Work Text:
Summary: Osamu Dazai enlists the help of Yukito Ayatsuji and Chuuya Nakahara to take out Fyodor Dostoyevsky. Sequel to: Bury Me Shallow, I'll Be Back. Chuuya & Ayatsuji friendship.
Chuuya Nakahara was a dark wraith that had slipped into Hitoshi's home office. His status as a Port Mafia Executive was apparent from his expensive black dress shoes to his heavy black trench coat that hung around his petite shoulders. Long, wine red hair and bright blue eyes were capped by a black fedora. He was alone, but that was because he didn't need back-up.
"You have very nice pens," Chuuya noted as he swept his gaze over his target's desk. They were of the expensive sort—fat, rimmed in a metal meant to look like gold, with a nice weight to them. Chuuya leaned forward slightly and laced his black gloved hands together.
The man behind the desk paled slightly and leaned backwards.
"Mr. Hitoshi, if you don't give us what we asked for, I'll be forced to prolong my visit," Chuuya drawled. "And my stay here will start to get a bit. . . messy. I'm sure we both don't want to risk permanently staining your authentic Persian rug." His look was slightly sympathetic, merely a thin sheet of ice over a cold plunge to one's death.
"Sir, I—" Mr. Hitoshi cautiously began. He was interrupted by a ringtone, some sort of classical piece.
Chuuya picked up his phone with a roll of his eyes. "What do you want? Yes. . . Yes. . . Perhaps. . . Hmm. . . Sure. . . You owe me one." He had kept his gaze locked on his target while he talked. "Mr. Hitoshi, do you know anything about the death of Mr. Ivanov and Mrs. Smirnov?"
Mr. Hitoshi's face went from a dark cream color to bleached white tiles. "Nothing. . . Nothing," he stuttered out.
"Does the name Kuznetsov sound familiar?" Chuuya watched for the reaction. He spotted the flinch. "Yes. He does," he reported. "Mr. Hitoshi, Tuesday night or Monday night?"
Mr. Hitoshi shivered slightly at the question, suddenly feeling cold. "I went there Tuesday night," he confessed.
"Yes. Considering his background, he's the one responsible for that part. You're welcome." Chuuya ended the call. "As thanks for your voluntary help, the detective looking into the Ivanov-Smirnov Murder Case has decided to exempt you from his net."
"Ayatsuji the Homicide Detective?" Mr. Hitoshi asked incredulously. "But you're a criminal. How do you know each other? Why would you work together?"
Chuuya sighed. He leaned in closer. Despite his smaller height, he seemed to loom over his target. "That information is unnecessary for our discussion. Where is our money, Mr. Hitoshi?"
"The Hernandez family took it. I don't know how they knew it about it. But I can help you. I can—" Mr. Hitoshi's pleading was cut off.
An expensive black pen protruded from his skull.
"Thank you for the information." Chuuya was tempted to slip one of the other pens into his inner jacket pocket. But he resisted it. "Well, men," he drawled, "It's shaping up to be an interesting week."
XXX
Tsujimura—a government agent in a black suit—burst into the office of her asset. "There you are—!"
The detective, Yukito Ayatsuji, leaned back in his chair. He wore a pair of reading glasses and a hunting cap. He had a phone pressed against his ear. He held up a hand, warning her to stop talking. "Thank you for confirming my suspicions." He lowered the phone and raised an eyebrow at Tsujimura.
"You don't get to disappear all day and then look at me like that. I have a job to do and I can't do it if I don't know where you are," Tsujimura fumed. She was a government agent assigned to keep an eye on Ayatsuji, but she usually ended up being more like his personal assistant.
"I solved the case. Let's go back to the police station."
Tsujimura blinked. She was successfully distracted from her rage, blind-sided from a breakthrough in the case. "What? Really?"
"Yes," Ayatsuji calmly replied.
Mollified by the fact that Ayatsuji hadn't been messing around, Tsujimura followed him without complaint.
The two went back to the police station, where the local police lined up the suspects. Ayatsuji picked out the man, Kusnetsov, a Japanese-Russian involved with the mob, with the help of a drawing connected to a murder seven years ago. He explained his reasoning to a policeman and the captured murderer.
Sadly, right after, a ceiling tile fell and hit Kusnetsov in the head. Kusnetsov died, immediately.
But Ayatsuji didn't like something about this case. And no, it wasn't Kusnetsov's death, that was normal for his investigations—his ability killed every killer he caught in an accident soon after he caught them.
Something else wasn't right. There was an unknown someone still involved: the person who had paid Kusnetsov a substantial sum.
He honestly didn't know how much headway he could make with both of his leads—the two of the three involved in the murder—dead.
Ayatsuji clicked his tongue.
Oh well. The Special Abilities Department already had another case lined up for him. He would have to think about it later.
XXX
Osamu Dazai, a man with curly brown hair, scowled at the ceiling. He was not in his usual suit, and instead wore a thin light blue hospital gown. His tan coat and crutch were respectively on or leaned against the chair near him. He was scowling because he was stuck in bed, a hospital bed. He was in that hospital bed because he had broken a leg in an odd mix of solving a case and a suicide attempt.
He had gotten very tired of being stuck in bed for almost a month. He was actually close to being released, but that didn't really matter much to him when his only entertainment was a white room with little in it.
His expression brightened at a useful thought.
Operation: Getaway
Mackerel sent his location
Mackerel: I'm really bored
Slug: And what does that have to do with me?
Mackerel: It's a bit hard to drive with a broken leg.
Slug: So?
Mackerel: If you don't help me get out of this hospital, I will annoy you for as long as I'm here.
Dazai could feel the irritation from the other side of the screen.
Slug: Where are you wanting me to take you?
Dazai grinned. Step one, success.
Mackerel: My apartment
Mackerel: And if you don't want to bump into my coworkers, you should hurry; they seem to be keeping a watch outside my door.
Slug: I'm in my car.
Slug: Where's your 'guard' now?
Mackerel: Outside my door.
Mackerel: It's fine though
Mackerel: I'm going to convince Atsushi to get me a drink in three minutes. That gives us one and a half minutes before he notices.
Slug: ETA fifteen minutes
Slug: I'll be waiting by the East entrance.
Mackerel: See you soon, Chibi!
He smirked—he could almost hear the growl at the much-despised nickname.
