Chapter Text
Something unspeakable would urge me on, and then my heart, although my life was purposeless, started pounding with a kind of hope.
Chuuya Nakahara
Prose Poem: Never to Return
—
Chuuya soars.
Well, no, he isn’t actually flying – he’s just momentarily gliding across crevices in the air. But he certainly feels as if he’s taking flight.
The rove of the jeep hammers down the worn path. The seatbelt and Chuuya’s rigid grip on the steering wheel are all that anchor Chuuya from flying up as he tumbles down the trail.
There’s hollering from above the pass, the gang – who also happen to own said vehicle – stumbling down in hot pursuit. Chuuya shuts them out. They cannot catch up to him. He’s going much too fast, and they’ll either trip over their own feet or stagger and choke on the puffs of exhaust.
His heart surges with glee. Beads of sweat pool across his forehead, dripping onto his nose.
Shirase is probably going to bitch at him. This jeep had been Shirase’s stake – he’d wanted it the moment he laid eyes on it. But Chuuya’s the leader. He doesn’t have to listen to anyone. He’ll take the jeep, and maybe Shirase’ll be all pissy about it for a while, but he’ll ultimately be grateful because he definitely couldn’t have snagged it himself without getting his ass beat.
Chuuya’s out of the foreground now, bustling along the thin-lined forest that leads to the outskirts of Yokohama. He probably shouldn’t be driving over dirt, but it’s a jeep, so it’s not so bad.
If it were not for the headlights of his car and the faint slant of moonbeams, he wouldn’t be able to see. Even so, his line of vision is severely limited. He slows to a steadier pace once he’s certain the gang’s off his trail.
Until.
A twiggy man stands in the bars of light before Chuuya, unmoving.
Chuuya slams on the brakes, careening forward. His head collides with the wheel, and he lets out a sharp, guttural groan.
What the fuck?
Chuuya snaps up, and the man is still there. He takes shifty steps forward. His skin is pale, as are the blond wads of hair framing his face.
Chuuya could have dismissed him as a crackhead or a homeless man. Or both. But his clothes… A neat brown blazer over a black turtleneck. Hair slicked back against the crook of his ear. And his eyes are not glazed over or languid. They are crystal-clear, poised. He seems sober and certainly not homeless.
Chuuya notices then that he is not Japanese. Caucasian for sure. Not Mediterranean or Slavic – something else. More Western.
Weird. There aren’t that many foreigners in Japan, besides the occasional Korean or Filipino. There are a bunch in the tourist locations, but outside of that, they’re rare. The nation prides itself on being mostly homogeneous.
One especially would not find a Westerner, especially one so well put-together, in the slums of Yokohama. Maybe in upscale Harajuku, or even the heart of Yokohama, but not here, not on the outskirts. People who aren’t from here do their very best to steer clear of it. You never know when someone has a gun on them or something.
So this man is very out of place. Perhaps he’s lost.
He’s saying something, inaudible beneath the whir of the engine. Chuuya hobbles out of his car.
Chuuya narrows his eyes, glaring through the fluttering motes before him. “You lost or somethin’?”
“My name is Paul Verlaine.”
Ah. French, maybe. The hell is he doing here?
Chuuya does not step closer, choosing to continue looking through the thin film of light instead. He isn’t sure what this man’s intentions are. “You a tourist? Need me to point you in the right direction?”
“No.” Verlaine’s expression is unreadable. Then again, Chuuya’s never really been good at reading people in general.
Chuuya furrows his brow. “Okay…? You should probably head that-a-way.” He tosses a finger behind him, where the forest disperses and eventually leads towards a nest of local plazas. “It’s not safe here. There’s a gang that hangs around here and shit.”
Verlaine chuckles. It is a droll sound, lacking in mirth. “I assure you, I know my way around here. I am here to speak with you, Mister Nakahara.”
What.
Is this guy a child trafficker or something? Chuuya could’ve sworn he was way past prime target age. Huh. Maybe clients have new preferences now. Maybe Chuuya’s just their type. Yuck.
It’s not like Chuuya isn’t used to this, considering his upbringing – or rather, lack thereof. He’s never felt fully safe. There is always something to gnaw his knuckles about.
Also, how would this man possibly know his surname? Chuuya hasn’t used it in years, not ever since he left his foster family. So how?
Whatever. Chuuya has a jeep. Worst case scenario, guy whips out a gun? Chuuya isn’t afraid to run over him and continue on his jolly good way. He wouldn’t hesitate. And he wouldn’t ever look back, either.
But the guy isn’t pulling out a gun, or a knife, or anything of the like.
“Talk about what,” Chuuya barks, not quite phrased as a question.
