Chuuya's Evening Out
Chuuya’s glass hit the counter with a thunk. “God I fucking hate him.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard,” Shirase replied dryly from his spot at his side. “It’s every fifth sentence out of your mouth.”
“Right, sorry,” he sighed, head tilting toward the other. “Still, thanks for coming out here, Shirase. Even if it's just been me complaining this whole time.”
“Hey, what are friends for?” Shirase laughed, elbowing him in good fun. “And it’s nice to see you. It’s been a while.”
“Yeah since… Germany, a couple years back?”
“A year and a half, I think,” Shirase knocked back the last of his drink, “But who’s counting?”
Chuuya hummed, leaning against the counter, “It’s just— Dazai never consults me on these things! He expects me to play along. He’s been back for what? Two weeks? And now he thinks he can boss me around. I’m still a fuckin’ executive, you know?”
“He’s a dick, is what he is,” Shirase deadpanned, taking a second to wave another drink from the bartender, “I just can’t believe you’re actually working with him again. Hardly believed it when you told me he left the mafia in the first place.”
“Not so loud,” Chuuya hissed and glanced at the other occupants in the bar, none of which seemed to be looking their way. He didn’t quite relax, but he let his attention drift back towards Shirase. “But yeah, it’s weird. We’ve worked together a few times in the last few months with everything that’s been going on in Yokohama lately, but I’d never thought it’d be under the same organization again.” He stared despondently at his cup, as if it’d offer him some advice for this unforeseen scenario. At its lack of reply— obviously, it was a cup— he sighed.
“Though it’s not like he’s really back,” Chuuya continued, “He’ll go right back to the agency once this is all over. Until then, I’m at the whim of his stupid fucking plans.” The counter felt rough against his skin as he pushed his face into it, not quite caring about the filth that’d settled in the grooves of the wood. Maybe the wine was already getting to him.
“Mhm,” his silver-haired friend hummed, “And remind me what plan he dragged you into?” He groaned into the wood of the bar, letting it muffle his answer. “Speak up, will you?”
“He said we’re married.” Shirase burst into laughter, his drink sloshing with the strength of his hysterics. “Ha ha, laugh it up, asshole.” Chuuya was sure his lack of amusement was well-written in his face, “I’m the one who has to deal with this bullshit.”
“It’s just—” another snicker leaked out, “Married? Really?” Chuuya’s only response was a drawn out groan. “Don’t know him that well, but I’m sure that man would be awful in a relationship.”
“Tell me about it,” he grumbled, “And he’s using the details from a mission we had like five years ago. As if I’d ever settle for that trainwreck of a backstory. We didn’t even have rings back then, but of course Dazai managed to get it certified!”
Shirase raised an eyebrow. “It’s legal?”
“Apparently,” he grumbled.
“That’s rich.” Shirase, to Chuuya’s dismay, was clearly getting an absorbent amount of enjoyment from his torment. “How goes married life so far?” he jested, though Chuuya still caught the glint of curiosity behind the question.
Chuuya rolled his eyes, “If you really wanna know, Dazai’s somehow gotten more annoying, and my apparent mother-in-law is a pain in the ass.”
Shirase choked on his drink, coughing out a lung for the next thirty seconds before he could catch his breath. “Mother? Like, mother of Dazai Osamu, mother?” The incredulity practically radiated off him. “Or— wait. Did he hire someone to act as his mother? That makes so much more sense than my first thought.” Shirase looked so relieved at his self-demonstrated conclusion. For once, Chuuya felt vindication at bursting his bubble.
“No, you got it right the first time.”
The face Shirase pulled was one of horror. “Shit, man. What kind of lady has she got to be in order to make something like that?”
“An awful one,” he grumbled. Hell, it felt great to talk about this shit (nevermind the fact he probably shouldn’t be spouting anything to do with the mission to someone unaffiliated with the mafia, but the alcohol made it hard to remember that fact. Yeah, the wine was definitely getting to him). “She really sucks.” Dazai was fucked in the head and Chuuya doubted the mafia made that any better, but Tsushima Tane was the first real clue he had to anything that came before Dazai had been embroiled in that life. The way she talked about the mackerel certainly didn’t paint any pretty pictures.
