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izanyas · 5 years

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Earlier Than Never

Written for skk zine, posted as part of the Soukoku Trope Bingo 2018 (prompt: School).

Rating: G Words: 5,200 No warnings.

Earlier Than Never

Chuuya's second year of high school should have been exactly like the first.

He did well in most of his classes. He had good friends. He was part of the soccer team, which had won every game he had played, much to their coach's delight. He wasn't involved in any of the occasional sordid stories and rumors that were part of all school experiences; he stood up against bullies, was appreciated by his teachers and classmates, and was occasionally confessed to by girls he had to turn down in spite of his embarrassment—and without quite revealing why he turned them down.

He should've walked his way toward the end of the year tranquilly, and Dazai should've kept ignoring him.

"You know," said the voice of the boy in question, much deeper now than it had been before Dazai had disappeared from his life, "I really wouldn't have pegged you for the top-of-the-year kind. Aren't sports kids supposed to get abysmal grades?"

He was leaning over Chuuya's shoulder, peering down at the physics homework spread over Chuuya's desk, and his words came with soft exhales around the bare skin of Chuuya's neck. Chuuya clenched his teeth reflexively. He also clenched his hand, crumpling the page of his textbook and making his scars redden.

Don't answer him, he told himself.

"But there you are, beating me in science. You used to be terrible at math, Chuuya; what on earth happened?"

"This is self-study," came Yosano's drawling voice from the row behind them. "Not study-your-neighbor, Dazai."

Chuuya's jaw only relaxed when he felt Dazai move away to look at her. He didn't have to turn around to know the face he would be making now; slightly bemused, slightly condescending, as if to ask her, Why would I need to study?

"I don't have anything to work on right now," Dazai replied, oddly polite.

"Nakahara does."

"Surely our resident genius can handle a few questions."

"I'm not your resident genius," Chuuya said between his teeth. He regretted it immediately, for Dazai seemed to take his spite as invitation and leaned over his desk again, sideways this time, so that Chuuya couldn't avoid having him within his sight. Furious with himself, he shot Dazai a glare. "I just work hard."

Dazai gave him a slow smile. With his head tilted, with how close they were to the windows, his hair lightened to brown. Strands of it brushed softly over his forehead.

Chuuya held his breath and looked away.

"You really like physics." Chuuya didn't make a move to stop Dazai as he slid the notebook out of his loose-fingered hold, and even without direct contact, Chuuya felt his fingertips tingle. "Your handwriting's still terrible, but these are some well-kept notes. I know our teacher wants you to study it in college, too."

Had the compliment come from anyone else, Chuuya would've thanked them. He would have felt flustered, a little flattered, proud of himself. As it came from Dazai, he only spat, "What is it to you anyway?"

There was a brief silence. "It's just interesting," Dazai replied evenly. "You've changed."

If Dazai wanted to get to know Chuuya again, he could've done so any time in the last year. Chuuya ripped his notebook out of the other's hold and started shoving his things back in his bag.

"Yosano," he called, ignoring Dazai's presence entirely and looking over his shoulder. Yosano sat a desk over, looking at them with boredom. "Wanna go get lunch?"

"I suppose it's close enough to the end of the period," she answered, eyes flicking toward the wall clock. "Though, we'll get chewed if we get caught."

"We won't. Come on."

He waited just long enough for her to have bagged her own books before rising from his chair. He pushed Dazai out of his way, and Dazai moved without complaint, following the press of Chuuya's hand like water swept by the tide.

Chuuya barely listened to what Yosano was saying while they crossed the corridor leading to Higuchi's classroom. He leaned by the wall next to the door as she stuck her head inside to invite her to join them.

It was a warm spring day, blooming pink and yellow over the wide school grounds. Chuuya let the sun wash over his face and felt only shivers.

"Welcome home."

Arthur's voice must be coming from within the kitchen. Chuuya eased his shoes off one-handed and tried not to stumble in the process. His backpack was only slung over one shoulder, pulling him toward the ground. He managed not to fall by awkwardly shoving himself onto the wall; behind him, the front door closed with a click.

Arthur's head peeked out of the open entrance of the kitchen. "You alive in there?"

"Yeah," Chuuya replied, smiling despite himself. "Sorry. Just tired from practice."

"You're running late. Your coach isn't working you too hard, is he?"

"S'fine. The season starts next week."

Arthur gave a sympathetic noise and went back to what smelled like dinner. Chuuya exhaled slowly, thoroughly, until at last some of the tension in his back filtered out. His calves and thighs still ached fiercely, but that was nothing a good night's sleep wouldn't fix.

"What's for dinner?" he asked once he had put on his slippers and made his way to the kitchen itself. He let his bags fall by his chair and took a seat, glad to see that the table had already been set.

"Pasta," Arthur announced proudly. "I think I managed to cook them al dente."

"Did you tell Paul already?"

"Who do you take me for? I sent him a snap the moment I took them out of the water."

Chuuya laughed. "How unfair is it," he declared, "that the best dad and the best sibling are both on the other side of the world. I haven't seen a vegetable that wasn't sadly boiled in a month."

"You can cook," Arthur replied, falsely accusing, even as he dumped a spoonful of spaghetti into Chuuya's plate. "You're just never around to do it."

"We can't all work from home, old man."

Dinner was a pleasant affair. It always was. Even with Paul and Kouyou gone to France—one to spoon-feed Arthur's new book to its intended public, the other for college—Chuuya didn't feel off in the least. Arthur was good company, with cutting humor and kind eyes. That had been what had driven Chuuya to him in the first place, eight-year-old that he had been, feral and rude and achingly lonely.

If he had been told then that he would one day have a place to call home and people to call family, he would've laughed until he cried.

Chuuya took care of the dishes despite his aching legs and Arthur's offer to do it himself. The activity soothed his mind of the day's thoughts, too many of which had been occupied by Dazai's weird behavior of late, and the scarring on his hands was old enough now that dish soap and water didn't irritate it too much. He barely spared it a glance as he set the plates up to dry on their own.

"I've got some homework left," he called from the kitchen, wiping his hands with a clean rag. "So I'm gonna head up now."

He could see the back of Arthur's head above the armchair he was sat in, no doubt putting endless edits onto an already-perfect draft. Arthur lifted a hand in his direction and said, "Good night, kid."

Paul always had an easier time calling Chuuya son than Arthur did, but even so, Chuuya heard the word for what it was. It kept him warm through the chest during all of his Japanese lit reading.

His phone rang sometime before ten, right as he was deliberating getting started on chemistry ahead of time. He took the call, as happy with the excuse not to as he was with its sender.

"Hi." He grinned as soon as Kouyou's face sharpened over the screen.

"Hello," she replied, smiling as well. "Hard at work?"

"Procrastinating. Where's Paul?"

"At some fancy editorial luncheon, I believe, singing Arthur's praise." It was afternoon still in France, and Chuuya could see sunlight around the shape of his sister, a stone wall at the back of her head and foliage from some tree brushing in and out of the frame. "How are you?"

Generally speaking they reserved calls for weekends, because of the awkward time difference and because it was easier for all of them to be present at once, so Kouyou and he had talked only days ago. Chuuya knew he had been withdrawn, though, and so he had an idea of the reason she had chosen a time when she knew he would be alone.

He picked idly at the numb burn scars marring the back of his wrists and hands. They weren't so very swollen now and thankfully not nearly as sensitive as they had been for months after the accident, but he still only had to focus for a second to feel the echo of that ache.

"I'm fine," he replied at last.

He knew he couldn't fool her.

"Chuuya," Kouyou said, predictably, in a less agreeable tone than she had used so far. "Something's bothering you."