He waited, checking his phone's time. "Atsushi!" He called out.
The door opened and Atsushi came in. "Dazai-san?"
"You would please get me a drink from the cafeteria? Like a soda?" Dazai pleaded.
"You shouldn't have soda," Atsushi staunchly replied.
Dazai nodded in agreement. Time to try again, with a slight change. "You're right, maybe not soda. How about milk?"
Atsushi looked uncertain.
"You're doubting the healthiness of milk? What are you, six?" Dazai asked in a disbelieving and teasing tone.
"No!" Atsushi blurted out, an embarrassed flush to his cheeks. "Just. . . Okay, I'll get you some. I'll be right back, Dazai-san," he promised.
Dazai might have felt guilt over tricking Atsushi. . . Later. But right then, he certainly didn't. He wanted to be out of this hospital as soon as he could, whether or not the hospital had officially let him go.
Step two, successful. And now for step three.
He pulled himself up into a sitting position and moved over to the side of the bed. He was careful to only put his weight on his right leg. He did a sort of hop skip over to the chair. Now that he started to move, he could feel how heavy the cast was—it weighed down his foot in a bulky, awkward way.
He pulled his tan trenchcoat over the hospital gown to conceal the fact that he was not wearing regular clothes. He picked up the crutches and hobbled his way over to the door. He had a good bit of experience using a crutch—for him, it wasn't hard to balance. He stopped and combed his hair with his fingers, making his bedhead look more normal.
He glanced down the hallway then made his way out.
Chuuya's car sat in the parking lot—it was a red sudan, and rather expensive-looking.
Dazai put his crutch in the back and climbed in the passenger seat.
Chuuya already had the key in the ignition and turned it.
Kunikiiidaaa: Dazai, where are you?
Waste of bandages: At the hospital
Waste of bandages: Where else would I be?
Waste of bandages: I'm injured, remember?
Dazai propped his elbow on the car door. He was pretty sure he could hear Kunikida's shout of frustration as they drove away.
Chuuya dropped Dazai off at the Agency apartment complex.
Dazai carefully navigated up the stairs to his place. He fished his keys out of his coat pocket and opened the door. He made his way to his bedroom and changed out of the hospital gown. He ate some normal, not hospital food—crab cakes—and collapsed onto his bed.
Operation Getaway was successful.
XXX
There was a knock on Chuuya's apartment door. He woke up in an instant, rolled out of bed, and sprinted out into the hallway. Chuuya looked through the peephole, sighed, and opened the door.
"You're going to the docks again?" Chuuya drawled. His hair was messed up from sleeping—not that he had slept long. "Do you just like abandoned warehouses and the ocean at night time? I seriously doubt you have this many cases that involve the docks."
Ayatsuji smirked and cooly replied, "You'd be surprised at how unoriginal some people are when disposing of evidence."
Chuuya sighed. He had taken on the job of keeping an eye on the detective while he was investigating on Port Mafia territory. "Give me a minute to grab my stuff." Fifty three seconds later, he opened the door again and stepped out. "So, what is it this time? Serial killer, mass theft, or what?"
"An anonymous blackmailer with a clown motif—he killed someone to cover up some black market deals," Ayatsuji answered. "We won't have to poke around in any dark warehouses. Really, I just want to ask around at a local bar."
Chuuya stopped and gave his friend a serious stare. "We both remember what happened the last time I took you to a dive bar. If I take you, you can't kill anyone. Just analyze them for exploitable weaknesses and relevant stuff, don't go all 'I know you murdered someone three hours and six minutes ago.'"
"I pinky promise," Ayatsuji dryly committed.
"Right. . . . You do remember that's a thing among the Yakuza, yeah?"
Ayatsuji glanced at his friend, slightly annoyed. "Yes. I know. Finger mutilation.”
"Just checking," Chuuya lightly replied.
XXX
The bar was a bit grimy and full of chain smokers. The air was so thick that breathing in the place meant one may as well just be smoking a cigarette.
The two men took their seats on the corner of the bar. Chuuya bought a glass of wine. The bartender brought it over with two glazes for them to share.
"Mr. Hitoshi had an unfortunate death soon after I talked to you," Ayatsuji said. His seat was crammed next to the wall—his shoulder brushed against the wood paneling no matter how he sat.
"He was rather unlucky," Chuuya replied. He hid his smile with his glass.
"Yes, so unlucky that he managed to slam his head onto an upright pen that was on his desk," Ayatsuji commented with a slightly sarcastic tone and a look towards his friend. He took another sip of the wine—it was good, but a bit too sweet for him.
A slight smirk crawled onto Chuuya's face as he replied with amusement, "Yes. That is an extremely unlucky way to die." He adopted an innocent look. "The money he lost might happen to have ended up in the Port Mafia's grasp by accident, but who knows? Certainly not the authorities."
Ayatsuji shook his head. Well, he had asked.
They fell into silence, nursing their drinks.
Ayatsuji had chosen his seat for the view of the bar more than anything else. He kept his eyes on a group of business men that had entered shortly after them—there was his target.
One of them was the blackmailer. A man from that group had to take a call in the corner of the bar. It was a burner phone, not the other phone the man had taken out earlier.
Ayatsuji smiled as he read the man's lips—he knew who it was now. He watched the man come back and sit down. "I found him," he alerted. "Are you helping?"
Chuuya shrugged. The bags under his eyes were more obvious in the dim light. "This isn't my territory; have fun chasing the guy."
Ayatsuji looked at his friend in suprise. "You're going to let me go alone?"
"You're a grown man. You can take care of yourself," Chuuya asserted. Barely veiled derision was in his tone.
"You're mad about me waking you up for this," Ayatsuji bluntly deduced. He watched his target say his goodbyes to the group of other business men.
"Oh, really?" Chuuya replied sarcastically, propping his chin on a hand.
Ayatsuji shook his head and stood up. His friend was acting like this because of sleep deprivation; how he hadn't realized that before now, Ayatsuji didn't know. He had probably been far too focused on his case. "Get some sleep," he advised.
Chuuya gave a casual wave goodbye to his friend and just kept drinking his wine. He had paid for it—he was going to drink it.
XXX
Dazai scanned the cafe briefly—no one else he knew. He got a coffee, throwing in enough creamer to make it look more like milk than coffee. He dropped into the seat across from Ango. "So?" he chirped.
