Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

If he could reach through the glass and stop him on his way down. If he could have leapt after him and convinced him to let his Gravity save them. But instead he heard the sound from inside, of a body hitting pavement from fifty stories up, and it shattered bones and splattered blood and it shattered his heart.

“Congratulations, Boss,” came a droll voice behind him.

He turned sharply, but there was no one close enough to speak, no one was even looking at him. They were staring at the carnage below or running towards it. But he could have sworn he heard the voice continue.

You wanted this, didn’t you?

No. Yes. It was inevitable, wasn’t it, with Dazai the way he was. But had he truly expected this to manifest?

Not like this.

“Out of my way,” he growled, voice barely carrying as he ran down the stairs, his heart pounding too hard for him to hear anything else, and it was taking everything he had not to crash through the windows and follow him below, to get there as quickly as possible and see —

Why did he want to see?

He changed directions, heading for the top instead, taking the steps three at a time.

“Check on the body,” he yelled at someone, “report back to me.”

Everything hurt, everything was on fire, his lungs burning not from the climb but from the pain, the grief that was eating him from the inside out. Would it have made a difference if he was there at the top? Would anything have made a difference?

One thing. 

Chuuya abandoned decorum and shot himself up the stairs, to the top, heading not for the roof where the chaos was but for the office. Dazai’s office. Now his office. 

For the Book. The only thing that could possibly make a difference at all.

And change everything.

* * *

Chuuya Nakahara could have sworn there was something different about him that day, when the young Mafia executive Osamu Dazai had returned from a mysterious absence with even more bandages than usual and a look of murder on his face. He had been missing for weeks, thought to be dead. Intel had said he was holed up in the house of some mailman while he recovered from stab wounds, only to escape and bring down a cop vigilante group on his way out.

None of this seemed out of the ordinary for Dazai, Chuuya’s partner and the bane of his existence. Dazai was always disappearing and doing stupid gambits, acting ruthlessly and violently just to see how others would react. But in the weeks after his return, it was clear to Chuuya there was something off about him, that the already threadbare string inside him had frayed beyond repair. Six years later, though, serving alongside Dazai, and now under him, Chuuya couldn’t be sure what exactly that change was. He wondered if something had happened that made Dazai climb the ranks much quicker than anyone had expected, but whatever it was, he dragged Chuuya along behind him on hands and knees.

The last few years had been a blur. The tragic and strange death of their boss, Ougai Mori, made Dazai the obvious successor. And under him, the Mafia soared into the air, darkening the sky and blotting out the sun, infecting the grounds and streets of Yokohama with guns and drugs and blood. Dazai was a natural, with his influence reaching everywhere, and Chuuya was a natural Second to him. He was also, he thought, the only one who might be able to keep him under some sort of control. Because something was very wrong with him.

If he had been reckless as an executive, as the Boss he was manic. And with every resource at his own disposal, to set out to his own whims, he played with lives and livelihoods like a video game. Everyone was indebted to him. And everyone was afraid of him.

Chuuya knocked on the door of his boss’s office and walked inside, running a few minutes early for their meeting. They had one-on-ones every week, and he reported on the Mafia’s movements every morning. This time it was a follow-up to an investigation he was leading into an establishment that had been a new Mafia holding. The bar, Tomie, offered discounts and discreet meeting places to mobsters, and in turn the mob offered access to choice goods and protection — from the Mafia. But now they were suddenly pushing back, treating their patrons like bullies rather than partners, and though of course that couldn’t be allowed, the real question was why. What changed?

Chuuya had been assigning different subordinates to get close to the managers all month with his infiltration team, but it wasn’t until he sent a mafioso to actually be employed there that he got an answer. It didn’t bode well. And so Chuuya squared his shoulders before he stepped through the door. 

He liked to think he wasn’t afraid of Dazai; he would have vehemently denied it and even scoffed or laughed in anyone’s face who said he was. He’d known the little shit since they were fifteen, and not much about him had changed except that now he had power. Even the office was meant to be intimidating, too big for its occupant, with its tall vaulted ceilings and high full-story windows, everything decorated in silver or onyx, ornate and chilling. 

Dazai wasn’t sitting in the high-backed desk chair. Nor was he dramatically gazing out the windows at Yokohama below, half-joking about crashing through and falling to the pavement. Chuuya frowned and stepped into the room, annoyed that Dazai wasn’t even here yet. He gazed around the room thoughtfully; if he were in charge, he would have picked something a lot less tacky, less showy. Maybe a normal-sized office and a nice mahogany desk. 

He was pulled instantly from the reverie by the sound of boots clacking on the tile floor, heavy footfalls echoed by smaller, faster clinks, and Dazai burst into the office trailed by his assistant, Gin.

“Ah, sorry,” Dazai said.

His black coat billowed behind him, his wine-red scarf fluttering as he walked quickly to his desk, but the color was a little strange — and as he turned around, Chuuya saw that it was spattered in blood. Gin chased him with a similarly stained towel and he took it, wiping his gloves off distastefully before he handed it back, along with the scarf.

“Had to take care of Yokoyama,” Dazai explained, sitting down. Yokoyama was a traitor they had been pressing for information. His eyes glanced at the clock. “I meant to remove him from the rack at ten, but I overslept. Still effective.” 

Chuuya opened his mouth to report, then paused.

“I — didn’t you already pardon him last week?” Chuuya asked instead.

“Yes, well, he had to think that, didn’t he?” Dazai replied. He cracked his fingers and then steepled his hands on the desk. “When he thought he was free, he led us straight to his cache —over a million yen stolen from the bank. We’ll have more names by the afternoon.”

It wasn’t the casual way he spoke about the torture — although Chuuya himself wasn’t a huge fan — or even his blasé attitude that was disturbing. Chuuya bit his lip, trying not to sound like a child.

“You told me he was pardoned,” he quipped.

“It was a need-to-know basis,” Dazai said smoothly.

Chuuya stiffened. He was truly unsure if Dazai had really not told him on purpose because it was necessary for the gambit, or if this was supposed to be sending some message to him that he wasn’t as important as he thought. Or if he actually forgot to keep Chuuya in the loop and was just saving face. But any or all of these could be true, and that was what was nerve-racking. What Dazai might do because he simply felt like it. The way his mind worked was a mystery because he never bothered explaining it. It made him annoying. And terrifying. And compelling as hell.

“Leave us, Gin,” Dazai said.

Gin offered a small bow to both of them before she exited the room, quickly but not too quickly. Though likely she wanted to get out of there before she was witness to something she would rather not see. As the door clicked behind her, Dazai gazed over at his Second and crooked a gloved finger at him. Chuuya reluctantly stepped closer.

“So,” Dazai started, “Tomie.”

“It’s worse than we suspected,” Chuuya replied, his hands behind his back. “It ain’t just that they’re pulling away. We’ve confirmed they’re looking to make a deal with the Savages. They’re almost lookin to start a mob war in their own backyard.”

“That’s disappointing.” Dazai sighed, putting his face in his hand. “And I thought they liked us. Loyalty doesn’t mean anything these days, does it?” Chuuya didn’t respond, once again unsure if he was being addressed directly. He hadn’t done anything; but something about Dazai’s lingering gaze always made him doubt himself. “Obviously this can’t be allowed.”

Chuuya shook his head. “Right. Their security’s already made up of the Savages, apparently. And our intel says they’re going to double their security and start turning us away. They ain’t gonna ease into it — they’re just gonna go straight for the throat. It’s commendable,” he added with a shrug, “it ain’t subtle. It’s a declaration of war.”

“Then we’ll give them war,” Dazai replied.

His voice was even. Chuuya swallowed as he stood up.

“We should strike while the iron is hot,” Dazai said simply. “Get your assault team ready for tonight. You should have access to whatever arms you need. Use as much force as you—”

“No.”

The word escaped his lips and surprised even him. But he had seen the security detail, had read the reports on their desperation. Dazai had not. It was not something he felt equipped to just go against, not right now.

“Pardon?” Dazai blinked.

“No,” Chuuya repeated. His heart pounded, but he stood his ground. Dazai was pigheaded, ever since they were teenagers, and taking over the Mafia had made him so much worse. But he had never been cowed by him, and he couldn’t start now. Someone had to be able to push back. “I ain’t gonna risk my team like that. I told you — they’re going to double their security, and those are some heavy-hitters. If we just wait, one month or two, they’ll get paranoid, they’ll get sloppy, and that’s when we should —”

“In one month, in one week, they’ll have more power,” Dazai pushed obviously. “If we do it now, they’ll still be weak and we’ll take them down like we’re crushing ants. Don’t question me again, Chuuya. Your role is to do what I tell you.”

“I’m your Second,” Chuuya bit back. “Not your pawn. Mafia Bosses surround themselves with capable advisors, not sycophants that just bend over for them.” He scoffed. “Come on, Dazai. You’re usually so much smarter than that—”

He was fast, the fucker, especially when riled. Dazai’s hand shot forward and snatched up Chuuya’s face, his fingers digging hard into his cheeks, into his jaw. That damn negation meant Chuuya couldn’t even use gravity to lessen the squeeze, the best he could do was clutch Dazai’s wrist and use his own strength if he had to. If this turned ugly. If he . . .

Dazai brought his face close, surveying his Second.

“Don’t you dare try to manipulate me,” he hissed. “Stick to what you’re good at, slug. And what you’re good at is precisely bending over when I tell you to.”

Chuuya swallowed. Usually he would take this time to explain the little details Chuuya wasn’t seeing, really drive home why he was the one in charge and why Chuuya was just a shit-for-brains. But he was only threatening . . . he wasn’t giving anything away. Which was telling in and of itself.

“What do you really want?” Chuuya said suddenly. “This ain’t really about bumping them off, is it? Or sending a message. They have something you want, something you want now.”

Dazai tightened his lips. He stared at Chuuya through narrowed eyes, and then he squeezed Chuuya’s face harder before letting up. Once his grip had loosened, Chuuya batted his hand away. He tugged his jacket back down, regaining his composure, giving Dazai one more chance to explain himself. But of course he didn’t say a damn word — and Chuuya turned to walk out the door.

“If you don’t go with your team,” Dazai said, “I’ll have to send Asako’s team.”

Chuuya stopped, stiffening, a cold sweat down his spine. Asako was one of the younger teams, something of a resurgence of the Flags of his own youth. They were good, but they were still in training, still shadowing other groups. They were also Chuuya’s pet project, something he had been asking for for years. 

“They’ll be slaughtered,” he said numbly. He didn’t turn around; that was what Dazai wanted.

“Pity,” Dazai sighed. “But it’ll still send the message, won’t it?”

Chuuya swallowed. One day he would figure out how to best him. But for now, Dazai always got what he wanted.

“Fine.” Chuuya dropped his shoulders and turned back around, stepping carefully to Dazai’s desk as though they were simply continuing the conversation. “But I’m leading the assault, got it? I’ll pick the team personally, we’re doing it my way.”

“Of course, Chuuya,” Dazai said calmly. “I trust you.”

Fucker.

Chuuya sat himself on the desk, legs dangling over the side, nearly kicking Dazai in the gut. His gloved hands gripped the edge as Dazai stood up and gently ran a finger up and down his leg. That light touch sent a shiver up Chuuya’s spine.

“The tunnels,” Dazai started, any of his usual affectations dropping from his voice. Chuuya’s eyes darted towards him and briefly met his boss’s brown gaze. “The Mafia tunnels that run under the city. I’ve been studying them, mapping them. Right under the bar should be a vein into the network, but instead it’s a dead end. There’s something there.”

Chuuya was following, but it was taking some concentration to listen as Dazai’s fingers continued to touch his knee.

“You think it’s a cache?”

“Or something.” Dazai leaned into his neck, letting his breath flutter against it. “I want to get them out before I start literally digging too deep.”

Chuuya nodded, closing his eyes gently as Dazai’s lips fell on his cheek, kissing a line down his jaw. It made sense now . . . and Dazai could have said that to make Chuuya agree to what he wanted. But of course not. Instead he had feigned sending some teenagers to their death.

“Why do you say stuff like that?” Chuuya muttered. “Threatenin’ your own men. It’s in your worst interest if you send in the wrong people, too.”

“Because you’re my dog, Chuuya,” Dazai sighed, “and this is your Pavlovian response.” He tucked a finger under Chuuya’s choker, tugging him forward. “I know what gets your hackles up, slug. But I also know what makes you salivate.”

Dazai’s hand slid up his leg and rubbed his thigh, fingers spidering higher to stroke between them. His touch was slow and deliberate, and Chuuya’s body betrayed him as he let out an aching moan.

Not betrayed . . . he didn’t hate this. He didn’t hate Dazai’s body against his, moving against his in unison, breath beating on his shoulder, hands clinging to him, unraveling underneath him. Since they were sixteen, he readily welcomed these encounters, reveling at how in-sync they were, how their abrasion made their lovemaking passionate. It was hot. In those moments, he was in love. In other moments, too, when he and Dazai worked together on a plan, when he executed it perfectly and actually was given praise. When they had small moments of domesticity, running errands together or eating breakfast after a night of raids or sex. And even the idea of being the boss’s favorite, of his plaything, was appealing in its own way.

What he hated was this framing device, this insistence Dazai drove and drilled into him that Chuuya was nothing but a tool. A dog. That he was at Dazai’s beck and call, that everything was to Dazai’s grand plan and that Chuuya had no real will of his own. And at this point, there was no real difference. He had to do what Dazai told him. Had to play this game. So he might as well get enjoyment out of whatever parts he could.

Chuuya wrapped a fist around Dazai’s tie and pulled him into a kiss, his lips forceful and wanting. Dazai melted into him for a moment, letting out a sweet, longing groan, and he seized Chuuya’s face and shoved his tongue into his mouth. Chuuya joined him, sliding against him, opening his mouth wider, gasping for breath as heat rose in his body, before Dazai turned his head to the side and made for Chuuya’s neck.

There was a dull pain above his collar as Dazai bit him, sucking on his neck hard enough to leave a welt. He ran his tongue up higher to below his ear and made another one, causing Chuuya to take in a sharp breath. Before they were through, Chuuya expected he would be peppered with a dozen more.

“You’re to wear your shirt collar open tomorrow,” Dazai ordered. His fingers unbuttoned said collar as he spoke, and he pulled down the knot at Chuuya’s throat. “No tie. And the three-quarter sleeve jacket.”

Chuuya flushed, not even bothering nodding. Sometimes Dazai liked to order him to dress in a certain way, like he was a peacock, pleasing to the eye. But often it was to humiliate him, make it plain by showing off the welts that for all Chuuya’s own ruthlessness and power, he was still owned. That everything he did was an extension of the Mafia Boss.

Dazai slid his hands to the top of Chuuya’s thighs, shifting closer, moving his belt within reach.

“Fuck me, Chuuya,” he ordered in a whisper.

Go fuck yourself, Chuuya thought, but said nothing. One day, he would say it. But today, his crotch was already throbbing, he wanted him too badly.

Chuuya stood up and grabbed Dazai’s belt, tugging him forward. In one fluid motion, he picked Dazai up at the waist and perched him on the desk, making quick work of the buckle and pants they held up. Dazai lay back, spreading his legs as Chuuya stepped between them, that familiar ache rippling through his body. The truth was that Chuuya wanted nothing more than to sink into Dazai and fuck him breathless. It was another truth that Dazai was often in a mood that made him annoyingly difficult to get off. This was going to be work.

He didn’t need much foreplay; humiliating Chuuya had already gotten him hard. Chuuya teased around his entrance — he hated that, but Chuuya grinned and finally drove into him. Dazai let out a soft oh sound and pulled Chuuya against him, his legs wrapping around his hips, arms clutching his shoulders. He moved ever so slightly, expecting Chuuya to do the work — and he did, pushing in rhythmically, trying to get deeper, to hit the right spot. Without losing it himself when Dazai was a beautiful, warm wreck.

“Harder,” Dazai gasped, throwing his head back.

Such a pain in the ass, Chuuya thought, but Dazai’s flushed visage was gorgeous, and he pushed harder, digging into the desk, trying to get some gravity behind his thrusts. Dazai clenched around him and his vision went white a moment, that pleasure cascading over him, but he had to hold on. He sucked on Dazai’s neck and drove further into him, moving his hips faster in a circular motion. Dazai grinned wide and pulled Chuuya closer, heels digging into his back. Chuuya tried to give him the stimulation he demanded, and he pulled his glove off with his teeth before sliding his hand between Dazai’s legs. It was almost enough; he was sweating now, wrist getting cramped as he stroked faster, thrust deeper, and Dazai’s hands scraped up under his shirt, up his back, nails digging into his spine, oh, fuck — 

Relief came as Dazai did, into his hand, and he gave himself over at last to that overwhelming pleasure. He wanted to collapse onto Dazai, to kiss him sweetly, to bask in the afterglow beside him like they had when they were teenagers. But Dazai wanted it efficient, it was just another task he had to take care of, and so Chuuya pulled out and started to clean up. He scowled at his own mechanical movements, at this routine — maybe he really was nothing but a dog, taking orders.

Dazai sat up and wrapped his limbs around Chuuya, kissing his neck softly.

“You’re not just my dog, you know,” he said sweetly.

“Oh?” Chuuya wasn’t in the mood. He was probably going to lose a dozen men while he got his dick wet. “What am I?”

“You have a special role,” Dazai whispered. “That fills a very special need.”

He bit one more welt below Chuuya’s ear before pushing him away playfully.

I have needs, Chuuya . . . I need you.

The implication that someone had to accept the Mafia boss’s advances, and if not Chuuya, then it would be someone else. Except Dazai already was fucking around with someone else. 

Chuuya shivered. Not that the White Reaper was his friend. But if anyone was even more under Dazai’s thumb than he was, it was Atsushi Nakajima. 

Black coat, black gloves, spiked collar, white hair. Atsushi trudged down the hall towards the boss’s office, his heavy boots echoing loud enough to distract his own anxious thoughts. The other mafiosi he passed in the hall skirted away from him, avoiding his gaze and his claws. For years, he had been gaining a reputation as a ruthless murderer, a heartless assassin. If you saw the snow-white hair of the White Reaper, it was already over for you, and you were headed straight to hell. He did his job. Did as Dazai-sama asked. He owed him that and more.

Atsushi walked into the office, the fear in him mingling with adoration and gratitude as he faced Osamu Dazai. His boss. His master. His . . . everything. His Dazai. All he ever wanted to do was please him and it felt like all he did was disappoint him.

“What happened?” Dazai’s tone was brusk, not about to lose control, but not happy.

Atsushi couldn’t quite answer the question. It was supposed to be a simple operation: he was sent in to see a jeweler who acted as a launderer for stolen goods, turning missing bracelets into rings, rings into earrings, to hide their origins. Only it turned out the owner was pocketing two jewels for every one he turned over, and so Atsushi had been sent to send the message that this was unacceptable. He was supposed to just kill the man’s business partner. But . . . 

“The police report said it was a massacre,” Dazai went on. “I want to hear it from you, Atsushi. I’m on your side.”

“I . . .”

Dazai stepped towards him, a hand on his shoulder, and Atsushi softened a little. Those fingers drew up to his neck, drumming softly on his collar.

Atsushi swallowed with difficulty. The collar was pain, the spikes on the outside sticking in him on the inside as well, the wounds were supposed to keep the Tiger inside him at bay, give him some sort of control. When Dazai had found him years ago, he was an unleashed Beast, cycling between unhinged mindless raves as a Tiger and horrible abuse at the hands of an orphanage director. He was either attacking someone or being attacked — until Dazai and the Mafia took him in. Dazai had spent his own money and resources to find this solution for him, find him a place, let him serve by his side. And today, he had screwed it all up. 

“I . . . it was under way,” Atsushi said, his voice trembling. “I had my eyes on him, I was ready to strike, when someone jumped on me from behind.”

He swallowed again, trying not to think of that wave of emotions, his anger at that attack, and when he turned around . . .

All he had seen at that point was red. The man was bleeding from wrapping his hands around the collar, but aside from that, Atsushi recognized him. Someone he hadn’t seen in years. Someone who hadn’t seen him in years. Not the director of the orphanage, but one of the teachers, who had left when he was young. But Atsushi didn’t care; they were all liable for what had happened to him.

“Nakajima?” The teacher had said, and then Atsushi had slit his throat. His team had followed his lead and killed everyone on site.

Dazai’s hand slid to Atsushi’s face, staring at him. His touch was meant to be comforting, but he could feel the threat behind his fingers. He had messed up. It wasn’t the first time he had lost control during an operation, it wasn’t the first time he had leaned into his anger and got caught up in the slaughter. But it was the first time he had directly disobeyed Dazai’s orders.

“I’m sorry,” he said, panic welling in his chest, only filling him more as Dazai stared at him calmly. “I’m sorry. I — I won’t disobey you again, I’m not — I’m unworthy. Dazai-sama—”

Atsushi put his hands on his head, the air in the room constricting, and he struggled for breath. Dazai stepped away, and he began to hyperventilate. No. No. No, Dazai was leaving him, he was done, what good was he if he didn’t listen, and he clawed at his hair, falling to his knees, doubling over himself.

Stop it. Stop it!

He was sniveling, he was squirming, he was pathetic. Dazai hated these outbursts of emotion, of terror and sorrow, he hated it so much that he slapped it out of his subordinates. Atsushi would not displease him. He could not. And yet, he couldn’t stop these fat tears, this heaving. Atsushi tried to stuff it back inside but it only suffocated him, filled his chest to bursting, and it exploded out of him again. He clutched his shoulders, wailing, sobbing, trying to find purchase in the texture of his coat, in the sharp spikes of his collar.

“Help me,” he managed to whimper. His voice was barely a crack. “I — I don’t know what to do,” he sobbed. “Dazai-sama. Tell me — tell me what to do.”

Through blurred vision, Atsushi saw Dazai drop to his knees in front of him, shaking the floorboards. Slowly, Dazai lifted a hand, reaching towards him, flexing his gloved fingers. Atsushi shut his eyes in anticipation of the pain to come, of the reprimand, of Dazai’s hand slapping across his face. He felt fingers tangling in his hair and pulling, jerking his head back and tilting it up, and he heard the shuffle of movement as Dazai shifted forward.

And a strange, wet warmth spread out from his lips. Atsushi’s eyes flew open in confusion, wondering for half a beat if Dazai was crying, too — only to find his boss’s face on top of his own, eyes closed gently — and then he realized Dazai was kissing him.

“What—” Atsushi managed to break away only for a second before Dazai pulled him back, kissing him again.

Maybe this will calm you down, Dazai seemed to say as his lips grew more aggressive, more invasive. And maybe he was right; Atsushi’s hysteria subsided only to be replaced by a panic of a different kind, his heart pounding at the prospect that he was kissing the mob boss. 

Was this punishment or reward? Had he ever given any obvious indication that this was something he wanted? Had Dazai? They touched quite often, Dazai himself sometimes gently cleaning Atsushi’s wounds, as he was the only one who could negate him safely. Atsushi leaned into Dazai’s embrace when given the chance, into his hands, into his chest, and  . . . now, yes, he was leaning into the warmth, staring into the depths of those warm brown eyes.

Dazai’s hand moved from his hair and seized both his wrists. He pushed them above Atsushi’s head and pinned him down to the floor, a knowing smile playing about his lips before Dazai clambered on top of him.

Atsushi had thought his first time would be gentle, soft, and more than anything, that he would have planned it. That it would be after a series of dates, some sort of lead up that would give his heart and mind time to prepare. That Dazai would have kissed his cheek and then his lips, invited him to his bed more obviously. And as Dazai tore at his clothes and caressed his skin, he thought for a moment about fighting back, about pushing him away, of saying no. But he didn’t. If this was the way Dazai-sama wanted him, then it was what he wanted, too.

He moved his arms and hips to help as Dazai pulled his shirt off, slid his pants down his legs, gloved hands and cold lips finding his skin, moving over his curves as though trying to memorize them. At some point, Dazai reached up to his collar and undid the latch, tossing it aside, and Atsushi nearly protested.

His gloves are still on, was his first thought, that Dazai was not negating him, forgetting their skin was pressed together elsewhere, something Atsushi only processed once Dazai’s lips were on his throat. Dazai’s darting tongue lapped at the wounds along his neck, pressing into them, and that was the first time Atsushi gasped and the first time Dazai moaned back at him. That sound made his blood pound and almost cut through the pain, and he shut his eyes, concentrating only on Dazai’s voice and breath as his knees were bent, thighs knocked apart, those gloves came off, and he felt something slick slide between his legs.

It hurt. It felt tight and sharp, and once Dazai’s fingers withdrew, they were replaced by something hotter and tighter. It was heady, once he internalized what was happening, and his vision went dark a moment. Dazai’s hot mouth bit uncomfortably at his shoulder, his chest, as Dazai moved back and forth inside him, pulsing into him, holding tight to Atsushi’s wrists. But Dazai was also warm and those moans echoed in his ear along with platitudes calling him beautiful and special. There was a wave of satisfaction that Dazai desired him, and Atsushi found his breath was short, his blood was pounding, he was aching for Dazai to touch him, but too afraid to ask that of his boss. He knew, though; Dazai always knew, and soon Atsushi felt a hand, raw and dry, creep across his stomach and grab him. All the excitement, the fear, the heat, Atsushi cried out at once, lasting a single stroke. And the rest of it was a blur of Dazai pushing into him, moaning in his ear, gripping him tightly, until he seized and Atsushi felt something hot and wet inside him.   

Atsushi remembered staring at the dark ceiling tiles, watching the metal fan rotate slowly as his senses returned to him. Dazai rolled off him, catching his breath, draping his limbs across his body as though shielding him. Neither of them said anything for what felt like an hour, when finally Dazai sat up, fixing his tie, and Atsushi followed.

“Does this mean . . .”

That you’re mine? Atsushi faltered before the words manifested. It was certainly too brash to claim the mob boss for himself. And he knew Chuuya was . . . 

Something. Were they partners? Lovers? Atsushi knew they were having sex, or at least Chuuya was servicing their boss. He had once caught Chuuya under the desk and Chuuya had threatened to kill him, demanding that he keep his mouth shut. As if the entire Mafia didn’t know. He had assumed Chuuya was doing what he had to in order to get ahead, that it was Chuuya who had been accruing favor. But now, having had his own dubious encounter with the crime boss, he wondered about Chuuya’s situation.

Dazai cupped Atsushi’s cheek gently, his thumb tracing the contours of Atsushi’s lips. The sensation made him shiver. It was relaxing, meditative. Comforting. Something he hadn’t felt since joining the Mafia. 

“Does this mean what, Atsushi-chan?” Dazai pressed.

He was goading Atsushi into saying something, but he couldn’t think anymore.

“That . . . I’m yours.”

Dazai smiled.

“Yes, Atsushi-chan,” he affirmed, voice soft.

He surveyed Atsushi with his one good eye, the warm brown both calculating and wanting. He leaned in and brushed his lips against Atsushi’s so lightly Atsushi could barely feel it, only feel his breath, and Atsushi wanted that warmth, wanted that taste, and he was the one who finally closed the gap into a gentle kiss. Dazai shifted slightly back, and Atsushi followed him, their lips still pressed together, Dazai moving slightly back and back and Atsushi crawling after him until Atsushi found himself in Dazai’s lap. Dazai broke away at last, tilting his head. 

“You were always mine,” Dazai whispered. “Only now you know it.”

Atsushi considered his words, his mind racing that this was some sort of trap or web, that he was doing something wrong somehow. But his heart still ached. Dazai knocked a finger under Atsushi’s chin and tilted his face up once more, kissing him sweetly, longingly. That ache spread out to the rest of him, infecting his mind, his body, telling him with every pulse that he wanted Dazai like this. Was this love? Or did Dazai know how to manipulate his mind and body so well he only thought that?

They hurriedly dressed, the collar locking back in place with a sharp jolt. Dazai put an arm around Atsushi’s shoulder, wiping the blood away casually.

“I’ll walk you home,” Dazai said decisively. “To keep you safe.” Atsushi nearly scoffed — he was the one who was supposed to keep Dazai safe, after all — but before he could ask why, Dazai responded. “You’re probably a little weak right now. It won’t do to let any of your jealous rivals take you down given the chance.”

Rivals? Atsushi’s thoughts were in a haze as they made their way out of the office and through the maze-like Mafia Tower. Yes, he knew a lot of the other mobsters were trying to kill him, angry of his high status. Did they really want to be the boss’s pet?

Or was he talking about one rival in particular? Atsushi didn’t think Chuuya was jealous of him, nor that he had any reason to think his own status was in peril. Unless . . .this was all trying to make Chuuya jealous. But why?

The cool night air kissed his skin as they reached his Mafia-owned apartment, stopping outside the door.

“Oh, shit, the jeweler,” Dazai said, and he giggled. “Haha, I almost forgot, we didn’t tie up that one. We’ll find another one, use what you did as a warning to them. And next time, since it’s stressing you out, you can just kill them all, okay?”

“O. . . kay,” Atsushi replied. He had forgotten, too, what had caused him all this conflict, this terror, just hours ago. Maybe Dazai was right — what he had needed was release. “Yes, Dazai-sama.”

Dazai smiled. “You’re cute. Stay sweet, Atsushi-chan.”

Dazai’s hand raked through his hair, sending shivers down his spine from his scalp, and he gently kissed his forehead before he was swallowed back into the darkness.

Atsushi watched him go, his heart hurting. He had never felt more loved. And he had never been more afraid.

Chapter Text

He was only subtle about it for about a month. Chuuya had started to suspect something when every time he left a one-on-one with Dazai without screwing around, he passed Atsushi in the hall on his way to the boss’s office. But then Dazai left the door unlocked and he walked in to see them sprawled on the floor. On the fucking floor.

Dazai took it as a confession, and then as an invitation. The next time Chuuya walked in on them, the White Reaper had his wrists tied together, back bent over the desk, and Dazai was clutching a long chain leading from his collar. As the door snapped shut, Dazai looked up at him and smiled, and he beckoned Chuuya closer, holding the chain out for him to take. Chuuya remembered his heart stopping in his chest, but they were both subject to Dazai’s whims, their lives in his hands. Afterwards, he couldn’t be sure if Atsushi didn’t have some sort of charm he was spelling the boss with.

Chuuya did what he always did when Dazai pulled him into bullshit: he gritted his teeth and followed through, then shoved it to the back of his mind with all of the rest of his baggage. It only happened a few more times, but he refused to let it affect him. He made it a purpose to make brief eye contact with Atsushi when they sat in meetings together, to nod at him politely when they passed in the halls. Atsushi for his part nodded back robotically, also not letting anything interfere with his job.

Though it was impossible to keep the tension out entirely. About a week after their arrangement became clear, Dazai had gotten held up at an operation and Chuuya was running the executive meeting instead. He took pride in his ability to take command of a room, and all attention was on him as he spoke. All attention, except for the White Reaper. Atsushi was fixated on the wall behind him, and Chuuya ignored that disrespect. Until the end, as they spoke about their next assignments.

“Kouyou-san, seems like you have what you need to keep working that place in Kannai,” he started, nodding at the other executive. “Nakajima, follow up with her about a job by Yoshida Bridge.”

Chuuya looked up to address him, but the Reaper was still staring at the wall. His eyes were vacant. Chuuya cleared his throat.

“Nakajima,” Chuuya pressed. “Did you hear me?”

“Hm?” Atsushi seemed to return to consciousness. Was he even fucking listening? “Chuuya-san said . . . the Yoshiya Bridge?”

“Yoshida Bridge,” Chuuya corrected, pushing down his anger. “Sorry, is a sit-down meeting too boring for an assassin?”

There was a chuckle around the room; ribbing and climbing over people to get ahead was Mafia standard, so they were glad to see the Reaper being taken down a peg. And Chuuya had a reputation of not taking people’s shit. But Atsushi only blinked and shook his head.

“No,” he said, “I’m just used to listening for Dazai-sama’s voice. It’s more commanding.”

Chuuya managed to gain control before he lost it. But barely.

“Well, you’d better listen for Ane-san’s voice for this one, or she’ll leave you behind,” he replied smoothly. “No excuses.”

The rest of the meeting went without incident. And Atsushi’s carelessness shouldn’t have been taken as a slight; but it was hard in that moment to compartmentalize the fact that even though Chuuya was higher on the ladder, he was supposedly the one closer to Dazai, that Dazai was pulling them both into his mind games, in the end they were both competing for the same man’s attention and affection. And so he told himself that Atsushi was everything he wasn’t: a sycophant, a brown-noser, a puppet.

He’d never really trusted the little fucker. He still remembered when Dazai took him in, a crying, squealing brat who was terrified of everyone and terrified of himself. It wasn’t that he didn’t have any sympathy, but Dazai spent all his free time training the little crybaby and then he rose through the ranks like wildfire. It made him wonder: was Atsushi getting close to the boss for some nefarious purpose? Because it seemed to him that Atsushi was blatantly the boss’s favorite, and he wasn’t the only one who that rubbed the wrong way. Everyone knew it, how unfair it was that the boss gave him a pass when he screwed up, that he was given his own team of assassins when he hadn’t even earned it, that the orders he gave his subordinates all came straight from the boss himself. He was simply a killing machine. A beautiful killing machine, with kaleidoscope eyes and soft hair. Even so, it shouldn’t have bothered him as much as it did. Dazai could and would do what he wanted; Chuuya wasn’t and couldn’t be attached to him in that way.

At least, that was what he told himself. Until these tight feelings in his chest bubbled over and he was frothing at the mouth.

It was so casual that it was infuriating, the transition from boss’s pet to boss’s darling. Chuuya was out running an errand, meeting over dinner with a contact to discuss an upcoming arms deal that needed to be overlooked — in short, he was going to quietly threaten a politician to look the other way at some goods coming into the city. He headed to his reservation and spotted two familiar dark jackets sweeping down the street. Dazai, shoulders squared, and the White Reaper at his side. Chuuya wondered why they were heading to some operation in the streets rather than using the Mafia tunnels, but he didn’t know of any operation happening right now that included Atsushi . . . and the two of them turned into the very restaurant he was meeting in.

He tried to shrug it off: so Dazai wanted a nice meal and he wanted his bodyguard with him. Nothing weird about that. But he could see them seated across the room as he tried to do his own job, he could see Dazai pouring Atsushi a glass of wine, touching him casually across the table, brushing a finger across his lips. Dazai knew Chuuya was here; why did Dazai want him to see this?

There was only one reason.

He didn’t fuck up the meeting— that he was proud of. His boiling anger at Dazai’s blatant favoritism was interpreted by the politician as the wrath he would bring down should this fall through. But he left what should have been a good meal and a done deal with a sour taste in his mouth and a foul mood.

So Dazai was trying to make him jealous. Two could play at that game.

Chuuya waited until there was a gap in the schedule, that Dazai was otherwise occupied and on the other side of town. The harder part was tracking down Nakajima, as he could have been deployed by a number of people. But luckily he had jurisdiction over all of them, and he got the tip Atsushi was finishing a job in the old wharf.

The White Reaper only looked vaguely surprised when he saw Chuuya walk casually into a decrepit warehouse with his hands in his pockets. Atsushi stood up, pulling his claws out of some guy’s chest with an unpleasant tearing sound, head tilted. He shook the blood off, wiping the residue on his coat, and he retracted the knives in his hands before kneeling mechanically.

Chuuya had been hoping to figure out how to talk to him on his way — how to ask him out, as it were — but he was still stuck for words.

“Dinner,” he managed. “We’re going.”

If he had really thought something more natural than that would unfold over dinner, he was sadly mistaken. They even went to one of the nicer Mafia-frequented establishments, a place they had both been to before. It was filled to the brim but the host had literally kicked a couple out of a back booth when he saw who was approaching, and they were seated swiftly.

Atsushi’s pale eyelashes were downcast, staring at the plate as though this were an unpleasant punishment he was taking. He only remembered to place his napkin in his lap once Chuuya had, and Chuuya also ended up ordering for him, wishing he remembered anything Atsushi had ever eaten from the other meals they’d shared.

Chuuya leaned back in the chair, gloved hands folded on the table in front of him, willing Atsushi to say something. Was this too much, a dinner with just the two of them? They’d never addressed the fact they had sometimes shared a bed at Dazai’s behest. He wondered if Atsushi couldn’t look at him without feeling his caress, hearing his labored breath, seeing his bent and bare body . . . Chuuya took a swallow of wine to drown those thoughts and he cleared his throat.

“So,” he started.

“Do you have an assignment for me?” Atsushi asked.

He lifted his eyes at last and Chuuya was struck by their strangeness. The color of a precious jewel, but an unpolished one. Dulled, in fact. There was something very wrong about that. But Atsushi didn’t flinch or look away, and that was a good sign. 

“No,” Chuuya said stiffly. “Or, not yet, at least.”

“Does Dazai-sama know we’re out?”

“I,” Chuuya started curtly, “don’t want to talk about the boss.”

Atsushi nodded as though he understood, but his gaze fell back to the table. Did Atsushi want to talk about him? There was an odd feeling of foreboding at that, and Chuuya pushed back the blackness on the edge of his vision. Instead he scowled. This kid lived and breathed the Mafia Boss. He really needed to get a life. 

“How’s your unit?” Chuuya posed. He’d thought his tone was casual, but Atsushi shifted.

“They’re fine,” Atsushi replied. His voice was flat. “They’re . . . afraid of me.”

“Well, that’s good, ain’t it?”

“I guess.”

He was picking at his food like a child. Chuuya sighed and poured them both another generous amount of Pinot Grigio, picking up his own in indication Atsushi should do the same. It took a moment to get his attention, but he finally did, and Atsushi took a sip. After a moment, he took another one, then finally took a bite of something. Chuuya relaxed his shoulders, hoping this was a breakthrough.

“I’m . . . going to reorganize,” Atsushi said.

“What?” Chuuya sat up.

“So that I stop making mistakes,” he replied. “I’m going to start taking precautions.”

“I’m not checking up on you, Atsushi,” Chuuya declared obviously.

“Okay.” Atsushi looked down at his plate again.

“I’m just — I’m trying to talk to you.” Chuuya pressed.

“Okay.”

The conversation continued to be stilted, and Chuuya gave up by the time the main course came. They walked back to the Tower together in silence, parting ways at the entrance, and Chuuya trudged up to his office.

It could have gone worse, he supposed. But god, it was like pulling teeth — only he was better at pulling teeth, and usually that was cathartic and productive. Was there another approach he should be taking?

No. He’s just dedicated to Dazai. Only to Dazai. He doesn’t want you. You’ll never amount. 

Chuuya hung his head over his desk, his back to the door. He was so certain Atsushi was attracted to power . . . attracted to Dazai to get that power. But he didn’t really seem to like it at all. So what was his deal?

Could it be . . . that Atsushi truly was in the same situation that he was? That he doted on Dazai, took everything from him as a gift. That he was attached to Dazai to his own detriment, stuck to the side of a maniac because it was better than not being by his side.

That he was in love?

Chuuya’s alarm bells only started going off when the fingers were already around his throat. He ducked down and turned around, kicking back against his attacker. He stood fighter-stance in the dark, fists raised, knee bent at the ready, staring down the figure in front of him. Only when his eyes adjusted, he saw that it was . . .

“Dazai.” Chuuya relaxed his limbs, standing back to full height. “What the hell are you doing? Did you . . . want something?” 

His fingers went to his tie automatically, assuming he was going to be asked to take it off, but Dazai only leered at him in the dark.

“What am I doing?” He repeated. “What are you doing, taking him out?” 

“Taking — Atsushi?”

Did that little shit tell on him? Chuuya could hardly believe the word got out so fast. Well, he had been hoping to make Dazai jealous, but he hadn’t really thought through what that meant. He had forgotten that teasing and baiting Dazai wasn’t as fun as it used to be, not when he got really pissed.

“I’m not allowed to take a subordinate—”

“We both know what this is, Chuuya,” Dazai said. “You can do whatever you like with him. That’s not the problem. You’re trying to go behind my back. And that . . . is nothing less than suspicious.”

“I’m not—” Chuuya started. He was, though. But it wasn’t for nefarious reasons. It was because he didn’t want to have to ask for permission for every goddamn thing in his life. “Fuck off. You’re the one who started this—”

“Are you conspiring with him?” Dazai said, an edge to his voice. “I honestly didn’t think you had the brains for that.”

“I’m not conspiring,” Chuuya spat. “You’re paranoid.”

Not for the first time, Chuuya suspected there was something else behind his words, something else behind his actions. Dazai grabbed his face again, the move he so loved, so ambiguous whether Dazai was about to kiss him or snap his neck. Chuuya had enough of this for one night, and without thinking, he grabbed Dazai by the collar and lifted him up, pushing him away. And Dazai snapped. 

It had been a while since they fought like this, an all-out battle rather than a lovers’ spat. Chuuya was stronger and faster, and he was the better fighter, but Dazai was cleverer and could predict most of his moves. Dazai made straight for his throat, which he blocked, grabbing Dazai’s arm and flipping over him, pulling his wrists behind his back. Dazai bent over forward and Chuuya slid off him, his back hitting the floor, and then Dazai was on top of him. Chuuya nearly panicked at this, but he kicked out with both feet, then used Gravity to get himself back up. Dazai lunged at him again, trying to stop him mid-way, but this time he saw it coming.

An opening.

Chuuya ducked and leapt out of the way of Dazai’s negating hands, landing in a squat, one leg out, and he pivoted his weight to give Dazai’s ankles a clean sweep. It hit the back of his shins and he toppled forward onto his knees, but Chuuya celebrated too soon — Dazai grabbed out as he fell and his fingers hooked on the shoulder of his jacket and pulled — Chuuya was tugged sideways, his shoulder hitting the floor hard, giving Dazai the seconds he needed to pin him by the wrists.

Dazai leaned over him, panting, bruised and tired, both of them trying to regain their breath and composure.

“You do that again,” Dazai said, his voice quiet and serious, “I’ll have him kill you.”

You won’t, Chuuya thought, but he didn’t say it. He wasn’t sure anymore. Why was Dazai pitting them against each other? Was he trying to whip them both up into a frenzy, distract them from something?

“You tell me about these meetings next time,” Dazai said simply. “Or I’ll have no choice but to suspect you’re doing something behind my back. And if I can’t trust you, Chuuya,” he added, and he tilted Chuuya’s face up, “then we might have a much bigger problem.”

* * *

Chuuya didn’t want to give up. Their dinner had been uncomfortable to say the least, but it only made him more determined. And especially since Dazai seemed to be against it in some way. What exactly was he afraid of? Or was he just possessive of his pet?

If he’s so clingy, he shouldn’t have gotten us involved.

He regretted now shutting down the conversation about Dazai when Atsushi had brought it up at dinner. Chuuya was strictly in the camp of actions over words, but he would be lying if he said he didn’t like to let loose sometimes over a bottle of wine. Maybe that was all Atsushi needed, just someone to talk to, maybe it was enough to know Chuuya had similar experience. It certainly wouldn’t change anything, but it might make things more tolerable. That they could lock eyes over the table knowingly when Dazai said something typical of his autocracy, or share a smile on the rarity he did something sweet. Together maybe piece out his mind games.

But all of his further attempts to connect with him fell flat. He took Atsushi out with him on a raid, intending to speak with him after, only to find he was roped into another assignment directly afterwards. He sent him a text message he never answered. He even brought him lunch one day, and the two of them sat in terrible silence before Chuuya was pulled into an emergency at a casino downtown. Afterwards, he wondered if Dazai had lashed out at Atsushi, too, or if Atsushi actually hated him.

As if to model the proper behavior, a few days later, Chuuya checked over the schedule and saw Dazai had a dinner date with Atsushi for Thursday evening. As soon as he realized this, he spent the rest of the day nervous, knowing what he had to do.

Something wasn’t sitting right with him. Dazai was paranoid, but his behavior lately was even worse than usual. It was as if he was doing something behind Chuuya’s back. And he intended to find out what that was. 

Chuuya told Gin he’d fucked up a name on a report and wanted to get it corrected before the boss got back. It gave him a plausible explanation for looking around in the office, and also gave her enough sympathy that she wouldn’t be the one to spill the beans. It seemed harmless. And he tried not to be careless.

He scoured the room from top to bottom, finding nothing but a few teasing sticky notes making fun of him for trying. He was about to give up and call it a day when he noticed something odd about the paintings behind Dazai’s desk. One of them was askew; he thought maybe he’d nudged it and went back to straighten it. It fell right off the wall, revealing an electronic panel with a single button.

Chuuya furrowed his brow, wondering if this might blow up the entire complex. But he pressed it, and half of the wall opened up into an elevator.

The tunnels, he thought.

Carefully, he put the painting back and took the elevator down.

It led to a single room in the tunnels that looked akin to a library. There were some of the executive-only files down here, some spread across a reading desk, some shoved unceremoniously into a full shelf. Chuuya glanced over some of the open documents, unable to make sense of them, wondering if he was going to have to spend all night searching them. He ran a finger over the book spines, skimming the titles for something to stand out . . . and then something pulsed at him.  

Chuuya’s fingers wrapped around a thin book with nothing written on the spine and pulled it out. The book was dirty and white, about 250 pages, and it said nothing on the cover, either. But something was moving under the surface. This wasn’t an ordinary book . . . whatever the fuck Dazai was hiding, it was in here. 

As he brushed the cover, his fingers lit up like he was touching something electric, something sparkling, almost like plunging his hands into champagne. Or lye. Something in his pounding heart told him not to do this, but under the cover he could almost hear whispers, calling his name, calling . . .

And he opened the book and was cocooned in swirling colors of light.

It was like a dream, like a film, only he was in it, and he felt himself, understood what he was seeing, but only in the moment. He saw himself at age fifteen, refusing the Mafia and getting put in a cage, but he was released, stronger, and taking it over. He saw himself at age sixteen getting taken by Verlaine after all, broken, beaten, the two of them living in a charred and dead Yokohama. He saw himself older, cleaner, heading into work above Uzumaki, a detective with the ADA.

This Book held other worlds. Other possibilities. But — what was Dazai doing with this?

As soon as his focus went to Dazai, Chuuya saw him within his own universes. One where they kissed in a back alley, their hands interlocking. Ones where they barely knew each other. One where they broke up and got back together so many times that they had married other people but still had multiple affairs. One where they served quietly together in the Mafia, one where they served loudly together in the Special Forces. Chuuya let himself follow one of these plots and suddenly found himself in a tangle with Dazai and Atsushi, lying on a beach somewhere without a care, returning to a cabana at night to entangle even closer.

Chuuya shook himself away from that image, trying to lead the Book back. What had Dazai done with this?

And the Book responded.

He saw Dazai in a soft brown coat, holding hands with a softer-looking Atsushi, one with a terrible haircut but who looked happy, those opal eyes filled with a natural shine. He saw them kiss softly. And he saw Dazai crying alone, his wrists wrapped and bloody, searching for and finding this Book. He saw him going into this world, embodying cruelty, lying to and gaslighting and abusing everyone who had once been close to him. And then he saw —

A figure, black-clad and swathed in bandages, toppling backwards off the roof of a building.

Chuuya closed the book as he hit the ground, blinking around the dark room.

What the hell was that?

Chuuya’s heart pounded in his chest, his head overwhelmed, memory fragmented.

It was like someone had explained to him every movie at once, and he was having difficulty grasping any one thread, any single storyline. But he knew a few things. There were other worlds, many of them, where he and Dazai were in love. Where he was kinder. There were worlds where Dazai and Atsushi were sweetly together. Ones where the three of them — however the hell that worked — lived and breathed each other. But what he knew about this world, the one where he was living, was the most imperative.

Dazai had more or less created this world. He had used this Book to make a universe where he was in charge of the Mafia, and he had planned and schemed and built up foundations for some bigger purpose. And when all of that was in motion, he planned to take his own life. He had been cruel so that no one would miss him.

Suddenly he understood everything that Dazai had done. Understood that he was on a long spiral downwards and was already close to the bottom. He had always known this was the most likely way for Dazai to exit the world, only he thought he had more time. Because he didn’t yet understand why.

Chuuya shoved the Book back into the shelf, his head spinning as he headed back home. He collapsed in his bed and slept for the next two days. When he woke up, he was for a moment surprised to find himself alone, half-expecting to see Dazai beside him . . . or Atsushi.

It was a strange ache, to miss something he had never considered before. To have a connection that wasn’t really there, like a ghost haunting his thoughts. To have that relationship that was peppered with happy and pleasant memories rather than the dark shadows spindled around them here.

Over the next week, he saw flashes of those other worlds as he went about his day, trying to push them back as they clawed at his memory, planting false ideas. He would walk into a room and accidentally start addressing Akutagawa, an ADA rookie who was a close subordinate in other timelines; he would take an elevator to a floor and find he expected the layout to be completely different; and more than once, he nearly said Mori instead of Dazai when talking about the boss.

He wondered what he should do with all of this information, because surely it was good for some sort of intel. He knew, for instance, that Mori was still alive — and the fact that Dazai was hiding that hurt him deeply. But there was so much to sort through, he didn’t even know where to start.

A couple of times he picked up the phone in his office, wanting to call for Atsushi, wanting to discuss what he saw, on the verge of a contingency plan should Dazai follow through on his lifetime of suicidal threats. But each time, he put down the receiver, unwilling to accept that possibility. This was Dazai’s world that they lived in; it seemed impossible it could even exist without him.

Only it was entirely possible. It was inevitable. And maybe everything, all the in-fighting, all the paranoia, had been to distract them so that they wouldn’t see it coming until it was too late. But it didn’t matter anymore.

So when he heard the crash, saw the commotion, when he understood at last how close Dazai had been to the edge all along, he knew what he had to do.

What they had to do.

If Atsushi really was like him. If he loved Dazai, too.

Chapter Text

It was pure chaos, alarms were ringing, everyone was running, no one knew what to do. Chuuya hadn’t been around for the last Mafia Boss transition before Mori, but he heard it was a quiet takeover, announced over a morning meeting. This was anything but quiet.

Take care of this mess, he heard Dazai say in the back of his head, but there was no Dazai to command him anymore. Everything was in his own hands.

Take control, he commanded himself, even as his chest wanted to explode, even as his mind kept wandering back to that crashing sound, that splattering and splintering of bones and blood, and it numbed him, over and over. But he had to keep going forward.

He ran through the swarm descending the tower, taking stock of who was around him. Kouyou was up ahead, trying to herd a group of mafiosi who looked like they were panicking. He caught her eye and swam over the crowd, using his ability to run above them on the ceiling.

“Chuuya,” she said. Her voice was sympathetic, but he shook his head. No time. He had to do this now.

“Get all the execs, sub-execs, and officers into the meeting room on ten,” he said sternly. “And spread the word that everyone else is to file into the auditorium. Send your squad to clean up the mess.” He winced at his own words, and Kouyou saw — but that was fine, he didn’t care what she knew. “We need the body — him — cleaned up, and fast. Before the cops get here, before the press digs too deep. That motherfucker wanted to draw attention, and I won’t give it to him. I’ll . . . I’ll be right behind you in thirty. I gotta take care of something first.”

