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Send me on a patrol, Chuuya thinks. Like a damn dog. Who does he think he is?!
He kicks a pebble on the sidewalk, watching it hop-skip its way over cracks. A second later, he summons gravity to pull it down, stopping it in front of him to swat at again.
The bastard always lording over him sent him on a fucking patrol of all things.
"My dog needs some air~! Go walk yourself, doggie~" He'd said, waving his hand flippantly as he'd read over a report. "I hear there may be some trouble on the block of West and 15th. Go have fun~"
Chuuya had wanted to protest. He's not some mutt to be given low jobs, he's a fucking executive, for hell's sake. A grunt could have run down the street and taken a look, but no, it came from the Boss' orders, as Dazai always likes to remind him.
He's barely been boss for a year, he should have no authority over Chuuya like that when they had the same title before the switch.
He kicks the rock again, sending it skidding further along with more force than the last few times. When he stops it this time, it leaves an indent in the cement.
There's a storm pouring in from the coast, soon to surround the whole area in its waters, but for now, it only sends gusts swimming between the buildings, exasperated by the narrow alleys and streets.
A particular breeze has him instinctively forcing his hat to stay on, a habit that's become engrained in him since the first time he experienced a storm after gaining Rimbaud's hat.
There's only one more crosswalk to go before he reaches the intersection of West and 15th. Usually, he'd jump the rooftops to scan and scout, but Dazai had specifically said to 'walk,' an interpretation to mean something's happening that requires a close-up to spot.
Though, with the storm coming in, Chuuya wouldn't have wanted to gone way up high, anyway.
He reaches the section of 15th and West quickly. People are smart, beginning to scatter indoors in avoidance of the incoming storm, and leaving the streets clear. Chuuya doesn't mind the rain most times, as long as that waste of bandages isn't near him to steal his ability.
A particular flash overhead has his nose wrinkling. Memories associated with it are never pleasant, he's come to learn. Too many nights of lightning storms taught him that the hard way.
He'll just have to make this a fast search-and-find. Then he'll be free to return to headquarters and beat the shit out of that asshole for sending him out at such an inconvenient time.
At one of the cornershops of 15th and West, he finds a cafe, its lights a lazy glow against the gray background on the streets. Inside, people are lingering with hot cups of coffee, making small talk and working on personal things.
At the next corner, Chuuya finds a restaurant closed for its afternoon break before the dinner rush. A peek through the windows confirms there's nothing suspiscious.
In the middle of the crosswalk, more lightning strikes with its thunder following close behind. It's begun to sprinkle now.
The next store is a jewelry shop, its lights a piercing brightness compared to the cafe diagonal to it. Once again, nothing seems to be off. The final store, a flower shop, is bringing the last of their flowers inside to shield them from the storm.
As Chuuya passes by, the shopkeeper stills, glancing at him for a moment before his face morphs into surprise. "Oh, sir! Just a moment!"
He turns back inside, taking a moment to scrummage in front of one of the windows at what must be vases of flowers. Quickly, he returns, holding a singular flower.
Chuuya's heart stills the second he sees it.
"I believe this is for you," he says, hands delicately holding the flower. "A brunet came by earlier and requested I give this to a man with flames for hair. Was he referring to you?"
Chuuya can hardly nod as his eyes never leave the red camellia being handed to him. It's frail — something not made for him to handle — as its petals seem to pull downwards, as if at any moment, the whole of it will fall from its stem.
Why would he—
Another flash and roar have him blinking out of his stupor. The florist's gaze remains imploring, waiting for Chuuya's response. All he is doing is performing his version of a good deed, and Chuuya can't fault him for that.
"Thank you," the redhead says. And because he detects no malicious intent from the florist, he touches the rims of the last vases that need to be brought back inside, lightening them and gracefully floating them through the door. He bobs his head slightly, briefly seeing the look of surprise on the shopkeepers face, before turning towards the five buildings that mark headquarters.