“I have a proposition for you. I’d like you to come downtown and visit the Port Mafia.”
Port… Mafia? Chuuya thinks he’s heard that name in passing a few times. Yuan’s really into racing. Not because of the racing aspect, but for the… particularly attractive racers. Chuuya thinks it’s immature, but to each their own.
Chuuya scowls. “Why.”
Verlaine steps closer, the whites of the headlights illuminating his face. “You’ve garnered the attention of one of the agency’s executives. She’s looking for a recruit, and believes you are a promising candidate.”
He blinks slowly. This feels like one of those scammy things. He needs to get back to the Sheep. That gang is probably still looking for him; he shouldn’t be here.
“Not interested.” Quite frankly, Chuuya isn’t sure what exactly he’s ‘not interested’ in or what the hell he’s a ‘candidate’ for. But he does not care. He doesn’t have time.
He turns on his heels and is about to hop back into the driver seat when there is a little tug on his wrist.
A black card etched with red letters is placed gingerly into his palm. It reads PORT MAFIA AGENCY and some other things Chuuya does not read. Verlaine closes Chuuya’s fingers over the card.
“I expected as much,” Verlaine says. “Call me when you change your mind.”
And with that Verlaine walks off into the winding forest, his frame dimming until it is gone.
Chuuya picks up a series of distant shouts from above the slope. He shoves the card into his pocket and drives.
—
He doesn’t like the card. It’s very assuming. Very full of itself.
Black and red? Corny. That is so corny.
Chuuya also doesn’t like Verlaine. Not one bit. He hasn’t done anything to Chuuya, but he simply does not like him. He doesn’t like how smug he’d been handing him the card.
“Call me when you change your mind.”
He just assumed Chuuya’s going to change his mind. Like it’s a fact. Who the hell does he think he is? What the hell does he know? He knows nothing about Chuuya.
Chuuya’s in a grimey old garage. It belonged to Shirase’s grandfather at some point. It’s their makeshift headquarters, and also where Chuuya sleeps at night. Kind of lame, but better than an alleyway out in the open. Eventually, Chuuya wants their base to be in some underground bar, but it’s merely a pipe dream at the moment.
After Shirase is finished rattling Chuuya’s ears off about the shitty state the jeep’s in, he goes off to slug down some booze. Chuuya thinks it’s stupid how much Shirase drinks. Chuuya isn’t against drinking, not at all – he’s had his fair share of booze. But Shirase… Shirase does not know when to stop. It is concerning, but Shirase has pushed Chuuya away so much that Chuuya learned to stop giving a fuck.
Yuan is leaning against his side. She’s on her tip-toes, craning her neck over his shoulder as he examines the business card.
“What’s this?” Her pink hair splays over his shoulder. She tilts her head. “Port Mafia? Are you joining a fan club? Oh, please tell me your favorite racer! I’m personally partial to Kouyou, but they’re all eye candy, really.” She scrunches her nose and adds, “The girls, at least.”
Chuuya scoffs. “I am not joining a fan club. Some guy in the woods tracked me down and told me they want to recruit me.”
Yuan takes a few steps backwards, blinking rapidly. “What? What? Who? What guy?”
“Verlaine.”
“Oh. Oh my.” She beams, sizzling with energy.
“You know that bastard?”
“Yes. Of course I know him. And he’s not a bastard! I – I think. Oh, fuck. When you go, can you get me an autograph from him?”
“I’m not going,” Chuuya says.
Yuan’s mouth hangs open a fraction. “What.”
He shrugs a shoulder. “I’m not going.”
“Oh, no. No. You have to go. You have to.”
“Why? I don’t wanna be a stupid race car driver. What’s the point? I don’t even know why they want me there, anyway. I just got out of juvie. Aren’t they scared I’m gonna steal their fancy-ass cars?”
Yuan grabs onto his shoulders now. “It doesn’t matter, Chuuya. You have to go. If not for yourself, then for me. You have to. Do you know how many people would kill to be in your position? You have to.”
“I don’t want to,” he huffs. “What do I gain outta it? It’ll just be less time I get to spend with the gang. Nobody can hijack cars like me. We’ll seriously lose clients and shit.”
Yuan crosses her arms. “We’ll be fine, Chuuya. Shirase took over when you were in jail, and we were okay.”
“We made way less profit when he was in charge.”
“We’ll make way more than ever before if you win some races for us. Way more than what losers pay us for beat-up cars. That company pays its racers damn well.”
Chuuya twitches. That… That is plausible.
A smile creeps onto Yuan’s face. “So?”