"It's nothing important."

"But it's something."

Sometimes, Chuuya really wished that she weren't so perceptive.

"It's nothing," he repeated, but the words came with far less ease the second time around. "It's just—you know. Dazai."

Kouyou kept silent for a moment. When she asked, "Has he done anything to you?" her voice was cold.

"No," Chuuya replied too quickly. "No, he's just decided to stop ignoring me is all."

"What do you mean?"

He hadn't realized just how tightly he had withheld his thoughts, crushed them inside his chest like paper in a closed fist, until the words came flowing out of him at the sight of Kouyou's face, the sound of her static-filled voice. Each time he said Dazai's name came a little more easily. It was a year now since the boy had reappeared into his life; yet aside from mentioning his return once on the day he had turned fifteen, Chuuya had not said any more.

Fatigue threatened to pull his eyelids down by the time he was done. He had moved from desk to bed sometime during his messy rant, and was in the middle of changing into sleepwear with his phone screen turned away.

"I don't know what to tell you," she said to him, her head now resting fully against the wall of what must be her university building. Chuuya slid into bed. "I can't fix this for you."

"I know," Chuuya mumbled sleepily.

"But…"

She paused. The mic of her own phone was not powerful enough to pick up the wind he could see swaying in her hair, but Chuuya heard it all the same. For a moment, he pictured himself sitting next to her, breathing in smells different from those of Yokohama, lacking the salt that sea brought but perhaps a bit sweeter.

"I don't think he'd be speaking to you for no reason. Maybe he wants to apologize."

"I don't want his apology."

At least not for what Dazai probably thought he should be apologizing for. Chuuya stared at the back of his hands, where his skin was pink and white and melted-looking.

"Then maybe he just misses you, Chuuya," Kouyou said softly.

Darkness was tugging at the corners of Chuuya's sight. The exertion of the day caught up with him at last and made his body languid, his mind weak against the pull of sleep.

He had almost entirely given to it when Kouyou added, "You're very easy to miss."

The first game of the season came the next Wednesday. Chuuya spent most of that week allowing himself lenience on school work to focus on training instead, spending each evening in the company of his team, carving strategy into his head as deep as he did the physical drills. He didn't see much of his father outside of breakfast because, more often than not, he and Tachihara ended up getting dinner together after practice, too tired to do much more than moan about their fate.

Coach Oda had high hopes for them this year. The winning nationals sort of hope. Just because he was nice about it didn't mean that he was letting any of them, especially Chuuya, slack off any.

Chuuya spent the night before the game catching up on what little homework he could and then forcing himself into bed at ten o'clock sharp. Until midnight he stared at the ceiling of his room and listened to the comings and goings of Arthur downstairs. Arthur always wrote the most at night.

Somehow, he ended up falling asleep; and somehow, he woke up feeling refreshed, free of the almost-constant nausea that stress had knotted into his stomach all week. He ate with relief, showered, picked up his bag and made for his school.

Luckily, the game was to be held there. He didn't think he would be quite so calm if he had to step onto foreign grounds, no matter that the team they were playing studied only a handful of streets away.

"You ready for this?" Tachihara asked when he entered the locker room.

"We'll see," Chuuya replied, grabbing his offered arm firmly.

He turned his focus to the game after that. Changing into his team colors, warming up, all of it in a blur; soon enough he was on the field, surrounded by a surprising amount of people. It seemed most of their school had turned up, as well as a good chunk of their opposing team's. A cry of his name quickly brought his attention to where Higuchi sat, next to a smirking Yosano.

Dazai was behind them. Their eyes met for a second—just long enough for Dazai's lips to flutter into a smile.

Chuuya felt the cooling heat in his face awaken once more and turned away harshly.

It was a good game. Chuuya had not expected that they would lose, though their opponents had a new and better coach this year than the last time they had played each other. A coach was only as good as their team, however, and although the woman sitting next to Oda by the field's flank looked severe and involved, Chuuya's team was still a level above what she could handle.

Their win was expected, but it didn't stop the stadium from exploding in cheers once the final whistle was blown, nor Oda from congratulating them all warmly. Sakaguchi, Chuuya's literature teacher and the person responsible for the club, smiled awkwardly by his side.

"You're a force of nature, Nakahara," said one of Chuuya's teammates once they were back in the locker room and queueing for the showers. Shirase—that was his name—wiped uselessly at the sweat running down his face. "How the hell did you score that last one?"

"Luck," Chuuya replied honestly.

"Bullshit."

"Chuuya's just that good," Tachihara interrupted, happily throwing one arm over Chuuya's shoulder, laughing at Chuuya's grunt of displeasure. "Are you jealous you could only land one?"

"Shut up, Tachihara, you didn't score anything."

"I'm in defense, shithead."

"Are you on something?" Shirase sneered, turning to Chuuya once more. "There's no way you're just doing all that fair and square."

His eyes roamed up and down Chuuya's body. He was the tallest member of the team, long-legged and very fast for it. Chuuya had no love for him, and Shirase didn't like him either, but they rarely confronted each other directly. Chuuya thought himself more mature than to let rivalry put the team at risk.

"I guess being a teacher's pet helps," Shirase continued. "Or… you've never had a girlfriend, right? Maybe you've picked up on your daddies' tastes. Do you offer special favors—"

Chuuya punched him.

It wasn't a hard punch, but Shirase still bent in two over the zone of the impact, choking on a swear and turning red in the face. Chuuya's ears were ringing, his body tensing anew. His left knee bent in preparation for a kick.

"You fucking—"

"Nakahara," came Oda's voice.

Everyone seemed to freeze in their spot. Shirase straightened up painfully. The others, who had peeked over the shower booths or around the lockers to watch the commotion, quickly went back to their business.

"Yes," Chuuya said, feeling very far from his own body.

Oda nodded to the side of the door by which he was standing. "Someone wants to talk to you, if you've got a minute."

It took a while for Chuuya to make sense of his coach's words. Probably no more than a few seconds, but to him, they felt like hours.

"Sure," he replied slowly. He clenched his teeth. Released them. Stepped away from his friend and added, "I'll be right back, Tachihara."

"Uh, all right."

He made his way to the entrance of the room and past his coach, who gave him a glance that said I know what you just did and don't think I'll let it slide more sharply than words could. Chuuya's only comfort was that Oda stared at Shirase next with even more disappointment.

How Oda managed to convey so much while looking perpetually bored was anyone's guess.

The air outside came too crisply to his damp skin, chilling it almost instantly. Spring hadn't settled enough to make the wind was bearable. Chuuya found that it did little to help soothe the anger clawing up his insides; but then he saw Dazai standing a little way from the door, shoes stained by the damp grass and lips stretched into a thin smile.

Chuuya turned around and tried to make for the lockers again.

"Wait," Dazai called, hurrying after him and grabbing him around the elbow. "I just need to ask you something."

"I've got nothing to say to you," Chuuya gritted out, pouring as much loathing as he could into the word.

Dazai hesitated. His grip on Chuuya's arm relaxed, and Chuuya could have easily freed himself, with how slick he felt all over and with Dazai's apparent reluctance to hold onto him too tightly.

The observation only made him angrier.

For a moment they stood as they were: Chuuya half-turned away and Dazai looking almost lost. Chuuya still felt as though the blood in his veins was simmering. He would hear Shirase's hateful words echo through him if only he bothered to listen.

"Well?" Chuuya snapped, once the silence became too hard to bear. It didn't matter that chatter filtered out of the locker room as an easy distraction. "Ask your question."

Dazai's shoulders relaxed visibly. He let go of Chuuya's arm. "You were great today," he said evenly. "Though that's less surprising than the grades."

