From Unexpected Places

“I’m a wizard, Chuuya.”

“Holy fuck!” echoed in the room as a vase was lobbed at his head.

Dazai— sixteen and spritely— had made sure to air the statement with the appropriate flair, a dramatic rendition as he laid sprawled across the chibi’s bed. Said chibi had just flicked on the lights to his bedroom, mangy looking and an unflattering splatter of blood drying on his clothes. He was still in a position to attack.

“What was that, slug?” he chided as he stared at the glass shards now scattering the blankets, fragments lingering in the line from his left hand to his neck. “That almost hit me. At least have the decency to choose a painless and efficient way to kill me, death by a thousand cuts from your awful aim would be a horrible way to go!” His partner stared blankly in response.

“I’m gonna take a shower,” Chuuya muttered, stalking through the room and into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. Dazai didn’t bother to move, even at the mild irritation the few bits of glass biting into his skin caused. It’d be too much effort to yank them out, much less deal with the little snaps of pain that’d result in.

Fifteen minutes later had Chuuya exiting the shower, a t-shirt and shorts donned as he blinked at the bed. A second more had him holding his head in his hands. Dazai could see the exhaustion dragging down the other’s form, the redhead not bothering to muster up more than vague annoyance at Dazai.

Dazai raised an unseen eyebrow. Well, this was boring.

He mimed a sniff at the air, “Chibi smells like a wet dog.”

“Fuck off,” Chuuya replied, more reflex if anything as he turned back into the bathroom, exiting a moment later with the first aid kit he kept under the bathroom sink. “Get your lazy ass up, you waste of bandages.”

Dazai complied, if sluggishly and groaning all the while, slinking along as he followed Chuuya back to the living room. The redhead pulled him down to the couch and set about plucking what was left of the vase out of his bandages, little spots of red dotting the white cloth.

Dazai keened as he yanked out a particularly large piece. “Chuuya is so rough with me! I think he should sleep outside tonight.”

“Don’t be such a baby,” he scowled, “And I can’t even sleep in my own bed tonight with the mess you’ve made.”

“If you’ve forgotten, chibi was the one who threw the vase.”

“Shut it,” he snapped, tapping at the soiled bandages in question. Dazai paused a moment before giving a small nod. Permission granted, Chuuya gently pulled the strips of fabric away from scarred skin, picking out the remaining glass. Dazai made sure to keep his own eyes from lingering, though he couldn’t help his tenseness at the dabbing of disinfectant and application of ointment. Chuuya’s fingers were warm against his bare skin, and he forced his heart to beat slower. He blinked as Chuuya broke the momentary silence. “And what the hell was up with the wizard thing? That was so random.” He pulled a new roll from the first aid kit, rewrapping him.

“I told you already, I’m a wizard,” Dazai shrugged.

Chuuya rolled his eyes, tired and dismissive— that mission really must’ve taken a lot out of him. At this rate, Dazai’d have to do the impossible and actually let him rest before he could get any real irritation out of him.

“Fine, sure, you’re a wizard. Think you could use your magic wand or whatever to clean up all the glass shards in my bed?”

Dazai just blinked at him, studying crystal blue eyes. “That’s it? No other reaction?”

He let out a huff, “What exactly did you want me to say?”

“‘Magic isn’t real, Dazai! Stop being stupid, Dazai!’” he mocked in a high pitched voice, a faux anger chafing at the edges of the impression.

“I don’t sound like that!” the redhead said, sending an angry flick at his forehead.

He hummed at the reply, tilting his head, “Sure seems like it to me.”

“Stop it,” Chuuya sneered, and Dazai was taken aback when a hand came towards his cheek, taking a moment to, apparently, retrieve a bit of vase. Huh, he hadn’t noticed that one. “And if there’s one thing you got wrong, it’s that you’d think I’d bother using your name that much, mackerel.”

“Slug,” he echoed back, sticking out his tongue as Chuuya slapped a bandaid on his cheek.