“...I’ll go to the agency and see–”
“Awesome!” She jumps up and down, laughing like a witch. Man, Yuan is insane.
“It’s not a commitment!” he snaps. “I’m just gonna take a look at the place. See how I feel about it.”
“I’m picturing it already,” she says. “Chuuya Nakahara. Port Mafia Poster Child.”
“The only thing I’ll promise is that you get an autograph from Verlaine.”
“Hmph.” She raises her nose in the air. “I suppose that will suffice.”
—
Osamu has always been the Port Mafia darling.
It’s always about Osamu.
So at first sight, Osamu decidedly does not like the new boy being ushered onto the racetrack before his very eyes.
Osamu usually doesn’t mind new racers being brought to the track. He does his best to welcome them, even. But this one is different. He’s a puff of crisp air. Osamu knows he will bring something to the table nobody else can. He’s heard the things Kouyou has said about him.
Kouyou’s been admiring the redhead from afar. Mori was firmly opposed to him being invited to the agency because of his criminal record. But it seemed he couldn’t hold Kouyou back anymore. She always gets her way.
Since the day Mori had found Osamu – in that shoddy alleyway in the slums, hands and face dirt-streaked, cheeks sunken and ashy, eyes wide and too wise for his years – since that day, everything has always revolved around Osamu. So he doesn’t like the fact that Mori’s so antsy about a new recruit. It’s unusual.
Osamu was talented. There was no doubt about it. He’d spent his early years on the streets hijacking cars to distract himself from the hunger that ate him up from the inside. He’d place pillows on the seats to be able to see in front of him and he’d use long sticks to reach the pedals below. It wasn’t smart, nor safe. He got into countless physical altercations with car owners and drove into buildings more times than he could count on his fingers, but all Mori could see was the raw talent in him.
It was easy for Mori to convince Osamu to move in with him. He’d approached the twelve year-old as he was battling charges of thievery and appointed a public lawyer that was, frankly, uninterested in the case, and did the bare minimum to gather defensive evidence. Osamu was to be tried as an adult.
When Mori swooped in and appointed Osamu an upscale attorney, Osamu was wary, but he definitely didn’t push Mori away. He needed the help, desperately.
Osamu managed to emerge from the trial with only a couple months of community service. However, Osamu still had no place to sleep, and he barely scraped up enough food on a day-to-day basis. So he gratefully accepted Mori’s offer to live with him. What else was he supposed to do? Continue living on the street?
The moment Osamu’s community service was over, Mori had brought him to the track.
Of course, Osamu didn’t drive real cars straight away. Young racers always started off with go-karts until they were old enough to really drive. If you were good, you’d hit the racing scene the day you turned eighteen. Until then, you’d just be training or going to youth competitions.
Osamu’s life became a constant cycle between homeschooling – which Mori had quickly set up for him –, the racing track, and Mori’s home.
Osamu guessed Mori was sort of his father figure. Or, at the very least, was the closest person to being it.
Osamu wasn’t naive. He knew Mori never actually cared about him. He knew Mori just needed to groom him into being the perfect racer.
And Osamu knows, even at the age of fifteen, that he is most definitely going to be the perfect racer. Mori paved the way for him; all he has to do is walk forward.
Of course, Osamu is Mori’s favorite, although there are always new people being brought in. But Osamu easily outclasses them all. Without a doubt. The only people in the agency that Osamu considers his competition are the ones that have been there much before he has. The older ones.
Well, of course, there’s Odasaku, who’s twenty. But Osamu never really considered him competition. He’s… a kindred spirit. A brother to Osamu, if you will.
Right now, the only thing Osamu pays attention to is the boy being led onto the track by Kouyou across from him.
He has a nasty, roughed-up look to him. All slummy and boyish with begrimed red hair. It takes great effort for Osamu not to physically recoil. He looks like a gang member, or a hoodlum – something of that sort.
He most certainly does not belong in the ranks of the Port Mafia. Perhaps he will be an asset when it comes to racing, who knows, but he looks like he’ll burst at the mere mention of an interview or conference. And if he can’t handle the press, he does not belong here.
But, of course, Osamu never voices this.
Instead, it is simply, “Odasaku, who’s that boy over there?”
Oda glances down at Osamu, and then across the track. He makes a low humming noise. “Ah. I believe that is Nakahara-kun.”
“How old?”
Odasaku squints. “Not sure. Just ask him, if you like.” He returns to his novel.
Oh. True. Osamu can ask him.
Osamu normally introduces himself to the new recruits. He’d take the opportunity to scrutinize them head-to-toe and gauge how valuable they could be, under the premise of giving them a tour of the agency.