"You had all of last year to tell me that if you wanted to."

Chuuya wanted to do more; he wanted to add, asshole, to the end of his sentence, or yell it out instead. But Dazai looked away then as if shamed by his words—as if he could ever feel shame—and his throat shivered visibly.

"Are you doing anything tomorrow evening?" he asked then.

Surprise made Chuuya tell the truth without thinking. "No."

"Great," and now Dazai was smiling again, as devastatingly handsome now as he had been when they were thirteen and thought their world would never change. "Can you meet me at nine?"

"What for?" Chuuya asked defensively, instead of doing the smart thing and refusing outright.

Dazai shook his head. His smile turned a little more bitter. "Just trust me," he said. And then, probably realizing how that sounded: "If you want to."

Chuuya should say no.

It wasn't even because the last time he had met with Dazai on his own had turned out the way it did. That was very far from his mind. He should say no because he didn't owe Dazai anything, not anymore, not after two years of silence and a year of being made to feel as if he hadn't meant anything to Dazai at all.

"Maybe he wants to apologize," Kouyou had said, but Chuuya wanted no apology.

"Maybe he misses you."

Chuuya couldn't pretend that he hadn't missed Dazai either.

"Fine," he said.

Dazai's face lit up with his grin. It always did.

The thing was, it hadn't been Dazai's fault.

He hadn't been the one to make Chuuya fall. He hadn't placed the until then-unseen puddle of car oil where it was, ready to ignite at the touch of Chuuya's lit cigarette. They had hung around the disused garage countless times before, a secret lair for two children as so many other places of the kind must be for so many others.

The thing was that Chuuya and Dazai had once been friends. Chuuya had been adopted in France, where his Japanese mother had given birth to him before leaving him behind, where Arthur and Paul had married and lived their whole lives until choosing to adopt two kids no one wanted: an eight-year-old boy who had caused nothing but trouble for every foster home he had lived in, and a twelve-year-old girl who had done much of the same. They had moved to Japan after that because Arthur and Paul wanted Chuuya and Kouyou to live in their country of origin.

Chuuya had met Dazai almost immediately. It had taken no more than a day for the both of them to get into a fight at Chuuya's brand new school—a school he could go to without the shame of having to say that he had no home, no parents to come home to, for the very first time. And Chuuya couldn't remember why he had fought with Dazai that day, or why he had allowed the other boy to follow him around after that, bruised and angry even as they sat together on a bench and contemplated the wide world around them.

He couldn't explain why Dazai followed him, and why he let Dazai follow, and why he felt as happy with the thought of a friend as he was with that of a family. Back then the two hadn't been different to him; back then everyone in his life that he cared about was as good as kin.

So Chuuya and Dazai grew, picking fights with each other as often as they did not, lying side by side on the floor of each other's bedroom, sneaking around Yokohama for every dirty corner they could find and call theirs.

Chuuya didn't remember much of the incident after he had fallen. The doctors had told him that it was for the best because he had been in so much pain; Chuuya thought it was for the worst because he couldn't know if the anguished cry of his name he had heard when his arms took fire had been real or a nightmare.

For a very long time that was the last thing he heard from Dazai at all. Chuuya, bellowed from the lungs of a gangly kid, breaking over the vowels because his voice hadn't set yet.

All he knew was that Dazai had escaped unharmed. He let the thought float through his drug-hazed mind in the weeks he spent watching the burned skin of his hands and forearms heal. He hung onto it day after day, waiting for Dazai to visit him, to text him, to do anything to prove he hadn't been a figment of Chuuya's imagination all this time.

Dazai had long been gone by the time Chuuya was released from the hospital. He stayed gone for two years. Some of their mutual friends said he had moved overseas. Others said that he had died.

When he came back at the beginning of Chuuya's first year of high school, Chuuya thought for days that he was seeing a ghost roaming the corridors.

"Oh, hello, Chuuya," Dazai said the one time they bumped into each other with no one else around.

He never said anything else.

Chuuya arrived late to his rendezvous with Dazai because Dazai himself always arrived late, and he didn't want to look like a fool waiting for someone to show up. Not when he didn't know if Dazai would even bother showing up.

Dazai was already there.

"Hi," he told Chuuya, smiling.

Chuuya didn't know how to answer. He felt like smiling back, or turning away and going home. Most of all he felt like hiding his face into the shadows, away from the glare of streetlight, so that Dazai could not read from him what he did not want to be read.

They were at the entrance of Mitsuike Park. The sun had slipped behind the mountains, and the sky was a dark blue, yet people were milling about, families and couples walking in and out of the open gates with a soft murmur of voices.

"I didn't think parks stayed open at night," Chuuya said. He had to say something.

Dazai turned his back to him and replied, "Follow me."

The walkers around them became sparser the deeper they went. Dazai soon took Chuuya away from the paths and between trees and flowering bushes, always looking over his shoulder to make sure Chuuya followed, holding branches out of his way when one was too high to step over.

"I remember you said you'd never done this before," Dazai said at one point, chasing off the quiet.

Chuuya wasn't sure where they were anymore. The canopy overhead kept them from moonlight, making Dazai's trail difficult to follow. He guided himself mostly with the sound of the other's footsteps, almost too sharp against the thick silence and occasional watery sounds. At least the lake must not be far; Chuuya would be able to navigate his way back by following the shore if Dazai tried to lose him.

"Done what?" he asked.

"Hanami. Your dads are always too busy at this time of the year, and you never got around to doing it with someone else, right?"

Don't talk about my dads, Chuuya wanted to say. Shirase's insults were too close still to the surface of his mind, only a shiver away from breaking through and awakening his rage. But Dazai's tone wasn't mocking. Dazai has never said anything uncouth toward Arthur or Paul or Chuuya himself. Not about this.

"I've seen the trees plenty of times," he replied.

"Not properly."

Dazai stumbled on a root. Chuuya grabbed the back of his jacket to keep him from falling forward. It was a thoughtless act, not something he wanted to spend time analyzing; but before he could take his hand back he found it clutched in Dazai's own.

Dazai's hand was surprisingly cold. Soft and barely even damp. When his thumb brushed over Chuuya's scar, Chuuya stopped thinking entirely.

He was pulled forward and out of the thick greenery.

There was a little wooden balcony there that Chuuya had never seen before. It looked dusty, unused, perhaps forgotten by all. The lantern sat upon its bannister looked older than any Chuuya had seen before.

Yet it wasn't the sudden light that Chuuya was staring at.

Pink petals hung from the cherry trees and swayed into the breeze. No stars could be seen now against the glow of that lantern, but it didn't matter at all; not when every flower looked like cut paper on a canvas, drawn by hand onto the black sky, falling onto the quiet lake like snow.

"Come on," Dazai murmured.

Chuuya let himself be dragged towards the steps in front of them. He climbed onto the promontory with Dazai's hand still holding his. He couldn't look anywhere but above, at the streaks of black night running ink-like between glowing flowers. The surface of the lake was dot work, pink and white strewn overwater like little drops of paint.

"It's nice, isn't it?"

Chuuya couldn't have told how long it took him to look back at Dazai. He felt for once undisturbed by the smile on his lips.

He swallowed. "It's nice," he replied. "It's… it's beautiful."

Dazai had once accused him of always being swayed by pretty things. Chuuya had not told him how much of that applied to how Dazai swayed him.

"I'm glad," Dazai said. "I wanted to give you a nice birthday gift."

Chuuya frowned. "My birthday is next week."

"Ah, but they won't be blooming anymore by then. They're already late as it is."

