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It’s not that the enemy has been overwhelmingly crafty. They’re quite good in choosing tactics that he hasn’t prioritized as something that should be defended against. Not to the point that they’re completely unpredictable, but—
“It’s quite boring,” he murmurs as he looks up a dark gray sky. There are heavy clouds starting to roll into the scene. It’s about to rain, and it would make everything cool and slippery.
He lies down and tries to make himself feel more comfortable in this muddy patch of land. There’s a gunshot wound on his left thigh, a large scrape from a dagger that he hasn’t completely avoided near his liver. He can feel himself losing more blood by the moment.
He honestly hasn’t ranked this enemy as an important concern, so he hasn’t set up too many fallback plans for this. At this early hour on a weekend, there wouldn’t be Kunikida who’d bellow at him for being late. No Ranpo who’d be at the office munching on snacks. No Atsushi who’d fret about him showing up later than his usual tardy schedule.
It would be quite some time until someone even thinks to look for him.
Maybe it’s a nice chance for him to finally achieve his most-awaited death.
The thought surprisingly cheers him up, to a good-enough mood that he can actually consider harassing others while he’s waiting to bleed out on this abandoned patch of land on the city outskirts. There’s some struggle getting his phone out of his pocket. There’s no such struggle getting to a certain person’s number, because he’s pinned as one of his speed-dials.
Several rings.
Presumably because of his ongoing blood loss, his imagination is a little sketchy. He imagines a tiny slug grumbling in his bed; Chuuya should have gone to sleep not even three hours ago. He has first-hand experience of how much of a heavy-sleeper the slug is. Factoring in that it’s Sunday morning, the chibi should have gone out the night before.
Nevertheless, the call connects after a few moments spent with imagining how much the slug has drooled into his pillow.
“I’m telling you now,” with a fierceness rendered absent by a long yawn, “if you woke me up for a bunch of bullshit, I’m gonna fucking kill you, shitty Dazai.”
Typical Chuuya. He already knows that it’s a prank, but he still picks up anyway, for the sliver of chance that it’s actually for something serious. A stupid slug, really.
“I don’t think that’s necessary,” he breathes into his phone and thinks that the sky would be so much more beautiful if it’s a lot bluer than its current dreary gray.
“Nngh? Oi, what the hell’s wrong with you?”
Ah, it’s the animal instincts at work. He even controlled his breathing so it would only seem like he’s deliberately playing up a coquettish tone. “I just have a very important question, then I’ll leave you to your sleep that wouldn’t add anything to your height.”
“Bastard! Stop cursing me!” Typical Chuuya, getting distracted by assessments to his pitiful height. Also a testament to his idiotic optimism, because how is he expecting to grow taller at the age of twenty-five?
“I’m simply stating facts,” is his prim response. He can hear the slug gnashing his teeth on the other end. “Ne, Chuuya, if I die, are you going to cry?”
It’s disgusting to think about, but one of the chibi’s main personality quirks is his strong loyalty.
He’s the sort to place that above anything else. He has no problem committing various crimes when done in the name of protecting Sheep or enriching Port Mafia. He has no problem forgiving betrayal when done by those he considers as “his people”. He has no problem helping random citizens, as long as they’re part of “his city” and don’t have interests against Sheep-back-then or Port Mafia-now.
Given how powerful he is, even all of Dazai’s plans can’t account for getting his head pummeled to ground by an enraged shorty—well, unless he accounts for the fact that Chuuya never uses full power against him. Despite their mutual enmity and his betrayal, he’s certain that Chuuya still includes him in that list of people that belongs under his wing.
Chuuya cries over silly children’s movies about dogs, and tears up over onions, and also ends up very gutted over the deaths of even the most irrelevant of subordinates.
So, isn’t it fair to expect that he’d cry at his death?
Now that he thinks about it, has he actually seen Chuuya cry over things that are not his hats, wines and dog movies?
…Huh.
For someone whose wide range of emotions can be easily triggered, and for someone who’s gone through a lot of tragedies and hardship—how is it that he can’t remember ever seeing Chuuya break down and cry out of sadness?
………Huh.
How would Chuuya look in that situation? Would his blue eyes turn red like a rotting apple? Or would they turn into a dull gray like the skies currently above him? Would he look very ugly, dripping snot and barely even noticing it? Would his eyes and face swell up from crying non-stop?
A Chuuya who’s so utterly devastated and defeated by his emotions, even though he’s the strongest person in this city—
—He wants to see it.
