Termites & Sugar

“But none of the money we spend Seems to do us much good in the end I got a cracked engine block, both of us do”         Several older teens rush into the base, shouldering Osamu with panicked movement. Chuuya watches, exasperated more than anything, as they just as quickly run out, dragging the now nearly-dead GSS informant.   “What the actual fuck, Bandages?!” one of the teenagers screech. The person in question was one of the guards Chuuya had seen the previous evening meant to be watching this man, now sporting a red face and shaking hands as he glares daggers at Osamu.   “The hell did you do this for?!” Shirase adds in equally measures of anger.   The adult isn't rivering blood but he has deep wounds in various, sensitive areas covering his body that weren't there before. When he looks closer Chuuya can even spot the unnatural bends of all ten fingers, now stripped of each nail. He winces at the image though otherwise feels no pity.   “Interrogation obviously,” Osamu answers primly. He gets decked in the face seconds later.   Chuuya is quick to step in, putting an arm between Osamu and Tominaga, who winces at the split skin lining his knuckles. “Oi, watch yourself. Osamu's only-”   “He's putting The Sheep in the middle of a crisis,” Tominaga snaps. It makes Chuuya uneasy to see the usually calm and reserved counsil leader get this worked up.   “He's planning what our next move should be and we all need to listen,” he argues. “And if his plan is shit we can beat the crap outta ‘em and make a new one.”   He can see many of the group already opening their mouths, ready to start another horrible round of infighting, but thank fuck the bandage-waster speaks loud and clear before any of them can.   “First thing's first: The Sheep need to split into two subgroups dependent on means of fighting style—group A—and nnegotiation tactics—group B,” Osamu begins, already pointing fingers at those who match these criteria. “Group A will head South towards the oceans boarders while group B pays Takasekai territory a visit.”   “Who will be leading the charges?” Chuuya cocks his head, finding Yuan in the crowd with her hand raised in light of her own question. “Because that sounds dumb. Each team needs a mix of brains and brawns, no exceptions. Right?”   Osamu smiles. “Wrong. And you will see why when my plan is successful.” Then he spins on a heel, his fake smile reverting back to a blank slate as he tips his head towards Chuuya. “Chuuya and I will be leading them.”   Understanding dawns on Chuuya. “I take B, huh.” Osamu winks.   Shougo, who had been slowly inching towards the beaten informant, grumbles to Tominaga, “High on his horses…”   “What was that?” Chuuya crosses his arms, daring him to repeat it.   The other boy purses his lips and stays quiet.   Thankfully the planning after that isn't difficult or time consuming. Although there's some protest by some of the more stubborn Sheep everyone ultimately separates as Osamu sees fit. Obviously the youngsters stay at the base with a handful of older kids, but otherwise Chuuya sees their groups as ready to take their leave.   Admittedly, with a second day of no sleep coming to its end Chuuya is starting to feel exhausted. He's nothing if not stubborn though. So on he goes, leading his charge by the light of dusk towards Takasekai's—estimated—base of operations, Osamu leading his own.   On the way, Chuuya’s tired brain goes over what he learned from the GSS soldiers Osamu interrogated. What exactly they had said…   “ Gah-! ”   Chuuya sees from a distance as his friend flips an army knife in the air. The soldiers against the wall watch it with blooming cuts lining their jaws.   “ K-kill us! ” One shouts in pained, broken up Japanese. The other exclaims something equally pained in English that Chuuya can't comprehend.   A neck bursts under his fists, distracting him momentarily as he dodges a bullet the same second. Only six more people remain standing, not including himself, Osamu, or the soldiers being torn apart under the bastard’s careful hands.   Good, I'm starting to lose my damn patience , Chuuya thinks. He takes down a gun aiming for his guts, swiftly using it to shoot at the original owner.   Another anguished cry reaches his ears minutes later.   “ G-Guild! It's the Guild damnit! ”   Chuuya propells himself off a wall to block the exit of the building, nearly getting sliced by a throwing…box knife. Not even a low grade military knife.   “ Yes, yes, that much was obvious ,” he hears Osamu sigh, apathy lacing his voice, “ so I need names and locations. Leave nothing out .”   The screams keep going long after Chuuya's finished up with his targets. By that point he boardly leans against a large weapon crate (sadly filled with used up, useless shit) listening to the gargled English spewing out of Osamu's victims.   What little information Chuuya can get out of it are these: Gelhart Security Service has something sort of tie to a ‘Guild’. GSS is currently under contract—for what, or who, exactly, Chuuya can't tell. Other than weaponry and manpower (and whatever small connections it ha) this military group otherwise has nothing going for it. But weapons are what Chuuya keeps in mind.   If there are at least these two bases Osamu and he have now turned upside-down then there's bound to be more. It just makes no sense for trained militia to be so careless and keep everything important in one—or two—places.   But Chuuya can't be sure. That bastard didn't share anything with him about it anyway, he glowers.   Either way, Chuuya can estimate what the twisted seeds sprouting in Osamu's brain are planning. He just needs to play his part while that hell spawn plays his.   “Ugh, are we almost there yet?” Someone grumbles from the back.   Chuuya withholds a sigh. Same goes for everyone else. They just need to do what he says.   