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ruewrites · 4 years

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We’re Blooming Together Chapter 3: Eyes

AO3

Ships: Solomon/Asmo

Word Count: 3023

Warnings: None

Chapter 1-Chapter 2-Chapter 3-Chapter 4-Chapter 5-Chapter 6-Chapter 7-Chapter 8-Chapter 9-Chapter 10-Chapter 11-Chapter 12

“I thought you said you were going to focus on yourself for a while.”

“I am … But they could also be cute, you know? Now stop moving before I stab you with the pin.”

All Asmo had to do was make a few adjustments so his latest assignment actually fit Solomon before making his judgement. If it didn’t fit him just the way he wanted it to, it would look bad if not every little last detail was perfectly in place. Not to mention, the colors looked good on Solomon. Long black jacket that flared down to his knees, with dark blue snakes hiding in the fabric. They were almost invisible until the light hit the sequence just right. Underneath was a white a light grey shirt with golden trim on the collar which bled into dark grey pants. They flared out at the bottom just a bit and also had the same gold trim. Dark and mysterious, a perfect contrast to his person. The blue of the snakes almost matched the specks of blue in his grey eyes.

“I mean note writing is a little ‘high school’ I guess, but it never happened to me before… So I think it’s kind of cute. Plus it’s very well done, much better than anything any of our old classmates could have pulled off,” Asmo sighed, adjusting the cuff of the slacks. He’d gotten a few more letters since the first, some had even included little gifts. Each one had made him bubble up with joy.

“Have you told any of your brothers?” Solomon asked, looking down at Asmodeus.

“ Hell no . While I’d love to go on and on about it, the others wouldn’t let it go , and you know how protective Luci can be.”

Lucifer had been thrown into a parental role earlier than he should have been (honestly he shouldn’t have had to do it at all), but he’d done a fairly good job from what Asmo remembered. Of course they’d had guardians, but Lucifer always tried his best for all of them. He’s also been fairly protective over all of them. Asmo could still remember how he had reacted with his first break up,or the time a group of guys had ganged up on Mammon and Levi after school. Neither situation had ended well for their offenders. Nothing really changed much. The only difference now was that Lucifer was a big, fancy, successful lawyer. While Lucifer was smart in his own regards, it also helped that he’d just so happened to make friends with Diavolo during his studies, a man born into money and power. Diavolo adored Asmo’s dear older brother, and wanted to see him succeed in life. Despite Lucifer’s many protests, Diavolo had poured a lot into Lucifer’s law firm and helped him make Morning-Star&Dev ílle the successful and glorious firm it was today. Long story short, people used to be scared of messing with any of the younger Morning-Stars, now they were absolutely terrified .

Asmo stood and walked around Solomon once more. Everything seemed to be marked properly for him to sew later so he brought Solomon over to the mirror. He let out a low whistle.

“I like this one,” Solomon grinned, gently tugging on the long dark jacket, “And Mammon really wouldn’t model this for you?”

“Not without pay no. He doesn’t do ‘free gigs’.”

More like he didn’t have time for them. Mammon was broke every other week. Asmo didn’t really know how he could do it, so he spent most of his time in the studio to make as much as he could. Asmo had tagged along with him to the studio once, mainly so he could talk to some of the designers. However, he would say that Mammon made a pretty good model.

Even so, he liked having Solomon as his model, and he wouldn’t have to redo measurements often. Plus, Solomon looked good in everything he made. It could be because he had a tiny thing for him, or that he was his type, but whatever. He had an attractive model who he also got along with, and that was important.

“You knoooow, you could always come along with me. I’d make you my own personal model, then I could make you clothes all the time,” Asmo hummed, peaking over his shoulder, “Mr. Author and or professor Solomon would always have a snazzy new suit for every day of the week, or outfit of your choosing. I’m not picky with what I make.”

He caught Solomon’s smirk in the mirror, damn he was attractive . He always got this little twinkle in his eyes whenever he smirked, it was so mischievous. When had he started doing that? When had that shy little boy on the playground become this man before him?

“Perhaps. I’ll think about it.”

