Chapter Text
Nakahara Chuuya is dead.
People all live, laugh, fight and eventually die at one point or another. So this sentence in itself wasn't foreign concept in the world, it was just another name on the long list of people who had departed.
At every second on the Earth, someone, somewhere dies. Like fallen leaves facing the inevitable end of returning to the ground that has nurtured them, death was a solemn fact. It was a part of life, another gear in the cycle of existence. Considering that he also belonged to an organization dealing with violence every single day, it became even more logical for him to get killed.
So that Nakahara Chuuya died facing a monster that no one in whole Yokohama could beat was perfectly normal.
There were not many people who would mourn for him. The five close friends Chuuya had have already lost their lives to the same man that killed him. If someone might be sad about him, it would probably be Ozaki Koyou who had spent a whole year trying to train him and help him adapt to their organization.
In the first place, Nakahara Chuuya was a member of the largest underground organization in Yokohama, the Port Mafia. He wasn't even someone in a high position, and it was not like he's been in Port Mafia for long enough to garner too many bonds — just a single year. And on the anniversary of his joining, he died — so he would just become another footnote in the thick files of their organization, being mentioned as a child with high potential, someone would sigh in regret and then move on to another topic.
It cannot be helped — that's just how life was in the mafia.
You survived and gained enough power or you died and were forgotten. For the concession city that needed Port Mafia strong enough to suppress all chaotic forces aiming to destroy it, they simply had no time to spare to grieve a fallen comrade. A simple funeral, and that was it.
While Chuuya had some subordinates, a single year was still too short to foster deep bonds. Considering how all those subordinates were older men who were used to life of mafioso, even if they felt respect for the short Gravity Manipulator or perhaps some kind of fond emotions towards the kid — they were too used to the loss of comrades so they would forget him soon.
‘So there's no need to prepare a tombstone. No one would visit often anyways.’
At the tender age of 16, where most boys would still be running from homes to play in the arcades or complain about not having a new pair of shoes to match their friends, Nakahara Chuuya had already become responsible for gem trafficking routes in the Port Mafia. A position that didn't have too much of influence, but the one that could become a decent stepping stone — it was a carefully selected task that could train his leadership, hone his fighting skills and allow him to experience negotiations deals. At the same time, he could learn how to deal with enemies and police alike, having the home advantage in ports of Yokohama that the mafia ruled over.
Failing was okay, the loss to Port Mafia would not be too significant — but if done well, it would make Chuuya more than just an ignorant child with too much power for a mortal.
Because that's what he used to be as the King of the Sheep, a ragtag group created when orphans in Suribachi slums gathered to resist adults that didn't give a damn about them dying. If nothing, they were even somewhat valuable resources to greedy adults — before the new leader of Port Mafia banned human trafficking, they were one of the most profitable businesses in a Port City with connections to the entire world.
Being a Concession City meant hell for its netizens.
But to the rest of the world, it meant that it was a lawless paradise where only strength spoke about rules.
And Chuuya, the Gravity Manipulator, a vessel of the God of Destruction, was someone who could make those rules even if he understood nothing about deals and politics. He was the sole reason a group of helpless children could remain untouched for so long in slums where not even dignity could be preserved, a child invulnerable to bullets. His Special Ability rested on top of the food chain, and for organizations that mostly used firearms and cold weapons — they simply had no way to counter him. Ability Users were rare, and most of them would flock towards stronger groups.
But not even ten of them could match part of Chuuya's potential.
So the Port Mafia snatched him with an elaborate plan. Being powerful meant fear and respect, but more often than not, those feelings ran deeper in those closer to such people rather than enemies. And jealousy is a common emotion for a bunch of hormonal teens, while ignorance of thinking that they too could reach his level was a natural consequence.
Dazai Osamu didn't even have to do anything, really. The Sheep themselves reached out for foreign power like GSS and traded their strongest tactical weapon for the illusion of respect and independence — and Dazai only had to wait until they attacked Chuuya, use his soft emotions, and get him to join Port Mafia in exchange for the kids' safety.
‘They won't care about the sacrifice made by their former King, so there's even less of a need for a grave.’
Add to that the possibility of obtaining information about his past if he worked hard enough, and the King of Sheep easily became a loyal dog for the Port Mafia instead.
And the outcome of his loyalty was to die when the enemy tried to destroy his new home.
It was inevitable.
