Chapter Text
Blood, sweat, and saliva pooled on the floor, further marring the office of the Port Mafia's boss. The furniture was already overturned, and liquor bottles were strewn all across the room. The bookshelf that once stood behind the boss' desk was burnt to a crisp ages ago.
Two mafia lackeys grit their teeth as they tried to hide their fear of their leader. The two of them held up a man by his arms—a lanky stranger in a sand-coloured trench coat. As the sun set earlier that day, he foolishly dared to trespass on their territory. Again and again, they had to readjust their grip to hold him up for their boss to continue his assault on him. Miraculously, the man was still conscious and breathing.
The two mafiosi had never seen their boss like this before. They heard rumours of his rampage a year ago, the one he went on just before he claimed the mantle of the boss. After that, Nakahara Chuuya himself never really snapped. Instead, he spent his days holed up in his office, drinking and never talking to anyone. However, tonight was different.
Chuuya sent another kick to the man's face. Blood splattered onto his clothes, dyeing his shirt an even darker shade of crimson. The boss’ breath was erratic, and the blaze in his eyes threatened to burn down the entire building with him.
"You're supposed to be dead."
He kicked the man again.
"I watched you die."
Another kick.
"How dare you still live?"
The man wheezed and tried his best to meet the boss in the eye. "Please… Let me explain—"
"Explain what ?"
Chuuya dug the sole of his shoe into the man's chest, forcing him to fall backwards onto the ground. The two lackeys held their breaths, waiting for the boss to lash out at them too, but his wrath was focused solely on the man on the floor.
"Are you a ghost? You here to taunt me from beyond the grave? Or is this one last sick joke? Which one is it, Dazai?"
The man, Dazai, took a moment to let his chest fully rise and fall. "I'm not a ghost. And this is most definitely not a joke."
"What are you then?"
Dazai closed his eyes. "I'll tell you. On one condition."
"Do you really think you're in a position to negotiate right now?"
"Chuuya. Please ."
Multiple spots on the man’s face had begun to swell, and his hair was tangled up in so much blood. None of these factors, though, had anything to do with the sheer pitiful expression on his face. He looked like a kitten kicked to the curb by his owner.
Chuuya paused. "Get out."
The two grunts gaped at Chuuya. "But, sir—"
"I said get out!" he snarled.
They bowed their heads and rushed out the door.
Once they were alone, Chuuya stooped down and lifted Dazai up by the collar of his shirt. "Tell me what the fuck you're doing here, Dazai."
He swallowed, hard , and dared to look the boss in the eye.. "Are you familiar with the multiverse theory…?"
Chuuya scoffed and dropped him.
"Wait!" Dazai pushed himself up. "I swear to you, I'm not joking."
“You tryna say that you're an alternate version of Dazai?"
"Essentially, yes."
Chuuya's expression was unreadable.
"Get back in here!" he barked.
The grunts immediately rushed back into the room.
"Wait—"
"I don't give a shit about what you do to him.” His voice was completely devoid of emotion. “Just get him out of my sight."
"Chuuya!"
One of the grunts sent a blow to Dazai's head. Just like that, everything went dark.
<l>
Dazai's eyes fluttered open. He could hardly see anything, but based on the stale air and the cold concrete pressed against his back, he figured he was in the Port Mafia's dungeons.
His legs were weak. His blood had dried and left a foul crust all over his skin. Every bone and muscle in his body cried out in pain.
"...But I'm still alive."
If Chuuya wanted to, he could kill Dazai in a single blow, with or without his ability. Even so, Dazai lived. That had to count for something, right?
"Damn you, other me."
Dazai burrowed his fingers into the layers of bandages wrapped around his wrist. He plucked out a hairpin that had already been twisted into the perfect shape for lock-picking. Using that same hand, he fiddled around with the cuffs chaining him to the wall. The process was a little slower this time as his digits trembled from the pain coursing through his veins, but the satisfying click resounded soon enough. He repeated the process with the other cuff, and he was free.
He stretched his limbs, then his back. Every ounce of his body still hurt, but Dazai felt confident enough to leave the dungeon.
Even if it had been four years since Dazai deserted the mafia, and even if he was in a completely different universe, he still knew the twists and turns of their headquarters like the back of his hand.
He passed through the lodgings their members would use when their jobs required them to stay the night. Dazai himself wound up in those rooms when he was a teenager, and the underlings he stayed with mentioned they hadn't gone to their own apartments in ages—they joked that the Port Mafia had become their new home. If memory served Dazai correctly, those mafiosi never returned to their own beds again.
He trudged up the staircases everyone else avoided for their crumbling steps and flickering lights. He took the corridors that were too narrow, and he followed paths that were too long-winded and complicated for any sane person to use. Dazai saw everyone crook and cranny of the Port Mafia, but the mafia never caught a glimpse of him.