Asmodeus hummed for a moment before pulling his bangs back slightly, there it was. That was a nice look. “Oooh you should pull your hair back when you model for my class! Or do it more anyways, that way people can see more of that handsome face of yours!” he said. Or so he could see more of that handsome face of his.

Solomon chuckled and shook his head, pulling Asmodeus’ hand away and brushed his bangs back into place. “I don’t know, I kind of like my hair the way it is. I’ll leave the fancy stuff to you Asmodeus.”

“Pulling your hair back is hardly considered fancy, dear Solomon.”

Something was still missing… Asmo circled Solomon a few more times. What was it? He stared at the breast pocket for just a moment before snapping, “Got it!” Going over to his dresser, he plucked one of the fake flowers from its place. The yellow perennial added a nice splash of color to the outfit and stood out nicely against the dark fabric and matched the golden trim, even if it hadn’t been one of the fully bloomed ones. “Now it’s perfect .”

Solomon adjusted the collar just a bit, eyes fixed on the flower in his pocket. One arm was crossed over his abdomen and the other near his chin, one finger underneath his lip. Slowly he nodded.

Why did he have to be so wonderful ?

Asmo pushed those thoughts away.

“If you think it looks good, I trust you,” Solomon smiled, “After all, you’re the designer here, not me.”

“Good! Now take it off so I can adjust it. I still need to try a few ideas for your face until I’m done with you.”

******

A familiar meow greeted Asmo as he entered the cafe. One of the many residents greeted him happily looking for chin scratches and other affections from him. Few people were here at this hour, and honestly that was for the best. After all, he didn’t want people to overhear his little gossip sessions with Satan. Visiting his brother on break was always fun. He’d get to hear countless stories of odd customers that came in that day and Asmo could tell him about some of the latest gossip on his campus.

“All I’m saying is this, the next kid that pulls one of my cats’ tails is gettin drop kicked out the door,” Satan growled, “I don’t care if he’s six Susan, do your fuckin job as a mom and teach him to not hurt my cats. ”

Asmo nodded along with his brother’s words as one of the tabby’s pressed her head into his palm. “ Children. Surely we weren’t bad when we were that age.”

“Lucifer might beg to differ.”

Asmo flicked the paper wrapper from his straw at him, and Satan snorted, “Well he would .”

“Hush. Luci basically raised us, you know he loves us.”

Satan mumbled a bit and rolled his eyes.

“Anyways,” Asmo continued, “Wanna know my latest thing while there’s no eavesdropping brothers?”

Satan leaned over the table to meet Asmo half way, a smirk on his face. “Any dirt on dear older brother? Or did something happen on campus? Some stupid freshie do dumb shit at the latest frat party?”

That was when Asmodeus hesitated for a moment. Should he tell him? He could always pull something else out to tell him. It wouldn’t be that hard. After all, he knew all of the latest news on campus, he could think of something he hadn’t told Satan yet. No. He could trust Satan. Satan could keep a secret. Even if he couldn’t, Lucifer would be the last person he’d tell. Lucifer was the one he was worried about finding out. He would worry. He’d think the worst.

Not that he blamed him. Lucifer had heard more than enough horror stories from clients to last him five lifetimes over. He knew what the world could be like. He had to face it almost every day he walked in. Asmo just preferred to ignore those parts. Worrying too much could cause wrinkles, and that was one thing that Asmo never wanted to happen to him. Besides, they’d all been fine up to this point and they would continue to be fine.

The letters spread across the table and Satan raised a brow. Asmo slowly opened them and even placed some of the tinier gifts on the table. “ Read them ,” he said, “Satan they’re so wonderful . So beautifully written! I’ve been finding them in my things. My bag, my laptop, my textbooks, my desks, my makeup bag- Oh it’s so romantic and secretive .”

Satan opened one of the letters slowly, eyes scanning over the words slowly, processing what this was. Asmo held his breath, eyes trained on his brother. Oh he could wait to hear Satan’s thoughts. Of course talking to Solomon had been fun, but Solomon was more of a listener. Solomon was a good listener. Those beautiful grey eyes trained on him, nodding to let him know he was listening. He also never interrupted, which was nice. He always listened to him, no matter what. And those eyes…

“Well, their penmanship is certainly impressive.”

