imaginary something. “Consider this, Chuuya-kun: a ball in my hand. An ordinary ball that I make disappear. Would that be enough to fool anyone?”

Chuuya’s gaze flicks between the palm and the painted slit. He waits.

“No. Of course it isn’t; anyone can make anything disappear. The real trick, the one that separates the masters from the common folk, is how they bring it back. Understand now?”

His gaze catches on the card, the tip of the spade still pointing right at him, and the cogs in his head start turning. The ace of spades, the talk about magic, magic tricks. Something brought back…

Gogol died on the broadcast. He should have. The man had basically admitted to it not three minutes ago. But even in a world like this where anything is basically, necromancy abilities are extremely rare—less than 1% of the population, and sometimes not even then—and if Gogol is telling the truth, then there’s only one other object able to bring someone back from the dead.

"Ah," he hears Gogol murmur, "there it is. There's the light bulb."

Chuuya wants to smack himself for not realizing the obvious. He almost does, mentally. The only thing stopping him is the next wave of muddled confusion, that leaves him feeling like he's still, somehow, grasping at straws.

He hates to admit it, but Edogawa would have been a better fit in here.

"Fyodor instructed you to die because he has the Book. That still doesn't explain why you want him dead." Other than a chance for payback? a voice in the back of his head nags. He ignores it. "You follow him. You must have known you wouldn't come out of this alive."

"It would certainly seem that way, wouldn't it?" Gogol traces the edge of the card with something like amusement. "You're not wrong, Chuuya-kun. I did intend to die, in order to prove the existence of true free will. I didn't think anyone could understand that motive and truly, no one did." The next time Gogol looks up, there's a smile like a curved blade on his mouth. "Dos-kun was different. He said, 'Splendid. In opposition to God, you are fighting to lose sight of yourself.' It was as if he looked into my very soul to find those words. He was the only one who understood, I thought."

He's talking in circles, Chuuya thinks irritably. Tiredly. Always the circles with Gogol, going round and round and getting nowhere, not a point in—wait. "You thought?"

The smile widens. "Dos-kun was the only one who understood," he repeats. "He was my close friend. But he is bound by the dreams of the world he intends to create; he isn't free at all."

"I don't follow."

"What do you know of the Book, Chuuya-kun?"

That it's bound by the laws of karma. That hundreds of my people sacrificed their lives for it. "Enough."

"Then you know how it operates. Only the big bullet points and the main events can be written down; for the rest of the lil baby steps, you have to carry them out yourself. Dos-kun intends to create a world free of abilities and Gifted people, but isn't he, in the very act of doing so, chaining himself to the very laws to which the Book operates?"

Gogol taps the edge of the card against his mouth and side-eyes the mirrored glass, as if remembering everyone on the other side of it. "I struggled with this dilemma for many a moon. Many a moon, I tell you! And I came to the same conclusion every time: Dos-kun is my friend. Dos-kun is not free. So long as he lives, I will be tied down with him, bound by that brainwashing called 'feeling.' But then I realized: if I were to kill that close friend, wouldn't I be truly free then?"

It's crazy, all of it is. Big surprise, the guy is a fucking lunatic. But for the first time since this conversation started, there is no trace of a joke anywhere in Gogol's voice. That of all things sends shivers up Chuuya's spine, the idea that Gogol is serious about killing Fyodor. "You're insane."

"Interesting." Gogol's hand falls away from his face, card placed back over his eye, and the painted slit creases in silent amusement as Gogol watches him with an interest more befitting of Fyodor. "That's what Dazai-kun said too."

Chuuya doesn’t respond. At least, he doesn’t think he does. His feet are moving towards the exit, the handle’s cold metal under his fingers, and he barely notices that he’s leaving. But then the door clicks shut behind him, his back presses hard against it, and he gasps through his first inhale in what feels like hours.

“Okay.” It slips out of him, a reassurance to Mori and Suehiro and everyone watching him as it is a breath to ground him. The hand he runs through his hair catches on some knots; he lets it fall back to his side.

“Okay,” he repeats. Some stagnant irritation flares up again when he makes eye contact with Edogawa, but he allows it; it’s about time he earned some damn emotional margin to lash out in. “You’re welcome,” he sneers. “Don’t say I never did a thing for you.”

“Of course not.” The annoying noise Edogawa creates by blowing obnoxiously across the top of his empty bottle is at odds with the grave look on his face. His tone, though, remains cheerful. “You’ve been very helpful, Fancy Hat. Everyone here appreciates it.”

“Really.”

“Sure.” Edogawa glances sideways. “Any words, Prez?”

If Fukuzawa heard his kid detective, there’s nothing to indicate one way or another. He studies Chuuya with neither contempt nor hatred, and even the katana on his hip doesn’t pose a threat, but Chuuya stiffens anyway. 

“This changes things,” the man murmurs at length. “Mori-sensei, it appears we’ll have to brief our subordinates sooner than later.”

“No time like the present, as the saying goes, Fukuzawa-dono. We must seize the opening while we have it. Edogawa-kun, Chuuya-kun, if you both will follow us.”

Wherever the two leaders want to talk, it’s not where Chuuya expects; instead of being led into another gray, windowless room, they walk beyond  a painted white door to a garden filled with white rose bushes and a small stone fountain. The thought of all the other rooms that Chuuya hadn’t known existed here barely crosses his mind before Mori’s voice pulls him back to the present.

“Chuuya-kun, I will not insult you by making you swear that what you next hear goes no further than this room. As my partnership with Fukuzawa-dono extends back to little more than a decade, we have come up with a countermeasure against Dostoyevsky that, at best, should be known to only the individuals in this room—not one you’ll want to hear, but one that is necessary.” 

“My first loyalty is to the Port Mafia.” It’s almost the exact words he said when he first joined—when he knelt before Mori and sworn his life, his blood, and sworn to crush the Mafia’s enemies with the power of gravity a hundredfold. “Whatever it takes to preserve it, I will do.”

That being said, he knows he’s not going to like what comes next. 

It’s Fukuzawa who deals the blow. “Nakahara,” he says. “We need you to join the Agency.”

Chuuya clamps down hard on the instinctual no fighting to slip through his teeth. “Why?” he asks instead.

“Your ability.” He rounds on Edogawa with a scathing remark ready to deliver, but the detective simply holds up a finger. The damn brat doesn’t even look fazed. “The day you disappeared from Japan was the same day that news of a government building was found destroyed to its very foundations. Now it could have been just a coincidence, but Port Mafia reports say Dazai-kun disappeared too and he has a nullification ability. He’s the only one who could bring you back from the edge if you had, say, a highly destructive ability.”

This guy thinks he’s the shit. “So what if I do?”

“What else, Fancy Hat? We stick to the original plan: Port Mafia holds down the defense of Yokohama, the Agency looks for the Book.”

“Fyodor already has the Book.”

Edogawa’s eyes gleam. “Even better.”

Chuuya can’t decide between being confused as all hell or punching Edogawa right in his snobby face, so he does what he’s always done in this situation: he looks at Mori. “Boss?”

“Dazai-kun shared the details of your Corruption with me, shortly before his return to Yokohama, with the intention that I should share them with Fukuzawa-dono. And I have,” Mori adds, in answer to Chuuya’s unspoken question with a glance towards Fukuzawa. “From the looks of it, the second tier of your ability holds destructive capabilities capable of leveling a city in minutes if you wished it, but can only be used for a limited amount of time.”

“Did he mention that I can’t control it?”

“He did. Hence, his insistence to put you under the Agency’s command as a temporary measure. Fukuzawa-dono’s ability grants others control over their abilities so long as they are in accordance with the goals and values of the Agency. Normally it requires an entrance exam or such to fall under the range of the ability, but perhaps the good director might make an exception this once?”

"No. Every ability comes with limitations, and this is mine." Fukuzawa's gaze goes back to Chuuya. "The entrance exams are usually to induct new recruits into the Agency and test whether or not their heart lies in accordance with the organization's values; as such, these exams require a certain degree of peril. Your exam, as it were, will have to be on the battlefield itself whenever that might be." 

Which means he'll be entering battle, ill-prepared to deal with the President's ability and being a one-man army buying time for the Agency. Chuuya bites down on the frustration beginning to heat up his insides in an attempt to calm himself. "How will I know if it works?"

"It varies from person to person. But the way my employees have described it is using an extension of your body, like an extra arm, rather than a power you are constantly tapping into." 

It doesn't help much, honestly. Chuuya's had the privilege of being in sync with Tainted Sorrow for as long as he can remember, and that was from needing to use it nearly every waking hour to survive in the slums. Then he remembers, vaguely, the red tendrils crawling up his arms and the ancient verse slipping past his lips—and an anger so alive, it felt like he was reborn in it. 

Control Arahabaki. Despite the deep echoes of rage the thought stirs in him, it doesn't sound so bad.

"Don't make such a scary face, Fancy Hat. It's only temporary, you won't be stuck with us for too long."

Thank God, Chuuya wants to snarl, just so Edogawa knows that every second spent talking with him feels like a thorn twisting into his side. Edogawa smirks like he knows exactly what he's thinking, and the urge to just deck the man in the face sounds very appealing with every minute that goes by. 

And then, everything goes dark.

Tainted Sorrow jumps to Chuuya's fingertips as the lights immediately flicker back on, red the color of his ability. The hum of the security system rebooting is drowned out by the alarms blaring in the background. Elise floats like a phantom angel next to Mori and Fukuzawa has one hand on his katana and the other keeping Edogawa behind him, but Chuuya is faster than all of them—he propels himself to the door just as it slams open and slams the intruder down with a hand on his collar.

Only it's not an intruder; it's Haruki, and Chuuya doesn't even have the heart to yell at him for barging in because the kid looks so damn close to a meltdown. "Situation. Now."

"Gogol," Haruki gasps out. "It's Gogol, he—Hunting Dog-san—"

Chuuya doesn't listen to the rest. He races past countless mafiosos and government workers back to the interrogation cell, practically flying because of his ability, and throws the door open. Suehiro's propped up against the wall, face pale and sweating, with Yosano pressing her hands against a gaping hole in his abdomen and Sakaguchi holding him still.

The interrogation cell's been blasted to dusty, crimson-splattered pieces, and there's a body inside. 

"Gogol," Suehiro wheezes, and it takes Chuuya a second to realize the man is talking to him, "he went crazy, he...one minute he was sitting there and the next he began...laughing and...knife, his coat, began stabbing himself. The ability inhibitors—"

Yosano slits his throat and the rest of his words die in a bloody, frothing gurgle. Chuuya nearly, nearly kills her on the spot before a purple glow surfaces where her hands are pressed to Suehiro’s side and he remembers, healing ability.

“The ability inhibitors,” Suehiro gasps once he’s remembered to finish reporting, “they were still active. It was only ten minutes since they had been administered, they shouldn’t have worn off so quickly, he—he should not have been able to override them. Nothing ever overrides them.”

Chuuya reaches the same conclusion as Sakaguchi at the exact same time—their eyes lock amid the sinking feeling in Chuuya’s stomach, reflected back in Sakaguchi’s own face.

Fyodor knows, he’s known this whole time. And if he knew about Gogol and silenced him—permanently—with the Book, then Dazai…

No. Images of Dazai, still and unmoving, bleeding out with his eyes gone vacant and cold, slam into him one after the other, and he squeezes his eyes shut against the bile rising in the back of his throat. Fucking no, fucking—please. No. 

“Sakaguchi-senpai!” The man’s teal-haired assistant rushes in, as pale and harried as Haruki had been. She’s speaking, but everything sounds like it’s underwater—monitor 2, Yokohama, burning. Yokohama is burning.

And Fyodor nowhere to be found. 

Sakaguchi yells something back, about reinforcements. Cameras. Who fucking cares about what the cameras will show, it’s all the same—a city on fire, the streets leveled in panic, bodies strewn everything as the world they know crumbles under Fyodor’s touch. The Port Mafia explosion on a much larger scale.

