Chapter Text
The night split open with the sound of gunfire.
Yokohama’s skyline was like a fever dream, neon was bleeding into smoke, the sea was swallowing light like it was tired of reflection. Dazai moved through it all with the kind of grace that came from habit, not care. His coat fluttered in the wind as he ducked behind a stack of broken crates, bullets cracking through the air in a rhythm that had once thrilled him. Now it just made him tired.
“Oi, Dazai!” Chuuya’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp as a blade. “You planning to sit there all night, or are you actually gonna help?”
Dazai peeked over the crates, lips twitching. “You’re doing such a fine job Chuuuya! I’d hate to interrupt your artistry.” He rolled his eyes, Chuuya’s response was a low curse and a burst of gravity that crushed the pavement around their enemies. Bodies hit the ground hard, dust rose. The rest of the gunfire stuttered for a second before falling silent, leaving only the echo of collapsing debris. When the air settled, Dazai stepped out from the cover, hands in his pockets. “Efficient as always,” he muttered, voice mild.
Chuuya turned, hair catching the time streetlight, eyes molten. “And useless as always. You didn’t even lift a damn finger.”
“Not true.” Dazai gestured lazily toward the bodies, “I offered moral support.”
“You’re impossible.” Chuuya barked back, his glare able to strip paint.
“I’ve heard that before.” He walked past him, the faint smell of gunpowder clinging to the air. The night was cold enough that his breath showed in thin, ghostly clouds. Behind him, Chuuya muttered something too low to catch, but Dazai didn’t need to hear it. He knew the tone. It was the same one Chuuya used whenever he didn’t know whether to hit him or ask if he was okay.
They met again later in the aftermath; an abandoned warehouse the Port Mafia used for cleanup operations. The floor glistened with puddles of dirty rainwater. Someone had left the overhead light flickering, painting the space in slow pulses of yellow and shadow. Chuuya stood against a concrete pillar, gloves still on, cigarette between his lips. His hat was tipped low over his eyes. Dazai watched the faint orange burn at the end of the cigarette and thought it looked too much like a heartbeat.
“Another routine job done,” Dazai said quietly, leaning against the opposite wall. “How thrilling our lives are.” Chuuya scoffed, “Could’ve been less messy if you’d actually done your job,” when he replied you could tell there was no bite in his words. Hell, he looked tired too. “What’s going on with you lately? You’ve been spacing out. More than usual.”
A faint smile fell on Dazai’s face. “Maybe I’m just getting old.”
“Bullshit.” Chuuya exhaled smoke, slow and measured. “Something is on your mind.” Dazai tilted his head back, letting his eyes follow the flicker of the overhead bulb whilst sighing. “Would you believe me if I said I was thinking about the meaning of life?”
“Not even a little.”
He laughed softly. “Then I suppose there is no point in saying it.”
Chuuya didn’t answer. The silence stretched between them, not awkward, but definitely weighty. Outside, sirens echoed far away; someone else’s chaos, someone else’s story. Here, it was just them. Two ghosts in a place that refused to care about the living. When Dazai finally looked at him again, Chuuya’s expression had softened, if only slightly. “You keep looking like you’re already halfway gone,” he muttered.
“Maybe I am.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
Dazai’s smile lingered, faint- but solemn. “Don’t worry about it, Chuuya. I wouldn’t want to trouble you with something as boring as existential dread.”
“Try me.”
There it was again. That dangerous crack in Chuuya’s armor. Concern. Dazai hated it, mostly because it made him want to stay. He pushed off the wall, walking closer until he could see the reflection of the flickering light in Chuuya’s eyes. “You really shouldn’t care so much about me,” he said quietly. “It’ll ruin your reputation.”
Chuuya scoffed. “Don’t flatter yourself. I just don’t want my partner losing it mid job.”
“Partner,” Dazai repeated, testing the word on his tongue. “What a heavy title.”
“It’s the one you earned.”
Dazai smiled again- soft, rueful. “You always were too kind to me.”
Chuuya looked like he wanted to argue, but the words didn’t come. Instead, he took another drag from his cigarette, exhaled through his nose, and said nothing. The smoke drifted between them, silver and slow, curling in the dim light like it wanted to fill the silence they couldn’t.
Later that night, when the cleanup was done and the reports filed, Dazai stood alone outside the Mafia’s headquarters. The sea wind was sharp, carrying the smell of salt and metal. Somewhere in the city, laughter drifted from a bar. It sounded far away, like it belonged to another world. He pulled the bandages tighter around his arm. The skin beneath still stung from a scrape that would heal in a day, but the ache underneath it—the one that lived deeper, where Odasaku’s voice lingered—never did.
”There is no place in this world that can fill your loneliness, Dazai.”
He wondered if Oda would’ve laughed seeing him still here. Still killing time in a world that bled too easily. Behind him, a door opened. Chuuya stepped out, hair tousled, his hat tucked under one arm. He stopped a few feet away, eyes narrowing. “You’re still here?”
“I like the air,” Dazai said. “It’s honest.”
“You’re a pain in the ass.”
“I’ve heard that too.”
Chuuya moved closer, his coat brushing against Dazai’s sleeve. For a moment, neither spoke. The hum of the city filled the gap—cars, waves, the occasional shout. “Dazai,” Chuuya said finally, voice low. “If you ever— I mean, if something’s wrong, don’t pull that disappearing act of yours.”
Dazai smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Would it bother you if I did?”
Chuuya hesitated. His jaw tightened, but he fought to keep his voice steady. “Yeah. It would.”
Right then, for just a second, Dazai wanted to say something that would make him stay there forever. But words like that didn’t belong in the mouths of people like them. So instead, he said softly, “You’ll get used to it.”
Chuuya’s eyes darkened. “I won’t.” He turned and left before Dazai could reply. The sound of his boots fading down the concrete steps, and Dazai stayed exactly where he was. He watched the space Chuuya had occupied, the night air colder now, blunt and harsh. “Good,” he murmured to no one. “Don’t.”
The wind took the word and scattered it across the docks. He looked up at the bruised horizon where the first hint of dawn pressed against the dark. Tomorrow will come. Another mission, another body, another silence. The same routine that had kept him alive long after he had stopped wanting to be. Only now, he realized, the silence felt heavier. And when he closed his eyes, it wasn’t Oda he saw this time. It was Chuuya.