Chuuya tried in vain to make sense of it. Rather than ask Dazai directly, he looked at the flowers again. Dazai's fingers in his hair almost startled his heart to a stop.

He allowed the other to pull whatever it was he caught out of Chuuya's hair—a petal, it turned out, and a leaf that must have been there since they worked their way through the trees.

"Chuuya," Dazai said then. "I'm sorry."

It felt like a dream, because Chuuya had dreamed of this many more time than he could count. Dazai appearing at the door of his hospital room. Dazai walking into class one day and grinning at him foolishly. Dazai sparing more than absent glances toward him as they crossed paths in hallways.

Dazai holding his hand under a roof of luminous flowers.

"It doesn't change anything," Chuuya said lowly.

"I know."

"You fucking disappeared. For two years. And then you acted like I didn't even exist."

"I'm sorry." Dazai seemed to brace himself. "I'm so sorry. I had my reasons, but I know they're not going to just erase everything—that is, if you're willing to hear me out." There was fear on his face, for a second, that Chuuya would not be. "But not now," he finished. "Now I just want to apologize."

And Chuuya had said time and time again, to himself and his family, that he had no need for Dazai's apology; but his heart felt swollen now, pushing up his throat and making his eyes burn.

"I hate you," he let out. He wound his free arm around Dazai's shoulders and said again, "I hate you so much," before embracing him.

Dazai laughed against the top of his head. His fingers twined with Chuuya's, pressing them together to gap the spaces in which they shook, taking in the warmth cradled in Chuuya's palm as if he had only ever been cold. Chuuya shoved his face into his shoulder and willed himself not to cry.

Dazai was the one who pulled away first. Chuuya felt the absence of his hand sharply, at least until it came to rest along his arm instead, thumb stroking over Chuuya's jacket. With a settling inhale, he leaned back as well.

"Your story better be damn good," he said shakily, once he had retrieved enough of himself to be able to speak.

Dazai smiled tiredly. He didn't make a move to avoid Chuuya's hand brushing the side of his face, though his cheeks colored at the contact, echoing Chuuya's own blush.

"I don't know if it's good," he replied, "but it's interesting."

Already, Chuuya felt something heal in him that he hadn't known was still bleeding. Already he knew that whatever Dazai's story was, he would forgive him for it.

He couldn't find it in himself to regret it at all.

#bsd #bungou stray dogs #soukoku #dazai osamu #nakahara chuuya #soukoku trope bingo 2018 #fic: earlier than never #finally i never have to look at this again #featured

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izanyas · 6 years

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Nothing Noble (2)

Second chapter of the roleswap Soukoku fic, with agency!Chuuya and mafia!Dazai.

Rating: M Words: 7,200 Warnings: mentions of child abuse.

[Read from Chapter 1]

Nothing Noble Chapter 2

Dazai wasn't unfamiliar with human life being put to a price, or with those prices being on the high side of the scale, but even he had to admit that he had never before seen anyone willing to pay so much money for catching someone alive.

He looked at the note Akutagawa was holding up again. He whistled appreciatively. He ignored the face Akutagawa made, or Oda's sigh at his side.

"That's a lot for one teenager, isn't it," he said.

"He is gifted," Akutagawa replied needlessly.

"He turns into a tiger. Unless you want to make his hide into a rug, I fail to see what use he could have."

He attempted, without thought, to lean against the wall at his back; his hip flared with dull pain immediately, and this time he was the one having to hide a grimace.

Oda's gaze weighed heavily on him.

"Maybe they really do want to make him into a rug," he mused. "Or have him fight other animals for show. Those kinds of freaks exist all over the world."

Akutagawa lowered his arm at last and asked, "Should I go after him?"

Dazai made a show of holding his chin thoughtfully.

He was more than a bit uncomfortable with Akutagawa being here while he was still drowsy from the medication, still in pain from the biopsy, but at least Akutagawa was always oblivious to his moods. He probably thought that his wavering gait was just another way to mock him.

The fact that his office was mostly plunged in darkness helped. Akutagawa wouldn't notice how little he had slept even with light glaring upon them, but Dazai would rather he did not see it at all.

Still, Akutagawa had asked instead of running off on his own. That deserved some sort of a reward.

"It would be foolish of the port mafia to miss out on a bounty of seven billion yen, wouldn't it?" he asked.

Akutagawa's eyes lit up, as always, with the promise of violence. "I will not disappoint—"

"I'd like to figure out where this very generous offer comes from, however," Dazai cut in. He snatched the paper from Akutagawa's hand, walking through the pain despite his slight limp. He crossed the length of the room to stand by Oda's desk, where the only light came from. "This report is very thorough," he murmured, reading over it once more. "Nakajima Atsushi-kun has not lived a very happy life."

Oda took the paper from him wordlessly. Dazai didn't need to look at him to appreciate the shadow of disapproval his face wore as he read it as well.

"We could recruit him," he said eventually.

Dazai almost heard the sound of Akutagawa's teeth clenching.

"He does fit the profile, doesn't he?"

Whoever had gathered these notes had done so in painstaking detail. From the place where Nakajima slept, from the names of his tormentors, to every kind of abuse that this buyer could get evidence of. The range of it encompassed petty brutality and outright torture alike, with no actual reason that Dazai or the warrant's author could deduce.

"It's a wonder they even want him," Dazai said lowly. "Whatever use they would have of him… this boy can't be in a good enough shape to help in any way. Mentally and physically. And if they only want to kill him, why pay so much to get him alive? It can't be revenge."

"Dazai-san," Akutagawa rasped out. "The bounty?"

Dazai stayed silent for a moment. It hurt less to sit than to stand, and so he sat, at the very edge of Oda's desk. Oda didn't protest it, despite the paperwork Dazai crushed as he moved. This was proof enough that he knew something wasn't right.

"They barely talk of his ability," Oda said.

Dazai nodded. "Everything is so precise, and yet the only thing they're willing to give out on his powers is shapeshifting. This isn't even an exciting or unheard-of type of gift."

"Who cares," Akutagawa muttered, "as long as they're willing to pay?"

"I care, Akutagawa, and this should be all you care about."

Akutagawa's mouth snapped shut.

"That was unnecessary," Oda commented.

Tension ebbed out of Dazai's shoulders. He slumped over the desk, hip aching and head fogged, and sighed into the palm of his hand. He had to fight off a yawn. Oda probably saw all of it from where he sat.

"Come here," Dazai said tiredly. He lifted a hand, waved it between himself and Akutagawa.

Akutagawa approached with dragging steps. He still wore the coat Dazai had given him so long ago, and it did not dwarf him now; he cut a striking silhouette in the dark of the room, his feet silent on the floor, the stench of death hovering around him.

He made the port mafia proud. Dazai, in the sparks of feelings that shot through the numb nothing of each day, wished that Akutagawa made him proud also.

He still put a hand on the man's shoulder. Still felt it stiffen as it always did, as it always would, in preparation for blows.

"It's good that you brought this to my attention," Dazai said, pushing some modicum of approval through his voice. "So, I'll let you bring this boy to me. Alive, and if you can manage it, unharmed."

"Yes, sir," Akutagawa replied breezily.

"I'll decide what we should do with him once I have him. I'll leave the search to you." His grip tightened on Akutagawa's shoulder, not to the point of pain, yet Akutagawa tensed as if he had been struck. "You may use your sister and Higuchi of the Black Lizard for help."

"Higuchi's help will not be necessary."

"You know how I feel about you overestimating yourself."

Akutagawa stayed silent.

Dazai released his shoulder and pushed him backward lightly. Akutagawa fell obediently, putting between them just enough distance that Dazai could turn his head aside and not have to see him.

