Work Text:
The door slammed behind him. He heard the hinges creak from the force of it, the wood ache, the floor tremble, but Chuuya's attention was on the man sat at the desk in front of him.
Mori Ougai. He looked at Chuuya with faint surprise in his eyes, but he also looked resigned. Like he knew what this visit meant.
Or, what it could mean.
Cold eyes met ones filled with fire as the silence stretched thin between them, snapping with just one sharp inhale.
"Why?"
Chuuya couldn't find it in himself to ask more than that. It was the only word he could utter without completely losing it. And if there was one thing, only one, that he had learned in all of his years under Mori, it was that in order to get an answer from the man he had to remain calm.
"Oh Chuuya," Mori sighed, resting the pen in his hand on the desk before leaning back, his full attention on the Executive now. "You already know why, don't you? Why waste breath asking silly questions?"
And that was true, wasn't it? Chuuya knew exactly why. That didn't make the truth any easier to stomach, and maybe, just maybe, he had hope that Mori would bother to lie to him.
But Mori never did lie when the truth suited him better.
"I thought you always followed the most logical path," Chuuya growled. It was the least respect he'd shown Mori in years, the most emotion. "You knew where this would end, didn't you? So, I want to hear it from your lips. Tell me why."
Mori turned away from him, instead looking out into the dark city sky. Yokohama had never felt so empty as it had that night, and it took Chuuya a while to understand why. He hadn't passed anyone on his way to Mori's office; no office workers, no mafia grunts, no guards.
It seemed that Mori really had planned this encounter out. Of course he had. He was where Dazai had learned it all from, wasn't he?
"I knew," Mori confirmed, his gaze still outside. It was clear now how tired the boss was. Chuuya wondered, briefly, when the last time he had slept was. "I knew before I ever sent you on that mission. But do you not see it, Chuuya?" Here, Mori turned back to look at him. His expression was solemn, calm, understanding. But it was also cold, calculating, and far too aware of how Chuuya was feeling. "There was no other way things would end."
"No other way?" Chuuya bit out. "What utter bullshit."
"Either you came here now, or you would come later."
Like it was a fact. Like Chuuya hadn't spent the last 9 years of his life following Mori, backing him, trusting him. Like Chuuya hadn't killed friends and comrades for speaking words meant to incite violence on Mori's orders. Like Chuuya hadn't fought tooth and nail to protect Mori with his own life.
Like Mori hadn't raised him.
"Bullshit," he said again, under his breath. The space betweeen them had never felt larger than it did then.
Mori's eyes were sad. "I knew this would happen from the day that Dazai defected. If it wasn't going to be him, it would be you. But this was always going to be my fate."
"To be betrayed by your secondhand?"
"To die by your blade."
Confirmation. It was what Chuuya had come here seeking, but that didn't do anything to ease the pain of it.
He was right; there was no world where this conversation ended with anything less than Mori's blood on his hands.
It was the only option.
Chuuya had never been in favor of having his choices narrowed to one.
"Why?" He asked again, his voice desperate now. The anger was slowly seeping from his bones, replaced by sorrow, by pain. Everything ached, but nothing more than his heart.
Chuuya raised his eyes to meet Mori's.
From fifteen years old, Mori had raised him. Had trained him, taught him, protected him. The blade hidden within its sheathe against his lower back was a gift for his twentieth birthday.
And the giver sat calmly, waiting for it to be used.
"I had no other options," Mori said softly. Chuuya still refused to believe it, but he didn't dare interrupt him now. "Sending anyone else would have ended in a failure far worse than you could imagine, and sending no one at all would have been indefensible as the Boss. The Port Mafia had been slighted, our prospects put in danger, our people's lives on the line. No one else would have known how to handle it."
"Handle it," Chuuya repeated. "I didn't handle it."
"You did."
Except Chuuya hadn't done anything special at all.
Dazai had threatened the Port Mafia, that's what it all came down to. It hadn't been until Chuuya had his former partner pinned to the floor with a loaded gun to his head that Dazai had explained why, after so many years, he had done so, that Chuuya understood.
"There would have been nothing to handle at all if you hadn't tried to kill Fukuzawa."