"I thought you should know that Dostoyevsky is back in Yokohama," Ango answered.
Dazai nodded. He suddenly gained a look of consideration. "Since I'm looking into someone, a government asset, I might as well ask you, Ango-kun." He put a hand to his chin in thought. "Actually, I believe you're in charge of his handler."
Ango had a black coffee in front of him, pouring off heat. He cleaned off the steam on his glasses that appeared after he took a few sips. "Who?" He put his glasses back on.
"Yukito Ayatsuji."
Ango's features cooled into a neutral mask. His eyes, magnified by his glasses, clearly carried a trace of wariness. He knew who he was dealing with—the Port Mafia's former Demon Prodigy—all too well. "What do you want to know?"
Dazai smiled and leaned forward. "Whatever you're willing to give me."
XXX
Ayatsuji's office was surprisingly uncluttered at the moment. Tsujimura had gotten frustrated at the mess—something about never being able to find things—and cleaned up the place. She then realized she had just unwittingly acted like a maid and entered a brief state of intense embarrassment.
Chuuya leaned back into one of the room's armchairs. "So about that clown blackmailer? How'd that go? I haven't heard anything about the guy."
"I caught him," Ayatsuji stated simply. He's dead, was what Ayatsuji meant.
"Great." Chuuya tilted his head, commenting, "By the way, the wine there was good, but I'm never going to that bar again."
Ayatsuji raised his eyebrows. "What happened?"
Chuuya shrugged. "Bar fight. A guy and some of his friends thought I was a girl." His gaze grew frigid, a scowl on his face.
Ayatsuji chuckled. He didn't ask who won—he didn't need to. Personally, he almost pitied whoever had tried to fight the Port Mafia's most lethal combatant three nights ago. "How many did you take down?"
"Well, it was five on one originally, but I dodged at one point and a guy smashed a bottle into the face of someone coming out of a booth." Chuuya shook his head at the memory. "So it went from that to a bar-wide fight. I took care of everyone."
Ayatsuji tilted his head. He took out his pipe and a lighter. "When I left, there was a good. . . sixty, wasn't there?"
Chuuya hummed consideringly, trying to do mental math. "There was about seventy people by the time the fight started?"
Ayatsuji got up and opened the window before he started smoking; Tsujimura had been nagging him about 'flooding his office with smoke' and that he should 'care for his lungs more.’ "And you wiped them all out?"
"Everyone except the bartender and two girls in the corner minding their own business," Chuuya confirmed.
Ayatsuji couldn't repress his snort. He lit the pipe and sat on the windowsill.
"So, yeah, I'm not going back there," Chuuya deadpanned.
The two tensed slightly at the sound of footsteps. No one should have been there. The only one who might have been—Tsujimura—was off on some other business.
One of the double doors to Ayatsuji's office opened. Dazai walked in with a smile.
Chuuya's hand strayed to his knife. "Dazai, why the f*ck are you here?"
"I tracked the location of your phone." Dazai shrugged. His gaze moved to Ayatsuji. "By the way, I heard about your ability recently, but very vaguely I must admit.
Ayatsuji cocked his head. He got up. A thin line of smoke streamed from the end of his lit pipe. "And what do you want to know?"
It was the scene of predators facing off. The tension rose as Dazai and Ayatsuji stared at each other.
Chuuya sat back to watch, hand on the hilt of his knife. He didn't know what Dazai was up to, but he wanted to find out.
"I was wondering," Dazai started. He started to list off ideas, "Does it work for things like jaywalking or littering? Stealing? How serious does it have to be?"
"The person has to commit murder," Ayatsuji replied simply.
"Is it unavoidable once activated?"
"Unavoidable?" Ayatsuji took a long drag of his pipe. He smiled slightly. "The only person who should be able to avoid it is you." Of course, should was different than could—for a reason he hadn't found out, Chuuya could survive Another.
Dazai gave a dark smile at the comment.
Ayatsuji met the look with narrowed eyes.
Dazai smiled brightly and perched on the edge of Ayatsuji's desk, crossing his ankle over his knee. "On a side note, Fyodor Dostoyevsky is in town."
"Dostoyevsky?" Ayatsuji questioned, slight curiosity bleeding into his tone.
"The Russian Demon in a ushanka hat," Dazai elaborated. "We ended up in jail cells across from each other and played a game to decide whether or not Yokohama burned. Fun times," he chirped, a sarcastic tint to his voice.
"You want me to kill him," Ayatsuji flatly replied. "Why should I help you?"
Chuuya decided to intervene. "The aforementioned games of threatening Yokohama and mass murder?" He rhetorically asked. "Besides, you've been going through a dry spell of cases," he coaxed in a casual tone. "It's a wonder you haven't gotten bored."
Ayatsuji looked at the two, weighing his choices. They would definitely bother him for a while if he refused. And admittedly, Fyodor Dostoyevsky would be interesting to take on. . . . "Fine, I'm in."
XXX
The next day, Ayatsuji heard a knock at his window. He got up from his desk and opened it, stepping aside to let his friend in.
Chuuya climbed inside Ayatsuji's office—the red hue around him disappeared. He turned around and leaned out of the window, extending his hand. He braced the other hand against the windowsill to keep himself from falling out. He easily pulled Dazai up, a scene that looked somewhat similar to Rapunzel pulling the Prince up into the tower with her hair, if instead Rapunzel was a buff man.
"Coffee?" Ayatsuji suggested. It was unfortunately early in the morning.
Dostoyevsky had been cleared of all charges and let out of prison. Courtesy of Dazai, there was a whole file of possible crimes he could be charged for. They sorted the charges into murder and non-murder piles. They then divided the possible murders Dostoyevsky was responsible for among them.
However, the meeting quickly turned into an insult match between Chuuya and Dazai.
"Hat rack."
"Waste of bandages."
"Slug."
"Mackerel."
"Chibi."
"Lanky b*stard."
Ayatsuji sighed. 'Why do I feel like I'm babysitting two toddlers?'
The insulting then further devolved into arguing.
"It was when we were fifteen! It's been nine years!" Dazai fervently protested, trying to convince Chuuya to play a second round of truth or dare with him.
"Yeah, ‘cause how much have we changed since then," Chuuya sarcastically responded.
Ayatsuji—rather bored by this tangent—interrupted by telling a story of an interesting case now long solved, his report of it to the government now dusty and sitting in some archive.