Dying was normal. At least he still had an intact body at the end of the conflict. Paul Verlaine showed no mercy to anyone that tried to stop him that day. When he lost sanity and became a monster only capable of rampage, his methods became even more cruel. That Chuuya still had all limbs attached in the end was nothing short of a miracle.
Facing a singularity with a mortal shell was no different than using a hammer to face a tank.
So it was normal that he died.
‘I thought so too.’
Dazai hated Nakahara Chuuya with every fiber of his being.
The first year in mafia would decide if one could endure or break completely. So Dazai and Mori placed him in Flags, a group of talented young blood of Port Mafia that would one day become its pillars. But they got too attached to each other and disobeyed their leader's orders, so it was only inevitable for Boss Mori to sacrifice them to delay Verlaine.
Dazai didn't think much of it, as death wasn't uncommon and he himself was a strange person that craved it. But he regretted it a bit.
Not for himself.
But for Chuuya, who lost everything on that day. A year ago, he was betrayed by the Sheep and joined the Mafia. A year later, he lost his loyal friends and died.
‘It was almost like a curse.’
So even when he hated Chuuya, Dazai had a rare moment of compassion or brain twitch — he was still unsure of which one it was — so he dragged one beaten-up Chuuya towards the old billiards club that the Flags frequented, the very same place that became grave of five senior members, and allowed Chuuya to have one final conversation with the dying Albatross.
Dazai couldn't have protected them, and with Mori's wishes clearly stated, he didn't even have permission to do it.
So he could only clumsily apologize in his own way and allow Chuuya that conversation.
He masked it as a means to motivate Chuuya to fight Verlaine to death, and Mori accepted it without doubting a thing. Be it Mori or everyone else, they claimed that Dazai lacked a human soul capable of compassion.
It was only the little slug that had a problem with his brain who claimed to have seen something underneath.
But Nakahara Chuuya could survive the betrayal of children that had found him, sheltered him and raised him — so he could also move on from the deaths of his friends and live valiantly in the future.
It was precisely that unflinching vitality that Dazai loathed.
Dazai Osamu liked life.
He didn't particularly yearn to live nor did he find it so beautiful he could appreciate every part of it — but he was fascinated with the notion of living with all its disgusting and cruel parts. He wanted to understand it, and as it happens — dying was another natural process of life. All beings are born so they could die one day, so understanding life felt incomplete without understanding death. That kind of thinking made Dazai curious about suicide and dying in the first place, and he even joined Port Mafia because he thought that he could see death closer up from here.
What emotions led a person to choose annihilation of their whole being? What thoughts did they have once they let go of burdens? What kind of release lay on the other side of the shore?
He already understood enough about life and people to the point he felt sick thinking about them, but death was the unknown territory.
He wanted to know.
But Nakahara Chuuya was different.
He craved life for the sake of living, indulging in its every gift or curse, accepting them and moving forward to the next event. He indulged emotions and bonds like they were air he needed to breathe, and could remain loyal even after you broke his bones or stabbed him with a cheap knife coated in rat poison. He clung to invisible hope and faith that everything would end well, but he was not an ignorant child that thought happiness can solve everything.
Even without the year in Port Mafia, Chuuya still spent his entire life on the harsh streets of Suribachi Slums, where mercy did not exist and warmth was calculated in profits. Yet, despite all those, he still remained untainted by sorrow, wearing it like armor of lead instead. Or a heavy crown that was never able to bend his spine and crush him under the pressure.
‘It was ironic, almost.’
He could use violence, he could kill, he could save, he could cry, he could inspire — not shying from anything nor covering from pain.
So it was normal for Dazai to dislike someone living a similar life with the completely opposite attitude.
But just as he didn't like him, he also couldn't resist getting close to him.
Like a part of a mirror, or another side of a coin — Nakahara Chuuya was everything Dazai Osamu could become if he only stepped out of his position as an observer, and decided to get involved with the world. But Dazai was a coward, and emotions were too heavy of a burden for him who had seen all kinds of dirt people could do when indulging emotions.
So he never crossed that step.
But that also meant that if Chuuya died one day, Dazai could see the result of his observation closer than with anyone else. If Chuuya represented the vitality of life better than anyone else Dazai has seen, surely — his death would be closer to that answer than even Dazai's own.
‘But what is this ugly feeling?’
As he observed the cold body on the metallic table, Dazai felt none of the expected joy. He and Chuuya always lived saying that they'll kill each other, bore malice no third person could get involved in, knew each other down to random thoughts and breathing patterns and could never agree on opinions.