At least when it comes down to overall development The Sheep have it in the bag, grossing out some of the greener members of his group that need constant reassurance. Tracking down Suribachi's large, sloping pit is an arduous task in the first place just to reach their destination: the unrefineries of scum life as they head further down only make the journey worse. The only possible upside is how little time it takes to get there.   The sleepiness clouding his brain doesn't dissipate by the time Group B reaches Takasekai territory, moving cautiously with their arms distant from their bodies and their faces otherwise open. Chuuya is proud of his friends for keeping level-headed in an otherwise terrifying situation that most of them haven't experienced even on these streets. He knows it can be hard to face anything that poses a threat yet here they are. Working to fight it.   Group B doesn't bother splitting up as they make themselves stationary near a dumpyard crowded in by barbed, rusted fence. Chuuya can see the value of hiding here but it's definitely shit in terms of comfort.   He looks around carefully, examining each nook and shadow, any movement or sound that seems suspicious.   Footsteps crunch in some gravel. The whole team tenses.   Chuuya watches as an older woman, flanked by two much younger men, approaches the fence. Nothing about her screams arrogance but the men? Chuuya internally scoffs at the smugness permeating their ugly mugs.   Both parties are split by the barbed fence, staring through at each other with caution. The woman—the co-leader of Takasekai—eyes Chuuya. Chuuya eyes her back.   And in that split second of eye contact, he's barely able to get one though across his head:   This shit is about to go down hard.         Null Years: Present   While those two days and nights had been the change needed to uproot The Sheep and get them heading up a steady hill of wealth, those two days and nighs were also to blame for the second outcome. Something so unprecedented and—in Chuuya’s opinion since-a completely dick move, that present day still has him on edge with even the memory.   London helps to take his mind off it enough, sure, but the memories inevitably come back to the forefront of his thoughts. When he's taking a run down the street; when he's working double time at the office, in a hurry to finish his translation projects that keep getting held back; or, most often, when July has rolled around, two months past his own birthday and one past his.   Chuuya knows it annoys Shirase to no end but it's not like he can't fucking help it. Otherwise he would be rid of the guilt by now. Damn his pathetic heart.   And anyway it's hardy like Shirase is one to talk. Chuuya's been witness to many of his crying fits when any number of The Sheep are brought up. Hypocrite. If he'd wanted to stay in Japan Chuuya wouldn't have stopped him…   Today, the wind is cold. It tustles his copper-blond (ginger his co-workers would argue) around, obstructing his vision as he walks home. He raises a hand to press the bangs back, checking the roads before crossing the street towards a large building.   In the same moment Chuuya reaches the entrance a ‘ding!’ chimes from his back pocket. He ignores it for now and heads in, taking the trip up the stairwell with ease, clearing his mind with each step.   When he does, eventually, reach his apartment, Chuuya goes in with a sigh, slinging off his shoulder-bag to drop with his shoes. Next off is his blazer, neatly placed on a hook alongside an empty space.   He walks to the kitchen next, pulling out leftover breakfast and leaving it to heat up on the stove before finally taking his phone out of his pocket.   The most recent message was from earlier's chime, informing him that Shirase would be late coming back tonight. There's other messages from work and news stations he's following, of which he only skips through briefly.   Leftovers are brief so he makes sure Shirase knows he needs to stop by a store on the way back with food for tomorrow if he doesn't want to starve and complain.   Chuuya finishes up his meal and cleans the utensils, stopping by the bathroom for a quick rinse and brush before heading to his room. As he lays in bed he takes his time going back on his messages, compartmentalizing what needs done soonest and how. Half-assing jobs is Shirase’s specialty, not Chuuya’s.   Chuuya stays up long enough to hear his friend return, already stretching eleven-fourty. From the sounds of it Shirase dumps everything in the kitchen, putting up only the frozens before grumbling his way to his own room, practically slamming the door behind him. Chuuya can appreciate the effort, somewhat.   Phone set aside, he leaves him room to put up the rest of the groceries, taking stalk of what their pantry now holds. It doesn't take much time, however the process of moving around after burning his eyes by the light of a screen for several hours wakes him up more than he'd like for a work night.   Unfortunately this is a common occurrence for Chuuya, and he's more than told Shirase off for it even it's the fault of his own mind. Thus he finds himself sprawled on the apartment recliner, dully reminiscing of the days The Sheep and he had to fight every damn day just to make ends meat.   Shirase had bought watermelon tonight. Chuuya remembers only twice that he was able to try some in Suribachi. Sweet, messy, and one of the good birthday presents that band of misfits had managed to steel for him. He had also given Chuuya a slice of watermelon one hot summer but that was followed up by a horrible prank so he chooses not to think to hard on that one.   It almost feels like since bathing in the wealth received from that GSS informant's foreign ties over in North America his time—their time—in the slums meant little to nothing.   Cars honk in the distance, thrumming through the apartment's walls and bringing about a new train of thought.   