When Ayatsuji finished, Dazai started to tell a story from the old days of Double Black, when he was still in the Port Mafia.
Chuuya jumped in every minute or two to correct Dazai about something outlandish. When it was his turn, Chuuya told a story about Gin, Hirotsu, Akutagawa, and Higuchi. It was largely about Higuchi's obvious crush on Akutagawa.
Dazai grinned at the juicy tidbit of information. "Do you think we should get them to hook up?"
"Oh my G*d, yes," Chuuya immediately growled. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, exasperation clearly written on his face. "It's somewhat funny to watch, but it's been getting annoying. I've been dropping hints to Akutagawa for the past few months—he still hasn't realized," he deadpanned.
Dazai hummed. "Akutagawa-kun always has been rather dense."
"You two are wanting to play matchmaker?" Ayatsuji questioned.
Dazai shrugged. Wouldn't be the first time, not that the first time had gone well per se, but it was fun. "It's a challenge."
Chuuya nodded. Gesturing with a hand, he added, "Largely because of who it is: the Port Mafia's rabid beast and his subordinate, best described as ‘blond, gun-wielding softie.’" He smiled slightly. "While we're on the topic of hooking people up, anyone crushing on the weretiger?"
Dazai deviously grinned. "There is," he dramatically paused.
"There is. . .?" Ayatsuji questioned.
Dazai continued, "A girl working at the cafe downstairs—a former Guild member. I think she has a serious crush on him."
Chuuya raised an eyebrow. "And how's it going with them?"
"Atsushi is dense too," Dazai deadpanned.
Dazai and Chuuya exchanged looks, commiserating.
'And now I feel like I'm with a bunch of gossiping old ladies,' Ayatsuji dryly thought.
XXX
Ayatsuji had taken on the most cases. He had the most time out of the newly formed 'Kill Dostoyevsky Trio.’
And once again, inconclusive evidence. Ayatsuji huffed in annoyance as he pushed the door to his office open. He ignored Tsujimura and slammed his coffee mug down on his desk. He kept getting stumped, and he hated it. He wasn't used to feeling useless.
Tsujimura started at his appearance. It was unusual for Ayatsuji to act like this. Something had actually gotten to him? Ayatsuji was the most tough skinned person she had ever met. She peered over his shoulder at the files he put on the desk. "What are you working on?"
"Something for a friend," Ayatsuji curtly replied.
Tsujimura only knew one person Ayatsuji would consider a friend. "Chuuya-san?"
Ayatsuji raised eyebrows at the guess.
It wasn't a denial.
Tsujimura smiled. "I'll help," she volunteered. She sat down at the other side of the desk.
"If you want to try your hand, be my guest." Ayatsuji passed Tsujimura the folder full of different murders Fyodor Dostoyevsky could be linked to. He started looking at information for a different case—Tsujimura had just brought it in, that was why she dropped by—the government wanted him to take on.
Three hours later, Tsujimura slumped over onto the desk, hiding his face in her arms. "There's never enough evidence," she complained.
"Yes, every time," Ayatsuji confirmed with a mildly commiserate look. One of his cats wandered into the office, brushing herself up against his leg. Ayatsuji absently reached down and scratched the cat under the chin.
Tsujimura sat up properly. She stacked the papers up and put them back into the folder. "Why does Chuuya-san want you to look into Fyodor Dostoevsky's crimes?"
"To kill him, of course," Ayatsuji nonchalantly replied.
Tsujimura's eyes went wide.
Ayatsuji leaned forward into the female agent's space and propped his chin on his hand. He stared at her in the eyes, speaking quietly. "I trust that you'll keep what you saw here quiet, so as to not jeopardize the chance of taking out one of the world's greatest criminal masterminds?"
Tsujimura nodded. "I understand, Ayatsuji-san," she replied. Dostoyevsky was a dangerous threat—the mess he made of Yokohama had not been forgotten by her or anyone else in the Special Abilities Department. "But please keep your involvement as hidden and limited as possible."
Ayatsuji leaned back in his chair. He dismissed her concern with a wave of his hand. "Don't worry." He picked up his mug, looking inside with a frown. "Now, would you brew me some more coffee?"
"Of course," Tsujimura agreed and stopped up. She halted, a frown on her face. "I'm a government agent. I'm in charge of you. I could have you killed if I gave the order, I—" she ranted.
"Do you want me to solve this case for you?" Ayatsuji bluntly questioned, interrupting Tsujimura.
"Yes?"
Ayatsuji held his mug out. "Then please get me some more coffee."
XXX
Being that he was the obvious choice, Chuuya handled all of the cases that took place on Port Mafia territory.
Chuuya tugged on one of his gloves, making sure it was on tight. The salty air brushed past his hair as he headed towards the docks. The streets were largely deserted, as it was late at night, or very early in the morning, whichever one preferred to call four AM.
A man dressed in a long black coat stopped on the street corner, bathed in light from the streetlamp above. If one paid attention to the state of his coat, there were some glossy stains on the bottom, dried blood. "Chuuya-san," Akutagawa respectfully said, a polite tone that would have shocked those who had heard of or met the Port Mafia's beast.
Chuuya inclined his head at his subordinate. "On your way back from a job, Akutagawa-kun?"
"Yes." Akutagawa gauged the state of Chuuya—his superior looked to be in a normal mood—and dared to ask, "And you?"
Chuuya hummed. What to say? How much to say. He settled on, "I'm checking something out at the docks."
"Ah." Akutagawa didn't know what to say. He respected his superior; they were friends, of a sort. Unfortunately, that didn't really help; he didn't know what to do because he never really had friends, or many of them at least. "Would you like some company?"
"I think I have it, but thank you for the offer." Chuuya smirked. "I won't keep you from your bed any longer. See you tomorrow." He clapped his subordinate on the shoulder as he walked past.
Akutagawa smiled back—a slight upturn to his lips—an odd look for him, since he usually had a frown. "Good luck with your search, Chuuya-san. See you tomorrow."
Chuuya walked away, shoving a hand in his pockets. His mind was back on his task—the docks were just around the corner.
Yokohama was a port city. Piers covered the bay, full of moored boats.
The bay was dark, the water black. Waves gently lapped against the wooden docks, hitting them with faint sloshing noises. The boats shifted, riding up and down with the water.
