Chapter Text
Dazai slowly turns the knife in his hand.
It’s dull—meant for fruit, not meat—but he’s certain it could still pierce a skull at the right angle. Maybe through the eye socket. Soft tissue, minimal resistance. It would be messy, but so satisfying.
Sadly, he can’t kill the man sitting across from him.
Kobayashi Saburō is an important political figure who’s been working closely with the Mafia for years. Lately, though, he’s become unreliable. Even so, they still need him to push through a bill that would give them more influence over the legal drug trade.
Which is why Dazai is here, in this nauseatingly snobby restaurant, laughing at incredibly dull anecdotes.
Mori picked him specifically for this mission—not just because he’s his most trusted toy, but because he’s the youngest executive in the organization’s history. Only sixteen.
Which makes him perfect to cater to Kobayashi’s preferences. Preferences that are… distinctly underage.
And what better way to blackmail a politician than with a tape showing him in a compromising position with a minor?
“And that’s when I said, ‘No, Minister, you read the fine print next time!’”
Kobayashi bursts out laughing at his own joke, face turning red—either from the overpriced wine he’s been chugging or the drug Dazai slipped into his glass.
The executive tilts his head, chuckling faintly.
“I can’t believe you actually said that. Whoever claimed rich people need money to buy a personality clearly never met you.”
Kobayashi’s smile only widens.
“Not to brag, but that’s not the first time I’ve heard that! Though whoever said etiquette is lost among the young clearly hasn’t met you, Mr. Executive.”
Dazai giggles, feigning far more drunkenness than he feels.
“Oh, please. Call me Osamu.”
It takes all of Dazai’s willpower not to pull his hand back when Kobayashi reaches for it.
“Only if you call me Saburō, Osamu.”
Dazai’s not sure when he learned to fake a blush, but it sure comes in handy.
“Oh, I couldn’t.”
“I insist.”
He rubs his thumb over the back of the politician’s hand in slow circles, glancing up through his lashes.
“Do you… maybe want to get out of here?”
Dazai isn’t even disgusted by the eager glint in the man’s eyes—just disappointed. People are so dull, so pathetically easy to play.
This man even knows Dazai holds one of the highest positions in the Mafia, and still, he’s eating out of his hand.
“I would love that, Osamu.”
//
It’s when they’re already halfway to Kobayashi’s hotel that Dazai realizes he might’ve let the man drink a bit too much.
Because while he wanted him excited, he didn’t exactly want Kobayashi to press him against a wall in an extremely one-sided and very wet make-out session.
Though, if someone happened to walk by and snap a photo, that would make the blackmail easier. So Dazai just lets him.
He’s done worse with less reason.
Fortunately, the man is too out of it to notice Dazai isn’t reciprocating in the slightest.
With how much drool is involved, this could easily be Kobayashi’s first kiss. Dazai's fingers twitch. And then— the man is yanked off him and thrown to the ground by a seemingly invisible force.
One moment, Kobayashi is shouting, scrambling—the next, his head explodes.
Blood and bits of flesh spatter across Dazai’s coat. He blinks, frowning faintly.
Mildly disgusted, he wipes it away.
“Fuck,” someone growls nearby.
A red-haired man is standing a few feet away, looking equally annoyed and furious. “I did it again.”
He scoffs, then his eyes flick from the body to Dazai.
“You okay, kid?”
The eye roll is nearly impossible to suppress.
Of course. A self-appointed savior.
And judging by what just happened—one with a very interesting ability. Gravity, maybe? That’s impressive.
“I was,” Dazai whines, layering on the bratty tone, “before someone had to kill my target and ruin my mission.”
With the tip of his shoe, he nudges away a piece of brain matter oozing from Kobayashi’s skull.
There goes the push-through of that bill.
“Mission? What the fuck are you talking about?” his savior demands, stepping forward into the glow of a streetlamp.
He’s shorter than Dazai, but obviously older. Around twenty, maybe.
“I was getting blackmail material on him,” Dazai pouts. “Now I’ll have to explain to my boss that my mark is dead because of some misguided everyday hero.”
“Huh?!” The man scoffs. “Misguided? He was a middle-aged guy making out with a kid!”
And while that was technically the whole point of the mission, the age comment still rubs Dazai the wrong way.
“I’m not that young! Also: you’re shorter than me.”
The man’s eyebrow twitches. “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”
Then he pauses, eyes narrowing.
“You’re... weirdly okay with watching someone die right in front of you.”
Dazai sighs and steps over the corpse. No point in sticking around.
“Well, you’re weirdly okay with killing someone.”
The man rolls his eyes.
“Are you always this annoying?”
“Only when I’m talking to someone just as annoying!” Dazai grins, then shivers lightly.
