Chapter Text
It had been seven months since the death of Osamu Dazai, the previous Port Mafia boss who jumped off of a one thousand and fourty-five foot tall skyscraper. Many reported seeing his skull smashed into bits, trailed into the road with gooey brains surrounding, some even reported seeing his body twitch for minutes after. Back arching off of bloodied cement and hands at his sides grasping for nothing. It was a brutal, bloody scene. The seventy five story tall building being an irreversible death to any mortal. “A beautiful ending to a bad story,” Dazai would’ve said, “the blooming of my brain from a caged skull, comparable to a flower.”
Chuuya was sent to the Fukuoka Asian Art Museum in Kyushu, ensuring there could be no interference from the ginger. It was meant to be a meeting with some grunt across Japan, but the man seemed to anger him to the point of the grunt dying. Only when he went to crush his skull, he saw a note in his jacket pocket.
‘You’re too late, Chuuya. There's nothing meaningful to say, as you probably won’t care to finish this letter. I’m already dead.’
That was all he could ready, before running to get back as fast as he could. Breaking speed limits on his motorcycle. It’s no big surprise, it turned out this way. He stopped in front of the Port’s building, staring down at the limp body, slowly going paler. His bitten lips seemingly in a smile, eyes somewhere within his skull. Above the bridge of his nose was simply an exposed skull. The shell surrounding his brain acting as a small dam for all the blood. He felt so sick seeing it, his own rival dead before he could do it. Even he wouldn't do something that brutal, it was nauseating to even be around. Bugs surrounded the body. Guards surrounded him, and he slowly grabbed the bloodied scarf from around him.
Everything else was a blur. All he remembers is taking his gloves off, then being chained up. It took six months for him to be released, just because of his instability. Now he had the weight of the Port Mafia, and 148 pounds he couldn't remove from his shoulders. The office still smelt like him, still had rotten crab in a mini fridge, dumb sticky notes with things he’d annoy Chuuya with, and bandages and blades still in the false bottom of his top drawer. He still felt sick, trying to stop crying into the desk and instead making odd coughing and hiccuping sounds that hurt his throat. He choked down the saliva pooling in his mouth, tears wetting his neck and making his loose red blouse stick to his body.
He wore a flowy burgundy ruffled blouse, black vest, and flared black pants. His usual chest harness crossed over his heart, his choker wrapped around his wet neck. His hair was loose and messy, curls gone limp and straighter. He had visibly lost sleep, eyes puffy and discolored from lack of sleep and crying. He stared down at the base of his wrist, next to a deep scar was a tattoo of a fish.
The next day, he got to work. Rapidly assigning missions, doing things that may need to be done after his return to the office. Reports due, people taken off and put on break, leave requests and so much more. He had so much work to do.
. . .
I hadn't slept in what felt like months. Every shadow, every creek, every brunette seemed to have his face. When I shut my eyes, I see his skull. Open eyes make me see him in the shadows, and if I don't have some kind of white noise I swear I hear his voice. It's deafening and overwhelmingly loud, my throat burns and I feel sick all the time. My hands tremble constantly. I want to hit something- I always do when it comes to him. I always expect to see him in the dark oak desk that was once his. I always expect that when I see that scarf in my apartment, he’s somewhere in it. The scents faded off of his black coat. Most of his belongings had to be burnt to preserve evidence, but I saved a crab stuffed animal I got him from god knows how long ago. He always had this random tan coat that didn't match his wardrobe. I wonder why he had it
Despite my love for anything but him, it worries me how present he is. I see him everywhere, it seems. A mission in Kyoto, as I rewatched body camera footage- I swear it was him. This has happened a multitude of times, I see him- I have investigators check, and it's a random man. More recently, a mission in a forest had a very familiar man- this time, there were no clues. No evidence, nothing that could help us find whoever this doppelganger was. It was weird. Usually, it's men who happen to be in black coats with white sleeves- but this time it was a man in a dark suit with a navy blue tie. What's odder is that I bought that tie for him, custom made. It was a birthday present, the equivalent of socks. Probably. The footage was blurry anyway.
I’ve decided I need to stop moping and actually focus. I decided to treat myself to some Grace Gris de Koshu. I don't remember the last time I bought some, but I have two bottles. Sunlight spilled through the blackout curtains, he seemed to have an extreme distaste for sunshine. He really needed it, he sure was pale.
At around 8:52, I finished my work, and went into the bedroom that connected to the boss's office. Dazai hated this room, but still slept in it because he claimed to deserve it. I wish I could've stopped him. I wish none of it ever happened. If I could be in a reality where he’s still alive with me, I would. We’ve both been very brave in our life, but if I had the guts to jump I would too.
Inside the room, was a messy room with a mattress on a broken bed frame. Posters hung on the left side of the wall, one corner fallen over exposing a bloodstain on the teal wallpaper. The bed had a warm black comforter and white sheets under. Blades were scattered across the nightstand, some in cans which once held crab. Bandages were splayed across the dresser, browned blood sunken into the bedsheets. I felt too embarrassed to have anyone clean it. He wouldn't have wanted anyone minus myself to do it anyway. I laid on the bed, tossing my shoes aside and curling into it. It was cold, as his room always seemed to be. The sheets smelt like lavender, wood, and faint alcohol and antiseptic. The longer I laid, the warmer it felt.
Sunlight seeped through the familiar room- right, I had fallen asleep. I woke up clutching a pillow to my chest.
He’d hate how beautiful it looked outside.
. . .6 months earlier . . .
How cliche for me to wake up in a river bed, shame I didn't drown in my sleep.
I should’ve expected to wake up in such a dumb spot, that stupid doctor was right. I was immortal, damnit. And holy shit, does my head hurt, I guess severe blunt force trauma isn't too good for not having migraines.
I just realized I'll need to file down my fangs- AGAIN. I stood, and nearly passed out from not feeding. Poor Chuuya just assumed I had some kind of biting kink. Sadly, my only option was some stupid wild sika deer. Poor cutie, if only I held enough sympathy for such a cute creature. I grabbed a rock and crushed its skull. It had tasty blood, probably enough to keep my bloodlust down.
I killed some guy who looked like he was abusing kids and took his clothes. Posing as a mafia grunt, I easily infiltrated the headquarters and got some of my stuff, while tossing random shit I hated in a box. My fingers closed around a navy tie with embroidered flowers, soft pale blue thread twisting around black and navy. I shoved it into a small bag and finished packing. Only keeping the important things. I’d be back, and even then- Chuuya’s too sentimental to throw away my things. I placed the crab stuffed animal he gifted me 89 days after we met against the bedframe, just in sight for if anyone was sent to retrieve it. Oh, and the box I set aside was for things to be burnt, like the creator said a few paragraphs up.
And now, I just had to wait until I was captured.
Oh how fun!