He had understood it when Dazai had explained. Protecting his boss; Chuuya knew the feeling well. He didn't even know how many times he had acted on his own to protect Mori from usurpers and assassins, from organizations plotting the man's downfall. It was part of his job, and more than that, he had known how much it would crush him to learn of Mori's death. Out of everyone in the mafia, the only one who had believed in him from day one was Mori. Dazai had left, Kouyou and Hirotsu had found him untrustworthy, Tachihara and Kaiji hadn't joined until years later.
Mori knew all of this. He knew how Chuuya would react to the need to protect his boss and had sent him anyway.
"There's always a reason for the things I do, Chuuya," Mori explained. "Fukuzawa-dono and I have had a long history."
"But why now?" Chuuya pressed. "Why this time?"
Mori's smile was sad, the edge worn off by age and—dare Chuuya say it—fondness. It looked like it hurt him almost as much as it did Chuuya. "Now was the time. I may not be able to see the future, but I have gotten pretty good at predicting it. Something is coming, Chuuya. Something that could tear the Port Mafia to the ground."
That reason made less sense than anything else had in the past 24 hours. "If something is coming, something as terrible as you say, then we would need you." I would need you, is on the tip of his tongue, in the back of his throat, clawing at him from the inside. I would need your guidance, your steady hand.
Even as he bit the words back, he saw Mori read them on his face anyway. Mori had always been almost as good as Dazai at reading him, the only other who came close.
"You don't," Mori said simply, answering the unspoken words. "I trained you to be second in command for three years, and to one day take over for six. You will know what you need to do."
Chuuya felt the way his hands trembled and forced himself to breathe, to remember the anger that had brought him to Mori's door in the first place. He had known before he had pushed open the doors to his office where this night would go, even as he had hoped for once to be proven wrong. He needed his anger now, something familiar to hold on to, something comforting to get him through the next steps.
He moved closer, each footstep heavier on his heart than the floor. It felt like there was an earthquake in his chest, his heart beating hard, erratic, shaking his foundations as he pulled the knife from it's sheathe.
Sharp steel, years of weathering and age shown through the handle. It wasn't an ornate weapon; made and used for attack, Mori had known Chuuya well enough to know he cared more about utility than looks. And Chuuya had, he had used the knife, carrying it on his back since the day it had been gifted to him.
He knew the weight of it in his hands, used it to taken countless lives over the years, but it had never felt more heavy than now. He saw Mori look at it, the recognition that passed over his face as he took it in, the sheen over his eyes that showed more emotion than the Boss ever had before.
"I don't want this," Chuuya whispered as he stepped closer. Mori stood when Chuuya stopped in front of him, looking down at his Executive.
"I'm glad," Mori told him. He went easily when Chuuya grabbed him, turned to press him into the wall, a space hidden from the cameras in the room, knife raised to his throat. "It means I did something right."
The words hurt. They twisted in Chuuya's chest, something ugly and painful, tearing at the scraps of who he is. Blood pooled on the edge of the knife, the touch just sharp enough to cut skin, red dyeing silver.
"Why?" Chuuya asked again, voice hoarse, low.
"It needs to be you."
Something dripped from his face—tears, spilling over the bottom of his vision, pulled from him as he took in the words. It needs to be you, so Mori has to be gone. It needs to be you, so Chuuya has to be the one to do it.
"I'm sorry," Mori's voice was hushed. A hand raised slowly, cupping Chuuya's cheek. "I know, and I am sorry."
The blade sank deeper, not enough. It had never been so difficult to use before. Chuuya had been killing people since he was just a child, but it had never felt like this. The hand on his cheek moved, shifting, and Chuuya felt a gentle weight resting itself on his shoulders. Crimson fabric, placed over his neck and matching the blood falling from Mori's.
"You have grown so much since you first joined. You will continue to grow as you lead."
Chuuya's breath hitched. "I'm not ready."
"We never are."
Mori's eyes closed slowly. His breaths were even, steady, even as Chuuya knew his heart was racing. Or was that his own?
Silence felt heavy, thick, in the space between them. Chuuya knew he couldn't drag this out for too much longer. He didn't want to, either, but also he did. He wanted this moment to take forever. He wanted it to never end. Because the end of this moment—this drawn out pause where his blade kissed Mori's neck, the tender caress of a parent's hand on his shoulder—was the last moment where Mori would be able to stop him. If it never ended, then Mori would never die.