She nodded at him, and he raced through the halls again. Would half an hour be enough to convince him?

It wasn’t long before he found one of the Reaper’s handlers. He grabbed a tall man by the elbow, halting him as he headed to the ground.

“He’s on the roof,” Chuuya said sternly. “Bring him to the boss’s — to my office. Now.”

* * *

The disorder in the tower was the perfect place to hide himself away, and he spent the few minutes he had with his head against the wall, his face in his hands. There was a small knock, and he wiped his cheeks off, only to be greeted by Kouyou, a long black coat and wine red scarf draped across her outstretched arms. He took them without a word, then shut the door and knelt, burying his face in the coat, cradling it to his chest, trying to find that lingering scent among the blood.

He wept for as long as he could, his voice muffled against the wool and the knuckles shoved between his teeth, his gravity lifting small objects around him as though he were a celestial body. The office, too, was in mourning.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, but another, more persistent knock came on the door; the objects dropped. Chuuya dug his fingers into his palm and wiped his eyes, giving one last gasp before he allowed them to come inside.

The door slammed open, admitting three men. Two were holding the third by his arms, practically dragging him into the room as he screamed, as he sobbed. Chuuya didn’t react as they threw Atsushi at his feet; only staring down at the white-haired boy as though looking for something. Then he made a motion, dismissing the handlers, and they were alone.

Chuuya could have asked him later, once things were settled, once it was quieter, but he couldn’t wait. He had to do it now, while it was still raw and hurting. Now, before Atsushi had time to remember all the terrible things Dazai had done. Before he had the chance to reflect on how his life was better off without him.

“Get up,” Chuuya started, but he continued to scream.

That wail, that primal, guttural cry, it cut into him, it pierced his ears and his stomach, it made him want to do whatever he had to in order to stop that noise. Chuuya made a sound in his own throat, growling, but the White Reaper could not hear him.

“Get up!” he shouted, but Atsushi shook his head.

Stop it, goddamn it!

The sound was driving into his already pounding skull, and he gritted his teeth. With a child, with Kyouka, with Q, when they had an outburst like this, he had sat with them until they calmed down, offering a hand or an embrace if they wanted it — but Atsushi was a goddamn adult. He was high on the Mafia chain. Chuuya couldn’t tolerate this.

Chuuya raised his hand, pulling back his strength, truly meaning to smack Atsushi across the face and make him snap out of it. But Atsushi raised his round face and caught sight of his intentions, his eyes wet and wide and bright, and he flinched so hard that it made something inside Chuuya snap.

Shit.

Slowly, Chuuya dropped his arms and knelt before him, unsure what to do. He watched as Atsushi wrestled with himself, taking deep breaths, every so often making a move as though he were going to stumble into Chuuya’s arms, into his lap. Pet of one mob boss, pet of another, he supposed.

“Get yourself together, Atsushi,” he said sternly. “That’s an order.”

For a moment, Chuuya was certain he had made it all worse. Atsushi dug his fingers into his hair, tearing at it and pulling his own head back to expose his collared throat. Chuuya was about to grab his wrists to stop him from hurting himself when his movement became gentler. He closed his eyes, his movement changing from frantic tugging to a gentle, soothing stroke. Chuuya watched wide-eyed as Atsushi removed his gloves. His fingers crawled down his own neck to his collar, and his breathing finally slowed as he pressed his fingers into the spikes, blood welling up on his fingertips.

Jesus. That was some self-soothing method.

“Stop,” Chuuya snapped, and he grabbed Atsushi’s hands, shoving his gloves back onto them.

Atsushi lashed out again, this time scratching at Chuuya, but the shorter man caught his wrists, using gravity to cuff him to the floor. This didn’t go well, as Atsushi growled, not like a human but like the tiger he was, baring his fangs.

Chuuya was taken aback a moment, something rippling through him. He couldn’t negate Atsushi; would he actually be able to handle him? But that was treating him like a beast, something Chuuya had personal experience in. Maybe if he was treated like a person, he would act accordingly.

“Stop it,” Chuuya said again, his voice sharp. “I’m not trying to hurt you. Or use you. We treat each other like enemies, but we’re going through the same shit right now. For the same reason.”

Atsushi shook his head. He closed his mouth, lips tight, and looked away. He looked more human. More vulnerable.

“Not the same,” Atsushi managed. There was an edge to his voice, and he struggled to calm it enough. “You were his Second. He respected you.”

Chuuya laughed aloud.

“Dazai didn’t respect anyone,” he said reflexively. “Let alone me. Ain’t all this proof of that? This mess he’s left us in.”

“Not you,” Atsushi insisted. “He left you everything. He left me . . . he left me.”

Chuuya sighed and released his wrists, and instead Atsushi gripped his shoulders, doubling in on himself. Dazai had done a number on him . . . Atsushi was in it bad, his heart and mind and spirit were wrapped up in that savior and demon. It was a feeling he recognized.

“I fucking get it,” Chuuya said, his voice nearly a growl. “You love him. You hate him. You wish you’d never met him and you never want to let him go. His praise is what you lived for, and his scorn made you want to die. Those claws, those teeth, get in deep, and sharp, and hard. But you would sacrifice anything if it meant getting him back.”

Atsushi still did not make eye contact, blushing. His grip on himself tightened.

“Would you?” he asked ironically.

“Without hesitation,” Chuuya said quickly.

Atsushi flushed. Chuuya had seen him naked and bound, at his most unraveled and raw, and yet the other man still was too awkward to have a real conversation over a dinner table. But he was incredible at compartmentalizing. Which was good, because this whole thing was gonna take some mental gymnastics.

“What if . . . what if we could stop him?” Chuuya posed.

“But . . . we didn’t.”

“I said, what if we could?” Chuuya couldn’t contain his annoyance, but tried to cull it. “If we could stop all of this. What if . . .” He shut his own eyes now. “What if I told you . . . that there were infinite worlds. Worlds where Dazai was still alive. Worlds where . . . he . . . he isn’t . . .” A huge piece of shit. Only he always was, Chuuya was sure. Just not like this. “Worlds where you . . . and I . . . where he loves us.”

The last words spilled out of him. They felt too sentimental, but he couldn’t take them back. Never had they spoken of their feelings around Dazai, but he thought they recognized it in each other, that same awful truth that they were each in love with a monster.

Atsushi lifted his head, his white eyebrows knitted together, eyes wide. Chuuya wanted to add other things. Like in a normal way. Where he’s kinder. Gentler. But he didn’t need to say them.

“What do you mean, other worlds?” Atsushi asked.

“Other timelines,” Chuuya clarified, though he didn’t quite understand it himself. “Divergences. Different choices lead to vastly different outcomes. Like . . . if Mori didn’t die. Or if you . . . somehow ended up at the Agency instead of here. Other pasts that lead to other futures. And I . . . I’ve seen some of them.”

Atsushi shut his eyes as though trying to imagine somewhere else. Chuuya expected he’d done it before — where did his mind wander, he wondered, when he was ordered to massacre? Probably to a kinder place where he had been allowed a childhood. This finally got his attention, and he glanced up at Chuuya, prompting him to continue.

“One where he . . . and you . . . are both part of the Detective Agency, partners and lovers. Where he and I rule the underworld, mutually. Married. One where the three of us are . . . happy. And everything in between. ”

Atsushi lifted his head. “You’re saying there’s one where . . . we’re together?”

“Multiple,” Chuuya said. His voice was hoarse now. “You and me and Dazai. But . . . that’s not the point. We can use this to — we can maybe use this to change the past. And stop him. Stop him not just from dying, but from . . . a lot of things. And save him.”

“Just . . . you and me?”

Chuuya hesitated. He had thought of bringing other people into the fold. Mori, who apparently was still living, and had always treated Dazai and Chuuya as his wayward children. Kyouka, Atsushi’s tether, in worlds where they managed to meet they were inseparable. And Akutagawa, dear Akutagawa. Always so angry, always so violent. If anyone was better off without Dazai, especially in this world, it was Akutagawa.

They were all better off without the mob boss Dazai. He had carefully planned and engineered it that way.

All of them except for Chuuya.

“Ain’t no one else who wants this,” Chuuya said softly. “And I’m not going to tell you what to choose. You can stay here and live out his plan for you, and I’m sure it’s something you want. It’s easy, someone else taking care of everything for you. I wouldn’t blame you if that’s what you pick. But I . . .” He curled his hand into a tight fist, that burning rage slipping out again. “I ain’t gonna let him get away with this shit. He always thinks he’s right. He never asked me . . . what I wanted . . . and I . . . I want him back with me.”

Did Dazai truly think Chuuya wanted to be the Mafia boss if it meant Dazai had to die for that to happen? Or did he know, did he really know Chuuya would only be happy if he was alive, if they were together, and Dazai just couldn’t do that?

“I’m not gonna pretend this is the best world,” Chuuya admitted. “That he was the best as he was. He was cruel and cold, and it was all so that we wouldn’t miss him. But that asshole couldn’t let go of me . . . or you. And that tells me one thing, Atsushi.” He swallowed. “He . . . loved us. Selfishly.”

Atsushi blinked a tear from his eye, but this time he wiped it away with his glove. After a moment, he held out his other hand. Chuuya hesitated before he grabbed it, their gloves grasping one another, the leather against leather creaking, and he pulled Atsushi to his feet.

The Reaper was slouching into his great coat, but still stood a few inches taller than him. It somehow made him look even more like a child, a sad teenager. Chuuya nodded his head to follow, and the two of them swept across the office, down the elevator into the boss’s private archives. It was starting to hit him now, as Atsushi followed him the way he used to tail Dazai, how real this was. How final. But he shoved those feelings away. If they could fix this . . .

He had second thoughts as they entered the dusty library. But now he was in it. And he slowly pulled out the small white book.

“It’s a lot,” Chuuya warned. He brought it closer, hand tracing over the cover. “Like a mindfuck. I think . . . I think I can just show you . . . what I saw. Of . . .”

He hesitated to say it. But Atsushi would see it soon enough anyway. The three of them.

Was it too cruel, he wondered moments before he opened the Book? Like waving bread in front of a starving person’s face. He had never thought about it before, the idea of Dazai and Atsushi and himself, all together, having dates and dinners and loving sex, all wrapped up in each other with sickeningly happy grins, all working and moving and living as one. Now that he had seen the possibility, he never wanted anything more in his life. But his words were not enough to convince Atsushi. He was going to have to see it — then he would understand.

He tentatively held out the Book. Atsushi looked at him once again like he thought this might be a trap, but couldn’t for the life of him figure out what for. And so he took a breath and opened it.

At once, he sank to his knees, his eyes unfocused as they scanned through the pages. Chuuya watched him uncomfortably and impatiently, pacing for almost half an hour before he grabbed the Book back and shut it. Atsushi’s gaze snapped to his own, clearly once again seeing what was in front of him and not the endless possibilities.

“Oh my god.”

Tears began to spill out of his eyes in buckets of their own volition. He shoved his face in his sleeve to mop them up, leaning against the wall for support.

“What did you see?” Chuuya pressed.

Atsushi opened his mouth and closed it, mouthing something silently. He went on for a few minutes, as though he thought he was actually making a sound. Chuuya snapped his fingers in front of his face, and he startled with a loud gasp.

“It was — what you said,” Atsushi managed. “That he was . . . Dazai and I in the ADA.” A single tear spilled down his cheek at that, and he didn’t bother wiping it away. “And . . . other things. The three of us. And this world, it’s . . . Shit.”

It was the first expletive Chuuya ever heard him say, and it was honestly refreshing.

“Why did he do all of this? Why did he make this hell? When it could have been so much better, and he knew it, he could have made it better for all of us.” He looked up, his eyes bright red, eyelashes clumped together. “Akutagawa,” he said, as if understanding something. “He needed him to be . . . better . . . or something?” The straws, the threads, he was losing them, just as Chuuya had. “I don’t . . . I don’t actually understand. He said something like that before he fell, but . . . I wasn’t listening.”

That was real fucking annoying, but Chuuya supposed if he were there, his mind also might have been elsewhere. But if they did this right, they’d be able to have another chance to hear it.

“Well,” Chuuya started, “listen better this time. But hopefully we’ll be able to ask him ourselves.”

“So, what do you think we should do?” Atsushi pressed. “Just . . . catch him?”

“Don’t see why not.”

There were several reasons why not. Chuuya should have been able to catch him had it not been for Dazai’s stupid ability that negated Chuuya’s, like he was overriding everything about him. And he couldn’t be sure Dazai didn’t predict someone would try to stop him and have a backup plan. But they had to try.

“I know we technically have all the time in the world,” Chuuya started, “but time’s ticking. Are you gonna help me or not?”

Even with the feelings that the Book enhanced, Chuuya wasn’t sure exactly what Atsushi had seen in those other worlds. It was possible he never wanted to see Dazai again. And if that was the case, he really was on his own. But . . .

Atsushi didn’t even hesitate.

“Yes.” He tilted his head as though trying to shake the threads out. “I — I have to try and save Dazai-sama.”

Now it was Chuuya who hesitated, giving a second glance to Atsushi. He was still Dazai’s man, through and through. Was it wrong, he wondered, to use that zealous loyalty to get what he wanted?

No, he wants it, too . . . right?

Nevermind. They had to go. Before he overthought this and talked himself out of it.

Once again, Atsushi swept behind him as they ran down the hallway towards the stairs. He’d led countless teams of countless people, but something about the White Reaper trailing in his footsteps, waiting on his word, made him truly feel that Mafia Boss power that coursed through his veins.

“What’s the plan?” Atsushi asked, falling into his role.

“Don’t give him any time to do it,” Chuuya said simply. “He likes to talk, so goad him until I get up there, and then we’ll just . . . grab him.” He swallowed. “My Gravity won’t work on him, so I can’t exactly catch him if he tips. So on three, we’ll just snatch him back from the edge. Hold him down. Together, we’re stronger than him. I’m stronger than him. In a one-on-one, he can’t overpower me.”

“And then?”

“Lock him up,” Chuuya replied, his voice shaking. “For attempted murder of the Mafia Boss. Until he comes to his damn senses.”

Atsushi nodded.

“He’s gonna be so mad,” he whispered.

Something about that, the absurdity of their situation paired with that serious concern, tickled him, and Chuuya laughed.

“Yeah,” he agreed, “he is.”

* * *

Two Hours

In the office, Chuuya had the book open on the desk between them. He had no actual idea of how this worked, but was basing it all on what Dazai had done. He went back to himself at a certain point in a timeline, and then chose to act differently. All the pieces fell into place around that.

In a sense, they were leaving this world behind for a world two hours in the past. He was leaving this plane where he was the Mafia boss, where he could do what he wanted without Dazai questioning his every move, where the underworld was his alone. But he would be alone. Chuuya wondered vaguely if the worlds would splinter off, and the people he knew would get to live this life for him, without him consciously being here in this world without Dazai.

But he did not consciously want to be in that world. In this one. And neither did Atsushi.

“Ready?”

Atsushi sucked in a breath.

“Just do it,” he said, determined.

Chuuya reached towards The Book and turned to the page he was looking for.

“I’ll meet you at the top,” he said sternly. “Don’t let him get to the edge.”

His words were swallowed by a blinding light that filled the entire room, pushing against him, crushing his limbs and bones, reaching down into his lungs and filling them, too, suffocating him. Chuuya tried to breathe around it, but there was no space, no air, nothing existed but this light.

Don’t resist, said a voice in his head, his own or the Book. Chuuya fought against his instinct to snap fuck off back at it like it was Dazai, and he did finally give himself over to it.

The light cleared, his airways cleared, and when Chuuya took his next breath, he was standing in his own office, where he had been a few hours ago. No, now it was a few hours ago. And he wasn’t alone — he had forgotten that. Someone was standing in front of him, talking to him. Shit.

“ . . . there’s reports throughout the building, should we send backup?” the person was saying.

Chuuya tried to focus, but his heart was racing, knowing that right now, Dazai was ready to throw himself off this building. Had he really been here so oblivious, going on with his life as normal without knowing the hurricane brewing above?

“Move,” Chuuya interrupted. “Emergency.”

He bounded out the door, heading for the staircase, but he heard footsteps behind him. Whoever was in his office had followed him, was running after him. Idiot. Chuuya scowled at his own stupidity.

“Don’t follow me!” Chuuya commanded, and he swerved, sweeping around his subordinate and heading instead towards the nearest window. This was on him, this was his mission, his cross to bear. No one else would understand . . . except Atsushi.

Chuuya slid out the window and shifted his Gravity to scale the outside of the tower. He was really running now, bounding in long strides, his eyes streaming against the wind as he tried to find what he was looking for. How close was Dazai now? It was almost maddening, knowing what would happen, but not exactly knowing how or why. Why hadn’t he interrogated Atsushi about it? Just look for the black coat, search for the bandages. Would he be on the north side or south? Did he take a running leap? Or did he just . . .

He could swear he saw a shadow on the edge. Chuuya pushed himself harder, shifting all the gravity he could muster to let him run, let him fly. He stretched his arms out in front of him, getting closer, the figure by the edge of the building getting clearer, and Chuuya tackled the figure. They both rolled over the roof of the tower, barreling dizzyingly until they came to a final stop. Chuuya reached for his arms breathlessly, pushing them above his head, grinning manically as he pinned him down.

It was a man dressed in black. But it wasn’t Dazai.

“Fuck.”

The pale and angry face of Ryuunosuke Akutagawa looked up at him, sneering. It was one thing to have the memories of him as a trusted subordinate, of a sometimes friend. Coming face to face with him when the boy had no idea who he was and already expected he was an enemy was more shocking than he’d thought it would be.

“Get off me, filthy dog!”

Akutagawa kicked at him, and Chuuya scrambled away, flushing, pissed, terrified. He searched the horizon for his goal. Where the fuck was —

There he was, on the other side of the tower, his coat billowing in the breeze, the white bandages stark against his dark hair, flapping like loose feathers. Chuuya watched the gauze around his head unravel in the high wind and fly away, and Dazai stared at all three of them with two clear brown eyes. He looked . . .

Broken. But . . . relieved.

He was finishing a monologue of sorts, and Chuuya snapped out of his stupor and made right for him.

Dazai grinned, meeting his eyes.

“Chuuya.” Dazai’s smile was cracked and sad as he looked over his partner. “Oh, Chuuya. This is what you wanted. Don’t hate me.”

“No!” Chuuya barked, running forward.

He was laughing, the bastard was laughing, and he was still talking into the abyss but Chuuya couldn’t hear him as the wind whistled in his ears. Atsushi was sprinting on all fours like a cat, but he wasn’t going to get there on time, he was slipping, all he needed to do was take that one step backwards. Why had Chuuya told him to wait, when he clearly hadn’t had time to grab him the first time? Was it that he didn’t trust Atsushi, that wariness still ingrained, or did he want to be the hero, the one to save him with his own hands?

Only to let him slip through his own fingers once again.

“Please!” Chuuya cried to no one in particular, his voice breaking.

To his left, Atsushi glanced over at him, and Chuuya could have sworn he saw the tiniest nod. Atsushi picked up speed, going faster than Chuuya had ever seen him run and —

Dazai took a step back and sank, toppling backwards —

Atsushi grabbed him around the waist, his boots at first gripping the edge of the tower, but his momentum was too much, carrying him forward, and Atsushi sank with him.

“Atsushi!”

There was no time to hesitate or they would both be lost. No time to think.

Chuuya went by pure instinct and launched himself from the tower after them, making himself heavier, diving down as they plummeted to the ground. The wind was in his eyes, in his ears, and he reached out blindly, pulling his gloves off to feel for the right texture.

He only had one shot and a split second too long would spell doom for all of them. His fingers gripped the heavy belted coat and he pulled, using all of his strength to yank them apart in one motion and then he let go. No longer negated, Chuuya dove after Atsushi and grabbed him, holding them both aloft, hovering in the air. But Dazai . . .

He couldn’t hold Dazai for long. Couldn’t lift him if he didn’t want to be touched.

He could have sworn Dazai grinned at him, laughing at him, his arms outstretched and reaching for Atsushi as he fell away, and they watched him crash into the abyss and the pavement below.

Atsushi cried out as a horrible crack pierced the air. And then there was silence. Chuuya let out a sob, swallowing down the next one before it escaped. His heart shattered once again.

They had failed.

Chapter Text

The bubble of grief in Atsushi’s chest welled up again and he choked on it, his cry so quiet it couldn’t be heard over the howling wind. He had foolishly thought it might not hurt as much the second time, it might be dulled, but it still cut him through. It was the illusion of hope, that they might stop him, and that hope had built him up and crushed him even more. But he fought against the tears as they came, willing them down.

Chuuya didn’t like them. Chuuya had ordered him to get himself together. And who was he if he was not a Mafia dog? But more than that . . .

He was hanging suspended in the air, floating high above the concrete below, concrete he had been hurtling towards, certain he would hit it and he would never have to make a hard decision again. He’d had his arms wrapped around Dazai, felt his warmth, heard his breath — instead smaller arms wrapped around him, holding up his full weight with ease. Chuuya’s breath against his back was short, but not labored. He was likely feeling that same shock.

“You saved me,” Atsushi said numbly.

“You really thought I was going to let you fall to your death like that?” Chuuya scoffed. Atsushi heard a slight hiccup in his voice.

They landed carefully back on the roof where Akutagawa was still standing over the edge, watching the scene unfold. He was gazing at them angrily, as though they had personally offended him, and his eyes flickered to meet Atsushi’s briefly. Something passed through them, not exactly sympathy, but an understanding.

“What went wrong?” Chuuya muttered. “It was so simple. And yet we couldn’t do this one thing . . .”

“I’m sorry,” Atsushi said quickly. His hands were shaking and he struggled to contain it, clasping them together. “It’s my fault, I didn’t — I should have been faster, I should have — ”

He was only shaking harder, and he brought his hands to his lips to steady them. Slowly, he crawled his fingers down his face, to his throat, where the collar sat around his neck. He felt that dull pain of the spikes constantly, like an ache in the background of his psyche, and he needed a pain more sharp in order to take the edge off, to calm himself. He began pressing his fingertips into the spikes, the stinging sensation waking him up, the warm blood comforting, snapping him from his panic. But Chuuya grabbed his hands, pulling them away from his neck, and his arms were suddenly so heavy he couldn’t lift them.

“Stop that,” Chuuya said sharply. “That’s gross. You’re gonna get an infection.”

His eyes were wide and angry.

“This ain’t your fault,” Chuuya continued hastily. “We both fucked up. We can’t dwell on it, we have to figure out what to do next.”

He swallowed, giving Atsushi a furtive glance before he released him. Atsushi stuck his hands in his pockets, promising to behave himself. It ain’t your fault. The words vibrated through him like a plucked string, settling into a steady hum. He’d thought Chuuya hated him, was jealous for Dazai’s attention, that he was just as angry and unreasonable as Akutagawa. That Chuuya also saw him as a tool. But . . .

“Remember what I asked you,” Chuuya went on. “To keep him talking. What did he say, was it anything different than before?”

Atsushi was paralyzed for a moment by the question. It was the one thing Chuuya-san asked of him, their one clue to what they might be working towards, and yet when his breath had come back in his body and he was reliving that awful, horrifying scene, he couldn’t hear a thing. Not over the wind howling, not over the blood pounding in his ears, not over Akutagawa’s cries and curses. It gave him slight confidence that he hadn’t missed anything the first time; but still, he had failed Chuuya.

But . . . when he dove for Dazai, grabbed him around the middle, clung to him, as they tumbled together, he heard a single word escape Dazai’s lips.

“He said . . . Odasaku.” Atsushi’s mouth was numb, the word sounding familiar but feeling strange.

“Who the hell is that?” Chuuya muttered.

“Odasaku is my mentor,” came an unexpected voice. “He’s a detective. How dare his name come out of that filthy mouth.”

Akutagawa was stepping over, wiping his bloodied mouth on his sleeve. The coat was so dark it barely left a stain.

“Watch it,” Chuuya growled. “I don’t want to kick your ass, kid, but I will. Like him or not, Dazai is dead. Have some fucking respect. Or didn’t they teach you that at the Agency?”

“Respect is earned,” Akutagawa shot back. But he didn’t elaborate beyond that, perhaps actually realizing people were in mourning, or at least reading the miserable look on Atsushi’s face. “If he said Oda-san’s name, it was for nothing good. But that’s none of my business.”

Akutagawa turned and started to head towards the staircase, his movement hurried, but Chuuya caught his arm.

“Not so fast,” Chuuya snapped. “Where d’you think you’re going?”

“I’m getting my sister and leaving,” Akutagawa said obviously. “Getting the Mafia out of my life. It’s what your predecessor promised.”

“I don’t fucking care what he said.” Chuuya was grimacing, as though he was having a hard time forming his words. “I’m in charge now. Ain’t nothing happening without my say-so. We’ll sort this out in my office.”

Akutagawa boldly turned around to face Chuuya, trying to use his height as intimidation — what the hell was he thinking — stopping a few inches from him, staring him down. Strangely, Chuuya did not immediately hit him, only looking up at him, arms folded across his chest.

“I’ve waited long enough,” Akutagawa insisted. “I’ve played your game. And I won. Get out of my way.”

That black viscous shadow he commanded seeped out of his clothes, out of his hair, surrounding him in a threatening way, and Chuuya in turn glowed red, his gravity readying itself for a fight. Quickly, Rashomon shot forward, clashing against Chuuya’s shield and knocking him back a few inches until Chuuya rutted himself into the ground. But Akutagawa wasn’t discouraged and another thread of that shadow sprung up from the left —

No!

Atsushi’s instincts snapped into action, and he growled, hackles raised, and he leapt between Akutagawa and Chuuya — his new boss. His new purpose.

He landed on all-fours, then drew up and swiped at Akutagawa, who barely dodged, stepping back and withdrawing Rashomon into his coat. The fabric swayed in the wind as Akutagawa assessed this new threat — the old threat, as it were. They’d clashed already. Akutagawa had hurt him grievously, tried to break him. But he was strong, he had to be, for himself and for Dazai, and for Chuuya now.

“Have you learned nothing, Tiger?” Akutagawa spat, his gaze disbelieving. “These Mafia men use you and spit you out and you protect them?”

Atsushi’s face was burning with anger. Akutagawa clearly didn’t understand what he owed these people.

“Chuuya-sama would never,” he growled.

“I don’t need your protection, Atsushi,” Chuuya muttered. He put a hand on Atsushi’s shoulder, and Atsushi had to suppress a pleasant shiver. But Chuuya’s touch wouldn’t negate him. Wouldn’t make him human. Why did he like it? “You can stand down.”

“Ryuunosuke,” Chuuya said sharply, and Akutagawa looked even more angry, if it was possible. But he pulled back Rashomon, setting the dragon-like creature to hover over his shoulder. “I ain’t trying to go back on whatever deal Dazai made with you. I gotta cover my ass and make sure my t’s are crossed.”

The man I love just jumped to his death for the second time.

Atsushi heard that heartbreak in his tone. He was begging for grace without saying it. And whether he sensed the connection he and Akutagawa had in a different world or he actually had some feelings, Akutagawa was responding.

“I won’t hold Gin without her consent,” Chuuya continued bluntly. “And I think you already know that Dazai didn’t neither.” That struck a nerve and Akutagawa backed down more. Atsushi had the brief thought that Chuuya was a natural leader, that maybe this was his destiny after all. “Put your dragon away, and I’ll ignore the fact you threatened me and my p — Reaper.”

Was he about to say pet? Or was it possible he was about to say partner?

Akutagawa’s cold gaze shifted to Atsushi’s once again, but it wasn’t antagonizing. It was more like he was asking an implied question. If what Chuuya said was true.

Are you his Reaper?

Atsushi looked away, his eyes welling up again.

“Fine.” Akutagawa conceded, and Rashomon receded into his coat as if it had never been there. “But Oda-san doesn’t negotiate with the Mafia, and neither will I.”

This time-travel, world-hopping nonsense was already fucking with his brain. He’d forgotten that he had only commanded Kouyou on wrangling the executives in the previous world, and so he’d had to leave the Akutagawa siblings guarded in his office by Atsushi while he ran around the tower to restore order. And so while making his quick address to all of his new subordinates about how he was taking over but everyone should just go about their business as usual, in addition to his cloying expectation that someone would object, he also had an anxiety that Ryuu would destroy his office and undermine his authority on his very first day. But no one objected, or at least not yet. And the siblings had spent the whole time in his office simply talking. At least something went right today.

Kouyou had once again brought him his token: Dazai’s coat and scarf, inherited from the last Mafia boss and to be passed to the next. When he slipped it on, he found Dazai had tailored it for him in anticipation, and it brushed against his shins, the sleeves exactly right. It pissed him off even more, but when he caught his reflection in the window, he saw a mob boss looking back at him. He vowed to get it dry-cleaned when he could; it still smelled like Dazai’s blood.

It truly felt like being a normal Mafia businessman as Chuuya pulled out the binder full of paperwork Dazai had left behind, and he searched hastily for anything about Gin. Akutagawa hadn’t been lying, and Dazai hadn’t lied to him, either, which was rare. Both the Akutagawa siblings stood in front of him, their arms folded and clasped as though waiting for exam results, while Atsushi stood behind him like a bodyguard.

My Reaper.

He couldn’t believe those words came out of his mouth. Atsushi certainly didn’t belong to him, and he didn’t want him to. But if the younger man objected, he wasn’t going to say so.

“Okay, okay. Gin Akutagawa. It says here her contract expires upon his death,” Chuuya read aloud. “But changes to at-will status of her employment. It’s a phase-out,” he added, glancing at the still-scowling Ryuu, “so it’s going to take a week or two to sort this out entirely. In the meantime, I’m going to need her to hand over all Mafia property, including all electronics, passwords, access cards.”

“A phase-out?” Akutagawa spat. “That isn’t what—”

“Ryuunosuke,” Gin said suddenly. She looked over at her brother, something like sadness in her eyes. Chuuya wondered how upset she was at this upheaval. If she had sensed anything from Dazai that meant he was going to do this. “Be patient. This job in the Mafia is not what you think. I told you that.”

She clasped her hands together and bowed to Chuuya. As she stood up, their eyes met briefly. She was only a few years younger than him, and about an inch taller than him in her heels. They’d shared a few drinks over the years, complaining about Dazai over bottles of shiraz, Chuuya insisting that Dazai was underutilizing her. Under his own direction, Chuuya was sure she could become something more, maybe even make executive one day.

“I’ll be here for the remainder of the week,” she said, “but I would like the freedom to visit my brother.”

For a moment, Chuuya had thought she was going to stay; though he was disappointed, it was for the best she was leaving. He wasn’t planning to stay in charge anyway.

“I’ll have to assign you a guard,” Chuuya finished. “And you know we’ll find you if you let slip a Mafia secret. So stay vigilant. But best of luck.”

Gin nodded as she handed over her belongings, her keycard, her cell phone. Someone in tech would deal with this; he still had a lot of other shit that needed his attention.

As two guards escorted them out, Chuuya had a feeling this wasn’t the last time he would see them. Not in this world, nor in another. If they needed to go to another world after all.

He hoped the answer to that would be in these godforsaken papers. Chuuya wondered vaguely if Dazai had used this to keep track of his own plans, because if he was keeping all of this in his head, no wonder he was so . . .

Chuuya cut his thoughts off at that, remembering not to speak ill of the dead. But Dazai had outlined his plan for several dozen people, and several dozen ventures he had going on when he killed himself. Arms deals and smuggling, gambling and racketeering. Assassinations.

“So what . . . do we do now?”

Chuuya had only heard about half the sentence Atsushi said, but he’d figured what he was going to ask.

“Seeing if there’s any plans he had for Oda,” Chuuya muttered. “Any instructions regarding him. Since apparently he’s so damn important.”

“The . . . plan for Akutagawa was in there?”

Atsushi’s voice was soft. Chuuya looked up at him for a moment, just a little bit annoyed. This was going to take forever, and it would take even longer if Atsushi kept asking him questions. He should find something for the kid to do while he looked. But he nodded, and he was floored by the next question, even though he should have expected it.

“Is there a plan . . . for me?”

Chuuya’s stomach sank. How could there not be? Atsushi was so attuned to being with Dazai, Dazai had made sure Atsushi was reliant on him. If he didn’t plan for something in writing, it would have actually been cruel. But . . . would Dazai’s plan interfere with their own?

Chuuya flipped through the papers, trying to keep his expression neutral as he scanned over the pages, looking for his name.

Atsushi Nakajima. To be fired immediately. See: envelope A.N. to give to him for further instruction.

Chuuya casually turned a page as though he hadn’t seen it, his heart pounding. Immediately. Sent off on a mysterious errand, never to be seen again. If he fired Atsushi, he would be banned from the tower, from the Mafia. And Chuuya would be alone in this, once again.

“Yeah,” he replied finally. “Atsushi Nakajima. To remain the White Reaper under the new boss. See performance to offer an executive position in a year.”

It was a temporary lie, he told himself. They were actively looking for their next steps. If they didn’t find anything by tomorrow, by next week, then he would tell him the truth or fire him himself. Did Atsushi even want to be let go? Didn’t he want to save Dazai, too?

I asked him. I asked him and he said he wanted to do this.

Besides, it shouldn’t matter what the instructions were upon Dazai’s death, because they were going to prevent that. They were going to prevent it if they could figure out who the fuck Oda was and what he had to fucking do with anything.

Chuuya swallowed that nagging feeling and tried to dive into these stupid papers. He couldn’t figure out their order, if there was one, if all of this was supposed to be read at once, or if he should go through it only when it was obvious. Wouldn’t Dazai think he was a dumbass who needed the guidance, needed to be told directly what to do?

Or had he really misread all of Dazai’s feelings for him? Had his partner only needled him to make a point, to be obnoxious, to make Chuuya hate him, when Dazai really was protecting him? Was it possible in the end, he truly trusted Chuuya, thought he would make a great leader?

It was also entirely possible Dazai didn’t really give a shit what happened to the Mafia and Chuuya after he died.

If this guy is so important, why isn’t there anything about him?

A note, a newspaper clipping, a hastily scrawled email. Fucking anything. But as Chuuya turned through the pages, first slowly and methodically, and then erratically, that madness just wound up more and more, there was nothing, there was nothing, and Dazai was probably laughing at him from the depths of hell.

“Goddamn it!”

Chuuya threw the papers across the room, and when that didn’t give him release, he swept an arm across the desk and knocked everything to the floor, where it crashed and bounced around the office. This office that wasn’t even his, that still had Dazai’s wretched stench on it. He kicked the chair over, punching holes in the walls, pulling paintings off and throwing them, shattering the glass and splintering the frames, his chest heaving, that hole inside him only growing larger.

That stupid fuck — he had left Chuuya nothing. An empty office and rote instruction. Atsushi was wrong. Atsushi was —

Chuuya wondered suddenly where the Reaper had gone and scanned the room, expecting he was just blending in somewhere in the dark. But Chuuya spotted the heavy coat bunched up in the corner, as Atsushi wept, frightened by his anger.

Shit.

Chuuya stared, his entire body stiff as Atsushi cowered in the corner, his gloved hands digging into his hair, tearing at it. It was regression, a learned response — but as much harm as that fucker had done, he couldn’t see this coming from Dazai. They’d all had their demons before joining the Mafia . . . had Atsushi’s hell been worse on the outside? It certainly explained his devotion to Dazai, his apparent savior, even if he . . .

Chuuya tentatively stepped over to him and squatted beside him on the floor. Atsushi looked up at him, fat tears welling in his large eyes and falling down his cheeks. Chuuya made a tight fist, resisting wiping them away. That was too intimate; it would send a mixed message.

“M’sorry,” he muttered, clearing his throat. “I’m pissed off. Not at you. I’m not . . . going to take it out on you.”

He also resisted saying I won’t hurt you, because that was the kind of shit abusers said, wasn’t it? And he knew that he very likely would end up hurting him, in one way or another, whether he could help it or not. It was unavoidable in the Mafia; he couldn’t afford to be precious about it. He swallowed as Atsushi did, too, and the boy wiped his own tears, uncurling his body, his expression changing.

“You okay?” Chuuya added.

Atsushi nodded. Chuuya frowned, wondering just how much of a babysitter he was going to have to be. Was it a terrible idea, bringing Atsushi into the fold? They had already failed once . . . maybe he really was better off alone.

Without warning, Atsushi fell forward, and Chuuya put out his arms to catch him — a fainting spell? — only he felt a sudden warmth on his face, and there were hands crawling on either side of his jaw.

Oh god.

Atsushi was kissing him, warm and wet, and he had no idea what to do. This time Chuuya let him crawl into his lap, and Atsushi straddled him, knees on either side of his hips. Chuuya groaned despite himself, seeing again those flashes of that Other Atsushi, smiling at him playfully, kissing him, teasing him, god he felt good . . .

But this wasn’t the Other Atsushi. Flashes passed across Chuuya’s vision of Atsushi, this Atsushi, real memories of Atsushi’s face hovering under his, their lips meeting, tongues sliding together, his skin still warm, his body still feeling good, and a wave of shame shuddered through him.

That was miles away from what he’d seen in the Book. Yes, they had been intimate here, but they didn’t have that sort of relationship — they shouldn’t. Not when . . .

“Stop it,” Chuuya said. He put his hands on Atsushi’s shoulders haltingly. “You don’t have to — I know I’m the new boss, but that don’t mean . . . what are you even doing?”

Chuuya shook his head, still trying to wrap his head around what Atsushi thought his role was. But Atsushi flushed, backing up, eyes cast aside. Maybe Atsushi didn’t know, either.

“I — it’s not that you’re the boss, I just thought —”

“You thought what?” Chuuya snapped, and Atsushi cringed again. But he didn’t seem cowed, only embarrassed. Chuuya made a tsk sound, his guts churning painfully inside.

“I just . . .you used to . . . we’ve kissed before,” Atsushi said tragically. “What’s the difference now? Suddenly you don’t like me like that?”

Chuuya felt that reprimand down into his bones. It wasn’t even consciously a reprimand — he was asking quite seriously. But what the difference was now should have been obvious.

“Don’t get it twisted,” Chuuya said, voice quiet. “It’s not that I don’t like . . . it’s not that I don’t want you. But I gotta be sure you actually want this. You need to be sure.”

Atsushi looked more upset than insulted and he did withdraw, getting to his feet unsteadily. As Chuuya stood back up, a bile rose in his throat, guilt burning an acid hole in his stomach. When was the last time Atsushi considered what he wanted, outside of Dazai?

Did he actually . . .

Of course he does. He wants to save him, too.

He couldn’t stop now. They couldn’t stop now. Not when their goal was within sight.

“So,” Chuuya said, folding his arms. “Back to . . . anyway. This Oda. What do we do about him? How do we get more information?”

Atsushi held his hands together, looking down, as though he were patiently waiting for Chuuya to say more. Chuuya was reminded of the dinner they shared and how difficult extracting a conversation had been. Like he was still afraid to answer for himself.

“Atsushi,” Chuuya pressed. “I’m asking you how we get more information.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you.” Chuuya sighed, annoyed. “Dazai was the one with all the ideas. So we probably need to match wits together to beat him.” He raised an eyebrow.

“Oh.” Atsushi bit his lip. “I don’t . . . I’m not . . . I don’t usually have any ideas.”

He was really trying Chuuya’s patience now, and he was reminded of all the complaints and rumors surrounding Atsushi, how he curried favor and was a violent puppet but otherwise useless. But to Chuuya he seemed more stuck than anything else. Stuck and afraid.

“Tell me he didn’t do this to you,” Chuuya muttered.

“Do what to me?” Atsushi asked, but Chuuya quickly changed the subject.

“Nevermind. Don’t expect me to do all the work here,” he said, and then turned pink, realizing his phrasing and the intimate situation they’d shared just a moment ago. “Come on. You’ve clashed with the ADA way more than I have, you must have come across this man. Or have any insight at all.”

Atsushi shook his head once again, staring at the floor. But finally, something seemed to be churning in him. Chuuya waited quietly, leaning against the desk, hands folded. He, too, was going to have to unlearn some bad habits if he wanted to succeed. Or if he didn’t succeed . . . if he wanted to be an effective leader. It had been six years since he left the Sheep, and though he should have been accumulating more skills as he rose through the Mafia, he felt as unequipped as a rookie. Was that Dazai’s doing or his own?

“I . . . heard Akutagawa say,” Atsushi started, and Chuuya looked up. “I think. I think I heard him say that Oda had a family of . . . adopted children? And I know Akutagawa just said he won’t ever talk to the Mafia. But . . . what if we . . .”

“You thinkin’ of kidnapping some kids?” Chuuya said. He thought his voice was even, but couldn’t quite hide his distaste. He’d do it if they had to, but didn’t usually like to mess with that kinda stuff. He didn’t want to turn into one of those adults he’d been wary of when he was a teenager. Dazai probably would have taken one of Oda’s kids and turned them against him just to mess with his head.

“I . . . if you think that’s what we should do,” Atsushi replied tentatively.

“No,” Chuuya said stiffly, and Atsushi flinched. “No. It’s not what I think. Finish your thought.”

“Well. . .” Atsushi trailed off a moment, finding his footing. “I think it’s possible that Oda didn’t . . . he just didn’t like . . . Dazai-sama.” He swallowed. “Or . . . who he thought the boss was. But you, Chuuya-san, you reunited Akutagawa with his sister. I think . . . you made a good impression on him. You should try just reaching out first.”

“I made a good impression?” Chuuya raised an eyebrow. It seemed to him Akutagawa was pissed at him, but everything he knew about Ryuu was that he was kind of always pissed. He trusted that Atsushi had a better reading of the young detective.

“Yes,” Atsushi echoed. “You were direct, curt. You didn’t try to go back on the promise or overly threaten them. I think . . . you treated them respectfully and they saw that.”

Chuuya folded his arms. He wasn’t used to this kind of praise. “Alright. So I’ll make him an offer. So what about the kids?”

Atsushi nodded. “If that doesn’t work . . . I think there’s a way to get his attention . . . without making him so mad.”

As Atsushi outlined his backup plan, Chuuya folded his arms, his grip firm on his biceps. The idea was still going to piss off Oda, that was for sure, and certainly wouldn’t endear Oda to either Chuuya or the Mafia. But it certainly would get his attention.

They sent a request for a meeting with him three times without any reply. Akutagawa had said he wanted nothing to do with the Mafia if he could help it, but still, Chuuya noted it was rather ballsy to ignore them outright. It wasn’t like they were a public service he could pretend he never saw the letter from. Really, he said, it was on Oda; he should have expected they would escalate. Atsushi nodded along, because what else should the man have expected from the Mafia? And so they were to implement Atsushi’s own plan.

He didn’t even know where the idea came from when it escaped from his mouth, only that he was desperate not to actually hurt any children. He didn’t even know how to put it into action, but Chuuya handled it and worked out the method at once. That synergy, something about it felt familiar, working with Chuuya together, each of them using their strengths as partners . . . even though they certainly had never done something like this.

Chuuya said he had been meaning to break up this trafficking ring anyway, since he knew the gangster who ran it from his own childhood in the Sheep. The Port Mafia had been letting them operate without interference for years; if Dazai were still in charge, he probably would have done this elegantly, tearing it apart from the inside out without making a scene. But Chuuya drew all the attention he possibly could.

They waited outside a known warehouse until a shipment came in, and Atsushi’s team was sent in for the slaughter. He saw small, pale faces staring at him through the blood rain that streaked their cheeks, hollow eyes wide and terrified as they spotted his claws. But for once in his life, Atsushi felt like he had saved someone, even as he tore out the throats of the handlers, as he galloped after one who tried to escape and snapped his leg, pulling his arm out of its socket before Kyouka dealt the killing blow. All in all, they took in four children and one adult that Chuuya wanted to deal with himself. Three of the children were sent to Kouyou. The fourth, Kyouka cleaned up to be their messenger.

Her name was Momo, no last name, no family. She clung to Atsushi’s hand as they stood a few blocks away from the ADA, a hand that was actually transformed into a clawless paw, and she was petting it absently, distracted and fixated by the soft fur. Atsushi had only managed to get her to talk after transforming halfway and letting her scratch his ears — Chuuya had teased him, but after that, she was receptive to instruction.

“You remember what to do?” Atsushi asked. He pointed towards Uzumaki. “Go inside the office and ask for Oda. And then give him the note.” She nodded, pulling out the folded envelope before slipping it back into her pocket. “And you remember what to do if Oda doesn’t listen?”

She nodded again.

“Run back to kitty,” she replied.

“Yes,” he said, flushing, glad his team wasn’t around. “I’ll be around the corner. And if he tries to take you in without reading the note?”

Momo reached into her pocket again, this time pulling out a small folding knife.

“In the stomach,” she said, mimicking the motion.

“That’s right,” Atsushi said gently.

* * *

Bar Twins was neutral territory, not close enough to Uzumaki to make it an Agency hangout and not frequented or under the care of the Mafia. Even so, they discussed shutting it down, but that turned out not to be necessary. Any patron that walked in off the street and caught sight of Atsushi turned around immediately. They would make eye contact with him, freeze up, look over at Chuuya sitting at the bar, and then slip back out as though coming in were an honest mistake. Atsushi grew weary of this quickly, standing in the back, his arms folded, heart pounding in his throat. If Oda didn’t come, if this didn’t work after all, would Chuuya be upset again?

Not at you. I won’t take it out on you.

Empty words, especially in the Mafia. It was inevitable Atsushi would do something to upset the boss, that he would get angry at something. He shouldn’t need those platitudes, even though he let that tone wash over him, going over that scene in his head. Chuuya’s genuine concern, his kindness. Maybe . . .

Chuuya nearly finished the whiskey in his glass when the door opened again with a loud slam, the knob hitting the back wall, and someone walked in, making straight for Chuuya with righteous determination.

“You don’t send children as bargaining chips,” the man said furiously.

He was tall, with auburn hair darker than Chuuya’s. His stance commanded respect, his shoulders squared, but the way he dressed and the stubble on his face made it clear that he didn’t actually care about your respect. No wonder Dazai was interested in him; he probably didn’t take Dazai’s shit lightly.

“You weren’t responding,” Chuuya said, shrugging. “Our intel said you have a soft spot for taking in strays.”

“Only a mafioso would call it a soft spot,” Oda said evenly. “Most people would call it being a human.”

“Hey now,” Chuuya said, raising his hands, “I’m just as human as you are, detective. I assure you, we treated her better than the ring that brought her here. Or won’t you give us credit for that?”

“You mafiosi only do something good if it suits your purpose,” Oda continued. “If you could take down the ring for this, you could have brought it down all along.”

Chuuya made a sound through his nose, nearly a laugh.

“You coulda, too,” he said pointedly. “The ADA didn’t touch it, neither. Because you didn’t get hired to. So let’s not get into semantics over who is the most righteous, Oda-san. We both have our agendas we’re persuing. Mine,” Chuuya added, patting the bar, “is to talk with you. Now what do you want aside from another kid you can take out of the system?”

Oda was biting the inside of his cheek as he looked between the two mafiosi on the scene, then over to the bartender, who seemed nonplussed.

“Have a drink,” Chuuya nodded at the bar. “It’s on me.”

“I don’t negotiate with the Mafia,” Oda replied. He never raised his voice despite the obvious anger surging through it; it was a skill.

“Then we don’t negotiate,” Chuuya replied. “Atsushi. Take her back.”

Atsushi had been prepared for this tactic. Slowly, he made his way towards the front of the bar, as though he were going to break into the ADA office. Quicker than expected, Oda ran in front of the door, blocking the exit with his body.

“I’m here,” Oda said stiffly. “That’s all you asked for. Don’t tell me the Port Mafia are liars.”

“That ain’t gonna work,” Chuuya replied. “The terms were laid out plainly. I said come alone. Have a conversation. Or we’d take her back. I’m only keeping what I promised.”

They stared at each other a moment, and finally, Oda put his arms down, stepping towards the bar.

“Have a drink,” Chuuya said again.

Oda slid into the high top and leaned against the bar without taking his eyes off the mafioso. His eyes were intense and sad, and Atsushi was reminded of a strict teacher or father trying to scare his students into submission. Chuuya barely seemed to notice.

“Glenmorangie Signet,” Oda said, still not looking at the bartender. “Neat.”

“Big spender,” Chuuya replied, a small smile twitching on his lips.

“What, are the Mafia coffers empty?”

“Ha, just impressed,” Chuuya finished his glass and put it out for the bartender to pour him another. “It’s what I’m drinking, too.”

Oda again didn’t reply to that attempted connection, only taking a sip, his gaze boring into Chuuya. He seemed content to sit in silence all night, waiting for the mob boss to concede. Chuuya waited until Oda had about half his drink before he finally did.

“Dazai,” he started, and Oda tensed. “He had your name on his breath right before he took himself out of commission.”

“I didn’t kill your boyfriend,” Oda said sharply.

Chuuya brought his fist down on the bar and rose suddenly, his shoulders tensed, that red glow humming around him, and Oda got to his feet as well. Atsushi stepped forward and put a hand on Chuuya’s shoulder, squeezing it gently, and Chuuya sat back down, rolling his neck.

“I didn’t say squat about your responsibility in it,” Chuuya said tersely. “I just wanna know why he’s got anything to do with you. If you ever met or spoke.”

“Why?”

Atsushi could see that Chuuya was doing his best to restrain himself, and felt a small compulsion to take his hand.

“Don’t think there’s anything suspicious about investigating my predecessor’s death,” he said finally with a shrug. “Gotta make sure he didn’t leave any loose ends for me to clean up. Any more than he already did. If you met him,” he added, eyes flickering up at Oda, “you know he’s a major dick and liked to hassle me.”

“Sounds to me like an internal Mafia problem,” Oda replied. “Leave me out of it. I met him once, but I have nothing to do with him.”

“What did you talk about?”

“Nothing important.”

Chuuya twitched. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

Oda sighed. “I didn’t talk about anything. He talked to me like he knew me. It was unsettling.”

Chuuya gave a small laugh. “Yeah, he could be a little shit like that. A cold-reader with no filter.” Oda still did not respond, only taking another sip. “He hits all the notes, every time. Tell me,” he continued smoothly, “what notes did he hit for you?”

“This your idea of subterfuge?” Oda snorted. “Trying to get information about me?”

“It ain’t subtle, I did ask,” Chuuya said pointedly. “I’m tryin’ to get information about him. You . . . you I know. You, I get.” He narrowed his eyes, and Atsushi could see Oda’s shoulders stiffen. “Orphan, like the rest of us, on the streets at a young age. Had a turn doing some wet-work for money and security, cleaned up your act and joined the Detectives. Makes sense to me. But what did Dazai want with you, that’s what I don’t get.”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Oda said stiffly. “You know as well as I nothing he said could be trusted.”