"Don't mess this up," he concluded, gesturing toward the door.

He didn't look at all as Akutagawa left.

He waited, sat atop hard wood and blinking sleep out of his eyes, for Oda to speak up. When he did, Dazai smiled.

"For you, that was almost nice."

"Please let the day I'm nice to Akutagawa be the day you make use of those guns of yours for real," Dazai replied.

Oda leaned back in his chair. Dazai looked at him over his shoulder and found him sticking a cigarette between his lips, readying himself to taint the stale air with the stink of tobacco. "You know you don't have to be such an asshole to him," was all he said.

Oda was ever-so-good at passing judgment; and his judgment weighed more in the scales of Dazai's own morality than anything Dazai himself ever did.

Today's verdict was not so heavy, so Dazai hopped off the desk, stumbled to stay upright, and declared, "Let's drink."

"I don't think that's a good idea," Oda replied immediately.

"Mori gave me the rest of the day off and you think I shouldn't use it to drink?"

Oda's eyes roamed over him carefully. "Mori gave you the rest of the day off because he did something to you again and he thinks you need to sleep it off," he said. "So sleep it off. You can barely walk."

"I hate anesthetics," Dazai mumbled, catching himself against the desk. "My brain is so slow I can actually feel myself think."

"A rarity."

Dazai chuckled dryly. Oda smiled, brief and still weirdly solemn, before rising from his desk and catching one of Dazai's arms around his shoulder. He pocketed the hunt order for Nakajima Atsushi with his other hand.

"What did he take this time?" he asked, exhaling smoke with every word. "More blood? Skin?"

Dazai leaned against him, comforting himself with the smell, with the warmth, with the never-ending wonder of having someone who could touch him like that without eliciting the urge to flee.

"Bone marrow," he replied drowsily.

"Still not willing to tell me what he's planning to do with all that?"

Dazai smiled and did not answer.

He enjoyed the walk to his quarters more than he should have, considering the pain. There was something about having Oda half-carry him, about allowing himself to flirt with sleep upright and in public, that kept the hollow of him warm. Oda used his key to open Dazai's apartment; he helped Dazai out of his shoes, then put on the same slippers he always did to drag him inside. He went so far as to lay Dazai on his bed and pat his shoulder gently.

His hand came to his pocket again. Dazai heard the cracking-shuffling sound of paper as he fiddled with the warrant in it.

"Don't worry," he slurred, pushing his face into his pillow. "I'm not going to sell that kid."

"I thought so," Oda replied. He took the warrant out of his pocket and flattened it against his thigh one-handedly. "So what are you gonna do with him?"

"I was thinking he'd make a good playmate for Akutagawa."

Oda snorted softly.

It made Dazai want to smile again. This idea was still at the hatching phase, still messy with half-thought plans and nothing more than his intuition to run, but it wasn't a joke. He sighed and said, "I want you to find out who this buyer is."

"Sure."

"If Akutagawa is successful, we'll figure out what's really behind Nakajima Atsushi's ability on our own. It can't just be that he turns into a white tiger. Not with the amount of detail these guys dug up about the life of one orphan."

He waited for Oda's question, staring blankly at the taupe wall that the head of his bed rested against. His hip throbbed steadily.

"Should we go to the special ability department with this?"

Dazai closed his eyes. "You know you won't find Ango even if you go to them," he muttered.

"There's only one way some outsider could've found so much information about an ability user in Yokohama, Dazai."

"I know. But Ango won't show up for some small-fry shapeshifter, not even if someone from inside the department leaked the information."

Ango had stayed too carefully hidden. So very carefully hidden that for the past four years, it seemed he had vanished from the surface of the earth entirely. Dazai had found no trace of him; Mori had found no trace of him; the ministry was so tight-lipped with his name that each liaison agent they sent to the port mafia seemed to suffer from localized amnesia.

If Chuuya hadn't killed Taneda and found a way to not only tamper with the department's heavily-guarded archives, but also cut its access off from the department itself, this probably wouldn't have happened.

Dazai still wondered, occasionally, how in the world he had done that within ten hours of his defection. Within ten hours of using Corruption and being shot point-blank and losing—

"Don't tell the department about this, Odasaku," he said, rubbing the side of his right index with his thumb, massaging sudden stiffness away. "They'll probably just end up taking the kid for themselves and claiming the bounty. No one's more thirsty for money than government-approved gifted groups."

"Right," Oda replied quietly. "If you think so."

Dazai nodded. He wrapped an arm around his pillow, wincing through the ache of both finger and hip. He listened to Oda's footsteps as he left, all the way to the entrance of his home. He heard the lock fit in place and allowed himself to breathe.

Sleep claimed him quickly, but it wasn't kind. It wasn't peaceful.

Twelve hours, and Atsushi was still sore through all of his body. He followed the man named Kunikida through the streets of the city, nose tickling from the cold, smelling snow on the very air. Yokohama shone with the same bright winter light that had bathed the courtyard of the orphanage year after year, and Atsushi felt his hands sting with remembered pain, even through the leather gloves he now wore.

"Sorry about that," Kunikida said, gesturing for him to enter the red-bricked café they had come to. He must have noticed how tentative Atsushi's steps were. "We had to taser you—the tiger—for a while so you'd turn back."

Atsushi knew that. Kunikida's partner, Tayama, had spent the better part of the evening apologizing profusely for it.

The warmth inside the café hit him all at once, sticking him to his spot by the door and scorching over every bit of his exposed skin. He fidgeted, waiting for Kunikida to unwrap the scarf wound around his own neck so that he would lead the way. Atsushi wasn't exactly sure how one was supposed to act inside a café, or even why he had been invited to one by Kunikida knocking on the door of the dorm room he had borrowed at eight o'clock sharp.

"Take a seat, kid," Kunikida murmured, checking his watch distractedly.

Atsushi looked around nervously. The place didn't seem too populated—only two booths were occupied, one by a pair of student-age youth, one by someone so bundled up that Atsushi had no way of guessing so much as their gender. Above the line of the collar riding up to their nose, their eyes were steel-grey.

He looked away, shivering, and asked, "Um, where?"

"Mmh?" Kunikida raised his head. "Oh, near those two. They're the Tanizaki siblings, they work at the agency too."

He pointed at the younger people. Atsushi would have preferred to sit alone if at all, but he figured it was better than that stranger dressed all in black. Kunikida left him to it, making his own way toward the counter, engaging the old man standing behind it in a low-voiced conversation.

"Hi," said the boy with orange hair, once Atsushi sat gingerly in front of him. "You're Atsushi-kun, right? Katai briefed us on what happened last night."

"That's me," Atsushi mumbled. "And you…?"

"Tanizaki Junichirou. This is my sister Naomi." The girl sitting next to him, who was staring at Atsushi with rapt attention, smiled somewhat darkly. "Kunikida-san said you were interested in joining?" Tanizaki asked. His grin was friendlier, and Atsushi felt his face warm.

"I don't know," he replied. "I just—he said it would be better, for me. To be in a group."

Tanizaki nodded slowly. "I don't know how much you know about abilities, but yeah, it's generally better for us to join organizations like the agency. Especially for you, since you've been deemed a public threat."

"I'm sorry—"

"You don't have to apologize," said Kunikida's voice. He had joined them with no warning, and Atsushi almost jumped at the sound of his voice. When he looked up, Kunikida was staring at the booth behind theirs where Atsushi knew the only other patron sat. He was frowning. "You've given us ungodly amounts of paperwork, but it's hardly your fault, and as it turns out you haven't actually hurt anyone."

That was a relief. Atsushi had carried that fear since first hearing the words 'man-eating tiger'.