“What’s that look for?” Shirase commented, and Chuuya realized his face had twisted into a glare. He let his features relax, he’d have to shelve those thoughts for later. “You look like someone just pissed on your hat. Was she really that bad?”
“I only talked with her for a couple minutes and it had me wanting to bash her head in.”
“Guess you know where Dazai gets it from now?” Shirase offered. Chuuya scoffed.
“God, I hope not. That woman was insufferable for entirely different reasons.” He heard a crack, and Chuuya took that moment to realize he’d been squeezing his glass a tad too hard. The cup had a split up its side, though it was too empty for his wine to pearl through the crack.
Shirase stared at the glass. “That bad, huh? What’d she do?”
He didn’t answer, silence brewing between the two even with Shirase’s prompting gaze.
“So how have things been holding up over here?” Chuuya suddenly interjected, voice sharper than the question necessitated. Shirase gave him a look at the topic change, but replied all the same.
“The stray sheep have been doing pretty good,” he acquiesced, taking a sip of his drink, “The business we’ve set up is finally legitimate, and we’re looking to expand some of our shelters and kitchens pretty soon. We’re all good on the business front.”
“And the other front?”
Shirase scowled and kicked at the bar, earning them a glare from the bartender, “Someone’s been stirring shit.” He turned towards Chuuya, “You heard about the bridge collapse, right? That was sketchy as hell, but no one’s claimed it or anything. The news is saying it was some freak accident but nobody’s buying that. We’ve got some people putting their bets on the Order having something to do with it, or at least helping to cover up what actually happened.”
The Order of the Clocktower. Even the name pricked at the annoyance inside him. They’d been ready to bomb Yokohama at the drop of a hat during the incident with Shibusawa, and while he could understand their reasoning, it didn’t make the threat to his city any less grating.
“Caused by an ability user, then?” Chuuya asked.
“Order involvement or not, that’s a definite. We just have to hope London’s not the next Yokohama where ability users are concerned.”
“Hey! Everything’s been dealt with,” he chided, only a bit defensive, “And it’s not like it was just Yokohama. Every city has its issues.”
“Dude, you guys got hit with so many terrorist attacks, it’s not even funny,” he exclaimed. “I’ve never been so glad to have left.”
Chuuya rolled his eyes, “Fine. But it’s alright now.”
“So far.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m just saying it’s only been a couple months since the last incident. You never know!”
“Shut the hell up, Shirase,” he laughed, and the conversation carried on. Chuuya let the topics shift between them, a casual back-and-forth before they lapsed into a comfortable lull. His wine warmed his throat, having bought the bottle. He wasn’t sure how many glasses he’d had, but the haziness that hung over him was a sure sign he was tipsy. Shirase had his own choice of gin, of which he was currently staring off into, idly swirling the liquid.
“You ever think about getting married for real?” Shirase broke the silence. “I mean, we are kinda at that age. I’ve been to a couple friend’s weddings.”
“I don’t have any plans of being in a relationship with my job.” It wasn’t something he tended to dwell on, his lifestyle didn’t offer a chance for that. Chuuya knew Ane-san had once been in love, but he’d gotten to know how well that’d turned out. Of the few relationships he knew of in the mafia, most tried to keep their romantic partners out of mafia matters, or kept it to flings. Chuuya didn’t have that option. He was far too tied to the port mafia to consider relationships outside of it, and tried to steer away from being overly personal with his subordinates. He’d take them out drinking or offer congratulations for a birthday or successful mission, but that was it. Such was the life of an executive.
“But if you did,” Shirase pushed, “If you didn’t have to worry about all that stuff, what would you do? Would you go traditional, lowkey, etc.?”
“Why are you asking this?”
“I’m just curious,” Shirase put his hands up defensively, “And you’re the one that’s actually married between us.”
“Don’t remind me,” he grimaced before sighing. “I guess I’d like to have a wedding. Wouldn’t be too big, just a couple friends.” Chuuya shrugged, “You?”
“Just the papers for me, man,” he laughed, “If I ever had a girl I’d want to spend the rest of my life with, we might as well reap the tax benefits. Though I might change my mind if she wanted something different.” He grinned at Chuuya, “Not like that’ll happen anytime soon.”