He should’ve dressed warmer.
The man notices—his expression softens instantly.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
And fine. If he wants the full virgin-victim act, Dazai can give him just that.
He lets his bottom lip tremble dramatically, squinting up into the streetlamp until his eyes water before saying:
“No, actually. I’m just an innocent young boy, so hurt by a bad man. How can I ever thank you for saving me, oh hero, my hero?”
The man gives him a flat look.
“You’re such a brat.”
“And you’re short.”
“What does that have to do with anything?!” Frustrated, the man runs a hand through his hair. “Now come on. Let’s get you home.”
Dazai blinks.
“What?”
“There’s no way I’m letting you walk home alone, so lead the way.”
The man’s tapping his foot—arms crossed, face surprisingly sincere. Dazai knows there’s no wriggling out of this.
Still, he tries.
“You sure you want to wander that far into Mafia territory?”
Now it’s the man’s turn to blink.
“What…? Mafia territory? Who the hell are you?”
Dazai grins wide.
From the way this guy moves—and the fact he just killed someone without hesitation—he has to be tied to Yokohama’s underground.
Which means…
He’s heard the name before.
“Dazai Osamu, at your service!”
Recognition flashes across the man’s face as Dazai gives a theatrical bow.
“The Mafia executive?”
“The one and only.”
Sighing, the man stuffs his hands in his pockets and turns.
“You know, I’m not even surprised the Port Mafia employs children.” Then he gestures for Dazai to follow. “Now let’s go. We don’t have all night.”
“You still want to walk me home?”
“You’re still a kid.”
Dazai pouts. He’s already sixteen. And again—this guy is shorter than him.
“Can I at least get your name? Since you’re insisting on annoying me for another twenty minutes?”
Because that’s how far away his apartment is. The man shrugs, glancing back.
“Sure. I’m Nakahara Chuuya.”
//
Chuuya escorts him all the way to his doorstep, and it’s only when Dazai collapses onto his bed—head buzzing from everything that happened—that he realizes how stupid that was.
Letting some random—and probably dangerous—man know where he lives.
Still, he’s not too worried. If Chuuya had wanted to kill him, he had plenty of chances on the way home.
Telling Mori his target died goes about as well as Dazai expected—which is to say, not well at all.
Later that very same day, he’s sent on a mission that clearly should’ve taken weeks to plan and twice as many men to pull off.
If he were anyone else, he probably wouldn’t have survived it.
But fortunately, Dazai’s too stubborn—and too smart—to die by anything other than his own hand.
When he comes back Mori has that proud glint in his eyes that Dazai likes even less than his I’m not angry, just disappointed look.
Even after three sleepless days of constant vigilance on the mission, Dazai can’t get Chuuya out of his head.
It feels a little pathetic, honestly. Is he really that desperate for affection that one decent act of kindness – that hadn’t even been needed – leaves a mark?
He hopes not.
Maybe it’s just that Chuuya’s interesting. That ability of his certainly is.
Though that still doesn’t explain why he didn’t tell Mori about Chuuya—something that might’ve actually lessened the boss’s anger.
But the thought of Mori getting his claws into Chuuya makes Dazai's stomach turn.
//
When two weeks go by and Dazai is still thinking about red hair and freckles, he decides to take matters into his own hands.
If he can’t forget about him, he can at least find out who Nakahara Chuuya is.
Getting information on Chuuya turns out to be surprisingly easy—and not even because of Dazai’s position, which gives him access to nearly anything he wants—but because Chuuya’s somewhat famous in Yokohama’s small-time crime scene.
He’s the leader—the king—of a street gang called The Sheep. Dazai’s heard of them before, but never paid them much attention. They just weren’t important enough to warrant much notice from the Mafia.
The group started as a gang of street kids but grew up over time. Now most of them are between eighteen and twenty.
Still laughably young by Mafia standards—not counting Dazai himself, of course.
Chuuya is nineteen. A little younger than Dazai expected.
And apparently, he just... appeared ten years ago. Before that, there’s no documentation. No birth certificate. No trace. Maybe his family were illegal immigrants?
Somehow, Dazai doesn’t think that’s it.
Though the Sheep are technically a gang, they barely do anything—illegal or not.
From what the Mafia reports show, Chuuya’s the only one who ever actually does anything.
And even he doesn’t show up often.
But when he does, people die—and there's always destruction. It happened more in his younger years. Dazai remembers him muttering, “Fuck. I did it again,” after killing Kobayashi.
Did he not mean to? Does he not have a proper grasp on his ability?
Because if he does, then he’s definitely wasting it.
Overall, Dazai finds the results of his research frustratingly lacking—and they do absolutely nothing to help him forget about Chuuya.
Which simply won’t do. No choice left but to resort to harsher measures.