“ Satan. Is that really all you have to say?” Asmo couldn’t hide the exasperation in his voice, “This is romance . You know, like you have in some of the books you have in that mountain of a bookshelf? And all you can comment on is the handwriting? ”

“Well it is rather exceptional,” Satan shrugged, “And you don’t have a clue who it could be?”

Asmo had fantasies about who it could be, but as far as clues went-

“Nope! Not in the slightest. All I know is that they say such wonderful things, and they sound like they absolutely adore me!” he sighed, “They even used my favorite color for the letter. I can only imagine how sweet they are, or how wonderful they might be.”

“Or they could be a complete psychopath.”

“ Shut up . This is my fantasy and you’re about to be uninvited.”

Concern crossed Satan’s face, and Asmo could already feel himself starting to suppress a groan. “I’m just being rational. It could happen. There’s plenty of weirdos out there who’d do anything to get what they want you know.”

Of course Asmo knew, but that wasn’t the case here. It couldn’t be the case here.

Right?

“You’re starting to sound like Lucifer.”

“Please, don’t insult me like that,” Satan let out a sigh and looked out the window of the cafe, “I don’t want that to be the case. You’ve only been getting these on campus?”

“ Yes. Unfortunately they don’t follow me wherever I go. It’s not like one’s going to magically pop up while we’re sitting here in the cafe. Besides, I’m more than capable of taking care of myself if something does happen. They probably just look at my accounts. It’s not hard to find my favorite color.”

He wasn’t helpless, and he certainly wasn’t stupid. He was allowed to enjoy this.

“Perhaps,” Satan couldn’t shake all of the concern in his eyes, but he could get rid of most of it, “Although, I may have to have a talk with them if they ever choose to reveal themselves. While they’re writing is good , I’d love to help them work on their descriptions.”

“Satan.”

“It’s cute in a sense, but there are certainly more romantic things that could be said if that’s what they were going for.”

“ Satan .”

“For example, they could have put more of an emphasis on your eyes-”

Asmo groaned and slumped over onto the table, “Satan I don’t want you giving my precious Secret an entire lesson. Knowing my luck you’ll scare them away.”

He heard Satan chuckle and felt him ruffle his hair. Asmo’s eyes peaked up from his arms so he could glare at his brother, but only for a moment. “You know the rule for partners. They get brought in, we get to embarrass whoever brought them in.”

Asmo grumbled out a quiet “yeah yeah I know ” before sitting back up straight. The future for him and Secret would be unforgiving when it came to his brothers, but he didn’t have to cross that bridge yet. Maybe he’d be able to find a way to save both of them from their cruel fate, or more accurately, maybe Asmo could save himself from the cruel fate of being embarrassed in front of his precious Secret.

“You’re all so cruel. You know that right?” Asmo huffed, “Here I am, searching for the love of my life, and all any of you can think of doing is whipping out old stories or teasing me until I turn red. The nerve of you.”

“Everyone gets the same treatment Asmo.”

“I know, but still,” Asmo smoothed his hair back over and let out a sigh, “Couldn’t you let it slide just this once? Please ? They could be the one.” He put on his best puppy dog eyes and batted his lashes for extra measure. For a few moments. One. Then two. Then-

Satan burst out into laughter, “Nah. Nope. Sorry Asmo. If the rest of us have to suffer so do you. Not to mention all of your partners, in your own words, ‘could have been the one’. I’m starting to think that you say that more than you realize.”

That’s because each time he honestly believed it.

“Oh whatever. In any case, this stays between us okay? No one else knows. Especially not Lucifer.” Asmo’s voice was stern. Satan had to know he wasn’t joking around now. He knew what mode Lucifer would jump into if he figured out what was happening, and Asmo couldn’t have that. He didn’t want Secret to be scared off by him. If Secret truly did care about him like they wrote about, Asmo wanted them to stick around for a while….

Satan nodded, “Asmo, you know me. Anything spoken between our exclusive circle stays between us. Lucifer isn’t going to find out. Not until you want him to anyways.” He refolded the letters and pushed them back towards his brother. It was their little secret.