But they also spent every day in the arcade, caused trouble while saving each other's ass, and acknowledged each other as human beings even when the world claimed them monsters. In a world where they were not allowed to shine, the two of them burned their souls with the same intensity in eternal darkness — lighting up the path for each other.
So while Dazai wanted to kill him, he never actually thought that he'd one day personally prepare his partner's corpse for incineration.
He would look forward to the day Chuuya died, dreaming of it hundreds of times, every single night and walking moment — but when it actually happened, he only felt hollow.
"Young lad, we are already fifteen minutes behind the schedule." An elderly voice spoke, and Dazai softly raised his head towards the old man.
"I know." He didn't know.
He was not even aware that it's been so long since Chuuya died.
Everyone in the Port Mafia has gathered in the church for a big memorial service meant for Flags and all other members that died because of Verlaine. Their bodies were placed in expensive caskets and would be buried in cemetery by the Yokohama's sea, forever looking over the ports they once protected.
But the same cannot be done with Chuuya.
It wasn't that he was insignificant nor less important to the Port Mafia. It was thanks to Chuuya activating the corrupted state, throwing away sanity and proof that he was once a human, walking willingly towards Demonic Beast Guivre with his life at stake that Yokohama survived disaster.
His sacrifice was the most noticeable of them all.
But Dazai refused to have him buried with others.
‘Because Chuuya's value wasn't just his power in life.’
Paul Verlaine was no ordinary monster. He was a Transcendent Ability User that shook the world with his power, a man that could kill three guards from Order of the Clock Tower and assassinate the Queen's double — all while getting away unscathed. But he was also an experiment, a singularity chained to mortal flesh and given a soul through 2383 lines of code. In other words, he was a power that could be manufactured.
The world ignored this fact for a long time because Verlaine was the twelfth clone, the only one that survived in Pan's laboratory and got away. And because no one thought that they could recreate such a feat.
Until someone stole the research data.
Until Japan repeated the experiment.
Until Rimbaud and Verlaine infiltrated the lab and fought over Chuuya.
Until Chuuya was successfully born.
And he was born as a perfect container with similar ability to control Gravity as Verlaine, holding the same monster made of singularity like Verlaine, but was younger and easier to control than Verlaine.
Arahabaki's vessel.
The most important of all, he could unleash that power at the cost of his sanity and life.
And such Chuuya could face Verlaine, neutralizing Guivre's strongest attacks. Because he was bearing the power of Arahabaki with a mortal body, he suffered more — but he was definitely capable of wielding that power.
It led to a new question: if that was just Chuuya with an ordinary body, what if someone could recreate him with a better one?
The temptations that other powerful people mentioned as casual jokes suddenly became something that could be obtained within their reach if they could just get Chuuya's body. Everyone involved in research was officially dead, but the research itself remained.
His soul might no longer be there; and to those people, his soul might be nothing but simple 2383 lines of code — but his corpse was a real thing.
And Dazai couldn't deceive himself that no one would be tempted to dig Chuuya from his grave so they could continue with their research.
So he would never allow for Chuuya to be buried.
"He would not like that. He lived like a human more than anyone else, so he would definitely hate being cut into tiny pieces, studied for years and being the source of other chibis' misery." Chuuya would hate it if he led to the creation of other experiments. "Such a demanding dog, even after everything, I still have to clean up after him. He's really not giving me a moment to rest."
Ozaki Koyou wanted to come to Chuuya's funeral, but Dazai persuaded her and Mori not to. As an Executive, it would be unreasonable for her to miss the mass funeral of Port Mafia members just to attend a child's cremation. She didn't like Dazai before this and she would definitely like him even less now.
But Dazai didn't care.
Him choosing this date was no coincidence, Dazai didn't want anyone to be next to him in Chuuya's final moments. Thinking about all those people crying and thanking Chuuya... Thanking him for his sacrifice, made him sick.
Thanking him for dying in their stead.
‘Why is it like this?’ Dazai had no words to describe those emotions. It was clearly what he wanted to see, but why did it feel so unpleasant when he imagined the scene? He had dreamed of Chuuya's death and funeral so many times, it was a long-cherished wish of his. So why did it hurt so much?
He glanced at the corpse on the cold table.
It was the same face, same hair, same limbs; from head to bottom — that was Nakahara Chuuya that Dazai was used to seeing every single day in the last year. But his skin was pale like ash, the hair was dry despite being washed of blood carefully by Dazai's own two hands and the limbs were so stiff that trying to move them even a little would break them instead.
Is it because he no longer had a soul housing his body?