Dazai. Yokohama. Yokohama. Dazai. Between one and the next, it’s too hard to breathe. Too hard to think about anything other than getting there and doing something before he loses them both.

I might lose them both today.

“Put me on the field.”

He’s interrupted yet another of Sakaguchi’s conversations, cut through the middle of a command to dispatch the rest of the Hunting Dogs and have them hold off Fyodor as long as possible, but he doesn’t care: the moment the words make it past his self-control, he knows it’s the right thing to do and he’ll be damned if he just sits here and lets Yokohama fall. Lets Dazai die. He presses on, pushing through Sakaguchi’s increasingly stressed look. “My ability is suited for both long and short range, and I’m basically a one-man army by myself. Put me on the field, Glasses.”

“I can’t do that, Chuuya-kun.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Neither. Both. I’m very sorry, but you have to stay here.”

“Like hell I’m going to!” Tainted Sorrow crackles beneath his skin, a reflection of his own simmering rage that he’s just barely able to keep at bay. “You think the Hunting Dogs and whoever else they bring will last five minutes against Fyodor when he has the Book? I’m the best chance we have at winning and you know it.”

Sakaguchi shakes his head, perspiration beginning to soak his bangs. “Even if I do,” he insists, “this is a trap. You’d be walking right into it and doing exactly what Dostoyevsky wants, and if we lose you too early—“

“Then you would be underestimating my most valuable executive.” Mori’s voice cuts cleanly through the verbal tennis match and slices the net in half. “I assume you’ve already found the fastest route to Yokohama.”

“Yes but, Mori-san—“

“There is no more time, Ango-kun. Dostoyevsky has grown tired of our waiting and made the first move; to squander an opportunity like this would be mean we’ve already lost.” Sakaguchi opens his mouth again. “The route, Ango-kun.”

Mori doesn’t wait for a response. Maybe it’s because he knows Sakaguchi will obey, despite the difference in their rankings. Maybe it’s because he has already calculated the odds and found them to be in the alliance’s favor. His gaze turns on Chuuya, a smile playing at the corners of his lips—the one he always wears when victory is certain. “The plan, Chuuya-kun.”

The plan: hold down the fort. Hold down the defense of Yokohama and buy time for the Agency to swoop in. It’s a two-part part where anything could go wrong, and it’s exactly why Chuuya hates these kinds of plans.

But the Mafia and the Agency has always been two sides of the same coin, and this is how they will win: by using the coin to its fullest potential instead of picking a side. 

“Yes Boss,” he says. Arahabaki stirs within him, at the promise of battle and the darker thirst for vengeance that sprung alive the moment Gogol uttered those four fateful words: “I want to kill Dos-kun.”

Me too. And I will.  

It can’t be more than an hour to reach Yokohama, but inside the military-commissioned vehicle it feels like years. Small eternities going by in a blink of an eye, the longer that the bulky thing shakes and groans as the wheels run roughshod over gravelly uneven roads—every pit in the road sends the best of Chuuya’s confidence to pieces as Tainted Sorrow rushes and recedes like a wave. His fingers find the leather of his choker and cling on tight.

I might lose them both today.

He tries to imagine a world where Dazai’s voice ceases to exist and Yokohama is nothing other than a name on an outdated map. Tries to open the door to that possibility only to find himself at the edge of a chasm, plunging into pale gray nothingness. A void. 

“Don’t give up yet.” Oda looks strangely calm for someone being sent to the front lines of Yokohama’s defense. “Dazai is stubborn. It takes a lot more than Fyodor to kill him off.”

Chuuya’s that transparent then. He can’t decide if he’s angry or relieved that Oda is the one who sees through him so easily. “How do you know?”

“Because he is my best friend,” Oda says. “And because he’s Dazai. He won’t die if he’s planned for us to win.”

Then, the vehicle heaves to a stop. 

Chuuya is the first to move, the first to throw open the doors, and take in a scene straight out of his worst nightmares: the sky is on fire. The streets are all leveled to concrete waves, smoke whips around them in a hot dry wind, and the civilians who aren’t running are face-down on the ground, unmoving and covering in ash. 

And Fyodor stands at the helm of it all, watching.

The plan is to holds the front lines until the Agency’s arrival. Everyone agreed on that. But no one explicitly said how they had to hold the front lines.

Tainted Sorrow sparks in his palms before he completes the thought, turning him weightless. Launching him into the air and hurtling straight for the lone figure on the water tower, as all the rage he’s allowed fester over the course of the trip here boils over. “Fyodor!”

The water tower creaks under his weight—under the precarious center of gravity and the flimsy supports keeping it standing. Fyodor smiles.

"Chuuya-kun. So this is what it takes to draw you out."

This is how it always goes, the two of them following the steps of the same treacherous dance they've played over the years spent hunting Fyodor down. The same game of cat and mouse, the script they've rehearsed for too long for Chuuya to stand the saccharine sweetness dripping form that poisonous tongue even if the lines aren't quite the same. 

"Where is he?" he snarls.

"Dazai-kun? Bleeding out from the knife in his back, I believe—or so I left him. He betrayed me," Fyodor offers by way of explanation, as if Chuuya cares, "and I acted accordingly. Surely an executive from the Port Mafia would understand."

Chuuya's foot smashes into the steel of the water tower, making it crack open at Fyodor's feet—Fyodor stumbles, only for a second, only long enough for surprise to flit across his face and disappear like it was never there. 

It's enough for Chuuya.

His fist connects with Fyodor's cheek—and, when Fyodor falls sideways, fists in the collar of his stupid Russian coat and dangles him over the side of the tower. "I will kill you," he growls. 

Fyodor's smile widens with all the confidence of a man who's been threatened before—who's heard that exact same threat before—and he reaches into his coat to pull something out, dangling it before Chuuya's eyes. "I'd like to see you try."

The Book.

Chuuya lunges for it, his hand closes around empty air. The sudden imbalance of weight makes the entire water tower lean sideways and then for once, Fyodor is faster: switching their positions so that Chuuya is the one being dangled over the edge, closing his fingers around the gravity-heavy fist Chuuya throws at him. 

The punch never connects, and neither does the pain. 

Ice seeps into Chuuya's blood, cold enough to make Arahabaki snarl, cold enough to throw him into deja vu—into realizing that what he feels isn't Crime and Punishment but his own ability leeching away. Something he's only ever felt before with Dazai. 

With Dazai. 

Fyodor's eyes gleam. "So sad, Nakahara Chuuya-kun."

Then the fingers fisted into Chuuya's collar let go, and his entire world slips into free fall. 

Weight settles back into his body with a vengeance. Gravity turns on him and pushes him down, and in the eternity of his reverse-fall all he can feel is the emptiness of where his ability should be.

He had never been afraid of falling. When he broke free from the lab, as Nakahara Chuuya, he had come out without the fear of heights or the fear of falling and that was because Tainted Sorrow would always be there to catch him. He made things lighter, he made things heavier, he did both on himself and allowed himself to walk into the sky—and he never feared falling because he had a safety net. But now the ground rushes up to meet him too fast, he's already fast-forwarded to the moment his body breaks on it, and all he can think of is tuck and roll, tuck and roll.

And then, an arm wraps around him.

The resistance at his waist cuts his fall short, pushes him sideways onto concrete that bruises his skin and bones. Another weights presses against him, enemy flashes through his mind, his hand rears back in a closed fist like an arrow nocked—and drops.

“Dazai?”

A breath. A cough. A groan, as his savior rolls his shoulders back and sits up.

“How rude, chibikko. It’s only been a week.”

Somewhere in the distance, something explodes. A million responses rise to Chuuya’s tongue—retorts, insults, jabs, each more petty than the last. He opens his mouth—and then the dam bursts. He reaches for Dazai and pulls him in, pulls them together. Dazai’s arms wrapping around his back feels like coming home, and he has to press his face into Dazai’s shoulder before he loses it. 

You’re alive, you’re alive, you’re alive.

Then his hands press against a damp spot on Dazai’s back, and his relief freezes over into fear. 

“You idiot,” he says, tone sharp without intending it to be. “You absolute idiot, I’m going to kill you, why—you’re hurt, why are you even here?”

“I’m sorry,” Dazai murmurs into his hair. 

“What ‘I’m sorry’? Get out of here before you bleed out—“

But then Dazai says it again. Again and again, each more fervent than the last. His expression borders on stricken as he brushes hair away from Chuuya’s face, and the part of him wondering if Dazai’s even hears him crumbles when he realizes what Dazai is apologizing for. 

Paris. Killing Verlaine. Bringing the Clock Tower down on his head. Betraying him. 

Chuuya doesn’t care about any of that right now. 

“Dazai.” His hands come up to frame Dazai’s face. “Dazai, look at me.” He is, but he’s not seeing Chuuya; only his failures and whatever else he’s been agonizing over for so long. 

They’ll have to talk about it later. It won’t be pretty. Chuuya will probably get mad again, and Dazai might start pulling at his bandages, but they’ll talk about it later—Dazai though seems especially hell-bent on starting that conversation right now, and that’s no good because Chuuya will get confused and they are in the middle of a literal battle. 

So before Dazai can start apologizing again, Chuuya shuts him up with a kiss. 

There’s no way around it: he’s missed kissing this idiot. Dazai tries to keep talking, even though he gives up after two tries, because he doesn’t think he deserves this. He does. Chuuya keeps his lips pressed to Dazai’s until he has to come up for air and thinks of everything he’ll tell him later: You idiot. I missed you. I’m glad you’re alive. I love you. 

“Later,” he says.  When Yokohama’s life isn’t hanging in the balance, and Fyodor is finally dead. When they win. He moves one hand down to grab Dazai’s. “Tell me later. Right now we need to focus.” 

Dazai’s pupils contract to dots, dilate again, and then return to normal. He squeezes their hands. “Avoid Fyodor.  Get to the middle of the city. The Clock Tower’s there, get rid of them first.” He cuts off in a gasp, and Chuuya’s hand flies to his shoulder. “Defense, Chuuya. Not offense yet. Your ability will come back in three minutes.”

Three minutes. It doesn’t occur to Chuuya to ask how Dazai knows, as the earth ripples again and the faint outline of Rashoumon glows from behind the smokescreen.

His thumb presses against the back of Dazai’s hand. “Stay alive, mackerel bastard. You hear me?” Dazai squeezes his fingers like an unspoken promise. 

And then, their hands let go. 

Chapter Text

The rest is out of Dazai’s hands entirely. That’s the first clear thought that comes to mind, as Chuuya’s fingers slip through his own and Chuuya himself turns to run for the center of the city: the fact that from this point on, he can’t do anything else.

Feeling helpless isn’t something he is familiar with, but now it feels like it’s everywhere: in the curl of his hands as he gathers himself to his feet, pooling beneath the iron lock on his self-control, seeping into the small doubt in the back of his head that wonders whether he made the right choice, sending Chuuya to the place where the battle is most intense. Logic dictates that Chuuya is safer there, on a battlefield he knows how to control; logic doesn’t account for the barest threads of anxiety pulling taut in his stomach, at the thought that he’s let Chuuya go again so easily. And still, logic wins out in the end.

He doesn’t stay to watch Chuuya leave; if he does, he will almost certainly follow, and a wounded man is of no use on the battlefield. He turns his gaze elsewhere, to the outline of the water tower he can just see past the smoke, and starts for it. 

Two steps in has him stumbling, collapsing into a section of wall on a nearby building and gritting his teeth as the wound in his back flares. 

Ah. He’s forgotten. 

It was easy to earlier, when he reached for Chuuya, when the first time he touched his husband since Paris brought both relief and anger as he felt the emptiness of where the other’s ability should be. Relief had won out over the anger and over the pain in the end, as he forgot about everything except melting into the tightest embrace Chuuya has ever given him. 

