Chapter Text
* * *
Chuuya’s born on April 29th, a tiny but loud, pink-cheeked bundled swathed in blankets. He kicks without force against the nurses that bring him over to his mother; he sucks at his mother’s thumb when she pats his face with loving wonder.
Chuuya’s father, the 43rd Boss of Yokohama’s Port Mafia, drops by six hours after his birth, two feet separating him and his heir.
* * *
Chuuya spends his seventh birthday alternating between running and tripping inside the protected lawn’s spaces. There’s a formal party in the evening where he has to behave and impress people with alternating Japanese-French-English, but that’s a couple of hours away. He prefers to spend his days outside, warmed by the sun and cooled by the breeze, instead of being cooped up in the enormous library, instead of parrying blows in the underground training area.
Chuuya runs back to the porch when he catches a glimpse of his mother’s smile, rare in its softness. He notices a man beside his mother, but he’s wearing plain clothes, so it’s not his father. Chuuya runs faster, his arms waving in a frenzy. “Mother!”
Kouyou freezes for a second, her smile transforming into something more terribly familiar, gilded with firmness that’s a hallmark of power. But her embrace remains warm even if everything about her has turned cold, and Chuuya thinks that he’s happy like this.
* * *
A day before Chuuya’s birthday, he wakes up in the apartment that’s been their home ever since his mother had started expressing her desire for a more peaceful life, ever since Chuuya’s been unable to pass the game theory exams from his home tutor. This morning, he doesn’t wake up to the irregular cling-clang of pans against the kitchen counter, nor does he wake up to slightly-burnt food that tastes like home.
This morning, he wakes up to his bedroom door being kicked open by a bunch of men wearing all-black suits and black sunglasses to mask their faces. He recognizes the standard uniform of Port Mafia, which is why he doesn’t scream. But he huddles into his blankets, eyes wide with terror and confusion, as the men scour the small apartment.
Hirotsu-san, Father’s butler, makes an appearance after nearly thirty minutes of commotion. Chuuya doesn’t seek comfort from him the way he does with his mother; Hirotsu-san, in turn, makes things simple by stating that his mother has fled Yokohama with her new lover.
“Boss wants you back in the main house,” Hirotsu-san tells him, an order, not a suggestion. Some of the men in black start ransacking the closets and shoving their contents haphazardly into moving boxes.
Chuuya thinks about how his mother didn’t make any plans for tomorrow, not even to tease him about the food he’d like her to attempt to cook for his birthday.
* * *
Chuuya turns eight while inside his newest cage—well, it’s technically not new, since it used to be his room when he was much younger and when things were much happier. He doesn’t see his Father – Hirotsu-san tells him that Father is busy tracking down his mother because she has apparently taken something important from him.
He thinks that it’s impossible that she stole something of monetary value, because that’s just not her style. He keeps quiet though, keeps his head down.
There’s a small cake without any candles, delivered straight to his room. It’s a six by six tatami room, with an adjoining bathroom. He can stay inside the room and not come out until it’s time to die.
* * *
Chuuya’s allowed to roam the entire first floor as long as he’s accompanied by a bodyguard. Chuuya doesn’t tell Hirotsu-san that he knows it’s just a farce – or rather, they’re guarding the secrets inside some of the rooms, not Chuuya. He continues his studies, even as he fails most exams and needs a couple of tries before he meets the passing mark.
Lessons for martial arts and weapon-wielding didn’t resume when he returned to the main house. Chuuya’s heard the rumors that Father is looking for a more suitable heir, raiding orphanages for someone desperate enough to cling to a lifetime of blood, someone smart enough to survive against all odds.
Servants and guards all bow to him and call him ‘Young Master’, but Chuuya notices that their bows become lighter and less bent each passing day.
* * *
The moment Chuuya sees Father again, Chuuya knows the rumors are true. He doesn’t see any blood splatters on Father’s clothes, not on the long loop of the scarlet scarf, not on the pristine coat that doesn’t quite effectively curtail the other’s bloodthirsty aura. But Chuuya knows that death has been delivered as punishment; he hopes, but doesn’t expect too much, that his mother died quickly, mercifully.