Chuuya walked out onto the pier. The old boards creaked under his feet. He pulled out his phone, using it to check the boats around him. He knew the general area of where the bait was supposed to be and what it looked like.
He found a boat of the correct model, but the license plate was wrong. Six minutes later, he found the right boat. Chuuya landed on the deck with a thump. He really wasn't worried about the noise—it was nighttime, and he was far enough out that anyone on shore wouldn't hear a thing.
The deck where the murder had happened was clean, suspiciously so. Chuuya crouched down, brushing a finger over the wood. The strong smell of bleach pervaded the air. He checked below deck—it looked like the entire place had been cleaned up well.
Chuuya propped his elbows on the railing of the deck. He looked out past the boat cluttered water into the bay. He frowned, remembering how salt water had filled and clogged his lungs, how the current tugged at his clothes and hair, how his nose and throat burned from the water, how his eyes strained to see in the dark. . .
Dying was never fun.
He shook his head, straightening up. He knew this was a long shot in the first place. The body had likely dumped into the sea long ago and there were no clues remaining.
XXX
Dazai took the rest of the cases. He usually handled them in the afternoon, after he got off work.
He strolled through Yokohama's Chinatown. The place was large, full of vendors and shops. Gold and red prevailed over the gaudy, half-crowded streets. He chatted with a few vendors and picked up a snack, some sort of red bean paste dessert that he didn't know the name of.
Dazai headed out of the Chinatown. It was a brief detour on the way, and well worth it. He munched on his snack as he went—it was soon, regrettably, gone. He sighed.
"Dazai-san?"
Dazai recognized that voice. He turned around. "Atsushi-kun?
The weretiger had a bag on his forearm, full of various items.
"Out shopping?" Dazai questioned. Grocery shopping to be more specific.
"Yeah," Atsushi confirmed. "I'm restocking our pantry." Kyouka had gone off with Yosano and Naomi after work—which left Atsushi alone for the next few hours. He looked at his mentor. "What are you up to, Dazai-san?"
"I'm on an investigation," Dazai chirped with a smile.
"Investigation? Did you get called in for an emergency?" Atsushi questioned.
Things had been quiet in Yokohama recently, but that didn't mean there wasn't crazy criminals attacking places and people—the Agency still got about two cases involving bombers a week. And some of those criminals weren't kind enough to start crises during work hours.
Dazai put a hand on his hips, shrugging. "Ehh, nah. It's more out of a personal. . . curiosity."
Atsushi had never known Dazai to be curious, but now he certainly was. "Umm, could I tag along?"
Dazai slung an arm around Atsushi's shoulders. "Sure," he agreed. "As long as thou aren't scared of ghosts."
Atsushi's face paled. "Ghosts?" He chuckled nervously. "Who would be afraid of them?"
Five minutes of walking later, they entered an apartment complex. The place was eerily silent, abandoned by all life.
Atsushi hid behind Dazai, but that wasn't much help as the older man keep moving forward into the place. 'What did I get myself into?' Atsushi privately groaned.
Dazai crouched beside a door. He withdrew a lockpicking kit and got to work.
Atsushi trembled. He felt incredibly exposed in the empty hallway. He looked down to the end of the hallway—his heart dropped in his chest. He could swear he saw a shadow at the end of the corridor move. There was a click from behind him.
Dazai stood up. He pushed the door fully open and entered.
Atsushi immediately followed. He slammed the door behind his back, a scared look on his face.
Dazai raised an eyebrow, hands in his pockets. "Atsushi-kun? You okay?"
Atsushi's face flushed bright red. He had gotten scared of a shadow like a little kid. "It's nothing," he muttered.
Dazai glanced at his apprentice. He shrugged and moved on. The cracks in the floor allowed small weeds to grow—white puffy seeds from the dandelions clung to the side of his dress shoes. He lightly traced a scratch on the wall. It was left by a knife.
Glass crunched beneath the soles of Atsushi's boots as he carefully walked in front of a broken window. The backyard was completely overgrown—the grass and random assortment of weeds were about a foot tall.
Dazai crossed the room to the bed. The sheets were gone but the mattress was still there. Dried blood was still splattered onto the wall behind the frame.
Nearby was a chest of drawers. Dazai opened one—it was still full of clothes. He started searching through them. He found a space in the top drawer; unusual since everything else was tightly packed together. It was supposed to have been there. He had it confirmed, not that it helped him to know what Fyodor Dostoyevsky had gotten. It was what Dazai would have done, but it didn't help him. Because he couldn't prove it was Dostoyevsky—
"Dazai-san?"
Dazai looked over his shoulder. His shoulders were tensed. "Yes?"
Atsushi looked at his mentor with concern. "Are you okay?"
Dazai pulled the corners of his lips into a smile—it was unusually taut, but Atsushi wouldn't notice. "Yup. I have what I need," he chirped, skidding the top drawer closed. He brushed the dust off his coat. "Want to go get some food? We can drop off your groceries on the way."
Atsushi brightened up. "Sure."
XXX
Chat: KDT
Slug: What does the chat name mean?
Mackerel: Kill Dostoyevsky Trio
Slug: Really?
Slug: That's really what we're going with?
Slug: Why not something like 'Animal Trio'?
Duck: He has a valid point
Duck: Considering the nicknames
Mackerel: But how is 'Animal Trio' better?
Mackerel: It's kind of lame
Slug: :p
Duck: Anyways
Duck: Are we going to meet up to discuss things?
Slug: Sure
Mackerel: Tomorrow night
Mackerel: At a bar called Lupin, downtown but neutral territory
Duck: Sounds fine
Slug: That place?
Slug: Okay
XXX
"In other words, we all came up with. . . nothing," Chuuya dismally summed up. The glass in his hand was filled with a red liquid—not tomato juice—but wine. He sat on the left of both Dazai and Ayatsuji.
"He's covered his tracks like he's the real life Moriarty," Dazai glumly agreed with a sigh. "Someone erased all of the government files related to him when he got out. The list we have is off my personal excursions involving Yokohama's Police Department archives.” He flicked his drink of whiskey with a finger—the ball of ice inside moved, clinking against the glass.
Ayatsuji nodded in agreement. He was to the right of Dazai, closest to the stairs. After another sip, he put his drink—scotch with no ice—back on the glass coaster. "I realized that too; I tried to find them but had no luck."