“Well, you’ve no reason to hide it, then, huh,” Chuuya muttered. “Come on, Oda-san. I just want to clean my hands of all this. What did he say?”

“You aren’t fooling anyone, Nakahara,” Oda said suddenly.

His grip was in danger of bursting the glass. Atsushi stepped closer to Chuuya, feeling that tension, that danger rising, but Chuuya made a sign with his fingers, telling him to leave off.

“You think you’re cute, trying to connect. Talking about him like he was a normal person, trying to make him and yourself relatable,” Oda pressed, frowning even more. “But he wasn’t, and neither are you. Your hands are stained with blood. That coat is covered in it. I didn’t like the way he tried to read me, so I left. Whatever this inquiry really is, I don’t like this, either. ”

He stood up as if to leave, and Chuuya followed, his hands tightened into fists. It looked for a moment like they were going to throw hands, but they only stared at each other, Chuuya’s red halo glowing around him warningly. They had no idea of Oda’s ability; that was another reason to keep this nonviolent, but whatever it was, Oda wasn’t utilizing it, either. Keeping eye contact, Oda downed the rest of his whiskey and put the glass on the bar.

“Thanks for the drink,” he said, his tone sincere. “And for saving the kid.”

As he turned to leave, Atsushi looked at Chuuya, waiting for his cue to go after him, but Chuuya shook his head and sat back down.

“I am cute,” Chuuya mumbled to himself.

Atsushi hovered behind him as guard, watching as he swirled the whiskey around absently, but after a moment he stiffened his shoulders and turned back around.

“Sit down,” he ordered, nearly growling. “Don’ prowl behind me like that, sheesh.”

Atsushi tentatively did, watching Chuuya quietly, not objecting when Chuuya ordered him what looked like a fruit punch but did, in fact, have alcohol in it. Chuuya lit a cigarette, dangling it between his lips.

“What do you make of him?” Chuuya asked after a moment.

“Oda?” Atsushi glanced at the door as though he were still there. “He really doesn’t like the Mafia.”

“A lot of people don’t like the Mafia,” Chuuya said. “We’re the Mafia. This guy seems pathological. I wonder what he’s hiding.”

Atsushi sipped his drink. He, too, wondered what had made Oda so hostile — aside from the obvious. Did he have some past encounter with the Mafia? Had they killed his family? Friends? Atsushi vaguely wondered if they should be asking around internally instead of questioning Oda . . . but he would do what Chuuya thought was best.

“What do we do now?” He asked quietly.

Chuuya sighed.

“I tried being civil,” he said, cracking his knuckles. “Now I gotta do it the Mafia way. Good news,” he added, “I think I’m better at that stuff.”

Atsushi thought about the calm and collected way Chuuya had handled the conversation with Oda, and how he had dealt with the Akutagawa siblings. And before he knew it, the words were flying out of his mouth.

“I actually think you’re a paragon of civil conversation,” Atsushi said. “You’re . . . very natural at it.”

Chuuya turned to look at him, eyebrows raised.

“What?”

“You’re not just a brute, Chuuya-san,” Atsushi went on. “You’re poised and sophisticated.”

Chuuya very slowly turned beet red before he scowled and turned back.

“I don’t need no flunky,” Chuuya said quietly. “I think . . . I just need someone to help me with a good old-fashioned kidnapping.”

Chapter Text

It was easy enough to grab someone off the street or even from their house, but there was more to factor into an abduction than just the logistics and manpower. For that, Chuuya favored the drive-up method, simply parking a van in front of someone and pulling them inside. Atsushi had often been employed for a system more like a scare-tactic, to incite a massacre and kill everyone except for the target, terrorizing them into submission. But this time, they had to be more tactical.

It was going to be a kind of catch-and-release: they needed to interrogate Oda, but then they needed to let him go. Whatever his purpose, it seemed Dazai wanted him alive. They also didn’t want to draw the ADA after them directly, so they needed a distraction for long enough they could speak with him and set him free before the detectives came after him. But the real question was . . .

If Oda’s interrogation resulted in a real lead, did it even matter what they did? They were going to have to go back into the past to try again, leaving this world to its own devices. Chuuya spent some time agonizing over this philosophy: what would happen to this world when he and Atsushi travelled back. Would it cease to exist? Or would they continue to live in it, but his consciousness would be transferred to this new past?

In the end, he erred on the side of caution. Best not have any world call him a sloppy Mafia boss.

Oda was going to report back to the ADA no matter what. Chuuya and Atsushi had exchanged a few ideas on how they might discourage this, through blackmail or otherwise — okay, Chuuya had thrown out the ideas and Atsushi had nodded along to most of them — but that was all dead ends. Oda didn’t have a perfect record — far from it. Chuuya was able to dig into his past fairly easily, and was intrigued by his stint as a teenage assassin. But it felt impossible that Fukuzawa wouldn’t already know this. He simply wasn’t hiding anything.

Anything aside from what Dazai wanted with him.

But because Oda was so open with his peers, this gave the Mafia leeway to show their own hand . . . as soon as they were done with him. And by that point, it would be no harm, no foul. Oda would be returned intact. So what if the detectives tried to pry into what happened? It would just waste their own time.

And if they find out that we loved him, so what?

But the more they worked on it, the more time passed without Dazai, and the more Chuuya’s determination, his feelings, felt like a weakness. He should just be content to live out his life as the Mafia boss, Atsushi at his side, a criminal empire at his command. All in all, his job wasn’t too different than it had been before, only he was treated with more fear, more reverence, and he had to kneel to no one. There were days he didn’t know what he was doing; but there were days when he had the fleeting thought that Dazai would be proud of him.

It was Atsushi who kept him on track with his own single-mindedness, checking in every morning on how their plans were going. Atsushi who reminded him what and who he was doing this for. It hurt; it was hard every day he woke up alone not to just let go, not to forget there was the possibility of changing the past if he tried. If he let go, the way he had with all the losses he’d accumulated over his life, with all the other grief piling up on his heart, he knew it would heal, eventually. But if he didn’t take this chance, he would never stop regretting it.

So at last it came together. Chuuya called in three different debts across the city, three different people who all hired the ADA in quick succession so that Oda would have no choice but to be deployed for at least one of them. He sweetened the pot of the last one by offering a generous reward for the case, hoping it would incentivize them, and it worked.

It was a murder case, clearly done by an ability-user, and Chuuya had pulled on one of his cop contacts, Keigo Higashino, to hire the ADA off-books from the police themselves. The ADA’s pet detective, Ranpo, was better suited for non-ability cases, and so Oda and Akutagawa showed up at the site.

Chuuya listened through a bug in Higashino’s jacket as they conversed, clicking his tongue at the slight hitch in the plan. Akutagawa was a loose cannon . . . they could only hope he didn’t interfere with anything, or they would have to take him in, too. More than that, though, he didn’t want to drag Akutagawa back into a maddening battle with the Mafia; they had made a promise to him, and he was doing well in this world without Dazai. Chuuya didn’t begrudge him that; if only they were all so lucky. Because this wasn’t the kind of world for him and Atsushi.

It took a few days for Oda to follow the clues that lead somewhere they could infiltrate.

Chuuya lurked in the tunnels near the stadium, his earpiece tuned to another bug that Higashino had planted on Oda. From what he could ascertain, Oda and Akutagawa had spoken to a lot of people and found out the victim was the leader of a casino who was in debt with another small gang in the city. And the detectives learned, through leaked information, that there was to be a meeting in the park after dark . . . and so they decided to intercept.

“They’ve just passed the tulip garden,” came a voice in his ear. Chuuya pressed it closer, trying to concentrate. He had a few lookouts around the area, needing to pinpoint Oda’s exact location. “Heading to you.”

“Roger that,” Chuuya echoed. “Send them in.”

He ascended to the surface, lurking in the shadows, and climbed to the top of the stadium to observe. Two dark figures walked carefully towards the stadium, both their trenchcoats billowing gently. The lights around the park flickered, and then went out — just a little bit of drama and easy electrical interception — and the figures paused. The taller, who Chuuya took to be Oda, held an arm out to stop the other going forward, cautiously looking around.

From the other side of the sports field, a few figures assembled just out of their line of sight, bathed in shadow and dark coats, pretending to have a meeting. Among them were Atsushi and Kyouka. They waited until the detectives’ eyes adjusted and hid themselves to spy on the fake meeting. After a few minutes, Chuuya cued one of them.

“Action,” he said, slightly amused.

One of the fake gang members made a huge show of shushing the rest of them, then he carefully looked around in silence, searching for spies. He made an even bigger show of finding the lurking detectives, and the gang scattered. But not before Atsushi stepped into the light for just a moment, enough for Akutagawa to have a flash of recognition.

As predicted, Akutagawa ignored anything Oda might be telling him and instead took after Atsushi. He was the perfect distraction for the young detective — and the perfect way to get Oda on his own. Oda took after one of the other members — Kyouka — who stayed just ahead of him, enough to lead him into their trap.

Chuuya jumped down and slipped back into the tunnels, ahead of where Kyouka and Oda were running, waiting, waiting, his aura glowing, intending to simply hold Oda down to capture him.

He heard the echoing footsteps, Kyouka’s light and steady, Oda’s heavier, and he crouched down out of the way. The second that Kyouka ran past him, Chuuya sprung, sliding forward, making to barrel into Oda’s legs.

And Oda leapt back.

Shit. Had he seen him? Chuuya thought he was better hidden, but he wouldn’t be deterred. He got to his feet and punched, aiming for Oda’s chest, but the detective curved his body inward, dodging the blow, and as Chuuya continued to try and fight him, Oda ducked and bent around him perfectly. As though he could predict it.

Fuck. That must be his ability.

In the back of his head, Chuuya heard the reprimand, the mocking voice that he went into this unprepared. That all his care and planning was for naught because he forgot to think about Oda’s ability. But it was Dazai who usually took point on that, he was the one good at puzzling it out, and all of a sudden Chuuya felt completely unfit to be the Mafia boss.

I think you’re natural at it, a light and sweet voice echoed back.

God, how the hell was Atsushi still so nice after everything he’d been through?

Atsushi . . . that thought reminded him that he wasn’t alone. That was the thing about being the Mafia boss: he had infinite backup. Oda, though, was by himself, Akutagawa thoroughly distracted. And though Oda could predict Chuuya’s moves . . . would he able to keep track of more than one person?

“Kyouka,” Chuuya called through his earpiece, and she rushed to action with Demon Snow.

He was right. Demon Snow swiped at Oda with her katana, Kyouka nipped around him with her blades, and Oda started slipping, unable to keep track of both of them on top of Chuuya. When it was clear his attention was on the assassin, Chuuya jumped on him, pulling his arms behind his back and weighing them down.

Oda fell to his knees, his head bent, no longer resisting but refusing to look at them. As they bound him and put the customary bag over his head, Chuuya let himself momentarily bask in this small victory. But he couldn’t shake the sense of foreboding that this path would only lead to his own destruction.

Atsushi got the message that Kyouka was heading back up to him and they had captured their mark. In the shadows, she switched places with him so that she could keep Akutagawa occupied and he could go . . . make an inquiry. As she passed, she nodded at him in determination that he was not quite sure he echoed.

Atsushi caught his breath as he slipped into the tunnels, walking quietly and quickly towards where Chuuya had taken Oda. His heart was pounding in his head, already feeling faint. Yes, he was an assassin; yes, he had been in the room many times when someone else tortured a prisoner, usually on standby for when they were done and needed to wipe the slate clean. And yes, they were hoping to have a civil conversation with Oda, without the necessity of physical pain. But Oda had been obstinate so far, and Chuuya was already at the end of his rope.

He wasn’t sure he would call Chuuya cruel; not like Dazai. More that he did what needed doing, no matter what it was.

Atsushi opened the rusty metal door to find Oda, completely intact, standing against a wall to which he was attached. Two thick manacles were clamped around his outstretched arms, and a third one sat around his throat — perhaps to keep him looking at them instead of away, because he kept trying to turn his head aside anyway. Chuuya was sitting on a table beside a small scattering of implements for a more severe interrogation, should it come to that. Atsushi’s eyes flickered away from them and he shut the door.

Chuuya pushed a chair out for Atsushi to take, but Atsushi couldn’t move, choosing instead to look at Oda in his unblinking eyes. They were hard and angry, though there was more of a fear in them than there had been at the bar.

“I think you and I got off on the wrong foot,” Chuuya started at once. “You seemed to be under the impression you didn’t have to answer when I asked you a question.” He shed the Mafia boss’s jacket and stood up, walking to stand beside Atsushi. “But I have a whole Mafia at my disposal to get my answers, Oda-san. As you can see, I’m quite determined.” His eyes flickered to Atsushi a moment. “We’re quite determined.”

Atsushi wasn’t expecting that, to be referred to as though he had equal stakes in this interrogation. The last time, he had silently stood in the corner as a threatening presence, but not . . .

Well, had Chuuya actually told him to shut up and not ask questions, or had he just assumed that’s what Chuuya wanted because it was what Dazai would have wanted? Now, though, there was an explicit invitation to speak.

“Yeah,” Atsushi agreed, his voice not as strong as he’d have liked. “You left us with no choice.”

“Blaming me for your own actions,” Oda said. “Typical.”

“I don’t think you understand the situation you’re in,” Chuuya went on. He took off his gloves, shoving them in his pocket. A vague threat that he was about to get his hands messy. “Dazai seems to think you’re important, but as far as I know, you’re just a nosy detective who knows somethin’ he ain’t sharing. For all I care, you can rot here, barely alive, until you tell us what we need to know.”

That fear flickered through Oda’s eyes again, though he quickly hid it. But that did seem to do something.

“What is it you want to know?”

Chuuya cracked his knuckles.

“You have information for us about some of the last days of Dazai’s life. And whatever led to that has something to do with you. That he met up with you the day of his death and he didn’t kill you tells me he maybe thought you were important in some way. Any idea what that might be?”

“No,” Oda replied. “I’m not important at all. I’m just trying to live my life and help people.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Chuuya said dismissively. “Come on. What did he tell you? What did he say? What did he vaguely hint at?”

“This is a meeting that happened weeks ago,” Oda spat. “You really expect me to remember?”

“Don’t give me that shit,” Chuuya shot back. “A meeting with Dazai? I bet you remember every bit.”

“Why?” Oda looked exhausted. Atsushi didn’t know why he was being so resistant; Chuuya was right, he seemed opposed to helping the Mafia out of principle if nothing else. He appeared to be a man with a very strong moral code. “Why do you care about a man who didn’t care about anyone else?”

“We loved him.”

Atsushi ignored the way that Chuuya was staring daggers at him, his mouth pursed in a thin line. He was angry; and Atsushi’s heart was hammering that he was making his boss angry, but he knew the truth was the right way to go with Oda. Atsushi saw the way he respected Chuuya’s candor at the bar more than his evasiveness — perhaps that evasiveness was too similar to another boss.

“I was . . . I am . . . in love with him,” Atsushi continued. “And I’m just trying to . . . make sense of everything.”

Oda looked between them, eyes darting from one to the other, and his gaze softened.

“Are you kidding?” There was something like a laugh behind his words as he continued. “Him?”

“Is that really so shocking? You have people who care about you, don’t you?” Atsushi said softly. “Everyone does.”

Oda clicked his tongue.

“I understand the draw to power,” he said, face darkening again. “But that’s not the same thing as love. Are you sure you aren’t brainwashed?”

“Does it matter?” Atsushi didn’t like that piercing gaze and was staring instead at Oda’s shoes as they dangled inches above the floor. “We love him and want to . . . figure out what happened.”

“You, too?” Oda asked, nodding at Chuuya. Chuuya flushed, gritting his teeth.

“No, idiot, I’ve been trying to pin you down for weeks and resorted to kidnapping you just for the hell of it,” he spat. “Don’t make me say it. And I never wanted the power. I’ll take it to protect my city and my people. But if I can save him, then I’ll gladly throw it all away.”

“Save him?” Oda raised an eyebrow, confused. “What do you mean, like save his soul? He’s dead, isn’t he?”

Chuuya bit his lip, looking unsure how to answer. Atsushi figured they should explain themselves if they wanted his cooperation . . . but then Oda surprised them both.

“The other worlds,” Oda said, and Chuuya startled. “He said something about that . . . you’re trying to change something so he doesn’t kill himself, are you?”

“To put it bluntly,” Chuuya admitted. “Stop tryin’ to reverse this interrogation. Just tell me what the fuck happened at that meeting.”

“I’ve only met him once,” Oda sighed. “And I don’t think you can save that man at all. But . . .” His eyes met Atsushi’s, bright and determined. “You, Atsushi. You remind me a lot of . . .” He trailed off, still holding his cards close to his chest, but Atsushi knew who he was talking about. Akutagawa. “He was lost in the darkness for a very long time. If this will help you get out of it . . .”

He gestured at his neck, and Chuuya conceded, unlocking the metal collar. Oda groaned and cracked his neck before continuing.

“I didn’t want meet you at the bar, Nakahara, because a few days before that, a different Mafia boss did the same thing and . . . led me into a trap.” His gaze became hard, dark, an intense hatred coursing through them even more poisonous than the look he’d given Chuuya in the bar. “I guess I’ve fallen into two Mafia boss’s traps now. He told me he was a defector looking to give out some information that would help Akutagawa. Instead, he told me some stories, anecdotes, asking me about how my life was going, how my writing was going . . . . talking about me as though . . . as though we were friends.”

“You were friends in another timeline,” Chuuya inferred. Atsushi thought Chuuya seemed unsettled by that, but whatever emotion ran through him quickly passed.

“Yeah, he told me that,” Oda replied. “So it’s true, then? Or maybe you believe his lies, too.”

“It’s true,” Atsushi said swiftly. “I don’t expect you to believe us.”

Oda frowned again, his expression more sympathetic than it had been before.

“I think he believed it,” Oda said. “And he seemed . . . desperate that I accept his last words.”

“Last words?” Chuuya muttered, folding his arms. “So was he trying to reconnect? Or was he saying goodbye?”

“Saying goodbye,” Oda said quietly. “Blatantly. It was so . . . unexpected that I let him go.”

“Did you know . . .” Atsushi started, but he cut himself off. No, he probably didn’t. And he couldn’t really blame Oda for not stopping Dazai from killing himself, because they knew how bad he was and they could barely do anything. Twice, they’d failed to stop him now.

“If you’re looking for someone to blame,” Oda went on, expression darkening again, “the only person responsible for Dazai’s fate was himself. And you, Nakahara,” he continued, and Chuuya looked aside, “might want to look in the mirror. Didn’t he promise not to go after Akutagawa, and yet here we are not even two weeks later.”

“I’m not after Ryuu,” Chuuya said, and Oda looked surprised. “We were friends in another timeline. I don’t want to hurt him if I don’t hafta.”

It took a moment for Oda to recover, but his vehemence was not to be doused.

“You already have,” Oda said scathingly. “You never have to hurt someone, Nakahara. That’s what I’ll never understand about the Mafia. You’re a means to an end and so you lean into these Machiavellian principles, that everything you do is justified if you get what you want. Look at you. ‘Resorting’ to kidnapping me to get the information you seek . . . to save a man who the world is better off without. A Mafia boss is still a Mafia boss. And even if you’re not killing people directly, you’re all a black stain on the city. Dazai knew to take himself out of the picture . . . evil begets evil, so I’d be careful, Nakahara, before you ended up going down the same same road as your precious—”

Chuuya was fast, as he pulled up his bare hand to smack Oda across the face. He’d used his Gravity and the force nearly snapped Oda’s neck, and would have had it still been manacled. When Oda turned his head back, his lips were bleeding and his jaw looked slightly out of place. Chuuya turned away, the brim of his hat shading his eyes.

“We’re done,” Chuuya said quietly. “Thanks for the info. See you in the next life.”

Two Days

They knocked him out before leaving Higashino to dump him on the ADA’s doorstep. He’d given them the information they sought, but it still hadn’t given them any clear answers. But . . . it was a place to start.

They had a time and a place. If this meeting was important to Dazai . . . if this was his farewell . . . likely Oda had missed some clues that they might be able to see.

“Let’s go.” Chuuya muttered.

For a moment, he thought again of the world he was leaving behind, one where he had command of the Mafia, where he had that autonomy that he hadn’t had in years, where his every step wasn’t dogged by a domineering man keen on controlling him.

A man he loved more than his freedom, apparently.

He took Atsushi’s hand and they placed their palms on the Book, concentrating on where they wanted to go. A day before that meeting with Oda, enough time to intercept it without being detected. Enough time to work around . . .

Dazai. Who would be alive again. Berating them, ordering them around, smiling at them mischievously, touching them tenderly.

Please.

Chuuya tried to exhale as that white light entered his body and filled his mouth, and he let himself hope as they found themselves in that white nothingness, a blank page. And then breath was siphoned back into their lungs as the Book unfolded around them once again. They weren’t quite sure where they would find themselves, as the memory was not as sharp as the first time; but Chuuya’s vision returned with his heartbeat. This time, he was in his bedroom.

It was morning, and he was lying on his side, facing the floor-to-ceiling windows that led to his balcony. He wasn’t tired anymore, so he supposed he’d slept well; for all he knew, this could just be another day at the office. He turned over, vaguely wondering where Atsushi had ended up, and his heart nearly leapt out of his throat.

He wasn’t alone after all.

His movement disturbed his companion, who began to wake as well. The taller man pushed back the covers and sat up, his feet on the floor, already getting himself ready. His brown hair was pillow-teased, his prominent spine on full display.

“Coffee, slug,” he said, voice heavy with sleep.

Chuuya was paralyzed. They’d already traveled back once, but that was before he’d truly lived in the world without Dazai. Him sitting there in this state, in his most vulnerable, human condition, was almost too much to bear. Chuuya hadn’t even had a chance to prepare himself.

“Are you deaf as well as stupid?” Dazai said, looking over his shoulder towards him. “We have a lot of shit to do today.”

He couldn’t help himself. He scrambled up and crawled towards Dazai on the bed, grabbing him around his waist, falling on him, trying to get the most contact with his warm, living skin. He kissed up Dazai’s arm to his neck, then kissed him eagerly on the lips. Dazai let him for a moment before he grabbed Chuuya’s wrists and pushed him back on the bed, climbing on top of him, opening their mouths. Chuuya was starving for this, and while in a previous lifetime he would have been more cautious, he was instead like putty beneath Dazai’s hands, leaning into him desperately. He should have expected it when Dazai stopped, pulling at his ear with his teeth.

“Calm down, dog,” Dazai said in reprimand. “We don’t have time. But if you do what I say, I’ll let you get your claws into me later. Coffee.”

Automatically, Chuuya nodded. Yes, anything. Anything to keep him close for a day, for an hour. But he was on a mission; if he didn’t pull himself out of Dazai’s thrall, he wouldn’t have him at all. It took all his determination to muster the strength to tug away from him, but he knew what he had to do.

Chuuya slipped out of bed and made the coffee as he was bid, calling for his own assistant to bring up some food. Memories started to come back to him of this world and the past few days here as he walked around his apartment, and he struggled to sort through the different kinds of memories. Some were sharper, some he could feel nudging themselves in with a stronger draw. He pulled out his phone to check over the schedule, trying to jog his memory for what he himself was doing when Oda and Dazai were meeting.

There was a message waiting for him.

Help me.

Chuuya pulled down the notification and felt his heart sink when he saw who it was from.

Atsushi?

Dazai was seated at the table, already dressed. Quickly, Chuuya ducked into the bathroom and made a call, the caffeine taking its time to hit him. He had almost forgotten the physical trauma Atsushi went through in the days before the incident, the state the Mafia was about to be in as Akutagawa infiltrated the tower. None of this would happen until tomorrow; and the memories of it were hazy, as they hadn’t yet happened here, and were actually from two full worlds ago. But . . . they would happen, nonetheless. Unless . . . did he need to stop Akutagawa?

He didn’t finish that train of thought as Atsushi picked up.

“I — I remembered,” Atsushi said. His voice was high and anxious, like he might have a breakdown any second. “That when Dazai’s meeting is . . . that’s the same day Akutagawa breaks into the tower. And Dazai . . .” Atsushi swallowed. “Akutagawa kidnaps Kyouka, Chuuya-san. That’s how he got me take him in. How am I supposed to see the meeting, if I’m . . .” He trailed off a moment, inhaling sharply. “It’s almost like he knows,” Atsushi whispered. A chill went up Chuuya’s spine; partly because of his tone, partly because Dazai was in the next room and he was still afraid of doing things behind his back. “It’s like Dazai knows we’re trying to stop him, and he distracted us from it, the way we distracted Akutagawa to take in Oda.”

“Calm down,” Chuuya assured, though he hadn’t thought this through, either. He’d forgotten how quickly everything had transpired. “If we know what’s going to happen, we can re-shape it.”

“We can’t.” Atsushi’s voice was shaking now. Was he crying? Crybaby, a thought nudged into his brain, but that was from a different lifetime. He knew it was bad if Atsushi was upset like this. “It’s already too late, Akutagawa’s already . . . I just didn’t know it yet.”

Chuuya swallowed hard. He’d thought they would be able to see this meeting, make a plan, and save Dazai, but . . . the timing made it impossible. Even if he left Atsushi to fight Akutagawa while he went off on his own, Dazai was still going to leave the meeting and die.

He opened the door and peeked out at the man sitting at his table. Tomorrow would be his last day. Part of Chuuya wanted to spend the entire day in bed with him, holding him close for as long as he was able. Even the temptation of tying him up to keep him imprisoned had lost its appeal; they needed to understand more if they really wanted to stop him. And so . . .

“Then . . . we use the time we have to do what we came here for. And then we go back. Again.”

Atsushi paused.

“Did you hear me?” he asked, more bold than Chuuya had expected. “I’m fighting Akutagawa at the same time as the meeting.”

“I know. But with my resources and the information we have, we can . . . change things a little bit. I think I can get us another day.”

It was a chain reaction that had already started. Akutagawa would kidnap Kyouka to entice Atsushi to help him into the tower, and once they reached the top, then Dazai would die in front of them. But . . . that was before Chuuya knew about it.

Chuuya immediately got a team to stake out Kyouka’s whereabouts, assuring Atsushi that she would be alright for one more day. They already knew what Akutagawa wanted . . . and so Chuuya arranged for Gin to send a letter to her brother for a meeting the same time Oda was to meet with Dazai — distract Akutagawa once again and buy them a little bit of time. He was certain Dazai would see his hand in that, eventually. But he didn’t care anymore. They were going to leave this world, too.

By the time Chuuya left the bathroom, Dazai was already gone. He took that opportunity to go off on his own to the bar, staking it out, bribing the owner to let him put his own staff on duty during the meeting. One who would be equipped with a camera and microphone. Chuuya set another bug as well in the corner, a fake decoy in another corner, and he arranged to have a drone outside the window.

* * *

Atsushi knocked on his apartment door about an hour before the meeting. He looked beaten up and tired, his hair a mess, several cuts on his cheek. They hadn’t spoken since the morning before, both wary that Dazai was bugging them and would once again be angry if they planned something behind his back. Which, finally, they actually were.

“You look like hell,” Chuuya said. Not because he was surprised; but it seemed callous not to draw attention to the fact that while he was doing covert ops at a bar, Atsushi was getting his ass handed to him.

“Akutagawa still wanted to taunt me,” Atsushi explained. Chuuya got him an ice pack and a few bandaids. His instinct was to remove the damn spiked collar, but he knew it would actually be worse for Atsushi’s healing powers if he did. “He didn’t say anything about kidnapping her. It’s supposed to be a nasty surprise for tomorrow, but he wanted to keep up the appearance that we’re enemies. Still, it was . . .” He trailed off a moment, making a fist with his hand as though clutching something invisible. “It was worth it. I heard . . . I got to talk to Dazai and it was . . . I almost cried.”

Chuuya’s stomach dropped in a swath of guilt that he hadn’t said anything about his own encounter yesterday morning. It felt private. But he’d regretted not allowing Atsushi to talk about it before.

“It felt like a dream,” Atsushi continued. “And I didn’t even get to see him for that long, but we talked through the radio . . . I didn’t want him to sign off. Because . . .”

Because soon, Dazai would stop existing, even in this world. And they were going to have to go to another one, again.

“I know what’s coming tomorrow,” he added, cleaning up some of his cuts, “but I still . . . it was a lot of pain. I can’t believe he . . .”

Atsushi trailed off, and he oddly leaned on Chuuya’s shoulder. Chuuya stiffened, glancing sideways at him. At his soft white hair, his porcelain skin, his round and boyish face. Those incredible eyes. It seemed like years ago that he’d seen Atsushi as his romantic rival, then tried to seduce him out of jealousy. Had he leaned nothing from the way Dazai treated him and used him? Atsushi didn’t deserve that when it was Dazai who had hurt them.

Chuuya brushed a finger across Atsushi’s bangs before he put a comforting arm around him.

“I . . . saw him, too,” Chuuya admitted. For some reason, it was difficult to tell him. He hadn’t planned on it, so used to holding everything close to his chest, but he wasn’t hiding it. “When we first arrived here, I was in my bed and he was . . . next to me.” He swallowed as Atsushi stared at him, open-mouthed. “I couldn’t move, like he was a deer I was gonna spook. But when he looked at me . . . I had no restraint, I practically begged him to fuck me stupid, but . . .” He grinned. “I forgot what a dick he was. Is. He just ordered me around like his servant and left before I could even talk to him.”

Atsushi gave a small laugh.

“And I was going to say that it seems impossible Dazai would put us through this on purpose,” Atsushi said. “But . . . maybe we’ll finally know why.”

Chuuya hoped so, too.

“Are you ready?” he asked again.

“No,” Atsushi said. “But . . . this is what we’re here for.”

Chuuya pulled up his laptop and sorted through the various feeds. The one on the bartender had been smudged, though he could see Dazai’s blurry figure drinking a whiskey. The video feed in the corner was disabled. But the drone was still there, and both microphones were working. Chuuya adjusted the settings, and they sat huddled over the computer as they watched a tall red-headed man walk into the bar. And everything else went still.

The word that filled his heart and head was brutal. Dazai beckoned Oda to the bar, casual as can be, and it was like they were watching a completely different person.

As Dazai spoke with Oda about their connection in the other worlds, Chuuya saw flashes of how Dazai acted in those other worlds. How he was. Friendly. Kind. Approachable. Sometimes silly. He spoke fondly of making tofu, of drinking with Oda, asking about his writing. He explained to the scowling detective that making all those enemies was an accident, that he didn’t really want to make all these deals and hurt all these people, but that he had done it to protect this world.

To protect Oda. To keep him alive.

Because he loved him.

He didn’t say that last part. He hadn’t needed to. But when Oda yelled at him, pointing a gun at him, Chuuya saw Dazai’s heart break and felt his own shatter.

“A life with someone you can say goodbye to is a good life,” Dazai said. And that one line got through to Oda, who lowered his weapon.

They parted ways and stepped out of the view of the camera, and as the video went dark so did Chuuya’s vision.

He didn’t say anything as he stood up, a shaking hand over his mouth. He could hear Atsushi talking, but not a word was entering his head, and his entire body felt numb. Like he was nothing.

Someone you can say goodbye to.

Dazai had never said goodbye to Chuuya. Not in this world, not in the previous one, not in the one before that. It was clear that Dazai cared about one person and one person only, and it wasn’t him. He spent his entire life in Dazai’s shadow, at Dazai’s side, working with him and living with him and fucking him, thinking like a fool that it meant something to him. But he was only a tool. A toy.

Chuuya walked calmly to the window and opened it, and while he could hear someone calling behind him, he slipped out the window and climbed up the side of the building. The wind blew around him, biting his extremities, but all he could think about was putting one foot in front of the other, getting to the top. He climbed onto the roof, stood with his head back, and he screamed into the night. Because his life was worth nothing. Because Dazai thought he was worth nothing. Because he had done all of this for a man who couldn’t even share with him a glimpse into his inner thoughts. And he sank to the floor. He could sense the ground beneath him trembling, or maybe that was just his body, and he could no longer see anything or feel anything as he shut down.

It was one of the worst things he had experienced, and that was saying a lot. The look of love and adoration that Dazai was giving this stranger, when he couldn’t give that to either of them, was eviscerating. Gutting. Atsushi looked to Chuuya, wanting to talk it out, but Chuuya looked haunted. His eyes were red and unfocused, his mouth hanging slightly open.

“Chuuya.”

Atsushi saw immediately the signs of a mental break in Chuuya. How many times had he experienced it himself? He tried to talk to him, but Chuuya silently got to his feet and leapt out the window.

Atsushi’s heart stopped in his chest, his entire body going numb for a moment before he heard the footsteps on the side of the building, remembering Chuuya’s ability. Atsushi felt the whole building shake slightly, and was paralyzed a moment: should he evacuate? Should he evacuate everyone? Should he call someone to help? But he realized he likely was the help.

Atsushi managed to transform his claws and scaled the building slowly, the cold air numbing him but also keeping him awake, focused, and he finally clambered onto the roof. It was dark, and he nearly missed the Mafia boss. Chuuya was physically small, and he had curled himself into a ball by the stairwell. He was weeping.

The tears were more frightening than the anger. Chuuya was shaking, his knees curled up into his chest. Atsushi approached him slowly, but he didn’t seem to see or hear him. When it was clear Chuuya wasn’t going to lash out at him, Atsushi sat beside him as he cried, waiting patiently as he let it out. Finally, he spoke through his tears.

“How could I ever have thought he loved me?” Chuuya’s voice was heavy and low, barely intelligible. “He couldn’t have Oda — he protected Oda, he did everything for him. I was just his sloppy second choice.”

Atsushi shuffled towards him, opening his mouth and then closing it again. He wasn’t good at this kind of thing — he didn’t have any real wisdom. And he had never been able to really comfort either of his crime bosses.

More than that, Atsushi was also upset. It was clear that Dazai loved Oda more than anything. Had they just convinced themselves he loved them, then? But . . .

“He did love you,” Atsushi insisted. “Does. We . . . we saw it. That future. That possibility.”

“That version of me was just stupid,” Chuuya said, shaking his head. “Too happy to know how stupid he was. Blissful ignorance of not knowing what Dazai really wanted. Who he wanted.”

“But . . .” Atsushi tried to push through his own feelings. If Chuuya was the second choice, what did that make him? “He loved . . . we thought he loved you and me, right? What’s the difference if he loves one more person?” Chuuya did look up at this, blinking hard as though trying to understand something. “I don’t think . . . love is limited like that.”

“It still hurts.” The words were slipping out of him in a whisper, barely audible. “He made this world for Oda. What are we even doing here?”

“You said it yourself,” Atsushi replied. “Dazai loved us selfishly.”

“And he loved Oda selflessly,” Chuuya said finitely.

“Well, yes.” Atsushi was becoming a little frustrated, even if he could understand Chuuya’s feelings. “But if you were the one that died in every timeline,” he said sharply, “I think Dazai would have focused on that, too. Can’t you say the same if it was . . . someone else other than Dazai?”

“I don’t have anyone else,” Chuuya said softly. “He had Oda and you, and the Detectives. You have Kyouka, and sometimes Akutagawa. But me . . . my whole damn life is defined by him. And no one else.”

Atsushi heard his own words back at him. Who am I if not the Mafia’s guard dog? He was figuring out the answer for himself. Chuuya would have to do the same. But for now, he had a more immediate answer.

“You . . . have me,” Atsushi said simply.

Chuuya’s eyes were wide, his expression apologetic. But Atsushi held up his hand, fingers sprawled wide, his gloves discarded. Chuuya sat up and took off his own glove, and he lined up their fingers, pressed their palms together. Their hands were similar sizes, Atsushi’s fingers longer, Chuuya’s palm narrower, but they folded their fingers together and held tight.

“Can I . . .” Atsushi started, shifting forward.

Chuuya hesitated, maybe still wary. But Atsushi could see the loneliness in his eyes, and they nearly rolled back in his head as Atsushi kissed him softly.

He felt the desire in Chuuya’s lips, in the way he cupped Atsushi’s face against his, the way he leaned into him. Carefully, Atsushi fingered open the top button on Chuuya’s shirt and started to pull out his tie, trailing down to unbutton his vest.

“Is this what you want?” Chuuya breathed.

Atsushi unzipped his coat and threw it from his shoulders. He felt powerful, in his element, like he was seducing the mob boss, embracing and flaunting his sexuality.

“Yes.”

He kissed Chuuya again, opening his lips and slipping his tongue into his mouth. Had he ever done this before, been the instigator, been the one prompting it? In their previous encounters, when Dazai was involved, he was the dominant one, sometimes egging Chuuya on to take the lead, but Dazai was really always in control. Atsushi had always followed: it was easy, to be told what to do, to let them do what they wanted. But now, it was incredible, having Chuuya bend to him, follow his movement, and it made him lightheaded. He guided Chuuya’s hand up his thigh, placing Chuuya’s fingers between his legs. Chuuya stroked him lightly, and he shivered pleasantly. Atsushi moved to straddle him more, but Chuuya’s eyes grew wide.

“Not — not on the floor,” Chuuya said in distaste, and Atsushi actually laughed.

Chuuya lifted Atsushi in his arms like a princess, and they floated back to his apartment. Chuuya laid him down on the mattress in the dark, the streetlights shining oddly across him through the windows. Gently, he took off Atsushi’s shirt, then his belt and pants, until he was bare. He made to take off the collar, but Atsushi shook his head, afraid to be without it; Chuuya gave a small smile and said he’d keep his own on, too. And then he shed the rest of his clothes entirely and lay beside Atsushi.

It was far more intimate and far more vulnerable than their previous encounters. But Chuuya knew what he liked, what would make him responsive, and Atsushi knew some of what made Chuuya’s pulse race. Chuuya’s bare hands traced his skin, sending pleasant shivers up his body, their thighs and chests pressing and sliding together, awakening his senses. Chuuya used his fingers and mouth generously, kissing him lightly, prodding with his tongue, and Atsushi tangled his hands in Chuuya’s hair, wanting more. He spread his legs and let Chuuya touch inside him slowly, Chuuya gauging his reactions before he pushed in himself. Atsushi gasped, that heady pleasure hitting him at once, and Chuuya gasped back, his eyes alight. Chuuya wrapped his arms around Atsushi’s body and kissed him as he moved his hips, and Atsushi moved back against him, a mutual grinding turning into mutual moaning. Atsushi ached to be touched, and he finally asked for what he wanted, asking Chuuya to go slower and gentler, and then harder and faster, and when he came, he was in rapture.

Afterwards, Chuuya lay on his chest, and Atsushi ran his fingers through his hair. His mind and body were buzzing; even though he was exhausted, he’d never felt more awake. Like for the last five years he’d been living in a haze that had finally cleared.

They fell asleep entangled and naked, though they both slept fitfully. In the morning, Atsushi turned over to find Chuuya was gone, but he heard some sounds in the kitchen, domestic sounds that comforted him and made him feel normal. He pulled the blanket closer to himself, inhaling the sheets, wondering if Dazai’s scent was on here as well as Chuuya’s. He wondered if the three of them would ever catch up again, would ever have a moment of peace like this one.

Chuuya walked back into the bedroom wearing just a short kimono, a beautiful blue and red silk robe tied expertly at the waist. His collarbone and neck were fully exposed, his muscled thighs peeking out under the hem. Atsushi felt privy to his near-naked boss, expecting seeing him like this would be a rarity, and he looked all he could. Chuuya put a steaming cup of coffee on the nightstand before he pulled up a chair, holding his own drink. Atsushi tentatively took a sip: light and sweet.

“You’re right,” Chuuya said. He crossed his ankle over his knee, sitting back with his coffee. “What you said about love . . . I was . . . being stubborn. Obviously it ain’t that simple. As it turns out, I . . . I love more than one person, too.” Atsushi pulled the blanket up to his chin, abashed, understanding Chuuya’s meaning. Don’t make me say it. “So I think he did . . . does . . . Christ, this time stuff.” He raised his voice at that, running a bare hand through his hair. “What I mean is . . . Dazai loves me, too. And you.”

Atsushi wondered if he was supposed to say me too, but thought it was obvious. Chuuya took his hand and kissed it gently, and Atsushi felt dizzy. What in the world was happening? He took his hand back and sipped deeply from the coffee, starting to feel more awake and alive than ever before. He’d been in this bedroom before, he’d been naked in this bedroom before, but now this situation was robed in a feeling of contentment, aware that he was here because he wanted to be.

“So . . . we’re still on track, then?” he pressed.

“Yeah,” Chuuya agreed. “We . . . need to go back again. But earlier this time, with a plan. And it’s gotta be a good one, too.” He tapped his fingers against the coffee mug. “So . . . Dazai planned — is planning — to die all along, yeah? But that conversation with Oda made things worse. He’s a stubborn prick and probably didn’t see what you and I did so plainly. That there is something he wants more than death. And that,” he went on, “is reconciliation.”

“How?” Atsushi asked. “We tried that before . . . Dazai tried it, and it didn’t work. I don’t think he’ll respond to you even if you’re not the boss anymore — uh . . . never were?” He shook his head, also annoyed by the time-travel nonsense.

“Well,” Chuuya started, “remember we were able to change things a little bit, using what we knew of the past and future. Given enough time . . .we can do that again.”

Chapter Text

Two Months

They’d spent as much time as they could in the early morning hours forming a plan and going over it half a dozen times. They would be going back two entire months this time, time that would hopefully give them enough leeway to put some gears into motion without detection. It was also enough time to forget what they were doing, slip back into their old habits and ways and let Dazai once again get away from them.

Though Atsushi was sure it wasn’t the logistics of everything that was going to be the problem. It was that thrall, that spell that Dazai would have over them. It was so easy to fall back in line with him, just let him have his way if they could just bask in his company. Chuuya vehemently said going against Dazai’s wishes was easy for him, even fun, but he was very good at hiding his own feelings. Atsushi wondered if he believed his own lies.

Though his skin still tingled with the memory of Chuuya’s feelings. Warm. Loving. So unlike their Mafia sensibilities. He wondered if that’s what dating Chuuya was like outside of Dazai, or if he just filled the role that he knew Atsushi needed at the time. It was a trait that made him a true partner; no wonder Dazai couldn’t let him go.

They held hands again across the Book, and there was a slight hesitation. Atsushi could feel it through his fingertips, as they glanced at each other and then back to the blank pages, a silent forbidden possibility they did not discuss but he knew they both were thinking.

What if we just wrote our own ending without him?

But soon the white light consumed them, once again suffocating them in its nothingness. He was unsure if it was lasting longer this time because they were going back further or if just the screaming pain in his lungs made those few minutes unbearable, but he gasped in relief as air rushed back into his lungs and —

Atsushi came to in the Mafia Tower, the patterned grey carpeting beneath his hands and his knees. He was on all fours, and for a fleeting moment of terror and thrill, he wondered if he might have the same experience as Chuuya, to turn around and find the object of their affection directly behind him. But he was fully clothed, his heavy coat hanging from his shoulders, and after a moment it was clear that there was no one else here. And so he concluded that he must be in the midst of a panic attack, that he had felt it coming and rushed into an empty room so no one would see it. He wondered what had caused it.

And then memories trickled in as though trying to answer that question for him. That had also happened last time, his feelings and thoughts from the world he was inhabiting slowing thawing in his mind as though from a deep freeze. And he remembered: someone had casually brought up a quarry, someone Atsushi had just slaughtered without thought. In that conversation, it became clear that, despite how the dead man looked, he was younger than Atsushi was. Almost a child. He was panicking that he had killed a child.

He got back to his feet and instead sat quietly in one of the chairs, staring down at the table. For so long, he had numbed himself to that guilt, that horror, silently telling himself that his victims deserved it one way or another, but bottling up everything like that had resulted in these moments where he lost control completely. Where he went mad. He couldn’t afford to do that anymore.

Pull yourself together, Atsushi. That’s an order.

Instead, he sat in those feelings for a few minutes, indulging in the misery, letting it wash over him. And then he pictured the future that he was paving for himself, and he moved on.

As he stood up again, the memories from the past couple of days trickled in, and he tried to sort them into what he had already experienced and what he was about to. So they were in the middle of a crackdown; Dazai was getting more and more paranoid as he spiraled towards the end and he had started pruning the vine of their contacts who were not advantageous. Atsushi tried to figure out exactly which job on the list he was up to, but there were so many, he couldn’t quite sort them. So . . .

He stopped, heart hammering. Because he now knew what was going to happen immediately next. He hadn’t been sly when he slipped out to be alone, someone had clocked him leaving, any minute now someone was going to knock on the door and check in on him, and that someone was —

The knock came. And Atsushi felt that panic again because he couldn’t face him yet. But he couldn’t refuse because he had no idea what chain reaction would come after if he diverted now. And . . . he would be lying if he said he didn’t want it.

Bracing himself, Atsushi opened the door to reveal tall, imposing, impossibly irresistible Dazai. His brown hair was draped softly over his forehead, those warm eyes staring into his soul. Atsushi wasn’t sure how to react, but he remembered how he had in the past, how it played out in this timeline, and he took a step back. There was a knowing smirk on Dazai’s face as he stepped inside without invitation, shutting the door behind him.

“Atsushi-chan,” he said playfully. “Are you alright?”

He reached out to stroke his face, and though Atsushi badly wanted that touch, in the previous iteration, he had been hesitant, and so he acted that same way again. He stepped back as Dazai stepped forward and ultimately let himself be cornered as his back hit the wall.

“Poor baby, I’ve been running you ragged with all these assignments,” Dazai continued. “We could both use a little break. Why don’t I give you some comfort, hm?”

Atsushi nearly went limp as Dazai started to take his coat off, going along with it as Dazai turned him around, seizing his wrists, pushing him towards the desk, bending him over it. A hand reached for his belt and started to pull it off, tugging his pants down, and he wasn’t ready yet, he wasn’t ready for this, but a warm body pressed against his own and he leaned into it.

That hot breath on his skin, in his ear, infused within him those tendrils of terror mingled with hard desire. This was the first time that Dazai touched him since he had seen the Book, the other worlds. Since he had seen that version of Dazai that held him sweetly, caressed him lovingly. He couldn’t reconcile the two versions, didn’t understand how this man pushing him down on the desk, bruising his arms, could be the same as the one who planted light kisses up his thighs, who ran gentle fingers through his hair. Could Dazai truly ever be like that?

He had to know. He had to.

“Dazai-sama,” he breathed. “Please.”

“Please what, Atsushi-chan?” He could almost hear the grin on Dazai’s lips, even though those lips were somewhere by his collar.

“Please,” he said again.

Don’t hurt me, he thought, but the words died on his tongue. He hadn’t said anything at all when this encounter happened before, he had let it happen just as Dazai wanted, following along to his every move. And he had wanted to, only he still didn’t like being handled roughly, didn’t like the way Dazai drew from him both pleasure and pain. Did he really have to act exactly the same? How much really did it matter in what specific way they had sex?

“Be gentle,” he said instead.

“Mm-hmm.” Dazai tugged on his ear with his teeth, drumming on the collar briefly with his fingers. He unlatched it and kissed Atsushi’s wounds, his fingers now making their way down his spine, trailing down his back, one hand steadily gripping his arms behind his back, the other creeping towards his ass. Atsushi tried to fight his nerves, and he tried to relax but it still hurt when Dazai’s fingers pushed inside him.

Atsushi made a noise, muffled against the desk, remembering all his awful thoughts the first time this happened. And he started to cry. Because he still loved Dazai, despite the abuse and assault. Because it still felt good, and the fact that he was upset about it made him feel ungrateful and unworthy of Dazai’s attention. A small sob escaped his throat before he could kill it, before he could force it down, and suddenly everything stopped. Dazai’s hand loosened on his wrists, his lips withdrew from his neck.

“Not gentle enough?” Dazai quipped.

His tone was teasing; but Atsushi’s heart trembled, wondering if he was actually asking. Was it possible?

It must be. His heart ached. That loving Dazai was in there.

“Not gentle enough,” Atsushi echoed back, mouth numb.

“Ah, Atsushi-chan must still be sore from last time,” Dazai replied, almost to himself. “So let’s try something else.”

The breath withdrew from his ear, the warmth of skin from his body, and Dazai spun him around. Atsushi flushed, turning his head away, feeling quite exposed, and he braced himself on the edge of the desk. But Dazai shielded him, holding him and planting small kisses down his front now, his lips working their way lower and lower. Dazai lifted his shirt as he went, crossing down his navel and down to his hips, across his pelvic bone. Atsushi’s breath hitched; he reacted reflexively as Dazai knelt in front of him, a halting hand on his boss’s head. Was he really about to . . . ?

Dazai’s eyes flickered up at him, grinning, and then he pressed his lips to Atsushi’s crotch, kissing him, opening his mouth. And Atsushi was gone, gone to that plane where he sometimes went when he had to get away from his body, only he was here and present, so aware of Dazai’s mouth on him, of filling him with that pure pleasure, aware that he was melting and folding under his touch. Dazai told him between mouthfuls to call out his name, and he did, his voice breathy and high, no care for how loud he was being. Another tear rolled down his cheek; why couldn’t it have been like this all along?

Atsushi breathed dangerously fast, the room blurring, and he caught himself from falling back onto the desk, his head thrown back in ecstasy.

“Not yet,” Dazai commanded, sensing he was on the edge. He stood up, pulling Atsushi against him and he finished with his hand instead.

Atsushi collapsed onto him, sweat on his brow, and he looked up into Dazai’s subtle smile. His sense was gone again, he would do anything this man asked him to, anything at all. Dazai let him lean on his shoulder for about a minute before Atsushi felt a gentle hand on his head, pushing him down. And Atsushi dropped to his knees to return the favor.

Dazai’s fingers tangled in his hair as he tilted himself into Atsushi’s mouth, letting out a satisfied sigh as Atsushi worked. He pulled hard on his scalp, but he let Atsushi take the lead, not forcing himself in deeper, not gripping his face. Atsushi was careful and attentive, moving his lips back and forth, rolling his tongue along his length, his heart beating each time Dazai’s breath hitched. Dazai pulled his hair suddenly and Atsushi knew he was close but he wasn’t presumptuous enough to stop; he kept sucking as Dazai finished, swallowing without a fuss.

As he got to his feet, wiping his lips, Dazai kissed him fully, tongue darting around his mouth. Atsushi moaned, nearly coming again. But Dazai pulled away, that strange smile still on his face. Atsushi’s sense returned at last, those memories from the future trickling in, and he recalled what happened next.

“Better?” Dazai asked, and Atsushi nodded dizzily. “Good.”

He took a folded paper out of his jacket and slipped it into Atsushi’s hand.

“You next target,” he said quietly. “Be good for me, Atsushi-chan.”

Atsushi nodded again, but something bubbled in his stomach. This target was a Mafia traitor, someone he had met many times, someone he’d had lunch with, had discussions with, in the elevator, over meetings. And now he had to murder them for the second time.