Kunikida sat down next to him, forcing Atsushi to scoop closer to the window at his left to make room on the couch. He placed a steaming cup in front of him, and Atsushi had to take a second to understand that he was meant to drink it.

The cup shook against the saucer when he brought it to his lips, but at least the tea was good. It burned away the last icy dregs from outside, soothed some of the aches that still rang through his body.

"Are you both gifted too, then?" Atsushi asked the siblings, and they laughed in answer.

"Brother is, not me," Tanizaki Naomi replied with a grin. "His ability is very useful."

"It's nothing much," Tanizaki muttered, face pink. "Not really suited for combat."

"Not," Kunikida said in a clipped tone, "that the agency deals in much combat. We're detectives first and foremost, kid. You won't have to participate in any fighting if you don't want to."

"You really want him to join, huh."

Kunikida seemed to take offense at Naomi's remark, but Atsushi paid little mind to it. He already knew he wanted to join, if only because Tayama and Kunikida had been so kind to him the previous night, even with Kunikida's complaints—if only because they had managed to contain him and prevent him from harming anyone. Being given someplace warm to sleep, new clothes, and food helped as well.

Atsushi wondered if all the members he had met the night before were equally selfless.

"Where's Tayama-san?" he heard himself ask.

"Home today," Kunikida answered. "He works remotely most of the time."

"He's getting better, though, isn't he?" Naomi interjected. She was toying with her own drink, some outrageous chocolate thing covered in whipped cream that spilled over the rim and rolled down the stained glass in big dollops. "A year ago he couldn't go out at all."

"He's got issues," Tanizaki said to Atsushi, no doubt catching his curiosity. "Ask him about it if you want, he usually doesn't mind."

"It's none of my business," Atsushi mumbled.

Tanizaki shrugged. "Everything is kind of everyone's business here."

Atsushi wasn't sure how much he liked the sound of that.

Kunikida tapped a nail against his own cup of tea. The sound rang clearly in the space they all shared, and Naomi moved as if prompted, nudging her brother out of the way and murmuring, "Bathroom," with a wink in Atsushi's direction.

Atsushi watched her more attentively than perhaps necessary. Something about her posture kept him alert, made the sudden and weighty silence unfold slowly, thickly. It trailed goosebumps along his arms. She took the direction of a wooden door left of the counter, where a sign indicated the toilet was, and Atsushi followed her with his eyes, brow tense and mouth downturned—that was when he realized the only other occupant of the café had moved as well.

They walked quickly enough that they were behind Naomi in less than a second; and Atsushi had barely that much time to formulate a warning in the confines of his mouth, to part his lips and let out a strangled sound, before the stranger's hand came out of their pocket holding a knife.

Kunikida was on his feet almost instantly. Tanizaki swallowed back what sounded like a cry. The bartender moaned, dropping the glass he was holding, and the sound of breaking glass sharpened the world into motion again.

The stranger grabbed Naomi by the hair; they put the knife at her throat and ordered, in a rough, low voice, "Sit the fuck down."

"Brother," Naomi whimpered.

The person—man, probably, though they were shorter than her by a bare centimeter—tugged harder at her hair, forcing her to bend her head back and expose more of her neck. The blade dug deeply enough into her skin that Atsushi could see it crease around it from where he sat.

Saliva pooled in his mouth, bitter from bile and fear alike.

"I'm going to kill you," Tanizaki growled at the man. "I'm going to tear you piece by piece—"

"Tanizaki," Kunikida cut in harshly. "Shut up and sit down."

Tanizaki stayed standing for a second longer, eyes wide and pale with fury, before obeying. His knees cracked under the action; his tendons were so visible above his collarbone, pushing so starkly outward, that the strap of his undershirt chafed his skin red.

Kunikida sat as well, once he was sure Tanizaki would not move. Atsushi watched, paralyzed, as the eyes of the man holding a knife to Naomi's neck colored with amusement. "Good," he said, in that same smooth-raspy voiced he had used earlier. It sounded too deep for someone of his stature, Atsushi thought faintly. "Now we can talk."

"If your business is with the agency, please feel free to take me hostage instead," Kunikida said, voice sharper than Atsushi had ever heard it. "That girl is only a part-time desk employee—whatever grief you have with us, she can't be—"

"I'm keeping the girl," the stranger replied curtly. "I don't want this one," he pointed to Tanizaki with the knife before placing it back on Naomi's neck, "to use his bothersome gift on me. My grip my just slip if he does."

Tanizaki's face was completely red with rage by now.

Kunikida had raised his hands in surrender earlier. They faltered slightly at the man's words. "So you know who we are," he said.

"Yeah. Speaking of, I want all of you lined up in front of me. That barkeep too. Keep your hands where I can see them." Once again, he gestured with the knife, so close to Naomi's face that Atsushi's blood ran cold with fear that he would accidentally cut her.

Knife wounds were some of the most painful he had ever suffered.

"You first, Kunikida."

"Okay," Kunikida replied tightly. "Okay, just don't hurt her."

Only the man's eyes were visible, but he looked like he was smiling. Atsushi followed behind Kunikida with his own hands raised. He eyed the frightened look Naomi wore and thought, I wish I could turn into a tiger right now.

His heart was beating so fast in his chest that he could feel skin flutter at the hollow of his throat. His nape felt damp, his muscles ached from being tasered the night before, and every step he took felt like a thousand.

"Atsushi," Kunikida said from the edge of his lips, right as the stranger turned his head aside to order the bartender around, "I need you to distract him."

He stepped on Atsushi's foot before Atsushi could yelp or suck in an undignified breath.

"Just talk to him," he whispered furiously. "Tanizaki and I will take care of the rest."

"But I can't—"

"Silence," the masked man ordered.

Atsushi shook through his body with the way his voice rang. The man looked at him, grey eyes glinting in the hooded light; and Atsushi watched the easy grip he had around the knife, the fold of Naomi's skin where the blade connected with her, ready to tear through, and suddenly, he found his voice.

"W-Why are you doing this?"

The bartender was still whimpering slightly. Naomi had fallen silent, but her eyes were pleading. Tanizaki's worry and anger could be breathed through the air.

The stranger either noticed none of it or didn't have a care in the world. He tilted his head aside and said, "I don't know you."

"I'm," Atsushi said.

He choked a bit. He had prepared no excuse, no plan whatsoever.

Distract him, he repeated to himself.

"I'm a, a friend of Tanizaki-san's—"

"Why should I care?"

Atsushi breathed in shakily. "Why are you hurting her?" he asked again.

"I want to teach the armed detective agency a lesson," the man replied flatly. "I suppose I can tell you as much, since you'll be dead shortly."

Terror seized control of Atsushi's body, then. He shook so hard where he stood that his first step forward was a stumble, that every step that followed was him barely catching himself upright, resisting the pull of the floor. He wanted to fall and never stand up again. He wanted to curl into a ball in age-old defensive instinct.

"Step back!" the man ordered, shaking Naomi by the hair once more. She cried out a small, terrified sob.

"Please," Atsushi stuttered, "whatever you're upset about, you can't just kill people—"

Several things happened at once.

Naomi opened her mouth wide and bit down on the hand keeping the knife level with her neck, now that it had faltered slightly. Kunikida grabbed Atsushi by the collar of his shirt. Tanizaki sprung forward like a leaping beast, arms stretched outward and face twisted.

And the masked man bent at the knee so quickly that Atsushi barely saw him; he picked up the fallen knife with his unarmed hand, kicked Naomi savagely aside, and plunged the blade deep in Tanizaki's guts.

Atsushi stopped breathing.