He begins his journey back, enveloping the flower in his gravity to protect it from the wind and rain that are steadily becoming heavier. The clouds above continue their noisy, flashy chorus of thunder and lightning.
His thoughts are easily lost to the desire of trying to interpret Dazai's actions. The fish must mean something by giving Chuuya this flower, albeit indirectly. Not a single one of his words and actions is for naught.
This wouldn't be the first time Dazai's given him gifts just to fluster and tease him. Chuuya's never been good at handling gifts or compliments of any sorts, and Dazai lovese to exploit that.
But to give the flower indirectly, where Dazai has no chance to see his reaction lest he hacked into the CCTV again, would have no benefit for the bastard.
So why? Could there be an actual threat to the Port Mafia? A personal assassin threat on Dazai's lift? Or is the bastard just messing with him again, another way to get some form of entertainment from him to reign over his head as "Boss' Orders?"
He holds the flower up against the backdrop of the towers. It's a deep red, one Chuuya would find to be similar to Dazai's eyes when caught in the right light. Well-loved by that flower shop, Chuuya can see all the care that was put into it.
Another flash of lightning has him blinking, and this time the roar he hears is not one of thunder. His eyes immediately move towards the sky where the noise came from. Upon rising up, they fall on one of the black towers — the one where the boss resides.
He can't make out much with the rain and wind, but he swears that roar — the one of a tiger — came from up there. His feet are already moving faster.
What is that tiger-kid doing? Are we under attack?
His heart instantly picks up at the thought, mind running with what-ifs and possible solutions. He needs to—
In front of him, still being held up by his own self, the head of the flower falls from its stem against the background of another flash of white. On instinct, he catches it with his other hand, cradling it gently.
Before he has a moment to make up his mind, another tiger roar rings out, this time sounding desperate. His eyes snap back to headquarters, and there, even with the wind and the rain in his way, he sees it.
A dark figure on the ledge, a speck of red enscapsulating him, as he leans back and drops.
He's already running, a mad sprint that has water falling into his face as the powers on his ability loosen.
Faster.
His eyes never leave Dazai's body falling through the air. His eyes never leave the red scarf flying around him, almost like a noose from Chuuya's point of view.
Move. Run.
His gravity's loosened enough that he's able to travel faster, his muscles pushing his lightened form further.
The body is falling too fast. The closer he gets, the more the fear driving his heart clenches around his ribs and moves him forward.
Only a few seconds, yet he's so close.
Dazai's in front of him, upside down and arms stretched out like a crucifix, like a sacrifice. Chuuya can see his face, always so lifeless, but now it's like he's truly dead already; his face forming the barest of smiles, his eyes half-closed and dark like Chuuya's known since day one.
For a split second, their eyes meet, and Chuuya screams, arms reaching out in a sort of anguish he hasn't felt since he was sixteen and the Albatross had died in his arms.
"Chuuya," he swears he hears.
In one final, hopeless moment, he thinks to himself, O Grantors of Dark Disgrace—
At the same time, another part of himself thinks, I can make it—
And Dazai's body hits the ground hard, one half of the scarf caught in Chuuya's left hand. The other half is crushed beneath the brunet, and Chuuya can't look down, he can't look down because—
I didn't make it.
For a moment, maybe a minute, maybe more, he stands there, breath held and lungs tight. His body won't move, afraid in a way he's never felt. Nakahara Chuuya, Executive of the Port Mafia and Right Hand of the Boss, and he's scared.
Scared to find out what awaits him below, scared to find out what will happen once time starts again, scared to find out what will happen when he stops screaming and his worst nightmare becomes reality.
With shaking, trembling breaths that come faster and faster, he glances down. There's already red slowly moving outwards by his shoes, the heels and the bottoms of his pants already soiled in the liquid.
As he slowly moves further up Dazai's body, the blood spreads, making angel wings against the concrete. It's so red.