“I know,” Dazai said, tilting his head as Atsushi opened the paper. “It’s hard. But we can’t let traitors get away with it. We always have to send a message.”

* * *

It wasn’t easy to slip back into things, to do as he was told and kill and slaughter thoughtlessly, but he dealt with it how he always had. Kyouka’s presence helped him along, and he thought of Chuuya’s words about what they were doing this for. It was small comfort that he had technically done all of this before, that the person was already dead. He wanted more stability, though. And Chuuya was the only one who could give it to him.

It was strange, that before he had always dreaded seeing Chuuya, who was harsh and angry, intolerant of everything he did. Now, of course, he was eager to meet with him again as his partner in crime. Everything else around them was seen through a scanner, a hologram; they were the only ones who were real. But he didn’t see Chuuya again for another week. 

Chuuya awoke not alone but in front of a small crowd of people and he had to blink furiously until he got his bearings. Some of them were even smaller than he was, and he was upset with himself for not recognizing them at once. Asako’s team. The Port Mafias young bloods, whose youth was no barrier to the work they did but who Chuuya wanted to give their own space. As the memories trickled back, he realized he was in the middle of a speech, and he quickly caught himself and continued it. He’d had it memorized anyway.

It was oddly perfect, he thought, looking around at them, the excuse to talk to them himself and send them on assignments. Maybe send one of them on a special assignment. This was the one team where Dazai maybe didn’t keep track of every single member’s every move, because he had trusted Chuuya would use them well.

Yes, he was betraying that trust by using them to save Dazai. But Dazai had betrayed Chuuya and Atsushi’s trust by killing himself.

Chuuya was eager to get started, to touch base with Atsushi as soon as possible, but as he settled back into this timeline, into this part of his life, he understood that even with their changes, he had to be careful and alert not to take any suddenly strange action. It wasn’t, he realized, a play with every move laid out. It was more of a flow, having a goal in mind and finding where those actions naturally fell within the way the timeline already was going. And so while he was able to immediately talk to Asako Yuzuki and suggest something for her to look into, he didn’t actually see Atsushi for a while.

They finally passed in the hallway where no one else was around. Chuuya had the note ready in his pocket for when that happened, and he fully bumped into Atsushi to slip it into his coat.

“Watch it,” Chuuya said gruffly.

But as they made eye contact, he offered a small wink. He couldn’t do much else then but wait.

* * *

Midnight, where you kissed me.

Chuuya took a drag on his cigarette as he sat on the roof, head tilted back and staring at the sliver of moon in the sky. The first time around living this day, he was sure he paid the stars no mind, and he wondered the kinds of details Dazai noticed when he built this world. How many times had he gone back and tried again, knowing a little more each time, until it worked out? Or had he just been clever enough to make it all work from the beginning?

There was a flutter of shadow across the sky and he heard the heavy boots clanging against the metal ladder as Atsushi climbed into view. He looked tired but he gave a small smile as Chuuya stood up to greet him.

“It’s weird, isn’t it?” Atsushi started. “That day in your apartment feels like a month ago. And it hasn’t even happened yet.”

“Sorry, I’ve been busy,” Chuuya said at once, his voice quiet. “It turns out we didn’t really see each other much this week. If I wanted to blame someone, I would say it’s like Dazai’s on to us.” He swallowed. “But everything’s in place for you to be called in shortly. Gave ‘em a bullshit tip-off through some shady businessmen. Yuzuki knows to call you in if she’s in trouble. How’s it going on your end?”

Atsushi didn’t speak for a minute, and even in the dark Chuuya could make out a deep blush on his cheeks. Before he could say anything else, Chuuya blurted out his thoughts.

“Did you — did you fuck him? Already?”

Atsushi bit his lip, which was telling even without him saying anything. Chuuya nearly forgot the rest of what he was going to say as heat flooded his face.

“It happened last time, I couldn’t . . . he found me after a panic attack. You’re not . . .” Atsushi started, his brow furrowed. “You’re not jealous, are you?”

He was. Of course he was. It was hard not to be. There were too many conflicting feelings and he was trying to ignore all of them for the sake of their plan. He wasn’t entirely sure who he was jealous of anymore, because he wanted both of them, and he wanted both of them to want him. But this was all petty and he couldn’t get caught up in that same jealousy he’d been distracted by before . . . not if they wanted to manipulate the king of manipulation.

“Forget it,” Chuuya muttered. “I miss him. And you. That’s all.”

Atsushi looked as though he wanted to say something more, but he swallowed it. They’d spent too long eating their words, and so Chuuya prompted him.

“I . . . asked him to . . . not be so rough,” Atsushi said, and he was blushing even more. “And . . . he listened to me. He did what I asked. He didn’t f — he used his mouth instead of . . . and then I did, and . . . ”

“Interesting,” Chuuya interrupted, because Atsushi looked like he was about to have an aneurysm trying to talk about sex acts aloud.

It was interesting — that Dazai listened to Atsushi in that way at all. Part of him was pissed that Atsushi had done anything different than he had before because they had no idea what would cause what to change and fuck up their plans. But he also didn’t think he had the right to ask Atsushi to just take it. Another part of him fed his suffocating jealousy. That Dazai, the loving version of him, was here and real, and so was Atsushi, and he wanted them both so badly he could taste it.

He looked away a moment, gathering himself. They couldn’t spend too much time up here. Back to business.

“I’m going to blame you, for everything,” he continued. “We can’t be suspected to be working together. So I’m gonna . . .say some bad things about you. To you.” Only months ago — or whatever time was at this point, back in their original timeline — he regularly belittled Atsushi, yelled at him, verbally abused him. Now he couldn’t stomach the thought of Atsushi being mad at him. They were partners in this; if he lost Atsushi, he would be lost himself. “But . . . I don’t mean it. It’s Dazai’s fault. And that bastard has to take responsibility for his own actions.”

“I know.” Atsushi looked determined, and Chuuya thought about how he was already taking Dazai’s abuse again like it was nothing. “I . . . I know who I am, now. Thanks to you.”

“I have to go.”

Chuuya turned to leave, but Atsushi grabbed his wrist.

“Chuuya,” he started.

And he leaned forward and kissed him sweetly. This time, Chuuya savored it, focusing not on his need but on the taste of Atsushi’s lips, on the way their mouths fit together. He planted a small second kiss on Atsushi’s bottom lip as he pulled away.

“For Dazai,” Atsushi said quietly. Chuuya was about to echo back “for Dazai,” when Atsushi continued. “And for . . . the Triad.”

“For the what?” Chuuya almost laughed.

“It’s what . . . you didn’t see that, huh.” He blushed. “It’s what we called ourselves when we were a throuple. You, me, and Dazai. Basically our own gang.”

Chuuya chuckled. It was something fun to think about when he needed the levity.

“Okay,” he said. “For the Triad.”

“The trafficking ring,” Chuuya had said before they went back in time. “We already know they hate us, and we already know Oda’s interested in taking them down, too. Last time, we killed all of them; this time, we only kill a few. When the rest of them come for revenge, we make sure the ADA is in the way.”

Only they couldn’t just kill them for the hell of it. They had to have a reason. Or make a reason.

Atsushi was out on another operation, this one more subdued. He and Kyouka were stalking a bank executive who had refused to give the Mafia a loan a few months ago, so this was a long game: in their free time, they would follow him, staying the shadows, letting him catch small glances of them now and then, making him paranoid. The goal was to make him think he was being targeted for other reasons and eventually go to the mob for protection. But that wouldn’t come to fruition for another month now. Weird to know that, if he did just keep doing what he was doing that everything would work out as planned . . . he wondered if that was how Dazai’s brain worked all the time.

He also had to spent a lot of energy resisting telling Kyouka about what he was doing, wanting another friend in the fold. She was his confidante for everything else, and so keeping this from her was killing him. She would understand, he was sure . . . but he was also sure she would talk him out of it. Because she knew better than anyone else, even Chuuya, what Dazai was doing to him. Had been. Atsushi was sure she noticed a change in him, his eyes clearer, his head more balanced on his shoulders. But he was shortly going to have to lean back into his old self.

When the distress signal came in, Atsushi almost jumped out of his skin. It was happening. He tapped his earpiece, taking the expected call.

“Nakajima-san,” came the voice on the other end. Kouyou. “We have an emergency. A trafficking ring up in Kanagawa — they call themselves Liminal, it’s a shell company — they picked up one of ours, Asako Yuzuki. It wouldn’t be so urgent only they’re transferring their cargo tonight. We need to send a message along with the rescue — don’t touch what belongs to us. Got it?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Atsushi replied. His blood surged. Chuuya’s timing was perfect.

“Be careful with this one,” Kouyou continued, and he could hear the curt tone in her voice, like she was talking to a naughty child. “We don’t want retaliation. Liminal is an unknown entity.”

They didn’t know how big they were, how deep their pockets ran, how high up their reach. Which was exactly why Chuuya and Atsushi were going to bait them.

“Got it,” Atsushi replied. “On my way.”

Kyouka and Atsushi slipped underground and made their way towards Kanagawa, the sun setting as they ran to the site. It was fully dark when they resurfaced, the moon reflecting off the shining glass buildings, the casual and bustling downtown area concealing the nefarious dealings going on within. Atsushi traced the distress signal to what looked like a hotel, a place where it would be normal for people of all ages to be coming and going. It was also the sort of place that usually had a loading dock where supplies were dropped off. Or picked up.

What they should have done was follow in one of the employees to where Asako was being held and then kill her captors quietly. What he did do was signal to Kyouka they should split up.

She looked at him skeptically a moment but followed his instruction, going in through the front instead while Atsushi himself went into the back. The storage room in the basement was dusty and humid, damp, and at first all he saw were shelves of towels, toilet paper, trash bags. As he took another step inside, he saw there was a long hallway lined with steel doors, which could have easily been more storage rooms . . . if it hadn’t been for the muffled screaming. Atsushi recalled the first time they’d broken up a branch of Liminal — when he and Chuuya had killed everyone to bait Oda — and how it had been sketchier, in a warehouse full of shipping containers. This was literally beneath the feet of the Yokohama citizens. Just above him were families, tourists, businesspeople going about their day, not knowing just a floor below was . . .

Hot anger bubbled in his chest. Killing these people would be easy after all.

He’d just pulled out his GPS to pinpoint Asako’s cell when he heard metal dragging on the floor and he turned. A tall man in a hotel uniform was holding a mess of chains, draped over his arms in such a way they were falling on the ground. Kouyou was right — they were prepping to ship out tonight. To god knows where. The man stopped in his footsteps, his face first contorting into anger, then, as he looked at Atsushi’s collar, to fear.

“Oh, shit,” he said aloud. He hastily reached for the walkie-talkie on his shoulder, and Atsushi let him, pretending to hesitate. Let them all come out. “Intruder — it’s the Port Mafia!”

“I think you have someone who belongs to us,” Atsushi said simply. And then he transformed.

His control was getting better, but it still was painful and difficult. His jaw lined with sharp teeth, stretching his mouth and face, his hands and arms grew into paws, sharp and long claws replacing his delicate gloved hands. Atsushi roared and shot forward, slashing the man across his throat and sending the chains clattering to the floor. That sound and his short scream caught attention, and he heard footsteps coming from down the hall, from upstairs, from the door he’d entered. Atsushi cursed under his breath and headed down to the cells, and decided he might as well just open all of them. Kids and teenagers flooded the hall as he set them free, and he tried to herd them towards the back door — among them, Atsushi saw Asako, black-haired and small, and she nodded back at him — but the room was now also filling with the adults who had kidnapped them.

Atsushi gritted his teeth and ran into the crowd, nipping at ankles, immobilizing wrists, dodging the bullets that were fired at him, taking one in the shoulder and roaring.

“Asako, get them out,” Atsushi commanded.

She nodded grimly and reached out her hand — Atsushi had no idea what she was asking for, but suddenly a knife was in her palm — Kyouka had arrived as backup. Asako forced her way to the front of the pack and cut her way through towards the exit, while Kyouka helped Atsushi take the non-lethal approach. He would probably be reprimanded for liberating the entirety of the holding cells instead of just their Mafia member . . . but that wasn’t what he needed to be reprimanded for.

I’m sorry, Kyouka.

Atsushi swallowed his pride as he continued to fight off Liminal — and he let himself slip.

At once, the gang was on him. He felt punches at his shoulder, his face, kicks to his ribs and his head, and he pushed them off, trying to get to his feet, trying to get back to the fight, and he managed to pull himself up —

A gun went off, and Atsushi felt a stinging pain spreading out from his stomach. Atsushi collapsed again, clutching his bleeding gut, breath heavy.

“You son of a bitch,” a man hissed. “You took our whole inventory. The Mafia will pay for this.”

“You took what wasn’t yours,” Atsushi hissed. Blood bubbled behind his teeth, and he spat it on the ground. “We’ll pay you back tenfold. You have no idea who you’re dealing with.”

He heard another scream from down the hall — this one was familiar. Kyouka was a good fighter, but with himself down she was overwhelmed — and someone had grabbed her.

“We’ll take this consolation prize,” one of them said, “and call it even.”

Kyouka was draped over his shoulder, and she was kicking his chest, but her hands were being bound, her means of controlling Demon Snow was clattered somewhere in the dark, under the shelves. Tears welled up in Atsushi’s eyes, and he tried to get back up, the pain shooting through him.

“No!” he cried. “No!”

“Atsushi!” Kyouka called.

He was fully in control. But he heard her call, and he saw what these men had done, right under everyone’s nose, and he knew their contempt for the Mafia — for Dazai — and he still saw nothing but red. Atsushi gave a low growl, his spine elongating, curving, his eyes getting larger and cat-like, and the wound in his stomach contracted and healed as he became a full tiger. And he killed half the people in the room.

* * *

Dazai was personally dispatched, as he usually was when Atsushi was considered to be out of control. It was Kyouka who made the call, and he wasn’t so much out of control as he was overspent, injured and tired, lying on his side. Dazai wrapped him up in his coat and carried him back to the Mafia Tower, Atsushi turning human in his arms.

Dazai dumped him on a chair in his office, and that was when Atsushi came back to consciousness fully. Staring at his pissed off Mafia boss.

“Dazai-sama, I—”

“I don’t want to hear it.” Dazai turned away, his arms folded.

Atsushi was supposed to cry now, to act as pathetic as he had been before, but it wasn’t an act. That pain of Dazai being disappointed in him was real, that he had messed up once again. That Dazai had carried him to safety and what he had to show for it was . . .

Betraying him.

In order to save him.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Atsushi cried, his hands on his head. All of this, everything that happened from now on was now new in the timeline — it was a divergence — but he remembered cowering like this when Chuuya ransacked his office, that violence making him regress, and he didn’t want to do it now, but he had to. He had to act this way. “I — I couldn’t — they were trying to take Kyouka and I — couldn’t let them.”

“I know,” Dazai said. “I know. Be quiet.”

His tone was even. He rarely got angry with Atsushi — that seemed to be preserved for his actual enemies and for Chuuya. But he wasn’t happy. He was pacing, back and forth, as though running some calculations in his head. Suddenly he stopped, made a quick phone call, and then checked something on his computer. Atsushi watched him warily, when Dazai snapped the computer shut and then made straight for Atsushi.

Atsushi gasped, unsure what he was going to do, but Dazai swept him up in his arms and embraced him.

“Dazai-sama,” Atsushi managed. It was the first time in a while he was in Dazai’s hands with no clear idea of what was going to happen next. That fear started to trickle into him and fill his lungs. “I — please. I’ll never make this mistake again.”

“Don’t worry so much about it,” Dazai said quietly. Unexpectedly. He raked his hand through Atsushi’s hair, and for a moment, Atsushi felt the force in his grip, the anger, and he trembled, once again feeling like that scared tiger at the mercy of Dazai’s whims and moods. But Dazai’s hand softened, and he pet him soothingly, stroking his head lightly, and he planted a small kiss on the top of his head. “I’ll take care of this, kitten. We’ll use this to our advantage.”

Atsushi looked up at him, something stirring behind his dark eyes. It looked almost like worry, that he wasn’t quite sure how he was going to spin it, but he was determined to fix this. For Atsushi.

It wasn’t the first time that Dazai had covered for him, but for the first time he thought about the intent. Love or manipulation? Dazai’s hands swept under his chin, cradling his face. His thumbs wiped away Atsushi’s tears, and he kissed him, and Atsushi felt the heat rising in him. He thought of Dazai changing his touch at his own instruction, thought of Chuuya’s deliberate and careful caress, and then he pulled away before he couldn’t stop himself. If that was the future he wanted, both of them alive and well and his, he would have to stick to the plan. Fly under the radar.

Is this what it was like for Dazai? Was he nothing but a character in his own play that he’d written long ago, knowing all he had to do was play his part and . . .

That bastard needs to take responsibility for his own actions.

No. Dazai was complicit. And so were they.

“Thank you, Dazai-sama,” Atsushi hiccuped. “I — I won’t let you down again. I’m — I’m sorry.”

“Oh, Atsushi.” Dazai pulled him in closer, his embrace becoming tighter, almost painful. Atsushi gripped his arms as he wrapped his arms even more, pushing into his lungs, crushing his ribs. “You will. But it’s okay. You’re still mine.”

“You stupid asshole,” Chuuya growled. God, it was easy to yell at him. All that energy, that anger he’d channeled when he screamed into the night, that was fueling him now as he paced in Dazai’s office. “Do you want to start a fucking war again?”

“War comes for us all,” Dazai said blandly.

He was barely paying attention, scrolling through databases on his computer, eyes darting across the screen. Did he know exactly when he was going to off himself, that it would be in exactly 35 days from now? Was he counting down the time? Chuuya wrenched his thoughts away from that and tried to keep on track. He had to pay close attention so that he didn’t let slip that he already knew Dazai hadn’t attacked Liminal as part of some actual plan.

“I thought you didn’t want to touch the trafficking rings,” Chuuya said, folding his arms. It was this fight again. You didn’t tell me. You didn’t include me. And even though this time he had been counting on it, it didn’t completely numb the pain.

“Well, that was before they crossed a line,” Dazai shrugged. “We couldn’t stand by that disrespect.”

Chuuya put his hands on the desk, leaning forward, eyes narrowed. He was supposed to act like he was analyzing Dazai for his true intentions, suspicious at his change of heart; what he was really doing was trying to peel back even more layers, under all of this. Did he suspect them at all? Did he know Atsushi had done it on purpose?

“It’s your little bitch, isn’t it?” Chuuya said evenly. He nearly hesitated in his words, they were more biting than he might have ordinarily used. Atsushi would be upset if he heard. “The Reaper’s fucked up again. You’re covering for him.”

Dazai dropped his pen and snapped to attention — he didn’t like Chuuya’s wording, either. Chuuya had a fleeting thought that he would have to remember and tell that to Atsushi before Dazai’s hand shot out and grabbed his choker. It left behind two scratches along his throat and restricted his airflow.

“Don’t question me,” Dazai spat, his fingers tightening around Chuuya’s neck. “This is why you’re not in charge. They have their fingers in a lot of pies. And now they know we’re bigger than they are. Are you so stupid you can’t see how we can use them?”

Chuuya clutched at Dazai’s wrist, trying to breathe. It was rare Dazai hurt him this much, and he thought about what Atsushi had said, that he’d asked Dazai to be gentler . . . but he couldn’t possibly do that. That wasn’t how their relationship was, and it would be too suspicious. But . . .

“I get it,” Chuuya choked. “Get off me. Please.”

Dazai’s eyes widened a moment and he withdrew, nearly pushing Chuuya away from him. They both regained their composure and Chuuya left before Dazai could analyze him too much. But he wondered if he had fucked everything up with just a single word.

Please.

Keigo Higashino, police detective and secret informant of the Mafia, had one hand clutching a cigarette while the other waited anxiously for the Agency to pick up the phone. Nakahara had promised him that no one would be killed — but he had also been very clear that the detectives needed to be at a certain place at a certain time or else. He was usually sufficiently threatening, but something had gotten into the little mafioso that made Higashino understand how imperative this was for his own safety.

“This is Kunikida speaking,” came the deep voice of the tall blond detective. “What can I do for you, Higashino-san?”

“Hey, sorry to rope you into this,” Higashino started apologetically. “But I need your help. There’s a trafficking ring, calling themselves Liminal on paper . . . we’ve been trying to take them down the correct way. But nothing’s been working.” He paused dramatically, trying to hear in Kunikida’s breath if the man was amply baited; the Agency had probably wanted to take down the ring, too. “I got a tip-off, that they’re going to be at a warehouse by the docks tomorrow evening. Doing some sort of deal.”

“Are you hiring us for something?” They couldn’t make a move without a client. But once he said the words . . .

“Yes,” Higashino replied. “Take in the leader. Find where they’re keeping the . . .goods.”

They exchanged the details, and Higashino hung up. He quietly wondered how there could possibly be no bloodshed when Nakahara was pulling three different armed organizations into a battlefield.

Dazai was right in that they were bigger than Liminal. Chuuya had hoped the ring would be able to gather their resources to retaliate against the Mafia sooner than later, but it took them nearly two weeks. It was enough time for him to wonder if their plan was even going to work and if he should try and meet with Atsushi again to form another one. But it was also enough time to let Dazai bury the incident under so many others. At first, Dazai was putting in extra work to send out spies and infiltrators to work on blackmailing Liminal’s clientele, ready to strike as soon as they were back in action. He soon delegated that to someone else and got back to whatever the hell he usually was working on.

It was also enough time for Chuuya to be lulled into complacency, and pulled back out again. The day after Dazai choked him, he came over with apologies — that was new — and a desire to be choked himself. He climbed on top of Chuuya and kissed his palms gently, hips sprawled across his lap. Slowly, he lowered himself down, taking Chuuya inside himself before he pulled Chuuya’s hands to his neck, wrapping his fingers around his throat. Chuuya pressed his thumbs beneath Dazai’s Adam’s apple, feeling the tight-strung tendons under his skin, and Dazai goaded him, riding him, rocking his hips faster and faster as his breath hitched and cracked and broke. It was weirdly intimate and incredibly erotic, the way his eyes fluttered shut as Chuuya took him to that edge of death and pleasure, the way his lips pulled wide in an ecstatic grin, the way he fell to pieces as he came, and it sent Chuuya over the edge hard and fast. Dazai was putting his life in Chuuya’s hands, trusting him not to press down in the wrong way, not to take it too far. Chuuya didn’t know if Dazai could be trusted to do the same, but that connection made him think maybe he could bring out Dazai’s loving side after all. They did it a couple more times before Dazai became too busy for anything but a quickie in the office; but during each encounter, Chuuya wondered if this was really so bad, if that terrible future he’d lived through was just a dream.

Only he would have to remind himself that if he didn’t take action, then there would be no future.

He was twitchy as he counted down the days to the deadly fall, the fateful meeting, wondering if they were going to have to go back and try again, when the information finally came in. A known arms-dealer wanted to have him in for a demonstration, claiming they had a supply of goods in a shipping container that needed a place to go immediately. Chuuya would need to vouch for them because once the deal was made, they would only deliver it to the boss. He agreed, slightly annoyed they thought he was stupid, or maybe they suspected he was traitorous.

He almost laughed, actually, at how obvious they were. The arms dealer was on Liminal’s client list. And he thought, that if they really pulled this off and were able to live with Dazai in this world, then they actually could use this to their advantage, they could easily wrap these idiots around their fingers. But it wasn’t done yet, and he couldn’t celebrate too soon. Now for what this was all really for. Chuuya called his police contact and had him hire the ADA.

Dazai grumbled the entire time as they drove quietly towards the warehouse, more that he was supposed to be having a sit-down dinner at this time than he actually suspected something was off. In their experience, people who insisted on meeting with the Boss didn’t really know what they were asking, expecting a middle-aged business man and not a twenty-odd-year-old psychopath, often more distracted by Dazai’s youth than was productive. He was annoyed at having to prove himself yet again.

Meanwhile Chuuya was trying his best not to look at Atsushi, who was there as a bodyguard, trying to calm the surging adrenaline in his blood. This was it.

They filed out of the car: Dazai, Chuuya, Atsushi, Hirotsu, and a dozen other members here to collect the weapons. Once the deal was made, they would arrange the covert pickup . . . only there would be no deal. Dazai looked around in disinterest as they stepped into the warehouse, a crowded building filled with boxes and containers, and standing at the center was their contact. Chuuya stepped forward to shake his hand and make introductions, his voice almost warbling with the anticipation. Dazai looked down at the man through his one good eye, almost bored.

“Tell me,” he started, “what makes these guns stand out from any other?”

“Because,” the man said, grinning as Dazai practically fed him that line, “these are the perfect weapons for revenge.”

And he pointed the gun straight at Dazai’s chest.

Atsushi jumped in front of him instinctually as more armed people appeared from behind the shelves, behind doors, from the roof. Dazai looked more frustrated than afraid, though there was an unease passing through his uncovered eye. Chuuya got into fighter stance, moving swiftly in front of his boss as the goons moved slowly in on them. For one fleeting moment, he worried that they might actually kill Dazai, but he wasn’t one to let himself be shot down so easily.

“Did you lead me into an ambush?” Dazai said, bemused. “About time you actually conspired to kill me, Chuuya, for a while I thought you were all talk, no action.”

“Shut up,” Chuuya spat, though his heart fluttered. The banter, the teasing. Shit, he missed this. How could Dazai stand keeping his distance from Oda? His heart must be aching at all times, reaching for him. “You’ll know when it’s me pulling the strings. And this ain’t me. Looks like those motherfuckers from the shipping company. Had some stupid name.”

“Liminal?” Dazai glanced around at the crowd, that unease rising further to the surface. Sure, none of this was in Dazai’s long-game plan, but he couldn’t have expected what would happen every single fucking day, could he? “I’m impressed they had the wherewithal to do something like this. Without help.”

His eyes narrowed again, and he studied Chuuya for any signs of his betrayal . . . and their distraction broke in just in time.

The doors burst open and five people ran inside, armed so well Chuuya might have mistaken them for the Mafia had he not practically invited them himself. Dazai turned to look towards the door, and he went as white as his bandages. The Armed Detective Agency spread out, that blond detective taking the lead, and they almost immediately went into action. The shots started.

“What the hell?!” Chuuya shouted, trying to make his way to Kunikida to talk to him, but also trying to see who else was here. The other blond, the kid; the redhead with the hoodie; Yosano, the doctor; and . . .

Dark red hair and sporting two pistols, dodging the bullets expertly. Oda was here. Their target.

“Get down!” Chuuya yelled, and he launched himself on top of Dazai, but Dazai pulled him off.

“What are you doing?” Dazai muttered, but then he saw that flash of red hair, and his eyes widened.

He had spotted Oda, and he saw that Oda was in the middle of a barrage of bullets. And while he was holding his own for the moment, the other detectives were being kept busy, and as Chuuya knew, Oda could only keep an eye on so many futures at once.

Dazai took a single step forward, his mouth open, his lip trembling.

“No.”

Was that panic that flickered across his face?

“No, no, he can’t see me.”

He was almost talking to himself, and Dazai took a step back and then turned on heel, looking to run away — and they could have, Liminal was fully immersed in fighting the ADA, and Chuuya had already called in an extraction — but Atsushi and Chuuya caught him, pushing him back. Dazai screamed.

“What are you doing?!” Dazai cried, his visage caught between livid and terrified. “I can’t — you’re ruining everything!”

“Don’t fucking run,” Chuuya gasped. Dazai really was pushing against him, but together, they outmatched him in strength. “Go save him. You’re the one who ruined everything.”

“Fuck you!” Dazai was panicking, which was good, this was good. Panic meant he was out of his mind, that he couldn’t outsmart them. That he didn’t have a plan. “Fuck you, fuck you, did you lure him here, you sick fucker? What are you doing?”

“What you couldn’t,” Chuuya pushed. “Are you gonna just stand here? You should act reluctant,” he added, in an undertone, “but go and save your man.”

Dazai growled at him like a wolf and used all his strength to push Chuuya down, away from him. As Chuuya fell to the ground, though, he saw Dazai’s coat sweep around as he took off after Oda.

Chuuya looked up to watch as Dazai took out his own guns and walked through the bullets, hitting his targets by the shoulder or stomach, disabling them as he went through the fray. He simply didn’t care what bullets hit him, and only one caught his shoulder, one went straight through his coat, before he reached Oda. Oda noticed him approaching, looking confused, and that distracted him for just a moment —

The bullet came straight at him, but Dazai ducked and grabbed Oda around the ankles, felling them both and bringing them beneath the crossfire. Dazai said something to him, nodding towards an overturned piece of sheet metal, and they crawled towards it.

With the power of both the Mafia and ADA, the bullets were slowing, and Oda and Dazai pulled up the metal, sitting behind it for a moment. Chuuya ran towards them, deflecting the bullets on his own, knowing they had to pull Dazai out, and he saw the blond detective heading his way as well, coming to get Oda.

“Thank you,” Oda said dizzily, and the blonde detective pulled him to his feet. “Um . . .”

Dazai seemed paralyzed for a moment, staring up at him as though star-struck. Chuuya took that opportunity.

“Dazai,” he called, purposefully using his name, “we’re leaving.”

“Dazai,” Oda repeated, and Dazai actually blushed, but he didn’t manage anything but a nod as Atsushi and Chuuya pulled him away, herding him out with the rest of the Mafia.

They had done it. They’d actually done it. Chuuya’s heart pounded as they piled into the helicopter back to the Mafia tower, stealing glances of Dazai and Atsushi, but Dazai was saying nothing, still pale as death. He looked like he’d bathed in chalk, his skin ashen, his eyes blazing. Chuuya tried instead to brace himself for the storm that was coming. Because he wasn’t going to exactly thank them for interfering.

As they landed and stepped onto the roof, Dazai whispered something quietly to Hirotsu, and Atsushi was led quietly down the stairs. And then Dazai took Chuuya by the arm, looping their elbows together casually, and they walked down to his office.

“We need to talk strategy,” Dazai said, folding an arm around Chuuya’s shoulder as they walked. There was some force behind his touch, although his voice was even. “They aren’t formidable, but they aren’t to be taken lightly. They probably service the police, government; if we play it wrong, we’ll end up with some dangerous enemies. But if we play it right,” he added, as Chuuya opened the door and they swept inside, “we’ll have them around our finger instead. Right, slug?”

The door slammed shut, and Dazai locked it. Before Chuuya could gather his senses, Dazai’s hand slid down to his wrist, clamped down tight. Chuuya tried to pull away, but Dazai forced him back, pulling him to his desk. There was a click sound of metal on metal and Dazai stepped back, but Chuuya couldn’t follow. His hand was cuffed to the desk, a small chain hooked to the center that Dazai was clutching in his bare hand. Negating him.

Like Atsushi’s collar, this was a restraint that Dazai had made for him.

“So,” Dazai started. He tugged on the chain so that it cut into Chuuya’s wrist. “You found out about the Book, did you? But you still can’t stop me.”

Chapter Text

Dazai tugged the chain hooked to the manacles around Chuuya’s wrist. The lead from Dazai’s ungloved hand negated Chuuya’s gravity strength, keeping him bound. Some incredulity about the restraints must have shown on his face, because Dazai explained himself.

“You were always stronger than me,” Dazai said darkly. “So call this a preventative measure. You found out about the Book, but you can’t stop me. My plan’s been in motion for six years. I won’t let a little hiccup like this divert me.”

“Stop you?” Chuuya spat. “From destroying yourself, you mean?”

“You could never understand,” Dazai said quietly, “why I had to do this.”

Chuuya rolled his eyes. “Man, you really have your head up your own ass, Dazai,” he said evenly. “Aren’t you the most tortured man in existence. No one has ever suffered as much as you.”

“You have no idea—”

“Are you stupid?” Chuuya scoffed. “Or can you just not wrap your head around the fact that someone else has a brain other than you? No idea? I saw the Book, too. I’ve seen how much you’ve suffered in a thousand lifetimes. I’ve lived it. I know everything you’ve done. And why.”

Dazai started again, his tongue ready with more lashing, more poison, but Chuuya didn’t let him speak.

“You’ve done everything you can to keep Sakunosuke Oda away from the Mafia,” he began, and he pushed through his own pain when Dazai reacted to the name. “And that led to bad dealings and unexpected enemies and problem after problem that you had to solve by making yourself awful, cruel, and that made him hate you. And you think that because it’s keeping him safe that everything’s fine, but it’s eating you up. Rotting you even more. I can see it every day, Dazai. Even before I knew why, I could see it. It’s not fair,” he said quietly. He thought of Atsushi. Gin. Ryuunosuke. “You’re hurting everyone around you because you’re hurt.”

Dazai bared his teeth in a truly terrifying manner. He wasn’t feral like Atsushi or Chuuya — he was simply angry.

“I’m not hurt,” Dazai muttered. “I feel nothing. Don’t you know, that’s my reputation. No feelings. No sympathy. No one is safe.” He swallowed. “That’s what Oda needed to think of me so he didn’t come close. That I’m insane.”

You are. But I still . . .

“Okay, so the Mafia’s reputation needs to stay like this,” Chuuya said, “but yours doesn’t. You won’t even try. That’s your problem,” he added, pushing further. “You don’t know the outcome so you won’t try. I know you, Osamu.” His voice was a whisper now. “Remember that. You and I grew up side by side, I’ve been next to you, with you, for six years. I may not be able to predict everything you’ll do, but I know how you think. I know how you work.” He swallowed, his throat raw. “You do these crazy gambits because you know how people will react, you can tell what will happen. And Mori used to think it was brave or brazen. But it’s not.”

Chuuya pressed on, his eyes blazing.

“You’ll only act if you know how it’ll end. That doesn’t make you smart or cautious; that makes you a coward.”

Chuuya’s sight went white for a moment, and it returned with a sharp stinging sensation on his cheek. He tasted the iron tang of blood in his mouth, too. Dazai’s hand was still raised from the slap, his whole body stiff and frozen, as though he were going to slap him again. But when Dazai used his hands instead of words, it meant he was at a loss. He didn’t have a retort; he knew Chuuya was right, on some level.

“Who are you to complain, mangy dog?” Dazai said at last. “I gave you everything.”

Dazai reached for him, arm outstretched, and Chuuya took a step back but he was cornered by the desk. Dazai seized his hair and pulled his head back; Chuuya tried to fight him, but his scalp was on fire, and he conceded, forced to look directly at Dazai’s desperate face. Dazai stepped closer, his long coat nearly swallowing Chuuya, his face inches away.

“Don’t tell me you don’t like it like this,” he hissed, bringing his mouth to Chuuya’s ear. His leg slotted between Chuuya’s and he pressed his thigh into his crotch; Chuuya let out a small noise. “Doing it rough, fighting as foreplay. Getting to fuck the head of the Port Mafia. Diamond against diamond, grinding and honing against each other. You always get hard for it, the thought of me under you. It makes you come to hold me down, to wreck me, see me like that, because you love how much you hate me.”

It was a trap; it was a beautiful trap. If he fell into it, they would fuck right now with Chuuya’s wrist still manacled to the desk, Dazai bent over in front of him. It would be incredible, it would be cathartic, and then Dazai would keep him locked in here until he killed himself. Again.

Dazai shifted his leg and pressed even more, almost coercing Chuuya to ride his knee, and he was getting hard, with that breath in his ear and the hands crawling over his neck. How much he had missed this, missed him. But it wasn’t about hate, or sex. It was about one thing only. Dazai leaned down to kiss him, but Chuuya ducked out of the way.

“I hate how much I love you,” Chuuya said instead.

Dazai took a step back, his eyes wide.

“Quiet, dog,” he muttered.

“I love you,” Chuuya repeated.

“Stop!” Dazai cried. He tugged the chain again and Chuuya stumbled forward. “You hate me.”

“No,” Chuuya said, voice quiet. “I love you. I’ve always loved you.”

“You’re not supposed to,” Dazai said, voice thin.

“Well,” Chuuya replied. “You fucked up, then. Look what happens when you think you know everything.”

“You’re a terrible liar, Chuuya.” Dazai’s expression distorted, his mouth twisting, his cheeks burning. “I’ll find out what you’re really up to with this. And you’ll wish you never met me.”

Atsushi tried to gather himself as he waited for the inevitable confrontation. He’d been put in the meeting room where he’d woken up in this timeline — where Dazai had given him a blow job — and that was fairly disarming. Had Dazai caught on that very day, when Atsushi asked him to be gentler? Perhaps they’d been naive to think this was Dazai’s first time through this very timeline; but they’d managed to accomplish what they wanted nonetheless. And that fact gave him strength.

They knew that once Dazai caught wind of their conspiring — or at least when it became clear their plans involved Oda — Dazai would separate them. And then it was essentially up to Atsushi. Chuuya maybe knew Dazai better, but Atsushi knew how to play to his ego better, how to actually make him accept the flattery and make it sound sincere. Make him believe they were on his side. He wondered what was happening to Chuuya up in Dazai’s office, hoping Dazai was being merciful. If he really was . . .

His thoughts were scattered with the sound of the door opening. Dazai slipped inside before locking it, his hair sweaty, his lips turned down in a frown. He took off his gloves and coat, and it looked like he needed to calm himself before he stepped over towards Atsushi. Something was in his eye, something actually sad.

“What has he done to you?” Dazai whispered.

He put a hand to Atsushi’s face, those long fingers spidering over his neck, and a warmth spread from them down Atsushi’s spine. He missed him so much, that gentle touch, that loving caress. Atsushi allowed himself a moment to lean into them, and Dazai cupped his jaw with both hands, bringing him closer. That touch was a drug, was a need, but it was also venom that muddled his thoughts and subjugated him.

Please, Atsushi thought. But he shoved that thought away. He couldn’t afford to lose himself again, even if it was easy, it was comfortable, it felt good. Not if they wanted to save him.

“Nothing,” Atsushi insisted. He put a hand on Dazai’s wrist, pushing his hands away. “Chuuya . . . hasn’t done anything to me.”

“Don’t defend him,” Dazai said, “I can smell him on you.”

Atsushi shivered unconsciously. He didn’t know if Dazai meant it literally or if he just meant Chuuya had rubbed off on him, that this scheme stank of him. Either way, he was unsettled, but this wasn’t unexpected.

“You think he’s brainwashed me against you,” Atsushi said outright, and he could see a flicker across Dazai’s dark eye that said now Dazai was unsettled. “He hasn’t. This . . . was my idea. Our idea.”

“Our.” Dazai repeated the word with vehemence. “And what exactly was this idea?”

“You . . . were in pain,” Atsushi said softly. “Because whatever it is about this world, this is the one that keeps your friend alive. But it also means you can’t be with him. You were suffering, Dazai. You are. If you could just talk to him . . . if he changed his mind about you . . . we want you to be happy.”

“We.” Dazai repeated the word in the same flat tone.

“Yes, we.” Atsushi bit the inside of his cheek. Dazai’s gaze punctured him with fear, and he could feel it icing back into his blood and threatening to take him over. But he wasn’t a terrified little tiger anymore. “We because Chuuya and I worked on this plan together. Because we trust each other. Won’t you share your plans with us? Or don’t you respect me? Don’t you trust me?”

“Of course I do,” Dazai whispered. “You’re mine, Atsushi-chan. And I believe you think you’re doing the right thing. But Chuuya’s got you confused, he messed with your head. He’s been trying to take over since—”

“You’re not listening,” Atsushi interrupted. “Please—”

“Don’t make me punish you, too,” Dazai pressed. “Just tell me Chuuya put you up to this. Tell me it was all his idea.”

“You’re not listening.” Atsushi gritted his teeth. “You don’t see how we did this for you? Just like how you did everything for Oda.”

“It’s not like that at all – ”

“No,” Atsushi agreed. “It’s not, because we don’t have to be apart from you in order to save you. And you don’t have to be apart from Oda, either. Give it a chance. Don’t be afraid.”

He reached for Dazai’s hand, delicately taking his fingers one at a time . . . and Dazai let him. Atsushi let out the breath he was holding, looking at his boss carefully. Dazai’s eye was darting around, thinking quickly but not finding anything.

“What happened to my tiger, Atsushi?” he whispered.

“I’m still yours,” Atsushi whispered. “I always will be. So is he. That’s why . . . we want to help you. Despite all you’ve done.”

The strained atmosphere of the room was pierced by the sound of a cell phone. Dazai took himself out of Atsushi’s touch and pulled out his phone, eyeing him warily as he answered it.

“Hello?” he said politely.

The room was so quiet he could hear the other end.

Atsushi thought Dazai knew who it was, or he wouldn’t have answered. His heart leapt, as he watched Dazai’s entire body soften, his shoulders relax, even before the other person spoke. Which meant . . . Dazai wanted this, too.

This was a victory.

“So,” came the deep, calm voice, “someone from the Port Mafia decided to save my life.”

“Well,” Dazai said, “the ADA served as a decent distraction, so I thought I might as well keep you alive to remain so.”

“Hm.” Oda seemed somehow amused. “I assume you’re expecting me to pay my dues to you for your kindness. So I thought I should get that out of the way now and find out what you want from me. ”

“Ha, not your first dealing with the Mafia, huh?” Dazai replied. Atsushi saw that comfort across his face, his eyes closed gently. He was enjoying himself. “You’re right. I have one favor to ask of you, Oda-san.”

“One favor only.”

Dazai smiled. “A drink?”

There was a small laugh on the other end.

“Are you asking me out?” Oda said.

“Not at all,” Dazai replied. “No thank you. A Detective? Terrible for my reputation. I just thought,” he added, “we should continue this . . . mutually beneficial partnership against a company neither of us are particularly fond of. And perhaps discuss that further.”

For a moment, there was more silence. Then.

“Dazai, was it?” Oda said.

“Yes.”

“How’s Tuesday?”

“Oh, no,” Dazai replied. “I’ll be the one setting the terms. Thursday, 7pm. Bar Lupin.”

He hung up, calmly put the phone back into his pocket, and he stared at the wall. Atsushi approached him slowly.

“This is what we were hoping for,” he admitted.

Dazai gave a small laugh.

“Chuuya wanted this, too?” he asked doubtfully. “Chuuya, who got so jealous over you he tried to steal you from me? Chuuya wants me to be with Oda?”

“He wants what you want,” Atsushi said softly. “Come on.” He laced their fingers together. “What would Chuuya’s end game be, if this really was a scheme? To usurp you? When he . . . we came from a world where he already had that power?”

“He doesn’t want the power,” Dazai sighed. He bit his lip, and he wasn’t looking at Atsushi. “That’s why he’s the perfect person to have it. Not me. Not . . .”

He brought his hand slowly to his eyes and shielded them, his shoulders suddenly shaking, and he sniffed loudly. Atsushi stepped closer and Dazai seized him, burying his face in Atsushi’s coat.

“Atsushi,” he said through tears, voice raw, “my Atsushi. You remember how we were at the ADA?”

“Yes,” Atsushi said numbly.

It wasn’t him or Dazai, he wouldn’t have gone as far as to call it that. It was some other version of them, practically different people. But he had some vague memories and feelings of that timeline, where they were detectives solving crimes and dating as though they were just co-workers. A normal relationship, as normal as a relationship with Dazai could ever be. But happy. And sweet.

“And you remember how I was to you here,” Dazai continued. “And yet . . . you still chose me.”

“Yes,” Atsushi said. “I love you. Don’t you love me?”

“More than you understand,” Dazai said. “I — yes. I love you.”

Was this the first time he had said the words? Atsushi’s heart danced around in his chest. Had they done it?

“Really?”

“Yes. Yes, Atsushi.”

Dazai laughed and kissed him, and Atsushi felt the warmth resonating from his lips. He felt like he was wrapping his arms around Dazai’s neck in that other world, and his heart nearly leapt from his throat. Atsushi tugged Dazai’s face to his, kissing him long and hard, and Dazai was receptive, kissing him back heartily. Finally, fatigued, he pulled away.

“Oh, I should . . . probably untie Chuuya.”

They ended up back in Chuuya’s apartment, the three of them in the back of a Mafia car, Atsushi and Chuuya sitting side by side with their hands entwined while Dazai eyed them warily. Chuuya remembered from his flashes of the Book that in the timeline where they were a throuple, his place was often their haven, their meeting space. He wondered if Dazai had seen that world, too, when he searched for the perfect world for Oda, thinking that he must have.

Chuuya met his eyes as they sat down in his livingroom, nearly tasting the electricity on his tongue, the palatable want in the air. But Dazai made no move to touch either one of them, even as he removed his coat and Atsushi took off his. There was business to talk about first, after all; business too private to be discussed anywhere else.

“I won’t beat around the bush,” Dazai started, crossing his long legs. “I still don’t entirely trust you. There are two of you and one of me,” he added, tilting his head, “so it seems only fair you tell me what you know.”

“That actually doesn’t seem fair at all,” Atsushi said, “since you still hold all the cards.”

And Dazai actually laughed. Chuuya felt like he was losing his mind as Dazai reached across the coffee table to take Atsushi’s fingers. This was the Dazai they had seen in the meeting, in the video, in the Book, and it was mind-boggling how he could just slip back into that persona like a new suit or a second skin. Here he was, that kinder, more personable Dazai hiding here this whole time. Had they just not earned his love enough to see it for themselves?

“Okay,” Dazai conceded. “You start. Then Chuuya. Then I’ll go. We’ll trade, then.”

A concession felt suspicious, but Atsushi nodded eagerly, looking to Chuuya for approval. He still didn’t trust him, either. But it was probably as good as they were going to get, and so he inclined his head.

“We know . . . that your entire goal in this universe was to keep Sakunosuke Oda from joining the Mafia,” Atsushi recited. “In order to keep him alive.”

“And,” Chuuya continued, “Mori is alive. You’ve got some plans for everyone laid out for when . . .”

He trailed off. How many times had he seen it now, yet it was still hard to stomach.

“For when you kill yourself,” Chuuya said, pushing past the acid in his gut. “Which . . .”

“You’d prefer that I don’t.” Dazai quirked a smile. “You know me, don’t you, Chuu?”

“Yes.” Chuuya folded his hands in his lap. “It’s the coward’s way out, Dazai. You make choices for other people to live out while you get to rot in your grave, and that’s . . . unfair.”

Dazai inclined his head, then looked aside.

“I baited Akutagawa into the tower,” Dazai replied, showing his hand. “Because by that point I’d hoped he learned how to live with himself. I wanted him and Atsushi to understand each other, and they could only do that through trauma. But then I would set them both free. Everything else was set up. And then I could be free.”

He blinked slowly at the word “free,” and Chuuya bit his lip. Had they ruined his plans enough to keep him alive long enough to . . .

Convince him they were worth it?

“You can be free,” Atsushi insisted. “Without dying. You don’t have to . . . put up this front. You don’t have to do this alone anymore. Why not keep things out in the open, among the three of us? You can still order us around,” he added, and there was a blush across his face. Maybe he liked Dazai telling him what to do. “But . . . we’ll know. We can be honest. We can be together.”

Dazai gave a small chuckle, though his eyes were still hard. They passed between Chuuya and Atsushi, that knowing look, sensing something else they hadn’t told him.

“Together,” Dazai repeated, and his dry lips pulled into a thin smile. “I do have to put up this front. For everyone else, at least. Maybe . . .”

He closed his eyes for a moment, sitting back, breathing slowly. He was thinking out a plan, a scheme. At last, his eyes fluttered open, his expression revelatory.

“Alright,” he said at last. “Let me tell you everything I’m planning, then.”

It certainly felt strange, and even though Chuuya kept using the phrasing in his head that it felt right, he couldn’t quite manifest that feeling. But they were all drawn, certainly, and when they finished listening to Dazai outline his own projections and talked about their own plans, they looked at one-another coyly through the silence. Only when Dazai stood up and Chuuya put a halting hand on his arm did that tension break and spark, and Dazai kissed him, hands sweeping under his jaw, tongue lapping at his own. It was hungry and lustful, kissing like he was coming home, and Chuuya finally felt like Dazai wanted him, all of him, not just his body or the way he reacted. Dazai left Chuuya panting to sweetly kiss Atsushi, and he watched as Atsushi simply melted under him, his knees shaking, his hands holding desperately to Dazai’s wrists.

Atsushi fell onto the bed and pulled Dazai with him, and Dazai grabbed Chuuya’s sleeve to tug him down, and there were lips and hands and limbs pulling at clothes and taking off belts, and then there were tongues and dicks and teeth and fingers pushing and intruding and shoving themselves inside. Chuuya was on all fours, Dazai’s tongue penetrating him, hand cradling his testicles, while he sucked on Atsushi sloppily, his vision blurry from all the skin and sensations, his mind in pure ecstasy. To be loved wholly, in spirit and body, to feel someone’s love through their touch alone was something he had never known he needed, and he leaned into it, craved it, chased it, letting his partners handle him thoroughly and deeply. And when he finally plunged into Dazai, with Dazai slotted between Atsushi’s thighs, he felt part of a whole as they moved together, becoming one.

Chuuya came three times that night and fell asleep in an absolute stupor among two other warm and languid bodies. A feeling of contentedness, of completion, spread over him with the morning sun. When first he had wondered how and why about the throuple — the Triad, as it were, since they were Mafia — he now understood. He loved Dazai, and he loved Atsushi, and they both loved him and one-another. This, this was bliss.

It was a feeling that only lasted until the sun hit his eyes and he opened them. Something was wrong about all of this, but in the moment he couldn’t put his finger on what.

What really did feel right was planning all this out with the two of them, languidly sipping coffee and eating leftovers for breakfast. Sitting around his small table, Dazai fully dressed, Atsushi nearly nude, Chuuya somewhere between, fleshing out the details as they sleepily reached over each other for the milk or laid a gentle hand on another’s shoulder or leg. Chuuya would even call the scene beautiful, his two partners and himself working together in the quiet kitchen and enjoying each others’ company after a night of mutual satisfaction. He felt, for one of the few times in his life, calm.

* * *

The infiltration still needed to happen for Akutagawa to earn his freedom, for him to come to terms with himself. And so he and Atsushi would still clash, only it would be less violent. Kyouka would be in on it from the start, which made Atsushi seem more inclined to go along with it. She could take care of herself, and she would trust that Atsushi would take care of her, too. Atsushi had vaguely expressed bringing her into the fold, but Chuuya shot it down. He was afraid he was sounding possessive, but he had an acute argument.

“The less people that know, the better,” Chuuya said to Atsushi, aside. “I can still barely believe Dazai is telling you and me everything.”

He didn’t say what was on both of their minds: that Dazai wasn’t. But the hope was that he eventually would, and for now, this was enough.

Concern over Dazai had occupied Chuuya’s thoughts enough that he had long forgotten to worry about his other partner — and what he was hiding from Atsushi.