“Or ever, for me,” he muttered behind another sip.
“Hey, even if it’s with Dazai you’re still gonna experience it!” Then, Shirase actually put some thought into his words. “Well, kinda.”
“As if, it’s just a show for our operation. It’s not gonna be anything more than a piece of paperwork Dazai can hold over me until I file for a divorce.”
“Oh come on, you’ve gotta reap some of the benefits!” Shirase goaded. “Couple’s discounts, for one. Those are always great.”
“Would we even count? We don’t have anything other than a slip of paper to show we’re married, and it’s not like we look like your average couple.” Chuuya gave Shirase the side eye as the other scrutinized him. “What?”
At that Shirase shot him a grin, “Why don’t we fix that?”
***
He and Shirase split ways after a couple more hours, the man spending that time dragging him around the city. He’d only been a little drunk, or so he’d thought, but a new purchase tucked snuggly in his pocket made him think twice. Well, what was done was done, and he might as well follow through. Chuuya had spent the money.
Chuuya sighed as he made his way back to the inn, an easy feat until he reached its street. He squinted at the buildings in front of him, growing increasingly frustrated as his eyes continued to slide away from where the grungy pub was supposed to be. Fuck it, he knew it was there, even if his senses didn’t want to believe it. With a single mind, he forced himself forward, beelining to the unseeable middle point between the two surrounding buildings.
The closer he got, the more a hazy presence settled before him. It had the aura of an ability, but it was chaotic, blurred at the edges. It sharpened once he pulled through the threshold, even if that ambiguity still lingered.
Chuuya made his way up the stairs to the rooms, pulling out his key as he moved down the hall to his and Dazai’s room. Their room that only had one bed. He let out a breath at Dazai’s commitment to their farce. It only affirmed Dazai had planned to go this route since the very beginning, if the paperwork didn’t say enough. Well, at least Chuuya wasn’t the one sleeping on the floor.
He was only two doors from his own, key already in hand to enter when the door nearest to him opened. His grip tightened.
“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”
Tsushima Tane narrowed her eyes from her spot, the woman shutting the door behind her with purpose. She didn’t bother with any other acknowledgements as she walked right past him. Chuuya was better for it— he didn’t know if he could handle another conversation with her. Not to mention he patience was more frayed than usual with the day he’d had. Following her lead, he decided to get on with his life and ignore it.
That always worked out, right?
With a harsh yank of his key (it only took him a couple more tries than it should’ve) he finally turned the lock, slamming the door behind him. He was greeted by a Dazai lounging on the bed, sheets twisted about his body like a reject circus act, pillows thrown off the bed and blankets spilling down the sides. He’d yell at him for it later. As for now…
“If we’re doing this, we’ve gotta do it right,” Chuuya demanded as he entered the room.
“What’s the chibi on going on abo—” Dazai made a choking sound as a small box pelted the lanky bastard in the stomach. “What’s…” he trailed off as he picked up the jewelry box, the ring inside staring back up at him. Chuuya watched as the red gem glinted in the other’s eyes, widened as they were. His expression was flat as he looked back to Chuuya.
He tore off his left glove, waving a hand where his own match lied, showing off the blue at the center. “Rings are pretty typical in marriages, aren’t they?”
“Wow, I didn’t know Chuuya was into that tradition!” Dazai exclaimed, the near nonexistent pause before the words Chuuya’s clue to his partner’s surprise. “Though isn’t the stone supposed to be a diamond, or is the slug just being a cheapskate!”
Chuuya scoffed before marching over to the bed, snatching the box from Dazai’s hands. “This cost twenty thousand pounds, so you better be grateful,” he griped, looping his fingers around Dazai’s left wrist to pull his hand towards him. It hung limply as he slid the ruby ring onto his partner’s ring finger. Time seemed to stand still as Chuuya stared at it, and he dropped Dazai’s hand the second he felt it start again. Dazai pulled his hand back to himself just as quickly, and Chuuya couldn’t tell what was behind his eyes, then. “If we’re gonna act married,” he eventually reasoned, “We might as well look the part. It’ll give us another week before they think we’re gonna get a divorce, I’ll bet.”