He’ll just blackmail the guy into spending time with him.
//
It’s not hard to find Chuuya once Dazai decides he wants to see him. He still has the Port Mafia at his beck and call, after all.
He spots him in a shadier corner of Chinatown, leaning against a chain-link fence riddled with holes, next to an arcade. A man in his late thirties—maybe forties—is talking to Chuuya. Neither of them notice Dazai slipping around the corner.
“I didn’t think I’d see you here again so soon,” the man says, brushing a strand of red hair behind Chuuya’s ear.
Chuuya takes a drag from the cigarette Dazai only now realizes he’s holding, then flicks the ash off lazily.
“You’re here too, aren’t you?” When he smiles up at the man it’s almost… docile. It doesn’t fit Chuuya at all. “I hope you’re not disappointed to see me.”
Dazai wrinkles his nose. Normally, he doesn’t judge people’s taste in partners, but this guy? He’s old. And kind of ugly. Chuuya could do better.
“Never,” the man says with a grin. “You’re my favorite. Same rate as always for the hour?”
Chuuya stubs the cigarette out under his boot. “Yeah,” he hums—and actually winks at the guy.
The exchange answers some of Dazai’s questions, but it raises even more.
Before Chuuya can take the hand offered to him, Dazai clears his throat—loudly—and steps forward.
Chuuya’s expression twists immediately into pure annoyance. It suits him a lot better than docility.
“Hey, chibi~!” Dazai chirps, waving excessively.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Chuuya asks flatly. Dazai’s a little disappointed the nickname doesn’t provoke a stronger reaction.
He shrugs. He has a dozen excuses prepared, but first, he needs to get rid of the man.
“I’ll explain later. Right now, we’re leaving,” he says, tugging on Chuuya’s sleeve without waiting for permission.
The older boy frowns, not moving. Dazai’s hand tightens slightly. Maybe he’s gotten too used to people doing what he says.
“You know this brat?” the man asks, sounding less amused now.
“Unfortunately,” Chuuya grits out. He looks ready to bite Dazai’s fingers off.
“What the fuck do you want?” he hisses.
“Chuuya has to come with me. Now,” Dazai says firmly. Then, to the man: “And you should really fuck off.”
The man’s eyebrows shoot up. “What the hell are you talking about, kid? Isn’t it past your bedtime?”
Dazai’s smile sharpens—thin and icy. It’s a smile that no one wants directed at them.
“You don’t want me to repeat myself, do you?” he says sweetly.
The man flinches, taking a step back.
Chuuya sighs as he rubs his eyes in a universal sign of surrender. Dazai’s smile widens. He shouldn’t have doubted that people just bend to his whims. If not out of fear, then out of annoyance.
“Sorry, Norio,” he mutters. “Maybe another night.”
His attention’s no longer on Norio. It’s on Dazai. As it should be.
“What? You’re gonna leave me standing here?” Norio protests.
“Well…” Chuuya says with a shrug.
“Whatever.” Norio scoffs. “Hundreds of other whores’ll be happy to have me.”
He throws them one last dirty look before stalking off. They watch him disappear, still muttering half-coherent insults.
“Should I kill him?” Dazai asks.
The answer is a long suffering side glance. Dazai takes it as a no.
“What do you want?” Chuuya asks, voice flat.
Dazai ignores him – he’s going to come to that later.
“Why are you doing this?”
He doesn’t specify, but Chuuya understands.
“What do you think? I need money.”
“No, I get that,” Dazai replies, unimpressed. “But why not just… take money?”
There’s a moment of silence in which Chuuya looks at him as if he can’t believe he just said that.
“You’re such an entitled little brat, you know that?”
Dazai shrugs again. It’s not the first time he’s heard it.
“If there’s no actual reason you just chased away my highest-paying client,” Chuuya says, turning, “then I’ll be on my way. I need to find someone else.”
And, well, that won’t do.
“No.”
Chuuya blinks. “No? What the fuck do you mean ‘no’?”
“No”, Dazai repeats, “if you need the money I can pay you.”
As a Mafia executive, Dazai has more money than he’ll ever spend. And Chuuya doesn’t seem like that bad of an investment.
Chuuya looks at him disgusted.
“I’m not doing minors.”
Dazai matches the expression.
“I don’t want to have sex with you. I just want to talk.”
Once more, Chuuya sighs—he seems to do that quite often, which might be thanks to Dazai’s presence—then looks him up and down before seemingly deciding he might as well take Dazai’s money.
“But I want at least 150,000 yen!”
Dazai’s pretty sure that’s a lot more than Chuuya would normally make, but he doesn’t exactly care.
“Sure,” he agrees with a shrug. Money really doesn’t mean anything to him.