He didn't hear the scream Tanizaki must have let out, nor the agonized, "Brother!" that Naomi bellowed. His ears rang like they would after a blow to the head, after being shoved head-first into a wall. He didn't move as Kunikida put a hand over his eyes and muttered something lowly, didn't react as bright light overcame the dining room, stopped only by the fingers keeping his eyelids closed.

When Kunikida released him, he fell to his knees.

By some miracle, Kunikida reached the masked man before he could stand up again. He was stumbling, rubbing his eyes with his bleeding hand. Kunikida stuck him to the floor with one knee pressed against his lower back, ripping away the black beanie the man wore to fist his hand into equally black hair—and Atsushi slowly, haltingly turned his head toward where Tanizaki lay. He wasn't moving at all.

"How could you," Kunikida whispered, voice rough with emotion.

On the floor under him, the masked man chuckled. "This is all you deserve."

"Atsushi, go put pressure on Tanizaki's wound, call the emergency number in his phone—"

"I don't think so."

Whatever the masked man did knocked Kunikida off of him; as Kunikida managed to grab him again, one arm locked around his opponent's throat to choke him, the man curled an arm around himself and extended it forward too quick, too fast, for Atsushi to see more than the glint of the now-flying knife.

It was headed toward Naomi.

Atsushi would have liked to think that he went over things in his head; he would have loved to believe that his actions were the result of selflessness, or stupidity, or carefully-planned rescue; but he heard the voices in his head, he felt the lessons he had been taught burn over his skin like fire-wounds, and he leaped forward with greater speed than should be humanly possible.

He landed between Naomi and the knife, breathless, and closed his eyes.

The knife never pierced through any part of his body. Instead the stranger's voice came again, much less frightening than before: "That ought to do it, right?"

"Yes," Kunikida replied. "Thank you, Kashiwamura."

"No problem, but don't call me that."

"What," Atsushi breathed, eyes still tightly shut.

It was Tanizaki's amused, "It's all okay now, Atsushi-kun," that convinced him to open them, gasping.

Tanizaki was standing on his own feet, completely unharmed. Atsushi glimpsed flecks of green light around him, like snow, vanishing as quickly as they shone. He had to take a moment and stare at him, still without air, to truly believe that he wasn't bleeding out of his belly. His sweater didn't even look torn.

"What," he repeated weakly.

Naomi giggled. She entered his line of sight, standing close to her brother and ruffling his hair affectionately; on her other side, Kunikida was standing next to the man who had attacked them all.

The high collar he had worn over the bottom half of his face was lowered. Atsushi saw the shape of his grin, the patch of white gauze stuck high on one of his cheekbones. "That was kind of ballsy, getting in the way of the knife," the man said. "When they tested me I just straight up socked Yosano in the jaw."

"Is she still mad at you for it?" Naomi giggled.

"None of your damn business."

Atsushi sucked in a painful breath. It seemed his lungs had to relearn how to work after the shock of what just happened. "What's going on?" he asked again.

Kunikida cleared his throat. He took a notebook out of his pocket; scribbled a few notes down. "There is an entrance test that all prospective members of the agency must pass," he explained in what Atsushi was starting to recognize as his business voice, very different from the tense fear and ruthless reactivity he had shown moments ago. "Each one has to prove their willingness to protect human life."

"A test," Atsushi said faintly.

Kunikida nodded. "A test."

"So he's not really…" He gestured, shakily, toward where the formerly-masked man stood.

"Kashi—"

"Don't call me that, and no, I'm not actually here to kill you," the man cut in. "The name's Chuuya. I'm a member too."

"Chuuya-san's kind of terrifying, so we thought he'd be ideal for it," Naomi added. "Plus no one else wanted to terrorize you, poor thing."

Chuuya made a face, as if deliberating whether her comment was worth getting angry over. In the end he shook his head and dragged the collar-scarf thing above himself, taking it off. He ran a hand through his own hair with a grimace and said, "I'm disgusting. I'm going home if you guys don't need me anymore."

"You still need to cover Kenji's afternoon shift."

"This is only the seventh time you remind me, Kunikida, I got it. Stop getting your panties in a twist."

Kunikida spluttered. Chuuya grinned wolfishly and stepped away.

He stopped beside Atsushi on his way, patting him on the shoulder only once; Atsushi didn't flinch back, but Chuuya looked as if he had noticed that he wanted to anyway. "Sorry about that," he said in a low voice. "I wasn't actually gonna hurt any of you."

"I know," Atsushi replied warily.

Chuuya looked him in the eye for a moment longer. His were not grey, Atsushi realized, but blue.

The rest of the day sped by too quickly for Atsushi to properly register. He was dragged up the flights of stairs inside the same building that the café occupied, introduced to all the people he had met the night before and to a few more again—such as the director, Fukuzawa, and his secretary, Haruno. He was given a desk and schedule. He was offered to stay at the dorm free of charge. He saw smiles directed his way, and polite enquiries, and admiration for what he had done the same morning.

He forgot to feel shame for the reason he had done it.

"Who is he?" he found himself asking Tanizaki sometime during the afternoon, as the man from this morning, Chuuya, went through files over his crossed legs. Kunikida had not stopped eyeing him with something akin to disapproval; judging by the lack of reaction from everyone else, this was a common sight.

"Chuuya-san?" Tanizaki replied. At Atsushi's nod, he said, "He's one of our non-gifted members. He's one hell of a martial artist, though, and he's really good at catching criminals. If you're lucky you'll get to see him and Kunikida-san spar."

He laughed quietly at his own words, looking fond, before getting distracted by his work once more. Atsushi looked over the papers he was supposed to finish filling out by the end of the day and touched none of them.

His eyes kept going back to Kashiwamura Chuuya.

Maybe it was because he had first seen the man dressed like a criminal himself, body wrought in black and eyes glinting with malice, that he could not fully relax in his presence. Maybe he could not find him non-threatening, not for his short height and not for his quick smiles, because he had seen him hold a knife with more ease than the Headmaster ever had. His appearance was nothing out of the ordinary now, if one dismissed the white gauze over his cheek; short black hair and a rumpled suit, something Atsushi had seen multiple times in many men of the city, and yet…

And yet, Atsushi shivered at the sight of him the way he had upon meeting his steely eyes in the café for the first time. He saw the bruised skin under them; he felt how off his presence was in the warmth of the office, like static in an old film, like sepia stains on pictures. Like a monochrome patch of space.

Chuuya had once lived nowhere at all.

He held only a handful of memories of the woman who had birthed him and the decrepit studio they both shared. What he remembered was dream-like, blurred at the edges and tasting of rotten sheets. His mother had been absent a lot and violent the rest of the time; she had no name that he could voice, no face that he could see. At most she was a shadow. Any feelings he might have held for her were blunted by the years.

He didn't consider that he had lived there at all. He could not remember what had first put him in the system, if she had died or if he had been taken away from her; all he knew was that after the fifth foster he tried to call father raised a hand on him, he had no hope left for parenthood. Some people were better off raising themselves.

Chuuya had lived nowhere—in a studio, then in the houses of strangers, then in the streets—and he had lived in a mansion. He had owned a room all his. He had grown, and thrived, and found his place in the world. He had learned that although he would never name anyone father or mother, he could still call someone family.

He had not known true homelessness before losing that.

The apartment he shared with Katai was at the very opposite end of the city, as far from the port as one could be. Chuuya shoved his key into the lock and pushed against the door, which chose to be more difficult today than usual. He kept his irritation at bay, habit and paranoia alike reminding him not to use the Tainted Sorrow to make the job of opening it easier—or break it altogether. He had to struggle with it for a good ten seconds before it finally gave in.