The weight of the human soul is mere 21 grams, an insignificant dust compared to the weight of entire bodies, a spoonful of particles — but it was a flicker of flame that could illuminate the world. But it's precisely that tiny weight that felt like a suffocating ocean dragging Dazai under the afterimage of Nakahara Chuuya's existence.
And Dazai drowned in it, whether he wanted to or not.
The memory haunted Dazai's every heartbeat like a slow, throbbing poison. Every scar earned in that fight with Verlaine screamed Chuuya's name, every breath dragged a lingering whisper of his name, every glance over his shoulder expecting a presence there brought more despair.
It wasn't that Dazai cared for Chuuya. He did not think himself capable of such emotions, no matter what slug said.
What he felt right now was probably grief. Regret. Emotional compromise.
For Dazai knew that he was responsible for withering of a dazzling life that was Nakahara Chuuya.
His hand gently brushed the hair from Chuuya's forehead.
Beneath his bandaged palm, under those two eyelids rested a pair of blue gems so bright they hurt.
They were the opposite of Dazai's own pools of darkness that greedily devoured everything as if to annihilate it. Demon Prodigy could only destroy, like he had destroyed Chuuya.
His mind couldn't help but recall the scene from a few days ago. The dazzling storm that was Chuuya in his fully corrupted state, like an angel of destruction or an omnipotent deity as he fought Guivre — it was so beautiful that even Dazai forgot to breathe. When he saw Verlaine unleash Guivre, he didn't think much of it. He only considered how to mock Chuuya once he did the same thing.
He would be like a Godzilla, a joke Dazai could use to mock his tiny mortal shell in comparison.
But Chuuya wasn't like that.
Instead of an ugly beast, what came out as Chuuya unleashed Arahabaki was unlimited power of destruction trapped in a mere mortal shell.
Dazai never knew that human ugliness could be so dazzling.
It might be because humans are made of embers of the dying stars that we crave destruction as much as we crave creation. So even if we rationally find it unpleasant, we can still not avert our eyes from chaotic destruction and appreciate parts of it.
Be it destruction Chuuya caused or the damage his ability inflicted upon Chuuya's body — Dazai could not tear his gaze away.
So he saw something more valuable than death at that moment.
For an instant, Dazai was glad that he was alive to witness that scene.
As the battle finished and Chuuya began to fall, Dazai walked towards him with pious devotion, catching him. He did not believe in Gods, he did not worship anything from power to wealth to gentleness. But he thought that might secretly hold moments like those as silent prayers only he could do.
No one else could catch Chuuya like him.
No one could reign in this God.
No one but him.
It was a twisted obsession that took but an instant to bloom like a curse, willingly choosing to damn himself twice with yearning to have it repeated over and over again.
It should have been a good moment.
It should have had a happy ending.
Chuuya was awake in his arms as Dazai held him with a smile, choosing a nice verbal spat for the Gravity Manipulator in his mind, yet he never got to say a single word on that sunrise.
Chuuya looked at him with blurred eyes. He was smiling, but his eyes were crying tears of blood, and his pupils misty. There was none of his usual confidence and cheerfulness on his face. Every orifice and pore in his body leaked blood, so his skin was paler than usual, and even the once neatly styled ginger hair was matted with dust and blood. His fingers cracked with wounds, destroyed from overusing gravitons too much, clothes ruined and skin adorned with countless bruises and scars he earned on that day.
He was ugly.
He was pathetic.
It was not the appearance worthy of a victor that has defeated a Transcendent moments ago.
Dazai had probably known at that moment what he had refused to accept for days to come. So he froze, unwilling to even process the fact, just sitting there with Chuuya in his arms, staring at him with a blank gaze.
"Osamu." The short mafioso spoke the name he had never used before, like it was a scalding prayer on his lips. Like it was forbidden to voice it out. He wanted to say many things, he wanted to apologize, he wanted to cry, he wanted to say that he's afraid... But in the end, he only repeated the name again.
"Osamu." The blood overflowed from his mouth, but he desperately continued to call his name as if it was more important than dying.
And Dazai tightened his hold, his pupil trembling with unknown feelings. He thought that it might have been excitement at that time. But now it felt like it was a refusal to accept the reality that his eye was seeing — so he had tried to shake it away.
Chuuya weakly raised an arm, dragging it towards the bandage covering his right eye. He thought; he would no longer be there to protect this blind spot, and no one would be crazy enough to follow next to Dazai and protect him in his stead. So he wanted to at least remove those bandages, and tell Dazai to try and protect himself better.