“So, Chuuya, you can take care of Akutagawa and get him sorted,” Dazai outlined, “but don’t be too friendly, alright? You’re right that the Mafia’s reputation needs to remain the same, if we seem too nice to orphans, someone’s gonna think we’re weak and come after us. And then Atsushi can collect Kyouka, but . . .” He tilted his head. “What are you going to do with her after, though?” he asked cryptically.

“Uh, bring her back to headquarters?” Atsushi replied, puzzled. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

Chuuya froze for just a second. He had nearly forgotten Dazai’s original plan for Atsushi. In fact, he never really knew it at all, only knowing that Dazai wanted Atsushi out of the Mafia after his death. For the exact plans, that envelope sat somewhere in Dazai’s office, evidence of his own lies and manipulations. But Dazai knew . . .

“Oh, I let Gin go,” Dazai said smoothly, “and I was going to offer that to Kyouka as well, if she wanted to go with them. But . . . I suppose you can extend the offer, and she can make that decision herself.”

Atsushi seemed surprised, but didn’t comment any further. Kyouka had left the Mafia before, a long time ago, and Dazai had ordered him to go after her. It seemed plausible she wanted to leave again consensually. But without Atsushi, all three of them knew she would refuse. Chuuya wondered if Dazai suspected he’d kept that information from Atsushi and was covering for him, or if he was rewiring based on the fact they were now romantically entangled and Atsushi clearly didn’t want to be away from them.

It doesn’t matter anymore. He wants to stay.

The fateful day came to a head much faster now that they knew what was going to happen. Dazai met with Oda at the bar, their conversation calmer and friendlier — as he reported back — and they had even agreed to further facilitate talks between the two organizations regarding Liminal and work together against them. And meanwhile, Atsushi and Akutagawa ascended the tower, Atsushi with a concealed earpiece so that Chuuya could monitor the entire situation, sending in men to slow them down just enough to not be suspicious, standing down where he could so that Atsushi wouldn’t be hurt as much. Still, they fought, the violence nearly dislodging the radio, and he could hear Atsushi’s yelps, Akutagawa’s righteous screaming, his stomach wrenching each time they maimed one-another. Soon they would both be free, and he heard their bated breath as Dazai stood on the edge in front of them and tipped backwards.

This time, though, Chuuya did catch him. They’d calculated the trajectory so that Akutagawa would not see, so that the people below would not glimpse him, but even with that reassurance, as he leapt from the middle floor of the tower, arms outstretched, he thought Dazai would negate him, that he would still go crashing to the ground and ultimately take Chuuya with him. But Chuuya wrapped his arms around Dazai and pulled him back inside.

On the floor in an empty office, they stared at each other, and Dazai laughed at the absurdity of their plan. Yokohama would assume the Mafia boss was dead; it would give the Mafia a head start on infiltration, on turning the screw, of being underestimated, before they came back full-swing. It would allow Chuuya and Atsushi to make sure Dazai’s plans were being implemented with Dazai pulling the strings and adjusting little things here and there.

As they got back to a Mafia safe house later that evening, Chuuya couldn’t help but call for a celebration. He opened an expensive bottle of champagne and poured them each a tall flute, passing it around until they finished it. They drank glassfuls over a postmortem on their operation, nailing down details for the next few days, and fixing up both Dazai and Atsushi’s cuts.

Atsushi stripped down so that they could clean his wounds and lacerations, and a few clean slices from Rashomon’s scythe. Chuuya and Dazai delicately dabbed at them with alcohol, ready with bandages and makeshift sutures. Atsushi clambered into Dazai’s lap on the couch so Dazai could unhook his collar and clean up those as well, his eyes closed in contentment.

When he was done, Atsushi turned around and straddled Dazai’s knee, kissing him. The two of them looked like they couldn’t get enough of each other, Dazai’s hand sprawled on Atsushi’s spine, Atsushi’s hooked around Dazai’s neck lovingly. Dazai opened his eyes and glanced toward Chuuya in invitation; and this time, Chuuya’s heart beat faster with excitement.

He took off his clothes, at first quickly shedding his jacket, but when he noticed his partners were staring at him, he slowed down to give them a show. Delicately, he slid a hand under his vest, undoing the buttons one by one, then he went for his tie, sliding the buckle off. He went for his pants next, letting them fall down his thighs before he removed his shirt. The hat was last, and he swayed his hips as he walked towards Dazai, twirling his hat between his fingers and hanging it on Dazai’s head before he climbed onto his other leg.

Atsushi and Chuuya kissed either side of Dazai’s neck, each running a hand along his chest, taking turns snaking their tongues into his mouth. They were servicing their boss; they knew it, but they wanted to do it, and that framing only added to the eroticism, their hearts and blood racing as Dazai leaned into them, as he tangled his fingers in their hair and whispered their names.

Chuuya glanced at Atsushi conspiratorially and together they coerced him out of his clothes, going for his thighs, teasing him with gentle caresses before they both grabbed his firm cock. Dazai moaned and trickled his fingers down their chests, tucking a hand beneath each of their waistbands and pulling them out. They both groaned in tandem, panting on his shoulders, and all of their hands slid up and down in rhythm, stroking and squeezing, all of their hips moving against fingers and palms, jutting against that touch. Chuuya bit at Dazai’s chest, Atsushi offering sweeter kisses, all three of them rocking together at first and then becoming more erratic and uneven the longer they were stroked. Atsushi almost sounded like he was crying, his back arching, his movement urgent as he jolted against Dazai, sliding himself into his leg. Finally, he shuddered, collapsing onto Dazai, but he continued to ride his thigh, still lustful. Chuuya was nothing but want and need as he shoved himself into Dazai’s hand, against his hip, begging for his attention, for his touch. Dazai tried to balance the two of them while his own need was building, his head tipped back against the wall, and Chuuya watched him hungrily as his lips parted and his vision glazed over. Dazai’s eyes flickered to Chuuya’s, that prolonged contact, that loving gaze. And then he shut them suddenly, his breath catching, coming, and Chuuya could hold on no longer. He leaned forward and swallowed Dazai’s moan, crushing their mouths together, he shifted to grab Atsushi’s hand, squeezing it, and he finally let himself come.

The aftermath was almost as good as the build-up. Chuuya felt satisfied and sated as the three of them lay down together, each of them brushing the skin of the other two, basking in it. It was sex that was an expression of love rather than a means of control. Chuuya met Atsushi’s gaze across the bed, and they exchanged a smile. They were drunk on wine and their own success.

It was surprisingly easy for Dazai to lie low. All he had to do was change his clothes, comb his hair, remove the bandages from his head. It had been a long time since life shone from both of his warm eyes, a genuine smile across his face. The three of them fell into a comfortable rhythm: they would spend the night together, wake up in the morning and have breakfast at the safe house, then Chuuya would run back to his apartment to be picked up for work, Atsushi would head straight to the office using the tunnels. Chuuya was now the temporary boss of the Mafia, letting his memories and feelings from when Dazai was really dead be a guide for how he acted, going through the motions of all the threads they had dropped off in all of the worlds he’d lived through. Now that Dazai was alive, he actually enjoyed being the boss; running the meetings and setting the tone, their enemies and allies knowing that all threats were coming from him and not that he was just relaying a message. They were still working out a plan for Dazai’s comeback: a quiet takeover from within, maybe Dazai acting as a new hire who would rise through the ranks and eventually be revealed to just the executives that it was their old boss resurrected.

Meanwhile Atsushi took the lead in the takedown and dissolution of Liminal, acting as the liaison between the Mafia and the Agency. There were even talks to lend out Kyouka to the Agency to help with infiltration, a role that Dazai seemed wary of but ultimately admitted she was suited for. Additionally, Gin Akutagawa, apparently, had also disappeared, having been let go from the Mafia but not quite forgiving everything her brother had done. Atsushi understood that Akutagawa had to find her on his own as part of his journey; but he offered his help nonetheless, and Akutagawa did seem at least appreciative.

Dazai was adamant that the way to keep Oda safe was to keep him completely away from the Mafia; but, Atsushi posed, what if instead they allied with the Agency and kept each other safe? Dazai remained skeptical, insisting he was going to pull the plug as soon as this operation was over. He wasn’t back in charge yet, though he gave Chuuya advice and instruction, and had spent his days pondering about ways to change the Mafia. He had not expected to have to live with some of his earlier choices.

“What about,” Dazai posed as they discussed it one evening over dinner, “if we . . . were co-bosses, you and me?”

“What?” Chuuya was sure he’d misheard.

“Partners, in charge of the Mafia together,” Dazai repeated. “What do you think?”

“That’s . . .” The phrasing was strange, but Chuuya couldn’t quite figure out how. “Doesn’t the Mafia structure require the strict hierarchy of deferring to one person at the top? I mean . . . ” He was aware of Mafia history, and knew originally there hadn’t been one person at the top like a king; but putting that into practice now would be chaotic. It couldn’t be more than a platitude. “You’re better at this than I am, Dazai. I don’t really want to muddy the waters like that. It’d put the organization at risk.”

“Ah, you’re right,” Dazai said softly. “But that’s true leader rhetoric, Chuu.”

Chuuya had shrugged the conversation off, thinking optimistically that Dazai was blinded by his love of them and made a stupid suggestion. But reflecting on it later, he should have known that was telling. Dazai, in any world, never would have really meant such a thing. It was a final test, to see if Chuuya had grown power-hungry in his short tenure as boss.

And Dazai was finally saying goodbye.

* * *

Chuuya awoke early Tuesday, his morning littered with meetings starting at 8am. He sat up and pulled the covers off, knocking away the arm that was draped across him before leaning over to kiss Atsushi’s tired eyes. His other side was empty; Dazai must have gotten up to shower or something.

The safe house had a shitty coffee maker, but it was better than nothing, and he often sent someone out to get a round for these morning meetings anyway, so it would do. The grinds stuck to the pot, and he banged it on the sink carefully, trying not to wake his partners, expecting Dazai would call out for him to knock it off. But there wasn’t even a groan, and Chuuya left it to brew while he set out his clothes, combing his hair. He needed to shower, too, especially if he was going to be in close quarters with a lot of people today, but Dazai still had not emerged. The safe house was oddly quiet.

“Dazai?” he said, annoyed, walking towards the bathroom.

The kitchen was near the livingroom, which was surrounded by sliding paper doors, the bathroom beyond that. Chuuya slid it open and peered down the hall, where sat the door to the bathroom and a small alcove where their shoes and keys lived. On top of all that was a strange red envelope.

Chuuya approached it warily, wondering where it had come from.

Did the idiot get himself kidnapped? Chuuya thought, his heart pounding.

He reached for the letter, unfolding the paper and preparing himself for the thought he might just have to rearrange his whole day.

He was going to have to.

The handwriting was cramped and hurried, but the words were careful. A shadow creeped in from the bathroom, into the hall, twining around Chuuya’s legs, into his body, his lungs, his soul, as he read it. The entire room filled with the morning sun was suddenly and absolutely devoid of light. And his heart stopped.

Chuu.
This is not about you. This is not about Oda. This is about me. I have wanted to die since I was nine. Everything was already in motion and I now no longer have to shoulder this burden of life. Be happy for me.
I have always hated the way you manage to twist my heart around yours. I wish you to disentangle it.
How dare you fall in love. How dare you make me fall in love.

Atsushi.
I am happy to have experienced your real love for a few days.
I have altered the plans, and the choice is yours, whether you want to be free from the Mafia like before, or if you want to stay with him.

How at ease I felt when I saw you had each other. Please cling to that and let me go.
~ Osamu

Chapter Text

“What the fuck,” Chuuya said aloud. His mind went completely blank, vision hazy and red. He couldn’t see at all. “What the fuck, what the fuck. No! NO! Where is that fucker—”

The note fluttered to the ground as he took off running breathlessly, catching himself in the doorframe of the bathroom as his eyesight darkened once again, as the entire room spun. It steadied at last and he made out the puddles on the floor tiles, the red water dripping from a long white body. The fucking bandages were still there.

“Dazai,” Chuuya choked. The word sounded wrong somehow, like it couldn’t be describing what he was looking at. His mouth hung open as though caught between trying to say his name again and trying not to vomit.

Dazai’s face was passive like he was asleep, his brow unbothered, his hair soft and neat. But his skin was incredibly pale and gaunt, mottled and discolored, making him look like a haunted doll. He didn’t look real. The wounds on his wrists had ceased to bleed and instead looked like huge gashes in cut meat, open for a garnish to be tucked under the skin as they balanced delicately on the edge of the tub. It was nearly like someone had posed him for a macabre photograph . . . well, he had posed himself. On the floor discarded was the razor, and Chuuya felt compelled to hide it before he heard footsteps behind him and his focus shifted.

Chuuya spun around in the doorway, watching helplessly as Atsushi padded into the hall and picked the letter off the floor. He was still in his pajamas, his visible skin covered in lovebites from both his boyfriends, and that skin paled as he read the suicide note. He looked up at Chuuya, who could not fix his expression from the horror it had seen, and Atsushi made at once for the bathroom. Chuuya caught him, holding him back, and Atsushi started to scream.

“Dazai!” he cried, and it was that first death all over again. Atsushi screaming and sobbing, unable to control himself, Chuuya quietly holding in his anger and pain because someone had to. “What did you do, Osamu, what have you done?”

He squirmed in Chuuya’s arms, shoving against him, trying to get past him, but Chuuya was determined.

“It’s bad,” he managed, throat tight. “Tiger, I don’t think you should —”

“Get out of my way,” Atsushi snarled.

Chuuya was taken aback by that, but he didn’t move, adjusting Gravity to pin the younger man’s arms. But Atsushi yelled again.

“Let me see him, Chuuya!” Atsushi said, and there was venom in his voice. “Do you think I can’t make my own choices?”

Chuuya couldn’t argue against that. He released him and watched as Atsushi stumbled forward, slipping on the wet tile, and he plunged his arms into the pink water. Chuuya lifted a hand as though to stop him but he could only stare as Atsushi lifted Dazai’s limp frame from the bathtub and pulled it against him, burying his face into Dazai’s un-beating chest the way that Chuuya had smothered himself with the coat. And it was so stupid but the first thing that came into Chuuya’s head was that to lift a dead body, Atsushi must be stronger than he looked.

They were still, Chuuya on his knees in the doorway, Atsushi sobbing on the floor, so long the light rose from the east directly into the safehouse window and glared on the back of the wall. At last Atsushi released him, putting him back where they had found him, his clothing absolutely soaked. Chuuya handed him a towel.

“He let us believe we had saved him,” Atsushi muttered. “Why . . . why did he . . .”

“He said it’s not about us,” Chuuya said, in a trance. “I don’t . . .”

I’ve wanted to die since I was nine.

Chuuya hung his head and pressed both his hands to his face. Was there truly no saving him, as Oda had said? They had pinpointed the cause of his misery and yet he was still miserable. It was life itself he rejected; still Chuuya felt rejected. This way of death was personal. Was he the one being selfish by insisting Dazai stay alive for him?

“Fuck,” Chuuya muttered. “We were so close . . . why does this keep happening?”

Atsushi was still sitting quietly on the bathroom floor, his back to the tub, purposefully not looking at the crime scene, but keeping himself close to Dazai’s body. Chuuya looked as him as if for an answer, but his eyes were unfocused, his mouth frowning. He looked miserable, but it was more consternation than sorrow.

“Was there something we could have done to fix this?” Chuuya said aloud. “If we go back again . . . a few days . . . if we put him under watch—”

“Chuuya,” Atsushi said suddenly, and Chuuya stopped his ramble. “What did he mean when he said I could be free from the Mafia like before?”

Chuuya froze once again. While he should have been making a plan for when Atsushi inevitably found out, he had so naively told himself he would tell him, or he never would have to. And so when he did not have an answer, Atsushi immediately got to his feet, his lip trembling.

“Chuuya,” he said again, “when I asked you what he had planned for me—”

“You said you wanted to help me!” Chuuya shouted. “I couldn’t keep you in the Mafia to save Dazai if you were fired.”

“Fired?” Atsushi looked aside. “Dazai wanted to fire me when he died?”

Chuuya nodded. He’d hoped Atsushi would see why he’d lied now, but he only looked more haunted.

“So you . . . you were holding me against . . . his wishes?” Atsushi said numbly.

“No — I said you could make your own choice,” Chuuya said, but his excuse was flat and he knew it. “I didn’t think you would choose me . . . and when you did I . . . I didn’t want to lose you.” Chuuya’s lip was trembling. “I — I didn’t think it was going to matter! We were trying to save him, you weren’t going to be fired if he lived, so I . . .”

“So you lied to me.” He swallowed, but more bile built up in his throat. “You kept me the Mafia boss’s pet.”

“No.” Chuuya shook his head. “No, you — you’re not my pet, Atsushi. You’re my partner.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me the truth?”

“Because I couldn’t face this alone!” Chuuya cried. “And no one else — you know I was telling the truth when I said no one else was gonna do this. No one else but you could understand how I felt about him . . . how I feel. Ain’t it the same for you?”

“It’s not the same,” Atsushi pressed, his voice shaking. “I said that the first time. It’s still true. We weren’t the same, Chuuya! You were his second. You’re the Mafia Boss now. I’m not saying he didn’t mistreat you or abuse you. But I . . . I was nothing but a subservient assassin. I was brainwashed. Raped. I lost control of my ability. Lost sense of who I am. While you were by his side every day. Don’t tell me it’s not different.”

He couldn’t.

Chuuya sighed, putting his hands over his face. “I thought I would be . . . better than Dazai as a boss, as a partner. But fuck . . . I’m really no better than him. I trapped you here. I lied to you.”

Had he really thought Atsushi would take the confession, the apology, and forgive him immediately? Still, his heart ached as Atsushi continued.

“Yes. You did.” Atsushi bit the inside of his lip, trying not to cry again. “I want to see what he planned for me.”

“It’s . . . in the office,” Chuuya said, arms folded. He couldn’t look at Atsushi’s accusatory gaze anymore.

“Well.” Atsushi wiped his face off. “We have to go back there eventually.”

* * *

Chuuya took the envelope out of the drawer and handed it over. He half expected Atsushi would tuck it into his jacket and stalk out, but the younger man slowly opened the string tied around the manilla folder and read it over while standing only a few feet away. Chuuya waited as Atsushi’s eyes darted across the page, scanning through its contents several times before he unceremoniously threw it back on Chuuya’s desk.

It was a letter of introduction to a doctor working in one of the local orphanages, a new one set up only a few years ago that specialized in kids with abilities. Atsushi, and Kyouka, would be his new assistants. Chuuya did not have to think very hard to know who this doctor was.

So all of the important people in his life were just going to fuck off and live wholesome, meaningful lives without him, just outside the Mafia Tower doors. Only . . . Atsushi hadn’t been important to him when this plan was first written out three lifetimes ago. In fact, there was a time when Chuuya would have happily kicked him to the curb.

“He was trying to pit us against each other,” Chuuya muttered. “So that I’d be glad to be rid of you and let you go. But he didn’t know I’d . . . that I would recruit you to help me. And here . . . he saw we were happy together and thought he could safely off himself without guilt.”

His eyes flickered up to Atsushi, his own guilt and shame washing through him. They were no longer happy together. Maybe Dazai had engineered that, too.

No. This is your own fault.

He had never thought too hard about asking for forgiveness. Dazai never gave it to him. Shirase had blamed him until the end. The Flags never did, but forgiveness wouldn’t have done them any good. How was he supposed to ask for it now, when everything had fallen apart, crumbled like charred remains, like sand through his fingers? Did Atsushi even want to forgive him?

“I have to see what it’s like,” Atsushi said at last. His back was straight, his gloved hands curled into tight fists. “You have to let me go. Then . . . only then can I make a decision.”

Let me go.

Chuuya swallowed the bile in his throat. Breathing was becoming a chore as something weighed on his chest that he could not make lighter. Slowly, he nodded.

The door closed behind Atsushi quietly and the office was once again a room draped in sorrow and mourning. This time, Chuuya felt that void acutely. He really was completely and utterly alone.

* * *

There was no resurrection. It had only been five days since they saved him, and so the funeral plans went as arranged, only there was actually a body to bury. He barely had the heart to bribe and threaten the morticians into silence, making sure they asked no questions about the fact a man who supposedly fell from 100 stories instead had slashed wrists. He’d thought about desecrating the body himself by dropping it from a height, only he couldn’t see the point.

He wasn’t staying in this world for long.

He had no idea if Atsushi wanted to try again. The former Reaper had seemed emotionally exhausted, tired of running against a brick wall, of having his hopes built up only to have his heart crushed by Dazai’s selfishness or Chuuya’s possessiveness. But Chuuya had nothing to lose.

I’ve been at this for six years . . .

It wasn’t raining; but it was freezing. Out of respect and discretion, he’d left the coat in the office, donning instead his usual trenchcoat that helped him blend in with the rest of the crowd. Nearly everyone high up in the Mafia was present, Kouyou squeezing his shoulder through the ceremony, and he scanned the crowd to make note of the extraneous personnell. Gin Akutagawa made a brief appearance, burning some insence before disappearing back into the city. A few of their rivals were here, though were keeping a respectable distance; in the corner, Oda and Kunikida stood with bowed heads; and across the way, Kyouka and Atsushi huddled.

Part of Chuuya was surprised to see him; but of course, Atsushi still loved Dazai. Despite his anger at both of his lovers, and the conflict he must be feeling, he was chatting amicably with some of the others after the ceremony. And just like Chuuya, he eventually made a bee line for Oda.

Chuuya tried to make conversation as he waited for Atsushi to finish, but decided he couldn’t be seen as afraid of the tiger-boy. Atsushi saw him walking over and their eyes met for a moment; they narrowed, color rising on his face. Of course he was still pissed. Casually, he bid farewell to Oda and walked away, not even giving a backwards glance as he did. Chuuya sighed and took his place, not allowing himself a pining look after Atsushi.

“In six lifetimes, I wouldn’t have expected you to show up,” Chuuya said honestly.

“Well, you tried to bribe me,” Oda replied, his mouth quirking. That was true; Chuuya needed to talk to him, so he wanted to make sure Oda would be here. “So I thought it was important. You could have just asked.”

Chuuya shook his head. What a wild change from that last timeline. Forget Dazai acting like a different person; Oda was completely changed as well. Dazai had created a monstrous cloud that hovered over the Mafia, and once it was cleared away, things were better. That cloud no longer existed for most of the ADA. Though it felt like an accomplishment, it certainly still felt very strange.

“Were you close?” Oda asked, clearly reading Chuuya’s expression. “I have no idea how the Mafia hierarchy works, but both of you were in the warehouse that day. I thought maybe you were his bodyguard or something, but you also arranged for Atsushi and Kyouka to work with us. Are you a manager, maybe? You’re clearly very skilled.” Chuuya let that compliment wash over him. When he wasn’t being obstinate, Oda was very personable. “I’m sorry, in any case.”

Chuuya nodded. They didn’t need to build up that awful reputation anymore, but keeping quiet about the identity of the mob boss to outsiders did seem like a good move. Dazai was right about that, at least.

“He was my partner,” Chuuya said honestly. Oda nodded, not prying into the ambiguous word partner, but Chuuya shrugged. That, he didn’t really care about people knowing. Not anymore. “I do mean he was my boyfriend. So it sucks.”

“Oh,” Oda said. “Shit.”

“Yeah,” Chuuya replied. They briefly locked eyes. “He was a dick. But I loved him.”

“Sorry,” Oda said again. He frowned, looking up at the sky for a moment, some calculation going on behind his eyes, but he shook it off. Chuuya thought Oda had caught wind somehow that Atsushi was also dating Dazai, and wanted to ask about that; but he was too polite to press.

“Let me ask you something,” Chuuya started, “and I do mean this as a compliment, really. You’re . . . a bit of a hard-ass when it comes to the Mafia. Did something happen to make you hate us?”

Atsushi had pointed it out ages ago, two full universes ago. He seems almost pathological.

“I mean, I’ve seen the violence you cause around the city,” Oda said stiffly. “But . . .yes.” His face darkened, and he looked like the man Chuuya had interrogated all those lifetimes ago. “There was an incident with a mafioso about . . . six years ago. I saved his life . . . he ingratiated himself to me, stayed in my house for weeks, and then turned violent enough to get us both kidnapped. I managed to break out when some other group showed up and they had an all-out fight. Whatever he did, it got a lot of people killed. I swore I’d never go near the Mafia again, and then . . . of course, Dazai saved my life.”

“Who . . . was the mafioso you saved?” Chuuya said numbly. Fucking hell.

Oda shook his head. “Thought he was just a dumb kid,” he muttered to himself. “He told me everything about himself except what he actually did in the Mafia . . . favorite food, books. Joke’s on me. I never got his name . . . he had a black coat but most of the time he was so injured he was covered in bandages. Why, do you . . .”

Chuuya looked at him meaningfully, his brow furrowed. Are you fucking kidding me.

“Ah — you think—” Oda said, following. He tilted his head. “Oh. Your ability . . . you control gravity?”

“Who told you —”

“He talked about you,” Oda said, smiling. “His partner. Gravity-boy. He complained about you endlessly.” He smiled wider. “Had a crush on you even back then.”

Chuuya flushed despite himself, and Oda gave him a ribbing punch on the shoulder. He did remember that weird gap in time six years ago where Dazai had disappeared. He had come back even more sullen, even more reckless than usual. At the time, Chuuya had thought he was just being paranoid and that Dazai just had a way of getting under his skin. Now, he knew. It was because Dazai had caused the diversion, he had made it so that Oda would live, but Oda would hate him.

And he remembered another thing: that whole incident had pissed off the Mafia. And if Chuuya recalled, a unit was sent out to take care of some of the trouble. But they hadn’t rescued Dazai; they must have missed him. But . . .what if . . .

Chuuya pressed Oda for more details, and he obliged as much as he could remember. It was the turning point at last — maybe it could be their turning point, too.

“Not to be callous,” Oda continued, and Chuuya snapped to attention, “but is this going to put a damper in our plans for dealing with Liminal?”

“It’s me who’s gonna be callous, cos the Mafia is used to dealing with death all the time,” Chuuya said. “It’s expected that at least a couple of people will die and we just carry on.” He slipped a cigarette between his lips and was surprised when Oda pulled out a lighter for him. Fuckin’ charmer. “Anyway, Dazai would have wanted me to take down those assholes. And I don’t think he’d object to us getting along. As long as you don’t die in the process.”

“Sorry, is there a danger of that?” Oda wondered aloud.

“Always a danger with me,” Chuuya said truthfully. “I got a bad habit of killing my darlings.”

Oda didn’t reply to that, and Chuuya took a long, deep drag. The tobacco and nicotine was warming and calming, and his shoulders felt a little bit lighter.

“Can I ask you something else?”

“As long as this isn’t an interrogation.”

Chuuya gave a snort. If only he knew.

“Let’s say I tortured you, before we knew each other,” Chuuya said, but realized the metaphor wasn’t going to work. It was just a morbid joke for himself. He started over. “No. Let’s say . . . you had a choice to make but I thought . . . the choice would only paralyze you. So I made the choice for you and lied about it. How . . . how could I earn your trust again?”

“Isn’t trust and betrayal kinda your whole business?” Oda asked, raising an eyebrow. “You’re asking about forgiveness.” Chuuya nodded, and Oda let out a long sigh. “It’s a hard one. In this case, I’d say you wait for him to make a choice once again. And you respect whatever that choice is.”

Chuuya blew out a cloud of smoke and nodded again as if he understood. Oda bid him farewell and filed out with the rest of the crowd as he stood beside the grave, watching the stragglers as they left. Once again, he brought the cigarette to his lips and chewed the end.

“Wait for him to decide?” Chuuya muttered to himself. “Nah, fuck that.”

Atsushi dressed himself in a white turtleneck and grey slacks, stopping for a cup of coffee along the way before he met up with Kyouka. They walked side by side through the city streets, taking comfort in how they were overlooked as just another pair of teenagers, just another two people commuting to work. It had been a week of this and it was astounding at just how normal it was. How shedding that Mafia darkness, when it was granted to him, was as easy as leaving the Tower. It was like he was living in a different world.

The two of them put their phones in a bucket and stepped through security — Atsushi pulling up his collar to hide the spiked choker— and Kyouka went to check in with the nurse while Atsushi went into the doctor’s office.

Ougai Mori was actually a fairly good doctor. He took each case as a puzzle for him to figure out, used every resource that was allowed to him. His pride was mostly in his quiet competence; though Atsushi didn’t understand at all where his ambition had gone, he decided it wasn’t his business.

The most disturbing part of the whole thing was how perfect it was for him. Even the first day on the job made him realize Dazai knew him down to his bones. Dazai knew Atsushi would want to channel his horrible experience in the orphanage into something good. That he was not yet adept at being a leader, but with proper management, could be molded to build his own confidence and skill. That he had endless empathy and bottomless strength, and so he could be proficient both at holding someone’s hand and physically carrying a patient.

It had only been a week and he was settling into the routine smoothly. But shortly after Dazai’s funeral, he was beginning to wonder how much longer he could actually do this. Was he really happy here? It was perfect on paper, yes. But before he’d known what it would be like, what his life could be outside the Mafia, he had never intended to continue here forever.

They still could try again.

They.

Thinking about Chuuya was almost as painful as remembering their failures. If only Chuuya would . . .

Atsushi headed outside for his lunch break, wanting to clear his head by the waterfront. But as soon as he stepped through the door, he stopped. Across the street stood a man in a black suit, sunglasses, hands in his pockets. He was staring at Atsushi. No doubt he was Mafia.

Atsushi scowled. So Chuuya was spying on him now? Could it be that he was actually worse than Dazai? Atsushi didn’t let himself spiral down that road and turned, slipping out of sight of the man and taking a winding route towards the piers, careful to check he wasn’t being tailed. He spotted one more suited man on a corner, but managed to skirt him, and he finally sat down on a bench by the water.

It was a cold day, but the sun was out, and he watched the seagulls bobbing in the harbor, surfing the wake of the boats coming in. He didn’t even notice someone had sat beside him before they spoke.

“Want some old bread?”

Atsushi turned to find a young woman with long blonde hair pulled into a bun. She was holding a brown paper bag that Atsushi supposed was full of breadcrumbs.

“Ah, don’t seagulls eat clams, not bread?” Atsushi asked.

“Seagulls will eat whatever they can get,” the woman continued.

As if to demonstrate, she scattered some good-sized chunks of bread and the birds flocked. Atsushi smiled and took some himself, throwing the crumbs out and watching the birds peck at them. He turned back to grab some more, but she was no longer holding the bag. Instead, she held a double-sided card.

“You, though, probably have discerning taste,” she said.

Atsushi paled as she handed him the paper. On one side was an insignia he knew quite well and was not happy to see again. On the other side was a single word, scrawled in black ink.

Sorry.

“Feed the seagulls for a bit,” the woman said, and she stood up and walked away, leaving the paper bag on the bench.

Atsushi sighed. He should have stood up to throw the card into the water, but he stayed put, tossing more crumbs to the pigeons and sparrows. A few minutes later, another person sat down next to him, and Atsushi turned to tell them he was waiting on someone — and startled.

Chuuya was dressed in a blue button-down and black jeans, a black overcoat and plaid scarf wrapped around his neck. He wasn’t even wearing his hat, his red waves flying freely in the breeze. He was gazing out at the water, and Atsushi understood the tactic; they were just two people sharing a bench.

“How’s the new job?” Chuuya said quietly.

“It’s . . . it’s good.” Atsushi swallowed, hands on his knees. He was reminded of the stilted conversations he and Chuuya had shared when they were still fighting over Dazai, when Atsushi was still afraid of Chuuya. He smelled smoke as Chuuya lit a cigarette beside him. The scent reminded him of sex. “It’s what I should have been doing with my life all along.”

Chuuya nodded, taking a drag.

“Do you regret it?” he asked.

“What?”

“Everything.”

“Some of it,” Atsushi said honestly. “But not all of it.”

This was followed by more silence. Atsushi bit his lip.

“What are you doing here?” he pressed.

Chuuya sighed and took another drag of his cigarette. He seemed to be collecting himself, but Atsushi’d had enough. If he couldn’t collect himself in a week, ten more minutes wouldn’t do it — and he started to stand up, when Chuuya finally spoke.

“I’m sorry,” Chuuya said hastily, voice hoarse. Atsushi stopped, sitting back down. “I fucked up. And I can’t — I can’t do this whole thing without you. I don’t want to do this without you. I know. I was stupid. I was selfish. And you have every right to fuck off and do what he planned for you. But the truth is, Atsushi,” he said, and he turned to look at Atsushi at last, “I can’t live without both of you.” He saw Atsushi’s wide eyes, his mouth hanging open slightly, and he took a step back from that dramatic language. “I mean — I will,” he added. “But it’ll suck.”

Atsushi shook his head, heart pounding. He wanted to cry.

“Do you understand?” he said. “All I wanted was for you to apologize. Because . . . because Dazai never did. And I wanted to believe that you’re different. That you . . . recognize your flaws. And you won’t just use me.”

“I didn’t apologize before?” Chuuya asked sincerely.

“No,” Atsushi replied. “That’s why I . . . I was angry. But I also was afraid that I had . . . I have bad taste in men, it turns out.” He quirked a smile, reaching a hand across the bench. “I missed you, too.”

They held each-others’ fingers and for a moment, it really felt like they were just two young lovers on a date. Forget that Chuuya was the mob boss and that Atsushi was now a reformed assassin, just like Oda. They could just be young lovers on a date, if they wanted. If they decided to write their own story without Dazai. Right here, right now, this world wasn’t so bad. Chuuya was spreading out the Mafia’s influence, changing the reputation from a dark shadow to a criminal business that had settled into its place in the city. Atsushi no longer had that cloud hanging over him, he had found the means to do good. But . . .

Was any world good enough if Dazai wasn’t in it?

“You want to go back again?” Atsushi asked.

“Yes.” There was still no hesitation.

Atsushi had to admire Chuuya’s certainty; it was part of what made him a good leader. He tried to reflect back on when he had been so certain himself, back when he didn’t know how to eat if Dazai hadn’t put food in front of him. Now Dazai’s influence, the grief tied with his death, was more of an ache that never went away and sometimes pulsed painfully.

“But I . . . I won’t if you want to stay here.” Chuuya’s voice was shaking, as though he had only just decided this. “I’ll leave it up to you, Atsushi.”

Atsushi was tired. But they had done it this time . . . until they hadn’t. Those few days he had with Chuuya and Dazai were nothing less than bliss.

“Yes,” Atsushi said. He gripped Chuuya’s hand tighter. “I’ll . . . I’ll try again. We can’t give up, right? We’re only getting closer each time.”

“Can’t let him have his way,” Chuuya muttered. “I’ll save him just to spite him.”

Atsushi stood up, meaning to go back to work, and Chuuya followed, surprising him with a tender kiss on the cheek. Atsushi touched the imprint, flushing, and for a moment he regretted making that rash decision to leave everything behind once again, to throw this sunny day away for a future chance at a rainbow. But he saw again that flash of the other world, of himself and Dazai and Chuuya, all holding hands atop the ferris wheel, their whole lives before them to enjoy together.

He found that he would still throw one hundred worlds to the fire to get just another few days of that.

Atsushi wanted to say proper goodbyes this time, even if no one understood that it was for good. Chuuya, too, wrote out instructions for everything that was still ongoing, anything that would be left open-ended if he did blip out of this world. They left the cleanup for Liminal with Oda and Kyouka, giving clear verbal instructions. Chuuya put a long letter tucked into a wine-red scarf on Kouyou’s desk, along with the pen-knife she’d given him long ago. And then he left the Mafia Tower perhaps for the last time as a mafioso.

They met up in the safe house where Dazai had died. The place was haunted by him; it seemed a fitting reminder for what they had to do. Chuuya relayed to Atsushi what Oda had told him — that they were going back over half a decade.

“Six years,” Atsushi repeated. “He went back to when he was sixteen?”

“Yeah,” Chuuya replied, hands in his hair. “I knew he was crazy, but I didn’t realize . . .” He shook his head, palms pressing into his eyes. “And here I am thinking I can come up with a six-year plan like that. But I can’t do that shit. That was always him, that was always . . .”

“He said that to you, too?” Atsushi pressed. Chuuya nodded. When Dazai had interrogated him, he’d let it slip. My plan’s been in motion for six years. “Why would he say something like that if he didn’t want us to . . .”

Chuuya stopped him, putting a hand on his wrist.

“You can’t think like that,” Chuuya said sharply. “We’re not his pawns, okay?”

But they were. It was impossible to know whether Dazai had planned for this part or not. And impossible to know just how far he would go, how far his influence reached, if it meant he achieved his goal.

But that was the thing, wasn’t it? The real reason he had decided it was okay to kill himself: he thought he had left everything in their hands and that all of his pursuits were finished, his objectives completed. So what they needed to do was make sure he never accomplished those goals, give him an endless checklist. Refuse to cooperate, circumvent him, get in his way.

They weren’t like him. After their initial actions, they could only guess at what might happen and have a few plans in their back pocket and their own goals in mind. Don’t let Dazai have his way. Stay alive. Find each other. Keep Oda alive. Minimize collateral damage.

Chuuya was going to act first. He was the one who had been with Dazai the longest and they would be going so far back that Atsushi would still be in the orphanage for a few more years. And after Chuuya did what he could to disrupt Dazai . . . it was unclear what Atsushi would be doing after that. But they had an idea. It meant they would be separated for a long time.

Six years was a lot of ground to cover.

“If I die,” Atsushi said, voice shaking, “will you go back for me?”

“Every time,” Chuuya replied quietly. “But don’t think like that. We need to stay focused. We’ll come back together. I’ll keep a lookout on you as soon as I can.”

“But . . .” Atsushi bit his lip. “While I’m waiting, how will I . . . how will I know you weren’t just a dream?”

Even the few months they went back this time were difficult to keep a grasp on reality. Years meant it would be almost impossible.

Chuuya quickly searched his pockets. They hadn’t tried to take anything back with them before, but maybe a token of some sort would help. He came up empty, his eyes on his hands, and then he pulled his gloves off.

“Here,” he said, shoving them in Atsushi’s palm. And then he pulled his knife out of his boot and cut off a small lock of his own hair, tying it together. “It’s a little more obvious who this is from.”

He looked aside, his eyes wet.

“I’ll see you in a few years,” he muttered. “I guess this is goodbye, for now.”

“Well,” Atsushi said, giving a sad smile, “it’s not such a bad life, if you have someone to say goodbye to.”

“Fuck off,” Chuuya replied, grinning. “That dick was right.”

He turned to the page in the Book, hesitating. There was one last thing to do.

“I love you,” Chuuya said, looking up at Atsushi. “Have I said that before?”

Atsushi shook his head. “I love you, too, Chuuya.”

Chuuya cupped Atsushi’s cheek and leaned in to kiss him one last time. Their lips stuck together as they broke away, also reluctant to leave.

The Book glowed as they pulled apart, and it seemed like the white light pushed them further and further away from one-another.

* * *

Six Years

Chuuya blinked back into existence and for once felt light and limber rather than heavy and aching. He peeled himself out of bed, looking around the room. This was his old apartment, the one the Mafia owned and had more or less just plopped him in along with the rest of the young bloods. For a second, his heart hiccuped, wondering if The Flags were still alive, if he was going to have to go through all of that again, but as the memories from this world came in, he recalled that they died months ago. There was still a lot of other shit he was going to have to go through again . . . or not.

His body looked smaller, and he felt smaller. He dragged himself to the mirror and saw a skinny sixteen-year-old looking back at him, his red hair tied in a pom-pom of a ponytail like an English lordling, his oversized t-shirt eating him alive. He looked gaunt; probably sleeping like shit. And then the feelings and memories of this world started to nip at his head, forcing their way in, and he nearly fell to his knees.

Being a teenager again was hell. He was so angry, even angrier than he had been as an adult working under Dazai, and he was still a green mafioso attempting to command respect while being terrified a wrong move would get him killed — and all these hormones screaming at him on top of his new responsibilities, and dealing with Dazai’s shit, how could he ever have a clear thought when he was so goddamn . . .

Oh, god.

Just thinking of Dazai was getting him aroused, what the fuck. And it wasn’t just because of how intense this crush was: he’d just started sleeping with him a few months ago. The memories of these encounters almost made him gag. They were so awkward, the two of them rolling around this very bed, sweaty and sensitive, coming prematurely and getting hard with barely any provocation, manhandling and molesting each other for hours.

Was it weird that he was going to miss that when he . . .

Chuuya shook his head and moved to get dressed before the car picked him up for the day. After the incident with Verlaine, he’d been promoted from jewel running and hoped he would remember the ins and outs of the new job by the time he got to headquarters. Right now it was very uncomfortable with his split-mind: part of him a full adult, part of him sixteen. He supposed that the longer he lived as a teenager, the more he would be a teenager, those feelings and experiences shaping him more with all the future parts of himself hovering in the back of his mind and personality.

He pulled on a black suit that was poorly tailored, and remembered that in this world, he’d recently been measured for a new wardrobe — when he started seeing Dazai, he started taking fashion more seriously. He never would have admitted it to anyone, but he wanted to look good for Dazai; Chuuya chided his teenage self that in some other worlds, Dazai dressed him like his own personal peacock and it actually wasn’t fun. Yet those intense feelings of desire persisted.

Time travel was stupid.

Though he could feel things resetting as they drove to the office, it was even stranger to see everyone else six years younger. Still, he went about his day, trying to get back into the rhythm, relearning people’s names and faces, his heart pounding each time he reminded himself not to get too comfortable. Not to forget what he had to do.

Towards the end of the day, when most things were finally clicking back into place, Chuuya finally made a move.

“Where the hell is that shitty Dazai?” he asked aloud to Hirotsu. Hirotsu actually didn’t look much younger, and Chuuya was comforted by that. “Ane-san said he didn’t make it to the meetings this week. How can he still be doin’ better than me if he’s bein’ a lazy son of a bitch?”

Hirotsu tilted his head and under his mustache, Chuuya saw him give a sly smile. This was long before anyone found out they were sleeping together; but the more avuncular mafiosi knew they had the hots for each other. Apparently their antagonism was cute. And Chuuya used that affection to his advantage.

“He hasn’t been seen all week, actually,” Hirotsu replied. He shrugged as if to be nonchalant, but he leaned in conspiratorially. He wouldn’t say this to just anyone — but to Dazai’s paramour . . . “Mori-sama thinks he may be missing. Not to sound any alarms yet, but he would normally have checked in by now. I hear there’s a low-profile search going on, only a few people on the case.”

“Missing?” Chuuya sneered. “Good, I hope that bastard stays lost.” Chuuya furrowed his eyebrows. “But . . . I’d hate for him to come back just to catch me off-guard . . . better keep an eye on him. Hirotsu-san,” he added politely, attempting to polish his language the way Kouyou had taught him, “can you let me know who’s been sent to look for him?”

If it was anyone else, if he were his older self, Hirotsu might have hesitated or politely refused him. But in the old man’s eyes, Chuuya was a young man pretending not to be worried about his boyfriend. And he conceded.

Chuuya let it linger for a day. Then he found a person in spec-ops dripping with ambition and made a deal with them. Oda had given him enough information to figure where Dazai would be — and he fed that information to the spec-ops officer, who fed that to the lookouts, and so the information all came back to Chuuya without leading back to him directly. The hardest part was figuring out the timing, because if he sent in a team to go after Dazai while he was still at Oda’s, it would fuck everything up. Oda would hate the Mafia even more. So he had them stake out the house, coming up with reasons why they shouldn’t go in yet. At last, he heard back that no one had seen that strange red-headed mailman all day. And Chuuya struck — he sent in a rescue team.

By the time he arrived at the pickup spot with his team, the scene was already chaotic. He couldn’t tell who was who, and the whole bunker or whatever it was was bathed in darkness. Chuuya left his team and went off on his own, searching for his target, becoming more desperate the more dead ends he ran into. It was too early to turn back now . . . if he fucked up, he was going to have to live with the consequences until Atsushi found him again and then somehow steal the Book. But at last, he turned a corner and found him.

A tall, bound figure looked up at him. He looked older than his years, that stubble really aging him. While the rest of the Mafia team was to search for Dazai, Chuuya was here to rescue Oda.

“Damn, you look like shit.”

Chuuya knelt beside him and felt the resistance as he tore through Oda’s bonds. But once he was free, Oda looked at him curiously. Even as a teenager, Chuuya looked like Mafia. But he did still look young, and that was to his advantage. Oda still had that soft spot for kids.

“Who are you?” Oda asked suspiciously.

“Your saving grace,” Chuuya replied. “Come on. The Mafia’s here for that kid, he’s crazy. Let’s get you away from him.”

Oda didn’t need to be told twice to stay away from the Mafia — and from Dazai. He got to his feet, nodding.

“Nakahara,” Chuuya said, putting out a hand. Oda took it tentatively. “I’m with the Sheep. Whatever the Mafia wants with you, I’m here to mess up their plans. Come with me.”

Thanks to his earpiece, Chuuya was able to skirt around the rest of the team as he and Oda made their way through the underground maze towards an exit. They were both able to hold their own to fight off any enemies, and soon they dug their way out of the bunker and out into the night air.

“I gotta go,” Chuuya said, eyeing the exit. If he got caught now, he’d be fucked. “But you really can fight. You ever thought about fightin’ bad guys? Not like a cop,” he added in distaste. “Maybe like a private detective or something?”

“A detective?” repeated Oda, but Chuuya was already leaving. The Mafia were almost on his heels.

Chuuya ran into the night, slowing back to a steady walking pace as he went back to the city center. What would happen, if he planned it right, would be this: it would be discovered he was missing. It would be discovered he had arranged a rescue mission without authorization and had run off with someone else entirely than who he had set out to exfiltrate. When he disappeared, the Mafia would assume he was a traitor and come after him, and they would also come after Oda. Dazai would flip out over both of these things and reroute everything to make sure the blame fell squarely on Chuuya and no one else.

He was hedging on something he had seen in one of the other worlds in the Book. In it, he had refused Mori’s initial offer to join the Mafia. The Sheep had all been slaughtered. He had been chained up in the Mafia dungeons, then escaped and been a scourge on them until he was captured once again as an adult, and Dazai finally swayed him to join. It was his lifeline: that Mori and Dazai were both adept at creating exactly the circumstances they wanted, and they both wanted him alive. Even if he was being a huge pain in their asses.

This was how they were going to do it, him and Atsushi. One of them messing up Dazai’s plans quietly from the inside while the other fucked around more loudly on the outside. Atsushi was better equipped to be at Dazai’s side, especially since Dazai already expected Chuuya to antagonize him. And so Chuuya had to leave the Mafia and become their enemy. For now.

Chuuya slowed his pace as he approached the pier. Thanks to Gravity, he was still much faster on foot than any of the other mafiosi, and so he felt he could do one last stupid thing.

His phone rang, and he picked it up.

“Hey,” he said smoothly.

“What the fuck are you up to, slug?” Dazai snarled. There was something wrong with his voice; he’d just spent the last however many days severely injured. “Why are you running from us? You know Mori’s not gonna let you just slip away.”

Now, with the experience of being Dazai’s lover for almost a decade, he could finally read between the lines.

I’m not gonna just let you slip away.

“I know,” Chuuya said. He leaned comfortably on the railing, putting his hand on his chin. He didn’t even have any fake information to feed him. He just wanted to hear his voice. “Shouldn’t you be glad I’m leaving you, mackerel?”

“Ha, is that what this is about?” Dazai scoffed. “A cry for my attention? You’re more dramatic than a schoolgirl, Chuu.”

“Don’t ya know?” Chuuya retorted. “I hate the Mafia and would never join it.”

“You’ll be back,” Dazai hissed. “Crawling on your hands and knees. You won’t throw me away.”

I’ll never throw you away.

“Goodbye, Osamu,” Chuuya sighed. And he dropped his phone off the pier.

He was going to have to lie low, quickly, and for a long, long while. He’d stockpiled enough cash to last for a little bit, and he knew there were several Mafia apartments that nobody really kept an eye on he might be able to slip into once he’d lost his tail. But for tonight . . .

He got a full change of clothes from a tourist shop, just jeans and a t-shirt, and he stuffed the rest of his belongings into a duffel bag. And he headed for his old haunts in Suribachi City.

Dazai would probably know to look for him here, but Dazai didn’t know all the nooks and crannies of the makeshift encampment that he did. There were no more Sheep to disturb his privacy, either. And so he slipped into an alley under a bridge, long abandoned and overgrown, and he sat down on the soft ground. Making peace with his choices.

Are you conspiring with him? The Dazai who asked that was six years in the future and several lifetimes ago. Yet somehow he predicted it anyway. Now he actually was, but Dazai could be suspicious of only Chuuya.

He curled his arms around his legs, laying his head on his knees.

It was up to Atsushi to fly under that radar.

Chapter Text

Five Years

It had been almost a year with no word at all, no indication that everything in the back of his head was anything but a dream. But something felt different, every morning Atsushi woke up and any time he had to escape his body to escape the abuse, any time another orphan poked fun at him or a teacher hit him, his mind didn’t go to a magical land of sweets and parents; it went to a world where he was sitting between his two loving partners on top a ferris wheel, both of their arms around his shoulders. And he had to believe that one day, they would come for him. 

And there were the gloves. They had managed to stay with him, though he hid them and the lock of hair in his pillowcase, and then under the floorboards when he wasn’t sure how safe that was. In the first few months, he could have sworn they still smelled like Chuuya. Now they smelled like everything else in the orphanage: bleach and sweat. But he was still growing, and they were too big for him. It was assurance that they came from the future.

Now thirteen, Atsushi slept with them close to his chest every night, sometimes touching himself while wearing them, trying to remember how Chuuya had stroked him slow, how Dazai had held him firmly. A wet dream and a fever dream was what this was starting to feel like, both worlds threatening to tear his subconscious apart.

Until he appeared.

The trendy little downtown bar called Tomie didn’t seem like anything special, but it had slowly been gaining popularity among some of the younger people in the city. And it was getting to the point now that if they wanted to continue having that success, they were going to have to pay the piper.

Kouyou Ozaki folded her parasol and handed it off to one of her escorts, letting the second one take the lead inside as lookout. When out on business, she was nearly always flanked by at least two men in black suits, which was appropriate for a woman of her standing — even if she hadn’t been Mafia.

The owner, a young man in his 20s, offered to her a deep bow before he pulled out a chair for her. She took it, her hands folded in her lap, her red hair pinned up in a formal bun, watching the owner carefully. He was terrified — hands shaking, wiping the sweat off his head, eyeing the escorts that had moved to stand at her shoulders. This would either be very good for them or very bad.

“I appreciate you taking the time to meet with me,” she said smoothly. “This certainly is a lovely place you have. It’s getting a lot of good press. Needless to say, it’s also gotten the attention of some local organizations.”

The owner stood to pour tea for the both of them, which she took gratefully, even though some of it spilled on the saucer. He sat back down, clutching his own cup, and she waited for him to take a sip before she did. As he did, he seemed to be gathering his courage.