He grits his teeth as he makes his way down the homestretch, and once he’s close, he smiles.
Kouyou pauses mid-sentence and glances at Osamu. She knows the routine for new recruits. “Ah. Dazai-kun. Good afternoon.”
“Good afternoon, Kouyou-sama.” Osamu does not look at Nakahara, barely acknowledging his presence. He doesn’t want to give him attention or satisfaction or anything of the sort. Osamu decides he hates him, though he has no reason other than envy.
“This is Nakahara,” she says, gesturing at him with a pale hand. “I trust you’ll show him around the place, then?”
Osamu glances at Nakahara, beaming. “Of course!”
“Lovely. I’ll see you later, Dazai.”
She walks off, the red ends of her kimono collecting sand.
It’s silent for a few moments.
Osamu looks at Nakahara, and the boy is glaring at him. Osamu represses a snicker. It’s too soon to get on his bad side.
He stretches out a hand. “I’m Osamu Dazai. And you’re Nakahara, so I’ve heard?”
Nakahara narrows his eyes. His hands are stuffed into his pockets, and he doesn’t take them out. “Yeah. But nobody calls me that. Not really.”
“Oh. So what do they call you?”
“Chuuya.”
“Just Chuuya?”
He nods.
Now that Osamu is closer, he’s able to get a good look at him.
Chuuya’s hair is red. That much Osamu had already known. It’s his single most defining characteristic. Osamu thinks it’s kind of tacky. If his hair was that color, he’d dye it religiously.
And he has blue eyes. They’re… not so bad looking, Osamu admits. But they’re not anything too special.
Chuuya wears a leather jacket atop a green tee with worn, ripped jeans. His skin is faintly tanned, certainly not pale like Osamu’s.
He carries himself in a sort of hunched-up manner, glancing around constantly – as if he is wary. He’s probably hyper-aware of his surroundings. Makes sense, considering his track record with the law.
“Okay. Then that’s what I’ll call you, Just Chuuya.”
Chuuya kicks a stone in the track.
“So. How old are you, Chuuya?”
“Fifteen.”
Osamu tilts his head. Drat. If he was younger, it would’ve been easier. He’d be easier to drive out. But Osamu only smiles. “That so? Guess we’re the same age.”
Chuuya stares at him sideways, and then back at the ground.
Annoying. Osamu isn’t sure what annoys him, but Chuuya’s just annoying. Osamu just has the overwhelming urge to scream at him.
That urge is probably not normal. But whatever.
“You gonna just stand there or are ya gonna give me a tour, you pipe cleaner?”
Osamu blinks. Pipe cleaner? That’s creative, actually. Better than being compared to a noodle. Or a twig. Osamu tries not to laugh.
“My bad. Shrimp.”
Chuuya does this scowling thing that makes him look really ugly. “Take that back!”
Oh. So this is how it’s going to be.
Osamu doesn’t mind this, actually. It’s been a while since he’s bickered with someone his own age.
“‘Fraid I can’t. You see, I have to fire back if I want to maintain my honor, Nakahara Chuuya-kun. Or else I’m just admitting defeat.”
“Screw you, bastard. Give me a fucking tour before I – Uh.”
Osamu bats his eyelashes sweetly. “Before you what?”
Chuuya clenches the joints of his fingers. He harrumphs. “Shut up. I’m thinking.”
“It’s okay, Chuuya. I know it’s difficult to keep up with me in a conversation. It’s a miracle you’ve come this far.”
“You are full of yourself,” Chuuya decides. “You are full of yourself and I don’t like you. If I do end up joining this shitty company, I’m staying as far away from you as possible.”
Huh. He said ‘if I end up joining’. Does this mean he’s already been offered a spot? He’s not just a candidate? Or is he just saying that because he’s confident he’ll get a spot? Ugh. Osamu wants to ask, but it’ll come across as him almost caring about this random freak, and he certainly doesn’t want that – so he doesn’t ask.
“Okay. Well. I’m going over to the workshop. You can follow me if you want a tour. If you don’t, well… I don’t really care.”
Osamu begins striding towards the far turn, and to his delight, Chuuya’s reluctant footsteps resound behind him.
—
The tour is taking longer than Chuuya expected. When it started, it’d been early in the afternoon, the sun strung high above his head. Now, the sun is winking out of sight, slithering beneath the horizon.
A gentle breeze laps at their faces. Chuuya’s hungry. But he won’t tell Dazai that. He doesn’t want to eat anywhere near Dazai. He has this gnawing feeling Dazai will poison him the second he gets a chance.
And plus, Chuuya probably won’t like any of the chow here. It’s probably all disgusting fancy shit – tiny portions on massive ceramic plates.
