Chapter Text
Kyusaku Yumeno.
The name nearly brought Dazai to tears. Not out of sadness, or shame, or anything, but out of frustration. The child was so uncooperative they even failed to relay their gender to Dazai. Dazai gave up and called them “Q” as a punishment.
“Fine. If you don’t tell me what you are, I’ll make you an identity myself.”
Mori had tasked Dazai with figuring out Q’s ability. They’d been found in the wreckage of a mental hospital, so Dazai started there. He tasked his subordinates with making a hospital-like environment to surround Q with, hoping to bring back whatever emotions triggered their ability last time.
The hospital set hadn’t yet been finished, so Dazai thought he’d take a day off to hang with Chuuya until his minions finally caught up. Now, he seethes in anger at his former self.
“Yeah, that was not a ‘tomorrow me’ problem,” Chuuya jokes as both of them speed walk to the site of the hospital setup. He raises his voice comically high to mock Dazai: “‘Oh, look, I’ll take a rest day so I can fuck around with my best buddy! I bet this action will not have consequences! It’s not like I’m a mafia executive or anything!’”
The black-haired boy keeps his piercing gaze focused on the asphalt below, holding back the loudest scream and the hardest punch.
Chuuya seems to notice his partner isn’t exactly in the mood for talking right now. He scoffs and puts his hands in his pockets to seem more nonchalant than he really is.
Finally, they make it to the outside of the set. It’s only a mile away, and yet the area looks so different. It’s built almost entirely in a warehouse, with some natural light peeking in for a realer ambience.
“Depressing as hell,” Chuuya comments.
“It’s supposed to be,” says Dazai, adjusting his coat. “I’m tryna bring back traumatic memories.”
“Yeah, but if you’re not actually gonna be testing shit on the kid, then it’s really your guys takin’ the blame.”
Dazai breaks out in a fit of coughing after inhaling fresh dust. “I—“ cough ”…wouldn’t be able to. My ability, remember?”
Chuuya nods and then stops to stare at the set. “You put a lot of work into this, huh. Why not just rent out a real hospital?”
The other boy scowls once again. “Fucking giving’ to charity or whatever. Hirotsu makes me broke.”
Chuuya barks out a laugh. “That’s pathetic. Man, I love being rich!” Using his ability, he floats up to the second level, where the subordinates are hiding. “Hey, come on out. You’re not in trouble.”
Dazai almost shouts back, “Yes they fucking are,” but decides to be nice.
“Where was Q last?” he inquires.
At the hospital, one of his men supplies.
“Yeah, and?” Chuuya says sternly, trying to be intimidating. He just looks like he’s about to go into full splits, with his leg bending over the second-story rail like that.
No one says anything other than “at the hospital.” They don’t even know when they last saw them. Dazai considers asking Mori for permission to kill a few of them. He finally snaps.
“Then, we’re done here. And don’t try redeeming yourselves, you scum. I’d rather have leeches crawling all over this warehouse, licking the rust clean off, than have you worthless ants making absolutely no progress.”
Then the final nail,
“If you don’t fix yourselves, half the fingers in this room will be gone by next week.”
He’s made himself clear. Holding his coat, he turns his back to the crew and leaves. Chuuya follows with a bit of his ability still making him float.
The walk back is silent between the two. Chuuya kicks a rock back and forth, like the stupid squirrel he is. But oh, Dazai thinks, how his antics leave me with such a hole in my heart.
One that I can’t fill unless I give up my safety.
Dazai has known he is jealous of Chuuya’s free spirit since they met. He isn’t under the direct instruction of Mori, not yet at least, so he has the freedom to act like a kid. And that’s what he is. What they both are.
Children.
“A little harsh, huh?” Chuuya confronts Dazai the moment they step back into the dreary apartment. That same scrutinizing smile stretches across Dazai’s face like mold.
“They deserve it.” Dazai attempts to defend himself. “You wouldn’t understand. You’re not an executive yet. What needs to be done will be—“
Chuuya silences him with a horrid-sounding slap on the face.