And when he finally reaches Dazai's head, he sobs. The man still adorns that faint smile. That cruel, faint smile that won't leave Chuuya's head for the rest of time. The brunet's eyes are closed, joyless eyes that were always in Chuuya's mind forever shut.
He won't see those brown eyes that glow in the sun filtering through the Port Mafia's windows again; those eyes that never held light in them and would never have the chance to.
It's with that thought that he falls to his knees into the red liquid soaking the ground, eyes never leaving Dazai's face.
His peripheral is filled with red and only red.
There's so much of it, too much of it.
He knows there's blood on him, too — can feel it drying on his cheeks and clothes. It's on his gloves and his hair, it's all around him and it's choking him.
Being covered in the very thing that makes them, a Demon Prodigy and a Fallen Angel, human at the sacrifice of the one person who felt so inhuman that he named his own ability No Longer Human stirs something so painful in his gut and chest that he chokes on a gag and a sob.
The world continues to grow red around him. Red like the camellia that fell from its stem. Red like the camellia crushed in his right hand right now. The blood continues to spread, and the voice inside of him rises with blaring rage.
He has no reason in his life anymore.
Dazai Osamu is dead.
And Nakahara Chuuya is soon to follow.
He comes to with a groan.
His head is so foggy, so clouded yet blank. The drugs those government assholes have been giving him have ruined his perception of time. His body feels like it's been here for days, maybe weeks, but his mind says longer. He doesn't know.
The chains tied around his arms creak as he shifts his position to something barely more comfortable. He doesn't bother to open his eyes. Too much of a waste of energy when he's in a dark, damp prison at the bottom of some government building.
He only knows it's a government building because of the anti-ability chains wrapped all over him. He can't blame them for doing this.
A monster deserves imprisonment, especially after what he did.
He only heard about it from some agent that was keeping watch at the beginning of his time here. Something about Corruption, something about destruction. Without Dazai to stop him, the government had to release its own weapon experiments to end it.
He doesn't regret it.
That bastard left him here to wallow in his tainted sorrow. Dazai cared so much about protecting this city, so why not get a little bit of revenge? Two birds with one stone — revenge and an end to himself.
Though he remembers little of the event, he does know it felt good to wield Arahabaki beneath him with the knowledge that that was the final time, a final cry of grief.
He hadn't wanted to wake up. Had wanted to let Corruption destroy him till the bitter end.
Yet, here he is, rotting away in some dungeon with no desire to physically escape.
They've tried bringing him food, the fuzzy images in his head tell him. He's rejected it every time. They hooked him up to an IV, a way of preserving his life force against his will. A way to keep their little experiment rat under their control.
He wouldn't be surprised if they begin running tests soon, like the good ol' days.
If only he could activate Arahabaki—
Knock, knock.
He barely lifts his head, opening his eyes to a half-lidded stare as the door creaks open. A head of white hair sneaks in, the owner covered in black.
Atsushi, his mind staggerly supplies. Another person ducks in, much in contrast to Atsushi — black hair and white coat, just like he used to be—
"Mori-san?" he breathes out. Maybe the drugs have gotten to him and he's really seeing shit now. He wouldn't be surprised. Dazai's visited him many times already — and he knows they're fakes because the bastard died in front of him and not once while he was alive did he say crappy things like 'I love you' like his ghost loves to do — so what's one more ghost to the mix to liven things up, right?
"Chuuya-kun," the man says. From here, he can't make out his expression well with his blurry vision but he thinks the other is smiling, one that doesn't reach his eyes. "How have you been?"
"What do you think?" he retorts, shifting against the chains again. The IV tugs on his skin, but it only causes a wince from him. Mori might have been his Boss a couple of years ago, but Chuuya's learned to respect another, dead one — though he does still respect Mori as an elder.
Mori chuckles in that creepy way of his, his hands hidden in his doctor's coat pockets. Beside him, Atsushi bows towards Chuuya. "Chuuya-san."
"Hey, tiger kid. You a hallucination this time?"