It’s weird. Chuuya thought a race car organization would be… easy-going, laid-back. But from what he’s seen so far, it doesn’t seem that is the case.
The Port Mafia is high-strung. There are a ton of snobs, Chuuya can tell. They give him weird looks, probably because he isn’t dressed like a fucking businessman. He’s a fucking kid – what kind of kid walks around in formal wear all the time? In this economy?
But more than the snootiness, there is hunger. There is the grunt of competition, the determination, even among members of the same organization. He can see it in their eyes.
Chuuya’s used to this level of hostility. But it’s usually experienced in settings like street-fights, where if you lose, you could potentially die.
But here, if you lose a race, you’re probably not going to die. You’ll miss out on a fancy title and a cash reward, but it’s not that serious. It’s not life or death. People here probably don’t know what it’s like to fear for your fucking life every waking hour.
Sure, racing can be a risky sport, but it’s a choice to put your life on the line like that. Chuuya never got a fucking choice.
Chuuya glances at Dazai, who’s pointing things out for Chuuya. They’re in a training field, and a bunch of kids, some younger than them, are go-karting.
Dazai probably doesn’t know what it’s like to have a loaded gun pressed against your head. To watch someone fade away in your arms. He’s probably some sheltered nepotism baby who doesn’t know life outside of this alienated little racing agency. It would explain the ego.
Dazai pulls him out of his head. “So, Chuuya-kun. That’s about it. What’d you think? Will you be gracing us with your presence?”
Chuuya clicks his tongue. “I don’t know yet. I need time to think.”
“I’d advise you to decide fast. It’s only a matter of time before Kouyou-sama’s interest shifts elsewhere.”
For once, there is no tease to his words.
“I’ll see,” Chuuya mumbles.
Dazai looks up. Chuuya looks up, curiously, but he doesn’t spot anything especially interesting in the sky. It’s clear, no clouds or stars. He looks back down, trying to read Dazai.
As previously mentioned, Chuuya is not good at reading the average person. He struggles to empathize with people.
But reading Dazai? Chuuya will have an enormously difficult time trying to do that.
Fucking annoying. Chuuya makes a gruff little noise and gives up.
“It’s blue hour,” Dazai murmurs.
Chuuya doesn’t know what that fucking means. He’s not about to ask, though.
Dazai does not glance at Chuuya. As if reading Chuuya’s mind, he speaks again. “It’s the little period of time twenty minutes after sunset or so.”
Oh. Blue hour.
That sounds pretty. Chuuya doesn’t really have time to think about pretty things like that. But Dazai probably does. Dazai probably looks around at the world and thinks about how pretty it all is.
Chuuya would like that, maybe. Just ten minutes to look around and breathe in the prettiness of it all.
Dazai unceremoniously sits on the ground, crossing his legs. He takes a whiff of air, and then collapses back against the sand with a contented sigh.
Chuuya narrows his eyes. Dazai’s jacket looks expensive. If Chuuya owned something like that, he’d take great care of it. He’d be very careful not to mess it up.
But Dazai probably has a million others like it, doesn’t he? Yes. Probably. It would be stupid to assume he only has this one.
Dazai’s chest rises and falls steadily. “Go home, Nakahara Chuuya. If you’re not going to sit, go home. The tour is over.”
Chuuya glances around. He’s been here for a while. It’s probably best to get home before it’s too dark.
But just ten minutes. Ten minutes won’t hurt.
He sits. And reluctantly, he lays down, too. Not close enough to accidentally touch Dazai if he were to move his legs, but close enough so that if Dazai whispered, Chuuya would hear him over the breeze.
Dazai has a little smile on his face. It’s not one of those too-wide smiles like before. “It’s nice.”
Chuuya doesn’t answer. He stares at the sky. Beginnings of stars are taking form against the blue plaster.
Chuuya never really pays attention to the sky. He’ll watch the occasional sunset or two, but he never stays around long enough to bask in… whatever this is.
Is this what Dazai does? He watches the sky and buys fancy suits when he isn’t racing?
That sounds very boring. Unfulfilling. Chuuya yawns at the thought.
His gaze falls upon Dazai’s bandaged wrists. He isn’t quite sure what part of Dazai’s leisure lifestyle would bring about injuries. Dazai isn’t a real racer. Not yet. You can’t be a real racer until you’re eighteen. So it makes no sense. However, Chuuya tactfully chooses to ignore them. Because hopefully, Chuuya doesn’t have to see Dazai after this.
But for now, maybe it’s okay. Maybe he can stare at the blue, blue sky and the pink horizon, and he can pretend he has time to waste.