"Doctor Spectacles couldn't even help?" Chuuya asked. Doctor Spectacles, AKA Sakaguchi Ango, as Chuuya had nicknamed the man long ago.
"No," Dazai answered. His brain drifted to other things, memories. He was back in this bar—to be in this place meant confronting old ghosts, some comforting, some unsettling, some depressing. He did not know why he had chosen Lupin as the meeting place—he had just typed it in without thought—but for some reason it felt appropriate.
Ayatsuji was observing everything: from Chuuya's frown to Dazai's unfocused, nostalgic expression; from the old bartender's seeming lack of presence to the calico cat curled up on a stool next to himself; from the well-worn, comfortable seating and dim lighting to the complete lack of other sounds except the light breathing of five individuals, used glasses being cleaned, and crisp ice melting in whiskey.
Chuuya was frustrated, wracking his brain for a way to kill Dostoyevsky. He took a breath, furrowing his eyebrows. 'Think like Dazai'—an odd thought, but he was desperate. Chuuya knew how Dazai thought, could predict the man's plans and strategies if given the time. 'Me, Dazai, and Ayatsuji. How can I leverage the resources I have?'
Silence fell as everyone was lost in their own thoughts.
"So, if we can't find evidence of an actual murder, why don't we get him to murder someone?" Chuuya proposed.
"What?" Dazai said, surprised. "Who?"
"Me," Chuuua said, as if it was obvious. "I'm the only real choice here."
Dazai looked at his partner from the corner of his eye. "Why?" He took a swig of whiskey. He enjoyed the burning sensation—it distracted him from his brain running through ideas at a hundred miles an hour.
"Dostoyevsky can't kill me," Chuuya laconically stated. Well, really, no one could kill Chuuya, but they certainly didn't need to know that part.
Dazai spat out his whiskey in surprise. "What?" He stared at Chuuya. He knew about Arahabaki, but. . . .
"I know for some reason that my ability can't kill Chuuy; I don't know why, but it doesn't," Ayatsuji carefully said. "You're saying that immunity extends to Dostoyevsky's ability too?"
Immunity? No, more like immortality, the inability to be killed. The idea sat heavily in both Ayatsuji's and Dazai's minds. For Ayatsuji it was simply an uncertainty that he didn't know the truth of. For Dazai. . . .
"You're sure?" Dazai pressed. The look from Chuuya, full of solid confidence and annoyance in equal measure, confirmed it for him. "Alright," he conceded, "This sounds crazy enough to work."
Against someone like Dostoyevsky, one needed crazy, something so unpredictable even he wouldn't see it coming.
Chuuya nodded. He laid out the jobs of the group. "You figure out how to trick the untrickable guy, I'm the bait, and Ayatsuji uses his ability."
"You may have put it like the work is fairly divided up, but my part is far more work than your jobs," Dazai dryly pointed out.
Chuuya shrugged.
Ayatsuji smiled.
Dazai stared at them. He put a hand on his head, ruffling his hair.
"If it's to kill off the Demon, I guess some hard work is to be expected." He pulled a comical face of disdain. "It doesn't mean I have to like it though."
XXX
Dazai was a bit stumped on what do for a bit. He spent a few hours lazying on the couch of the Agency's office.
The bait was: Chuuya had the Book in his office safe.
The problem was, how could Dazai make the bait irresistible?
Dostoyevsky liked feeding people false information and getting them to draw the conclusions he wanted. Dazai could play the same game with most people. But he wasn't going to; he wanted Dostoyevsky to suspect this was a trap, but a trap worth walking into. That even if Chuuya didn't have the Book, this was a chance to eliminate a dangerous piece and there were plenty of other valuable things Dostoyevsky could gain access to.
First, Dazai added Chuuya to a list of purchases and customers from an antique book store. He made Chuuya pick up a book from the place to make it look more authentic.
Dazai then found the perfect target: an inexperienced, government mole in the Port Mafia.
"Start going, now," Dazai ordered.
Chuuya moved down the hallway, a bookshaped package tucked under his arm.
The mole passed by, clearly taking note of the package.
Chuuya entered his office, putting the package in his safe. He then got to work, taking care of a stack of paperwork.
The joy of tricking inexperianced agents is that they seemed to think every slightly unusual, normal thing was important, yet were always not paranoid about the things they should be.
Dazai fed the same mole the information that Chuuya had a key for the archives and a key for his safe over the next two days.
Dazai was pretty sure Mori knew about the guy and was using him to feed false information to the government.
After this, Mori would probably know something was up and that Dazai was involved; he should trust that Chuuya and Dazai were working together for a good reason.
XXX
Chat: Kill Dostoyevsky Trio
Mackerel: The information should get back to him sometime tomorrow
Mackerel: But he will likely wait a bit to act
XXX
Tsujimura asked as she came in through the front door of her asset's house, "Ayatsuji-san?"
"In the kitchen," came the reply.
Tsujimura entered.
Ayatsuji was cooking. He was a rather fine cook—the food smelled delicious. "By the way, I'm going to be. . . somewhat occupied for the next few days. Don't accept any cases for me that are time sensitive," he warned. He scooped a plate of spaghetti—made from scratch—out for his handler.
Tsujimura nodded absentmindedly, trying to keep herself from drooling over the food.
XXX
Dazai was absent from work. That was normal—he had a habit of disappearing for days at a time.
Kunikida was happy to go without his partner. It was enough trouble for him to just manage Atsushi. He was getting work done at blinding speed and keeping to schedule—it was a miracle.
Kunikida was looking over the company email. He frowned and scrolled through the headers again. His forehead creased. He turned to the clerks. "Have we gotten any phone-call complaints about Dazai this past month?"
"I don't think so?" Naomi put a finger to her lips in thought. "No, I don't think there has been any."
Silence fell in the office as everyone had the same thought, 'No complaints about Dazai?'
Ranpo dropped a chip—that's how shocking this realization was. "The world must be ending," he solemnly declared, a tint of horror in his voice.
XXX
Chuuya was going to be killed today.
Or sometime in the next week. It didn't matter how many times one died—the experience was always terrifying. His hands tightened on the piece of paper in his hands.
Mori's eyes narrowed. "Chuuya-kun?"
Chuuya edged a smile onto his lips to reassure his boss. "It's nothing."
Mori looked at him for a few seconds, seeming to know what was going on with his right hand. He nodded and moved on.