"Shitty fucking thing," he muttered, dropping his keys on the kitchen table.

"Stop insulting our door," Katai replied from where he sat on the couch, entirely wrapped in blankets.

"It insulted me first." A breath, and Chuuya felt his nose twist in disgust. "Fuck, have you not opened any window all day?"

Katai didn't answer, but he folded in on himself a little tighter. The only light in the room came out of the laptop sitting in front of him. It shone off his glasses, sinister.

Chuuya opened the window above the couch, causing Katai to shrink even further and yelp, "It's cold."

"And this place smells like hot garbage," Chuuya replied. "Where were you this morning?"

Katai's following words were indecipherable, muffled through the blanket and his own lack of will to share. Chuuya rolled his eyes and tugged the blanket off of him sharply.

"I said I was meeting with Sasaki-san," Katai whined, trying and failing to grab onto the fabric. Chuuya let it fall back onto him. "I don't know why she insists on meeting with me, it's you she's doing business with."

Chuuya had to smile at that. "You can't even guess?" he replied.

Katai looked at him with wide eyes.

As amusing as Katai not realizing that a woman found him cute was, Chuuya felt a little too tired to indulge in teasing. He let himself sit into a kitchen chair with less grace than necessary. His fingers twitched without need for thought, and the pair of dirty chopsticks that Katai must have used for lunch flickered red in the shadow, floating gently above the table.

He made them turn around each other with vague thought, letting his ability flow through him as it too rarely did.

"Are you okay?" Katai asked.

He had been staring, Chuuya realized. He schooled his face into something more relaxed and shrugged. The chopsticks fell into the sink with a soft clicking noise. "Just tired," he replied. "This place exhausts me."

Katai didn't go into his usual, stammering spiel that his regular checks revealed no proof of Chuuya having been discovered, but his face said it all. Chuuya looked away without a word.

Yokohama was stifling in a way Katai would never understand. Chuuya did not dare take a train or drive a car. He did not go anywhere he hadn't checked a dozen times for evidence of old acquaintances being around. He walked to the agency every morning for a half hour, came back at night the same way, and had to move each of his limbs through tension, tasting blood on his tongue, hearing guns in the distance.

He could go nowhere without feeling like Dazai could walk out of every door he passed on his way. Six months since he had come back, and he still thought every far-off voice was his, every silhouette on a rainy day that of his body.

Chuuya scraped the skin off his lip with his teeth until it ached; running a hand through his hair, he asked, "So what did Sasaki say?" in as conversational a voice as he could manage.

"Same as usual," Katai replied. He sounded sympathetic, which Chuuya chose to ignore. "She says Ango's still in hiding."

Sakaguchi's name lodged itself through Chuuya's chest like ice. The feeling was as familiar as it was hated.

"And the port mafia?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary, but Chuuya—"

"I don't want to hear it."

Katai hesitated, but Chuuya knew he now believed—within right—that he would not be harmed no matter what he said. He was somber as he spoke, but not worried. "You know where to find the port mafia. They're not moving away anytime soon."

"I don't want them to know I'm here before I find Sakaguchi," Chuuya replied.

"Ango's not going to let himself be found until they find you first."

"Why do you even care?" Chuuya snapped.

The way Katai jumped back made guilt tighten in his throat, but Chuuya was still too wrecked by his evening walk, by the feeling of having the agency's newest member look at him as if he were a ticking bomb, to apologize just yet.

"You're still hoping I'll just fit in with everyone at work and be happy with my life," he said. "That's not going to happen and you know it."

"You're the one who said you wanted to join," Katai replied weakly.

Maybe this argument had been brewing since the start, Chuuya thought. Maybe he had put off having it for too long, because Katai had been so genuinely relieved to hear from him all those months ago, because he liked the people he worked with against all reason, because Fukuzawa had heard his story and looked at him without judgment and hired him.

Maybe he had grown weak.

"You know there's only one reason I came back," he went on. "I'm not forcing you to help me, you're doing that on your own."

"But I don't know," Katai said more heatedly. "You've never actually told me."

Chuuya felt his mouth twist in poor imitation of a smile. Katai knew more about him than anyone alive he was willing to talk to.

"Chuuya," Katai called. He rose from the couch and shuffled closer, his slippers soft against the wooden floor. "I can guess what you're planning, but it's not going to…"

Chuuya waited, anger coiled tightly through him, stale air filling his lungs.

Thankfully, Katai shifted away from what he originally wanted to say. "I'm helping you now," he muttered, "I'll make sure you're not found out yet, but I draw the line at—at violence. If you're really trying to kill more people, I'm not going to help you. I thought you wanted to get out of that life."

"I don't need your help," Chuuya replied flatly.

"I know you don't. I'm just telling you how I feel."

Silence hovered tensely; then all the air flew out of Chuuya's lungs at once. He slumped over the table, holding his forehead with one hand, thumbing over the gauze on his cheek to feel the edges of the thick scar under it. "Sorry," he mumbled. "I'm not going to ask more stuff out of you. I can move somewhere else if you want."

He heard the chair opposite him crack as Katai sat in it. "I don't want you to move out," he said. "I'm just worried about you."

Chuuya smiled, hidden in the space between his arm and the tabletop.

"You don't sleep, you barely eat, you don't socialize—"

"This is so fucking rich coming from you, Katai."

"I do socialize," Katai protested. Chuuya looked at him over his hand and found him flushed, the red visible on his face even across the unlit room. "I have tons of friends now."

"Your gamer pals don't count."

"Now see, the only reason you think that is because you've never played a video game in your life."

Laughter pushed itself out of Chuuya's lungs, helpless and a little warm. He found Katai wearing an answering smile; the kind of nervous, genuine sympathy that had stayed Chuuya's hand four years ago before he could strike him.

This silence was not so heavy. Chuuya leaned back in the chair, unsticking the gauze from his face and touching the torn skin under it with thoughtless fingers. It tingled at the contact, not painful but not far from it. Katai watched him do it wordlessly.

"I'm not here to make friends," Chuuya said eventually. "And they wouldn't want to be my friends either if they knew anything about me."

"Maybe they would," Katai replied.

"Not everyone can be as weird as you."

"This reminds me," and Katai's voice was a higher pitch now, his face lit with brighter feelings than before, "you met Atsushi-kun, didn't you?"

"The tiger kid?" Chuuya flew the dirty bowl on the table toward the sink as he had the chopsticks earlier. He'd have to take care of that later as well. "Yeah, Naomi said I should be the one to test him," he said, pushing himself out of his chair. "He passed with flying colors, by the way. Threw himself in the way of a damn knife."

"Kunikida told me about that. I thought he was a sweet kid when we met."

"You had night terrors about him attacking you."

"That wasn't his fault, was it?" Katai replied defensively. "It's not like he can control it."

That had been a little familiar, a little bittersweet, when Katai had first told him of the shapeshifting boy the night before. He had still been shaking then, scratched at the elbows from falling when the tiger had leaped at him, or so Kunikida had said. Katai hadn't even protested the tea Chuuya made him. Usually he always found it oversteeped.

A boy with anger shining at the back of his wide eyes. A boy with an ability he had no control over, with a life he had little choice in.

"At least now that should be fixed," Chuuya said lowly, bending over the sink. "No more rampaging around as an animal at night."

From the pit of his stomach came a long-forgotten rumble. It spread through his veins languidly; it blackened the edges of his sight.

Chuuya closed his eyes and ordered the beast back to sleep.

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#bsd #bungou stray dogs #soukoku #nakahara chuuya #dazai osamu #fic: nothing noble

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