Keratin

“–you bitch!”   Dazai cackles and Chuuya fucking screeches, throwing the game console on the couch at his shitty head. The bastard dodges. And avoids the next several items Chuuya hurls at him.   “STOP FUCKING MOVING YA SHITTY MACKEREL!”   He ducks to avoid a gravity-weighed pillow. Then he has the gall to stick out a taunting tongue. “If I stop moving Chuuya will hit me!”   “THAT’S THE FUCKING POINT DIPSHIT!” He growls, lifting the sofa and pitching similar to a hammer throw. Dazai barely gets a breeze from it, looking wholly unaffected, if a bit annoyed.   Rolling his eyes– because apparently, Dazai has been hiding this goddamn secret the whole time Chuuya’s fucking known him– he flicks a pen into his hand and swiftly throws it at Chuuya. The redhead dodges, though not before a second pen whacks against his face painfully.   “GAH-! DAZAI YOU SHITTY BASTARD! I’M GONNA FUCKING KILL YOU-!”   Why are they fighting? Simple: Dazai has diamond scales around his normally covered right eye. Matching quite distinctly to Chuuya’s own scales adorning his left hand. And obviously, Dazai’s fucking known about it this whole damn time since this fish-fucker has seen Chuuya’s bare hands numerous times.   They’re soulmates. Chuuya shares diamond scales with his son of a bitch partner and all this time he didn’t know. Because Dazai never fucking told him.   The only reason he found out at all was because of a minor mistake made by the one and only Demon Prodigy.   Only an hour ago they had been in the middle of an intense battle. It was them versus a whole ass army, and Dazai kept whining about how boring everything was, intentionally straying off into random corners and allowing the enemy to kill Chuuya. Several. Times.   It was a game, sure, but Chuuya has pride and he is NOT just going to let Dazai ruin the sixth fucking play-through of that game. But just when he was about to beat the hell out of him, Dazai stands, saying he needed the bathroom. Chuuya had shooed him away, debating what to do while waiting. It’s not like he could complete the game without the fucker so he made better use of his time: following after Dazai.   Hearing the obvious sounds of Dazai shuffling all his bathroom items around, Chuuya had held his breath, deciding not to immediately barge in and throw that bastard out. No, no. Instead, what Chuuya did was gather some pillows by the door, chug a glass of water, aim a gun at the door, and let loose hell.   He shot the door, hearing a screech from inside as well as the tell-tell shatter of a wall. A bullet shot right back out from the other side, narrowingly missing where Chuuya sidestepped in preparation before firing again. It went back and forth for only one round of bullets each, Chuuya having allowed Dazai his final shoot before pressing his face to some holes and spitting out the water he’d kept in his mout.   Chuuya can’t control liquids, the whole thing is just too complex for him to figure out, but he can damn well use For The Tained Sorrow on himself.   Something had been thrown against the door with a thud, being Chuuya’s signal: he broke the door open (he knows it was locked because Dazai always fucking locks it) and powered inside in a flash. Dazai, having stood to the side of the door that was opened, lunged. Ability deactivated they ended up tumbling around until Chuuya was able to kick the other boy off.   Dazai had hit the pillows with a loud “oof!”, rolling to the side before Chuuya could stomp his stomach in.   “I told you how many fucking times not to touch my things?!” he had yelled. Dazai scowled, then stuck his tongue out.   “Chuuya should stop making things so easy to grab. Oh, wait,” he rolled under a pillow, using the cushioning to protect enough of himself from a harsh blow, “you’re so tiny that everything needs to be at a shorter level for you to reach!”   However, that was the moment Dazai made his mistake. He already had a problem with generally keeping the bandages around his head snug, needing to readjust them every few hours. But with water trickling down his body and all the roughhousing they had, rolling under a pillow caused the bandages to loosen to the point of slipping down.   In this awful world full of greedy monopolists, abilities that are far and few between out of billions of people, and posing those with every other shitty thing that separates society into different sections, soulmates were commonplace. Although not everyone has one, people like Chuuya have strangely altered skin cells that form first into keratin and then into different stones, gems, crystals, rocks, or minerals. Each one is unique and not one set is the same– at least not repeated in the same time period. But these crystals are anomalies neither scientists nor spiritualists can completely find the source of, leading to the simple conclusion of soulmates connected from the atoms of a supernova.   Chuuya just so happens to be one of the especially fucked up individuals who has both an ability and soulmate. He hadn’t met his soulmate and was perfectly fine with that. Until of course, this little shit had to get his bandages snagged and pulled off.   Revealing his secret.     Which leads to the current events of Chuuya promptly trying to murder Dazai just enough so he can spill an explanation before actually dying. Okay, that doesn’t completely make sense but in his defense, he’s pissed right now and can’t fucking think past shoving a lampost up Dazai’s ass until it punctures his God damn throat.   “WHEN WERE YOU PLANNING ON TELLING ME, ASSHOLE?!” Chuuya yells, overturning a table Dazai is hiding beneath. Dazai groans, scurrying to another hiding place. It’s not effective, and he’s probably just doing it to annoy Chuuya.   “Huh? Tell you what?” he has the audacity to ask. If Chuuya were anyone else, he may have fallen for it. But he’s spent the past two years drudging himself through the mafia ranks side by side with this snarky man and he’s not pretending his eyes aren’t seeing what’s there.   He kicks a fallen plant (fucking hell, Ane-san just gave him that!) as he “reminds” this poor excuse of a human what he’s talking about. “The fucking diamonds, Dazai! Ya’ know, the pieces of compressed carbon sitting right on your ugly ass face?!”   Dazai dodges the plant. He moves into the small kitchen, grabbing a bottle of Domaine Leflaive Montrachet Grand Cru to hold in front of himself as a shield. Unfortunately, it has its intended affect of stopping Chuuya from hurling things at his mackerel head. He growls. Dazai smiles dully. He knew he should have put that in a better spot.   “Oh,” Dazai tilts the right of his face towards the wine bottle, staring at his reflection in it, “this old thing?” The cork taps the black crystals, a weird sound eminating from it. Chuuya glares. “This…is an unfortunate illness I was born with.”   His eye twitches. Daza takes that as his cue to continue his bullshit.   “Doctors and spiritualists considered a number of problems, but unfortunately, none could identify the cause of such an anomaly.” He moves around the kitchen, repeatedly tapping the diamonds around his eye with the bottle. Chuuya is seconds away from doing something stupid like stomping over and taking the damn thing out of his slimy hands.   “It’s quite the plight of my life-”   “Shut up!” he snaps, pointing a finger at him. “Stop talking nonsense you waste of space! You’re spouting bullshit and we both know it!”   Dazai tuts, swinging the wine around. Chuuya swears he almost purposely drops it.   He tuts. “Chuuya, talking down on someone else’s illness is quite rude.”   Chuuya inhales deeply, glaring fiercely at his asshole of a partner. He glares more so at the diamonds circling said partner’s eye.   Diamond analogies, Double Black…No wonder the Boss was so deadset on pairing us up, he thinks with no small amount of scorn.   “Dazai.”   “Chuuya.”   Chuuya pinches the bridge of his nose, suddenly very conscious of the minerals lining the top of his other hand with only a simple layer of glove to cover it. “Fine. You didn’t fucking tell me, it makes sense. You never share anything else, even if it’s a simple question, I shouldn’t be surprised.”   The mackerel has the nerve to look smug at his words.   “Oho? Is Chuuya admitting-”   “Shut up. I’m not fucking finished, and if you interrupt again I’m tearing your throat out.” Dazai’s mouth snaps shut with a huff.   Chuuya walks over to the kitchen counter, leaning against it. He keeps his eyes on the other teen, making sure he doesn’t make a run for it (not that he could outrun Chuuya, but the bastard is slick). Dazai stares back with soulless eyes.   “Aside from the Boss, who else knows?” Chuuya demands bluntly.   Tap, tap, tap.   “Hm…”   “Dazai-”   “Let me think, chibi. I can’t run my mind properly when you’re yapping like a dog.”   He resists the urge to growl, knowing it would just empower the other. Even still, Dazai seems to read him and smirks.   Fucking bastard.   “Hm……..~ Oh, if I think about it…Ah, no, why should I tell you? Such a brute, you were just attacking me.”   Chuuya scoffs, pushing off the counter. Dazai takes several steps back, keeping distance between them, bottle occasionally knocking against different corners of the kitchen and making Chuuya’s veins pop.   “Don’t be such a pussy, you’re still alive.” Tap, tap- “Besides, you want to die. I’d be doing you a favor.”   Dazai lifts his chin. “How many times do I have to remind your pea-sized brain that I want to die painlessly? And much rather by my own hands, I don’t want my cause of death to be you.”   Tap, tap, tap, tap.   “Like I give a flying fuck about what you want– Now stop redirecting the conversation!” He tries to get closer but Dazai keeps moving away, even when Chuuya begins chasing him.   “See? You’re not doing anything to receive a reward, Hatrack!” Dazai calls over his shoulder, running back into the main room and jumping over many of the scattered pillows.   Tap- tap, tap- thunk-   Chuuya yells when his wine bottle hits the corner of a wall. “OI! CAREFUL WITH THAT! DO YOU FUCKING KNOW HOW EXPENSIVE THAT IS?!” He makes a quick dash to grab it but Dazai maneuvers it just slightly out of his range. “Damnit Dazai!”   Dazai pushes up some bandages at the same time as he swings the bottle around even more dangerously. It’s through this that they begin another scuffle.   Not counting the time, Chuuya thinks it takes up to an hour for them to find themselves on different parts of the apartment roof, with Dazai near the edge and Chuuya by the stairwell door. Chuuya locks the door behind him, even though it’s ultimately useless against the likes of the Demon Prodigy.   Huh…   “I’m curious how Chuuya thinks he can prevent me from jumping,” Dazai says, rocking back on his heels. He glances at the sky, but not long enough for Chuuya to have an opening.   I’m…soulmates with…   “Shut your mouth, you fungus-brained piece of shit,” he growls, slowly stomping over. Dazai only seems boredly amused. “I’m gonna go over there and kick your ass. Maybe I’ll even skin you alive just to make it painful.”   I’m soulmates with Dazai-fucking-Osamu. What the hell.   Knowing there’s nothing he can really do (and Dazai’s smug face pissing him off overall), he lunges, boosting himself with For the Tainted Sorrow.   Dazai has the nerve to smirk darkly, tossing the bottle to the other side of the roof while jumping off the edge he’s near. Chuuya groans, rolling his eyes as he quickly backtracks to his wine. He catches it within second, placing it down on the roof, and then rockets off to follow his suicidal partner. The apartment complex isn’t that tall, which means he needs to hurry.   Too bad for that mackerel that he’s feeling petty right now.   He watches Dazai fall through the air, looking insanely joyous as he cuts through the wind. His eyes are even closed, the creep.   A crater forms deeply in the ground where Chuuya lands, deactivating his ability seconds before catching the taller teen in his arms. Dazai lands with an oomph!, eyes flying open with mirth even as he pouts and cradles himself.   “Uuuugh, another means to an end disturbed by an annoying mutt,” he whines mournfully. Chuuya none-so-gently drops him on the ground. Dazai lays there, staring up at the sky like it will end his life of suffering. “The pain, oh the pain. The mutt can’t obey orders or wishes. Why do I bother giving him treats?”   He rolls his eyes, squating as he stares down at the idiot, resting his face on a hand that balances on his thigh. Dazai stares up and past him. Chuuya smacks his face.   “Oooooow!”   “Stop whining ya big baby,” Chuuya grumbles. He flicks Dazai's scales, a small ching! ringing from them. “Answers. Now.”   Dazai whines some more, just to spite him. A few more smacks shuts him up, thank god.   “Why would I tell anyone I have a terminal illness Chuuya? Are you really daft? And to think, I have to be partners with you,” the bastard tuts.   What a piece of shit…   Chuuya doesn’t fall for his partner’s theatrics, because he isn’t fucking ‘daft’ and knows Dazai like the back of his ha-   …   …Fuck his life.   Chuuya thunks the back of his left hand against Dazai's nose, and with the added spike of crystals—his glove protecting nothing—the younger boy makes a displeased face. Good.   He knows Dazai's shared all he's willing for today, even with such a shit explanation, but that won’t stop Chuuya from taking out a little more of his anger on him.   “I think we need to settle this,” he drones, picking up on Dazai's interest immediately. Before, he would have thought nothing of it. But now…now does the bond even mean anything…?   “What does Chuuya suggest?” Dazai remains on the ground, looking all together like he’s accepted his fate of dealing with Chuuya. They both know it’s out of battiness that he bothers to stay.   Chuuya smirks down at him, feeling a vein pop somewhere. “What do you think?”         At seventeen, Nakahara Chuuya finds out who his soulmate is.   He breifly thought the discovery would change things, but he’s reluctantly pleased to admit nothing did. His everlasting animosity towards Dazai doesn’t faulter, and neither do the childish prank wars they set for each other. They banter and argue on and off the battlefield, and not once do the eyes of their subordinates or even their boss prevent the duo of Double Black from treating the other half like scum.   Not that their relationship is all blood and bones. Chuuya isn’t blind or dense or whatever the fuck else Dazai wants to call him. Chuuya can plainly see just how much their partnership is on the verge of touch-starved addiction as it is viscious annoyance.   In hindsight it kind of (ugh) does make some semblance of sense how he and that idiotic genius could be bound by the soul. Outside of clinging to each other’s existence resembling hopeless children, they read each other better than anyone else, know without words where the boundaries lie, and have the unspoken agreements between revenge and comfort that make up the life they share.   However. Chuuya would much rather cut his own leg off than admit ANY of that shit. Not to Dazai, not to anyone. Although he does get pretty close in spilling everything to one Ozaki Kouyou, Chuuya reigns it all in. It’s not for her to know, even if he does consider her an older sister figure. This thing between Dazai and him is only between them.   Just like the gaming consoles, the battle strategies they make up on the fly, inside jokes, arcade coins and plushies, unspoken nights of understanding and vulnerability that they both pretend never happen—all of that is only for Soukoku.   Dazai is possessive of these little things, keeping them close tighter than a secret beyond the grave, and Chuuya’d be a liar of he said he wasn’t the same. Again though, he would never share that thought with anyone.   …Chuuya gets drunk. The beans are spilled to the unfortunate listeners of Hirotsu and Kajii. And as much as Hirotsu is a respectable individual, the same can definitely not be said for Kajii. No, that crazy scientist doesn’t head to Chuuya's threats and spreads the word of Chuuya's soulmate situation faster than wildfire.   In less than thirty minutes the whole Port Mafia—maybe even organizations outside of it—know that the Soukoku duo are soulmates.   Chuuya doesn’t actually find this out until long after a forgotten night of drinks and a terrible hangover the next day. And of all people it’s Mori who informs him. During a meeting with every other Executive.   Fucking embarrassing.   Kouyou has some choice words with him directly after, a cold smile and unrefusable invite to her office finding him sitting across from her presently.   She holds her cup of tea and doesn’t drink it. Chuuya does the same, but unlike the seemingly calm-before-the-storm woman in front of him, he is putting all his focus into not shattering the fragile ceramic.   “So,” Kouyou starts, idly looking over the boy in front of her, “must I ask why you chose to hide this from me or do I need to take action?”   Chuuya breaths out through his nose to relieve some tension. It doesn’t help. “Kouyou-san, I did not mean any disrespect.” Shit shit shit shit- “Overall it just seems like something unimportant.”   