He was unwilling.
He was really unwilling to just die like that.
What would the silly mackerel do in the future without him? No one could understand Dazai better than him, no one would try to see behind his exaggerated smiles and provocative words. No one would make sure to fish him out of Tsurumi river every other day, no one would be there to check on the stupid fish living in radioactive shipping containers. They would take his obsession with death for granted, and not stop him. He wanted to tell him to live well, but how could the mackerel live well if no one was there to drag him to the world of living? He was smart, but he was too stupid with such common things and could not even realize what he should be doing.
No one was that soft in the mafia.
No one could see a scrawny kid instead of a Demon Prodigy.
No one would see how much Dazai craved life in its fullness and try to keep him afloat.
The ginger Ability User had long lost his sight, and his tear glands were so trashed that he could only cry blood.
Damn it.
Fuck!
He couldn't... He couldn't even see him one last time!
His voice cracked. "Osamu…"
Pouring every emotion, every regret, every pain, every grief, every joy, every ounce of love he came to realise too late in that single name — there were too many things he wanted to say but had no strength to. He still wanted to do so much, he still wanted to stay by his side, they still haven't gone to today's arcades, his torture was unfinished, they promised to open that damn bottle of Petrus 1899 that they stole from Mori tonight, he still—
His arm fell.
Like an empty toy, it bounced once on the ground, and then remained there.
Beneath the ashen sky dyed with purple afterglow of the rising sun, Dazai cradled another person. But he felt as if he was standing there alone, abandoned by the universe.
So he laughed.
A ridiculous chuckle left his lips. Then another. And another. Until it changed into a desperate laughter. He didn't even try to deny what was happening. He didn't even try to shake Chuuya awake. To yell at him to wake up. To let go of him.
Dazai knew death like it was an old friend.
So he welcomed it under the torrent of laughter until his voice went hoarse and the mafia found him a whole hour later.
Dazai Osamu wondered what the soul was after that. If the Abilities were part of souls, something that made a person whole and alive, would erasing a part of that soul kill someone who was on the brink of death? His ability "No Longer Human" could erase every ability with a touch, and if he followed that logic — did it mean that he could erase a part of a human's soul for the period he held them?
If so, if he was the one to destroy Chuuya's soul which tethered on the brink of death...
Was it him who killed Nakahara Chuuya in the end?
Was it because of him that those eyes as clear as sky will never open again?
Dazai retracted his palm from Chuuya's face as if scalded.
‘It was what I wanted. To kill Chuuya. It was what I wanted.’ He grabbed the sliding table and pushed Chuuya's corpse inside the incinerator with one swift movement.
He could not bear to look at it even a moment longer. That lifeless shell would pollute the memory of a lively slug from his past, so Dazai didn't want to continue looking at it.
‘This is what I wanted. This is what I yearned for.’
Watching the doors close, he nodded to the old man who only sighed in regret, and the flames burned.
Across the small glass section, Dazai observed orange flames. They paled in comparison to Arahabaki's flames of Destruction, both in heat and intensity. But they still melted the body that the purple flames couldn't even scratch in the battle days ago.
‘It's what I wanted.’
He repeated like a mantra, as if those words would make watching the scene easier.
‘I should leave. This will take a few hours.’ He could use that moment to deal with the aftermath of the battle with Verlaine. There were far more living people over there that needed to be taken care of. The grief and conflicts would soon give birth to curses that could endanger Yokohama. In comparison, a single dead child should not matter much. It wasn't like he didn't have his men die before, it wasn't like he didn't have friends die either, he could paint the streets with the blood of his deceased enemies alone.
But why could he not tear his gaze away now?
He watched unblinking, until his eyes hurt, until they bleed tears from pain, until the nameless feeling he bore finally got clearer under the light of flames that erased the evidence of Chuuya ever existing. Every tear felt like a grief he never said, but Dazai would deny them ever falling vehemently. It was because of the fire.
Yeah.
It was fire.
The alternative was too painful to accept.
Everything gained would slip out of his hands sooner or later. So it's better to never have had it in the first place. Admitting it felt so forbidden that he could only hide it in his heart like a vicious curse, throbbing with pain with every beat in his ribcage.
He should not feel it.
He didn't deserve it.
He killed Chuuya with his own hands.
He scripted his death like a glorious sacrifice to the Heavens.
Dazai Osamu could not sully Chuuya's memory with his twisted obsession.
‘This is not what I wanted at all, you stupid slug!’