Now, it returns full-force. Fyodor’s parting gift had been clean, but deep, and even the slightest motion sends jagged spikes trembling through his body until the world swims before Dazai’s eyes and his breath comes in gasps. He stays put until the spasm fades to leave a lingering warmth, until moving no longer grates against his every nerve, and then stumble-walks towards the outline of the water tower. 

Fyodor is not there anymore. He’s on the ground, facing the sky where smoke billows the most, every line of his body smooth with satisfaction. He’s always liked to watch things burn. He turns at Dazai’s approach, and Dazai finds himself hard-pressed to believe that the man had not seen him coming. 

“Well,” Fyodor says. “I suppose it was always meant to come down to this.”

Of course it was; they’ve known it from the start. Dazai offers a mirthless smile and reaches into his coat.

“Don’t take it personally,” he says, in turn. The gun he takes out levels itself at Fyodor’s head, and his thumb clicks off the safety. “I did promise you, after all.”

Fyodor glances at the gun; when his gaze flicks back up to Dazai, his expression is no less amused than before. “Then what are you waiting for?”

Dazai’s gaze drifts to the Book, held between pale hands. And that beat nearly costs him. 

The knife flashes out of nowhere. Instinct makes Dazai lurch backwards, a fraction of a second too late, and the blade slices through his sleeve. Momentary shock dissolves into pain, and with pain comes clarity; he swings the gun blindly and it catches on the side of Fyodor’s head. 

Pain lances through the side of his body. He falls back, breath drawing in a hiss, and watches as Fyodor does the same.

“Don’t be a fool, Dazai-kun.” A trail of red runs down Fyodor’s temple. “You won’t last, with your body in that state. This insubordination will ruin you.”

Anyone else might mistake the grave undertone in Fyodor’s voice as concern. Dazai knows better; it’s not concern, but truth. Cold, hard truth that makes his wound burn far worse than the knife that caused it—the knife currently in Fyodor’s possession. 

“What’s wrong, Fyodor?” he murmurs. A trickle of blood runs out of his mouth, and he wipes it away. “Afraid of losing the game?”

A strange expression settles on Fyodor’s face. It looks, vaguely, like disappointment. “I thought you would be the first to understand,” he says. “Everything has been decided from the start.”

“Not everything. Not your victory.”

Fyodor tilts his head, considering him. Asking, in his own way, for details as if Dazai would ever give them.

But well, this is a civilized conversation. Such a thing requires an equivalent exchange, especially for two masters of the game. So Dazai swaps one truth for another and lays it out in the open, bare and raw as the white-knuckle grip around the gun.

“You lost the moment you set your sights on this city,” he says. “You lost the moment you threatened him.”

Of all the things, this is the one that makes Fyodor smile. 

“And you, Dazai-kun. You lost the moment he became everything to you.”

Dazai doesn’t bother answering. The gun in his hand feels light.

No time for caution, now. No time for a plan, or another game of wits. All that remains is cutting off the head of the snake.

He lunges forward again, and this time Fyodor meets him in the middle. 

Everything burns; the smoke caught in Chuuya’s lungs and throat, the breath rattling in and out of him like a broken heater, the adrenaline coursing electric through his veins. His pulse hammers too hard, too fast, against his chest, and every explosion after has him fast-forwarding to the moment where he arrives too late. 

Yokohama is unrecognizable, now. It’s a war zone, littered by flames and bodies and blood-soaked dirt, covered in ash and smoke until the city looks like a skeleton, and far too fucking big. He feels sixteen again as he runs, passing through what used to be Yamashita Park, tearing through the streets trying to find someone he knows, heart pounding in his chest like it did the last time Yokohama was on fire. 

“Akutagawa!” he yells. It’s lost in the ripple of gunfire that rips out immediately after, and primal fear wins out over caution. “Boss! Ane-san!”

No one answers him. Something explodes to his left, bringing down an already unstable building and throwing dust into the air. Chuuya stumbles to a stop, lungs burning and fingers pressed against a solid block of debris, and calls for his ability. Come on, he calls to the deity inside him. Come on.

Nothing. For once, Arahabaki is silent. 

Fuck. 

Three minutes, Dazai said. Shouldn’t three minutes be up by now?

Another round of gunfire splits the sky to his left. He takes off in the same direction. Running, running on rumbling earth, trying not to look at the civilian bodies littering the streets—and then the earth ripples beneath his feet. 

The impact makes him stumble. He lands hard on a patch of even ground and stares at the boulder smashing into the lamp post ahead of him. That could have taken off his head. 

“Ah…this is wonderful.”

Chuuya gets to his feet. Squints at the faint outline of someone in the smoke, just ahead of him. The air clears just enough to reveal gray eyes and a bandage around a head, and then it clicks. 

He bites off a swear. No wonder Fyodor hadn’t bothering hunting him down.

"And yet, so sad." Goncharov's voice reaches past the smoke. "Truly a shame. You could have been great with us, Chuuya-kun."

"Shut up."

Whatever he means to say after, it's cut off by the sound of something moving deep beneath the earth. A fissure splits the ground open like a black gaping maw, and of all the things he expects to come out of it, a giant earthen fist is not one of them.

It swings low and fast towards him, leaving him to dodge and jump away from the dirt it sprays in its wake. He speeds forward, fist aimed towards Goncharov's head—a rock catches in his ribs and slams him into the wall of a collapsing building. 

Chuuya rolls away from the fall site, one hand pressed against his ribs, and bites back a groan. Come on, he growls at Arahabaki. Where the fuck are you?

Then he's moving, pushing himself off the ground and launching himself out of the way as the fist smashes the ground where he just was into a crater. 

"Don't forget," Goncharov calls, "this is the heart of my ability. There is no escape. Even the ground you walk on is your enemy."

"I thought I told you," Chuuya snarls lowly, "to shut up!"

He lunges for Goncharov again. He's swept aside again, into a block of concrete that stands unyielding as he falls against it, fisting his hands into the dirt as pain explodes in his back. 

Fuck, he thinks through the tremors wracking his body. He can't do anything like this. 

"Where is your ability, Chuuya-kun? I would hate for you to be holding back on me this entire time." A pause. A sigh, a tongue click. "Well, no matter. You have been dancing in the Master's palm from the beginning. I suppose he wouldn't mind terribly if I were to dispose of you first. No, I think he would be quite happy indeed."

Instinct tells Chuuya to move. He does—or tries to. But something closes around his ankle and keeps him rooted to the ground as the blur of Goncharov's golem fist above him expands into shadow.

"Do Dostoyevsky-sama a favor now, and perish."

Seconds before impact, he curls his body into a ball. 

The fist shatters against him like a firecracker, splitting rock into rain and smashing him into the ground until the earth gives way beneath him. The impact leaves him breathless, choking on smoke and a strangled cough, as his body throbs and fights to keep from breaking apart.

Somehow, it doesn't. 

"Impossible." Goncharov's exclamation carries loud enough to be heard over the gunfire rippling in the background, but Chuuya doesn't hear it. All his attention is focused on the small spark he feels in his gut, expanding like molten lava, returning to his veins like adrenaline on boosters. When his hands, curled into fists and folded over his head, unfurl, they are glowing red. 

About time. 

He struggles to sit up. Uncurling his body feels like splitting bone, every sudden movement ripping a gasp from him, but eventually he stands on a bruised body and unsteady feet, outlined in the hum of Tainted Sorrow as he watches Goncharov's eyes contract to pinpoints. 

“Impossible,” the man says again. And despite the pains throbbing through his body, the grin that splits Chuuya’s face is feral. 

This time, the earth shakes because of him.

From there, it’s Paris all over again, just as feverish and twice as intense. The thrill of having Tainted Sorrow back dissolves under the force of Goncharov’s increasing relentlessness, until the adrenaline running through his veins feels like a rubber band about to snap.

He can’t take off his gloves here. Not without Fukuzawa, and not without Dazai. 

His fist smashes into the stone titan Goncharov pulls from the earth, an eldritch horror made from sand and the stuff of children’s nightmares that grabs him by the leg and throws him into a building hard enough to shake the damn thing all the way to its foundations. Chuuya braces his heels against the structure of it and lunges, ducking those unwieldy rock arms to slam a gravity-dense fist straight through its head.

Goncharov and golem both go crashing to the ground, and the rebound throws Chuuya skyward. For a moment he hovers, coughing and inhaling smoke instead of air, and scans the red line of Yokohama’s horizon.

Gunfire pulls his attention back to the center of the city—and then, a little bit past that. For a moment, it’s just smoke moving against the wind and then he’s watching it clear, just enough to see Fyodor knock Dazai to the ground. 

Focus. Everything in him strains to get to Dazai, to get him somewhere safe and then destroy Fyodor for ever laying a finger on him. Something sour twists in his gut as he pulls back the hand already reaching out in that direction, and another sharp reprimand rings out in his head. Fucking focus. 

They can’t keep going like this. At this rate, everyone on the front lines of Yokohama’s defense will burn out before reinforcements even arrive. 

An idea hits him then, so unexpectedly and madly, that he nearly drops into free fall from shock. This isn't a game, he tells himself, mortified. There's no way it would even work. 

His head is still reeling when a rock fist nearly smacks him out of the air. It sails over his head as he drops into momentary free fall, dodging swipes right and left to balance on a still-standing building as the stone titan lumbers towards him through the smoke. 

The idea returns, lodging itself like a splinter inside his head. 

The center of the city is only about a block away. Everyone's already there, holding their own against an enemy with an endless army, probably close to burning out, and this earthen eldritch apparently has tunnel vision. If he can just get Goncharov there...

It's the worst plan he's ever come up with, so bad that the insane part of him thinks it might actually work. He doesn't care. Yokohama is his city, his home. If he isn't even willing to put everything he has on the line to protect it, what did it all matter?

Beneath him, the earth shakes. Smoke rises from the ground as Goncharov's monster gets closer and closer, and Chuuya gets a good hard look at the man puppeteering the giant. 

Goncharov isn't smiling anymore. His eyes are wild, his expression borderline crazed. And bizarrely, that's all the push Chuuya needs.

"You want me, stone bastard?" he mutters, as a splayed rock palm rushes at him. "Then come and get me."

He launches himself into the air just as the building beneath him smashes into rubble. 

Come on. Like he's screamed it out loud, the giant swivels its head to zero in on him. Come follow me.

One bulky claw reaches into the air and swipes at him. Chuuya ducks beneath it and, once he's sure it will follow, takes off to the epicenter of the battle.

From what he can see, it’s chaos. 

Rashoumon, swallowing the brunt of the Clock Tower’s gunfire. Golden Demon slicing through European soldiers like butter. Suehiro doing the same, the purple form of Elise slipping in and out of smoke and marked by Mori’s shadow. The Clock Tower, sending wave after wave of bullets, and their leader, in the middle of everything, surrounded by a golden glow as watching as her army razes Yokohama to the ground. 

Somehow Agatha knows he’s there. She lifts her gaze and finds him easily past the smoke settling over the battle; her lips curve into a smile, and the edge of victory he sees there does it for him.

Anger unfurls to something darker—to rage, bloodthirsty and hungry, as the hum of Tainted Sorrow returns to his veins with an ancient, vengeful wrath.

My city, he thinks. How dare you lay a hand on my city. 

A gravity-dense forcefield jumps to his hands. Every gun, every ability user concentrating their fire on the Mafia before all train on him. Arahabaki’s present runs hot through his blood, curling around the ball of his rage until it feels almost divine, and whispers in his ear: Make them all pay.

You can’t fight a force of nature. You can’t fight gravity. Chuuya brings the forcefield down with one flick of his wrist, and the entire front line of the Clock Tower’s forces go down with it.