His partner ignored him as he packed the first aid kit back up, standing up to put it away. Dazai padded along behind him, though he stayed in the bedroom as Chuuya went to the attached bathroom. He glanced at the bed, flecks of greenish glass glinting in the sheets, and curiosity struck.

He had his wand on him for once, thoughts scrambled enough in his current bout of reminiscence to have plucked it up from its typical dwellings. Dazai usually kept it somewhere around the junkyard, buried in a stack of old microwaves that would spark despite long having been divorced from a power source, or shoved in the most definitely toxic dirt of the waste disposal, among other places. He liked to get creative. It wasn’t like it’d been damaged yet, and Dazai wondered just how much more he could put it through.

Chuuya was rustling through the products on his counter now, running through his nightly routine. He pulled the stick from his pocket, hiding it behind the folds of his coat as his partner put his attention towards the arduous process he’d made of washing his face.

Dazai held a shard between his fingers, one that’d stuck to his shirt Chuuya missed in his purview. He squinted at it. It’d probably be fine, and it might not work anyway. Dazai never had a talent for magic despite the way he could feel its crawl, and he hadn’t cast a proper spell in two years. If anything, this sad attempt could probably stave off becoming an obscurial or other inane thing with the way his hollow magic was left to eat at him, No Longer Human eating at it in return. Wow, he was a whole ecosystem at this rate.

Aiming the wand at the fleck of glass, he strained till he could feel the fuzzy blankness at his fingertips where his skin met wood. Brows furrowed in concentration, he whispered a small, “Reparo.” He took no responsibility for what happened next.

Green streaks shot towards him, Dazai releasing his own piece as a nauseating sickness bloomed in his skull. He barely felt it as more nicks were added to his body, the small things racing past him to glue themselves back together.

That’s an ugly vase, was the last thought he had before he puked, stomach acid spewing as the floating green thing crashed back to the floor in its second shatter of the night— though this time in larger chunks.

“Wha’ wush ‘at?” Chuuya exclaimed through a mouthful of what Dazai assumed was toothpaste. He heard him spit it out and the sink run then— “What did you do to my carpet?”

“It’ll wash out,” he waved away, focusing on not swaying his way onto the floor. There was vomit there! And glass, he supposed— but the vomit! He had some standards.

“Just— come on you blockhead.” Dazai had his eyes trained on the carpet, but thankfully, Chuuya was short enough he was able to watch his movements, his partner’s hand pushing him back onto the couch in the living room. It was all he could do to sequester away his stupid stick, stuck back into his pocket in the maneuver. His dog’s rustling movements sounded through the room, a litany of curses following him.

Once the vertigo had faded enough for the room to stop spinning, he peeked his head over the couch, watching Chuuya spray a veritable storm of carpet cleaner onto the floor. He snickered.

“Laugh it up, you ass,” Chuuya glared at him, stomping back into the room after one last wary glance towards the spot. He collapsed next to him, shoving an elbow into his ribs to make space.

“Is this how you treat the sickly? How cruel.”

Chuuya gave him a judgmental look, the bags beneath his eyes somehow more pronounced. “Tell me, who broke the vase this time?” Dazai just gave a chuckle, the two of them falling into a silence.

It was funny how the slug squinted at him, hazy attempts to connect the dots flashing behind those eyes. He somehow squinted harder.

“Does this have something to do with the wizard thing?” he intoned, “Or have I already caught whatever bug you’ve got?”

“I’m not sick,” Dazai protested, kicking his legs up into Chuuya’s lap. His partner grumbled at the action but didn’t attempt to remove them, so that counted as a win in his books. Dazai: 759; Chuuya: 57. The redhead didn’t let up his glare. Dazai raised an eyebrow, “Chuuya looks constipated.”

“No I—” he paused, breathing out slowly through his nose. A contemplative look crossed his face as he tested out his words, “So… magic.”

Dazai side-eyed him. “What makes you say that? Is this the start of your mental decline? Are you actually sick?”

“That was a two-thousand dollar handmade vase, I don’t exactly have another one that can end up less broken now than it was twenty minutes ago,” he deadpanned. “And I’m not the one who just threw up.”