And that’s true for Chuuya, ‘cause he could give less a damn about being Dazai's soulmate at this point. But to literally anyone else such words would be nonsense. Kouyou is no exception.   The red-haired Executive raises a fine eyebrow, disbelieving and unimpressed. “Is that what you expect me to believe, Lad?” She fans some of the steam from her tea cup, holding it up. “I’m not so old as to fall for that. You’re only making a fool of yourself here.”   He sets down his own cup now, his only saving grace for the delicate object. He looks at his older sister figure with concealed disdain. “It’s the truth, Ane-san.” He respects Kouyou, he does, more so than a majority of the people in his life. But no one has a say to his thoughts or feelings, and he won’t give her a chance to try.   She narrows her visible eye. “Chuuya-”   “Kouyou-san.” He meets her gaze head on. “My markings mean nothing. Soulmate or not, my life is only for the Mafia. Not for Dazai, and for a tacky bond. Think what you will but my loyalty isn't swayed just because that bastard of all people is, apparently, tied to me.”   It makes sense for Kouyou to be suspicious. She’s a prideful and loyal woman in her own right, and damn will put her fellow mafia subordinates in their place if she thinks there’s even a small chance they could be swayed elsewhere. It’s one of the qualities Chuuya looks up to in her and otherwise understands.   Chuuya knows she cares for him as a close friend in this situation as well, but mafia matters takes more importance than him. Ozaki Kouyou wouldn’t be who she was, so high in rank and looked up to by many, if she could be softened so easily. She’s only known Chuuya for less than three years anyway.   They argue in tight-lipped words and less-than-pleasant smiles for only a little while more before Chuuya is excused. He gets through all his paperwork back at his own office before leaving that too. He’s just too irked to deal with anything right now.   …hence why a certain someone just has to come and bother him.   “Chuuuuuyaaaaaa~!”   Chuuya throws the fork he's been using at the annoying piece of trash. It’s dodged expectedly.   Dazai sits across from him, plopping down in the plastic seat as if he’s some sort of spoiled princess. Chuuya just gives him a bland look before digging back into his food (he had the forthought to not litter the fork around the small cafe they’re in, hovering it back after Dazai side-stepped it), swatting the hand that tries to steal a piece of rice dumpling as if he’s not right here.   “Chuuya.” Ignored. “Sluuuuug.” Ignored again. The same hand tries to steal food a second time with the same outcome. Dazai whines.   “Uuuugh hatrack! Tiny Toddler of the Underground, spite of my existence-”   Chuuya shuts him up with the dumpling the bandaged freak had tried to take. Safe to say he’s satisfied when the other chokes on the food abruptly shoved down his throat. It earns him a minute of silence.   Once Dazai's done chewing and choking, spitting some pieces up similar to a cat with a hair ball, he starts yapping again.   “You’re being very cruel to me, Chuuya,” he says with a shake of his head. Chuuya rolls his eyes at the theatrics. “And here I thought Chuuya wasn’t ashamed of me! Flaunting around his dearest, most precious bond with me to the whole mafia! Chuuya’s all bark though.”   Chuuya swallows his current food harshly, ignored the way it dries his throat painfully as he sets a murderous glare his partner’s way. “Fucker, that was an accident! Don’t act like you even care, why the fuck are ‘ya here anyway, just to rub it in my damn face?”   As much as he wants to believe his own words both halves of Soukoku know it’s never that simple…well, not usually. There’s always some second motive for Dazai, if not more than that.   That in mind, Chuuya still acts the part of ignorant fool, playing his role like Dazai does his own. It’s just how they communicate at this point.   Dazai waves a hand flippantly. “Of course! What else is there to say other than how stupid Chuuya is? It’s only fair to show my superiority.” He nods as if his grave words are even true. Fuck him.   Fuck you, Chuuya thinks, glaring at Dazai to convey this message.   Dazai only smirks back, his hollow eye squinting with joy. So reactive~   Instigator.   Brute.   THAT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH THIS!   Hehehe~   They don’t discuss Chuuya's drunken reveal to the mafia. He doesn’t even think that’s why Dazai came to him in the first place anyway.   They head to Chuuya’s apartment after almost getting kicked out of the cafe, the usual banter floating between them. It drops the moment Chuuya's door clicks shut behind them.   Chuuya looks at his kitchen, wishing to Arahabaki that he could get all his attention away from the boy next to him. It’s futile, hope. The only solace is how offput Dazai is standing next to him, shuffling in his mafia coat, gaze floating around Chuuya as if the ginger isn’t doing the exact same thing to him.   Soukoku watch each other. The donation share a conversation, not with words or thoughts. It’s akward and strange, a little uncomfortable and suffocating.   Dazai breaths through his nose, just barely different from his typical breathing pattern. Chuuya notices.   Chuuya scratches the nails of his other hand through his gloves, not the way he usually fidgets. Dazai notices.   “…”   “…”   Chuuya wonders, subconsciously, if what this tension is leading to is-   Dazai tilts his head and turns on his heels. The tension has been snapped and thrown away, leaving Chuuya staggering on the other side of it. Physically, the gravity manipulator is still, watching with a feeling of something as Dazai puts on a mask and opens Chuuya's door. Leaving.   “If I don’t survive my swimming lesson I’ll see you later, Chuuya!”   The door shuts. Chuuya wants to pummel it.         Nakahara Chuuya is eighteen when he tries to pry the keratin diamonds off his hand.   Strangely enough, it’s several months after his traitorous partner's defection. That fact certainly doesn’t stop the mafia executive to blame the bastard though.   It came about from a string of events on a seemingly normal day, Chuuya checking through each mission and report accordingly and without fault.   He speaks to his squad of subordinates, checks in on other members like Kouyou and the Black Lizards, then gets through some shitty meetings with the likes of Ace and small organizations the mafia all but owns.   Yet, leaving the shady pizzeria and once the meeting comes to a close, Chuuya halts. He’s next to jewelry shop just across the street from the pizzeria, only centimeters away from the main window.   He stares through it, the veins of his body burning with the cold ice that fills them. And no matter how he tries, he can’t look away from the shining marble counter holding countless jewelry that glitters under florescent lights. Chuuya's beginning years in the Port Mafia we’re dedicated to the jewel trade so he has plenty of knowledge on what gems are what, if they’re authentic or phony, what makes for a correct price value, ect.   Not once was he ever witness to diamonds the shame dark shade as the ones on his hand. They were a rare find after all.   But there, on that marble counter, is a small box shining with white silver chains and small beads of that very crystal. It glares not as bright as the others yet stands out so much more.   His skin itches. His glove is too tight. Something isn’t right.   Chuuya abandons the area, activating For the Tainted Sorrow before he knows it. It takes less than a minute to be across the city and at his apartment building, storming up the floors to reach his own.   His breathing feels to heavy…stuck in his throat…   His door bangs shut. Must have been him, strange that Chuuya doesn’t feel a thing about it.   He tears into his bathroom, not reaching for the shower faucet like he craves, instead flinging open the cupboard mirror and supplying a scalpel into his burning hand.   A strong hold keeps it steady as he presses it into the top of his left glove, ripping the fabric and through some skin. It stings like a bitch, throbbing even, but Chuuya continues, gritting his teeth as he works the metal blade under the damn diamonds.   Blood starts to pool within his glove, creating a sticky mess between his fingers that only worsens his mood and the stinging of the scalpel. He scraps the blade as deep into his hand as he can without inflicting consequential damage, sawing beneath the keratin as far as he can before pain reverberates through his nerves worse than fire or a broken bone.   He spits out a curse. “Fucking- shit!”   