He doesn’t cry or collapse to his knees—not until the young boy in front of him approaches in confident strides, hollow eyes peering into him as soon as they’re within an arm’s reach.
“You’re my brother?”
Chuuya’s never had a sibling before; he’s never had someone around his age to hang out with, because Elise looks at him with the same disdain as his Father’s, fitting for an Ability that belongs to him. He chokes, for a brief moment, because he’s not sure how to respond.
“Let’s go, Dazai-kun.” Father has never addressed Chuuya by his name, has never addressed him, period. But here he is, placing a gloved hand over his new son’s shoulder, drags him away.
He doesn’t cry, but he does collapse to his knees, the rumors and murmurs growing in volume around him.
* * *
Chuuya fails yet another exam, five points short of the passing mark. Aizawa-sensei tells him that he’s never going to meet the standards of regular middle school at the rate things are going. He sighs deeply and thinks about how easier things would be if everyone is just strong enough to get what they want, protect what they need, strong enough to find happiness in whatever they have, instead of thinking about war strategies and careful manipulation.
Dazai is quiet, one seat away from him, his marks all green and perfect even though he’s been in an orphanage without any home tutors for the past five years.
He doesn’t want to stare, but he ends up doing so. Dazai catches his gaze and smirks at him. Chuuya thinks that it’s probably not made in malice, but he doesn’t know how to react either.
* * *
Chuuya’s allowed to roam the entire estate as long as Dazai’s with him. It doesn’t happen all that often, given that Dazai – despite being a twelve-year-old like him – is mostly out with the Boss during some inspections, some deals.
There are more rumors now, that Dazai’s suggested plan during one of the skirmishes in the border was actually implemented and it had worked like a charm. Chuuya knows that two weeks from now, Dazai will be going out on his own to broker a deal with some mercenaries in the South.
Today, Chuuya doesn’t frown when the servants they pass by bow down to Dazai and call him ‘Young Master Dazai’, all while politely dismissing Chuuya. Most of their time together is spent with Chuuya protesting at being delegated to a life-sized pillow or a convenient lap, since Dazai has this strange habit of locking the two of them inside the estate’s library, reading books and more books with his head on Chuuya’s lap.
Dazai doesn’t refer to him as a brother ever since their first meeting. He’s the only one who calls Chuuya by name anymore. Sometimes, Chuuya wonders if he’ll end up forgetting his own name if not for Dazai reminding him about it, calling him Chuuya, Chuuya, Chuuya each time they’re together.
Dazai shakes his head against his thighs, fanning his hair all over his lap. His eyes lose their hollow darkness whenever they’re together. It makes Chuuya happy, because he hasn’t been successful in chasing the hollow coldness in his mother’s eyes before, so she ended up running away from everything. “Can you read this, Chuuya?”
“It’s in…” Chuuya squints at the words, doesn’t recognize them as familiar. “Some weird bullshit language.”
Dazai laughs, delighted at Chuuya’s failures as always. “It’s in Russian, dummy.”
“Why the hell are you reading in Russian?” To his knowledge, they don’t have any business with any Russian gangs or mafiya. Dazai never does anything without reason, even if the reason sometimes is just because it will annoy Chuuya.
“Mm, why do you think?”
“You plan to make a backdoor deal with some Russian mafiya,” Chuuya glares at the person on his lap, who only smirks in satisfaction at being understood so well.
“If only you applied your brain cells to your studies too.”
Dazai always says words that are tinged with cruelty. Chuuya reacts to them with his best estimation of healthy banter, even though he flounders a lot of times, unsure whether he should let the sharp words sting his heart more than they should.
“I’m not interested in The Art of War.” He much prefers practical applications, but any sort of physical or hands-on lessons remain off the table for him. “I’d much prefer martial arts.”
