Chapter Text
“Long story short, I found the whereabouts of the previous boss. Looks like he came back, straight from the pits of hell,”
He hears Mori sigh through the speaker. The older man, Hirotsu, glances up in confusion before lowering his gaze once again.
Honestly, Dazai doesn't understand why Mori thinks he’s in need of a babysitter when he’s probably better at his job than many of the seasoned mafiosos in the Port Mafia. But then again, that man loves to make people feel belittled. It’s a powerful manipulation technique that he’s used several times himself — but that doesn’t make it any less irritating to be on the receiving end of it.
And this irritation is what starts it all. Even while stepping into the enemy territory that is Suribachi city— the moment of fleeting thought is enough. Suddenly, something crashes violently into his back. Dazai is flung several feet forward before landing with a wheeze on the ground. There’s someone standing on top of him.
Fuck thi s. Dazai thinks as the dust settles and an obnoxious laugh starts tormenting his ears. A wave of pain creeps up his spine from the rough landing. Fuck this and fuck you Mori. I’m quitting.
Of course he won’t — but the thought soothes the slight humiliation he feels for letting Hirotsu see him knocked down so easily. Dazai observes his sudden attacker and is overcome with familiarity — bordering on nostalgia.
The person resting a heavy boot on top of his stomach is a rather short teenager with a confident smirk and hair like fire. The kid is going on and on about how the Mafia has stooped to such desperation they’re sending out kids at this point. Either he’s too arrogant to notice Dazai doesn’t care about a word, or he’s to stupid to realize it.
The question is — why is this boy so very familiar?
It’s not too hard to guess who this is, given the situation. But in Dazai’s profession you learn a lot about a good amount of people– and he’s never felt like this upon meeting anybody before.
Technically speaking, Dazai could easily beat this kid up with Hirotsu’s help and hurry back to his apartment to call it a day. His only orders were to check the area out, and now he’s done just that. Besides, he’s got many more chapters and techniques to try from his favourite book.
So, obviously — he’s got many good reasons to ignore this odd feeling and head back already. But something inside him refuses.
So Dazai does what he does best. He plays the game.
He manages to tune the babbling teen back in, jumping at the first opportunity to find out more. The boy has given him two options: Die now, or die after giving up all the information he has.
It’s an… odd intimidation technique that doesn’t seem to work very well. But each to their own, he guesses.
Of course, his answer is obvious: He’d very much like to die right now.
“Jeez, what kind of a suicidal punk are you?” The boy asks, teeth gritted in annoyance at not being taken seriously.
“You’re a punk too, you know?!” Dazai shoots back.
“Except like you, I'm not just any punk! Enough of this chit-chat,
Tell me about this Arahabaki you’re looking for.”
Dazai stills.
What. Pump the fucking brakes.
Arahabaki is a name and a presence that was always present in Dazai’s life — Back when he was Shuuji, not Osamu.
For centuries, the Tsushimas were a bloodline of quirkless Arahabaki worshippers, the only one of their kind left. They lived on the outskirts of Mustafu, Japan.
If all the stories he was told as a child were true, the Arahabkai was a great god of energy-manipulation and peace. A singularity which protected those who worshipped it, and held no mercy for those who didn’t. Back then, there were several bloodlines of worshippers.
When war plagued the humans and different worshippers turned against each other— all the hate and negative energy warped the god’s purpose in the world. The Arahabaki became a singularity of destruction and lost all of its worshippers. Except for one singular bloodline.
“It watches over us with love and protection, because we have always looked towards it with love and devotion,” his mother used to say whenever he doubted. According to her, Arahabaki still held on to some of its previous qualities, and because of the loyalty the Tsushima family had shown, they would remain protected as the god’s sole worshippers.
Shuuji was diagnosed quirkless at age three, just as was expected of him. It was a known fact within the family that no person born with worshipper blood could ever possess the genetic mutation known as a quirk.
“We don’t need quirks to protect ourselves,” his mother would tell him. “We are blessed to have It looking out for us. I know all your classmates talk about becoming pro-heroes, but that’s no occupation for a Tsushima, Honey.” She’d sigh and tuck a brown lock of hair behind his ear, rubbing his cheek affectionately.
“We are worshippers, our blood is liquid devotion and that’s the essence of who we are. Our place in the world is wherever It wants us, you just need to let yourself be guided.”
She rose graciously from her knees in front of the altar, pouring rich red wine onto the base of the statue from a decorative pitcher. She pulled a delicate knife from the front pocket of the apron, shifting it back and forth in the sunlight to make sure it’s sharp enough. Shuuji observed quietly as his mother made a small cut in her wrist, blood beading at the surface of her pale skin.
She was a beautiful woman. Long locks of brown hair cascaded down her back, shifting in the wind as she crouched down to let the crimson drops fall into the wine by the statue. Her outgrown bangs hanging slightly over her honey-coloured eyes as she turned to him with a motherly smile.
“Now you, Shuuji,”
He obediently presented his arm to her, and watched detachedly as she brought the knife to his skin. She gently maneuvered his arm until it hovered above the altar, a single drop of blood falling onto the red mess already there. His mother smiled, looking pleased
“You wanna say it together, Honey?”
O Arahabaki, grantor of gracious light,
We offer this prayer and sacrifice with respect,
Asking for your protection and your favor.
Let your presence watch over us,
And may we walk in harmony with your spirit.
O Arahabaki, grantor of gracious light,
We bow before you in humble reverence.
May your power fill our lives with courage,
And may we honor your path each day.
Whenever Shuuji got too close to the altar, his body would fill with an indescriptable feeling, like a dizzy sort of unease spreading from his fingertips throughout his body, but without the fear. If he had to compare the experience to anything else, it would be like waking up to the feeling of being watched in your sleep, followed by the relief when you realize it’s just your mother standing at your bedside with a breakfast plate.
It was something similar to terror mixed with respect and admiration for something bigger than his own existence.
Now, nine years later, he is no longer Shuji Tsushima. He’s Dazai Osamu of the Port Mafia in Yokohama.
He wills his wildly beating heart to slow. He’ll have time to reflect over this later — maybe after a couple bottles of whatever he could get his hands on the quickest. For now he just needs to get out of this vulnerable position. Lying on his back with an idiot’s dirty boot on his chest.
“Oh, Arahabaki? How interesting, so that’s the target.” He states simply.
“You’ve heard about it then?”
“No, never have!” He lies smoothly.
The pressure on his chest vanishes. The next second, the boot flies across his face, forcing his head to turn.
Keeping his face carefully blank, he identifies the brute as Chuuya Nakahara, the gravity-manipulator and King of the Sheep.
Jeez. What a mess.