He’s so invested in imagining all the possible ways Chuuya would look so ugly when crying that it takes him several moments to realize that the slug has already clicked his tongue and asked, “How would you die in this hypothetical scenario?”
He makes a face at the other’s tone. Like he’s utterly unimpressed by his question. Like he’s not even the slightest bit unnerved about it. A sharp contrast to the idiot slug who gets baited all the time whenever he says, “Chuuya, there’s something I want to tell you before I die…”
…Should he be refreshing his tactics? Is Chuuya finally learning the art of ignoring his teasing?!!
He clicks his tongue too. “Hmm, how about I got cornered by enemies so powerful that I can only lie down and get shot and stabbed by them.”
A pause before, “Sure, I’ll cry.” Before he can crow in delight upon hearing such an admission from the slug, Chuuya tacks on a, “I’ll cry from laughing too much. You, who’s worse than a cockroach when it comes to vitality? Pfft, wouldn’t that be a sight, shitty mackerel.”
Ah, this dog is truly so annoying. He can be so predictable at times, but then he pulls out sucker-punches to his expectations at the most unexpected of moments.
There are even times where Dazai suspects that Chuuya has evolved into being a worm inside his stomach, to be able to easily read through and sense his thoughts. For someone so small-brained to be able to read a genius like him—that’s a very feasible bet.
And then there are times when he acts as if he has absolutely no idea of what Dazai wants to hear from him. Or maybe he does, but he’s learned the art of withholding things from him? Tsk, what a naughty dog he is, learning tricks that goes against his master’s wishes just because they’re not in the same organization anymore.
He licks his lips as he closes his eyes, too annoyed with his dog. “These enemies are so much stronger than a silly dog, I bet that they could defeat you easily and then you’d end up crying.”
“Ha?” There’s a puff of hard-edged laughter. “You think that they can defeat me to the point of tears? Dream on, shitty Dazai.”
“No way, why would I want to dream of a slug?”
It’s already enough that he makes it his usual before-bed exercise: lying down on his futon and thinking of at least one plan per day on how to prank and kill Chuuya. It always starts out with a perfectly designed murder plan, but then his mental simulation would run into a snag: imagining Chuuya’s multitude of ways to thwart his machinations. Then, he’d be irritated at the other’s ability to be unpredictable even in his imagination, so he’d divert his attention to thinking of several pranks as payback.
…Anyway, the point is, he’d rather die than dream of a slug.
A too-sensible, “You’re the one who brought up wanting me to cry upon your death, oi.”
“It’s merely an intellectual exercise,” he deflects primly. “Nothing that a silly chibi like you can understand, I expect.”
“Well, I’ve expected that you can’t even do the basic exercises.” It’s a voice that sounds so much closer than something communicated through cellphone towers. “Isn’t this kind of pathetic, eh, Dazai?”
He makes a disgusted face as he opens his eyes. There’s a blue sky above him—ah, it really is just Chuuya taking advantage of this rare chance of being ‘taller’ than him.
Hands on his hips, no hat on his head, wavy locks haphazardly arranged in a loose bun. He’s in an even looser shirt and pajamas that drag past his ankles, even when already folded. Wrapped in a red glow, he peers down at him, mild curiosity on the lines of his body.
“…Ah, chibikko, have you been stalking me?”
This isn’t a very accessible area, after all. Placing a tracker on the other’s belongings is more aligned with his own tactics, instead of a simpleton chibi’s.
“Your stench of fishy bullshit stank so much that I could find you so easily,” is the easy response, eyebrows beautifully knitted together as those eyes scan through his body up and down to check for his situation. “Getting shot and stabbed? What a disgrace, are all your detectives this weak?”
He wiggles his eyebrows. “Remember when my fellow detective trapped you in a Book?”
“Remember that I managed to get out of it by beating up a thousand people? I can make you experience that, free of charge.”
He deliberately elongates his syllables and makes mournful expressions. “You’ve become quite pathetic, chibi. Why are you so proud of defeating fictional men?”
A loud click of his tongue. “I’m beginning to think that your so-called genius is the most fictional thing of it all. How the hell did you end up in this situation?”
“You want me to discuss my work with you?” A fluttering of his eyelashes. “Wow, are you about to ask me next about my day? Check on whether I’m eating three meals? Ask me to hand over my salary?”
A truly derisive look. “Why the fuck would I do such thankless things? You’re obviously not eating properly and you’re obviously a poor sod, there’s no need for me to ask questions.”
Despite the gruff words, Chuuya does lean down to heft him up carefully in his arms. Even though he’s the sort to not get injured as often, he has enough experience in the mafia. And even though he’s very petite, his core strength is possibly the best in the entire city, so he does this effortlessly.