Dazai shrugged. Chuuya would believe what he wanted to, and would probably toss out the mere idea of wizardry as a fever dream by the time it hit morning. If anything, this experience just opened up a whole new avenue of ways to mess with his partner.

Dazai wondered how many spells there were for pranking. Maybe it’d be worth a bout of queasiness if he could make the chibi’s hat a more garish color.

They fell asleep like that, Chuuya giving in to his exhaustion in a tangle of limbs, passed out on the couch in positions that were sure to cause aches upon waking. And if that morning, Dazai found Chuuya was not letting the wizard thing go anytime soon, well… maybe— just maybe— he could be alright with that.

***

“Come in, Chuuya.”

The executive snapped to attention from where he’d drifted off, unfinished reports and upcoming assignments escaping his thoughts at the summon. Chuuya made for the door, the dark, heavy things closing forebodingly behind him. “Boss,” he greeted.

Mori busied himself with paperwork, Elise sitting behind his desk drawing an awfully morbid scene. That is, if one assumed all the red streaks of crayon were, in fact, tributes to a bloody massacre. It was hard to tell at times. The boss did not look up as he addressed him.

“I’m assigning you to assist Dazai in his mission,” he said, cold and nonchalant. Like it was simply a formality he’d called this meeting in the first place. Chuuya hated to say he expected it, but he’d known Dazai would somehow manage to rope him into his own trouble.

That wasn’t to say he was supposed to know this, though, and the words shot a bout of ice down his spine. There was only a second of hesitation as he spoke the words, “And… what exactly are the details for this mission?”

At this Mori finally leveled him with a look, gaze glacial in the way it pierced him. “I’m sure you already have some knowledge of the topic.” Chuuya stood his ground at the onslaught, the slightest downward tilt to his head a position of compliance at the statement. His non-answer was enough of one as Mori’s eyes flitted back to his work. “How long have you been aware of Dazai’s other abilities?”

Chuuya didn’t dare waver. “Since we were sixteen, sir.”

His boss let out a chuckle at that. “My, my, been keeping secrets have we?”

“It wasn’t something he used often— or at all, really. He’s… not exactly good at it,” Chuuya explained, “I didn’t find it relevant information.”

“Meursault.”

The name was spoken with an edge, even Elise pausing her scribbling to glance at the scene. Chuuya shuffled slightly, a grimace crossing his face. “That was unexpected.”

“The magic or his sloppy work?” Chuuya felt his jaw clench. “Did you know even the Japanese wizards are gossiping about it?” Mori began, “Apparently, there’s been a bit of strife between their governments over this offense, enough that our tentative connections in the wizarding community were willing to speak on it.”

“Would they not usually?”

Mori gave him an obliging smile, “Wizards are a pretentious folk— at least, those with any power in their communities. Although ability users may be a rank above ‘muggle’ for them, they do consider themselves above us.” He shuffles some paper about, a far too casual demeanor falling in place for what he asked next, “What has Dazai told you of his origins?”

“He hasn’t.” That much was true, for all the menace had chosen to let him in on this strange aspect of himself, he’d never bothered answering any of his questions on the subject. Everything he knew came from implications— Dazai’s aversion, both physical and mental, to magic, the verbal and somatic elements to so-called spells, the one-off comments on the existence of something or other that was distinctly supernatural. While Chuuya had been made aware that wizards exist, nothing much ever came of it. It was just Dazai being Dazai, and in the end hadn’t made much of a difference.

“Then I believe this will be a wonderful learning opportunity,” Mori intoned. “While Dazai will be useful in asserting our presence in the European wizarding community, I want you to take notice of their customs and uses. Foster amicable relations and potential business avenues, whether that be in clients or products. Take note of any risks they pose.”

“Will do, boss,” he bowed his head.

Mori gave him a smile, a glint in his eyes. “Seeing the success of this mission, you will become our main contact with the European wizarding population at Dazai’s departure.”