Any further attempt he makes to wedge the painful metal foward only adds more pain and no results. So he yanks the scalpel out, throws it somewhere in the bathroom with a loud CLING!, and rips off his disgusting glove.   Chuuya doesn’t even try to examine the wound before thrusting it under some water, hissing as his free hand navigates the cluttered drawers for a roll of forgotten bandages and antiseptics.   Is this really how pathetic I am? Chuuya berates himself, watching all the dark blood drain from his hand into the water of the sink. He feels like he’s barely even seeing it. Does my hold fucking world revolve around a single bastard, that I can’t even control my god damn impulses?!   His mind runs wild with more horrid thoughts, scolding himself for allowing Dazai's defection to shake him so bad, among literally everything else relating to that fucker.   It seems like time begins to blur without his notice, flashing in and out of Chuuya's system unable to control. He blinks once and he’s bandaging the bubbling blood that has congealed in some places lining the scales of diamonds. Another blink and he’s just woken up from sleep on his own bed.   After a third time of snapping into his own awareness Chuuya calls it enough. He dresses in a rush, chugging down half a bottle of Pinot Noir in a way he’d normally condemn but now desperately needs. Once it’s safely discarded (he just floats the bottle to the trash) Chuuya is out of his apartment, getting to his motorcycle in record time.   It brings its own pain, but he's long since grown more fond of the bittersweet memories it brings, and it serves as a prime distraction.   Yokohama twinkles with all the lights flashing from each building. Chuuya's always thought his city did a great job of luring tourists in this way, though he finds the rainbow of man made stars to be relaxing. Especially on nights like this where getting out of his own head is the only solution to his problems.   He drives and drives, moving swiftly through streets and around dangerous turns; speeds along the edge of a bridge to feel the salty air on his face, reaching both hands high to the sky when he’s away from prying eyes with the use of his ability to keep him steady. Chuuya drives his friend’s motorcycle with both vigor and grace, channeling all his choked up emotions into the shifts and tricks.   He shouldn’t be doing this. But damn anyone if they try to stop him.   Hours pass, Chuuya thinks. The throbbing of his injured hand has long since been forgotten, allowing him to soak in this outing.   It’s nice, in a way driving aimlessly always seems to be. His head is less full, the muscles of his body have relaxed, and best of all, Chuuya's relived what he loves about Yokohama. Night outs to himself were basically nonexistent since promoting into Executive, trading the best outlet source he’s had with sleepless work hours. Neither smoking nor drinking’s held an inch to the levels of meditation lonesome drives bring Chuuya.   But, the night isn’t young anymore and the Port Mafia Executive is hardly on vacation.   He doesn’t sleep again, though his tasks of the next day aren’t hindered. Really, if anything, Chuuya feels liberated for god knows whatever reason. The only problem stems from the ache of his dominant hand yet that’s about it. His pain tolerance has always been high either way. He can take it.   …Nothing gets solved unfortunately.   Despite the amazing drive, despite the wound he inflicted upon himself, Chuuya's still left unsettled. Those damn cheap pieces of jewelry keep flashing in his mind without prompting, leaving the gravity user utterly salty most days that follow his 'incident’.   It’s very annoying.      Chuuya's always found some pride in his abilities to keep a level head and sort out his emotions before they can influence his behaviors. But as only ever seems to be the exception, this is a Dazai related issue, so of fucking course that bastard’s messing with him from beyond the realm of Chuuya's own self-discipline.   He persists in keeping his emotions to himself, but that doesn't make anything better. Even so, Chuuya won’t ask for help. He doesn’t need it. Not out of stubbornness; that would be too foolish, especially for a Port Mafia Executive. He just can’tand won’t, seeing as personal wounds are to be dealt with in private and the person that is his soulmate shouldn’t be tied to the mafia in any shape or form after his defection.   That’s why a year is able to pass, despite it all. And then another, and another. Before Chuuya even realizes it, almost four years have passed since his other half left their shared job.   It’s also only now that he’s come to realize that he no longer cares. Well, not in the way that hurts at least. Chuuya's definitely still pissed and gearing to through that fucker a good ol’ sucker punch when he gets the chance. But he’s not petty when it comes to another’s well being. Dazai had to leave. That’s all there is to it. He can respect that.   Either way, almost four years and no sign of that slimy bandage-waster has made its presence known. Good. Great. Perfect. Who needs ‘em? Not Chuuya, that’s for sure.   The man in front of Chuuya, however, looks unimpressed. It's directed in such a way that they both know what the man will say next.   “Putting delusions in your own head is not a good look, dear little brother.”   Chuuya doesn’t give Verlaine Paul (or Paul Verlaine as would be said in the Western hemisphere) the dignity of a scowl.   “I can believe what I want,” he huffs back. Coming to rant to his not-so-great older brother-figure was a mistake it seems.   Verlaine just hums, counting the many cracks and scars littering the cellar wall across from where he sits. He’s not even looking at Chuuya anymore.   “And I never suggested you should do otherwise.”   Chuuya looks to the ceiling for patience. “Sure. It was only implied heavily in you judgemental stare and insinuating words,” he rolls his eyes.   Verlaine hums, nodding for no real reason. “Little brother,” he starts lifting one hand just to wave it around slowly, “I believe I know the difference of lies and delusions.”   Rimbaud’s ghost hangs heavily in the air.   Chuuya takes a deep breath. He won’t let this man affect him. Even if he chose to come down here on his own will. “And I repeat: I know what I do best. Don’t put yourself in my shoes as if you know my life.”   Is he being just a tad bit defensive? Unfortunately yes. He doesn’t give a fuck though. Verlaine just isn’t doing his purpose or being a silent listener to rant to.   The older man looks at Chuuya with an indescribable face. He’s not hurt, Chuuya knows that for sure, but something about his expression has him feeling tired. Again and again, people tell me what they “think” I feel.   Chuuya heaves out a sigh, moving a step back from the cellar. “Nevermind. I’m gonna go. Don’t fuck with anyone for the next four months got it?”   Verlaine tilts his head. “That’s an oddly specific number.”   He rolls his wrist, motioning to the ceiling as if it’ll explain things. “Every time you scare the shit out of our subordinates they come crying to the Boss. Then he calls me in to comfort the poor little shits and also demands I need to tell you to apologize. Some of my men will have to meet with you in these next four months so I hope you can reign it in until the end.”   It’s happened far too many times in the six years that his self-proclaimed brother simply looked at someone wrong and had them pissing their pants. And Chuuya KNOWS Verlaine is doing it on fucking purpose because he’s trained plenty of the Port Mafia’s assassins without the same issue. The man’s just a piece of shit who gets entertainment from it.   As Chuuya moves to leave, one foot away from the basement steps, Verlaine speaks.   “I might have never had a soulmate of my own, Chuuya, but I know enough about partnership to give you advice.” He’s speaking softly, almost caring. Like he really does want Chuuya to grasp his words. “If you don’t love your partner then you don’t. Care and trust are merely specks of a commitment that is never inherently put in the category of romance, or even love.”   Chuuya looks over his shoulder, noting the whimsical look he has once more. Except this time, it holds both pain and assurance.   Then he continues, and Chuuya swears it’s never felt like his world’s axis has shifted more than this moment (not even compared to the reveal of who shares his black diamonds).   “You had cared far before even knowing there was a bond in the first place. Before even I knew. Yet there was enough of a connection between the two of you that I sought Dazai-kun out to kill him first.”         