But in Japan none of us could ride a single working vehicle that wasn't met with police or mechanical failure, Chuuya thinks, recalling the more recent times that he was able to drive his own car (that later turned out to have a faulty engine), go to a casino per Yuan's insistence (he refuses to ever go again), and drink to his heart's content at whatever fucking bar he chooses (Chuuya's only had a bad experience with vodka that definitely wasn't a legitimate Russian import).   Well, drinking probably isn't a healthy past-time but so far it's been limited to the past three years. And that wouldn't have started if Chuuya hadn't seen the news…   He shakes his head. “Bastard almost made me an alcoholic…Ugh, bet that was his shitty plan since the first beer.”   Said bastard was the reason Chuuya agreed to move to England in the first place, but that shit still continues to follow him around worse than a wart.   Damn him…damn you, Dazai Osamu .         Seven Years: Past   “I'm leaving.”   Chuuya raises an eyebrow at him, hearing the words but lacking the meaning. “What?” Asks the freckled boy, turning away from the friends he'd just been celebrating with.   Dazai doesn't break his single-eyed gaze, allowing himself a small explanation. “I never meant to stay so long. You really should be proud of yourself, Chuuya.”   The other boy's eyes narrow, finally sensing the air Dazai's creating. He clenches his fists, Dazai notices.   “…Don't pull this shit, Osamu. I'll kill you.”   Dazai somehow hasn't blinked…it's been fourty-seven seconds…   “I was with a different set of people, before you,” he starts.   Chuuya snarls, grabbing at his neck with enough controlled force to instantly block air flow. “I said don't, damnit.”   The chaos of The Sheep's party rages on around them, the happy cheers of fellow teens imbuing the atmosphere with long-awaited satisfaction. Even the bodies closest to the two of them barely notice the storm unfurling.   The fist around his neck loosens despite Chuuya’s clear desire to squeeze it into a pulp. Dazai continues.   “You all were a plight to them. It was my job—my first one, now that I think about it—to weed each of you out until none of you were a threat.”   “Osamu-”   “Ah, but that's here nor there,” he hums around a crook, the lack of air returning with a shaking hold, “I'll leave with my belongings and nothing else. The money is yours. Do with it as you want.”   “Shit, shut up!”   Silence finally begins to take hold of The Sheep but by now the furious Sheep King is dragging Dazai out by the throat, eyes murderous and aching as he slams him against the cruddy outside building's wall. Dazai hasn't lost the apathy on his face even then. It clearly pisses Chuuya off even more.   “I don't understand a fuck'n clue of the shit yer’ spewing-” He punches Dazai's jaw, snapping his skull to the side painfully. Dazai makes no sound. “-but if I have to beat it outta yer’ empty-ass brain I will, Kami, I fuck'n will.”   Another punch to his other cheek has Dazai spitting out a tooth. It's an unpleasant action but neither of them pay it any attention.   “…”   Chuuya watches him. Dazai can feel his hand trembling as it presses bruises past his bandages.   “…Fuck you.” The shorter boy throws him to the side and Dazai crashes to the ground with a ‘thump’. He sees the other already turned on his toes, ready to march back inside where the party has started up again.   “Oh, here,” Dazai speaks out suddenly, instantly freezing the other. He digs into the baggy pockets of his pants, throwing the held item at Chuuya before he's fully facing him again. “This isn't one of those belongings I was referring to. I don't need it now.”   Chuuya catches the item with his years of honed reflexes, no light catching the angles of his soft face as he stares down at it. The shadow blanketing his eyes almost impressively matches the one Dazai sees in his reflection.   Without anything else to say, and everything he needs already packed and waiting in a secret place, Dazai stands from the dusty ground.   Then he turns, letting none of the feelings welling up in him surface as he reminds himself for seconds, then minutes, then hours…   Not to look back.         Null Years: Present   He has never been Osamu, despite the word being his name. He's never felt like Dazai either, but at least this name doesn't seem like a skin that fits him all the wrong ways.   That never stopped Chuuya. And Dazai, admittedly, cared to much at the time to correct him.   But that was then, and then is buried: in the past and in the broken fragments of his mind. He is Dazai, and more than that, he is the Demon Mafia Boss of Yokohama's night. A name, a personality, means nothing in the face of this roll.   It's for this reason that Dazai doesn't think often of the time on the streets. He's good at self control, enough to sometimes forget that era in time entirely.   Yet…   It always surfaces, again and again, when the month of July stretches blazing heats across the shimmering cityscape he resides in. This year, what he's most reminded of is that last day, a final battle of glory fought between two sides of The Sheep and their enemies.   Dazai remembers working so hard to keep that group of delinquent children safe that he hadn't known what to feel if that had, for whatever reason, failed.   But they hadn't failed. His group had destroyed any remnants of Gelhart Security Service and extracted the information Dazai needed—or, more correctly, what The Sheep needed—to access the abundance of wealth pooling in from that group's main funders.   The Guild hadn't been tricky at all to navigate despite his own time limit of an hour, though Dazai knows not a single one of the current American members would recognize him for that. It was a different time, for both sides.   And, staring into the yawning day, Dazai thinks something else:   How no money in the world meant more than that old, usaburo kokeshi doll he so mournfully threw back to Chuuya.       <i>End</i> .