The Port Mafia had never been a kind, communal place. Still, there was something strange about this version of the mafia. A certain sense of purpose was absent as these mafiosi carried out their duties. In Dazai's own world, the gangsters fought for their organisation to their last breath, with every ounce of their blood, and it was a passion he envied. Here, the movements of the mafiosi were all too familiar to him. They worked, not because of duty, but because of obligation. The act of breathing was a chore to them.
Dazai sighed and continued on his journey up.
At last, he reached the highest floor. No guards were posted outside, and the door to the boss' office waited eagerly for him to push it open. Slowly, he did, and before him was a scene that rendered him helpless.
Chuuya's head was slumped over his desk and resting in a puddle of his own spilled liquor. His eyes were closed, but he was far from being at rest.
Dazai crouched down to his level and pushed a strand of hair out of his face. "Oh, dear. Is this how you've been living after he left?"
Chuuya let out a stifled snore in response.
Dazai gave him a tight smile. "I'll be right back, okay?"
"What the fuck are you doing back here?"
Chuuya had woken up by the time Dazai returned. His mess was half-heartedly wiped away, and Dazai used the new space to set down a plastic bag.
"I told you I'd be back," Dazai said with a smile.
"I don't remember that." Chuuya rubbed his brow and sighed. "And what's this supposed to be?"
Dazai unloaded the contents of the plastic bag, and he set down a platter of convenience store sushi on the desk. "When was the last time you ate?"
"None of your fucking business."
Dazai snapped apart a pair of chopsticks. "Take these."
Chuuya grumbled, but he took them and started to nibble away at his food. "What about you? When was the last time you ate?"
"That's not important."
Chuuya gulped down a roll and pushed the platter across the table. "Here. I'm not eating anymore unless you have some too."
Hesitantly, Dazai had a piece too.
It wasn't long before the two of them silently agreed they couldn't stomach any more food. Once they finished, leaving the half-eaten platter to reach room temperature, an uncomfortable silence fell upon them.
What should they say? What should they do? Dazai cut off all communication with Chuuya for four years, and Chuuya witnessed Dazai's head smashed in a pool of his own blood. They were both terrified of meeting each other in the eye, but they still stole a glance every few moments. Are you anything like the version of you I know? they wanted to ask. And if you are, is that better, or is that worse? Two massive walls separated them, but that didn't change the fact that their hands were bound together by years of deadly intimacy.
Dazai cleared his throat. “Now that you’ve eaten… When was the last time you showered ?”
“The fuck you say to me?”
“You should go home and shower.”
“Fine!” Chuuya shot up to his feet. “Fuck you!”
He moved to leave, but his gait was uneven. The moment he began to tip over, Dazai swooped in and rebalanced him.
Chuuya scowled. “Let go.”
“You’ll die if you drive yourself home. I would be so sad if you took that opportunity away from me.”
To Dazai’s surprise, there was no biting remark, no exasperated sigh. Chuuya just cast his eyes down and solemnly nodded.
Dazai guided Chuuya to the elevator. Inside, the mafioso took a few especially long breaths.
“Are you okay? Do you need water or something?”
Chuuya shook his head. Once the elevator dinged to signal that they had reached their floor, he tried stumbling through the parking lot on his own. Dazai tried to grab him by the arm, but Chuuya grumbled and shook him off. Dazai let him open his own car door, and he let him settle into his seat on his own.
If he was being honest, Dazai was taken aback by Chuuya’s car. It was some sort of flaming hot sports car, obviously meant to replace the one he blew up four years ago. The feel of the steering wheel, the way his back melted into the leather driver seat—hell, even the scent of the car screamed “expensive”. For the sake of Chuuya’s insurance company and stomach, Dazai made a silent vow to drive a little safer tonight.
Drives with Double Black usually meant heated discussions and constantly flipping radio stations, but tonight, the journey was silent. For once in his life, Dazai’s full attention was on the road, and Chuuya leaned his head on the window, battling out the effects of too much liquor bubbling up inside him. The neon lights of Yokohama’s nightlife drifted over them, obstructing the mass of darkness in the car.
At some point along the way, Chuuya drifted to sleep. Dazai reached over and fixed up his suit to keep him warm.
They finally reached Chuuya’s apartment. As Dazai opened Chuuya’s door, he did so slowly, making sure not to wake him or let him fall head-first on the pavement. He scooped Chuuya up into his arms and made his way up to his penthouse. He fished out Chuuya’s key from his pocket, entered, and kicked his shoes off at the entrance. In the dark, he did his best to prevent Chuuya’s head from hitting any furniture and brought him to his room. There, he removed his shoes and socks for him and tucked him into bed.
“Well. You can always clean up tomorrow.” Dazai turned to leave. “Good night, Chuuya.”