It’s sad to say that at the age of twenty-two, Dazai Osamu has forsaken his own soulmate. Not out of necessity, he’s just concluded a break will do them both a world of good. He can just imagine the things he would have said to Chuuya, full of teenage angst and grieving misery.   Oh, but most importantly, Dazai just REALLY doesn’t want to deal with that slimy hatrack getting all sympathetic or ruining the strange peace they had in avoiding the truth of their bond.   With the handy-dandy help of his phone Dazai’s been able to track Chuuya’s activities over the last seven years, though the device especially became helpful once Dazai defected. Chuuya would have made a great pet to bring along, but that chibi’s to loyal for anyone’s good, so alone Dazai went into hiding.   Breaking away from the mafia hadn’t been difficult though. Repressing emotions does WONDERS for the problem called “grief”. And vaguely intriguing company, that can be a good distraction, at least for a little.   If only said company hadn’t been the likes of a certain rat and the Special Division’s chief, then Dazai could have enjoyed his two years of hiding far more than he did. Poor Taneda could only do so much for him and Dostoevsky is only as entertaining as Dazai lets him be. Honestly, that man added more stress to his pile!   At least the Chief was civil. Very kind man.   Which reminds him…   Chief Taneda deserves a visit soon~ he concludes once his string of thoughts come back to the present. It’s a decent life he’s living now, even if his only true amusement is Kunikida. Surely that idealistic man could do better than to make Dazai’s teasings so easy. All he needs to do is tune Dazai out (which he has begun to do on brief occasions) and voila! Problem solved for lil’-old Kunikida.   Or not. His days would be boring otherwise.   Dazai stretches, cracking his back over the arm of the couch before falling off the edge of it completely. “Oof!”   “Dazai, get back to work,” comes the familiar call from across the two rooms separating them. Dazai’s impressed the man could even hear his fall from so far, much less with the busy day the agency is going through today.   He sits up with a bright smile no one can see. “On it, Kunikida-kun! I was just practicing the yoga technique ‘Falling Sloth’. It relaxes the muscles and eases the mind, you should know,” he says with a whimsical nod.   As expected, Kunkida pokes his head out of the meeting room, glasses pushed up and notebook in hand. His eyes are narrowed suspiciously.   “I’ve never heard of such a thing…This isn’t another one of your lies is it?” Kunikida questions. To think, he’s known Dazai for two whole years now and yet Kunikida still can’t see through such small deceptions.   Dazai throws the blond man a salute. “Don’t you know, Kunikida? Tut, tut, every healthy abled body needs to know ‘Falling Sloth’. You should write it in your book as a reminder.” He hides a smile when Kunikida lifts his notebook quite seriously, mumuring out Dazai’s words as he jots down the “information”.   “Healthy…for…muscles…”   Dazai covers his face to hold back a yawn, looking to the right. “I was kidding.” A pen breaks, hitting him in the head. “Ooooowe! Kunikidaaaa-kun!”   The meeting room door opens further, a different person stepping out. He’s munching on a mixed bag of candies. Edogawa Ranpo, smarter than Dazai in a way no one else will ever be. He watches his subordinates with bored amusement.   Dazai smiles his way, head shaking back and forth as Kunikida shakes him around with red-faced anger. “Ranpo-san!...How are…the snacks…?”   Kunikida stops shaking him, face loosening from it’s previously stressed form to eye Ranpo as well. His hands keep choking him though…   “Ah, Ranpo,” Kunikida lowers his head apologetically. “I apologize for leaving in the middle of our discussion.”   Ranpo shrugs, walking over to a (in use) desk and leaning against it. The desk worker ignores him. “Eh, you were about to finish in one minute anyway. No harm no foul.” He throws some more candy into his mouth, smiling at Dazai who is slowly losing oxygen. “An’ ta ansher ya’r queshion, theshe ah’ dewilshious~” he slurs out, mouth too full to speak properly.   At long last, Kunikida sighs, releasing Dazai from his harsh grip. Dazai breaths in a painful ammount of air, flopping on the ground with a bout of coughs. Kunikida stands, stressing a hand through his blond hair as he leaves his partner on the ground to instead collect some paperwork he neglected in the meeting room. “Thank you for your time, Ranpo-san. I’ll inform the President of the issue now.”   Ohho? Issues that he doesn’t know about? Dazai stops his dramatic representation of an opossum to sit up, giving Ranpo a curious look. The other male points the main door. “Your answers are out there,” he states helpfully. Dazai takes the encouragement for what it is and strides out of the office.   Dazai can’t think of anything too important that needs reporting to Fukuzawa being in the agency building so he doesn’t bother staying. Instead, he heads down to the cafe, greets his favorite waitress with flirtatious words, and strolls along the streets of Yokohama.   Blindly wandering, no destination in mind despite Ranpo’s hint.   It takes a mere seventeen minutes for him to run into what “issue” Japan’s greatest detective was going over.   Fiddling with a silver ribbon tie newly added to his work suit, one Sakaguchi Ango stands near a tea shop looking unsure and tensed. He doesn’t notice Dazai until they’re only feet away from each other.   Ango's eyes widen seeing Dazai but he is quick to relax himself. Dazai grins in false greeting. “Ango, haven’t seen you in a while.”   The government worker stops messing with the ribbon to instead push at the bridge of his round glasses. “We hardly left on good terms now, Dazai-kun.” Dazai let an enemy car drive straight into them, injuring them both without fatality. It was a great fear tactic for the occasional, and maybe just a small amount of bitter revenge.   Dazai still laughs like the other man has said a joke. “Ah, but who’s that to stop two old buddies from reconnecting? I’m sure you’d like a bowl of ramen after the intense meeting you just had.”   Ango is hardly surprised by the astute deduction, even if his lips purse. He eyes Dazai in a way that’s too familiar. It doesn’t feel right for the liar to know Dazai's ins and outs when he doesn’t want the man to.   “I take it I have no choice,” Ango sighs out, already on the verge of a headache. Dazai gives him no sympathy, striding ahead to a different shop further down the road. “You’d be correct!” The government worker follows diligently.   The duo enter a lively cake shop, not to either of their tastes even remotely. Dazai still seats then at a small booth as if he’s reliving the most cherished childhood memory. Ango doesn’t call him out on his bullshit but his disapproval and tired judgement say plenty.   Dazai crosses his legs beneath the table, elbows on the dirty wood with his face resting in both palms. He gives his old friend a serene smile. “So~ Will Ango-san be be telling the audience why you’re so conveniently close to the Armed Detective Agency?”   The older man keeps a blank face. “A meet up. But that’s not what you’re really asking for.”   “Indeed.” Dazai loses his smile, looking past every mask the other holds up while putting up his own. “And if you can tell that much then you know why I'm asking.”   Ango hums.   A waiter takes their order so they pause the conversation, allowing Ango to mull over whatever response he’ll give Dazai. That’s perfectly fine, if Ango decides to lie or avoid the subject Dazai can always see through it and press more firmly. They both know he’s not above physical force.   Once the waiter leaves Dazai let’s the silence stir, closing his eyes to wait.   A second passes.   Then another-   “I can’t you.”   Dazai quirks his head. “Is that right?”   Ango doesn’t budge, ramrod straight and eyes serious behind his glasses. “Yes, it is. All I can possibly say is that it’s personal.”   Oh?   Dazai feels a grin spreading across his face, mood suddenly lifting. “Don’t tell me stuck-up Sakaguchi Ango actually went on a date?”   Much to his surprise, Ango actually turns pink in the ears, though he remains stoic. “No, that’s not-”   “Bah buh buh buh!” He waves a hand, interrupting. Then he points to the other man, saying, “There’s no need for excuses, I won't tell Murakoso-Chan! You can count on me.” He even holds a thumbs up, grinning ear to ear.   