XXX
Chat: Kill Dostoyevsky Trio
Mackerel: Dostoyevsky is moving
Slug: Oh, I couldn't tell from the fires all over the city
Mackerel: *shrug*
Slug shared location
Duck: Eta 15 minutes
Duck: I'll wait about a minute from your location
Mackerel: Tell us when Dostoyevsky attacks you
Slug: I know
Slug: I got it
Chuuya's nose wrinkled at the acrid smell in the air. He was in the port area and out of the smoke, but he could still smell the fires. The sun was warm, uncomfortably so—black wasn't a fun color to swear when it was hot.
Mori had sent Chuuya to keep an eye on their warehouses. If not for his job and everything else going on, Chuuya would be in the thick of things, rescuing people from the burning buildings. He sat on a crate, pulling out a cigarette to ease his nerves.
He wasn't expecting the smoke bombs.
The area filled with white smoke.
Chuuya cursed, crushing his cigarette in half with his fingers. He tapped send.
Slug: Here
Chuuya had to get out of the smoke. Their plan was to get Dostoyevsky to kill him in front of Ayatsuji—undeniable evidence of murder. Chuuya used his ability to speed up and out of the smoke—he was flying blind for several anxious seconds. His heart was thumping in his chest, blood thrumming in his veins at the anticipation of a fight. If he killed Dostoyevsky by himself, he wouldn't have to die.
Chuuya skipped backwards to gain more distance, keeping his eyes on the front of the warehouse. The port breeze was tugging on the smoke, spreading it too thin to conceal anyone.
There was nothing, no one.
"What the h*ll?" Chuuya muttered. "Where is he?" He knew that Dostoyevsky had to get close to have any shot at using Crime and Punishment.
Chuuya's hat fell off—a hand placed itself on top of his head. He cursed not looking behind himself. In a last ditch attempt, he managed to get a hand on Dostoyevsky's wrist.
But Chuuya was too late. Crimson burst from his head, a mortal injury that caused him death in a miniscule amount of time. He was dead before his body hit the concrete. The back of his head connected with a sickening crack.
Dostoyevsky crouched down, searching the body of his enemy before it was even cold. Practicality over what some called minor principles of decency. He took the key ring he found in the inner pocket of Chuuya's vest. He stood up and whirled around, a gun in his hand.
Dazai blinked innocently at his rival. There was a nicked up gun in his hand, aimed at Dostoyevsky. "I didn't expect it to be so easy to lure out a rat like this," he commented. He shrugged. "Nevermind catch him."
Dostoyevsky sighed. "I knew this was a trap," he pointed out.
"I never said you didn't," Dazai nonchalantly countered.
The standoff was incredibly familiar to both of them—they'd had it a lot over the last few years.
And behind Dazai was an unexpected factor, the Homocide Detective. Ayatsuji watched the scene with an unaffected air, grey smoke pouring from the end of his pipe. "A pleasure to meet you."
Dostoyevsky's lips twisted. His eyes were a toxic purple—the poison burned into Dazai and Ayatsuji. "You sacrificed your queen to checkmate me."
Dazai smiled coldly, callously, in response.
Ayatsuji remained apathetic. He used his pipe to point at Dostoyevsky. "Fyodor Dostoyevsky, you are responsible for the murder of Chuuya Nakahara."
The gun fell from Dostoyevsky's hand. It's safety was not engaged. The handle hit the ground. By some fluke, the jolt caused it to misfire. The bullet flew up at the perfect angle to ram itself up the underside of Dostoyevsky's jaw and into his brain. The key ring hit the concrete along with his body, creating a simultaneous thump and metallic clatter.
Dazai knelt down, picking up his ex-partner's hat. 'You better pull through this, Chibi.' Dazai froze, hand tightening on the rim of Chuuya's hat. 'Did he lie?' His heart jumped into his throat.
Ayatsuji sucked on his pipe and exhaled—the smoke curled around him. He stood, looking at his friend's corpse, waiting.
Chuuya's long red bangs—now rather messy—concealed most of his face. The drops of blood stopped trailing down his cheeks, leaving red pathways that stood out starkly against his pale skin.
His hearbeat started up again—his body jerked, as if someone had hit him with a defibrillator. His mouth opened, gasping desperately for air.
His fist slammed into the concrete, trying to push himself up. It created a small crater. He wasn't thinking straight. He wasn't even using his ability.
"Chuuya, the enemy has been defeated, rest," Dazai recited. No, Chuuya hadn't used Corruption, but those words meant everything was all right.
Chuuya paused and stopped struggling thoughtlessly—the words had gotten through.
Ayatsuji stooped down on the other side of Chuuya. "You were just clinically dead for three minutes. Let your body rest."
Chuuya cracked open an eye. "Dostoyevsky?"
Dazai gave a catlike grin. "Dead. Our plan worked."
Chuuya lurched shakily into a sitting position. He groaned out a quiet, "F*ck."
Chuuya did his best to wipe away the trails of blood on his face with the sleeve of his coat. He stared at Dostoyevsky's corpse. "So, what do we do with the body?"
"Hmm." Dazai stood up and shrugged. "I didn't think that far ahead, honestly." He thought Dostoyevsky would pull something to get out of his trap as usual.
"Ocean?" Chuuya proposed. "It's right there." The ocean was clearly visible even from where he sat, sparkling below the large flat tableland the warehouses sat on.
Dazai stuck his hands in his coat pockets. He looked around at the otherwise deserted area. "We can stick him in an empty crate and fill it with rocks. We can store it here and Chuuya can drop it in the bay in a few hours.
Ayatsuji sighed and agreed. They didn't have many options, so the stereotypical, overdone one would have to do.
Chuuya's eyes narrowed. "Oi, Dazai, give me my hat."
"Nope."
Chuuya staggered to his feet. He clumsily lunged for his ex-partner.
Dazai skipped away, backwards.
"Children," Ayatsuji dryly said, putting out his pipe. There was a bit too much to do to be fooling around already. "We have to dispose of Dostoyevsky, and I'm not doing it by myself."
Dazai sent a look at Ayatsuji.
Chuuya lunged forward while Dazai was distracted. He successfully plucked his hat from Dazai's hands. He put it on, keeping a hand on the brim to keep Dazai from trying to steal it. "Thanks for the assist," Chuuya commented with a smirk towards Ayatsuji.