As times moves forward, the dark sky continues to hinder much of sunlight from breaching Yokohama’s streets. A strong scent of petrichor, tinged with the salt from the sea breeze.
With his nose near the other’s clavicle, exposed by his loose-fitting shirt, all he can smell is the scent of sleep on Chuuya. A little milky like his favorite nighttime body wash, a pinch of lavender from his preferred fabric conditioner. His own scent that has built up over the night, still not washed away by a morning shower.
“…Say, you never answered my question earlier.”
“I did,” is the quick reply. “I said I’d cry out of laughter.”
There aren’t any people on the streets, but he supposes that Chuuya can be quite thick-skinned on certain situations. His obliviousness to some things giving him a thick face of confidence to ignore others. He’d probably think that if anyone were to stop and stare at them, it’d be because of how ‘he’s carrying a fish’. Instead of the obvious conclusion that it’s because he’s engaging in a public display of affection by bridal-carrying a man with longer legs than him.
…A really stupid chibi, tsk.
“That’s obviously a different definition of crying.” He purses his lips as he tries to discreetly try to sniff the milky scent. It’s just him gathering ammunition for teasing Chuuya on insisting to drink milk nightly even though his height is a lost cause.
“Well, you better re-check the definition of hate because I will not cry over someone I hate.”
Tsk, a reasonable response. “Even though we’re partners?”
“So what?”
He bites him on the neck, annoyed.
Chuuya shudders and squeezes him hard against his chest in response. “Bastard! Don’t bite me!”
“You don’t even respect your master, of course I have to bite you.”
“Who the hell are you calling my master?! I don’t have one!”
“You’re an idiot who doesn’t have a brain! Why won’t you cry for me!”
“Why would I waste tears on you when you’re like a cockroach who’d scuttle back to life anyway?!”
“You’re the short black one who’s addicted to flying around and acting tall! You’re the cockroach!”
“Shut the hell up!”
Thankfully for the rest of Yokohama’s citizens, the dreary morning has kept them inside their houses longer than usual. Nobody bears witness to the extremely petty bickering between the two most fearsome figures in underground’s history.
One alley away from Chuuya’s apartment, and the chibi threatens to dump him in the trashbin.
“You already rescue me unprovoked, so why not cry for me too?”
“You interrupted my sleep! I wouldn’t have gone to fetch you if you haven’t woken me up!”
“I didn’t ask you to save me, I was happily welcoming my death!”
“Out of a stab wound and a gunshot wound?” Chuuya sounds so bewildered by this, like someone dying from ‘just’ two wounds is too much of a concept for him to understand. “Are you fucking shitting me?”
Then, he blinks and looks like he’s understood something from their conversation. Probably something silly, because he has a small brain.
With that bewildered expression on his face, he slowly asks, “Oi, did you decide that you want to continue living because you want to keep annoying me?”
That kind of unimpressed look is too much. He rolls his eyes and says as snootily as possible, “I wanted to make sure I see you crying over me first. Because that would be such a hilarious sight.”
They meet eyes, unblinking. There’s a saying that people can only stare at others unblinking for prolonged periods of time if it’s due to sexual interest or murderous intentions. Of course, given how they feel about each other, they’d probably be full of punctures from how they’re stabbing each other with their gazes.
Then, Chuuya lets out a huff, and resumes walking to the underground parking of his residential building. It has a private elevator that goes all the way to the top floor where his apartment actually is.
“I’ll only cry for someone who has become so important to me that I can’t bear losing them at all,” is said so casually, that it’s almost enough to hide the slight tremor in his words and the redness of his earlobes.
Dazai swallows hard. “You’re a slug who’s very slow in realizing things. How long does it take for you to realize that someone has achieved that level of importance to you?”
At least this way, even someone with sharp senses like Chuuya wouldn’t be able to notice the tremors in his own words too. Something like excitement and giddiness coursing through his veins.
“…Hmm. At least seventy years, probably.”
He looks at the red spreading on the bridge of his nose. Gravity manipulation doesn’t have to be activated for him to be attracted to such a sight.
“Is that so,” he says, mouth dry. “It’s better to start on it right away then. Seventy years is practically an entire lifetime.”
Chuuya gives him a look. “Why do you think I’m bringing you back to my place?” It’d probably be cooler if he isn’t like cooked crab right now, all red and delicious-looking.
“I look forward to making you cry for me, Chuuya” he says after several moments, and for the first time in what feels like forever, he’s completely honest.
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end