Ango rubs his forehead with a pained look. He’s still flushed pink though. “No, Dazai-kun, don’t misunderstand on purpose.” He stops trying to chase away his headache to look back at Dazai. “It wasn’t work related but it wasn’t thatpersonal. I don’t have time for relationships even if that was the case.” There's something almost amused in the way he says it.   Well duh. That much was obvious. But it doesn’t hurt to imagine, Ango needs to lighten up, he works to much and feels to little. The teasing is fun either way~   So he tuts, to a stranger looking as if they’re both sharing a secret when he leans forward. “So you’re still a grumpy, old virgin. Poor Ango. And I was hoping he could be chastised by a beautiful woman!…ah.”   No one beautiful would willingly date him.   Ango's eyes narrow. “…You’re thinking disrespectful things.”   Dazai blinks wide and innocent.   Their waiter arrives once more, this time with their orders—a bowl of rum balls and a slice of catella cake—and they agree without words to drop the topic.   They don’t try to talk to each other the rest of the time they eat (although Dazai scarfs his chocolate treat within a minute). Ango is simply uncomfortable and Dazai feels sick pleasure (he’s numb there are no feelings he’s not human-) being the cause.   It lasts just long enough for Dazai to understand what he needs. Ango’s probably figured some stuff out himself but that’s not here nor there. They leave once the last piece of Ango’s cake is scraped off his plate and swallowed down dryly. Dazai stands graciously, nodding to their waiter with a charming smile as she waits for the bill.   “My pal here is paying~”   He hears a barely held in sputter behind him. He chooses to ignore it, humming a small tune as he strides slowly to the exit. The other man follows quickly after. As they’re leaving the shop, ready to part ways as it always comes down to between them, Ango speaks up with an uncharacteristic murmur.   “Dazai-kun…did you ever find them?”   He doesn’t stop walking away. Doesn’t respond either. He won’t be answering those questions.   The government agent releases a breath. Dazai knows he won’t ask again. And he won’t look back either. If they meet again, Dazai still won’t give a response to such things.   Dazai spends the rest of his day in his dorm, skipping work and drinking sake. The lights remain off all the while, shadows hiding all the cans and bottles littering the small space.   He lays in his futon, sipping lazily on the sour alcohol with his eyes shut. Quieting his mind is useless, even with the aiding fuzz forming at the edges of his consciousness. How much has he drunk…? Two bottles of Tokubetsu Junmai, around triple the bottles of warm and cheap Dassai, and five much older brands he drank some time before today.   One arm is raised over his head, blanketing his right eye. The eye that should be surrounded by painful crystals.   Dazai-kun…did you ever find them?   “No…” he murmurs to nobody. “I didn’t find them.   “I pushed him away long before we could ever find each other again.”         Thirteen days come and go after that suspicious encounter with Ango. He hasn’t been able to figure out exactly what that was about nor has he been able to dig any more hints out of Ranpo. The most he can say about those two combined things is that, one; the whole day really wasn’t that important or dangerous, and two; it was related to him and Ango only, at least for now.   Now, however, Dazai’s sure he can add another strange clue to that list. And that clue in particular is directly across from him, glaring with something hotter than a thousand suns.   It’s been several weeks by now since Dazai first reunited with his partner. “Reunited” being a strong word, though not untrue.   As he had expected, knowing he wouldn’t always be able to run from his past, he was taken in by Port Mafia hands and cuffed to a basement wall. It would have almost been nostalgic if he hadn’t plotted for those stressful days.   Of course Mori must have know Dazai was not just there for really being captured. That would be foolish and far too ignorant of the man. In fact, Dazai can bet his death that Mori Ougai had known he wouldn't have been in those confinements longer than a week. Not when a possible war was on the horizon, already charged with that American Guild causing conflict with both the Agency and later the Port Mafia, who they’d orignially formed an alliance with.   But none of that was important to Dazai. He could care less what that former doctor thinks. What did pose as his main concern had been Atsushi’s files and the mafia subordinates that were sure to confront him while “captured”.   He hadn’t needed ro wait long; his first confronter stormed down those stairs, gave him threat after desperate threat, and punched him harshly. It was a pathetic show of growth, and while Dazai could fondly think at the time how Akutagawa had really grown over the past years, he still scolded the young man. An underground organization as sophisticated as the Port Mafia didn’t need whiny children who relied on violence and anger without any thought.   His former mentee had been imprressive in skill but that’s where is stopped. Dazai remembers feeling bittersweet when the other left though. It had at least dissipated as quickly as it arrived.   Dazai’s second guest…well. It would have been unlike Chuuya to pass up a chance to tear Dazai a new one. The little man had surely felt rage and pent up emotions towards his defection, and Dazai was not dissapointed.   Chuuya had walked down those basement stairs with more resolve and restraint than Akutagawa had, face set in a cold smile.   He had been just as beautiful as when Dazai last saw him.   Same size too. But Dazai was kind enough not to point that out—at least not directly.   Then…then the mafioso had froze. His bi-colored eyes had stuck on Dazai’s right eye, uncovered, unmarked. There was a look of numb acceptance that flashed acroos Chuuya’s fair face before it dissapeared a second later.   After, they spoke, fought, and teased as if there was no rift. Nothing to say Dazai had been gone for four years and nothing to show how Chuuya felt about his ex-partner’s missing diamonds.   Chuuya had left, once more as Dazai expected, though it hadn’t been too long until they’d met once more.   Corruption was beautiful too. Time did no change to it. Watching the redhead that night had been the only moment since ridding himself of his soulmark that he regretted ever doing so.   That feeling had not been as quick to leave as the one he’d felt toward Akutagawa.   Presently, staring down that very man who’s eyes hold only disdain and suspicion, Dazai thinks the word “reunited” is much more suitable now.   The only problem is why they’re here in the first place.   It hadn’t been an unusual day so far until now. He’d spotted a familiar calico lurking about and matched his leisurely stroll to it's sporadic wandering. It had taken him into a place he probably shouldn’t be frolicking around in but Dazai's always been a curious man. Sensei gives him the best mysteries too. Especially with a pair of round glasses hanging from his feline maw, carried away somewhere even Dazai couldn’t follow.   And maybe that had been the premonition of a bad omen instead of a silly cat-chase. Ango is usually a sign of bad luck as it always seems to turn out.   Like right now. What else could this be but a sign his day was verging on hell? He thinks the mafioso, already analyzing every piece of him, fully agrees to the sentiment as well.   Dazai sneers. “Hatrack.”   Chuuya gruffs (like a dog) in response. “Waste-of-Bandages.”         Fuck his life. Seriously fuck his god damned shitty life.   Chuuya glares at Dazai. The bastard smiles back.   It was absolutely fucking stupid for him to have cared. He feels disgusted in himself now, disapointed that he threw all those years of getting over himself in the fucking trash as soon as he got that call. A call from his own subordinate informing him that Dazai-fucking-Osamu was scouted close to Port Mafia territory, taking a stroke like he gives no fucks about potentially bei my taken into mafia hands again.   He had called his head squad captain early, already done with the mission he’d had with enough done to be safely replaced, and booked it back to Yokohama. It was a shitty mistake, if that smug mug tells him anything.   That smug face that also reads just as confused and annoyed as him.   “What is the mafia’s dog doing all the way over here? Shouldn’t you be busy chasing squirrels somewhere in the countryside?” The fucker makes it sound as if knowing his whereabouts is easier to read than a breeze of fucking wind. Asshole.   