“All brawn, no brains,” Dazai teases him but softens the blow by flicking Chuuya’s nose.
They spend the rest of the day inside the library, only to go separate ways for dinner, because Chuuya’s food is always delivered to his room, while Dazai’s night is spent schmoozing with Port Mafia contacts.
* * *
“I cannot fucking believe you,” Chuuya grouses at the person lounging on his bed, feet hanging off the frame. “Why do I have to cram?!”
There’s no point. Each day, every day, Dazai moves closer to being the proper heir, the next Boss. There’s no need for Chuuya to acquire knowledge and power needed to be the Boss.
“I refuse to spend time at some stupid school without my chewtoy~~~♪”
It isn’t a metaphor or a petname – Dazai, recently, has favored biting Chuuya’s neck and forearms whenever they’re alone. It’s a relief to his skin that they’re rarely afforded time alone together, with how divergent their paths have become.
“So now you’re forcing me to pass all these tests?” Chuuya’s not sure whether to be flattered or annoyed that Dazai seems to be harboring the misconception that he’s somehow smart enough to pass the tests for the best high school in the city with just a week to prepare. “How fucking inconsiderate can you be?!”
“I already know all of the lessons.” Dazai’s whining is irritating – mostly because he’s just being factual. “If I become bored… do you really want me to be bored, while surrounded by so many innocent sheep, Chuuya?”
“I don’t really care,” Chuuya declares, though he’s a bit… worried. Not because he’s particularly attached to people he doesn’t know, to common people who lived a life unlike his own. Dazai’s just a teenager like him—he acts like it, but he doesn’t actually own the world. It’s too easy, too easy, to imagine Dazai being caught in the tangle of legalities, of prison, of the government’s special division for Ability-users.
“Mm, so you say,” Dazai murmurs slyly, nudging Chuuya’s hand. “Now go ahead and study, Chuuya~~~”
* * *
Chuuya’s fifteen when he enters high school with Dazai. They’re on different classes, because Dazai’s scores tops the national results while Chuuya’s records had to be tampered with. Dazai introduces himself without speaking about his relationship with the other transfer student; Chuuya only mentions his first name and bows down in front of his class.
Chuuya’s PE happens at the same time as Dazai’s Advanced Mathematics; he almost fails to land the soccer goal from the self-consciousness at being stared at by Dazai from the third-floor window.
They have lunch together every other day—finding spots that are hidden from view of their classmates as well as Dazai’s bodyguards. Breakfast and lunch is courtesy of Chuuya, because Dazai’s never been a morning person, even on days that he doesn’t have Port Mafia business that runs deep into the night before. Dinner is always take-out of Dazai’s choice, even though there are a lot of times that the man who bought them is out on some business by dinnertime.
Chuuya’s grades for English, Literature and PE are above Dazai’s; Dazai uses this as an excuse to coax Chuuya into wearing reading glasses and teaching him about poetry and languages. Dazai always leaves his notes and homework answers available for Chuuya to copy—not that Chuuya’s ever taken advantage of it.
They live together in an apartment a few minutes’ walk away from their school, for convenience. Without guardians to overlook their actions, Dazai can practice independence and responsibility. Chuuya’s just glad to be out of his fancy cage of a house.
There are two single beds in the bedroom.
Only one is used with frequency—the other becomes a dump for books and games and snacks.
* * *
Throughout it all, Chuuya doesn’t harbor any illusions about his fate.
Chuuya’s aware of the rumors, ever since his mother fled from the mafia, ever since his father brought back a second son after chasing her down. Everyone says that Dazai is the better choice for the heir, since he has inherited the Boss’s cruelty and cunning, while the first son has only inherited beauty from his mother.
Chuuya’s aware of their plans to assassinate him during his coming-of-age ceremony so that the proper heir can be welcomed.
Chuuya’s aware of the fact that they’re planning to install Dazai as the new heir by having him deliver the killing blow to Chuuya himself.