One steadying breath. The silence held, held, then shattered with the fatal twist of his arm, knife slicing deep enough to kill. Chuuya had never seen Mori afraid, but no one is ready to die.
He caught Mori, lowered him slowly to the ground as the boss choked on his own blood, body convulsing in a useless attempt to stop the bloodflow. There was no going back now, no undoing the blood that soaked his gloves, his shirt, Mori's life.
"I'm sorry," Chuuya whispered. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." He felt his breath hiccup, his hands coming up to frame Mori's face, looking into his eyes, frantically searching for life as it slipped slowly from his grasp. Instinct told him to stifle the blood, to fight it back, to keep Mori safe but he couldn't. It had been him who had done this, who had spilled the blood, who had taken his life.
"I'm sorry," he sobbed, head dropping to rest on Mori's chest as he felt it stutter and stop, Mori's last breath taken, his heart stopped in place.
"I'm sorry."
Dead silence was broken by the quiet creaking of the office door. Footsteps so light they were almost nonexistent made their way in, the door sliding shut behind them.
Chuuya saw none of it happen, sat on Mori's old desk with his back to the door, but he didn't need to. He knew who had come in. He had called him up here, after all.
"Chuuya?" Verlaine asked, a hesitence in his voice that was uncharacteristic of him. Then again, Mori had never called him to his office before. And Mori wasn't the one who called.
"I need your loyalty," Chuuya said. His voice didn't waver, didn't change. It was flat. Steady. Empty.
"What do you mean?"
Verlaine's footsteps moved closer and Chuuya knew the moment that the Executive noticed. A falter to his steps as he no doubt saw the scene that was laid out behind the desk: Mori's body laid out carefully on the floor, torso and face covered by Chuuya's jacket; his scarf, the one that denoted the Port Mafia's boss, resting around Chuuya's neck; the pool of blood, the smears of it, the layers covering Chuuya's white shirt, his black gloves, his sullen face.
There was no mistaking what had happened here—Verlaine was a trained assassin, and even 7 years out of service didn't wipe his memory clean of every scene he had left exactly like this.
"What have you done?"
A steadying breath. Quiet, almost silent, but so loud in the still air around them.
"I did what I had to. Now, I am asking for your loyalty."
"Chuuya." Verlaine's voice was tense. He moved to grab Chuuya's shoulder but hesitated when he saw that there was blood there, too. His hand hovered between them. "You killed him."
"I did."
"Why?"
Laughter bubbled up in Chuuya's lungs, choked it's way up his throat, threatened to spill from his lips alongside every secret and emotion he had ever held in check. Why, huh? Why. What a damning question. What a ridiculous thing to ask.
"Why doesn't matter," Chuuya managed to force out around the lump of sorrow caught in his chest. Every word ached as he said, "It happened. It's over. Do I have you on my side or not?"
He tore his gaze for the first time away from the rotting body on the floor to instead meet Verlaine's eyes. It was a little surprising to see the confusion so plain on his face, the anger, the concern. It was less surprising to watch those emotions shudder and be tucked away as Verlaine took a more defensive position.
"Not until I know why. You killed the Boss, as an Executive I should have you hanged."
"And as my brother?"
The words had an impact—Chuuya had known they would, had chosen to call Verlaine here specifically to use them. They had an effect like a twisting knife; Verlaine stepped back, at his tone or the words or what they might imply, Chuuya wasn't sure. Maybe all of them. He watched as a decision went through Verlaine's mind—only to be discarded and replaced.
Verlaine took a breath, released it, steadied himself. "I would stand by your side."
"Then if you won't be loyal to me as an Executive, be loyal as a brother."
"What do you need?"
Appreciation curled inside of Chuuya's chest at the words, tinged by the guilt of abusing the connection Verlaine had always sought from him. But he was the Boss now—he had to be, or this had all been for nothing—so he took the guilt and tucked it away. Still there, still painful, but not his focus.
Instead, he stood from the desk, turning his back to where the former Boss laid to stand in front of Verlaine. Meeting his eyes, taking a deep breath, putting on the mask of someone more steady than he felt. "Cover, a story, a clean-up crew," a pause, the shaking in his hands stilled as he let this new control lay over him, covering him, remolding him for the position he was taking, "and a right-hand man."