Chuuya leans forward, hands in his back pockets as he returns a cold smile. “You know why I’m here. The question is why you are.” He’d normally call Dazai out for his bullshit plans and schemes but he can read this man. He’s uncomfortable and unprepared enough to signify there really is something else at play that even he wasn’t expecting.   And anything that can get past Dazai means danger for everyone.   Dazai continues his nonchalant act anyway. He eyes Chuuya's hat with his Brady little eyes as he expresses, “I’ve tried all the rivers around the agency already. So I must find somewhere new!”   Chuuya raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “I’m sure it can’t be just that. You were kicked out of all the cafe’s of the area too weren’t ya? Flirting about death with too many women I bet.” He leans back, keeping his upper body (and therefore hat) away from whatever the bastard is scheming.   Those beady eyes blink owlishly. “Ah. How did Chuuya know?”   Typical.   “Because you’re predictable,” he huffs out. Well, maybe not to everyone, but his patterns are obvious enough for Chuuya.   Dazai waves a flippant hand. Then he turns abruptly on his heels and marches down the street. Still annoyed and weary, Chuuya follows, catching up until they walk side-by-side. Not unlike how they used too, though Chuuya's on his left side now. He can afford to be.   Dazai's not wearing bandages after all…   …   Chuuya dispels his spiraling mood with conversation.   “How’s the kid?”   Dazai tilts his head. “She’s finding herself. The Agency adores her. Hm, Kenji-kun is also rather fond of having a new friend his age.”   “The strong lad right?”   Chuuya receives a mirthful smirk. He feels embarrassed before anything is even said. “‘Lad’? My, Chuuya's really taking after Kouyou-san~”   “Oi! I can say what I want.”   “Now, now, slug, a proper mafioso should never repeat all the things they hear,” Dazai tuts, nodding to his own “wisdom”. “Otherwise you’ll start barking everywhere like the mutts you continue to feed on the streets!”   Chuuya feels his blood boil. He kicks out, aimed at Dazai's shitty back, swift as lightning. He growls when his attack is dodged. “STOP COMPARING ME TO DOGS!”   Dazai skips away like the little disaster he is. “Fufufu, I was right, Chuuya's already barking louder than his packmates!”   Huh. Why…why are they doing this again?   Chuuya chases after him, attempting more kicks and punches that the detective always manages to dodge. “AUGH SHUT IT! HEARING YOU IS WORSE THAN ANY ANIMAL, SO COMPARED TO THAT, DOGS ARE FUCK’N SAINTS!”   He shouldn’t be having fun. It’ll just mean the chasm will grow bigger once it stops. It means he’ll continue to peel off the keratin litering his hand, just to see blank skin.   Another kick, another dodge. They’ve rounded many streets, blocks away from where mafia territory formed a boundary.   “Oh, the wind sure is noisy today! I wonder if a storm is coming,” Dazai ponders, faux interest in the blue sky above. There are clouds but only small, whispy ones.   Chuuya screeches. “DON’T ACT LIKE IM THE FUCKING AIR EITHER DIPSHIT!”   Dazai isn't walking away either…They’re both fools.   The taller male glances down at Chuuya, making a shocked expression.   “Wait it’s just Chuuya! You must have been so small I didn’t notice. Hehe.”   “‘Hehe’ my ass,” he growls, taking a menacing step towards the other. Dazai is suicidal (duh) so of course he stays still. “You’re gonna be dropped from a damned building just for all your snarky comments.”   “Eeeeeh lame,” Dazai says with a disgusted face. “Does Chuuya have nothing original to say? I might as well just go, my precious time is being wasted by an annoying midget.”   Dazai does not, in fact, go. He and Chuuya go on and on with their back and forth banter until Dazai ends up being strangled on top of the tallest building in Yokohama (the Port Mafia towers not included). And just as Chuuya warned previously, the fishy mackerel is then tossed off.   He laughs as he falls. From the top of the building, Chuuya swears the other man is genuinely having the time of his life, slowly coming closer to the asphalt. Always such a freak of nature, never fearing the end of the fall.   Or he simply has complete faith in Chuuya's ability to disrupt it. That’s not so out of the realm of possibility anymore.   Chuuya sighs. Then he steps off, weighing himself with gravity to fall faster and reach the ground sooner. No sooner does he hold his arms out when Dazai collapses painfully into them, the impact at minimum bruising some bones. At least he doesn’t complain about the pain like he would have when they were younger. Dazai just bats his eyes in Chuuya's face, kicking his legs around like a fucking princess.   “My hero! Tiny and loud and tacky and brutish-”   “You can stop now,” Chuuya mutters, about to let this fucker break his ass on the ground. He’s done the same thing many times prior.   “-and smelly and grumpy, but veeeeeeery loyal.” Dazai raises a hand and—with almost unnoticeable hesitance that Chuuya barely catches—pats the ginger’s face softly. Even his smile is on th verge of being soft.   Ah. This is why they do this.   “A chibi-sizer prince just for me. Aren't I special?”   Chuuya thinks he has no right sounding so endeared. He also thinks it's unfair how much of a hypocrite this idiotic genius makes him.   “A special pain in my ass maybe,” is said with just as much endearment. Disgusting and pathetic.   Dazai's eyes gleam as if to taunt him, despite the way one should be surrounded in crystals.   It’s simple, what happens after that. Following Dazai around all day had basically sealed his fate and he’d known known that every moment he remained entertaining his ex-partner.   Dazai's shitty apart was, without surprise, shitty. Bottles littering every corner, emptied cans of what used to definitely be greasy crab chunks nowhere near a trash can—a trash can that, Chuuya can guess, smells like vomit—and ratty clothes (the few this fucker actually owns) strewn against walls with some even mixed in with a tidy futon.   Overall, extremely gross. Chuuya almost regrets choosing his ex-partner’s place over his own much nicer apartment floor.   But he can’t turn back, not when Dazai is steadily cupping by his face, sucking on his lips with soft passion. Chuuya knows he wouldn’t want to regret this either, no matter their location, so he kisses back equally passionate.   Their lips slide together—God, Dazai's mouth has never been so smooth and tasty—in rythym only they can find, sliding over each other as their bodies sway with the motions. Chuuya bites. Dazai licks. Their mouths open and together they breath the same heated air, wet and humid as Chuuya dives his tongue into the other’s mouth. Dazai hums around him, sucking teasingly on the muscle when it licks the roof of his mouth.   They lay down slowly into the futon, bodies pressed together as they don’t stop to think about anything else. Both men know they don’t want to think, to consider anything outside of skin and arousal. Chuuya may keep his shirt and choker on, Dazai might remain in his never-ending layer of bandages, and yet neither would even consider stopping. They can’t consider nothing when all that’s in their brains is lust.   The futon is chilly, Chuuya belatedly realizes when noticing the brunette shiver upon it. The thought goes away a second later. He can warm Dazai up easily.   Everything is hot.   Everything is sweaty, in both sexy and unpleasant ways.   Chuuya's body feels alive. Dazai's feet digging into his lower back, arms clinging to his neck with teasing fingers that tangle in the hair on his nape. The sex isn’t what sells it, no: Chuuya could never enjoy intimacy easily, despite all attempts o’ve his life.   Yet fuck everything because Dazai makes it so damn good.   Dazai doesn’t moan or cry, he doesn’t gasp out high notes or beg or scream. He’s as subtle with expressing his pleasure as Chuuya. A perfect fit together no matter the circumstances.   It’s good enough that they fumble together again later, long after Chuuya force-fed the idiot and scrubbed their filthy bodies. It’s just as soft and heated as the first time, no difference found even with Dazai leading this time. Chuuya calls the shots, Dazai follows: the detective adjusts their moments, then he’s given the push to his pull.   There is no talking, not through any of it. Nothing that they need to speak of at least.   No, that conversation comes later.   It wouldn’t do them any good if they pushed either other to communicate, despite how easily they always read other.   But when they do, talking becomes comforting. Chuuya gets answers and Dazai gets to hear about Chuuya's life without him.   