A cloud of dust rises on impact. There’s some distant yelling almost certainly from Tachihara—and then, the gunfire starts. Chuuya doesn’t spend a second to wonder who it’s coming from; the second he lands, he slams his foot into the ground hard enough to split it open—and split it does, cracks spiderwebbing from where he is all the way to the tip of a pointed shoe.

“Really, Chuuya-kun. How unsightly of you.”

Agatha hasn’t escaped gravity either. The less chivalrous side of Chuuya revels in how it dishevels her, at the way she tries to keep an unaffected expression in the face of his power. The vengeful part of him seethes at it. 

“You first,” he growls. “You invaded my city and destroyed it.”

“Collateral damage,” she says simply. “Nothing personal, you understand.”

“You’re Fyodor’s friend, that makes this personal.”

“I am nobody’s friend, Chuuya-kun. I said as much to Dazai-kun. My partnership with Fyodor-kun banks entirely on the promise of future gain.”

“Yeah?” Chuuya scoffs. “What did he promise you? Power, money? Side favors?”

“Equivalent exchange,” she says, glossing smoothly over his sneers. “A favor for a favor. Suffer a loss up front, receive profits a thousandfold. Surely you of all people can understand.”

Lose the battle, win the war; Chuuya understands perfectly. But if he has his way, Fyodor will not be the one winning. 

Gravity condenses between his hands. The same kind of red as the fire around them, torching the sky and settling it alight. Deep in his blood, in the part of him marked by Arahabaki, the urge to snap Agatha’s neck and mail her corpse back to Europe runs deep—and before it can control him, he extends one more chance.

One more chance, for her to walk away while he still allows her to. 

“Get out of my city, Agatha.”

She simply smiles. And from behind her, a mass of shapeless earth spills forward like a wave.

A swear makes it halfway out of his mouth before a stone fist sends him flying. 

“Chuuya-san!”

“I’m fine!” He drags in a breath through definite bruised ribs and gathers himself to his feet as Tainted Sorrow flares in his hands. Rashoumon crackles through the air, devouring the empty space between waves of the Clock Tower’s gunfire while its wielder stares. 

“I’m fine,” he repeats. God forbid Akutagawa come over here and help, Chuuya doesn’t want to have to worry about him and fight an elemental at the same time. “Focus on the Clock Tower!”

Then the palm of Goncharov’s stone titan comes crashing down, and Chuuya doesn’t have time to worry about anything else. 

He’s lost track of how long they’ve been fighting, only that it’s been too long. Every time he sends his fist through stone or cuts an arc in the air with his feel, he’s made more aware of his own exhaustion beginning to manifest. This time when the earthen fist swings for him, he grabs onto it, gravity making it heavier and heavier until the strain makes it explode. He goes down with the rock rain that falls, shielding his head from the worst of it and blinking through smoke-obscured eyes at the rest of the battlefield.

Everyone’s getting tired. He sees it in their faces when the smoke clears, in the way their attacks don’t come as quick or as often; even Elise looks like she’s about to pass out, and she’s an extension of Mori’s will. If they all burn out now, it’s game over.

And if it’s game over, Fyodor wins. 

When the earth rumbles again, he pulls himself to his feet. Draws in a deep breath and meets Goncharov eye for eye as gravity condenses in the palm of each hand. If this is where he goes down, he's taking down the big fish with him. He raises his hands and builds a forcefield, preparing to blow Goncharov to hell and back. 

A green pixel falling before his eyes makes him freeze. 

It doesn't hit him at first, what's happening. He's still in fight mode, running on adrenaline like he always does in a fight, so it doesn't seem like much. A trick of the light, or smoke, something to throw him off his guard. The understanding comes seconds after, when something like a wave washes through his veins.

It feels like molten ice. More than that, it feels like control. More green pixels fall in front of him, and anticipation settles deep in his bones as he realizes the pixels comes not from smoke hitting light but from—

He whirls to face the horizon, not quite daring to believe. Then the point of Fukuzawa's katana pierces through the smoke, and the anticipation turns into relief. 

They're here. They're really fucking here. 

It's not just the Agency, he quickly realizes. It's Fitzgerald and an entire group of Americans, spilling over the horizon like a sea of multicolored lights, splitting off into different directions and tackling the forces from the Clock Tower. It's the rest of the Hunting Dogs moving like a single pack, bee-lining for the rest of the Angels that escaped Chuuya's notice. All of a sudden, victory looks a lot closer. 

He should be celebrating. He should be yelling with Tachihara, as the odds finally turn in their favor; more importantly, he should be finishing Goncharov off. But his gaze catches on Kunikida, running straight for him with something in his hands, and a weight drops into his stomach as he realizes what that something is. 

The Book. 

The one not in Fyodor's hands. 

The implications press down on him, the knots in his stomach untie and tighten with every second that goes by, but he doesn't think about any of it right now because then he's hit by his second genius idea of the day. 

It's crazy. It might not even work. But it's worth a try. 

One moment the ground is there, and then it’s not. Chuuya’s next step sinks into the ground, leaving a crater in its wake, and gravity aligns to his will the second he takes his foot off—making him light, making him weightless, launching him into the air. "Kunikida!"  

Kunikida understands immediately. And if possible, he runs even harder. The hand holding the Book reaches up to him, their fingers brush briefly as Chuuya grabs the Book and pulls it into his chest; he hits the ground in a tuck and roll, and once he's steady, he runs, not stopping until he reaches a section of ground far enough from the main battle. 

His idea. Right.

If Fukuzawa is right about how his ability works and what it does, and if the coolness Chuuya felt earlier was truly the control granted by the other's ability, then it's not only Tainted Sorrow under his full control but also the second tier of it. The one Mori called Corruption. The one that makes black holes. 

And black holes swallow everything whole. 

He presses both hands against the Book. Bit by bit, fragments of the verse only Arahabaki can understand form on his tongue, and for the first time in his life, he says them out loud.

"O grantors of dark disgrace, do not wake me again."

Red tendrils crawl up his arms. Black holes swirl to life beneath his palms, growing with every second. And beneath them, the Book begins to glow. 

It feels like reaching through fire. Like reaching past the flames of a dying star and grabbing it by its burning cold core. Arahabaki thrashes within him, ripping through a thousand and more realities in a fraction of a second, and the black holes in his palms dilate even more. He screws his eyes shut and concentrates. 

Come on. His hands, straining from Corruption and the Book both, tremble ever so slightly. Come. On.

A heart-stopping gunshot makes his eyes fly open. And the last of the Book, the last of the original Gift, dissolves under Corruption.

He turns it off. The red markings of Arahabaki slide off his skin as he turns, shaking slightly, to stare wide-eyed at the body sprawled on the ground. Fyodor's body, trapped beneath Dazai's as Dazai pins him to the ground.

A little trickle of red runs down the shoulder of Fyodor's coat. That explains the gunshot.

Dazai's gaze finds his, a question in them. He's only able to nod before a green uniform blocks his vision. 

"It's over, Dostoyevsky." Suehiro's voice cuts sharp as his sword, and just as deep, as he slaps a pair of ability inhibitor cuffs on Fyodor. "Come willingly. Any strange movements, and you will be shot on sight."

The timbre of Fyodor's low laugh runs ice-cold through Chuuya's veins. "No," he replies, eyes boring into Chuuya. "It's not over yet."

Everybody freezes at the gunshot that cracks through the air.

For a few terrible seconds, nobody moves. Then Dazai collapses onto the ground.

Dazai's name tears out of Chuuya's throat before he can even think about it. 

Oda returns fire first. Suehiro follows after, and amid the new round of gunfire going off, someone screams for Yosano. Chuuya doesn't remember moving, or telling himself to, but suddenly he's there, on his knees in the dirt, reaching for Dazai past the screams waiting to die in his throat.

His husband is shaking on the ground, breaths coming quick and shallow. Sweat beads on his forehead as his face turns paler by the second. Chuuya turns him over slowly, and his eyes slide briefly shut at the sight of Dazai's shirt—crimson-stained, spreading steadily over his shirt from the hole in his chest. 

It takes him a moment, more than a moment, several moments, to realize Dazai is talking. "Chuuya—"

"Shut up. Yosano," this to Sakaguchi, "where is she?"

He looks as pained as Chuuya feels. "On her way."

It's not fast enough. It's not fucking fast enough, and something in him dies when he realizes he might actually lose Dazai this time. 

A hand tugs weakly at his sleeve. "Chuuya."

"Dazai, I said shut up—"

"I'm sorry." No. They are not doing this now. Chuuya's eyes burn and he starts to move away, but Dazai's hand finds his like he knew Chuuya would run. "For Paris. I never should have left. I should have...I should have told you everything—"

"No." Chuuya squeezes Dazai's hand to the point of pain. "Dazai, I don't care about any of that." Stay alive. You promised me, so do it. Dazai doesn't hear it.

He reaches up, dashing away Chuuya's tears with trembling blood-soaked fingers. Chuuya hadn't even realized he was crying. 

The paramedics come, eternities later. They take Dazai away, put it on a stretcher, roll it into the ambulance parked at the edge of the city. 

And all Chuuya can do is sit there, body gone numb, as he watches his world fall apart.

Chapter Text

They stand in the corner of an Agency-employed hospital like shadows, out of the way of the stretchers and gurneys squeaking across the tiles, when Mori tells him everything. It takes an hour to fill in all the gaps, and even longer to orient himself as everything in him frays, frays, and strains to hold together. 

Here is what Chuuya understands.

What he destroyed with Corruption was the real Book. And what Fyodor held in his hands wasn’t it. What Fyodor held in his hands was a product of a similar ability from one of Fitzgerald’s people, the ability to suck people into a novel—only left blank. Swapped, apparently, with the original in a busy street where one more bump against a stranger’s shoulder wouldn’t seem out of place, where it fell into Fitzgerald’s hands. 

There had been a note inside the cover, a set of coordinates leading to the Kamakura safe house and a brief description of every Angel’s ability, so the Agency wouldn’t be caught unawares when they—inevitably, is the word Mori uses—joined up with Fitzgerald and his guild in a clash outside the safe house before making their way to Yokohama. And from there, the rest is history. 

It’s a lot to take in. The idea that Fyodor fell for a textbook trick, the fact that this hot mess of a plan has Dazai’s fingerprints all over it, the thought that everything went so smooth and still so wrong, so ridiculous he wants to laugh. What starts out as one lodges in his throat, like a stone, until it feels like anything but. 

“And Fyodor?”

“In custody, or as close as he will ever get.” Mori leans back, expression unreadable. “Ango-kun tells me he and the Hunting Dogs have Dostoyevsky in Fuchu Prison, where he will be staying until both the Diet and the Special Abilities Division decide what to do with him.”

“Can’t they just”—question him, kill him, make sure he pays for every fucking thing he’s done—“send him back to Russia? Or something?”

The corner of Mori’s mouth tilts slightly upwards, Chuuya blows out a breath and drags a hand down his face. “Right,” he mutters, “of course not.”

“Legalities are complicated, Chuuya-kun, and to say nothing of Russo-Japanese relations. It seems that Dostoyevsky will be the first of many new developments in that particular area.” 

“He’s a terrorist.”

“Yes. And one of, if not the most, dangerous men in this world. I’m afraid that the rest of the government has yet to learn the degree of caution that is necessary to deal with someone like Dostoyevsky.”

Chuuya doesn’t like it. In fact, he doesn’t like anything about this conversation. His gaze darts away from Mori, to the doctors and nurses wheeling people in and out, the controlled urgency of their every movements. To a little kid, clinging to his parent’s shirt and looking around. All of them, nearly obliterated because Fyodor cared more about purging the world than saving it. 

“He’ll get out again, Boss,” he says. “Everyone who knows him, knows that.”

It can’t even be called pessimism; all it is, is fact. As long as Fyodor lives, there will always be a next time and not even the strongest prison in the world would be enough to hold him. But somehow, Mori doesn’t look worried at all. 