Atsushi hesitates a moment. So he is, then. They both are. "No, Chuuya-san."
Chuuya just hums.
"Chuuya-kun," Mori says again. Chuuya blinks his eyes open. He hadn't realized they'd closed. "Atsushi-kun tells me you wish to suffer no longer. Is this true?"
When had Chuuya told Atsushi that? Had the kid visited him recently and it wasn't a hallucination? Hmm.
He wouldn't mind a break from everything. A chance to wade in the darkness for a while. Suffering no more sounds good.
No more pains, no more ghosts, no more false, adoring words whispered in his ears. That'd be nice.
He thinks he nods at Mori's ghost.
"Very well, then."
"Mori-san—"
"Atsushi-kun. There are times in life where hard decisions have to be made." Mori's voice is sound, like it used to be when he knew what measures had to be taken to protect the city. It calms something inside of Chuuya.
"But Mori-san—!" Atsushi sounds upset. Chuuya doesn't know why. It's not like he's saving a life. Let the beast be put down.
"Let me put him to rest. It's what Dazai-kun would have wanted."
Footsteps coming in his direction have Chuuya's eyes opening again, barely glancing up at the figure of Mori in front of him. Behind him, Elise appears, no longer the little girl she once was but a teen now, older than Atsushi. Now Chuuya really knows he's gone crazy, making shit up at this point.
A hand on his hair has him startling again, exhausted eyes peering up at Mori. The man holds a syringe in one hand, the other resting gently atop Chuuya's head.
"You've fought hard, child. Be at ease now." Mori moves towards his arm with the IV. He fiddles with something and inserts the syringe into part of the attachments it's connected to. Chuuya feels a coldness instantly seep through his arm. "I'm sure you'll meet Dazai-kun very soon."
That would be nice. A chance to kick that bastard's ass for killing himself in front of him. Very nice.
Chuuya hums before speaking, eyes already growing heavier. "Thank you…"
The world goes dark rapidly.
He doesn't hear Atsushi cry out or Mori's sigh of resignation.
When he awakes again, it's to blue skies as far as he can see, a few fluffy clouds scattered throughtout. There's a warm breeze, and he can feel the texture of long grass all around him, swaying with the air.
Barely any noise, far from what he'd grown up and lived with, and for a moment he wonders what had happened for there to be such a place as this: one filled with peace like he's never felt before.
He closes his eyes, enjoys the sun on his face, and breathes in the fresh air he's never known. He could stay here for hours, days even.
Nothing but him and nature.
The calm atmosphere almost lulls him into a slumber before his ears pick up on the faintest noises of grass crunching and whispers. His body tenses on instinct, ready and alert to the incoming intruders.
"Chuuya?" The tone is so soft, so something he isn't, or was never allowed to be. But it can't be. He's dead. Chuuya's just hallucinating again.
Right?
"Chuuya?" The voice asks again, and Chuuya's chest seizes.
It can't be.
He cracks his eyes open, squinting against the daylight. There's a familiar figure above him that punches all the air from his lungs. From here, he can see dark yet gentle eyes, the edges creased by the calm smile that adorns his face.
Dazai never looks happy in his hallucinations and in his head. He's always sad, never like this one in front of him.
"Good morning, Slug~" Dazai says, that teasing lilt Chuuya's missed so much ringing out. This can't be— "Care to wake up?"
Chuuya's head is heavy, but he lifts it and his upper body up, gazing in awe at the Dazai in front of him. He still wears that black coat of his, but his eyes are so light. He's uncovered his one eye, and Chuuya thinks it suits him much better.
Dazai squats down to his level, joining him on the ground. At the movement, Chuuya comes to realize there's another person behind him, though they're standing further away as if to give them privacy.
"How has my dog been, hmm?"
Chuuya startles at the question. Dazai never asks shit like this. This has to be a dream of some sort.