“Is this a shakedown?” he asked bluntly.

“Oh, no,” Kouyou said. She put a perfectly manicured hand to her cheek, looking offended. “Nothing like that, dear. You misunderstand. We would be partners.”

“Hm.” The owner looked as though he were trying not to cry, or laugh. “Like business partners?”

“Yes, exactly.” Kouyou sipped her tea. It was actually quite good, she would have to give this place a proper try some time, if they agreed to her demands. Otherwise they’d have no choice but to raze it. “You are smart, aren’t you? I suppose that’s why you’re doing so well.”

“And what . . . would this partnership look like?” the owner continued carefully. “I would provide . . . the bar. The money. And you . . . ?”

“Protection, of course,” Kouyou said obviously. “Keep the riff-raff out. Keep the customers coming in. And . . .” she added, batting her long eyelashes at him. He flushed, looking aside. “I think I could see myself coming to this place quite often,” she said, and she slid her hand across the table. Slowly, she inched it towards the owner’s, and he let her run her fingers over his knuckles, along his palm. “I might even bring my whole . . . team . . . my girls . . . here. Wouldn’t you like that?”

Oh, he was taking the bait, she could see it. Under the table, she could feel his legs shifting, her words having quite the effect on him. She withdrew slowly, hiding her hands back in her long kimono sleeves, sitting back. This certainly seemed like a done deal.

“It does sound nice,” the owner said, offering a strange smile. “But . . . I’m sorry, Miss Ozaki. I . . . I’ve already gotten protection.”

“Hm?”

She was so sure she’d won him over that it took a moment for the words to hit. But she heard something drop from the ceiling, followed by the grunts of her escorts as something pulled them by the back of their collars and slammed them into the floor. Kouyou surveyed the now empty space behind her as the dust settled and revealed a scrawny teenager a head shorter than herself. His hair was a little longer now, still wavy and cared for, though he looked like a punk in his leather jacket and black jeans.

Even though she knew he wasn’t dead, she didn’t think she would ever see him again alive. Since he left the Mafia, he had become a scourge on them — showing up to deals to take the other side, stopping bullets and eschewing assassinations, stealing things from under their noses — all of it hearsay because Dazai had made him his own special project. She was going to have to report this encounter back to Dazai, even though she hated doing anything to give him more power. But . . .

It was good to see he was okay. Underfed, under-height, but okay.

“Hey, sis,” Chuuya said. He adjusted his language, looking at her imploringly. “I was hoping we might be able to have a talk.”

Atsushi was on his hands and knees, scrubbing the floor, when one of the teachers called his name for what would be the last time.

“Nakajima,” he yelled. When Atsushi didn’t answer right away, trying to obliterate a stain he’d be punished for later, the teacher stalked over to him and pulled him up by the back of his shirt. Atsushi choked slightly against the chafing fabric. “I said, let’s go, Nakajima. We can’t keep our guest waiting.”

Atsushi was half-dragged along, trying to keep pace as they hustled towards the director’s office. The door was open, and he could see two people sitting inside.

“You’re either the luckiest son of a bitch alive,” muttered the teacher, “or the unluckiest.”

Atsushi was released before the door so that he could be seen walking in of his own volition. The director was sitting at his desk, stern, paperwork open in front of him, hands folded as he gazed across the room at the guest. Seated in the plastic chair was a young man with soft brown hair and a black suit. His wrists and neck were wrapped with bandages, but neither of his eyes were, and as the warm brown gaze met Atsushi’s, he nearly toppled over.

He had to stop himself before he blurted out, Dazai.

He was early.

“So sorry, director, that he was late,” the teacher said, offering a deep bow to each of them. It was over-the-top groveling — either they knew Dazai was Mafia, or he had already been waving his money around. “Diligent as always, the boy was busy cleaning. He’ll serve you well.”

“Sit down, Naka — Atsushi,” the director said, indicating the chair.

Atsushi did so, feeling the warmth radiating off of Dazai, resisting taking his hand or climbing into his lap. He had to act wary, afraid . . . after all, he was not supposed to know who this man was. A mysterious man who had showed up to buy him off the orphanage. He folded his hands together in his lap nervously, giving Dazai small glances.

“Dazai-san runs several factories throughout Yokohama,” the director said, nodding at Dazai. “There is a program that hires orphans with certain . . . skills. You’ll be paid a fair wage and taken care of. Isn’t that right, sir?”

“Room and board included,” Dazai echoed, smiling. “And some benefits, of course.”

It was the same story as the last time. Even in his old timeline, when he really hadn’t known Dazai, it had seemed suspicious. But the director had wanted to get rid of him and Atsushi was desperate to leave, and so he had gone along with it with no questions asked.

All the paperwork was signed, all the t’s crossed, and Dazai knelt in front of him, smoothing his hair, examining his awful haircut.

“We’ll get this fixed right away,” he muttered, smiling.

Dazai wrapped his arms around him and lifted him up, and the two of them headed out the door. 

“You work for me now, Atsushi,” Dazai said so only Atsushi could hear him. “Do you understand? You’ll be my righthand man, so I need to be able to trust you. I expect you to take this seriously or face the consequences.”

Atsushi nodded, arms around his neck, clinging to him. His stomach churned. So far, this was all very familiar, only it was all several years too early.

But . . . he shut his eyes and tried to think back to their plans, the possibilities they had outlined. It was hard to fish out those memories, like they were underwater and he had to dive for them like a bird. If Chuuya really had made himself an enemy of the Mafia, then Dazai was without a Second. He wouldn’t have taken just anyone — it had to be either someone that he understood inside and out, or someone that he molded himself. Atsushi would fall squarely in that second category . . . and once again he was going to have to pretend to be under Dazai’s control without truly losing his sense of self. This time, without Chuuya as an anchor.

Outside, they got into a black Mafia limo, seated side-by-side in the back. Atsushi realized he still had to play his part, nearly forgetting he wasn’t supposed to know yet that Dazai knew everything.

“Do you . . . know . . .?” Atsushi started carefully. “About . . . about me?”

“I know you’re special, Atsushi,” Dazai said, and Atsushi’s stomach turned over. His heart was hammering. It was those words that had always turned him to butter.

“Not . . . special,” Atsushi insisted. “I . . . I’m a monster.”

Dazai smiled. “Lucky for you,” he said, “taming monsters is my specialty.”

He removed his leather glove and placed it on the back of Atsushi’s neck.

Atsushi felt that negation quieting the tiger within himself, but more than that, he felt that electricity up and down his spine. He leaned into that warm skin, his body craving more. Being a teenager was awful; being a teenager with adult memories and feelings was worse. His stupid hormones were telling him to climb into Dazai’s lap, but as forceful as he was in the other lifetimes, Dazai hadn’t touched him until he was eighteen . . . although they were currently both underage. Still, he was a child comparatively, and especially compared to Chuuya.

“You — you negate abilities,” Atsushi said tentatively. He inhaled sharply, asking the same question he had all those years ago, in the future. “Are you going to cure me?”

“Cure you?” Dazai repeated. He looked insulted, and he squeezed Atsushi’s neck painfully. “This isn’t something to be cured, Atsushi — can I call you Atsushi?” Atsushi nodded dumbly. “Your ability isn’t something to rid yourself of, Atsushi-chan. It’s something to be honed, to be strengthened and used to our advantage. It is a privilege to have. Anyone who tells you otherwise is jealous. Or afraid.”

“But . . .” Atsushi shrugged him off, the pinching becoming unbearable, but that set Dazai off. Dazai was impossibly fast, and he seized Atsushi’s biceps, pulling him closer. He gasped, his eyes watering as Dazai stared him down.

“Let them be afraid of you, Atsushi,” he said quietly. “You, my tiger, will strike fear into the hearts of anyone who dares defy us.”

“But,” Atsushi started again, and he didn’t shrug him off this time. “I can’t . . . I can’t control it.”

“Not yet you can’t,” Dazai insisted. “I’ll train you. Lead you. It won’t be easy or pretty. All you need to do is obey me and swear fealty and I can help you. And give you a purpose.”

Behind Atsushi’s determination, he felt those bubbling emotions from the first time he had ever met Dazai. He had been in awe, absolutely star-struck to meet another person with an ability, and he was afraid that he would mess everything up somehow and be taken back to the orphanage. But though Dazai scared him, he had also instantly been in love. It had been the first time he felt that blind loyalty — he would do anything for this man, to stay in his good graces, to feel the warmth of his touch.

“I . . . yes, Dazai-sama.” He swallowed hard, those brown eyes still boring into his. It was awkward to do in the car, but he bent his head. “I . . . I do swear fealty to you. I’ll do whatever you ask.”

“Oh.” Dazai chuckled to himself and slid his hand up Atsushi’s arm. His fingers fell under his chin, lifting up his face again to look at him. “No, Atsushi-chan. Not to me. To the Port Mafia.”

“The — the Mafia?” Atsushi tried to slide back in the car seat, trembling, but Dazai held him firmly in place.

“Ah, let me introduce myself properly,” Dazai said, grinning. “Osamu Dazai, Port Mafia Executive. But you,” he added, “if you’re good, you can call me Osamu.”

Chuuya hadn’t exactly been expecting a teary reunion, but was still startled when Kouyou yelped and lobbed a knife at him. Like himself, she had quite the array strapped under her kimono, those long and loose sleeves the perfect concealment, and he realized just in time to bend backwards, dodging it.

“You little  — traitor,” she hissed. She lunged at him with a second knife, and he leapt up onto the wall to avoid her. He squatted down on it like it was the floor, face in his hand, surveying her. “How dare you show your face to me, Chuuya. After all I did for you, and you betrayed us for nothing.”

“Not for nothing,” Chuuya echoed. She was searching her person for a better weapon, but the shock of seeing him had unsettled her, and she was too worked up to think straight. “It was for a reason. A good one. That’s what I’m here to tell you.”

“Spit it out, then,” she said firmly.

Chuuya eyed the setup the bar’s owner had left behind. One of the little things he missed was unfettered access to as much alcohol as he wanted; he hadn’t realized how much it had numbed his grief, his uncertainty, his physical pain from his constant injuries.

“Can we talk over a drink?” he asked, tilting his head.

It was the wrong thing to say.

“What?” Kouyou blushed, and she threw another knife at him — this one embedded in the wall with a wobble sound and Chuuya just managed to dodge it. “You left the Mafia and so now you’re hitting on me?”

“No!”

Chuuya realized too late he sounded disgusted —  she was not appeased and he dodged one more knife before she settled down. But aside from their unfortunate age difference, dating her would be like dating his aunt. And . . .

He jumped down off the wall, hands in his pockets, and he said something he wasn’t sure he’d ever said aloud to her before, in any lifetime.

“It’s not that you’re not beautiful, Ane-san,” he said evenly. “But I like boys. I love Dazai.” 

She regarded him curiously, a mixed expression of understanding and pity. Yeah, that felt about right. On some level, she must have known, even though some of the mafiosi often dismissed their antagonistic flirting as a phase. In this timeline, they’d only spent about a year together; in the ones where she was his mentor, his mother figure, certainly she knew he was gay.

“That’s not how you’re making money, is it?” she said quietly.

“No,” Chuuya said dismissively. Twice, actually, he had, both times with someone he would have slept with for free; but she didn’t need or want to know that. “I’m a mercenary.”

“I see.” Kouyou eyed her two escorts, who were still out cold on the ground, then her green gaze met Chuuya’s. “So it’s about Dazai, is it? This whole cat-and-mouse thing isn’t some sort of sex game, right?”

“Ugh,” Chuuya said reflexively. Okay, maybe this was why he hadn’t come out to her before. She was too accepting. “Nothing like that. But yes . . . it’s about him.”

Chuuya nodded at the table, and they sat down once again. The owner quietly got a new teacup for Chuuya and poured them both a fresh pot. He crossed his legs, putting the napkin in his lap, trying to show her that he hadn’t forgotten his manners. He may not be wearing a hundred-thousand yen suit anymore, but he was still a man of class. They both drank the tea quietly, glancing at each other over the table. She was waiting him out, like a professional, and at last he put down his cup and started the conversation.

“Dazai,” Chuuya started. “Something bad’s gonna happen to him. I can’t . . . I can’t really explain how I know. But he’s . . . he’s been off-kilter even since he got kidnapped. You know he has.” Actually, he didn’t really know how much time she spent with Dazai, but since they were both executives, they inevitably crossed paths. “The way he is,” Chuuya continued, “his . . .tendencies.” Kouyou’s eyes flashed a moment — she knew exactly what he meant. “They’re going to go too far one day. And it’s going to get a lot of people hurt, aside from himself, and I . . . I need to stop him.”

“So you have a plan to save him,” Kouyou insisted, nodding, “but why not stop him from the inside?”

It wasn’t an official ability, but a skill she had, that voice as smooth as velvet. Seduction. Long ago, far away, she had wanted to teach Chuuya that art, but he refused.

Come back to the Mafia, Chuuya. 

Chuuya looked aside. “I tried, but . . . I need to be on the outside, to keep him looking the other way. But you’re right . . . that’s . . . why I need your help.”

Kouyou’s rouged lips pursed; she was biting the inside of her mouth. But she was hearing him out instead of sending her demon on him, so he was still in her good graces. For now.

Chuuya hadn’t left the Mafia with nothing — he’d kept a couple of contacts who he kept on his side with carefully plied money and resources, and they had given him information. It was thanks to them he was able to keep up with Dazai’s dealings, intercept him and interrupt him when he could. But for the next steps, he needed someone higher up.

“I’m only going to ask you for one thing,” Chuuya said carefully. “Well, two things. First . . . not about Dazai. There might be a girl who joins the Mafia . . . she might become an executive assistant or possibly specialize in knife-wielding. Promise me you’ll look after her and listen to what she wants.”

Kouyou tilted her head, but she was unofficially the guide of the young women in the Mafia anyway. That request was more a foot-in-the-door for the next one, and she quietly nodded.

“Second,” Chuuya continued, “it won’t happen this year, and maybe not next, either. But . . . Dazai is going to . . . ascend.” Kouyou raised an eyebrow, perhaps confused. For all Chuuya knew, Dazai was already an executive. Where else was there for him to ascend, then? “When that happens . . . only the executives will know the truth. I need you to let me know as soon as that happens.” 

When Dazai replaced Mori, it was done quietly. The identity of the Mafia boss was kept under wraps, for outsiders and low-ranking mafiosi alike. His contacts wouldn’t have the information he needed.

“Why do you know what will happen?” Kouyou asked, her voice low and dark.

Chuuya and Atsushi had brainstormed some ideas for this. A year ago, before they went back. Chuuya thought the most straightforward lie was the easiest. 

“He told me,” Chuuya said smoothly. “Back when we . . . he fed me a lot of lies, Ane-san. But he also spoke aloud of his future plans because he didn’t think I would believe him. He needed — needs — a second-in-command, and there was a time . . . when he thought it was going to be me. Haven’t you wondered why I’m still alive?” This did seem to get her attention, and she shifted. “If he hates me so much. It’s because he . . . he loves me, too, Ane-san.”

This was the lie that hurt the most. He’d relied on the fact that Mori and Dazai hadn’t killed him in other timelines, but he had no proof of the reasoning. There was nothing that indicated Dazai had any sort of affection towards him. But it was the lie that got Kouyou’s attention the most. Whether he had hit her soft spot for him as her old protege, or soft spot for a doomed love story, she agreed.

* * *

Four Years

The second interruption was harder to execute. Dazai had an eye on Akutagawa for years, but the fact that he picked up Atsushi early gave Chuuya that little bit of leeway. They didn’t have a lot of information — all he and Atsushi knew from conversations with Gin in the previous timeline was that Dazai had approached them after a young Akutagawa had attacked some men, and said he was “not ready” and so he would have to “choose someone else.” That was when he took Gin.

Chuuya had assured Atsushi that he would put an eye on him as soon as he could. But that had fallen through, either his lookout hadn’t gleaned Dazai or didn’t understand what he wanted, because he heard it all through the grapevine through his Mafia contact that there was a new up-and-coming Mafia guard dog. Already, he had the reputation of being vicious and bloodthirsty. He would be fourteen years old.

As soon as he heard the news, Chuuya put his tendrils out in the city to find the Akutagawa siblings. It was possible he was already too late, that they had tripped up and should have known Chuuya’s departure would kickstart everything much earlier — but soon his intel came in and he found them both.

They were, it seemed like, in the midst of their own operation. Gin was small and personable, and she was talking to a person on the street while Ryuunosuke used Rashomon from the shadows to rob them. It was subtle, something Chuuya never would have attributed to Ryuu, and he was a little bit impressed. But they could only keep the man’s attention for so long — and he turned around before Ryuu had time to hide.

“What the—” the man snarled. Rashomon’s tentacles sheathed back into Ryuu’s coat. “A little ability-using thief.”

He lunged at Ryuu, and Ryuu shot back out with his weapons, slicing through the man’s jacket, and he cried out — causing several other people to look over. Gin recognized the situation and ran to stop her brother, who was now angry and wouldn’t be appeased. Chuuya sighed.

Quickly, he jumped in front of the man, blocking Rashomon’s blades with his gravity aura. Ryuu’s eyes went wide, and he only doubled his attacks, even though it was clear nothing was getting past Chuuya. He made deliberate eye contact with both of them, offering a quick wink, before he turned to the man on the street.

“Run!” he said, and he beckoned the man to follow him. Overwhelmed, he did — over his shoulder, Chuuya put a finger to his lips and gestured for the siblings to follow him, too, as he led the man into a quiet side-street. They stopped, catching their breath.

“That was close,” the man muttered, standing back up. “Thank you. I swear, Yokohama is overrun with these little mutant brats. Someone ought to do something about it.”

“Oh, yeah,” Chuuya agreed, “someone ought to take out the trash.”

He punched man in the stomach, making him double over; then he launched himself off the man’s hunched shoulders to jump on his back and wrap his legs around his throat. With gravity aiding him, it only took about two minutes for the man to fall to his knees and pass out in the quiet street.

Chuuya got back to his feet to find the Akutagawa siblings in the intersection, staring at him. He beckoned them closer with a nod of his head.

“Christ, ain’t anyone teach you two subtlety?” he said.

“We manage just fine,” Ryuu said sharply. His voice was as rough as ever, and there was a rasp behind it Chuuya wasn’t sure he’d heard before. “You’re Nakahara, aren’t you? The mercenary. A big dog like you shouldn’t be stealing scraps out from under other people.”

“It’s Chuuya.” He lit a cigarette, the same brand he always smoked. The familiarity was levelling. “We’re all dogs in this damn city, kid. And this ain’t my quarry, I was just giving you a hand before you got yourself arrested. You’re right, I don’t need your damn scraps.”

At nearly eighteen, he had established himself in the underworld with enough of a reputation to keep up some of the lifestyle he’d enjoyed in the Mafia. His Harley boots were a little scruffier, and he was drinking middle-shelf whiskey, but he wasn’t starving on the street. After a year of bouncing around the empty Mafia apartments, he finally had a place of his own that he paid for in cash. Much more than he could say for these two sorry souls.

Gin regarded him carefully — he was technically an adult, but with his small stature, he’d hoped to gain their trust as someone closer to them than to the establishment. After a moment, she bowed politely and carefully stepped over to the unconscious man, taking everything of value she could get her hands on. Ryuu continued to scowl.

“With a powerful ability like that, you should be living it up,” Chuuya said.  “How d’you feel about actually earning a living?”

Despite how abrasive Ryuunosuke was in every timeline, it was surprisingly easy to work with him. He was gentler when Gin was around, and she, too, was a good ally in a fight. Mostly he employed them for shakedowns of people who owed him money, and sometimes hired them out as a tag-team for work. But the first thing he did was set them up with an actual place to live — a small studio apartment with clean, running water.

Chuuya kept his ears pricked for Dazai’s movements, although he sometimes ran into the Mafia’s traps. But now, they would probably be looking for him even more. If Dazai never got his hands on Gin, he wouldn’t be able to force Ryuunosuke’s hand, wouldn’t be able to engineer that entire confrontation in the tower. And so he hired spies, poured his resources into gathering Mafia intelligence, spending his nights as vigil around windows and on top of buildings, trying to glean information. Meanwhile, the Akutagawa siblings were becoming some of his trusted allies, which was part of his and Atsushi’s long-term plans all along.

If he had been closer with them before, maybe he would have known about the real problem. It wasn’t Dazai, or the Mafia, or even the law enforcement. It was, existentially, the side effects of poverty itself.

Chuuya had a vague idea that Ryuunosuke was sickly, and he occasionally had coughing fits that sidelined their operations. But Gin had it worse. Chuuya hadn’t known, because the Mafia had paid for her medical care to the extent she had no obvious symptoms. Without that, it became very clear just how sick she was, and that Chuuya’s resources were insufficient.

For a while, he was still hanging on for Kouyou to finally inform him of Mori’s “passing”, wait to be able to get her to the clinic. But they couldn’t wait any longer.

Chuuya sat by himself in his apartment, feeling lonelier than ever as he came up with a plan. He wished he had some way of contacting Atsushi that wouldn’t fuck up almost two years of work, wished that Dazai was on his side to help him manipulate his own circumstances. But his bed was cold and empty, and he was on his own.

Well, not entirely on his own.

After everything was set up, Chuuya gathered the siblings for a job. They met around the corner from a bank late one evening, watching the armed patrol around the dock. The bank was on the outskirts of the nice downtown area, and this branch was getting shut down. And so they needed to transfer the customers’ safe boxes to one of their other locations — and that was going to happen tonight. They could just take all of it . . . but it was wiser to take some of the contents of a few of them, so that it would be a while before anyone noticed things were missing. Gin was an expert lock-pick and Chuuya himself could just bulldoze through anything — they were an ideal pair for this situation.

It was, rather obviously, a Mafia trap.

Dazai didn’t know where he lived, or he would already be chained up in the Mafia dungeons. But almost two years of studying Chuuya’s movements in the underworld had given the mob executive ideas of what kinds of jobs he usually jumped on. This kind of easy target stank of someone else’s doing. But it was perfect for what Chuuya needed.

The guards by the loading bay held their guns two-handed, long automatics, armored vests covering their chests, helmets on their heads. None of that was a match for Rashomon. Ryuu stood on the roof and stretched out his dragon-shadow knocking the helmet off one of their heads. The guards looked up, and that was when he struck again — this time slicing a cut across their cheek.

“Hey!”

One of them opened fire, the other stopped him, noting that it looked like a kid. But Rashomon kept lashing out, snapping at them, whipping, and finally the guards agreed to shoot. They fired once — Ryuu deflected it — and a second time. This time, he ducked, and went still. The guards below looked at each other curiously, wondering if they should report it, but ultimately deciding it was too much of a hassle.

It was a distraction so that Gin and Chuuya could get in place. Chuuya opened the back of the armored car that contained the boxes and Gin slipped inside while Chuuya flattened himself on top of the truck. He could hang on easily with Gravity, while she opened the boxes to find the valuables. There was a long red light a few blocks away from the truck’s destination — that’s where they would get out.

Well, that was the plan he told them, anyway.

Chuuya held fast to the truck as it drove into the night, the streets calm for a weeknight, the sky clear. It was far too quiet — and that’s when Gin started coughing.

“What the hell is that?” the driver asked, turning to the passenger.

“Someone outside,” the second man said dismissively, shrugging.

Only they couldn’t keep ignoring it, or attributing it to the wind. The truck suddenly made a strange turn, heading off to the wharf instead of its usual route. Chuuya’s heart pounded — god, he was glad this was all part of his own plan, because if this was really a detour, he would have had no idea what to do. He tapered his breathing as the driver and guard got out of the truck, slowly walking around to the back — and before they opened it, several other people joined them from the warehouses.

Men and women dressed in black suits, their guns drawn, flanked the door, barring escape. The Mafia. At the front of the pack, stepping over to open the truck himself was a young man in a black coat, his brown hair blowing in the breeze off the water, the bandages over his eye nearly tangling in his tie. He looked exactly the same. Just as trepidatiously beautiful.

“You, erm, open this for me,” Dazai commanded.

The Mafia grunt to his left stepped forward, pulling the doors open — and he was immediately hit in the chest with a knife. Dazai ducked as Gin jumped out of the van, throwing punches and knives, and she was holding her own, but Dazai moved to grab her wrists — and Chuuya jumped down from the roof at once, catching his hand.

Dazai stared down at him, his eyes wide, and a manic grin spread across his face.

“The slug beneath my feet,” he mocked. “Your slimy reign ends here.”

“You need a whole army to take me down,” Chuuya spat back. “Gin, run.”

“You’re just jealous I have a whole army,” Dazai retorted.

He seized Chuuya’s neck, and Chuuya twisted around him, but the said army was closing in on him, and even though he was strong, he was not strong enough to fight off twenty men while negated. Chuuya felt ropes binding his wrists, strapping his arms to his body, and a bag went over his head.

“Let her go,” Chuuya pressed, and he was waiting for the expected retort when something sharp and hot stabbed him in the neck. A wave of nausea hit him, his knees buckling, and he felt his face smash into the pavement as he passed out.

* * *

Wake up, slug.

Chuuya opened his eyes to a blurry dark room. He couldn’t move his arms — or any part of him — and even though he couldn’t see very much, the smell was familiar. The Mafia dungeon. He must be in a cell.

“Get up,” Dazai beckoned, nudging him with his foot. “I don’t want to be here, either. But Mori insisted.”

“Where’s . . . Gin?” he managed.

Whatever the fuck Dazai dosed him with, it was potent, he’d have to watch his ass from now on. His tongue was heavy in his mouth, and adjusting his gravity just made him float a little bit in his shackles. Despite everything, Dazai actually chuckled at this.

“A lockpick and fighter,” Dazai mused. “I think we’ll keep her, actually. Thank you for your contribution.”

Chuuya growled to keep up appearances. Good. Gin would get the treatment she needed. They would have to disrupt Dazai’s plans for Akutagawa in a different way. Or . . . he supposed they had three more years. Chuuya only hoped Ryuunosuke had followed his own instructions on what to do if they were captured.

“That’s quite the tantrum you’ve been throwing for almost two years,” Dazai continued. “Are you ready to come back now?”

Dazai knelt in front of him, that wide, curious eye prodding at him, trying to peer into his soul. This close up, Chuuya could smell his cologne and the bitter clinical tang of the bandages. It sent his heart pounding into overtime: how many times had he dreamt of that scent in the throes of passion, longing for the last time he felt his touch?

“I don’t know what the hell you’re doing,” Dazai whispered, “or what you think you’re doing, or who put you up to this. But stop it and get back on track or I’ll leave you to rot here for the rest of your sorry life.”

Chuuya took in a breath; he knew at some point Dazai would suspect him of throwing off his plans, of having seen the Book. And no matter what he said, Dazai wouldn’t be deterred; so instead, he was going to say something that hurt them both.

“Who put me up to this?” Chuuya said incredulously. “You did!” Dazai raised his eyebrows. “I left because of you! All you ever did was twist me around and cut me up, and so I had to get away from you. Because you just collect lovers and friends so that you sacrifice them when it’s convenient for you. I won’t be your dog.”

“You’re so stuck on me! So just to inconvenience me, you’re throwing your life away?” Dazai teased. “You think you’ll be able to get what you want by just running ragged around the underworld? Mori made you a good offer. You’re dumb, but you can fight, you’ll be up the ranks in no time. You can’t catch up to me, of course. But it’s the best you’re going to get.”

Chuuya laughed.

“I’m the one stuck on you?” he spat. “Sounds to me like you can barely fathom trying to rise in the ranks unless I’m here for you to one-up. To tease. You sent a fucking army after me. There are thousands of other people in the city you can seduce to do your bidding — and yet, you’re only after me. Even though you keep saying you don’t give a shit about me. Sounds to me like you’re my dog.”

Chuuya felt that stinging slap across his cheek — Dazai had not even bothered to hit him with a hand, but with the back of his glove. Chuuya replied by clearing his throat and launching a wad of phlegm into Dazai’s face. It hit his cheek and dripped down onto his shirt collar. Dazai seemed surprised, but he wasn’t cowed.

“It’ll be blood you’re spitting next time,” Dazai said sternly. “Maybe if I beat you senseless, you’ll come to your senses.”

“Maybe,” Chuuya agreed. “But I doubt Mori would like that. And he knows you well enough that he wouldn’t fall for any of your excuses.” Dazai faltered, putting his glove back on. “Better keep me in one piece.”

“Who’s to say it was me?” Dazai muttered.

The threat was looming; Dazai didn’t like being tested like this. Without warning, he tightened his fist and punched Chuuya across the face. He knocked him again from the other side, and then once again, and Chuuya gasped as his head was thrown around. He spat again, and there was red mixed in there from his cut lip. But he continued to grin like a maniac.

“That’s right, Daz,” Chuuya cooed. “Trigger me. Let me take out the whole fucking mob. Mori will love that.”

Dazai stopped, stepping back. In this timeline, he had only seen Corruption once, and he didn’t have the chance to study how it worked. Chuuya had finally bested him.

Dazai growled and raised his fist — this time a needle glinted out of it as he stabbed Chuuya in the shoulder. The drug worked fast as it hit his bloodstream, and Chuuya passed out once again.

At nearly three in the morning, the city was fairly quiet, and it was even more quiet beneath the streets in the Mafia underground tunnels. When he had used these in the last timeline, he had often run the wrong way, having to rely on his tiger senses and GPS to keep him from getting lost. But now he’d been running around for over a year already, and he even knew more than one way to get into the dungeon.

Atsushi stepped out into the dank and dusty lockup, his step commanding and careful as he dodged around the cells, trying to avoid anyone else down here. They weren’t keeping too many prisoners nowadays, but any one of them would talk if it meant a lighter sentence . . .and Atsushi couldn’t risk getting caught now. But he had to find . . .

There he was. He was chained to the wall, his short frame nowhere near the floor, and his head was lolling on his shoulders like he was asleep. He must be drugged to keep him subdued, or he would be able to escape too easily. Or . . .was this a trap?

Atsushi came up with a quick excuse and then unlocked the cell door with a claw. Chuuya stirred but didn’t look up, and Atsushi approached him carefully, looking him over. He was more thin than muscular now, though Atsushi could see his biceps flexed as his arms were held up, and his hair was longer, swept over his shoulder in a braid. He didn’t look unwell — aside from the bruises Dazai had given him — and when his eyes fluttered open, they went wide with recognition, and affection. And Atsushi fell on him, wrapping his arms around his neck.

“Chuuya,” Atsushi whispered, his voice shaking. “What are you doing here? I thought — did you really get captured?”

“It — I didn’t have the means to take care of Gin. But don’t worry about me,” he replied hoarsely. “Shit -- are you allowed to be here?”

“I’m not supposed to know you yet,” Atsushi said, voice low. “If anyone asks, I was sent to drug you more. I assume . . . did Dazai suppress you?”

“Yeah,” Chuuya said. He groaned and adjusted himself as best he could in the chains. “He must have come up with some drug to negate me . . . since I was his special project or whatever. It’s like those fucking manacles he made, but he doesn’t have to be here. You should go,” he pressed. “Before . . .”

Atsushi shook his head, trembling. He couldn’t explain all these strange feelings churning inside him, but all that anxiety and fear was now calmed somewhat just by being in Chuuya’s presence. His partner, in all of this.

For years, he had only the vague hope and memory of all they had been planning for. Chuuya was only in the back of his mind, not quite tangible, not quite real, not yet. As he worked with Dazai, trying to get close to him in any way he could while still maintaining his role as submissive, every time he doubted himself, he would wonder if all of this was an illusion. If Chuuya was someone he had just met once in a dream. But now . . . everything was more solidified, and it gelled together like a wound scabbing over.

And . . .

Atsushi sat up, his eyes locking with Chuuya’s blue ones, his breath heavy. He’d never more keenly felt their age difference than this moment; holding him should be enough, but it simply wasn’t, not at fourteen with his desire plainly coursing through his blood. Dazai had yet to touch him . . . and he was both grateful and frustrated by that. But surely this was different . . . he and Chuuya were partly still how old they were in the other world, weren’t they?

His finger traced Chuuya’s lower lip, wanting so badly just to kiss him and assure him everything was going well. Maybe he could — no one else was around.

“No — stop it,” Chuuya hissed. “You’re fourteen, Atsushi. We can’t.”

“That isn’t fair,” Atsushi replied. “I . . .” He leaned in, next to Chuuya’s ear, surprised by his own boldness. But these years of want and love had built up in his chest, in his body. “I think of you, every time I . . . ” he whispered. “Of both of you.”

“Don’t,” Chuuya said, his voice catching. “That’s not fair.”

Atsushi shut his eyes tightly, taking a deep breath, trying to center himself. Chuuya smelled of sweat and blood. He slid his hand down Chuuya’s chest and slipped into his pocket — Chuuya squirmed until he realized Atsushi was giving him something: a burner phone. He planted a swift kiss on Chuuya’s cheek before pulling away at last.

“I don’t want to spend another three years not hearing from you,” he whispered. “What do you need from me now?”

Chuuya shook his head.

“Nothing yet,” he replied. “I’ll be outta here soon enough. And it won’t be three years,” he added. “I still gotta . . . do you remember our final phase?”

Atsushi nodded, his heart pounding. Not three years, but still . . .

“Is there anything I should know about your . . . exit strategy?”

Chuuya grinned.

“Oh,” he said, “you’ll know. And he’s gonna be a real mess afterwards so prepare yourself for damage control.”

* * *

Atsushi met with Dazai first thing the next morning, as they often did. He greeted him with a low bow, then presented the schedule for the day. Without Gin and Chuuya, Atsushi had been assigned as his personal assistant as well as his second-in-training. Dazai had him clear the entire afternoon to deal with Chuuya, and this time Dazai wanted Atsushi to accompany him. Atsushi tried to keep his face neutral as he nodded along, but his heart hammered. Was this a test of some sort? Did Dazai suspect they were working together? If he did, it would put all of their plans into disarray . . .

Atsushi would be lying if he said the last year hadn’t been mostly blissful. It was a terrible way to put it, but the truth was that in the previous timelines, his fourteenth year had been spent scrubbing floors and being locked in a cage when he wasn’t being beaten. And while Dazai was not exactly kind, Atsushi thought he was softer around the edges — except when it came to hunting down Chuuya. He didn’t yell or even make snide comments if Atsushi made a mistake, though Atsushi still leaned into acting panicked, and he was very quick to give Atsushi physical affection. This was perhaps crueler than he realized, as Atsushi was still, now and forever, in love with him. Part of him screamed for Dazai to hold him closer, to kiss him, to run his hands down his back and up his legs, only he knew that if that happened, they would both regret it. But just to be in his presence, in his confidence, day after day . . . fate was being kind to him in this timeline. And every day he worried that something would happen to make Dazai realize he was a fraud.

Luckily there were enough distractions to keep him focused on Chuuya.

Not two hours later, there was a loud bang and a full-on front assault on the Mafia Tower. Someone had planted a bomb as a distraction and had entered the building itself through the back entrance.

Dazai had Atsushi tail him as they ran to the security room, sending out as many men as he could on the way, his expression furious from the absolute gall of an obvious attack. He pulled up the footage, crossing his arms impatiently as the smoke cleared, and Atsushi watched the blood drain from his face as a figure appeared on the camera.

Atsushi clapped a hand over his mouth. No wonder Chuuya had laughed. But he was a little bit horrified.

A tall readhead in a brown coat was staring straight at the security camera. He raised a pistol and aimed it squarely at the camera before he fired and the screen filled with static snow.

Oda.

Dazai barely had enough time to save face, his expression morphing from distressed to angry and back to neutral.

“Shitshitshit,” Dazai said aloud.

He dropped everything and ran, shouting orders into his earpiece, telling everyone to stand down. Atsushi didn’t envy him, having to come up with some reason why he was letting this man into the building, letting him slip into the dungeon and rescue his prized prisoner. But even as he furiously worked, quickly regaining his composure and reconfiguring his entire strategy, Atsushi didn’t miss the misery in his expression. Two of the three men he loved were looking at him in the eye and actively working against him, one purposefully, one unknowingly. The third one, standing by his side, as of yet undetected.

“He needs to feel complacent,” Dazai said to both Atsushi and Mori when pressed with what had happened. “That stubborn asshole will come back to us of his own volition, mark my words. He can’t resist me for much longer.”

It was one of the only times Atsushi had seen Mori be visibly annoyed with Dazai, but Mori was in on whatever Dazai’s scheme was, too. He likely knew that Dazai’s only goal in this life was to protect Oda — but Mori still was not happy with what had gone down. Was Mori concerned, Atsushi wondered, what would happen to the Mafia if Dazai killed himself before Chuuya was back? Was the mob boss only willing to go along with what Dazai wanted if the line of succession was clear? If that was the case, then it was better for himself if Chuuya stayed away . . . but . . .

He missed Chuuya something awful. But he would tell him not to come back if that’s what it took.

As it turned out, neither Dazai nor Atsushi would have to worry about Mori’s concern for much longer.

Two weeks after his imprisonment and Chuuya was still waking up dizzy from the stupid drug. He had switched apartments and not taken any jobs for the time being, hoping to evade the radar. Ryuunosuke was pissed at him, and from what he’d heard from Oda, was now raging at his need to get into the Mafia. Being among the Detectives would be good for him. But everything was bad again for him and Atsushi. The events were, as Dazai had put it, back on track. They might need to pivot to a backup plan.

Chuuya threw on a hoodie and went outside to get some coffee, sitting inconspicuously at a local corner shop. When the waitress set down his steaming mug, she also set down a yellow sticky note. As his eyes passed over the missive, his pocket buzzed — Atsushi. Both of the messages were the same.

Time to rope in the last player of their game.

Stake-outs were boring as hell, but his heart still jackrabbited in his chest as he waited for days, weeks, for everything to get set up. If this didn’t work out, they might have to start all over again.

It was a normal day, if a little cold. Chuuya joined a small line of people walking into a brutalist building, an old government facility that had been retrofitted and leased out to small businesses. He got past the metal detector and security and waited patiently until he was taken into a clinic room.

The door swung open and admitted a doctor dressed in a white lab coat. His black hair hung down in front of his face, his red eyes creased kindly. But they went wide when he saw who was sitting in the room.

“Hey, boss,” Chuuya said. He sat back, crossing his legs. “Let me be blunt. I want to keep that pain-in-the-ass from killing himself in four years. And I was hoping you might help.”

Chapter Text

Two Years

“I don’t understand why you have to infiltrate these vermin.”

Chuuya nearly laughed — Ryuunosuke really was always the same person. His consistency was almost comforting.

He was in Uzumaki, getting reprimanded once again by the waitress for smoking, sitting across the table from Akutagawa and Oda and explaining the new phase they were moving into. Oda had been in his confidence ever since he’d heeded Chuuya’s call for exfiltration two years ago, and, after talking it over with Mori, Chuuya explained to him the vague umbrella of his grand schemes.

“You have a man on the inside,” Akutagawa continued tersely, “why not just have them take care of this?”

“It’s too important to leave in their hands,” Chuuya lied. The details of why he needed Atsushi to serve as distraction instead of doing the job himself were complicated and private, not something he thought Atsushi would appreciate him sharing. Especially since he hadn’t actually asked him about it yet. “Besides, the entire point is that my man on the inside is to stay completely under the radar — no stealing anything from under the crime boss’s nose. That’ll be my job. But first I gotta earn his trust back.”

He shifted uncomfortably, knowing, as they all did, just how bad that might get.

“Right, that makes sense,” Oda said.

It had taken Chuuya a fair amount of time to internalize not having any resentment towards Oda for what Dazai had done; but it wasn’t his fault. And he was willing to help them now. He hadn’t quite believed that he died in every other universe and that the mob boss was trying to keep him alive, but now, finally, Chuuya was trying to offer them concrete proof. Or, at least proof to Oda. Akutagawa didn’t know about the time-travel or world-hopping; he thought it was better that way.

“What I don’t understand,” Oda went on, his expression becoming more compassionate, “is why you still love him, if he has never indicated that he even cares what you do for him?”

Chuuya had heard a similar sentiment a dozen times in a dozen ways, from Kouyou and Hirotsu, from Verlaine, from Atsushi, even. You’re worth more than him. It was supposed to be a compliment, but he found it insulting.

He stuck a cigarette between his lips and stood up to go.

“Let me bring you back The Book,” he said, “and then you’ll understand.”

* * *

He had let himself be bound, his arms encased in iron, four escorts on his cardinals each with a pistol aimed at his head. It was overkill, especially since he had come here willingly, but he understood. Over the past four years, he had stolen millions of yen worth of goods, injured thousands of their men, defied them countless times in countless ways. But now the time had come to go into the final phase of their plan.

Chuuya could not have been more relieved, and afraid, as he was escorted into Dazai’s office at the top of his ivory tower. It would be incredible to be with him every day once again; but he had no idea what kind of man awaited him, and what that man felt towards him.

The door closed behind them. The office looked nearly the same as he remembered — ornate, cold, ugly. The man sitting at the desk also looked the same, perhaps a little less gaunt but a little more haunted, and as he approached the prisoner, Chuuya could see the circles under his eyes.

Dazai surveyed him, from his heavy manacles to his bruised face — even though he had approached the Tower looking to talk, he’d been met with a swarm of armed men he had to fight off, and he was exhausted. As their eyes met, he thought they each sensed that exhaustion in the other. He was tired of being chased, of being dogged, of watching his every step, and Dazai was perhaps tired of chasing him. 

“You can get rid of all the theatrics,” Dazai muttered, waving his hand at the four armed guards. “Take his cuff off, too. You’d all be dead if he wanted to escape.”

Chuuya wanted to give him a sharp smile, but Dazai looked anything but impressed. The guards looked at each other, unsure. But then from out of the shadows stalked another figure who stepped carefully around to stand at Dazai’s shoulder. For a moment, Chuuya wondered where he had come from — under the desk?? — but shut that lurid line of thinking down.

“I’ve enough guard already with my second,” Dazai said, and he reached out a long-fingered hand to brush the second man’s face. “But you all can stay as witness. I would put him on a pillory for a public flogging if it wasn’t ultimately a waste of time. We’ll have to make do with a more private flogging.”

As the guards worked to undo all the bindings, Chuuya surveyed Atsushi Nakajima, two years older than the last time they’d had any significant face-to-face contact. His white hair was longer but neat, and he had a short ponytail similar to what Chuuya had when he was the same age. His round face was passive, hard, and he had not so much as flinched or leaned into Dazai’s caress. But his eyes . . . they still had that shine he remembered. That glow. He was still the Atsushi he knew.

The same one who had texted him earlier this morning, telling him Dazai was expecting him to give himself up any day now. And telling him to hang in there.

“Chuuya Nakahara,” Dazai said dramatically. “Also known as king of the slugs. Slimed up here on his belly, laying down his arms to join the Mafia.” Chuuya didn’t answer, his eyes downcast. “Now what makes you think I’ll take you?”

“You know I’m an asset, Dazai,” he replied. “Better keep me close as an ally than as an enemy.”

“Or,” Dazai replied, “I could keep you locked up as a pet until we need you. You’re pretty feral, slug. I had a cage specially built to keep that beast at bay . . . with help from a person you know pretty well. You even borrowed his hairstyle.”

Chuuya’s face went red. That was an incredible bluff, if it was one. Verlaine knew how to contain him, but would either of them have actually tolerated the other enough to build such a thing?

Dazai stepped towards him, hands behind his back.

“Prove to me you’re more than just a powerful animal, Chuuya,” he said simply. “Swear your fealty. Subjugate yourself to me. And mean it.”

“I . . .” The word were still hard. “I swear . . . to uphold the honor of the Mafia, to be loyal to the organization, to respect the hierarchy of command, and to be subjugated to your word, Osamu Dazai.” 

Dazai smirked.

“Louder,” he said.

Chuuya repeated the words, looking at the floor, and as he said Dazai’s name, his eyes flickered up to meet his. Dazai was enjoying this far too much.

“You should kneel,” Atsushi said coldly. “Don’t you dare raise your head until Dazai-sama tells you to.”

Humiliation burned in his face, resentment and desire twisting in his gut as he bent a knee, taking off his hat and inclining his head. Atsushi was beautiful in this commanding role, his icy stare terrifying, and there was honestly something very appealing about it. But Dazai interrupted his thoughts with a polished oxford dangling in his face. 

“Pure groveling isn’t enough for you,” Dazai said quietly. “Do I need to tell you what to do with this, Chuuya? Or are you going to be a good boy?”

Chuuya froze, staring at his shoe. It felt like his mind had crashed — he understood, but he didn’t believe it. No fucking way. He couldn’t. He couldn’t. But . . .

“You need a hint?”

Dazai brushed the tip of his shoe against Chuuya’s chin and Chuuya flushed. In another lifetime he would have broken his fucking leg, he would have flung his shoe out the window, he would have gotten up and left. But they had worked for four years at this, and he couldn’t throw it away. He had to get back into the Mafia, whatever it took.

Without making eye contact, Chuuya poked his tongue out from between his lips and licked a single line up the shoe from the toe to the tongue. It was bitter and raw with a texture like spoiled molasses. The taste would linger for the rest of his life.

“Ha, oh man,” Dazai laughed. “He really did it. Gross, now I got slug juice on my shoe.” He lightly kicked Chuuya in the face before stepping away. “I’ll have to get you to clean it next.”

He leaned over to Atsushi and whispered something, who then gave a quiet command to the other guards. They dispersed, and a strange air settled in the room as Dazai stared down at him.

“Leave us,” he said hoarsely. Atsushi nodded and stalked out the door. Leaving him alone with Dazai.

There was a weight in the air. Chuuya was reminded of the electricity flickering between the three of them the last timeline, when they were finally all on the same page. But though the atmosphere sparkled and cracked, it was much heavier. It carried with it dread.  

Dazai abandoned all decorum and grabbed Chuuya by the arms, pulling him to his feet and slamming him into the desk. Chuuya saw stars from the force of the impact, and Dazai swooped back in before he could recover. It was a bad reminder of when he’d been interrogated the last cycle: something like that was going to happen again. And he was going to give in.

“Four years. Four fucking years, slug. What was the point — you wanted me to miss you?”

“Believe it or not, not everything is about you,” Chuuya spat.

Even though, oh, of course it was. Everything, absolutely everything was about him. But he had to make his excuses, even if Dazai could see right through them.

“It wasn’t worth it, after what happened with the Flags. They died because of me — because I was Mafia. I couldn’t let something like that happen again. But I . . . I haven’t been able to get the answers I wanted . . . so . . .”

It hurt, to admit without saying so why he had left Dazai when things were just getting good between them — because he was afraid someone else would come after him. As if Dazai couldn’t take care of himself. As if Chuuya couldn’t face any threats. All of this was fabricated anyway, even if it was taken from his real feelings and experiences. But he couldn’t bring himself to outright lie, because he thought it was still painfully obvious that he loved Dazai.

But did Dazai even love him anymore, if he ever had?

Maybe. Dazai was still possessive, just like Verlaine had been. Verlaine, who had killed all his friends so he would have no one else, and at some point in the past worlds he would not have put it past Dazai to do the same. He had certainly tried to kill some of Chuuya’s allies in this world . . . but was that out of his twisted love? Or was it hatred?

“You were always an awful liar, Chuuya,” Dazai said quietly. “Your whole life is tied to mine. Were you not happy with the treatment I gave you? With my attention? So now you would rather be my slave? I told you you’d come crawling back.” He stepped forward and seized Chuuya’s hair, pulling his braid back to expose his throat. “Let’s pick up where we left off, shall we?”

He undid Chuuya’s collar to skim his lips along Chuuya’s neck, biting his skin as he worked his way down, his free hand going immediately for Chuuya’s crotch. Chuuya moaned aloud, having to hold himself back, holding in four years of pent-up tension. Four years of longing, of desire, four years of sleeping with anonymous men with soft brown hair and long limbs, four years of masturbating to the lingering memories of other worlds where they ground passionately against each other. 

“You really just spent all your time trying to piss me off,” Dazai hissed, and he slammed Chuuya against the desk again. “Dogging my steps like the mutt you are, trying to curtail the Mafia any chance you got. Do you hate me so much, slug?”

Dazai hastily undid Chuuya’s belt and pulled his pants down, seizing his waist. Chuuya’s eyes fluttered shut, and he pushed back against Dazai, nabbing his wrists and trying to fight him off, but Dazai twisted out of his grip and pulled Chuuya’s arms over his head, using his whole weight to bend him backwards over the desk. Chuuya’s entire body was on fire, aching, and he kicked out, unsure if he should be resisting this more. But he lost all his strength as Dazai’s lips kissed up his neck, as he tugged on his earlobe and whispered.

“This doesn’t feel like hate to me, does it?” Dazai growled. He shifted to trail a hand down Chuuya’s body, kneading a palm against his erection. “I knew it, slug. I bet you touch yourself thinking of hate-fucking me,” he hissed. Chuuya groaned, throat tight. “I’ll give it to you, since you want it so bad.”

He pulled both of Chuuya’s wrists higher, his other hand going for his own belt. Chuuya managed to glance down at him; whether it was love or lust, Dazai was riled and hard. Chuuya lost all composure; he spread his legs, folding his knees, and Dazai thrust inside him.

Chuuya whimpered in relief, in release, and he wrapped his legs around Dazai’s hips, urging him on, taking him in. Something in his body language, in his movement, must have communicated his feelings, because Dazai eased, his grip less tight, his expression softening. He bent his body over Chuuya’s, flushed, inching closer and closer until their faces hovered an inch apart, their gasping breaths beating against each other in the space between their lips.

“Dazai,” Chuuya moaned, clenching his thighs. I love you. I love you. But he couldn’t say it; instead he scowled like he was in pain, writhing on the desk, arching his back. He came, unable to take it anymore, his head tilted back, crying out, nearly screaming his name, but Dazai continued to thrust into him aggressively, the desk shifting against the floor.

“Chuuya,” Dazai whispered, and he shuddered inside him. 

There was no tenderness anymore. Dazai pulled out of him, hastily dressing again and stepping away. Chuuya pulled on his own clothing languidly, concentrating hard on his own simple task so he wasn’t overwhelmed, and he didn’t even see Dazai come back and wrap his hands around his neck.

Chuuya choked, then felt something bite into his skin, and when Dazai’s hands moved away, there was still something constricted around his throat. It was a collar, belted at the back with a ring in the front, two sharp needles sticking at him from the underside and holding it in place. With wet eyes he looked up at the man he loved.

“You can’t seriously think I’ll give you free reign after what you’ve done,” Dazai said, voice breaking. “Call it a preventative measure.” A shiver shuddered up Chuuya’s back at the wording, remembering the handcuff. The ring was likely for a chain, so that Dazai would be able to negate him if necessary. “And I hope you liked that drug I used on you when last I caught you, dog; it’s what you’ll get for disobedience. I hope I don’t need to use it too often . . . it’s expensive.”