Asmo smiled and took the letters back carefully. “I have a new one to read tonight. I can tell you what it says tomorrow.”

“Oh? You didn’t bring it with you?”

“I’d like the first read through of a first letter to be reserved for my eyes only.”

It made the moment more intimate that way. It was special. Every new letter he opened felt like a warm embrace from his Secret. He bet their embrace felt even more wonderful than he imagined.

“Now, care to tell me about some more of your horror stories?”

*******

To the keeper of my heart,

Where do I even begin when it comes to you?

Some days I fear that my words may fall short

Or that there will be no words left to describe you properly.

What will I do then?

Perhaps I would have to come out from hiding

Hold you close

Never let you go

And recite all of the wonderful mysteries about you.

I love when you get excited about your passions.

Your eyes sparkle and outshine all of the stars in the sky

Your lips curl up in the most perfect of arcs

You voice lilts and picks up ever so slightly.

I’ve never known a more passionate person than you.

Never let anyone take away the life in your eyes.

Think of Me,

Your Secret

Asmo had read the letter three times over. Each time his eyes scanned over the words his heart skipped a beat. Of course he wasn’t new to compliments, he’d received so many over the years. People stared at him, People wanted him. Sure maybe it was a little narcissistic, but why deny it if he knew it to be true? Despite all of that, people rarely went into detail about what they loved about him. He’d had partners brag about how hot or cute he was, but many had also made him feel self conscious. He still remembered the disappointment that flickered behind an old boyfriend’s eyes the one time he had decided to “dress down” one day when he stayed over. The dismissive tone in his voice… Even though Asmo thought he’d looked cute…

Things like that stick with you.

Would Secret still love him if he dropped below the bar one day?

He didn’t want to find out…

Asmo placed the letter on his nightstand, and curled up under his covers. He certainly did think of Secret every night. He tried to create a picture of them in his head. He imagined their voice, how wonderful their embrace would feel, how absolutely perfect they would be. They truly adored him. How could Asmo not think of them? As he drifted off, his mind once again wadered to Solomon. Even if it wasn’t possible, thinking about it couldn’t hurt. It wasn’t like he was going to actually start falling for his childhood crush again. He was still allowed to think he was cute. Plenty of people were cute, that didn’t mean that he’d fall for every cute person he saw.

Once again, Asmo found himself dreaming of his best friend and his beautiful eyes.

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theamateurblogger · 5 years

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Hewwo I love your stuff. Can you do a male s/o with all them slasher boys. Hcs but if you want you can do like, Tommy for a one shot. Idc if its sfw or nsfw

Thank you!!! I hope you like this!!!

Otis Driftwood

Otis is a thirsty ass fucker, not gonna lie

From an outside perspective, it would be easy to assume that he’s only with you for the sex

But let’s be real, if he wanted just sex, he would’ve stuck to his corpses

He loves you, whether he wants to admit it out loud or not

Constantly has his arm around you or touching you in some way

Just a way to stake a claim around others (and to prevent you from running)

But deeeeep down, he does it to make sure you’re okay

Always has to keep you in his sights “to make sure you don’t do something stupid” (like run)

Hugggge exhibitionist

Seriously. It’s an issue. So, you’ll need to get real comfortable around the rest of the family

Chop Top

Chop Top is an actual dream to be in a relationship with

Plenty of arguments about who has better music taste and who gets to pick the playlist/radio station

Out of everyone on this list, he’d be the most likely to propose

He’d want a full on wedding with the family watching and victims’ bones used as decor

Kind of a traditional guy (besides the whole cannibalistic and maniacal tendencies ya know)

So expect some hesitancy from him to get serious with you

His knowledge of the LGBT+ community is very slim

But let’s be real, he had some fun with his fellow soldiers during his time in the war

When he does give in to his love for you, he is absolutely obsessed with you

He’d tell victims stories about you and compare everything to you and things you do

He likes your ass

A lot.

Expect to have it groped, slapped, and ogled at constantly

Would probably be super into roleplay (*cough* the Sonny wig *cough*)

He’s not good at it.