“Have some faith, Chuuya-kun. Yokohama stood long before you and I came along; trust that it still will, with us protecting it like we always have.” 

The silence that settles after this is tired, quiet in the loudest way as they let the noises of the hospital wash over them. Something prickles hot beneath Chuuya’s skin, flaring at every noise—he’s always hated hospitals, but now even he can’t tell if it’s irritation or bone-dead exhaustion running underneath his skin. He rubs his hands, uncovered for once, and stares resolutely at the colorless tile in front of him. 

At last, Mori turns to him with a slip of paper held out between two fingers. When Chuuya opens it, there’s a room number scrawled across the surface. “Try not to worry too much. In all the years I’ve known Dazai-kun, death has never been able to claim him.”

Then Mori leaves, the red mantle flapping behind him like a leaf in the wind. Chuuya watches him go, glances back down to the number on the paper, and pockets it. When he knocks three times on the door, his hand absolutely does not shake. 

Yosano opens the door, runs a critical eye from the top of his head to his boots before her expression softens. 

He knows what he must look like: hair messed, soot-covered, clothing torn in various places. Red-rimmed eyes and dried tear tracks beneath the grime that covers his face. Definitely some kind of walking health hazard. She lets him in anyway, closing the door behind him and walking around to hover over Dazai.

It occurs to him that he should do something—move out of the doorway, for one. Sit down in the bedside chair, for another. Instead, he watches quietly as she inserts a feeding tube into a vein. 

“Chuuya.” Yosano’s voice is gentle, but firm. “Sit.”

He goes forward slowly, one step at a time, heart beating out of his goddamn mind, and settles into the chair. It’s instinct to hold Dazai’s hand, now, careful to avoid the lines and wires as his fingers curl over the ones lying limp on the covers. 

Dazai doesn’t respond. Not verbally, not even with a twitch. His hand is cold. 

Warmth burns behind Chuuya’s eyes and his lips press tight together, once. 

“How bad is it?” he asks. 

Yosano sighs. Her fingers adjust the IV line and fall away, back to her side. "There wasn't an exit wound," she says. "The bullet lodged between his ribs. Ballistic trauma is difficult to heal on its own, but with it so close to his heart and him already losing so much blood...he had already started hemorrhaging by the time we got here. We had to put him under, even after the surgery."

"Will that help?"

"It can. Induced comas are a sort of extended anesthesia. Usually us doctors use it to protect the brain from serious trauma, but," her gaze drifts down to Dazai's face and she shakes her head, "we did everything we could, anything we could, for him. From this point on, it's up to him."

Chuuya looks back at Dazai, at his pale, lifeless face, and then at the way his hand is curled around Dazai's. He says nothing. 

Behind him, Yosano shifts. "I need to grab some things," she says, "I'll be right back. You can stay."

He nods. Fingertips brush his shoulder, squeeze lightly, and then the door shuts on the sound of Yosano walking away. 

The beeping of the heart monitor is the only sound in the room. A lifetime in the mafia taught Chuuya not to flinch, but the urge to is still there, every time the monitor goes off, as he fast-forwards again and again to the moment when the beeping flat-lines. His fingers curl around Dazai's a little tighter. 

"Come on, you idiot," he mumbles. "We still have to talk, remember?"

Silence answers him. Dazai's eyes remain closed, his fingers still cold even in Chuuya's grip. The monitor beeps on. 

His own tiredness seeps into his consciousness, making him slump into the chair—and with it, a memory. Warm touches, fingers tangling together, the dark pools of Dazai's eyes looking into his own. The warmth from earlier returns, and suddenly exhaustion isn't the only thing burning behind Chuuya's eyes anymore. 

He places Dazai's hand against his cheek and closes his eyes.

"Don't be so sad, Mr Fancy Hat."

Edogawa sprawls on a crumbling wall, smirking in Chuuya's direction despite the mask covering his nose and mouth. Days after that last battle, the air still reeks of smoke. Ash and debris still clog the streets, and there's a never-ending list about what needs to be done about and for the bodies laying on the sidelines. 

Chuuya's own throat feels raw from the smoke; he rubs at it absently. He's been tasked to play babysitter, as Mori goes off with Fukuzawa to negotiate repayment options and officially end the alliance. With Fyodor and the Clock Tower more or less gone, there's no need for it anymore.

It would be fine, if Edogawa wasn't so fucking insistent on making conversation. 

"I know how much you'll miss working with a great detective like me," Edogawa continues.

"Do you ever stop talking?"

"Nope! But see, you're already deflecting." There's a note of triumph in the detective's voice as he points a finger at Chuuya. "You will miss working with me."

"Get fucked."

Edogawa laughs brightly. He's silent for a moment before he speaks again. 

"Sometimes," he starts, eyes sharpening to razor focus, "no matter what we do, people die."

Chuuya's hands ball into fists without his permission. "I know that."

"Do you?"

"Yes."

And he doesn't need a reminder, least of all from a detective who has never once gotten blood on his hands. 

"Hmm," the tip of a finger flicks pebble-covered dust of the wall, "and yet, you're still scared."

Of course I'm fucking scared. I might fucking lose him this time.

"Is there a point to this?" Chuuya snaps. It probably shouldn't be so easy to let Edogawa get under his skin, but it's better this way. Better to be angry than to admit Edogawa is right. 

"He wouldn't want you to worry." Edogawa's usual cheery tone is gone. In its place is a soft and somber tone that looks out of place on him, and somehow that makes everything ten times worse. "Dazai is a hard read even for me, but I can guarantee that much."

"You don't know shit," Chuuya bites out, firmly ignoring that last part. If his throat feels heavy and his voice sounds thick, if he can barely breathe through the fresh wave of anguish slicing through him like a knife, that's no one's business but his own. "It doesn't matter if you're a detective, you don't know fucking shit."

"Maybe I don't. But you do. And you know I'm right." 

The ride back of headquarters is a silent one. Mori, in a rare display of kindness, doesn't ask about the tension he can definitely see lining Chuuya's shoulders, but Chuuya thinks he might prefer it if Mori had; at this point, he'll take anything that drowns out the buzzing in his head, even for just a little bit.

Headquarters, now, is an unused safehouse on the outskirts of the city, the only one big enough to house the entire Mafia and its operations. Chuuya goes straight to the room assigned to him and throws himself into the paperwork piling up on his desk. Soon enough, that's done and cleared away, and then he's left staring at the wall. 

Seconds tick by, then minutes. His throat aches for alcohol.

He makes it through ten minutes of doing nothing before deciding fuck it, and jumping on his motorcycle and heading straight for the Agency's hospital. 

Not through the front door, obviously; Fukuzawa might know about who Dazai is to him, but the other staff certainly don't, and the last thing he needs right now is for some nurse who doesn't know better to call the cops on him. The window it is. 

Yosano isn't there when he climbs in, but there's a note in her handwriting on the desk: be right back, don't touch anything. He eyes it for less than a second, tears his gaze away and approaches the bed. 

The heart monitor beeps in a steady line. Wheels squeak right outside the door. Chuuya takes Dazai's hand—still cold, still motionless—and holds it tight. 

"Wake up already," he mumbles. "Stop making me worry if you don't want me to."

No answer. Not that he expects any different. For a moment, he just stands there, fingers tangled with his husband's, staring at the new wrap of bandages around Dazai's arms, the intravenous lines connecting him to bags of fluid, the oxygen mask over his mouth. 

Suddenly, the heart monitor stutters. 

Low numbers, then high numbers, then no numbers at all. Chuuya presses two fingers to the pulse point on Dazai's wrist, and feels the thump thump of his heartbeat slowing down. 

He pulls off the mask, pinches Dazai’s nose shut. Running in the back of his mind is the thought that he should get a professional for this. That he should get anybody else, other than himself, to do mouth to mouth because there’s always a chance he might do it wrong. 

But the professionals aren’t here right now. He is. 

He takes a deep breath, dives down, seals Dazai’s mouth with his own and blows. 

Another memory shakes its way to the surface: Paris, when Dazai refused to take his pain meds, when what was supposed to be just a pain relief session turned into something else. He had kissed Dazai first back then too. 

He lets go, comes back up and stares at the stillness of Dazai’s body, at the monitor with no numbers. He takes another breath and goes back down. 

Inhale, go down, exhale—clockwork that runs through minutes though they feel like hours. Chuuya does it again, and again, and again. 

“Dammit, Dazai, breathe!” He seals their lips together again, and everything he’s ever wanted to say, everything he couldn’t say out on the battlefield, rushes out in the breath he blows into Dazai’s lungs. Dazai is his lifeblood, his everything, and he refuses to lose him now. He can’t lose him now, after everything. 

“Please.” You promised me.

Another breath, another intake of air that makes his lungs burn. He leans down, releases it all, and kisses him. 

His eyes fly open at the gasp that shudders against his lips. He stumbles back, tripping over nothing and falling against the wall far enough to see the rise and fall of Dazai’s chest. The numbers reappear on the monitor, and he slumps to the ground as his knees give out. 

His hand finds Dazai’s again, grips it tight. He scrubs at his eyes furiously.

“Shit,” he says. “Don’t scare me like that again.”

It’s dark when he finally musters up the courage to leave. The heart monitor blips steadily in the background, a soft electronic lullaby competing with the outside bustle of the night shift. Something in him loosens when he sees the numbers, no higher or lower than they should be, and Dazai’s breaths fogging white over the mask. 

His phone buzzes. The time reads eight in the evening, the screen packed with text messages and three missed calls. 

Time to go. 

He reaches out to smooth away sweat-damp hair, leans down, and presses his lips to Dazai’s forehead. 

Then he climbs out the window, and leaves. 

The next time he drops in, with the sea-breeze of the docks clinging to his coat, Oda is there first. 

His back is turned to the window, and from what Chuuya has seen Oda has never really been the emotive kind of person so there's no telling what his expression might look like, but it's obvious he cares. The way he brushes back Dazai's hair and the worried looks he keeps shooting at the vitals monitor say it all. 

Chuuya knows when not to intrude, this is one of those times. He starts to climb back out the window, with the thought that he'll come back later, but then Oda turns around and looks at him. And then, he tilts his head expectantly. 

Anyone else might have backed away regardless. But Chuuya isn't anyone else, and this is one of the few things he is selfish for. 

He climbs into the room, careful not to let his boots thud on the floor, and approaches until he's only a few feet from the bed. 

"Sorry," he says. Oda shakes his head.

"You're married to him. You have more right to visit him than I do."

Not true. You've known him longer. Chuuya bites his tongue before either can leave it and glances at Dazai. "How has he been?" he asks instead. 

"Quiet, mostly. He was asleep when I got here." A low noise stretches through the room as Dazai shifts underneath the covers, murmuring incoherently, and Oda's hand falls gently to his wrist so it doesn't tangle in the lines connected to it. "The doctor says he should wake up any day now."

Something in Chuuya loosens, a question that he didn't even realize he was asking put to rest by the answer he didn't know he was looking for. He can barely breathe around the relief rising in his throat.

"Good," he says finally. His fingers itch to hold Dazai's, but this is Oda's time with him and he's not enough of an asshole to interrupt that. "That's...good."

Oda's gaze settles on the side of his head, but he finds that he doesn't...care as much. He's not sure what to make of the man sometimes, only that his presence feels soothing as it does nonjudgemental.

"You look tired," he says. Chuuya feels a worn smile tug at the corners of his mouth in response.

"Work."

It's not a complete lie; Mori's had him stationed at the docks along with the Black Lizard for the past two days, making the rounds and reestablishing mafiosi presence there as the gears of Yokohama's underground return to normal. And when he's not working, he's been staying up late into the night, battling both paperwork and the fear that Dazai's breathing and heart rate might drop back to nothing when he's not there. 