Chuuya brought his hand to his throat, fingering the ring absently. He was now well and truly collared like a feral dog. To add insult to injury, Dazai took a chain from his pocket and hooked it to the ring, pulling him in tight. Chuuya followed quietly as Dazai lead him out the door and into the hands of a guard, who would bring him to his assigned housing. Then Dazai walked off into the night without another word.

Chuuya felt like crying, but he didn’t, not until he was finally alone in his apartment. It was near identical to the one he had when he’d left, and he fell sideways onto the bed, tears spilling out of his eyes. He kneaded the sheets, letting himself feel sorry for himself, when there was a knock on the window. He looked up to see that white-haired boy gazing at him. 

Chuuya shook his head, but then felt a buzzing in his pocket. The burner phone.

I’ve swept your place for bugs already. The message said. But you can do another one.

Chuuya almost laughed, and then he nodded, allowing Atsushi to crawl inside. Chuuya watched as he unlatched the window, unwilling to get up, his body aching from the encounter. Atsushi knelt beside the bed on the floor, running a finger over his wet cheek. Their roles were reversed now — Atsushi as the trusted second, Chuuya as the guard dog, and something about that stung. He wasn’t used to this power dynamic, and he couldn’t help but feel like a failure, even though they had engineered this.

“Chuuya,” Atsushi said quietly. “I’m so relieved you’re back. This was so hard without you.”

Chuuya sniffed, leaning into the hand running through his hair. Dazai had fucked up his braid, and it knotted in Atsushi’s fingers.

“You look good,” Chuuya said, voice broken. “Hot, even.”

Atsushi’s lips flickered into a smile before they contracted back to neutral. There was something manic in his expression as he looked Chuuya over.

“You look . . .” he started, but Chuuya already knew. Atsushi tentatively touched the collar and Chuuya flinched. Still tender. “Oh, Chuuya. I’m so sorry.”

“This is kinda what we anticipated,” Chuuya replied. “I’m fine. Let him freak out. Let them all underestimate me.”

“Please,” Atsushi said softly, and he leaned closer to the bed, “please, can I kiss you?”

He didn’t wait for the answer. Maybe he knew Chuuya was too worn down to fight him. But Atsushi’s lips brushed against his and it was warm and chaste, and it felt so familiar. A reminder of a better time — setting a resolve for their future. If he wanted more of that, they would have to work to secure it. Atsushi didn’t push any further, but it was a long while before he pulled away, and he uttered a small sob. Chuuya combed a lock of Atsushi’s hair behind his ear, his fingers coming to rest on the little ponytail and fluffing it absently.

“Has he . . . ” Chuuya decided he didn’t really want to go down that line of questioning and pivoted. “He looked very, uh, intimate with you. I can’t tell if he’s actually that affectionate or if he was trying to make me jealous. Has he been gentle?”

“Mostly,” Atsushi admitted. “He . . . he still has to help me with . . .” His hand not currently tangled in Chuuya’s waves knocked on his own collar. Chuuya was baffled how he still needed it. Was it a crutch? “And it feels . . . quite intimate. I’m . . . I’m essentially in your place, Chuuya. So I have all his affection and attention . . . though I don’t know who he’s sleeping with. He hasn’t . . . he hasn’t even kissed me. But I think he knows that when he touches me, it’s driving me crazy.”

”I’m sorry it’s like this for you,” Chuuya said quietly. “I already went through four years without being able to touch him and it was hell. And you gotta wait more.”

“That . . .”Atsushi started, looking aside. “That didn’t look like fun for you, Chuuya.”

Chuuya’s lips pulled into a dry smile. At times like this, it was amazing they were all compatible at all.

”You don’t like it rough,” he said obviously, “but I do. Call it fucked up, whatever you want . . . but that aggression really works for us. Only . . . I wish it had been a discussion between us instead of . . .”

He trailed off, unsure of why he was talking about this now.

”Did we . . . make him worse?” Atsushi whispered.

“No,” Chuuya insisted, but that had yet to be seen for sure. For him, things were certainly going to be worse. But for Atsushi, he hoped they had already been much, much better. “It’s subtle, but you’ve done what you could. He didn’t torture me. We’ll see what kind of crap work he gives me tomorrow, but . . . as for what happened, I think if I had told him no, he would have backed off. Sorry,” he added, closing his eyes. “Maybe I should have tested him. But . . . I wanted him too badly.”

Atsushi made a small noise at that, perhaps vocalizing his own unfulfilled want. Chuuya kept his eyes closed but he heard some movement followed by the weight of a body on the bed beside him. Atsushi’s warm arms circled him, and they fell asleep to the sound of one synced heartbeat. 

Six Months

Two days after Atsushi’s birthday, Chuuya snuck a note in his pocket as they passed in the hall. It was identical to the one he’d put there the last time.

Midnight, where you kissed me.

He didn’t live there anymore — never had in this timeline — but the building still existed and they both could access the roof. Once they met up, Chuuya brought him over the rooftops and broke into the oft-unoccupied apartment of one of their fences. Atsushi had expected something like this, but still was in awe to find a bedroom scattered with roses and candles. And Chuuya asked what he wanted with every step as he laid Atsushi down and drew pleasure from every inch of him.

They made love gently and kissed until Atsushi’s lips were sore, until he was covered in subtle love bites, his body aching deliciously. He felt like a brat for demanding sex and attention for all these years, but Chuuya was insatiable and it was clear he had been wanting this just as badly.

Afterwards, Chuuya offered him a cigarette as they lay side-by-side, naked and staring at the ugly ceiling. Atsushi still was not a smoker — Dazai also often offered him one, but he decided it wasn’t something he wanted to do in any timeline.

“I think it’s time, Atsushi,” Chuuya said. Atsushi looked at him, his heart beating faster. “It’s been over a year without incident. Not that I’m beneath his notice, but his guard is coming down. I think he still believes I’ve seen the Book, or know about it, but he thinks I’m fumbling. I kinda am,” he sighed. “But luckily I’m not alone. We have backup.”

Atsushi didn’t think Chuuya was fumbling exactly. He brought poise and competence to every job he was given, making connections and doling out brutality where it was called for — he could see how Chuuya had made executive in the first place, and why Dazai had always kept him by his side in the previous universe: he was very good at his job. But because he was given no team, no authority, his connections ultimately lead to nothing, his threats empty. He was doing well despite Dazai, but he would not be able to advance without his blessing. Both of them knew this was a purposeful message: you are nothing without me.

“Got it.” Atsushi figured he would be in charge of finding a window where they could put their plan into action. “I’ll talk it over with Gin tomorrow, find a time in his schedule when he’s out of the office, busy.”

“Not enough,” Chuuya said pointedly. “He needs to be thoroughly distracted.”

Chuuya glanced over at him, unsmiling, and Atsushi’s pulse skyrocketed. He didn’t say anything for a minute, mulling it over, and Chuuya quickly backpedaled.

“We can do something else if you don’t want—”

“I do want to.” It felt like something was lodged in his throat. “I do. But . . . I need to do it in a way where he . . . still feels in control.”

Chuuya grimaced.

“Now you’re thinking like Dazai,” he mused. “I sometimes wonder if by trying to make him better, we’ve made ourselves much worse.”

* * *

Atsushi felt ridiculous as he contemplated the art of seduction and how to get Dazai’s attention without being obvious about it. Even more ridiculous, he felt disgusted with himself for being upset at the fact that Dazai continued to respect his space. Though his fingers lingered sometimes in his hair or on his neck, he didn’t push it any farther. Atsushi contemplated seeking Kouyou’s advice, until he finally understood something.

He was in the local business district, speaking tersely with the owner of a tailor shop. In the previous timeline, he would have been sent only to kill someone to send a message; in this one, he was the negotiator, with Kyouka at his side as the living threat and his own bodyguard. These situations were inherently less dangerous than when he was on the prowl; but they were not without their perils. And he still made mistakes — he had never been perfect or tactical, even in the best universe. And it was when he messed up the most, made the incredible slip-ups, that Dazai felt compelled to comfort him. Even the first time, in the previous timeline, Dazai had kissed him to make him calm down and fucked him to get him under control. If he put himself in that situation again . . .

He spoke about it vaguely with Chuuya, when they were able. Chuuya being back at the Mafia made everything feel more manageable, even if they couldn’t be affectionate, even if it was a little bit suspicious they interacted so often.

“Don’t think about it too much,” Chuuya said. “If a situation arises where you can see a way to . . . mess around . . . that’s the way to go. Shit happens all the time, I don’t think it’ll take too long. We don’t need to rush this.”

Patience had never been a virtue for him, especially when he had been aching for Dazai for literally years. But Chuuya was right, and something arose almost on its own.

In Chuuya’s place, Atsushi often acted as a liaison between the unknown and unseen Mafia Boss and their dealings, the so-called face of the Mafia. A warehouse of stolen goods had come in, and the thief, actually someone they usually got along with, had come sniffing them out to sell them. Atsushi had checked out the cache and reported back to Dazai; the goods were nice — too nice, in fact. It was likely that their rightful owner were bound to come after them. And so Dazai had decided on scorched earth. They would do the deal, buy the goods, and then turn around and kill everyone on site.

And Atsushi decided he was going to fuck it up.

The first part went well enough, and he shook hands with the thief amiably. But he signaled too early to Kyouka, who lay in wait, and one of the other men fell dead before the goods were in the clear.

The thief pulled his hand back at once, reaching for his gun.

“I see what a deal with the Mafia really means,” he hissed. “Tell your boss this is from me.”

He was quick — and he shot Atsushi in the shoulder before he spat in his face.

“Fuck the Mafia boss.”

Real, hot anger burned within Atsushi at those words, and he felt the Tiger inside him fighting to get out. He let go, transforming, and the thief ran, pushing him aside, racing out of the warehouse, meanwhile Kyouka and her assassins team worked on the inside, but Atsushi was distracted. He could have caught up to him immediately, but he meandered, and he was outside the warehouse finally pouncing on his prey when he heard the explosion. The entire shipment of goods — hundreds of thousands of yen worth — went up in flames.

“No!” Atsushi cried, staring in horror at the conflagration, and the thief managed to shoot him again. Atsushi was too distressed now to transform back, and he clutched his bleeding shoulder and swiped across the man’s neck with a knife.

The whole thing was very messy. Atsushi called Dazai at once to bring in the cleaners, which for a time included Chuuya, but did not any longer. Atsushi sat kneeling outside until a shadow fell across him. He shuddered.

“Dazai-sama, I—”

“I need to treat that shoulder wound,” Dazai said mechanically. “Your apartment’s closer than headquarters.”

* * *

Atsushi continued to apologize as they went to his Mafia-assigned apartment, getting himself into hysterics the more and more he pleaded. Dazai, for his part, said almost nothing, taking his coat off, his gloves off, before he started stripping Atsushi. This wasn’t anything sexual — or it hadn’t been before — it was just that they needed skin-to-skin contact for the negation, and Dazai need to see all his wounds. But Dazai’s gaze lingered momentarily on his muscled stomach, on his prominent collarbones, before he pulled out a chair and sat Atsushi in front of him.

By this time, Atsushi was crying, both from the pain of having glass and bullets pulled out of him and from the fact he had disappointed Dazai. He’d worked himself up enough that he wasn’t entirely sure how much of this was acting and how much was the feelings he’d shoved down all these years, in all these worlds.

“I’m sorry,” Atsushi said. Tears continued to trickle down his face, and real fear was rising in his chest. Dazai had looked very angry, and not being able to see his face anymore sent a shiver up his spine, sent him into a spiral. He had seen Dazai in the other world choke Chuuya, handle him roughly — would he do that to him now? He knew Dazai better than he ever had before, and he still could not predict his moods. “I — I won’t — I can’t let that happen again. I promise—”

“Quiet,” Dazai purred, that annoyance in the back of his tone. “Shit happens, Atsushi. Stop crying.”

“But I — I’ve failed you.” He wiped his eye delicately, trying not to scratch himself as Dazai cleaning up his bullet wound shook him slightly. “I’m useless if I let you down.”

Dazai sighed, putting aside the bloody cotton pad.

“How long have you been with me now, Atsushi-chan?” He hummed. His tone was lighter, but he was squeezing Atsushi’s shoulder. “Four years?”

“Nearly,” Atsushi said.

“And how old are you? Seventeen?”

Atsushi’s heart nearly stopped, but he tried to steady his shaking voice.

“Eighteen,” he said.

“I know how old you are,” Dazai replied swiftly. His hand squeezed tighter. Did he know what that age meant to Atsushi? “I’m making a point. You’re too old to get tied up in the small stuff, Atsushi. People make mistakes, sometimes shit hits the fan — am I happy when mistakes are made? Of course not.” Atsushi felt the cooling liquid of the local anesthetic on his shoulder followed by the sharp sting of the needle. Dazai hadn’t waited quite long enough before starting the stitching. Atsushi couldn’t be sure if he was being sloppy to send a message or if he was simply distracted. “But when that happens, what you absolutely cannot do is what you are doing. You’re old enough that you need to acknowledge your mistakes and move on. We cannot afford to get caught up in it so much that you lose yourself.” He pulled the thread tight and Atsushi made a noise at the sudden pain. “I need you to focus, Atsushi. I need you.”

Dazai smoothed over the plastered gauze on his shoulder, and each touch sent a spark across Atsushi’s skin. His hand lingered, moving towards his neck, and Atsushi reeled in his words. I need you. Was he being purposefully sensual? Was he teasing him? He must know . . .

“The problem,” Dazai muttered, his voice low, “is the reliance on this collar. It’s a crutch, Atsushi.”

He crawled his fingers over the clasp and snapped it open, every movement sending signals down Atsushi’s spine. Atsushi gasped again as Dazai pulled the spikes out of his skin and put the collar aside . . . and then he pulled both of his hands away, spreading his legs so that Atsushi was perched on the chair without touching him. For a moment, Atsushi’s heart beat, panic starting to overcome him: it had been years since he had been without the collar or the negation — what was going to happen? What if he destroyed his apartment or hurt Dazai? But . . . he could feel the rumble of the tiger within himself, and it did not come out. Still, he was shaking.

“See?” Dazai teased. “You give yourself too little credit.”

Atsushi shook his head. “I’m scared,” he said, honestly. “Please. Please, Dazai-sama.”

“Fine,” he conceded. “But starting tomorrow, you’re going to slowly wean yourself off that. If I can’t trust you without the collar, then I’m relying on a piece of jewelry. Are we clear?”

“Yes, Dazai-sama,” Atsushi replied. “Please . . .” Atsushi’s voice caught in his throat as he said his next words. “Please, touch me.”

“If you insist.”

Dazai’s tone was still tinged with anger, but Atsushi stood up stick straight as Dazai’s fingers fell on his waist, slipping around to lay on his stomach. His other hand slid up his leg, negating him thoroughly. Dazai leaned over him, resting his head on his shoulder. Hot breath fell on his ear, and Dazai began to speak to him in low tones.

“Do you feel the tiger now, Atsushi-chan?” he asked.

“N-no,” Atsushi said. He still could feel the tiger, it was just much quieter than usual. More subdued. But he couldn’t think anymore. The hand on his leg crawled down to his knee, slipping between his thighs.

“What do you feel?” Dazai whispered.

“I . . .” Atsushi leaned his head back on Dazai’s shoulder, his breath becoming heavy, his skin hot. “I feel you, Dazai-sama.”

There was nothing ambiguous about this, and every nerve stood on end with the anticipation. He held back a moan as Dazai’s teeth tugged on his earlobe.

“Do you want to feel me more, Atsushi-chan?”

Atsushi shut his eyes, trying to keep them from welling up any more. Their dynamic was so different now . . . he was still a loyal subordinate, still under his thumb, subject to his word. But Dazai saw him as someone he could trust. And . . .

Dazai had asked him.

“Yes,” Atsushi said, voice shaking. Could it possibly be . . .?

The hand on his chest slid up his sternum, moving up to hold his face.

“I want you, too, Atsushi,” Dazai whispered, his voice almost reverent, and Atsushi could have melted into him.

Dazai pulled Atsushi’s face around, and Atsushi sighed in relief as Dazai kissed him, pushing gently, kissing across his lips and warming him up before he pressed deeper, widening their kiss. At once, Atsushi opened his mouth to accept Dazai’s tongue, that taste so familiar yet different. Dazai’s hand between his legs spidered up to brush his crotch, touching him over his clothing first and then dipping under his waistband; he whimpered as Dazai stroked him gently.

Dazai broke away, a string of saliva hanging between their mouths. Atsushi felt like rubber, pliant and flexible under his hands.

“I—” he started, wondering whether to be bold. “I’ll do anything you want. Please . . .”

He didn’t have to fake the desperation. He had been pining over his boss for years, and not only was he finally getting to fuck him, but for the first time, they were on the same page about this. He wanted this. Dazai wanted this. There was still fear; but this moment was blazing with desire.

Dazai kissed across his scars, licking the wounds at his neck, and Atsushi squirmed pleasantly in his arms before Dazai pulled him to his feet. He practically threw him on the bed facedown, bending him over the mattress, his legs dangling off the side, and Atsushi heard the shuffling behind him of Dazai taking off his clothes. Lips fell on his back and he felt hot skin on his own as Dazai bent over him, ribs pressing into his spine, his thick erection prodding his back. Atsushi grabbed the blankets, bracing himself, as more hot breath fell on his ear.

“Can I come inside?” Dazai asked softly.

Atsushi thought he might faint.

“Yes,” Atsushi replied, barely able to speak.

Atsushi relaxed his muscles as two fingers slid into him, and he gasped, gripping the sheets, pleasure rippling up his body. Dazai pressed into him gently, prodding, making sure he was ready before he aligned himself and plunged inside him. Atsushi cried out, trying to hold on, even as Dazai’s hands kneaded his back, mouth finding places to kiss and bite, and Atsushi leaned into him. This was a position of submission; he always had given Dazai what he wanted, but for the first time Atsushi felt Dazai was dominating him because Dazai knew he wanted to be dominated. As they ground against each other, Dazai thrusting into him over and over, whispering his name, he felt like Dazai saw him as an equal partner in this act. Towards the end, his nerves singing, his temperature rising, Dazai once again asked, can I come inside, and Atsushi cried out yes, throwing his head back in ecstasy.

Dazai crawled into bed beside him, pulling him tight against his chest. Atsushi was still shaking from the intensity, his body and mind still elsewhere, but he heard Dazai’s familiar words.

“You’re mine, Atsushi,” he said, in that same tone as he always had, in the other worlds. “You belong to me.” But this was followed by something new. “You’re the only one I can trust. Only you. You would never betray me.”

Atsushi nodded, in a stupor, but there was something different about Dazai’s gaze. His eyes were almost sad, and he looked nearly as exhausted as Atsushi felt. Now that Atsushi knew Dazai had been aware of the harm he was causing all along, he wondered if he had always looked this way. Or had Chuuya’s departure from the Mafia really done a number on him, that he was scraping for true allies wherever he could? Atsushi almost felt bad, once again realizing that all the people Dazai loved were acting against him, behind his back.

He traced a finger down Dazai’s cheek, and Dazai closed his eyes gently.

Maybe I should . . . should I tell him . . . ?

No!

No, this is what Chuuya had warned against. That complacency, that if things were going well in this world they were going to fall under his spell, do what he wanted. Still, it hurt to see someone he loved in pain. He kissed Dazai softly and lay on his chest, and they fell asleep with their limbs entangled.

Atsushi was so spent that he didn’t notice when Dazai awoke an hour later to the sound of an urgent phone call.

This is going to be a mess, Atsushi’s message said. If you don’t hear from me by 9, you should be in the clear.

Chuuya hung upside-down on the ceiling of Dazai’s office, staring at the clock. Just for good measure, he waited until 9:15, checked his network connection, and then reversed gravity to land neatly on his feet.

Hope he’s having a good time, Chuuya thought, momentarily distracted by Atsushi’s beautiful face in the throes, before he got straight to work.

About 45 minutes later, Chuuya slipped out of the office window, using gravity to hold everything close to his chest.

Chuuya gasped as gravity suddenly returned to its natural direction and he sank into the cold air — and he gasped aloud again as a thin hand clamped tight around his wrist. With strength he hadn’t expected, he was yanked back into the building and thrown onto the ground.

His vision was muddled, and he wasn’t given a moment for it to clear before the bony hands dug into his jacket, and he slapped them away, kicking out, but the hands slapped him senseless, clawing at him, scratching him, and finally they pulled his prize out of his pocket —

“Shit!”

Chuuya choked on his last word as his throat constricted under that tight, angry grip. Dazai’s long arm was stretched out, holding him by the throat in one hand, the other clutching a mess of papers stuck between a beige folder. He took one look at the folder and scowled, instantly understanding.

“So you’re stealing from me, Chuu?” Dazai hissed, tightening his grip. “Not from me — from the Mafia itself. Who the hell do you think you are?”

“Get off me,” Chuuya wheezed. “Not — stealing. I was going to give them back!”

“You sound like a child,” Dazai spat. “Should I treat you like one, then? You know what happens to insubordinate children in the Mafia.”

“No,” Chuuya said, eyes wide. “You’ve got it back. I won’t — I just wanted to know.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have thrown a fit for four years, twerp,” Dazai continued. He pulled Chuuya to his feet and let go, facing him down. “Though you have my admiration for however you found out I was busy tonight. Did someone else on the scene tell you about Atsushi?” Chuuya didn’t reply, thanking everything and everyone he could think of that Dazai hadn’t suspected Atsushi was involved. “Don’t be jealous, Chuuya. I’m the Mafia boss after all, I can’t be seen as having a favorite.”

“What are you talking about? That tiger-brat is clearly your favorite,” Chuuya said without thinking. Some of that real lingering jealousy from the other worlds must be bleeding over.

Dazai laughed aloud.

“Oh, Chuuya, you’re on the favorite scale, too, or you’d be dead right now,” he said evenly. “To be quite frank about it. But if you want the executive information you have to earn it. Take some of that cunning or whatever charm you turned on to keep me distracted and use it for the Mafia, and you’ll earn it in no time. And you’d better do it,” he added, eyes narrowed, “before I find out what other information you’re gleaning behind my back.”

“If that were true,” Chuuya spat, voice rising, “I would have done it already. But you won’t let me!” He put his face in his hands, turning red despite himself. “You want to keep me beneath you. Under you. I’m going nowhere,” Chuuya growled, and he kicked the bookshelf. It hurt briefly, and he threw up his arms in exasperation. “It’s been over a year, Dazai, and I you haven’t given me fucking anything that helps me jump rank. It’s just been cleaning up grunts and making good on your threats. My connections don’t mean anything if you won’t give me authority — you know I’m good at this, Dazai,” he added, hoping to appeal to him. “Haven’t you tortured me enough? Ain’t I proven my loyalty yet? I’m good at this.”

Chuuya stared at the ground and then shyly looked up at Dazai’s face. The mob boss looked impassive, still angry, still suspicious.

“If you were truly loyal,” Dazai said softly, “you wouldn’t care what kind of work you were getting.”

“That’s bull rhetoric and you know it,” Chuuya replied. He took a step forward, biting his lip, until they were inches away from each other. “What can I do to prove myself to you? You know I can be good for business . . . and I could be good for you, too, if you let me.”

He took a sharp breath, deciding not to second guess himself, and he dropped to his knees. As he fumbled with Dazai’s belt, Dazai put a halting hand on his arm, but he kept going, sliding the belt out of its buckle, working on his zipper, unbuttoning his pants.

“Slug—” Dazai started, his voice annoyed, but Chuuya pressed on.

“Come on, Dazai,” Chuuya hummed, reaching into Dazai’s briefs, “boss. Sir. Give me a chance. I’ll make it worth your while.”

Chuuya held him gently in his hand and pressed his mouth to Dazai’s cock, kissing his length; and Dazai did begin to stiffen under his lips, letting out a slow breath. Chuuya took him in his mouth and sucked, wrapping his tongue around the head, closing his eyes to concentrate on how hot and hard he was getting — but it was only a moment before Dazai pushed him away.

“Ugh.” Dazai moved to put himself away, fastening his belt again. “Stop. The casting couch doesn’t suit you, Chuuya. Besides, I’m spent — as you know, I was distracted.”

Chuuya blushed but didn’t get up. He hadn’t expected this — he was more than ready to suck Dazai’s dick, and part of him wanted to. He searched Dazai’s expression to try and read what this was about: was this a power play, a trick, was he throwing Chuuya aside? But he looked kind of miserable, and Chuuya had a strange idea that flickered in the back of his head, something in his eyes: I don’t want this if you don’t. It made him blush harder.

“You’re so annoying,” Dazai groaned. “Fine. There is a liaise I need someone to take care of. I could send an officer along with a unit of grunts, or I could just send you. Seems like a better use of resources.”

Chuuya was so dumbfounded he didn’t even get to his feet, staring up at his boss. “Yeah, alright.”

Dazai cleared his throat and lifted his knee, stepping lightly on Chuuya’s shoulder.

“You should thank me, shouldn’t you, dog?” he pressed. “On all fours. Though I do like you on your knees.”

Chuuya swallowed his bite-back and pressed his hands to the ground as well, bowing deeply, nearly touching the carpet with his forehead. Somehow, groveling to Dazai like this made him feel dirtier than sucking him off. But Dazai seemed satisfied and Chuuya got back up.

“What’s the liaison?”

“A place called Tomie.”

Dazai quirked a smile. In their original timeline, Tomie was a bar that had gathered outside protection for itself so the Mafia would not take it over, something that Chuuya and Dazai had fought about how to handle. In this timeline, Chuuya had been the outside protection. Chuuya, walking in to the bar as a Mafia messenger would have been quite the power play.

Chuuya raised his eyebrows.

“You little shit,” he said, humorously. “You were always going to give that to me, weren’t you?”

“I thought it’d be funny,” Dazai admitted. “You call me a little shit again I’ll throw you in a box.”

“Shut up,” Chuuya said. “You like it.”

The words slid out of his mouth before he could stop them, and he got to his feet at last. But Dazai didn’t look angry, and the two of them stood staring at each other in the dark, in the silence. What the hell was this levity? They were joking with each other? He couldn’t remember the last time, the last timeline, they had done that, aside from the previous one that had gone right until it had gone wrong. Dazai licked his lips as if he were going to say something, and Chuuya could almost hear the unspoken words that hung in the air: I missed you, Chuuya. But he swallowed instead.

“Tomorrow, ten pm,” Dazai said. “Be there on time or fuck off. I’m serious that this is your only chance, slug, or it’s the dungeons for you. Get out.”

Chuuya went out the building the normal way, past the layers of security and guards, and he went a block away before he turned the corner and circled around back to the second-highest building in the area. On top of that, Chuuya leapt back to the tower and climbed to the top. As he gripped the edge of the tower roof, a hand met his and pulled him up.

“I didn’t need that,” Chuuya said dismissively, then corrected himself as he clambered to his feet. “Thanks.”

“Sorry, I can’t exactly just stand and watch,” said the other man.

Sakunosuke Oda held out a small wrapped package in the shape of a book — because it was The Book. Chuuya had brought him here half an hour ago to help with the heist — mostly giving him heads up on the few seconds of people coming after him — and then left them both on the roof while he pretended to steal from the executives file room so that Dazai could catch him. He was surprised it worked, and also a bit disquieted by how some other things this evening had gone.

Oda let Chuuya carry him back down to the street. On a corner outside a grocery store, they met up with the third member of their party — Atsushi.

Chuuya had introduced Atsushi and Oda once before, in a very low-key operation that included the two of them drinking on opposite sides of a bar and talking only when they went up to order. Oda was under the impression Atsushi was Dazai’s man through and through, which apparently flattered him, but Chuuya reassured Oda with as much of their story as he could muster.

“He came with me through this,” Chuuya had said finally. “I love him, too.”

Atsushi seemed tired, and he was walking very slowly as they headed somewhere to talk where Dazai was unlikely to interfere. But he was definitely glowing, happy. So he did have fun. Chuuya was happy for him, if not the tiniest bit jealous. Alright, he was fairly jealous. Not only because Atsushi had Dazai’s attention, but because . . .

He had never been able to get Dazai to be soft like that.

“Is it . . . is it me?”

Chuuya looked far away even as he gazed at Atsushi. Atsushi turned to look at him, the two of them walking behind Oda in the cold night. Chuuya wasn’t looking well these days, although he was looking better since re-joining the Mafia, he still had a ways to go.

“Is what you?”

“Was . . . I the problem the whole time?” Chuuya repeated. “When I was his second, when we grew up in the Mafia together, he was . . . he was so much worse. He was cruel and cold, but now . . . with you, he . . . he’s not good, but he’s gentler, he’s more careful with how he treats us. So . . . it’s gotta be my fault.”

“What? No.” Atsushi had been thinking about this, too. But based on what he had seen . . . “It’s not your fault. Well — it is. But . . . not the way you think.” Chuuya tilted his head. “I think . . . when you left him . . . he was so thrown off. He never expected betrayal from you, of all people. You, who he has always associated with blind love and loyalty. He was desperate for allies after that . . . he came after me as soon as he could, and . . . he’s been clinging to me with all his might. He’s afraid,” Atsushi whispered, “of losing us.”

“So you’re saying, we haven’t made him good,” Chuuya replied. “We’ve made him crazy.”

“You didn’t make him crazy,” Oda said, and Atsushi turned crimson — oh, right, he could hear them. “He was always crazy. Or at least he acted that way. This is absurd, by the way,” he added, as they turned to a building. He unlocked the door, and the three of them headed into Oda’s kitchen. “Doing all of this, whatever it is, for a man like him.”

“He did this for you,” Atsushi said quietly.

“So you say.”

“I said I’d give you proof, didn’t I?” Chuuya replied.

Delicately, he put the wrapped book on the kitchen table, and the three of them stood around it. He uncovered it carefully, its strange white cover all but shining with its own light, its possibilities beckoning them. Atsushi still remembered the severe vertigo he’d gotten after opening it, how his entire life — lives — had been upended.

Oda’s eyes flickered up between the two of them, for the last time wondering if this was a trap. But then he touched it and his eyes rolled back in his head.

Atsushi went to catch him, but he never fainted or fell to his knees. In fact, after a moment, he seemed to return to normal, staring at the book and flipping through the pages as though perusing it in serious study. For half a heartbeat, he panicked, wondering if this was just a plain white book after all — then why had it pulsed at them? Chuuya also looked concerned, but what it really looked like was that Oda, somehow, knew how to use it properly when they did not.

It is because he’s a writer or something? Atsushi wondered, but he wasn’t sure that made sense. Maybe it was because this world was built for him, and the Book sensed that.

“Oda?” Chuuya pressed, and he did not respond. He waved a hand in front of his face. “Oda!”

Oda looked up blearily, as though just realizing there were other people in the room. At once, he took his hand away from the Book, and there was something like shame rippling across his face.

“I believe you now,” he said. His voice was faint. “I die a lot, huh?”

“Not if we can help it,” Chuuya replied. “How much you see?”

“Enough, for now.” Oda closed the book and sat back down, tapping his fingers on the table. “This is a lot. You’re saying you used this to go back and try again when you screwed up?” They both nodded. “I’m sorry to say I think you’ve been using it wrong.”

“Excuse me?” Chuuya was quick to jump on being insulted like that, but Atsushi put a hand on his shoulder. “You have no idea what we’ve done — what we’ve been through to get where we are—”

“And I’m not saying that was all in vain,” Oda continued gently. “But Dazai, in your own description, he didn’t do the same thing. He went through once and built this place. Because this shows all the different worlds, all the different possibilities, and how those possibilities came about. With this information,” he tapped the Book, “we should be able to see what has happened in other futures, in other pasts, and fix the circumstances to have that happen again here.”

“Huh.” Chuuya put a hand to his chin. “I . . . I kinda did that without realizing. I knew Dazai wouldn’t kill me if I left the Mafia because I’d seen it in other worlds.”

“Exactly,” Oda pressed. “This Book is like my ability a thousand-fold. Or we can treat it that way. I know you couldn’t really have gotten it sooner, but I kind of wish you did.”

“But now,” Atsushi said. “Do you think it’s too late to use it like that?”

Oda got up to make a pot of coffee.

“Only one way to find out,” he said. “It’s gonna be a long night of reading.”

Chapter Text

Three Weeks

Two things, actually. Chuuya had said to Kouyou years ago. One, let me know as soon as Dazai ‘ascends’. Two . . . there might be a girl . . . promise me you’ll look after her and listen to what she wants.

Someone stirred in the bed as a cell phone vibrated violently. This happened almost every day, some emergency being called in, some permission being sought, some meeting being missed, as all the bed’s occupants were in the Mafia and balanced their projects precariously. This time, the call was coming in to Osamu Dazai — the boss.

“What?”

If his tone was terse, it was because he was the most stressed of them; things had been going wrong for the past five months. Not with the Mafia itself — just with a long game plan he had cooked up in his youth. Or at least nothing with the Mafia, yet.

“Are you kidding me?” he muttered, and he kicked the blankets off. Atsushi beside him gently pulled them back onto himself, going deeper into the bed, but he still made room for Dazai to clamber over him and get up. “Well, she can’t have gotten far. Get the tracker going.”

Atsushi watched him blearily as he pulled on his discarded clothes — no time to rush home and grab a fresh suit — tucking any loose bandages back into themselves.

“Get the slug, Atsushi-chan,” Dazai commanded hastily. “We need to go.”

Atsushi nodded and turned over to poke Chuuya’s shoulder. Chuuya had his back to them both, mindlessly scrolling on his phone to wake up. Or maybe he was looking at important things, but either way, he needed to get moving.

“I heard ya,” Chuuya said.

Atsushi playfully pushed him out of bed, and Chuuya caught himself before he hit the floor, then used Gravity to right himself. He stalked over to Dazai and started helping him with his tie, tying an expert knot before heading to the closet to grab his own clothes.

This arrangement was fairly new and it wasn’t something they did often. But as soon as they were both seeing Dazai, Atsushi and Chuuya talked about if they might be able to create for themselves a version of the Triad within this context. It was the opposite of how it had happened when they were in their own original universe: Chuuya had Atsushi “accidentally” walk in on him and Dazai, and Dazai had, with Chuuya’s permission, asked Atsushi to join.

Since then, Dazai had invited himself and Atsushi over to Chuuya’s multiple times — despite the fact he was lowest on the ladder, he still had the nicest apartment. They had learned while flipping through The Book with Oda that this was nearly always the case with the Triad — apparently Chuuya’s taste was just the best suited for having two partners. But another thing they had learned from The Book was that if the Triad attempted to arrange itself, once Chuuya and Atsushi teamed up in one way or another, it always fell into place.

“It’s like you’re puzzle pieces or something,” Oda observed aloud, “Once you see that your pieces fit together, you all just click.”

Atsushi had blushed terribly. It was a horribly romantic idea, a beautiful one. But if they were supposed to click so easily, Atsushi wished everything else wouldn’t be so hard.

Dazai was much better to him and Chuuya, this was true. But he was getting more paranoid by the day as it seemed like everyone and everything tried to undermine him. He still didn’t trust Chuuya at all, especially around Atsushi — they were never allowed to be left alone together. Atsushi wondered if Dazai saw the spark between them and grew jealous or if he truly was just worried the Mafia traitor would corrupt his precious tiger. And so Atsushi was left in bed while Dazai pulled Chuuya into whatever emergency he had been called about.

“Who’s missing?” Chuuya asked, as they left the apartment and stalked down to where a car was waiting for them.

He swallowed, adjusting the uncomfortable belted collar at his throat. Their roles truly were reversed this time, because while Atsushi had been slowly training himself to be rid of his own spiked nightmare, Chuuya still had the “preventative measure”. Dazai used both the drugs and the chain freely for a while as though bringing Chuuya to his knees was his only form of entertainment, but as of late it was only a looming threat.

“Gin,” Dazai said bluntly. It was a testament to how upset he was that he didn’t beat around the bush. “Believe it or not, slug, I didn’t just take you with me out of jealousy. You two were close; you’re going to help me find her.”

“What about the tracker?”

“She’s not dumb,” Dazai sighed. “Even you, brain full of slime, dumped your phone the first thing when you left us. I don’t doubt with the training she’s had over the years that she’s good at hiding if she wants to be.”

Chuuya didn’t doubt it, either. Not with the resources she had — ones from the inside.

Kouyou had been completely silent on the topic since he had asked her to help Gin escape the Mafia a few weeks ago. It was a seed he planted back when he was mercenary, finally coming to fruition. But that silence had suited him — he thought it was better he didn’t know where she was, what her plans were. Only be assured that she wasn’t going to make a bee line for her brother.

The truth was that with Ryuunosuke as he was, and with what Dazai and Oda both aspired him to be, it was good for him to have the focus of finding Gin and then realizing on his own that she was turned off by his violent and obsessive nature. The elder Akutagawa’s part in all of this had gotten Oda’s attention the most, as his mentor. He spent hours combing through the book for all possible routes for Ryuu. Chuuya did not want to give Dazai his credit that of all the worlds where the siblings grew up as orphans, this was one of the best turnouts for Ryuu. To Oda, it was of great importance they treat him carefully and respectfully.

“Once you find your sister,” Oda had finally asked him, “what do you want?”

It had taken him some time to respond, and Chuuya wondered if he had ever done any sort of introspection like this. But at last he had come back with an oddly sweet response.

“I . . . would like to find a place for her here,” Ryuunosuke said, his eyes downcast. “And then . . .continue working at the ADA with you, Oda-san.”

The thought originally was, four years ago, that if Gin was not at the Mafia, then Ryuunosuke would not make it his life’s ambition to infiltrate the tower. They were sure that Dazai would have something else up his sleeve, pivot to still keep the Mafia as Ryuu’s rivals as they both searched for her, but probably Dazai would just keep it under wraps for as long as he could.

“Don’t you dare say a word to him, Chuuya,” Dazai said pointedly. He leaned back in the car, arms folded across his chest. Well, he’d keep it under wraps if subtlety was still in his toolbox, because he was just tossing it out the window this morning. “If I get wind that someone even hinted to Ryuunosuke Akutagawa that Gin is not currently with us, I’ll toss you in the cage I made for you.”

The cage wasn’t an empty threat; Chuuya had seen it by this point. It was an extremely unpleasant and boring cell made of shatterproof glass that vibrated at exactly the right frequency to disrupt his ability. But Dazai had only actually locked him up around three times, when he had fucked up pretty badly, and the last time they’d ended his punishment by having sex in there. The fact that it existed still was an insult, but now he’d felt like he desecrated it properly.

“Do I look stupid to you?” Chuuya asked unnecessarily, and Dazai opened his mouth for a smart reply before he added, “besides, I doubt he’d believe me.”

“Hm.” Dazai gave him a sidelong glance before he stared out the window, running calculations in his head. No doubt those words gave Dazai an idea to use Chuuya’s distrust to his advantage — have Chuuya tell Ryuu the truth in a way that made him think it was subterfuge. And Chuuya expected that . . . there were worlds where Gin really had left on her own only for Akutagawa to still run headfirst into a trap. But if they did it right, Dazai would not get the chance for pivoting or for subterfuge.

Because they were going to rip an enormous hole in the thing Dazai held closest to his chest: secrecy.

How they were going to do it was going to be oddly familiar to anyone who had been in the Mafia seven years ago, when Chuuya was newly minted and technically not even indoctrinated yet. But it was that kind of familiarity that would have the result they were after.

Panic.

Chuuya shifted in his seat, reflecting uncomfortably at how he was first going to get himself into some terrible trouble, and he touched his collar once again.

He took out his phone and messaged some of his contacts to see if there were any eyes on Gin. He expected she wouldn’t just go to the ADA — she actually didn’t know that’s where Ryuu was, and if she knew he was after her, she might have kept her distance. Maybe back to their old territory, or her old apartment?

After about twenty minutes of them driving around downtown, waiting for someone to bite, he got a ping — a woman matching Gin’s description had been seen at a coffee shop.

“Moon Cafe on the corner,” Chuuya said simply. “Be right back.”

It still felt weird that Dazai was spending all this time and energy supervising him, but he was almost used to the uncomfortable power dynamic. And they were going to shortly use it against him.

Dazai stayed behind as the anonymous boss while Chuuya slipped out of the car and into the coffee shop. He made his quick inquiries, turning on his charm when it was called for, making vague threats when that was called for, too, and soon the manager was showing him the camera footage from earlier that day.

“It’s definitely her,” Chuuya said truthfully. He was talking aloud to the manager, but Dazai was also listening in. “Doesn’t look like she bought anything.”

“No,” the manager agreed. “She was looking for a job.”

Fucking really? Chuuya thought. That was far too obvious. It had only been a couple of hours . . . but he had planned for the line of inquiry to eventually lead them down this route. Still, a coffee shop felt like a fantasy job, and a public-facing one at that, and he wondered if Kouyou knew what he was planning when he asked her to help Gin all those years ago. Even he hadn’t really known the details yet — they had figured that out once they were able to see how Dazai would react to everything, using the Book.

Chuuya left with two cups of coffee and a vaguely friendly threat, meeting the car again around the corner.

“Should have realized she’d be looking for money,” Chuuya said. “Job-hunting.”

He handed one of the coffees over to Dazai, and their fingers brushed together. Chuuya let it stay, feeling that electricity through their gloves, focusing briefly on how his body still ached after last night’s activity. Even as Dazai pulled away, he savored the lingering touch. He wasn’t going to be able savor it for a little while.

“So what, we stake out temp agencies?” Dazai said ironically, taking a sip.

Chuuya hesitated — or at least, he acted hesitant.

“I got a guess at her next move,” he said at last. He leaned forward, knocking for the driver to lower the glass divider. “Go left at the light. Down to the edge near Suribachi City. You’re probably gonna have to park a few blocks away or someone will come at the car with a baseball bat.”

The driver did as he asked, driving slowly to the edge of the city, until the buildings became shorter, more run-down, until the streets seemed oddly empty except for trash blowing around the sidewalks. This was his old territory — Gin’s too — and though it had been a few years, he was pretty sure the person he was looking for would still be here. Akiyuki Nosaka, the man who used to give him jobs when he was seeking them, hire him offhand when he had built up enough of a reputation.

He wasn’t stupid enough to take the streets. Instead he went along the rooftops, searching carefully until he saw a light in a basement window in what was supposed to be an abandoned building.

Nosaka was standing by a fireplace, burning stacks of paper. When Chuuya walked in, the man lit two cigarettes and handed him one over his shoulder. He was expected.

“Well,” Chuuya said, taking the cigarette, “you probably know what I’m here to ask. And since you know what I’m here to ask, you likely already have the answer to my question.”

If he was really here to ask after Gin, he would have left it at that. They would have staked out the area until she came back. But . . .

Nosaka turned away from the fire, squaring his shoulders.

“Don’t worry, Nakahara,” Nosaka said, and then said the words that sealed Chuuya’s fate. “I’m looking after her, just like you asked.”

Chuuya froze, and he quickly made a hand gesture cutting at his throat, tapping the earpiece to indicate this was not a private conversation.

“Shush,” he hissed. “You mean like I asked three years ago.”

“Sure,” Nosaka said.

Chuuya cleared his throat. “Let me know as soon as you hear anything else. And don’t mistake this for a request,” he added. “This is an or else.”

Chuuya left before this could go any more downhill, and even though everything had gone exactly to plan, his heart was pounding in his throat. This part was once again like a play, with everyone acting out their lines, but so much more work had gone into it this time, so much more upheaval and ruin. They were coming up on their end point, but it made him so much more sure that something was about to go terribly wrong.

He almost didn’t want to go back into the car. He knew the look Dazai would give him, of disavowment and disapproval, but not of disbelief. Dazai still always expected he would betray him. Even though he hadn’t.

He opened the door and sat beside his lover, his boss, his partner, his hands in his lap. Dazai put a hand squarely on his neck, negating him, and the car sped back into the city. Neither of them said anything at all until they were closer to headquarters. Dazai sighed and reached into his jacket, and Chuuya reflexively pushed away from him.

“No —“ Chuuya started, and he dove on top of Dazai, who calmly kept what he had in his pocket out of his reach. “He’s lying. I didn’t— I didn’t help Gin escape, we’re not in contact — ”

“That could be true,” Dazai said, “but you’ve led us to where we need to be for now. This is just a precaution. Remember what I said I would do to you, and don’t call me a liar.”

What Dazai had in his pocket was the trigger for his collar, that would release the drug into his blood and sedate him so that they could put him in that terribly boring box. Black started to block out the edges of his vision, and the interior of the car became blurry and twisted.

Maybe it was the last dregs of the drug or maybe Dazai actually had some affection for him because the dose wasn’t terribly strong. Chuuya couldn’t move or see properly, but he felt it when Dazai lifted him out of the car, holding him over his shoulder like a languid cat, hands gently cradling him, and he felt when he was put down with care.

It was going to suck. But he had mentally prepared himself for this imprisonment, as he had been the one to engineer its circumstances. Because he was going to need a very solid alibi for the terror that would soon befall his beloved.

One Week

Things were falling apart little by little, diverging from Dazai’s original plan, and still he was pretending as though nothing were different. Atsushi was out getting a drink at a bar when suddenly he ran into Akutagawa, and the two of them began a conversation as though they were just two young men out on the town. The meeting was eerily familiar, and Atsushi recalled it from their very first timeline, their original one, how the two of them had conversed pleasantly until Akutagawa realized he worked for the Mafia, and then vowed his revenge. And despite his efforts to steer the conversation, it happened again, and Atsushi left the bar in disquiet. How much of what they had planned would just be snapped back into place like a rubber band, how much was just part of the nature of this world? Or had Dazai simply been able to calculate for all of the possibilities?

Certainly, Atsushi thought, he wouldn’t be expecting this next part.

Though it probably wasn’t necessary for Gin to actually be at the tower when Akutagawa broke in, he would not have the closure Dazai sought for him without her. With that being planned in about a week, Dazai redoubled his efforts to find her, sparing no expense or resource. So Atsushi thought was time to give him a bigger priority.

This time, Atsushi and Dazai were out threatening some local nightlife establishments into being their eyes and ears in the city when the emergency call came in. It had been a pleasant evening, too — after they visited half a dozen places, they ended the night with a lovely dinner together. But halfway through the second course, he got a call. Atsushi watched carefully as his expression went from exhausted to irritated to livid, and he pulled Atsushi by the arm to take him back to the car.

“What—” Atsushi started unnecessarily.

“The guards to the executive file room,” Dazai started without prompt. “Someone’s killed them to get into the area. We’ll need to see what the hell happened, if anything is missing.”

“What?” Atsushi actually hadn’t expected the deaths, and felt guilty. They were supposed to be minimizing collateral damage . . . but if this was the way to best get his attention . . . “I’m not an executive, do you want me to—”

“No.” Dazai grabbed his hand, squeezing it tightly. In the car, Dazai wrapped his arm around Atsushi’s waist, pulling him in closer, burying his head in his shoulder. “I need you in this, Atsushi-chan. You might as well be an executive. You’re my partner.”

It was almost sweet. Atsushi felt his eyes welling up, that hot guilt in his throat. Was he truly at a loss or was this just more manipulation? Was Dazai trying to get him to tell him everything, did he suspect something? And Atsushi so badly wanted to, wanted to reassure him that yes, everything going wrong was their own doing, but it was all to keep him alive . . . but no. No. Not when they were so close . . . just a little longer . . .

The two of them swept through the halls at headquarters, making their quick way to the file room. Chuuya had broken into here just months ago and had gotten away with a warning . . . but with the murder of the guards, this was a different message entirely. A Mafia internal investigator met them at the scene, and Dazai knelt carefully beside one of the bodies.

“Both killed with a clean hit,” the investigator reported. “A slice at exactly the right spot to kill them instantly.”

“Instant kill?” Dazai repeated, frowning. There was a lot of blood, so it certainly didn’t seem like a quick death. “So it was someone skilled at assassinations, or . . .”

“In my experience,” the investigator continued carefully, “this looks less like an assassination and more like . . . someone who is very knowledgeable of human anatomy.”

Dazai froze, only momentarily, and then he clenched his hand and stood up. He gazed out at all the mafiosi and spoke calmly and authoritatively.

“I want everyone cleared out of this area,” he announced. “Except for Atsushi. I also want everyone cleared out of the security room, until I tell them to come back.”

Everyone did as they were told, and the two of them stalked into the file room to search it. Atsushi had no idea what he was supposed to be looking for, but one of the shelves had an enormous gap — quite a lot of files were missing.

“Shit.” Dazai made a noise like an angry dog as he spotted it, too, his hackles raising. “That — dirty fucking slug. Does this mean something or is it just a distraction?”

“Chuuya couldn’t have—” Atsushi wasn’t supposed to defend Chuuya, but he couldn’t help it.

“I know,” Dazai groaned. “I just . . . need someone to blame for a second. Come on. Let’s see what the cameras say.”

Blaming Chuuya for everything was what they had always planned on, always tried to do, and Atsushi was concerned but glad it was working. Though with the fact that he cleared out both the executive wing and the security room, Atsushi knew that Dazai already had an idea of what he was going to see. Because it was something he didn’t want anyone else to see.

The large security room seemed dystopian while it was empty, but Dazai went up to the main console and began to pull up the footage for the executive hallway by the files. He was tense, making several mistakes in his keystrokes and having to start over again.

“Dazai-sama,” Atsushi started, “are you alright?”

“I’m fine, Atsushi-chan,” Dazai replied. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it.” He brought up the video, but before he hit the play button, he turned to face his second. “Atsushi,” he said seriously. “You know I love you, right?”

Atsushi’s heart stopped in his chest. He didn’t expect that.

“I — I love you, too, Dazai-sama,” he stammered.

Dazai put his hands on either side of Atsushi’s face and kissed him, slowly, his tongue slipping gently into Atsushi’s mouth, his lips so, so warm. He pulled away, resting his forehead against Atsushi’s.

“Do you trust me?” he whispered. “I need you to trust me.”

“Yes,” Atsushi said. Again, his sense was gone. He would have said anything at all.

Finally, he pressed the play button.

At first, the dark video showed nothing, the two guards simply standing there. Then something flicked across the screen, and it nearly looked like a young woman, going impossibly fast between the guards, and then they collapsed where they stood. The woman disappeared completely and a man walked into the frame, a man with long black hair and a lab coat. Even though his back was to the camera, Atsushi knew exactly who he was.

“Dazai-sama . . .” Atsushi started. “Is that . . .”

“Shhh.” Dazai swallowed. “Yes. I swear to you, Atsushi, that we had an arrangement that was beneficial both to him and to the Mafia. It was the only way to get around Mimic.”

Dazai shut the video down, and he quickly deleted all of the instances of it, putting a single copy of the video onto a thumb drive. He slipped it into his pocket as he double-checked his work.

“Then,” Atsushi said pointedly, “what is he doing here?”