"I've been… fine," he replies slowly. The Dazai of this dream world furrows his brows like he's concerned. Internally, Chuuya scoffs at it. Still, he asks, "How have you been, you piece of shit?"
Dazai lights up at the nickname. "Chuuya doesn't need to worry about that. I assure you I've been eating enough. Now, why is my darling slug here?"
Simultaneously always and never to the point as ever. It seems this dream Dazai is spot on in that regard.
"I woke up here." He deadpans. His head is still foggy, much like how it was in the prison. He briefly wonders if the worry on Dazai's face is real. Well, as real as a ghost's can be.
"I can see that. Tell me, Chuuya, what is the last thing you remember apart from waking up here?"
Chuuya feels his own brows furrow as he thinks. What is the last thing he remembers?
An image of a fallen red camellia, held gently in his hand, flashes in his mind.
From there, it's like a snowball tumbling down a hill — images upon images steeped in red, Dazai's body painting the ground red, the world turning red.
Then, waking up in a prison, chained down by ability-nullifying chains. There's only a few scenes from this time, some ghosts and some agents and some blank walls, but then all of a sudden Atsushi and Mori show up.
He remembers talking to them, drugged and out of it. He remembers telling them he wished to die. Then, a scene of Mori bringing a syringe up to the IV hooked to him, slipping the needle into it and pressing down. The cold that ran through his arm remains a phantom feeling at the thought.
He remembers the world going dark shortly after, head beyond drowsy and numb.
"Mori gave me something," he murmurs. Though he knows it was just a ghost, what's the harm in telling this ghost, too? "It was strong. Knocked me out within a minute."
Dazai hums, crossing his arms. "Ah, that slimy old man. Why did he feel the need to dose you?"
"He said it's what you would have wanted." Dazai stills at the words, smile dropping.
"What?" Dazai's body becomes tense, voice strained.
"I didn't want to be there anymore, anyway."
"Be where, Chuuya?"
"The damn government's basement prison."
The brunet goes pale instantly. "Chuuya, what happened after my death?"
At this, Chuuya smiles faintly. The smile doesn't reach his eyes judging by Dazai's own widening. "I had a bit of a bad day."
"Chuuya."
"Corruption, dipshit. Destroyed part of the city."
"Why?"
"Why do you think, asshole?! My boss, my partner, killed himself in front of me and I failed to save him. Bit fucked up, no?"
"I thought I was hallucinating… I thought you were still down the street. Chuuya, you saw?!"
"Yes, you fucker. Happy with yourself?" But the devastation on Dazai's face tells Chuuya everything he needs to know. With slow movements, Dazai wraps his arms around him, whispering apologies into his hair as his hold continues to tighten.
He can't handle it. He's already realized the truth.
"Shut up," Chuuya mumbles, shaking his shoulders to loosen the other's hold, though he doesn't shove him completely off. "It is what it is. I'm dead now, so what's it matter?"
"But—"
"Who's he?" Chuuya asks instead, gesturing with a shoulder at their guest who's been standing away this whole time.
Dazai opens his mouth before closing it, a clear sign that the topic will be brought up again later, but he saves it for now, instead answering, "That's Odasaku. He's from the original world."
"Original?" Dazai begins to get up, dragging Chuuya up with him and steadying him when he staggers. The sun is behind the man Dazai came with, but from here Chuuya can see he wears a tan coat and his hands are in its pockets. He's got dark red hair and a bit of stubble, looks like Oda Sakunosuke of the Agency, yet Chuuya detects no animosity from the man.
"I'll explain later. I'd like you to come meet him. He's a special person to me."
"By special, you mean?"
"He taught me many things I couldn't perform in our world. But here, I'm free to be with you and him, Chuuya. I can lo—"
"Save it," Chuuya huffs out. He doesn't want to hear that anymore. Not after the ghosts, the hallucinations wouldn't shut up about it. Maybe later, maybe if this Dazai proves himself and stays, maybe if this world truly is the afterlife. But for now, he walks with Dazai towards Odasaku.