He doesn't want to talk about either of those things right now. 

He follows Oda's gaze to the steady rise and fall of Dazai's chest and the gentle puffs of breath fogging up the mask over his mouth. 

"Dazai told me about you once." 

It's hard to tell who is more surprised between the two of them, but the memory is there if he looks for it hard enough: Dazai's fingers carding through his hair, his voice quiet as he rattled off a list of characteristics about the person Chuuya reminded him of, and the file Chuuya had come across in the counterintelligence archives not hours later. 

Red hair, blue eyes, a good fighter, Dazai had said.

My best friend, Oda had said.

"I think...he missed you a lot, even then."

He thinks he sees Oda smile. "I missed him a lot too."

For the next few seconds, the only sounds in the room are the blips of the monitors around the bed. Heaviness crawls under Chuuya's eyelids, and he rubs at them absently. 

Then, Oda's hands are on his shoulders. He jerks back, he doesn't remember the man moving at all, but then Oda says, "You need to sleep."

"It's not that late."

"It's two in the morning."

"I can sleep back at headquarters."

"But you don't want to." Oda takes it as a win, when Chuuya can't find something smart to say back. "Sleep, Chuuya. Stay with him."

So he stays. He settles into the chair, wearing his coat around his shoulders like some sort of blanket, holding Dazai's hand long after Oda leaves. His thumb draws circles on the back of Dazai's hand, pressing lightly like it's going to explain to Dazai how much he loves him, how badly he wants him to be awake, even if the man isn't awake to hear it. 

"Come on, Dazai. Don't keep me waiting."

And then, he falls asleep to the blips of the monitor. 

“No.”

“Chuuya-kun—“

“No,” he snaps. Tainted Sorrow shoots like him like an arrow on fire, lighting up all the places he holds resentment and anger close to his heart until they burn like the rest of him. “Haven’t I done enough for you? For every last one of you government bastards?”

Sakaguchi looks apologetic, or as much as he can behind the spectacles. Chuuya doesn’t care. If he really was sorry, then he’d know to leave Chuuya alone instead of requesting this of him. Especially requesting this of him. 

We need you to talk to Dostoyevsky.

“I am sorry,” Sakaguchi says, “truly I am.”

“Then why are you still fucking standing here?”

To his credit, Sakaguchi doesn’t flinch as he punctuates the last word with a gravity-heavy stomp to the floor, but he doesn’t look too composed either. He pushes his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose. 

“Please try to understand, Chuuya-kun. We wouldn’t come to you unless it was the last resort.”

“I’m not. Fucking. Talking to him.” 

He’s not going anywhere near Fyodor. If he does, all he’s going to see is Dazai collapsing to the ground in a pool of his own blood. All he’s going to see is that night Dazai’s breathing and heart rates suddenly dropped to nothing. 

If he does, every single piece of him is going to be hell-bent on tearing Fyodor to pieces, regardless of what the Special Abilities Division has planned for him, and not even a dosage of ability inhibitors is going to stop him. 

A long, tense moment passes between them before Sakaguchi speaks again.

“This isn’t just a government job,” he begins quietly. 

“Isn’t it?”

Sakaguchi hands him a paper. Two papers, actually, held together by the creases of their folds with lines that seem to run for ages. He skims through it all, not stopping until he gets to the bottom of the last page, where the official seal of the Diet stares back at him. 

“You want answers for the attempt on Dazai-kun’s life, do you not?” Sakaguchi waits for a reply that never comes, and continues. “The Diet received a letter from the European Ministry yesterday, and they passed it onto the Special Abilities Division. Dostoyevsky’s trial is set for the end of the month in his hometown; in the meantime, we’ve received orders to make arrangements for Dostoyevsky’s transfer to the Meursault prison in eastern France. As far as I know, the flight is scheduled to leave early tomorrow morning.”

A bell chimes three times somewhere in the middle of the city, neither of them pay attention to it. Sakaguchi clears his throat, somewhat awkwardly. “This may be the last chance you will ever have to get answers, Chuuya-kun, for yourself and for Dazai-kun. I advise taking it.”

“In exchange for what?” His hands aren’t shaking as they press the letter back into Sakaguchi’s waiting hand, but they aren’t steady either; he shoves them back into his pockets roughly. “What do you get out of this?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

“Nothing,” Sakaguchi repeats. Something dark flickers briefly behind his eyes, and it looks a lot like anger. “Dazai-kun is my friend too. If nothing else, I’m looking for the same answers you are.”

The hardness coiled in Chuuya's gut falters, just a bit. Maybe it's realizing that Dazai has other people to look out for him, other people that care about him, something so easy to forget when it was just two of them for so long. Maybe it's the split-second something he'd caught in Sakaguchi's eyes, anger but also the same visceral pain that corrodes at him with every day Dazai stays in the hospital. 

Maybe, it's just that both of them are equally tired of fighting things beyond their control.

He tears his gaze away to the windows, tracing the outline of Yokohama under an afternoon sun with his eyes. "When do we leave?"

"Now."

It's an hour drive to Fuchu, but most of it is a blur in Chuuya's memory. His gaze locks on the bay and the sheen on the sun's glare on the waters, searching for calm and finding only Arahabaki raging against the confines of his body. Soon enough, it's hard to tell where his anger ends and Arahabaki's begins.

Long after the sun's glare sends black spots blinking in his vision, the government-issued car rolls to a stop. 

Fuchu Prison is a fortress hidden behind concrete walls that stretch towards the sky, protected by automatic barriers that slam shut as soon as they enter. Sakaguchi walks ahead, approaching the two guards stationed in front of the door with ID and the flap of a silver permit in his hand. “Agent Sakaguchi from the Special Abilities Division. I believe I’ve been expected.”

One of the guards, a tall man with an imposing figure and hair graying at the edges of his military cut, turns his gaze on Chuuya. “Who’s your friend?”

“He’s with me.”

“If you are who you say you are, Agent, you’ll know we can’t let civilians in.”

“He’s with me,” Sakaguchi repeats, “under orders from the Diet. If you have a problem, I suggest you take it up with the elders there.”

The guard stares at Chuuya. Chuuya stares back, he’s been mafia for too long to be cowed by some lowly military grunt. 

At last, after a long glance exchanged with his partner, the second guard speaks up. “Who are you here for?”

“Prisoner D9371. Fyodor Dostoyevsky.”

Another glance, another silent conversation lasting no longer than a second. The second guard presses his ID to the keypad on the door, stepping back as it buzzes green and swings open. “Follow me.”

Follow him they do, through a series of deathly silent hallways and stairwells painted the same clinical white as the hospital’s polished floors. Follow him they do, to a long corridor behind a metal gate where the only lighting comes from the ones running along the ceiling’s seams. 

“Behind there.” The faint outline of a door at the other end flickers. “Whichever one of you is going in, just let the camera scan you and I’ll buzz you in. You have five minutes.” A pause. “Careful, with this one.”

As if Chuuya needs the reminder. 

The corridor stretches before him like an invitation. Like a taunt, accented by purple eyes and a scimitar sharp grin. He squares his shoulders and crosses into the corridor.  

It feels like walking to his own execution, every step a mile and every breath drawn too short, too weak to stem the dark tide expanding in his lungs. The red light that scans him does not quell the ancient power resting within him, only inflames it; Arahabaki comes howling into his conscious like a hurricane, he reaches out and pushes forward into white.

White, fading into dim concrete walls, into a glass wall spanning floor to wall to ceiling tinted by blue light. Somehow everything in this room feels off, even the air; the air is damp not in the way humidity clings to Chuuya’s skin, but in the way Tainted Sorrow feels sluggish. 

He holds up a hand and summons his ability: nothing. Only a feeling like a residual burn, molten lava tingling beneath his skin. 

“Strange, isn’t it?”

His hand jerks, curling into a fist.

“It takes some time to get used to, certainly, but I imagine neither of us will be here long enough for that to happen.”

Chuuya finally lets his gaze drift to the glass—and then beyond it, to the white straitjacket and deep purple eyes already looking his way.

From the other side of the transparent prison, Fyodor Dostoyevsky smiles. 

“Hello again, Chuuya-kun.”

Chuuya is familiar with anger—with the way it settles into his palms in the middle of a life-or-death shootout with his men caught in the crossfire, the way it sharpens his tongue any time he feels disrespected, the way it—and Arahabaki—burn him from the inside out. Familiar with it as a sniper would be with the rifle he carries. 

This feels like something else entirely. 

Now, Fyodor is one wrong word away from being torn apart on the spot. Now, Chuuya is one provocation away from committing cold-blooded murder.

He steps towards the glass, silent despite Arahabaki roaring within him. 

“I had hoped you would make your way here. You are later than I anticipated, but I have a feeling your visit will be brief. So first things first.” Fyodor tilts his head, eyes glinting with every last thing he doesn’t say. “You are here for Dazai-kun. Am I right?”

"Watch your mouth." There's a warning painted on the outside of the glass: maintain a distance of three feet. Chuuya ignores it, very blatantly stepping over the painted white line, and stops up close to the glass. Close enough that he can fool himself into thinking he can easily close his fingers around Fyodor's throat this way. "Remember which of us is locked up right now."

"And yet, you've come to me." Chuuya says nothing. Fyodor's smile widens.

"Go on, Chuuya-kun." He approaches slowly, one clinking step at a time as the chains around his ankles drag, until he stops right in front of Chuuya. "Ask me why I did it. Why I tried so desperately to end his life like he has always wanted."

Chuuya takes a breath. And then another, and another, until the urge to punch through the glass and watch the life go out of Fyodor's eyes is no longer there. Until he can look at Fyodor without rage sending him over the edge. 

"Why did you do it?"

The smile that curves Fyodor's lips is cruel. Cold and hollow, and full of everything that makes him a demon. 

"Because he was in my way."

Silence hangs, stillness crawling in at the seams of the cell. Chuuya's hands clench to the point of pain, rage kindling in every part of his body.

He wants to kill Fyodor.

He wants to break the glass, send Fyodor crashing to the ground, break all of his bones without breaking a sweat. Abilities don't work in here but he's never needed his ability to kill; it would be so easy to close his fingers around Fyodor's throat tight enough to bruise, watch the life drain out of him. It would be so easy to crack his skull open with his bare hands, so easy to claw his way into Fyodor's chest and pull out his still-beating heart because a demon doesn't need one anyway. Chuuya stares into the pits of Fyodor's soulless eyes and thinks, it would be so easy.

Instead, he spins on his heel and heads for the exit. 

Fyodor's voice reaches him just as he's about to cross the threshold. "I am warning you now, Chuuya-kun: I will be the one to save this world. You would do well to stay out of my way, unless you are willing to lose more than just Dazai-kun."

As long as Fyodor lives, there will be a next time. As long as Fyodor lives, no prison in the world will ever be able to hold him. 

As long as Fyodor lives, there will always be someone to stop him. 

Chuuya turns halfway, meeting Fyodor's eyes and hoping he looks past Nakahara Chuuya to the god beneath him. To Arahabaki, straining at the promise of future revenge. 

"Set foot in Yokohama again," he says, voice low, "and I will tear you from limb to limb until you wish death found you first."

The door slides shut on Fyodor's slow smile. 

He brushes roughly past Sakaguchi on the way out, the desperate visceral need to just get away from Fuchu and everything it stands for, to get as far away from Fyodor as possible while he still can. Sakaguchi follows him out without a word, and speaks only when they are ten minutes into the drive back to Yokohama.

“Dazai-kun is awake,” he says. His eyes, nearly hidden by the sun’s glare on his spectacles, are kind. “I originally meant to take you back to the Port Mafia headquarters, but I can have you dropped off at the hospital if you prefer it.”

The anger Chuuya holds close to his heart, all the sharp edges of those five minutes with Fyodor still cutting him from the inside out, they break apart like petals in the wind, until the only thing left is the afternoon sun and the thought of Dazai burning in his palms. 