“I don’t know,” Dazai admitted. His voice was shaking with anger. “I don’t know, unless he’s trying to start a civil war.”

* * *

Two Days

Dazai couldn’t outsource this work to anyone else, lest they guess at the identity of who had broke into the file room. If word got out that Mori was still alive — still alive and still trying to access the Mafia office — it would be pandemonium. The executives and sub-executives were under the impression Mori died, and many of them much preferred Mori over Dazai. Even if he explained it to them, even if the circumstances from the fight with Mimic years ago were self-explanatory as to why they had to fake his death, the truth was that if there was a chance to take Dazai down and put Mori up in his stead, they were going to take it.

Dazai had planned to die; he didn’t want people to like him. The problem was the infighting that came with a schism, which would inevitably lead to the deaths or exiles of hundreds of Mafia members, leaving them weak and vulnerable. The same thing had happened when Mori took over from the last boss . . . which meant all the signs were pointing to this somehow being related to Chuuya. But Chuuya was currently locked up, and so Dazai and Atsushi searched through what they knew to try and point to someone else.

But a week after the break-in came the last straw.

Another piece of footage had been found. Dazai was digging around in the camera archives, searching for any other time Mori might have been caught on camera, looking for any sort of clues about who else might have helped him, when he came across a warning that some of the data had been erased. On closer inspection, it was the same day that Gin had disappeared — and so Dazai dug in even more, looking around for that lost footage, becoming more angry and erratic as he peeled layer after layer. And finally, he found it.

It was a short video of one of the elevators that led into the tunnels. Gin stood beside it, waiting for it to open. This wasn’t surprising — it wasn’t how she disappeared that was the real problem, it was where she had gone. But briefly, as the elevator door opened, he could see that someone else was already inside. It was a man, tall, with long black hair. Most distinctly, though, he was wearing a white lab coat.

He couldn’t have blamed Chuuya for the break-in that happened when he was in his cage. But if everything was set in motion directly beforehand . . .

Dazai once again downloaded the file and deleted the rest of it, then he swept off to the dungeons.

Chuuya was sitting in the corner, trying again to adjust his own frequency to circumvent the strange vibrations of this prison cell. It seemed like something he should be able to do if given enough time, but Dazai had never locked him in here for this long before. He hoped Dazai was distracted enough to have forgotten him and not that he was actively this angry.

He hadn’t sooner thought about Dazai than it summoned him, and the Mafia boss burst through his cell door. He pulled Chuuya to his feet, dragging him by the arm, slamming him against the wall.

“Dazai, what—?”

“Mori,” Dazai hissed, getting straight to the point. “Broke into the executive office. Are you responsible for this?”

“Mori?” Chuuya repeated. “I thought he was dead.”

Dazai gritted his teeth and pushed Chuuya against the wall harder.

“Don’t play games with me, Chuuya,” he said. “You know more than you let on. You spent four years on the streets gleaning all sorts of information you shouldn’t have known. You wouldn’t have known if I had my say. But I thought in some twisted way that you really had come to your senses, that you knew the only way you were going to get what you want is by falling under me. I thought you liked it.”

“You’re delusional,” Chuuya growled. “Fine, so I know Mori’s alive. But how was I supposed to help him — break in? You put me in here. I’ve been here for weeks. What the hell was I supposed to do, telepathically unlock the doors for him?”

“You set it up,” Dazai pressed. “Gave him the keys, the codes, and you helped him help Gin escape.”

“I didn’t — I didn’t. Dazai.” Chuuya took in a deep breath. “Listen to me. Please. This isn’t fun anymore.” Dazai raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, of course I used to like defying you, going against you, fucking up your plans. But that was only true when we were on the same level or close-to. Now? You have so many more resources than I do, more power, and I know that going against you now just leads to more pain for me. It kicks me further from what I want. So why would I do it anymore?”

“I don’t . . . I don’t know.” Dazai let him go, stepping back, staring at the floor. He ran both his hands through his hair. “I feel like I’m going crazy, Chuuya. Someone has been working against me for years and I can’t . . . I never wanted this for you.” His eyes flickered up to meet Chuuya’s, and Chuuya saw they were wet. “I wanted you by my side, you know. You were always so loyal.”

Chuuya’s lips opened in shock, only able to stare.

Why are you saying this to me like you’re about to kill yourself?

“That’s what I’ve been saying,” Chuuya replied, pretending Dazai had not spoken from his heart. “I’m loyal to the Mafia.”

“Then help it not fall apart,” Dazai conceded.

* * *

One Day

They were here. Six years of planning, of scheming, putting themselves and the people they loved through the ringer, and they stood at the precipice.

The three of them were headed to a secure room to look over the footage again, see if there were any clues they missed, anything that might help them pick a direction to focus on. More important than the how was the why, at least in Dazai’s mind. Why anyone who had the access needed to help Mori get into the building would want to do this.

“Okay,” Dazai started, “so Mori has been to the tower at least twice, but it’s probably safe to say it was more than that. If we don’t find anything here, we’ll start combing other clips.”

He reached into his pocket to pull out the thumb drive — but his countenance paled, his expression blank. His hand came out empty.

“What . . .”

“You didn’t seriously lose it?” Chuuya muttered.

“Shut up,” Dazai hissed.

No sooner had he realized they had an entirely new problem that there was a buzzing sound. Dazai pulled up his phone to find a message from an unknown caller in all caps.

IF YOU DON’T WANT THE FOOTAGE SHARED, MEET AT THE OLD MAFIA WAREHOUSE. ONE HOUR.

Dazai groaned, but he mostly seemed annoyed by the inconvenience. An escapee, a ghost from the past, and now a ransom?

They headed out the door, on foot, their three black coats sweeping behind them through the streets, the kind of comic appearance adding a bit of levity to their serious situation. Behind his back, Chuuya glanced at Atsushi, trying to silently reassure him.

This was it.

“Hey,” Dazai called, as they reached the warehouse. “Mori-sama, if that is you. Not sure why you want a public call-out instead of just having a conversation.”

He strode inside, hands in his pockets, acting as though he had many better things to do than give in to someone’s demands. It was dark, and no one was responding to Dazai’s voice.

“Okay, whoever you are,” he continued, stepping towards a dark figure, “let’s just make a deal and get on with our day, alright? I don’t know who you are or who put you . . . behind this . . .”

Dazai slowed down as there was a click and a single light illuminated the center of the near-empty warehouse. A single person stood under the warm light. It wasn’t Mori. It wasn’t Gin. It was a redheaded man, tall, leaning against a single chair, his arms folded.

“This is an intervention,” Oda said.

Dazai tilted his head.

“What are you doing here, Oda—”

Dazai suddenly covered his mouth, cutting himself off, realizing too late his mistake. Oda raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah, we haven’t actually met in this world yet, have we?” Oda replied.

Dazai couldn’t hide his shock. His eyes darted swiftly between Oda, then went to Chuuya, as if understanding.

“Don’t tell me,” he said, voice getting higher, “he was the one that put you up to all this, Chuuya?” He turned to face Oda. “Did you . . . are you the one trying to take down the Mafia?”

“No,” Oda answered. “I mean, if anything, he’s the one that put me up to this.”

Dazai bared his teeth, but Chuuya quickly explained.

“Like Oda said, this is an intervention,” he said hastily. “An intervention so that you don’t fucking kill yourself.”

“What?” Dazai closed his eyes a moment, shaking his head. “You’re ruining my life so I don’t . . .”

“Yes.” Chuuya’s voice shook. All the attempts, all the accumulations of everything he had ever felt for every version of Dazai, all amalgamated into the man standing in front of him. “I tried . . . so many different things, Osamu. We tried . . . and this was the only way.”

“This is a stupid way of getting under my skin,” Dazai growled. He put out his hand. “Give me the thumb drive.”

“I don’t have it,” Chuuya said simply.

Dazai was ready to pounce on him, when a small voice came from behind.

“I do.”

Dazai turned to see Atsushi, one hand in his pocket, the other one holding the thumb drive up. He looked calm, but as soon as he opened his mouth, his voice nearly broke.

“You’re going to say I was working against you,” he started, and almost at once a tear escaped his eye. “But I wasn’t. I wanted to save you, Dazai. Chuuya’s right — we tried so many times. We both did. We’ve been working through the Book, trying to find a way to keep you alive, keep you with us . . . and we’ve failed. We failed so many times. We’ve seen you die over and over. And so we had to . . . do all of this.”

“Atsushi,” Dazai moaned. His gloved hands were scratching at his face, eyes wide in disbelief. Atsushi felt a stabbing pain in his chest at Dazai’s sorrow, at his distress. And that he was partially the cause of this. “Why? Why would you do something like this? Can’t I have peace?”

“No,” Chuuya replied. His tone was harsh. “You can’t, Dazai. Because if you have peace, that’s when you kill yourself. And if you have to spend the next few years cleaning up our messes, that’s the next few years that you’re alive. Do you get it?”

“What,” Dazai groaned in frustration, “do you want from me, Chuuya?”

“I want you to live, you stupid bastard!” Chuuya shouted. “I love you! Atsushi loves you! Oda loves you. Live for us. Please.”

Dazai shook his head, looking between the three of them, and then his entire body shook. This must have been something out of his nightmares, standing exposed in front of the three men he loved, all of them knowing exactly who he was and what he had done. This would have been the perfect time to off himself, if everything was still set in motion — thinking everyone hated him. Except nothing was in motion any longer.

Chuuya stood his ground, wondering what to do next. Should they tackle him and hold him until he calmed down? But Dazai suddenly dove forward, onto Oda, and did the one thing they were so sure Dazai would not.

“No,” Dazai muttered, and Oda was felled, surprised by the attack, and both Atsushi and Chuuya stood dumbfounded as Dazai grabbed Oda’s pistol. “I won’t be manipulated by you!”

With a stumbling flourish, Dazai stepped back and locked his elbow, pointing the gun to his temple.

The three of them froze. Dazai’s hand grew steady and he stood up straight, staring between them all. He looked triumphant, but Chuuya felt something rumbling in his stomach, in his chest, churning anger, boiling determination. They had not spent six fucking years trying to keep alive just for him to do this for no reason other than he was cornered.

“Fucking coward,” Chuuya spat. Atsushi gave him a look, his eyes wide with fear, but he couldn’t back down. “You’re a fucking coward. If you kill yourself now, that’s what people are going to say about you.”

“Good,” Dazai said. “I’m not someone to admire.”

Chuuya took a step closer, and Dazai did not move an inch.

“Then how dare you,” he pressed, “make me fall in love with you, over and over. And then discard me. Discard us. Osamu,” he continued, “are we not enough? Is it not worth staying alive just for me? For Atsushi? Have you ever, once in your life, asked other people what they wanted, without assuming you, a fucking child, know what’s best for them?” 

“That’s because I do,” Dazai hissed. He clutched the gun tighter. “I know what people want better than they do.”

“Arrogant twat,” Chuuya managed. “Are you sure about that? I want you to see how much we’ve done for you. How we manipulated our own lives just for the chance to save yours. And then — only then can you decide to throw it away.” 

“You did the same thing for Oda,” Atsushi said stiffly. “You upended a world and reshaped countless lives. The only difference here is that we did it for you. So it’s an insult to him if you don’t stay alive.”  

Oda himself said nothing, his sharp eyes trying to make sense of the scene. Did he know exactly the right moment to step in? Or was he simply overwhelmed? This wasn’t Oda’s fight, it wasn’t his circus or his monkeys. He had no real love of Dazai, even if he had been hearing about him for years. Dazai’s eyes flickered to Oda, who met his gaze.

“I didn’t do the same thing,” Dazai said stubbornly. “You think I didn’t want to be with him? But this was the only way, and so I stayed away from him. I’m sorry, Oda,” he added. “for everything. The best thing you can do for me, if you — if you really love me, Chuuya,” he added, his voice full of venom, “you’ll let me go. Because this is what I want.”

Fuck off.

“If you didn’t want me to do all of this,” Chuuya spat back, “you would have let me go. A long time ago. Should have turned me back to the streets, set me up in the Agency, even given me to Ango. I probably would have made a hot little spy in some other world. But you didn’t. Even here, this time, you should have killed me years ago, but you kept me in your cage, and you let me out.”

“I . . . I needed you,” Dazai pressed. But he was flushed, even saying those words made him itch. “You’re my dog, I needed someone who would obey me, be loyal.” 

“Every single person here is loyal to you,” Chuuya said pointedly. “You have your breadth of choice in sycophants. So why me, Osamu? Did you really need me? Or did you just want me?”

I’ll even take it if all you wanted was to fuck me, Chuuya thought. 

“Fine!” Dazai grimaced, eyes blazing. “Fine. I wanted you, Chuu. I wanted you close to me, if I couldn’t have my friend, I wanted my lover, my partner. And Atsushi . . .” 

Dazai put his free hand over his face, and tears actually spilled over, dripping down his chin. 

“I fucked up with you,” he sobbed. “The first time. I couldn’t decide if I wanted you to hate me or love me. I wanted you to be strong, I needed you to be under my supervision, but I couldn’t stomach you hating me, and so I . . .” He reached out to cup Atsushi’s cheek. “You loved me, didn’t you?”

“I still do.” Atsushi’s voice was numb. “You . . .” He shut his eyes, his expression souring as he forced the words out. “You hurt me and raped me, and still I came back to you. Because I didn’t know what else to do. And I . . . I upended everything to save you. If anyone deserves a say in how this world ends up,” he added, “it should be me, Osamu.” 

The room was quiet, the only sound muted crying. Beside him, Chuuya heard Oda let out a sharp breath, heard Atsushi sob. Carefully, Oda took a step forward, his hands lifted in front of him as though showing he was unarmed.

“You . . . want me writing, don’t you?” Oda said slowly.

Dazai’s attention snapped to Oda, his eyes wide, his breath shallow.

“Yes,” Dazai whispered. “Isn’t that what you want?”

“Yeah,” Oda replied honestly. “But . . . some things are more important than that. I’m perfectly happy just as a detective. I have a family, and friends . . . and they’re the most important. The people that I love. That I can be with them, and that they know I love them and I’ll protect them . . . nothing can be more important than that.”

Dazai’s hand shook.

“What are you saying?” Dazai asked, mouth open.

“I’m saying that I won’t be a writer unless you act lovingly with the two men who love you,” Oda said, “because what these two have done for you is more than you deserve. You can’t even respect them enough to hear them out without another suicidal threat. Put down the gun, Dazai.”

Impossibly, he lowered his arm, the pistol pointed at the ground. Chuuya felt a tear escape his eyes at this. God, he still couldn’t listen to them — only to Oda. But . . .

His eyes flickered briefly to Oda, who met his in turn, that gaze apologetic. Maybe this was just a start.

“I’ll make you a deal, Osamu Dazai,” Oda said. “For every month you stay alive for your loved ones, I’ll write a chapter.”

A bribe? Chuuya almost dismissed him, but Dazai was still paying attention. This was the one thing he wanted . . .

“Do you understand?”

“I . . .yes,” Dazai muttered. “I’m not a kid.”

“Beg to differ,” Oda said sharply. “Give it here.”

He held out his hands, but no one moved for minutes that stretched on and on, Dazai’s eyes darting between the three of them again, then falling at last on Oda’s palms. Finally, mercifully, he handed over the gun.

“Dazai.”

Chuuya wanted to give it a moment to breathe, but Atsushi ran forward at once, wrapping his arms around Dazai’s neck, burying his face in his shoulder. Dazai numbly put a hand in Atsushi’s hair, kissing the top of his head. Chuuya followed, his approach more careful, eyeing Dazai as he walked forward. He stopped when they were a few inches apart.

“I want you to know I’m not sorry for everything I’ve done,” Chuuya said. “Not if it worked. The only thing I’m sorry about is that I tore us apart for so long. I don’t give a shit about a happily ever after or doing what’s best for Yokohama or the world. Even in a shit world, I’ll live out your plan for me.” He swallowed. “I’ll live in this hell. But only if you’re in it, too.”

“I’ll try, Chuuya” Dazai said. “I . . . I love you, too.”

A bubble caught in Chuuya’s throat.

“I don’t believe you,” he said reflexively.

Dazai closed his eyes and smiled through tears.

“You know, you broke my heart when you left. All I wanted was you back with me.”

Chuuya broke. He buried himself in Dazai’s chest, wrapping him in a tight embrace and felt Dazai’s long arms encase him. Atsushi grabbed his hand as well, and the three of them quickly became tangled. It wasn’t over — not yet. But it was a start.

“Every month,” Oda said, folding his arms, “we’ll meet at the bar, and I’ll give you a draft of my writing. And you can tell me the good things you’ve done for your partners and pay for my drinks. It’s cheap therapy.”

Dazai nodded, at a loss for words.

“Good,” Oda sighed. At last, his shoulders relaxed and he put the gun back in its holster. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to go strategize with Ryuunosuke about our latest lead on his sister. Chuuya-san, we’ll be in touch about an information exchange?”

“Sounds good,” Chuuya muttered.

His words were muffled as his face was pressed into Dazai’s chest. God, he didn’t even care about decorum anymore. He just wanted to wrap himself in both of them for the rest of his life. He heard footsteps echo and fade out as Oda left, and the three of them were alone once more.

“What . . . am I going to do now?” Dazai mumbled. “I’d planned on being dead in the next few days. Even though you messed up my plans. Now . . . do I really have to run the Mafia forever?”

“Whatever it is, you don’t have to do it alone,” Atsushi said. “We can talk about it, together. What you want . . . what you have planned. What you want for us. But for now . . . for right now, all you have to do is live.”

Dazai let out a long sigh, his eyes closed, and he relaxed into them. Chuuya at last lifted his face and spoke.

“Also,” he added, strained, “take this damn collar off me.”

* * *

They hooked up the collar chain one last time and took turns pulling Chuuya around, tugging him back and forth into kisses, into caresses, into riding them or fucking them, until they were all spent and Dazai at last unlocked the collar and removed it. Chuuya lay back on the bed, the scars on the sides of his neck just a few wounds among the many love bites across his body. Atsushi’s collar lay discarded as well, the holes already starting to close themselves up and just becoming raw skin. He was sprawled across both of their laps, nearly purring contentedly. Dazai looked different, too. He’d taken the bandages off his face, revealing a fading scar across his forehead and stitches on his cheek. He’d squirmed when they’d kissed those wounds, but he had plenty of other scars for them to explore, and many of them were laid bare. He had been passive but wanting, bucking against them, leaning into them, coming undone in their hands. He had let go; he had let them take control. And in the end, all three of them had each let the other two take some aspect of themselves, had given themselves over completely.

An hour later, their stamina restored, they began to finally plan their future.

One Month [Later]

A young man, around fourteen but unsure of his actual age, was sitting inside a building, kicking his legs. The room was sterile, a doctor’s office inside a community center. Several weeks ago, he had been taken off the street after demonstrating that he had an ability — but far from being arrested or put away, he was surprised to find himself taken here. He was surrounded by other kids with abilities, and was slowly learning how to control his own. Today, he was checking in with one of the doctors on his progress.

Usually, the clinical room was more private; but in this room, one of the walls was a one-way mirror. Behind it, observing the meeting, were two men. One middle-aged, who ran the clinic. The other was shorter, younger, with white hair. They watched curiously as the young man demonstrated his ability, creating a small crackling fire in his palm before it burned out and he shook his hand uncomfortably.

“What do you think?” Mori asked.

As part of their future plans, he had been asked to report any ability users who might have potential to be recruited into the Mafia to Atsushi for evaluation. This place was good for kids to hone their skills; but one day, they were going to have to prepare to go into the working world. Atsushi insisted they were old enough to choose the Mafia life for themselves.

“He’s a little too young, still,” Atsushi replied, his arms folded as he watched the redhead try to summon fire again. “I’ll check in with him in six months. But I think the boss’ll be pleased.”

“And how is the boss?” Mori pressed, a creeping smile breaking out on his face. He was needling, prying, as he had been for the past month. As far as he knew, Dazai had not been seen since that day they talked him down, and Mori was burning with curiosity as to what happened to his protege. If he had gone back to the Mafia and it was business as usual, or . . .

“Oh, you know,” Atsushi replied noncommittally, shrugging his shoulders. He wasn’t going to give. “He appreciates redheads.”

“That right?” Mori mused, but it was getting late, and Atsushi couldn’t dally any longer.

“Thank you, Mori-san,” Atsushi said, bowing politely, before he rushed out the door.

On his way out, he waved to Kyouka, who quite literally had her hands full restocking the pharmacy, but Demon Snow was able to offer a wave. He was only here in the mornings on the weekend; she was here most weekdays unless they had a special job for her. Freelance was the word she liked. Chuuya said she was a mercenary.

Atsushi promised to pick up a bottle of wine, though he had no idea what to look for and ultimately asked one of his subordinates to pick something for him. He met a man in a black suit on the corner and took the package before dismissing him; it contained both the wine and his large assassin’s coat. Atsushi swung the coat over his shoulders and slipped into the Mafia tunnels, taking them to the other side of town, almost as far away from the docks as possible, to a large high-rise.

He stepped into the building, nodding at the doorman, and slipped into the elevator. Before the doors closed, someone else walked into the lobby and waved at him to keep it open. The other man stood quietly beside him as they rose up together to the sixth floor. They stood in silence, but between them, their gloved fingers hooked together, Atsushi’s nearly getting tangled on the other man’s long red scarf.

“There’s a young pyromancer in the clinic,” Atsushi said quietly. “He has potential. A redhead.”

“Ha.” The other man shook his own copper waves away from his shoulder. “What a stereotype. Let me know when he’s ready.”

Stepping in sync, they walked through the carpeted hallways and entered a small apartment. It was paid for in cash with Mafia money, laundered under a shell LLC, leased under the name of a bank teller who owed them a lot of money. Both men took off their black coats, hanging them on the wall, slipped off their shoes, and did a quick sweep of every room. Then, they looked at each other and fell into a domestic ease.

Chuuya put the wine in the fridge and moved to set up the rice cooker, then he took out a large pan to start searing a whole trout. Atsushi went to set the table, attempting for a more calming than romantic atmosphere. Their third guest, the one who lived here full-time, was expected back any minute now.

He didn’t often go out; after all, he wasn’t supposed to be known to be alive. But today . . .

The knob turned and in walked a tall man dressed all in neutral tones, a brown trenchcoat over his shoulders, a hooded sweatshirt pulled over his head, face plastered with sunglasses. He pulled the hood back and let his brown waves loose, looking over the other two. His eyes were wide.

“Did you ever close the loop with Tomie?” he asked, raising an eyebrow, lips turning into a frown.

“I . . .thought I did,” Chuuya replied. “Lien comes in on the twelfth of the month, priority for Mafia clients, I’m not the liaison anymore, though. Why?”

“Just saw some punks from the Savages going in there,” Dazai said sternly. “You’d better look into it before it’s a problem.”

“Jesus.” Chuuya sighed aloud, chopping an onion with more force than was necessary. “I wonder if they’re just a problem in every timeline. It sounds like you were right to just wipe them out back in . . . I think it was four worlds ago.” He shrugged, stripping a sprig of rosemary. “I’ll send Higuchi over tomorrow.”

Dazai hung up his coat and stepped into the kitchen, elbowing Chuuya out of the way so he could take over. This, for now at least, was their arrangement in everything.

Neither Chuuya nor Atsushi was primed to take over the Mafia completely in this world: Chuuya had the skill but not the authority; Atsushi had the authority but not the mind; Dazai had the mind, but not the wherewithal. And so, despite the fact Chuuya had joked about it being a terrible idea in their last timeline, they acted as a duocracy or triumvirate, depending on how you looked at it. Chuuya acted as the physical embodiment of the Mafia Boss, attending meetings and giving orders to Atsushi, who was able to act as messenger and in-between. Dazai was advice and strategy, also often sending Atsushi as his face. Neither of them could do this without him — even though he had enjoyed working at the clinic in the past timeline, he was at the moment only a visitor, teaching a workshop twice a week on ability control. Atsushi would rather they need him than he be out of their lives.

The three of them sat down to dinner, speaking idly of their days, circumventing the subject hanging in the air. At last, Atsushi could not take it anymore.

“How did it go?” Atsushi pressed.

Dazai stopped, putting down his chopsticks and closing his eyes. Tonight had been the first of his meetings with Oda. He took so long to collect himself that Atsushi wondered if he had skipped the meeting entirely and just knocked around a different bar, but finally, he opened his eyes.

“The chapter,” he started, “was terrible. His writing is all over the place. Part of me wonders if he forgot about our deal until the last minute and then he vomited words on a page.”

Chuuya gaped.

“Oh, no,” he said, amused. “Is it possible this is the only world where Oda is writing . . . and it’s because he’s bad at it?”

Dazai shrugged. “But,” he added. “I could see the passion. The potential. I offered some criticism and . . . we had a nice conversation. Chuuya, he’s still waiting on you to follow up about that child-trafficking ring.”

“Ah, shit,” Chuuya muttered. He sipped his wine and then took out his phone. “Let me get that on my calendar.”

“Get yourself an assistant,” Dazai ordered.

“Working on it,” Chuuya replied.

“Not working on it. Do it now.” Dazai brought his glass to his lips. “How did I ever think you clowns could run things without me?”

“You didn’t,” Atsushi pointed out, “I think you just didn’t care.”

Dazai reached a hand across the table and squeezed Atsushi’s fingers.

“I still don’t care,” he said, tilting his head. “I just care about you.” He turned briefly to Chuuya. “And you, too.”

Chuuya turned pink and looked away. All three of them had changed over the past month, the past six years, the past six lifetimes, and Atsushi had noticed that while Chuuya still reveled in that abrasion, he now sometimes craved a softness from Dazai. Atsushi had caught them a few times sprawled out on the couch, wrapped up together, their limbs pretzeled and tangled as they simply embraced — cuddling. It was sweet, and something that Chuuya would deny outside of the walls of this apartment.

Chuuya kicked Dazai under the table, and he went back to eating quietly. Things were not completely at ease between the three of them, not yet. And Dazai wasn’t entirely being truthful. He did care, a little bit. He certainly cared more than he had a month ago. And tomorrow, he might care a little bit more.

Live.

That was all they had asked of him, and he was being true to his word. If he just did that one thing, they could figure out the rest.

Chapter Text

For what was the fourth time that night, Osamu Dazai opened his eyes in the dark, glancing towards the window. He wasn’t sure if he was hoping to see the rays of the dawn or the dark glass that meant he still had ample time to get some semblance of sleep. The truth of the matter, and he knew deep down it was the truth, was that he was not going to easily get to sleep tonight. He wondered vaguely if he should get up and drink himself into unconsciousness so he at least did not have to lay languidly and uncomfortably until morning, but his movement would likely disturb the bed’s other inhabitants.

On his right lay a man who had shared his bed for a distressingly short time in this timeline; though Dazai could not actually claim to have lived through all the lifetimes his paramours had, he had a much better memory than either of them, and he had seen and felt the different outcomes the Book had presented him. A more natural timeline, the one he had originally planned, saw Chuuya Nakahara at his side from age fifteen to twenty-two, both of them learning each others’ bodies slowly and enthusiastically. Once he took over the Mafia, Chuuya warmed his bed whenever he wanted. But in this world, Chuuya had only been his for a handful of months, leaving him frustrated in more ways than one. In the interim four years, Dazai had from time to time looked over the Book, watching their encounters like a voyeur, determined to have Chuuya bending to his touch once again and to know him just as well as he was supposed to. Now that they had reconciled, his plans to kill himself had been diverted, they had been more naked with each other than ever before. Dazai nearly felt like Chuuya’s scheming made him the one bending under Chuuya. But he had to admit there was something very appealing about that.

On his left lay a younger man, though he sported beautiful white hair. He felt a little bit of a guilt when thinking about how he treated Atsushi Nakajima in other timelines. He had been free to be cruel, to be abusive, because he knew Atsushi had harbored complicated feelings for him, that Atsushi would do anything to please him and do whatever he asked. In this world, he could sense for years Atsushi’s want; but he didn’t use it against him. Instead, there was something about Atsushi’s pure love for him that almost touched his heart . . . a heart he thought long dead and numb. If he had his way, it would be outright dead, medically speaking; only Chuuya and Atsushi had each reached a hand into his chest and squeezed. A temporary resuscitation.

Temporary, extended by a promise made to him that would be fulfilled tomorrow evening.

That was the source of his insomnia. Tomorrow, he would meet with Oda. And what would he have to show for the month he had spent in the company of the two men who loved him? It was easy enough to say he would play at domestics with Chuuya and Atsushi, be loving with them, be nice — but the day to day was agonizing. Nothing felt right. He didn’t know who he was anymore.

For six years, even more if he counted the timelines he’d lived in the Book, he had done nothing but plan, plan out his life and everyone else’s, put on this elaborate play, roll with the punches and find ways around problems to get to his ultimate goal. Even after Chuuya threw him a wicked curve ball. And now that goal was met . . . and he was supposed to be gone. There wasn’t supposed to be an after, he wasn’t supposed to exist anymore. And he was so tired.

Dazai made a small noise and shifted closer to Atsushi, brushing a hand gently through his hair. Atsushi sighed and stirred awake, his lashes fluttering, his head turning in the pillow, but he didn’t yet open his eyes. Dazai lay his face next to his younger partner’s, breathing him in deeply. For years, he’d shaped Atsushi into who he was, told him how to dress, what to eat. In spite of all that, Atsushi had come into his own: willful and wanting. But he always smelled and felt familiar. Comforting.

Dazai turned onto his back and reached out an arm to brush against Chuuya as well, but stopped before his finger touched his cheek. Chuuya was already awake.

“Can’t sleep?” Chuuya muttered. “You always were restless. Might mistake you for having a conscience.”

Dazai pouted. “Really, the first thing out of your mouth is insulting me?”

“You like it.” Chuuya groaned and turned over to face him, shifting towards him. In the dark, Dazai searched for his outlines, the messy red mullet that was pillow-teased, the long bridge of his nose, the shine of his eyes. He was getting very close now, leaning over Dazai on his side while Dazai looked up at him. Surely, Chuuya knew what he wanted.

On his other side, Dazai heard Atsushi stir again.

“Dazai?” he murmured drowsily. “Are you alright?”

He groped in the dark for Dazai’s body, ultimately draping his arm across Dazai’s collarbone and pulling himself to muster. His head fell on the mattress, nestling into the crook of Dazai’s shoulder.

“Unquiet mind,” Dazai said honestly.

“About tomorrow?” Atsushi said. His voice was muffled against Dazai’s skin, but he sat up, rubbing his eyes. Dazai skimmed his fingers along Atsushi’s calf and his skin prickled, goosebumps breaking out along his flesh. Atsushi lay a hand on his arm and squeezed it, moving to hold his hand.

That first night, when they had laid out all of their dirty laundry, when they had laid themselves bare, it wasn’t what he had expected. Sex was a means of control for both of them, a forging of intimacy with Atsushi, reward and punishment for Chuuya. For himself, it was an itch to scratch, a way to assert himself and lose himself for just a moment. But that night, he had given over that control, he had melted into them. He had let his desire mingle with theirs, until he had lost track of who wanted it more, until it didn’t matter, only that they were all feeling each other, touching each other, bringing each other pleasure. For the first time in a long time, he had a sense of who he was, in that he was their lover, their partner, he was a human with human desires. He didn’t have to think beyond that moment.

Oh, to let go of control once again and put himself in their wanting hands. It would be mindless bliss.

Dazai combed a lock of hair behind Chuuya’s ear, cupping his cheek, his want radiating from his fingertips, and he tilted his head back in opening. Chuuya turned on the light and took a beat before he leaned down over Dazai, his breath heavy. His lips brushed lightly against Dazai’s. He didn’t kiss him right away; he skimmed across Dazai’s bottom lip, then his top, and Dazai shivered, making a small noise. That seemed to be what Chuuya was trying to solicit, and Dazai finally felt that unquiet mouth pressing against his own. Chuuya’s hand fell under his jaw, pulling him into a closer kiss, and Dazai opened his lips, silently asking for it deeper, harder. Chuuya relented and slipped his tongue into Dazai’s mouth, and he let out a sigh. Chuuya pulled away and Dazai turned his head, reaching out to Atsushi, who bent to kiss him, too. Atsushi could never turn down an opportunity to kiss Dazai, and he was at once ravenous, his lips sweet and wanting. After a moment, Chuuya tilted Dazai’s face back towards him and leaned in again.

It was only in the first months of their courting that he and Chuuya made out for any length of time. They would kiss for hours, but once they got their dicks involved, they were quick to get to the point. Chuuya’s warm and voracious lips now reminded him of those more intimate days, taking joy in just their closeness, their lips becoming sticky and chapped, their breath falling in a rhythm, that heat igniting a spark in his core. But while Chuuya drew out his slow arousal, Atsushi went for the faster method.

Atsushi’s hand crawled down his chest, and he moved his body to let Atsushi take his pants off, leaving him just in his boxer briefs. Atsushi spidered his fingers slowly down his navel, tracing circles above his pelvis, running a single finger under his waistband. Dazai lifted his hips off the bed, leaning into him, and Atsushi obliged. Over his remaining clothes, Atsushi pressed his palm into Dazai’s dick, moving in gentle circles, going around and around so fucking gently. Dazai groaned, pulling Chuuya tighter against him, opening his mouth wider, opening his hips. Atsushi inched down and stroked the inside of his leg, the hinge of his thigh. His fingers slipped under the leg of Dazai’s briefs to grasp him, and Dazai felt Atsushi’s hot hand brushing his shaft and sliding to softly cradle his testicles. Atsushi held them gently, caressing the skin with his thumb, and he kissed the apex of Dazai’s leg, making that wet warmth wash over him. Dazai nearly bit Chuuya as Atsushi’s tongue dug into the crook of his leg, and Chuuya growled low, actually biting his bottom lip, sucking on it viciously until Dazai almost choked. He was burning. Both of them, he needed both of them so badly, Chuuya’s carnal need chafing inside him and Atsushi’s sweet touches ensnaring him.

Dazai became dizzy and broke away, struggling for breath. Chuuya’s hair was even more disheveled, and Dazai hadn’t even realized he had been digging his hand into it. Their eyes met, Chuuya’s shining with a mania that made everything worth it. He wanted to be devoured by that gaze.

“You were right, you know,” Chuuya said, his voice heavy.

“Mm, I usually am,” Dazai teased. “But what was I right about this time?”

He thought he knew what Chuuya was talking about; but he wanted to hear him say it in that aching tone, in that hungry growl.

“I do like you writhing under me,” Chuuya breathed. “You coming undone, letting me take you over, losing yourself in me . . . in Atsushi . . . it does get me off.”

Chuuya kissed his neck as Dazai squirmed happily, and he took a page out of Dazai’s book as his hot breath fell beside his ear.

“So let me get you off,” he whispered.

Chuuya took off his own shirt and kissed down Dazai’s torso inch by inch. Lips pressed against Dazai’s sternum, his chest, his stomach, and Chuuya paused here to swirl his tongue around Dazai’s navel. Another set of lips began to make its way up, as Atsushi shifted to switch places with Chuuya. Together, they pulled off the remainder of Dazai’s clothing. And Dazai felt the warmth of Atsushi’s lips on his own while Chuuya ducked between his legs and pressed his mouth to Dazai’s dick.

It was the heat that always hit him first, balmy and wet against him, oppressive and pressing. Chuuya’s breath beat on his shaft, kissing up its length, and he moistened his lips before wrapping them around his head. Chuuya sucked slow, taking him in inch by inch, each movement pulsing up Dazai’s spine. He felt Chuuya’s tongue on the underside, that hot, wet hole surrounding him more and more, and Dazai tilted into him. Atsushi’s chest was against his, too, the younger man’s tongue mingling with his own, and he unconsciously echoed the movements of Chuuya’s tongue in Atsushi’s mouth, pulling him closer, tighter. Chuuya swiveled his tongue and Dazai did the same, and Atsushi moaned; god, that sound was beautiful, Atsushi short of breath, voice pitching higher and higher. Dazai drew his hand down Atsushi’s chest, pulling off the younger man’s pants. He was already hard, despite the sleepiness, and when Dazai grasped him, Atsushi did let out a higher moan.

Dazai lay his fingers along Atsushi’s length, pulling on him gently, and Atsushi’s hips followed him. Atsushi was sensitive, already trembling in his arms, and Dazai was more than willing to make him quiver more. He brought his hand back up to Atsushi’s chest and rolled his nipple between his fingers, tugging and teasing, and Atsushi shuddered, his entire body reacting, moving urgently to rub himself against Dazai’s thigh. Dazai held Atsushi’s waist and pulled him up, bringing his chest to his mouth; Atsushi’s arms were splayed on either side of his head, sideways across his chest, and Dazai felt him inhale as he took Atsushi’s nipple in his mouth. He flicked it with his tongue, and Atsushi squirmed on top of him, almost writhing, shoving his hips against Dazai, wanting, needing.

He felt fingers on his ribcage as Atsushi echoed him, drawing circles around Dazai’s nipple beneath his bandages. Something about that touch, when Atsushi pinched him between his fingers, tweaking him, tugging on him, that sensation rippled through him, it made his cock twitch, made the blood pound between his legs, and he wrenched his head away, seizing Chuuya’s hair.

Chuuya lifted his head, and Dazai glanced down at him. His mouth was open and wet, panting, his eyes lustful.

“Too much?” Chuuya asked teasingly.

That look alone could have toppled him over the edge, Chuuya’s animal desire painted plainly on his face. But it wasn’t too much at all, though that tongue licking across his slit and the lips hooking on him over and over, that took his breath away and left him throbbing. But it wasn’t nearly enough. He needed him closer — needed both of them closer, needed them both against him, inside him, around him.

“Bury yourself in me,” Dazai said softly. “And I’ll be buried in Atsushi.”

He glanced briefly at Atsushi for permission, but Atsushi was already leaning over him on all-fours, his breath short, his bright eyes hungry. When he looked back at Chuuya, the redhead’s face was flushed, a blush across his cheeks.

“Yes, boss,” he echoed, and Dazai actually blushed. Chuuya grinned and slid off the bed.

Dazai shifted to the edge of the mattress, pulling Atsushi along with him as Chuuya shed the rest of his clothes behind him. Atsushi lay supine, bare, his limbs loose and malleable as Dazai spread his legs, folded his knees, and knelt between his thighs. Dazai leaned over him, tracing that pale porcelain skin, letting his fingers trail over his shoulders, up his neck, and Atsushi leaned into him like a cat. His throat bore none of the scars that used to plague him, that horrible collar gone at this point, leaving him flawless. Atsushi still occasionally lost control, but Dazai was there to hold him down and smother him, to kiss away his pain. Atsushi almost purred as Dazai’s hand outlined his jaw, his lips, and Atsushi stuck his tongue out, licking Dazai’s fingertips.

Dazai startled suddenly at hot hands seizing his hips, and a long tongue trailed from the base of his spine up to the nape of his neck. He took in a sharp breath as Chuuya bit gently around his shoulders and he groaned aloud when sharp teeth pierced into his skin.

“Harder,” Dazai commanded. Chuuya sank his teeth deeper and he moaned, that pressure against him, in him, that sharp pain sending a rush of endorphins to his head. “More. Lower, Chuuya.”

Chuuya gently bit his way down Dazai’s back, each prick shooting adrenaline through his blood. There was less meat near his bony spine and difficult to get a good grip, but Chuuya at last reached near his ass and bit deep. Dazai inhaled sharply, his breathing becoming more labored as he felt Chuuya’s hot breath near his entrance. A surge of desire hit him, and before he could vocalize it, Chuuya did.

“You want to be mindless, right?” Chuuya asked.

“Yes.”

Dazai traced around Atsushi’s neck with his wet hand, and Atsushi thrashed. Dazai’s breath hitched in anticipation, his heart pounding faster as he felt Chuuya’s breath beat on his ass, his mouth so close to where he wanted it. Dazai brought his own fingers back to Atsushi’s mouth, poking his fingertips between the younger man’s lips. If Chuuya was going to be inside him, he was going to be in Atsushi.

“Then I’ll make you unable to think,” Chuuya whispered.

He felt the first flicker of Chuuya’s tongue against the inside of his cheek, and his back arched. Chuuya teased slow circles, licking around his entrance; Dazai’s cock twitched, stiffening, and he stuck his fingers further into Atsushi’s mouth, gliding against his tongue. At last Chuuya plunged his tongue inside him and Dazai moaned, shoving his fingers deeper into Atsushi. He stared down at his younger partner, his lips parted and panting, vision hazy, and Atsushi looked back up at him brightly, happily. Atsushi sucked on his fingers, making full eye contact, that expression so eager and wanting, going along with it as Dazai pulsed in and out of his mouth to echo Chuuya’s movement, his concentration slipping as Chuuya alternated licking a line around him and darting in, each change shuddering in his bones, trilling up his spine. Blood pulsed between his legs as he grew harder, his need escalating.

“Chuuya,” Dazai said, his voice breathy.

Chuuya let up, leaning against his spine, his breath labored. A little more focused, Dazai shifted his attention to Atsushi’s bare body. He removed himself from Atsushi’s mouth and slid his slick fingers down his chest, to his pelvis and his spread thighs, and Atsushi shut his eyes, muscles relaxing as Dazai pushed those fingers into his ass. Atsushi let out a small cry, clutching the sheets, letting out a longing groan as Dazai slid deeper.

From behind him, Chuuya clambered back onto the bed, bending beside Atsushi’s face. Atsushi reached for him, his fingers in his hair, and Chuuya kissed him, long and languid. Though Dazai had not suspected they were conspiring together, they were actually terrible at hiding their romantic interest in each other. It was obvious Chuuya craved Atsushi, and any time the three of them had slept together, Chuuya was eager to touch him, to tease him and make him writhe, push him further. It was another thing Dazai was content to leave behind, let them have their romance without him. But now that they no longer tried to pretend, they were just as ravenous for one-another as for him and it was quite the stimulating sight. Atsushi moaned against Chuuya’s mouth, their tongues sliding together, their hands touching and squeezing, enticing each other and tantalizing each other. Dazai stirred even more, their feverish movement driving him wild.

He leaned in over them, still pressing into Atsushi, and he laid kisses over Atsushi’s cheek. Atsushi broke away from Chuuya to kiss Dazai, his mouth still tasting of his other partner, lips red and chapped. Dazai picked up his head and turned to Chuuya, who swept his hands under Dazai’s jaw to kiss him, and that heady euphoria started to engulf him, that mindless carnal pleasure of limbs and tongues and dicks, wet and hot, he was losing himself in it.

Under him, Atsushi’s eyes were glossy with need, and he tipped his head back as Dazai pushed again into him, moaning.

“Please,” Atsushi said, and Dazai could not resist that begging, pleading face.

Atsushi gasped as Dazai pulled his fingers out of him, and Chuuya grabbed Atsushi’s wrists, pulling them over his head. They gave a small glance to each other before looking down to watch Atsushi’s face as Dazai nudged into him. Atsushi’s eyes fluttered; Dazai pushed into him more, and Atsushi cried out, widening his hips, spreading himself more, until Dazai’s hips were flush with his ass, deep inside him.

Dazai closed his eyes and breathed out, trying to center himself when Atsushi’s body around him felt incredible, and when he opened them again, Chuuya was staring at him. Dazai looked back at him, the man he had always trusted with his body and his heart, and Chuuya crawled forward to kiss him. It was slow, yearning, and Dazai felt his muscles loosen in anticipation. Once he pulled away, Chuuya had a stupid grin on his face.

“You want me to fuck you, Dazai?” he whispered.

Dazai groaned in annoyance; he was going to make him ask for it, was he? He remembered all the times he’d tried to make Chuuya beg, especially when they were younger. Breaking through Chuuya’s resistance was stimulating, when he went from feigning indifference to crying out his name, his face pleading and his expression wrecked. With his free hand, he drew Chuuya in again for a long, slow kiss. Chuuya groaned, matching his languid pace, wrapping his arms around his neck sweetly. Dazai trickled his fingers down Chuuya’s lean torso, scraping him lightly with his fingernails, feeling Chuuya shudder involuntarily before Dazai reached his cock. Chuuya inhaled, and his breath was let out in a high whine. He could make Chuuya beg right now if he wanted, if he pressed under his shaft, above his testicles, Chuuya would curse and groan and cry out. But Dazai could not ignore the burning inside him any longer.

“I want you,” Dazai replied. He was dizzy, desperate, but he still played it up, making his voice higher, sticking out his hips. “I want you so bad, Chuuya. I want you inside me.”

As rote as his words were, it was what Chuuya wanted to hear, his face visibly excited. Outside the physical stimulation, that want, that hard desire, was what aroused him: how much Chuuya would give to be held against him, how badly Atsushi yearned for his touch.

Chuuya slid off the bed and positioned himself behind Dazai, who bent over Atsushi to give Chuuya space. Atsushi moaned as Dazai shifted against him, and Dazai moaned as his dick moved inside Atsushi, that heat compressing around him, and finally Chuuya thrust into him and he was thrown into heady oblivion. Behind him, Chuuya plunged into him, filling him, pounding against sensitive nerves and lighting them up over and over, and beneath him, Atsushi’s body clenched around him, breath beating on his chest, hands seeking out his skin. The waves of pleasure came from both directions, from within and without, ebbing and flowing, each wave building higher and higher as he pulsed into them. Chuuya’s arms wrapped around his waist, sprawling a hand on his stomach, and Atsushi’s legs wrapped around his torso, and he could almost feel their pleasure, too. The way Chuuya gasped and moaned, his thrusts becoming more erratic, the way he pressed his face into Dazai’s spine, desperate to be closer. The way Atsushi bucked against him, his hands gripping Dazai’s arms, his mouth open and panting.

It had been said about him that he didn’t feel anything, but he could feel this, he could feel them rubbing against him, inside him, he could feel those sensations that flared in his head, that sent his system into overload and made his body jolt and rock. Did that make it love? He didn’t know. He didn’t care. He only cared that they were all here together, all of them reeling and leaning into their base desires, feeling that same overwhelming sensation, together.

Atsushi’s movement was becoming more frantic, his temperature rising, and Dazai knew it was difficult for him to come through penetration alone. Dazai slicked his fingers in his own mouth and grasped him, and Atsushi arched his back, shuddering, unable to do anything but writhe as Dazai stroked him up and down, pulling on him as he got harder, his voice pitching, his breathing becoming too fast. He was beautiful, unraveling and losing control. Dazai drove into him harder, losing himself in Atsushi’s body, in his partner’s pleasure, and Atsushi came, spilling over Dazai’s hand and stomach.

He was beautiful in his passion, and Dazai bent to kiss Atsushi lightly, pulling out before Chuuya pushed deeper inside him, hitting that sweet spot, and his focus shifted to Chuuya pawing at him, thrusting into him. Dazai leaned forward on the mattress and Chuuya’s hand crawled up his spine, his fingernails clawing at his back, at his sides. It was disappointing that he could only imagine Chuuya’s contorted face as he fell apart.

“Chuuya,” Dazai panted, “let me watch you come.”

Chuuya slowed down, his hand resting at the base of Dazai’s back. And Dazai realized that nearly everything he had said tonight was a command — and though both of them liked taking his orders, it shouldn’t be his default. Dazai made a sound in his throat and changed his language.

“I — I want to see you come,” he said instead.

Chuuya made a noise, high and strangled, and he pulled out of Dazai. Dazai gasped and turned over quickly, onto his back, his legs folded near the edge of the bed, and he stared up at Chuuya. His face was flushed, eyes glazed over, and his dick was at attention, wet and glistening, dripping. Dazai absolutely ached for it.

He hooked his ankles around Chuuya’s waist, pulling him closer, and Chuuya slid easily back into him, thrusting harder with the bed as leverage. Each movement jolted through his body, into his head, and Chuuya’s expression became desperate, his eyes fluttering shut, his teeth gritted, barely hanging on. He hoped the beauty of Chuuya going over the edge would be enough to take him away, but . . .

“Nothing’s ever enough for you, is it?”

Chuuya’s words were biting but he had on a manic grin. Of course, Chuuya had lived through all those timelines, fucked him enough times that he knew Dazai was his own worst enemy, that his brain was broken and getting off was sometimes a process. But Chuuya wasn’t deterred; he was determined. He wouldn’t let Dazai best him.

“I told you,” Chuuya purred, winded. “I’ll take care of you. We’ll take care of you. Atsushi, can you. . .?”

Atsushi was still flushed, but he had recovered enough to understand. He slid over to lean on Dazai, their shoulders pressed together, their bodies aligned. He draped a hand over Dazai’s chest, mouth beside his ear, and Dazai was just thinking about how strange it was that Atsushi and Chuuya could sometimes communicate better than he could with either of them, when Atsushi grabbed his cock and dragged his palm up his length and all thoughts left his head.

“It’s alright, Dazai,” Atsushi whispered, his words and voice trembling through Dazai’s body. “You can let go.”

And finally, he let go.

Dazai saw only light and warmth, everything blurry and fuzzy except for the one part of his mind demanding more like it was the only thing that mattered. He could think of nothing, see nothing, feel nothing, other than the two bodies entwining his, Chuuya shoving into him hard and fast and Atsushi holding him tight and stroking him, Atsushi’s breath creeping along his shoulders, teeth biting into his neck, Chuuya gasping, sweating, trying to hold on. And then Chuuya shook his head, his eyes shut tight, draping forward, and he came apart at the seams, melting, falling onto Dazai and Atsushi, and Dazai felt himself topple, his mind blank and blissful, filled with nothing but that bright spark, drowning in a sea of pleasure. Dazai threw his head back, his throat open, gripping whatever skin he could reach, and he came surrounded in light.

The three of them gasped as if returning from a dream, limbs clasping limbs and breath slowly returning to normal. Chuuya was a rag doll, completely spent. Dazai tried to move, but his arms were like jelly; Atsushi ended up being the one to help extract them all before they cramped up.

Dazai rolled onto his side, his thighs aching, everything below his waist sore. It was a welcome ache: something to focus on instead of his dread of tomorrow, imbued with the memory of the lovers that he would not be leaving behind any time soon.

Cleaning up was boring and getting up was difficult, but they had made such a mess they couldn’t neglect it. After, Chuuya couldn’t even bother putting his clothes back on and he flopped nude onto the bed. Dazai lay beside him and smirked, thinking how Chuuya was going to sleep well. Atsushi re-dressed before crawling into bed, and he took Dazai’s hand. On his other side, despite his exhaustion, Chuuya grabbed his other one. Dazai shut his eyes and took a deep breath, squeezing both of their hands.

“Was that . . .enough?” Chuuya managed.

“You’re enough for me, Chuuya,” Dazai whispered. “Atsushi, you are, too.”

Independently, they each kissed his cheek and cuddled up beside him. Oda was right; he didn’t deserve them. But maybe, with their patience and love, and Oda’s generosity, one day he would.