“Chuuya’s drunk and delusional,” Dazai chimed in, “I bet everyone around here is so stupid they don’t even realize we’re not a couple. Not only that, but that we’re in a happy and loving relationship.” Dazai swooned, fluttering his lashes.
Chuuya chuckled, his own ring still pricking at his conscious mind where it sat on his finger. He could never say no to a bet with Dazai, even when ill-intentioned. This one, though, he was sure he had in the bag.
His smile evened out into a grin. “You’re on.”
***
Thick clouds painted the sky grey, a chill wind hurling droplets into her face. They stung, but she could hardly pay them mind, watching the slow trail of crimson slide. She shook, fingers tearing into the cobble beneath her skinned knees. The sound of laughter scraped at her ears like nails on a chalkboard. She couldn’t breath, and it was sickening to hear the intake of their lungs in their cackles, the silence of her father’s before her. The blood leached into the puddle beneath his head, stone having broken skin as he’d fallen lifeless.
“Oh lookie here, the filthy lass is cryin’!” one of the men spoke, his amusement stark. Her eyes flickered up, head bowing the next moment at the gleeful malice she was met with. These men still had their sticks, she remembered, and she shook.
Those sticks, whatever sorcery they were made of, killed her father. They sapped and sparked at her nerves. And then they killed him. All it took was a point and a whisper.
They pointed. Then they whispered. And all she knew was pain.
She thought she was screaming. Maybe she still was, when it stopped. But had it really stopped? Her nerves sparked beneath gasping breaths, and the rain was salty as she heaved her sobs. She could barely register the ripples beneath her, but that laughter. Oh that laughter rung clear.
“The little mudblood’s screams are much better aren’t they?” one of the men laughed. “Do it for a little longer now, why don’t ya?”
“Please,” escaped her lips, choked out from a throat turned raw. “Please don’t— don’t—” a hitched sob cut off her plea, and her weakened limbs couldn’t summon the strength to scramble back as the man pointed. And he whispered.
A bang reverberated in the alley as she flinched. It tolled clear and clean in her head, bracketed by the wash of rain around her. She watched with dull eyes as the man fell, once more meeting his gaze. She didn’t look away, now. Not from the lifeless eyes that stared back at her, framing a red dot that bled sluggishly as it was battered by rain.
She could hear the panic of her tormentors, quick movements that blurred at the edges of her vision. But her head shifted slowly, and just barely, she could make out the sound of empty footsteps.
“Rather tasteless, yes?” the newcomer said, a Russian accent lilting from his tongue. She couldn’t take her eyes off the man. He was speaking to her, looking to her as the devils began to shout.
“Filthy mudblood!” the second of the original three spat, brown hair shifting into view from under his hood. “Avada kedav—”
A second shot, and the second man fell dead. The third shook in place, and a subtle vitriol lit under her heart. With his stick, he pointed. And he snarled.
“Avada kedavra!”
A sickly green light hit the man, and she keened as that man, too, fell. Her would be savior, pelted by the unforgiving rain. There was no blood, there hadn’t been any with her father either, until he’d hit the ground. And yet she knew his heart beat still, her father’s lacking pulse having yet to be forgotten from her fingers, even as they twitched in other, more painful, memories.
The monster still standing turned to her. His glare quaked with hate. Somehow, she found enough of her own to glare back. She couldn’t dodge the spit that hit her face. She was going to die now. She was going to die at the hands of an accursed stick, its wood gnarled in grisly twists to accompany its suffering. She didn’t look away this time and then—
Her sobs seemed muffled at the sound that was coming from the man as he gripped his face. A gargled struggle in her ears as his features seemed to melt, to twist. And, from one moment to the next, he was someone else. Someone different.
Her head whipped to the long still corpse and then back. It was that same man now standing before her. She didn’t know what was happening. What was happening?
The man was examining himself, the stick twirling between his fingers. He pulled up his sleeve, and she caught a glimpse of a tattoo sitting stark on his skin.
“This will be troublesome, but needs must,” he sighed, and his eyes slid to her. A flinch ran through her system at their apathetic purple. “I am sorry for the trouble, miss,” he spoke, accent still running thick as his fingers wound across that accursed wood, “You’ve done well. You may rest, now.”
And he pointed. And he whispered.
“Avada kedavra.”
And she knew no more.