“You really don’t carry any shame, do you,” he growls, breaths deep and heavy. His arms sink to the floor by his sides as he looks up at Dazai with disdain. “Those are people with real lives. They’re doing the best they can. Sure, some of them might not be as bright as you, but really, who is? You can’t expect everyone you work with to fill in the gaps between your orders!
“There’s no method to your madness, Dazai. I’m getting sick and tired of watching you torture your guys. They’ve got family. They’ve got bills to pay. They’re not like us, us children who have no care in the world. They deserve the rights you don’t give them!”
Chuuya’s voice is loud enough to permeate through the entire apartment unit. He sinks to the floor, breathing shallowly, face red from shouting. It’s the most pathetic image Dazai has ever seen: wasting yourself to defend people you don’t even know, to someone you know doesn’t care.
His smile fades. “Get up, Chuuya.”
It’s just like giving orders to a dog. Chuuya obeys without a second thought, proving to Dazai once again that he truly is the child he tries to be.
“I’m not playing these games anymore, dear partner. You listen to me more than you listen to yourself. If you want this little performance to continue any longer, you’ll listen to me.”
The dog does not speak. Because dogs cannot speak unless spoken to.
Dazai grabs both of Chuuya’s wrists. The redhead’s face flares to match his hair. “You’re so easy to control, dear Chuuya.” He lets their fingers intertwine. “How do you know I’m not just subtly controlling your every move?”
Chuuya stammers out a response. “Because you wouldn’t do this to the only person to actually understand you.”
Dazai is taken aback for once. With a gasp, he steps backward. His hands are still tangled up in Chuuya’s, like a knot in a rope that won’t come undone.
Unfortunately, getting close to someone means letting them uncover exactly what makes you tick. And that’s what Dazai hates most of all.
“You do not understand me, Chuuya,” he counters. “No one truly understands.”
”You sound like the emo kids in American movies.” Chuuya’s expression is hard for Dazai to read, but he seems to be angry.
“And you look like one,” he says.
“I know you care about a few people. If I’m included, that’d be nice, but like, just know that I know you more than you think.”
”More than I’d like,” Dazai corrects.
Chuuya finally disconnects their hands. “We’ll discuss the treatment of your soldiers later. I’m gonna play a few rounds of that game.”
”And I’ll watch you creepily from the side of the room, I’m sure.”
“I’m sure as well.”
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The afternoon fades into dull evening. Moonbeams cover the ground in a silver light as Dazai walks to the mail room. The mail room that is inconveniently located outside of the apartment.
He fumbles with the key, forgetting which way he has to turn it. Why would he forget something like that? Shouldn’t it be muscle memory?
Dazai blames it on the brain fog. The brain fog that has been growing in density for the past few hours. It started with the fight between him and Chuuya, but increased until he could barely even focus on his own convulsing hands.
In the end, neither of them found a lead on Q’s whereabouts. Q was supposed to be back at the set no later than sunset, so they should be back by now—but what if they’re not? What if they’ve run away? Would Dazai blame himself or his subordinates?
Because technically, he was the one who didn’t place trackers on Q and relied solely on the Ability of one of his men. What if that Ability user had been hurt by Q?
Dazai shakes his head and returns to opening the mailbox.
Oh, that’s right. He’d already opened it.
When did I do that?
He doesn’t give it any more thought. He finds a single letter in the compact space, crumpled like it’s been crushed in one’s hand.
He doesn’t need his intuition to know that it’s another message from Q.
What could it be this time? He opens it clumsily, discarding the envelope. It is indeed a letter written by a six year old. But not in the way that it should be.
It’s written in the way an adult would write a business letter.
Hello, Dazai. I see you’ve ignored my warning. You must think you have time, correct? You must think I was simply begging for a release from this silly game you’re playing. You’re incorrect. Code 6 is not a preparation warning. Among us captives, it is a signal that means the danger has already passed.
If you’re reading this, my ability has already activated. It is all a result of your carelessness and inability to act. Dazai, you have dug your own grave. I hope you enjoy seeing your subordinates’ husbands and wives crying at the feet of their dead bodies. I hope you watch intently as their children ask what happened to their parent.
I wish you the best, because as I write this, they are chasing me. And yes, I can pick locks. I hid in the neighboring apartment room earlier.
They say I’m smarter than I look.