Determination flashed through him and he straightened, “Thank you, sir.”

“I have no doubt you will succeed, I expect much from my executives, and you’ve given me no reason not to.” The head of the Port Mafia sent him one last captious look, and Chuuya already knew what would come next. “Ensure you keep Dazai in line,” Mori ordered, “The promise of returning to the Armed Detective Agency having fulfilled their debt may be a strong motivator, but Dazai has always been a fickle child. You should know that best.”

He did, didn’t he? Dazai had been an absolute terror in his youth— not that he wasn’t one now, but his sudden change of heart had certainly called for less gruesome outlets. Chuuya hoped to any higher power out there Dazai wouldn’t misbehave too badly, but that was probably asking too much. It was Dazai, after all, and the filter the Agency had given him was now stretched thin. Chuuya couldn’t help but wonder if it would last.

“I want biweekly reports,” Mori fettered on, fetching a file from the piles on his desk, “And though it may be difficult, you must defer to Dazai when necessary.” Chuuya fought a reflexive scowl, but Mori still gave him a knowing look. “No matter where his connections to the wizarding world lie, I’m sure he’ll handle the cultural integration best as a wizard himself.” Even as he said it, there was a significant sort of glee to the words. Chuuya could tell there was more Mori wasn’t telling him.

“Is that all?” he asked, taking the file, trying his best not to let his slight irritation through. Ugh, Dazai, Mori, and their mind games. Being caught in their crossfire was something he did not miss.

“You’re dismissed,” rang through the room, and Chuuya’s shoes echoed against the tile as he left. He could already tell the next few months were going to be hell.

***

Dazai watched his reflection.

He was getting dressed in a slightly different flavor of formal from the mafia’s usual, his trial date set a few days from now as he got his wardrobe made. Dazai had the unfortunate errand of sitting through copious fittings and measuring sessions. He didn’t know how to feel, seeing himself in all black again, the mafia standard hanging oddly across his form.

“Well, that’s certainly a throwback.” Dazai made eye contact in the mirror with Chuuya, who was now leaning against the door frame. He donned a smile, even if his tongue felt heavy in his mouth.

He threw a hand against his chest in feigned fright, “You almost scared me there! With your height it’s hard to notice you sometimes. What if I stepped on you by accident? It’d be so hard to find your slimy remains.”

Chuuya rolled his eyes with a sigh, “We don’t have time for this. Do you have anything to pack?”

“Nope! Chuuya will buy me whatever I need once we land. After all, I’ve been living off the agency’s salary for so long, it’s only fair the mafia funds this all,” he languished.

“Freeloader,” Chuuya called out as he stepped back out the room. No doubt to pay for the various outfits Mori had commissioned.

There was a thick leather coat among the hangers. It wasn’t the same, he knew, but each imperfection was as he remembered it. The loose thread on the inside of the left elbow, the stitched tear at the hem. There were even the subtle scratches only walking onto a battlefield would bring, slivers from a dagger’s dodged sweep or the scrapes of a clipped bullet. Oh, so carefully replicated.

It was missing some things, of course, but Mori hadn’t been there to watch the original burn, gouging flames crumbling a hand-me-down coat. Or the knife he’d taken to the thing before that.

Dazai tugged it from its hanger with a vicious abandon, shoving the replica of his— Mori’s— old coat into the throws of other garments in the room. The rest of the items would be packed and sent, and he doubted the tailors would have too many qualms about abandoning the beat up jacket that’d been tossed into the order, at the very least in the fashion sense. Dazai very pointedly swayed his mind from the thought of those tailors frantic about a missing piece in a mafia-commissioned set, of the punishment that could be received at such an offense.

Well, Mori had to have known what he was getting into when he’d asked him to come back. Dazai shook his head, clearing his mind of that old man. He didn’t deserve time in his thoughts, but a clawing darkness always filled him when he wondered how much space he took up in Mori’s.

He focused on the steady beat of his heart, a pump every three-quarter second, eighty beats per minute as he left the room. He had a flight to catch.