“Yeah,” he agrees after a moment. “Please.”

He’s out of the car the moment it pulls to a stop in front of the hospital. His heart beats too fast and his hands aren’t quite steady, and it’s all he can do to walk all the way to the patient ward without breaking into a sprint halfway through. By the time he gets to Dazai’s door, Yosano is already opening it. 

Her expression softens when she sees him, and whatever expression his face is making. “Go on in,” she tells him. “He’s been asking for you ever since he woke up. But be good. Don’t break anything. Remember he’s still healing.”

He catches her elbow as she makes to pass him. “Thank you,” he says. “For everything.”

Chuuya has never been the most eloquent person; words aren’t enough to describe how much she’s done, how much it means to him, but he thinks he can manage this for now.

A smile curls at the corners of Yosano’s lips. She pats him on the arm twice. “Go on in. I’ll make sure no one disturbs you.” Then she’s gone, the tail of her white coat flapping like a butterfly wing. He watches her go and turns back to the door, inhaling, exhaling, willing his heart to slow down.

His hand falls to the knob and twists it open. 

The room looks very different from the last time he was here. Light spills through the open blinds, little patches of sun falling onto the covers and coloring the room in soft orange tones. To the left of the bed, a rolling metal table carrying stray of apple slices cut into bunnies and a single pale peony. 

Peonies that symbolize good fortune and respect, given as someone’s more official version of well wishes. Chuuya touches one of the petals with a fingertip, tracing over the blossom and the leaves.

And then, his eyes go to Dazai. 

The steady rate of his breathing indicates sleep, his breaths drowned out by the low hum of the ventilator system. He doesn’t stir at the sound of Chuuya’s footsteps stopping by the bed, or even at the pounding of Chuuya’s own heart, so loud it feels amplified in this little room. 

He brushes a hand across the curve of Dazai’s cheek before he can stop himself. The skin beneath his fingers is warm, and as he feels his ability nullified, he releases a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. 

Dazai stirs.

Tired brown eyes drift open like they sense Chuuya is there, blinking once. Blinking the sleep out of his eyes before they settle on Chuuya and immediately soften at the edges. 

“Chuuya.”

His voice filters through the oxygen mask, exhausted but alive. Chuuya latches onto the familiarity of it as he breathes through the way his heart balloons in his chest. “Hey,” he whispers.

One long finger reaches up to tap the mask. Chuuya removes it, despite his own misgivings, and holds onto it, ready to put it back at the first sign of Dazai being unable to breathe on his own. 

It never happens. All there is, is Dazai breathing slow and steady on his own, staring at Chuuya like he's afraid he'll disappear if he looks away for a second. 

"You're here," he says. He sounds surprised.

"I am."

"Why?"

"So I can complain about how long you took to wake up right to your face."

Dazai laughs, a light and breathless sound that goes straight to Chuuya's heart. The thin wrist beneath his own turns upwards, slotting their hands together properly, as Dazai's eyes slide shut again. For a few moments, there's only the sound of his slow steady breaths and the birds chirping outside the window.

"You shouldn't have waited for me."

The fact that Dazai says it softly doesn't make it hurt any less. "Why not?"

Dazai opens his eyes again. The warmth is still there, but now it's touched by guilt that wasn't there a moment again. "Why would you, after everything I did?"

Something in Chuuya's heart crumbles. "Dazai—"

"I left." The words tumble out in a mess, as if Dazai can't get them out fast enough. "I killed Verlaine. I gave away your connection with Arahabaki. I took your trust and betrayed you, and I left. So why...?"

The look in his eyes falters just a bit, the end of the question tapering off into a silence of bated breath. Chuuya stares at the slump of Dazai's shoulders and the honest confusion in his face, and wonders past the ache exactly how long Dazai has wrested with this. 

He searches for anger and comes up short. He searches for hurt and comes up short in that too. For him, Paris is one of the worst memories he has to date, but that's all it is: a memory. An echo that has nothing to do with him or Dazai in the present.

"I'm still pissed." Dazai's eyes flick back to him. Chuuya cuts off his protest before it starts, this time. "I still wish you had talked to me about it, and that we figured it out together. But, what you did doesn't matter to me, anymore."

"Doesn't it?"

"You came back for me. Why the hell would Paris still matter after that?" 

Dazai looks at him and Chuuya feels acceptance washing over them both. Bewildered, reluctant, but acceptance nonetheless. When Dazai tugs at their entangled hands, Chuuya follows the pull and drifts closer, as Dazai's sigh fans out into the space between them.

"This would be easier if you were still furious with me."

"I'm capable of multitasking, idiot."

Dazai blows out another laugh, and it tickles Chuuya's hair. "Multitasking between being furious with me and...what?"

"Loving you."

Birdsong drifts in through the window, the hum of hospital activity rustles right outside the door. Dazai opens his mouth and then closes it. 

Then, "You love me?"

Dazai stares at him, eyes wide, pulse thrumming beneath Chuuya's fingers. Chuuya's own heart feels like it's about to pound right out of his chest and burst, but he doesn't take it back. 

Of course he loves Dazai. There's nothing else it could be. 

"Yeah," he says. He squeezes Dazai's hand like that can convince him that this is real. "Of course I do. I've loved you all this time."

Their hands disconnect suddenly. Chuuya doesn't have time to complain about it before Dazai's hand fists in the front of his shirt and pulls him onto the bed, narrowly avoiding the wires and the rolling metal table, into a kiss that's as desperate as it is gentle.

It's everything Chuuya has been waiting for. It's everything he's ever wanted. His heart burns in the pit of his stomach and constricts in his chest, and there's nothing he can do except press deeper into the kiss, shivering as Dazai's hand slides along the side of his face to fit into the curve of his nape. 

"I love you too," Dazai murmurs against his lips. "I didn't think I would ever get to tell you."

Chuuya's eyes slip open, stare at the smile on Dazai's lips and the light in his eyes. He reaches down, fitting his palm into the curve of Dazai's cheek. 

"Now you did," he says. "And you're stuck with me from now on."

Dazai's smile spreads. He pulls Chuuya back down until their foreheads rest together and there are only inches separating them. 

"I wouldn't have it any other way."

Chapter Text

Somewhere between the soft touches and the tranquility of the hospital room, they fall asleep.

Dazai doesn’t remember closing his eyes or drifting off into dreamland, but it feels like only minutes before sleep recedes from him and he eases into alertness, eyes blinking open to blearily stare at the ceiling. 

It’s morning, or sometime close to it—early enough that the light filtering through the curtains is faint, washing the room in pale blues and shadows. Early enough that seconds later, Dazai’s first thought is to slightly shift his head in order to look better at Chuuya’s body still pressed against him. 

Chuuya doesn’t stir. His hands curl into the folds of Dazai’s hospital gown, his breathing deep and even. When Dazai lightly smooths back the wayward hairs curling stubbornly around Chuuya’s face, the way Chuuya shifts into the touch makes something tight pull at his heart. 

He wants this.

That’s the first thought that crosses his mind as he watches the rise and fall of Chuuya’s chest, the thought that he wants this, wants Chuuya so hard his heart aches because of it, and the second follows quickly on its heel: the thought that for the first time in his life, he doesn’t want to run. 

Pressing his cheek against the crown of Chuuya’s head makes his thoughts go quiet, silences the never-ending narration in his head in a way that few people before Chuuya have ever managed to do. It will come back later, inevitably, when Chuuya leaves to do his job and Dazai suffers through whatever else the hospital wants to put him through, but for now, he holds his husband closer and slows his own breathing until it matches Chuuya’s. 

A minute later, there’s a soft tap at the door and Yosano comes in.

She smiles a little as her gaze drifts to the two of them on the bed, and makes her way to the bedside chair. “Hey,” she murmurs. “How are you feeling?”

“Same as yesterday,” Dazai responds just as quietly. He’s still tired, one breath away from slipping back into morphine-heavy sleep. 

“Any pain?”

“No more than the usual.”

“Okay, good.” Yosano jots something down in a little notepad, before she reaches for another intravenous line. “Overall,” she begins, inserting the needle into his vein, “your vitals are better than they were a week ago. But since you’ve just woken up, the doctors want to keep you here for another week in case you relapse.”

“Is that common?”

“It depends on individual circumstance. Definitely something to watch out for, with your track record.”

Dazai hums. “Seems more trouble than it’s worth.”

“It’s this, or my operating table.” Her grin is teasing, and edged with actual, sadistic intent. “And believe me, that’s still an option.”

“Your ability doesn’t work on me, sensei.”

“Don’t test me, Dazai.”

He bites back laughter and lets his eyes drift closed, letting the hum of the ventilator system fill his ears. "I've been out for a week," he muses out loud. "Any news I should know about?"

"None that I know of, if you're asking about Dostoyevsky." Yosano settles into the chair. "But if you're asking personally, then I might have something."

"Sometime this year would be nice, sensei," he says, which earns him a light whack to the leg. 

"Fukuzawa offered me a place in the Agency."

Dazai's eyes fly open, and then drift to the smile getting bigger on Yosano's face. "Apparently, there's been an opening for a company physician for a while."

"Are you going to take it?"

She whacks him again, but she's grinning. "You're supposed to be the genius here."

"But you haven't said no," he points out. "So, are you?"

"Yeah." Her hair falls in front of her face; she tucks it back behind her ear, and it's easy to see the lightness curling around her every movement. "I think so. It'll be nice to have a legal job after all this time."

She would fit in, Dazai thinks. What little he knows of the Agency is based around hearsay and every story Mori has ever told him about Fukuzawa, Silver Wolf known for his reputation as a fair and just leader. If the stories are true, then Yosano will be just fine under his leadership.

"He also asked me to pass on a message." Yosano's voice pulls him out of his thoughts. "A few months ago, an old friend came to him with a request to reserve one open place in the Agency. Not for himself, but for the employee he sent to the enemy side."

It doesn't take long, for the meaning behind her words to sink in. He watches her; she watches him in turn, her eyes kind and careful at the same time. "The place is yours, if you want it."

Dazai's gaze drops back to Chuuya. His heart aches now for another reason entirely, and he hopes Chuuya isn't awake to hear it. "Interesting," he says finally. "It's almost as if you're inviting me to pester you."

"Operating table," she reminds him, but she's smiling. It softens somewhat when she squeezes him on the knee. "I'll check on you in a couple of hours. Be good, don't be stupid."

"Tempting."

The last he sees of her is a grin sharper than the edges of her machete. Once the door clicks shut behind her, Dazai leans back on the pillows and takes a long, slow breath. His arm, curled over Chuuya, tightens incrementally.

Him in the Agency. It sounds like the beginning of a bad joke with an even worse punchline; what could he do in the Agency? All he has ever known is the shape of a gun in his hand and a hundred fifty ways to either make someone dance to his bidding or kill them with his bare hands. His blood is black, and he loathes the darkness, but at least it's familiar.

The ceiling offers no respite when he looks at it, only another blank thing to stare at. If walls could talk, he muses. If things would stop being complicated for once, and his mind could stop running at a million miles an hour.

It's another five minutes before the door opens again. Back so soon is the quip on his tongue, but the shoes that stop by the bed don't belong to Yosano. Instead, he looks up into the face of another old friend.

"Odasaku?"

The corners of Odasaku's smile are all warmth and cigarette smoke. "The doctor said you were awake. I came as soon as I could."

It feels like coming home, if home is a bar with dim lighting and round balls of ice soaking in scotch, like the years they spent apart never existed. Dazai can't hold back the smile tugging at his lips anymore than he could stop breathing on the spot. "It sounds like you missed me."

"Of course I did. Drinking felt lonely with just me and Ango." Odasaku settles into the chair, eyes drifting to Chuuya before going back to Dazai. "You look better. And tired."