Yes, Dazai removed his crystals. He doesn’t explain how but he why is clear without explanation. He can’t have something so vulnerable seen for all the world, especially when he’s now broken away from a dangerous group. Chuuya doesn’t want to ask how either way, not after the incident so long ago. He doesn’t tell Dazai about it, better to stay burried.   The only thing he gives Dazai shit for is keeping it secret that Verlaine went after him first at sixteen. The tall idiot gives the excuse of Chuuya just “being to stupid to figure it out” but it’s bullcrap. He knows the shithead just wanted to take away one of his burdens. Dazai's always been silent when lending out a helping hand.   Meet ups become normal but still infrequent and not always out of romanticism. They don’t officially get together after that either, that’s too soon.   Dates though…dating is fine. Chuuya can stand going out with his intolerable soulmate.         Dazai stares.   Chuuya stares.   They’re both looking at the same thing, glancing to each other just to make sure, yet it still makes no sense.   It’s in a bar, early in the morning ours of Japan, that the pair sit together at a booth. The mafioso came for a call as did the detective, though the callers themselves were not the same. All it was was a ruse to push them in the same box apparently, though that’s hardly deserving of their otherwise sickly demeanors. It could even be considered “normal”, if they were normal people. But otherwise, not too out of pocket right?   Completely, utterly, wrong.   Because what is this? What kind of joke from hell sits across from them on the opposite end of the table?   Chuuya is pale, confused, and understandably disgusted.   Dazai is no better. Except he at least has a puzzle finished with this missing piece.   Ango, calm if not a little tired (figures), sits poised as normal, sipping a glass of water. “There are probably questions you both share at the moment but at least I can assure you they are able to be answered.”   Beside the government agent, one arm snug around Ango’s neck, fiddling aimlessly with the silver ribbon that long since replaced a tie, is none other than the absolute worst match possible.   Paul-used-to-be-a-world-wide-threat-Verlaine.   The French man nods listlessly, eyes fanning over his company with some small amounts of amusement and sick satisfaction. “Of course I am just as certain that you each only know half of the story.”   By now Chuuya has swallowed down his wine and pride, glaring at his brother with such animosity and betrayal it practically fills the rest of the bar. Dazai can’t be one to judge, he already feels like throwing up all over the older men and shooting himself.   “Explain before I bring this shithole down on the both of you,” Chuuya hisses out. His hand clenches and unclenches around his glass repeatedly.   Ango is the one who does the talking. “As is obvious, we’ve met a number of times over the past year, five-and-a-half months give or take before your own reunion.”   “And that was because…?” Dazai prompts. He knows the answer, and it’s frustrating that he does. He doesn’t want to. It makes him feel less than a pawn of a board game.   “Dazai-kun, Nakahara-san, you were both struggling.”   The two in question smile and dent the table respectively.   Ango proceeds with the explanation, not bothered by their reactions. “I reached out first. Verlaine-” “Paul, darling.” Chuuya's face turns green. “-Paul-san was the best option to speak to not only for familiarity with both of you but for security as well.   “It took some convincing on my end but in February he agreed to meet with me in private.” Ango nods to the younger Exectutive. “He did it for Nakahara-san. As he told me, you manually attempted to remove your soulmark after Dazai-kun left, correct?”   Dazai whips his head to the redhead who sucks in a breath. He looks pissed at Verlaine for sharing something that should very well be personal.   “Chuuya-”   “You told a government spy about that?!” Chuuya yells, slamming his fist onto the table. It dents under the power.   His brother is guiltless, raising his chin. “As I needed to. If Ango had proved to be a threat I would have killed him. Do not doubt me.”   Chuuya clenches his teeth, standing from his seat. “Bastard!” He shrugs off Dazai's grounding hand, the glow of For the Tainted Sorrow dissipating from the brief contact. “What right did you think you had to tell him that?!”   Verlaine narrows his eyes but doesn’t rise to anger like the other man. “You said you were getting better but you weren’t, dear brother. You worried yourself endless and rotted away in your own body. There was a way to repair it so I took the chance.”   “BY FUCKING A GOVERNMENT ASSHOLE?!”   Unfortunately, Verlaine has the audacity to smirk. Ango himself shrinks into his shoulder with shame. “That’s certainly true as well.”   Dazai gags. Chuuya keeps screaming profanities.   Overall it was a VERY long and stressful morning.         With the light of the office room dim yet just enough to see the files sat neatly in front of him, Ango sets down his fountain pen. The reason being a handsome figure that silently appeared in the doorway. The room had been shut and locked but it was pointless for a man like Verlaine.   Ango stands, double checking the order of the documents before moving to the other man’s side.   “You smell like ink,” is the first thing said to him once he’s reached Paul. He has come to learn it’s not out of cruel insentive but simply a fact the blond wants to make known.   So he nods curtly, fingers entertaining with smoother, longer ones. “It was a busy batch.” They begin to treck down the hallway.   Paul hums. “You’re always busy, darling.”   Isn’t that just the cruel truth.   They pass back and forth words of conversation until reaching Ango’s simple kitchen, food already cooked to perfection and waiting patiently on the island. Ango speaks nothing of it, saying thanks only with a shy tilt of his head.   Paul takes it in stride, a small smile gracing his features. They sit across from each other when they begin their meal, giving thanks with a bow of their heads.   It’s so tranquil Ango could almost forget he didn’t have this before two months ago when the other proclaimed himself as Ango’s lover and caretaker of sorts. Nothing like how he used to get by on a day to day basis but he can say with conviction that he much prefers the current arrangement significantly more.   The same can’t be said for two individuals.   Really, the get together yesterday had been a disaster and so utterly embarrassing. Ango was a man of his word and there was no reason to keep Dazai or Chuuya in the dark longer than necessary once his and Paul’s goals were complete, but that hadn’t made the event any less uncomfortable. He’s sure his old friend could have explained away their involvement to his soulmate even with just a simple “hello” and “goodbye” yet that would have four them both on the revenge list of those two.   Soukoku has never been one to forgive or forget. Not for pats friends and not for family.   Though speaking of forgiving…   He finishes his current bite of food before speaking to Paul. “When you said you had a plan to have Soukoku meet inconspicuously I had no doubt you could accomplish it. However, I still fail to see why that plan would have needed my glasses.” Ango has spares, many in fact. It's just an unneeded hussle to find and use them.   Paul cuts at his steak delicately, always proper no matter if he’s assassinating a political tyrant or just breaking apart his meal. He gives Ango a secretive smile. “For the sake of my contact all I can say is that your spectacles were a baiting tool. Dazai-kun wouldn’t have let himself fall for the trap otherwise.”   An understanding frown mares Ango’s face and he nods just once. He’s not one to judge others for secrecy or anonymous action. Whoever the King of Assassins trusted to do his dirty work surely deserved that respect and Ango will give it to him.   So he smiles back at his lover. “Alright.”   The night moves on, the circle of time turns, love lives on.         OMAKE:   Dazai, after the traumatizing dinner date: “Chuuya, why did you keep staring at Ango's ribbon”   Chuuya: “…that was Verlains’s.”   Dazai: “Well yes, but you seem especially agrivated about it”   Chuuya, staring far into the distance: “He used to tell me he would ‘gift it to his love when they had their first passion of intimacy’. He meant Rimbaud. But this is more disturbing.”   Dazai, now equally disturbed: “I’m breaking into Ango's home and burning it.”   Chuuya: “I’ll cover for you.”