Dazai pouted. "Tag-teaming me? That's not fair."
"You're one to talk," Chuuya shot back.
Ayatsuji put Dostoyevsky's gun in a plastic bag. He would dispose of the weapon himself later. "Body," he reminded. He tossed Chuuya's key chain back to his friend. "I'll keep an eye on Dostoyevsky."
"Right." Chuuya caught the keys. He picked out the one for the warehouses around here and went to go find an empty crate—it shouldn't be too hard.
"Yes, yes," Dazai murmured. What to do? There was nothing to do about the new crack in it, but well-sized blood stains on weathered concrete were rather noticeable and easily taken care of. He chirped, "I'll go find some bleach."
Ayatsuji held up Dostoyevsky's phone and wallet—it made it harder to identify a body if they didn't have things like that. "Do you want these?"
"I'll take them." Dazai caught the two personal effects and put them in his pocket. He strolled away.
Ayatsuji closed Dostoyevsky's eyes.
XXX
The fires were put out—black smoke still curled upwards for a while after.
The sun set, as it always did.
Did things feel different?
Not really.
But perhaps somethings had changed: Dazai felt a bit less paranoid of his surroundings, Chuuya felt a bit more proud of himself, and Ayatsuji felt a bit less bored of life.
XXX
Ayatsuji leaned back against the booth. He always chose to sit in the place where he had the best view of a place. For the Black Cat, that was the farthest corner of the booth opposite of the bartop.
Three men approached. The man in the middle stood ahead of the other two, presumably the leader.
The leader, a man in his mid-twenties, smirked at Ayatsuji. "Mind giving up your seat?"
Ayatsuji stared at them. "Yes."
"I think we can agree that we should have the booth—we have more people," the leader argued.
Ayatsuji raised an eyebrow, severely unimpressed. "No. I don't think we can."
The bar went silent. Everyone was looking at the four. All of the regulars—a mix of businessmen and Port Mafia members—knew not to mess with the two that sat in the corner booth. There was a whole betting circle on theories about who the man with Chuuya-san was—a dangerous man of some sort, but that's all they knew for sure—and just who would be stupid enough to pick a fight with them?
"A glass of the regular," Chuuya ordered as he walked in, coat over his shoulder. He picked it up with a word of thanks and strolled over to the booth.
Dazai got some whiskey, following right behind Chuuya. Both of them disregarded the unnerving quiet in the bar with an ease of experience.
Chuuya put his glass of wine on the booth table. "Is there a problem here?"
The leader backed off. "None," he grunted.
The chatter in the bar came back as patrons realized there wasn't going to be a fight.
Dazai and Chuuya slid into the booth.
Ayatsuji kept an eye on the three men who had confronted him.
They sat at the bar and ordered drinks.
Dazai cast his gaze around the place. He laughed, a quick, bright thing. "This is a rather pretentious bar. It fits you, Chuuya."
"If by pretentious you mean clean, well lit, and with a good wine selection, then yes," Chuuya shot back.
Dazai chuckled quietly at the jab at Lupin.
The peace didn't last long.
The leader was fuming. He had enough teasing from his friends about the situation and his 'failed tough guy act.’ With some liquid courage, he got up and stomped over to the corner booth.
The bar was silent again. It was a Port Mafia bar—actually under the direct management of Chuuya. Money exchanged hands, passed surreptitiously, carefully shielded from view. But no one made a move to help them. Why? They didn't need it.
The response to the leader's attack was coordinated, smooth to the point an onlooker would question if the two had planned for such an action. Dazai dodged the punch, turning his head to the side. Chuuya caught the punch, pulling the leader closer. Dazai socked the leader in the solar plexus.
The two friends of the leader moved to attack Ayatsuji.
Ayatsuji straightened his spine to get a better angle. He picked up his glass. With a flick of his wrist, he threw the alcohol at backup number one's eyes.
Back up number one clutched his eyes, trying not to scream in agony.
The leader tried for another punch.
Dazai caught the man's wrists. He ducked, pulling the leader's arms downwards with him.
Chuuya put a hand on Dazai's shoulder. Using his ex-partner as springboard, he tucked in his legs and swung himself over. The heel of his boot collided with the leader's nose—the sickening crunch was rather audible in the silent bar. Chuuya's target toppled backwards at the force of the kick. He let go of Dazai's shoulder, allowing the momentum to carry himself forward. He landed feet first on the leader's stomach.
Back up number two looked desperate. He yelled and drew back his arm, telegraphing his plan of a sloppy punch.
"May I?" Ayatsuji asked, gesturing to Dazai's glass.
Dazai shrugged, waving a hand dismissively. "If you'll buy me another, go ahead."
Ayatsuji hit backup number two with whiskey to the face.
Number two was not as good at holding in his reaction. He let out a high-pitched shriek that was somewhat girly.
Back up number one scrubbed at his eyes—they were red and tearing up.
Chuuya stepped off of the leader. "Take your friend. Never come back. Got it?"
They compiled, hoisting their groaning friend up by his armpits and leaving, tails between their legs.
Chuuya tugged on one of his gloves. He motioned at Dazai. "Move over."
Dazai put up his palms in defeat and slid down the booth seat to make room.
Ayatsuji got up. He returned with two new glasses of whiskey. He slid one over to Dazai.
Dazai muttered his thanks to Ayatsuji. He propped his chin on a hand, a mischievous look on his face. "It may be well lit, but the place certainly has some rats," he quipped.
Chuuya rolled his eyes. "A rare few of the metaphorical type and easily dealt with," he pointed out. "I'm not so sure about about Lupin. . . ," he trailed off jokingly.
Dazai clutched his chest and dramatically poured out his response, "Slander. Pure, unadulterated, malicious slander."
Chuuya shook his head at his ex-partner.
Ayatsuji gave a quick huff of amusement at the exchange. He couldn't stop the upcurl of his lips that followed and deigned to hide it by taking a sip of his whiskey.
The trio had an odd sort of comradery after killing off Dostoyevsky together.
It was normal for them to inhabit the corner booth of the Black Cat or three stools in Lupin at odd hours with no set schedule. They trusted each other, sort of. They were friends.
Their untold secrets still remained, of course. They wouldn't pry, and they might never know, and they were fine with that. There were some things one would take to one's grave, things that could never be said or never could be said again.