"Morphine," Dazai tells him, and the other man opens his mouth in a slight ah. "Anymore, and I would already be asleep."

"That's probably better for you."

Several years ago, Dazai would have pouted. The urge is still there after all this time, but for now he just blows out an amused breath. "You haven't changed at all, Odasaku."

"You have."

He feels the laughter leave him. "So I've been told."

Oda doesn't react to the admittedly dry statement in any specific way, but his eyes are thoughtful as he looks at Dazai. Even years of dealing with Fyodor is nothing compared with Odasaku's special brand of scrutiny, honest and unapologetic; Dazai's forgotten how it feels to be on the receiving end of it. He can't help but look away.

"Dazai." So like Odasaku, to read him so easily and stop a spiral before it starts. "What's wrong?"

Chuuya shifts in his arms. He doesn't wake, but Dazai's gaze drops to him regardless.

"I got a job offer," he says into the silence, "from the Agency director. Would you believe it, Odasaku?"

His friend sits, turning this information over as he always has before speaking. "Are you going to take it?"

Dazai's fingers pause, the longer locks of Chuuya's hair spilling over them like liquid fire.

"What could I do there?" he asks quietly. "The Agency has no place for someone with hands as red as mine."

He leaves it there, as his fingers go back to idly playing with red hair. His throat aches with something stronger than exhaustion, growing stronger as the seconds tick by in silence and his eyes drift back to Chuuya. 

Dazai needs him. The inverse, he likes to believe, is also true. His blood is black and he loathes the darkness, but if the alternative means leaving the most important person in his universe behind, then it's not an alternative he wants to consider. 

Odasaku is looking at him with kind eyes when he smoothes back the hairs stubbornly catching at the corner of Chuuya's mouth. Dazai doesn't bother explaining himself.

"If I could leave," he hears the other start. "If I could leave the Mafia, I would. But, my kids need me, and they need me in the Mafia. This is your choice, Dazai, but you have to choose what feels right, for you."

"I think you'll find that I have poor judgement in these kinds of decisions, Odasaku."

His friend is silent for a little bit longer. "Then," he says, "be on the side that saves people."

Dazai's gaze flicks back to him. 

"If good and evil are the same, if both sides don't mean much to you, be a good man. Your hands may be red and your blood may be black, but it doesn't mean you can't do better in the light."

Dazai chuckles. He can't help it. The entire thing feels ridiculous—having a debate of morals between an ex-assassin and a former terrorist under orders, both of whom have taken more lives than they can count. He turns his gaze to the ceiling and lets a sigh drift into the air. "You've always been hell-bent on seeing the good in me."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I know it better than anyone. Because, I am your friend."

The way Odasaku says it, it's a fact. The sky is blue. The ocean is deep. I am your friend.

Dazai's next breath comes easier. He settles back against the pillows and closes his eyes, breathing in the scent of cigarette smoke and letting it take him to the last memory he had of Odasaku, nursing a glass of scotch in Bar Lupin.

"We should go drinking again some time," he murmurs. "When one drink won't send me back to the hospital."

He feels Odasaku's smile more than he sees it. "I look forward to it," his friend says. His hand rests briefly on the top of Dazai's head. "Get some rest, Dazai."

The door shuts with a click. Dazai's eyes trail from it to the red of Chuuya's hair, the color of fire, and he brushes a hand across his cheek before he can think twice about it, sweeping some of the longer strands away from his face. 

Dark eyelashes flutter in response, and Dazai's entire body aches. Love burns like a fire in the palms of his hands and the base of his throat, until his heart feels about to pound right out of his chest; he presses his lips to the corner of Chuuya's mouth, simply because he can't bring himself to do anything else, and feels a hand curl around the back of his neck.

“You think too loud,” Chuuya grumbles against his lips, eyes still closed. 

“Sorry,” Dazai whispers, apology cut off in the next time their lips slot together. 

“Idiot.”

There’s no sting in Chuuya’s tone, only drowsiness and fond exasperation. His eyes crack open brilliant blue, hidden by the fist he brings up to rub the sleep out of them. “W’time is it?”

“Early. Yosano-sensei will be back soon.”

“Idiot,” he’s told again. The last part of the insult disappears in the kiss Chuuya presses against his lips, slow and deep and addicting; Dazai can’t help the way he smiles into the kiss anymore than he can stop the way his arm curls tighter around Chuuya, pressing him closer.

It’s over too soon. Chuuya pulls away first; he turns over until his head rests at the junction of Dazai’s neck and shoulder and his fingers splay over Dazai’s heart, as if making sure it’s still beating. 

“Hey,” he murmurs, breath fanning across Dazai’s collarbone. “What’s going on in your head?”

Dazai exhales a sigh into Chuuya’s hair—ginseng and warmth, the scent of Chuuya’s shampoo. 

“Yosano got a job,” he says. “Company physician for the Agency.”

Blue eyes blink at him, but Chuuya doesn’t say anything. He’ll find Yosano later, Dazai knows, and give her his congratulations then; for now, though, he looks expectant, waiting for an explanation that Dazai suddenly does not have the courage to give. 

It has been a long time since Dazai has felt genuine fear from anything. Now, he feels it too much; every breath feels close to pounding out of his chest and he can’t quite decide between letting too much escape and chaining everything down. 

A touch to the side of his face brings him back to Chuuya, worry clear in the twist of his mouth and the way he searches Dazai’s eyes. “Dazai?”

Dazai kisses him. Because he wants to, and because he needs to do something to avoid drowning in his head. Chuuya lets him, for a moment, but then his hand is braced against Dazai's chest and pushing against it. "Don't think you can distract me with that."

"Is it working?" Dazai jokes, and he's met with a scowl so familiar he can't help the laughter that bursts out of him. 

It's almost enough to make him forget the fear.

Almost.

"Asshole," Chuuya mutters, but there's no heat in it. The hand he has on Dazai's cheek slips down to curl lightly at his collarbone. "What are you really thinking about?"

The reminder feels like ice water thrown over Dazai's head, cold and sobering. He reaches up to his collarbone and tangles their hands together, hoping that it distracts Chuuya as much as it does him so he can take a breath and attempt to scrape together what he wants to say. 

"She also said Fukuzawa passed on a message for me," he says. "That there is a spot reserved for me in the Agency, if I want it."

Chuuya's entire body tenses. Dazai waits for him to process the news with his heart in the palm of his hand, beating so hard he wonders that Chuuya doesn't feel it. The silence stretches across the nonexistent space between them, deafening. 

"That's short notice," Chuuya says, light and casual, but there's a stiffness in his shoulders Dazai doesn't miss. "How did this happen?"

"He owed someone a favor." Dazai pauses. "The way sensei put it, an old friend of his."

"And?" Chuuya asks after a full minute. "Are you going to take it?"

There's an odd expression on Chuuya's face, somewhere between horrible pain and complete defeat, that feels almost familiar, and it takes Dazai a moment to place exactly where he's seen it before. 

The last time Chuuya made this exact expression, Dazai left.

He wonders, past the tightness in his chest, if Chuuya thinks he'll leave again. 

"Yes," he responds after a moment. "I think so."

Chuuya pulls away this time and sits up. The thought that he might be leaving has Dazai moving before he can even think it through, wrapping an arm around his husband and blinking past the dull throb of pain in his chest. 

“Chuuya,” he says, “I’m not leaving you again.”

“Aren’t you?” Chuuya snaps. “Isn’t that exactly what this is?”

“No.”

“Then what is it? God—“ Chuuya cuts himself off with a growl, gripping the covers so hard his knuckles turn white. “If it’s not that, then what the fuck is it?”

His voice is a whisper but it’s harsh, an echo of Dazai’s own rising desperation. There is real, honest hurt on his face that his hair can’t hide fast enough when he turns his head away. Dazai stares, helplessness burning in his hands, and all he can think about is the way Chuuya’s hands had shook just before he pulled away. One frayed string away from falling apart.

One wrong word away from leaving and never coming back. 

Dazai takes a breath. He takes another. And then, he lets the arm he has around Chuuya fall away.

“Stay with me. Please.”

Chuuya looks at him, face caught between pained anger and defeat that fades with every second they hold eye contact—Dazai wonders what kind of expression he must be making, for Chuuya's anger to evaporate so quickly.

It's ultimately Chuuya who looks away first.

He makes a noise that is either a scoff or a laugh or both, and settles against Dazai's shoulder again. His hand hovers over Dazai's, palm-up, a metaphorical white flag. 

“You’re taking the spot, then.” It’s not a question.

Dazai folds his fingers over Chuuya’s, tracing over every callus and every scar. He glances sideways into blue eyes that flick away the moment they meet, as he thinks about the best way to answer.

“I’m tired of the dark, Chuuya.” 

The moment the words are out, he feels the truth of them in his bones. He adjusts his grip on Chuuya’s hand until their fingers fit properly together. “For years I’ve lived and breathed in it—first Mori, then Fyodor. There’s nothing in it for me, nothing compelling enough to make me stay.”

Chuuya's eyes snap back to his with a ferocity that would catch him off guard if he wasn't so used to it. But even that feels hesitant; even that is tinted with an uncertainty that looks out of place on Chuuya.

"What about me?" he asks. 

There are years of practiced gentleness in the touch Dazai presses against Chuuya's face, years of things he will never tell him about. Chuuya doesn't need to know every time the bottomless despair inside him looked a lot like darkness, or every time it took hold of Dazai and made him worthy of the title demon prodigy. 

Kouyou would object; a flower in darkness, she would say, can only thrive in darkness. But Dazai is nothing if not unique for all the wrong reasons, and though Chuuya is no stranger to the darkness that permeates the Mafia, protecting him from the worst parts Dazai has to offer is the least Dazai can do for him. 

"There is a reason Mishima called me the worst of everyone in the Angels," he says at length. "I can't guarantee that you won't find out what he means, if I stay."

Chuuya stays quiet, studying him with a look that's hard to pinpoint. His gaze is still sharp but there's no heat in it now, just something that looks a lot like contemplation. 

"I want to see if things could be different—if I could be different, on the side of the light. But I don't want to do it without you."

Those last words feel binding, an admission of something more intimate than every gentle touch they've ever shared. Dazai's heart beats feverishly faster for it, but he doesn't take them back.

What he has with Chuuya is not quantifiable; love, yes, but also completion. Even if he or Chuuya were to walk away now, they'll never be free of each other; for as long as Yokohama needs them, they'll always be pulled together like two sides of a coin, if not by want then by need, if not by love then by duty. Right now, he isn't interested in being anywhere else but here. 

At last the tense line of Chuuya's shoulders relaxes as he breathes out a laugh. Something wistful dances across his expression as he holds up their entangled hands to the dawn light. 

"This would be easier if I hated you," he admits. 

"My plans never fail."

Rolling his eyes, Chuuya grabs a handful of hair and yanks hard enough to make Dazai yelp. "Is it impossible for you to take something seriously for one whole minute?"

"I'm never more serious than when I'm around you, chibikko."

"Lies."

Dazai muffles laughter into Chuuya's hair, uncaring of the way it makes his chest hurt. When the laughter recedes, he takes in the easy smile on Chuuya's lips and the light in his eyes and tucks one stray strand of hair behind Chuuya's ear. 

"Chuuya," he murmurs, "will you stay with me?"

There are a thousand things he doesn't say, lodged within the confines of the question, but Chuuya hears them all. He shakes his head, smile going exasperated and impossibly softer.

"You have a shit memory." The hand he rests against Dazai's cheek is warm. "I'm with you, and you're with me. I'm not going anywhere."

Then, his hand slides down to Dazai's chest, bracing against it as the smile flips into a comically fast frown. "But no more secrets. No more hiding things from me. From now on, you tell me everything or I'll kick your ass."

Dazai grins. "I can live with that."

He leans forward, and Chuuya meets him halfway.