On the evening of his sixteenth birthday, Chuuya wears an all-black suit more fitting for a funeral. He knows his fate and he’d rather not broadcast his own blood splatter with lighter fabrics. He slices into his food and sips into his sparkling water, surprised with each moment that he retains lucidity.
At the end of dinner, he remains at the head of the long table opposite the Boss, his seat pushed back slightly so that people can have room to kneel before him and offer their loyalty.
Chuuya’s aware that this should be the day he dies.
Which is why he’s beyond surprised when Dazai strides towards him resolutely, kneels in front of him, bows deep enough that his lips are pressed to the tip of Chuuya’s shiny leather shoes. He’s frozen into place, trembling slightly, eyes wide and disbelieving as the people surrounding them burst into gasps and further chatter.
After a tense heartbeat, Dazai moves, liquid grace in his charcoal suit and crimson tie, shifts so that he’s not bent over Chuuya’s feet, moves his face and his mouth so that he’s practically sliding kisses up from Chuuya’s calf to his knees.
Dazai’s eyes aren’t hollow, when their gazes meet. Instead, it’s filled to the brim with amusement and something so intense it burns Chuuya’s mouth dry. Still speechless, as Dazai transfers the attentions of his lips from Chuuya’s clothed knees to his still-trembling hand. Chuuya hears the buzzing of the men behind the assassination plans, but they all fade into static when Dazai kisses each of his fingers, dropping soft touches over each knuckle, over each nailbed, over each fingertip.
Dazai finishes lavishing attention to all of his fingers, before he returns to Chuuya’s left ring finger—the place where the Family Ring should be, should he inherit the legacy of the Port Mafia. In place of a bulky obsidian ring with the crest of the Port Mafia engraved, Dazai sucks the ring finger into his mouth, bites viciously at the spot where rings usually rest, infinitely amused at how Chuuya shudders from how sensitive his hands are, given that he wears gloves nearly 24/7.
Chuuya feels the world around the two of them fade away, before it re-sharpens with startling clarity once he feels the glare of the Boss from across him. He opens his mouth, but he only ends up groaning Dazai’s name, much to his embarrassment.
Chuuya’s not expecting to live through his birthday dinner, which is why he’s surprised when Dazai pledges loyalty to him instead, opting to become his bodyguard and right-hand man.
“Congratulations on your coming-of-age ceremony, Young Master Chuuya.” Dazai murmurs, voice soft, but words clear, loud enough in a room that’s been shocked into silence. “I pledge my life, my loyalty, my everything to your cause. If you’d allow me, I’d gladly be your sword and your shield, for the rest of your life.”
* * *
Chuuya’s not sure how he’s managed to survive that ceremony, when the Boss’s eyes are harder than diamonds, when nobody else aside from Dazai deigned to kneel before him and promise their loyalty. But he’s still alive—though maybe not for much longer.
“What the fuck was that,” Chuuya tries to inject more… venom, more indignation, but he’s just so rattled, shocked, tired.
“That’s what you call a wonderful marriage proposal,” Dazai answers him cheerily, looking self-satisfied, perched on top of Chuuya’s hips. “Don’t you agree?”
“Wonderful, my ass.” Chuuya might not be that attuned with the rest of society, but even he has enough common sense to know that it’s hardly something that can be called ‘wonderful’. Also, he’s not stupid enough to think that there’s no ulterior motive behind such showy defiance of the assassination plan against him. “…will you move? You’re much heavier than you think.”
Dazai grins, all sharp teeth as he grinds his hips down, creasing the lines of their tailored pants. “I can’t believe my lovely fiancé just called me fat!”
“I called you heavy,” Chuuya corrects with a long-suffering sigh, but doesn’t stop his body’s natural reaction – which is to encourage the friction between their hips.
“I noticed that you didn’t deny being my fiancé~”
“You wouldn’t have listened.”
Because Dazai is a jerk like that.
“Mm, see, you can be smart when you want to!”
Chuuya rolls his eyes at that, opts to deliver his retort directly against his new bodyguard’s mouth.