Michael Myers

Michael is…Michael?

You’ll be pretty confused with this guy

He just keeps following you around and you’re not dead yet???

You become more comfortable around each other and it just turns into comfortable silence and occasional situations where you need to ask him to hand you something

You’ll have to be the first one to initiate sex

It’ll be very awkward at first because you’ll have no fucking clue whether or not he’s even into it so you’ll just stop and walk away

And he kind of just doesn’t acknowledge any of what happened??? For like a week???

You’re aggravated and confused. (Told ya)

It takes you both a long time to navigate through your relationship

It doesn’t help that you can’t just…talk it out?

It’s all trial and error, but eventually you have a pretty domesticated relationship

He’s like a cat that is gone all day but comes home to you when he wants a nap

Freddy Krueger

Much like Otis, Freddy is a nasty fuck

And it would be hard for me to believe that your relationship isn’t prodominately about sex

We all know the backstory of Fredster and he’s not afraid to take what he wants

Very little boundaries

He’d go after nearly anyone who you come into contact with

It’s like a game to him

You’d honestly have to be just as batshit crazy as this guy

He really appreciates the element of surprise

Taking a bath? Now, you’re getting raw dogged at 3am, water splashing out of the tub

Trying to take an exam or you’re waiting in line at the DMV? He’s fucking with your mind the entire time

Walking down the hallway, trying to get a glass of water? BOO! Now he’s laughing his ass off at how much of a pussy you are

Charles Lee Ray/Chucky

Chucky is genuinely kind of an asshole

And I don’t think you’d change that

Buuuuut, that’s kind of what attracts most people to him right?

He’s kind of new to these feelings toward you

And it really fucks with his ego

Internalized homophobia anyone?

It’ll take time and patience for this guy

But I think it’ll be worth it in the end

He’d steal you all kinds of cool stuff

Plus, Chuck’s a total switch and I think it’d be fun to finally take him down a peg in the bedroom

Bubba Sawyer

Such a sweet baby

Please don’t ever hurt him

Bubba would bring you flowers and little trinkets he made from bone constantly

When he first meets you and wants to impress you, he makes sure to fix up his mask realll nice with his favorite lipstick and wears his best clothes

Even now that you’re his, he still just wants to make you happy and make sure that you know he’s putting in effort because he cares ya know?

Constantly needs reassurance from you

As much as he likes giving you affection and gifts, he nearly cries when you do those things for him!!!

Please spoil that man!

Loooves listening to music! Chop Top, Bubba, and you almost always spend your nights together listening to the radio

From everything I’ve read online as well as some choice scenes from the movies, I’m a full believer in the fact that not only is Bubba 100% pan and open to alllll kinds of lovin’, but he also has the biggest oral fixation known to mankind!!!

Thomas Hewitt

Thomas is a very different man than Bubba

He’s more rough with you and has full knowledge of what he’s doing

Definitely knows his size and will pick you up whenever he pleases

At the end of the day, he makes the rules

Doesn’t mean you can’t persuade him to do things that you want to do though

You’ll just have to make it up to him so he won’t be in a foul mood

Is a bit awkward with things

Especially around his family

I’ve said this already but Thomas definitely grabs things off of victims that he thinks you’d like!!!

Will probably try to wrap the items up! Will probably fail!

Nubbins Sawyer

Nubbins is such a cutie!!!

He loves you so much

I’ve said this before too, but Nubbins would definitely have a box full of photos he took of his S/O

He treasures them the absolute most

You know those little cute polaroid walls? He def has one of pictures of you and him

He’s also the most likely out of all the slashers to have a Pride flag hung up

He’s also an absolute handful.

Expect to wake up alone pretty often, because this dude just wants to take impromptu trips throughout Texas allllll the time

Sometimes you go with though

As he picks up cool roadkill from the side of the road, you pick up cool plants and maybe a lizard

As far as sex goes, he’s an absolute goof

He’s just so excited to have someone who wants to do these things with him

Lots of laughter

The Collector

Definitely a bit of a strange one

Literally. Stranger danger.

He first met you at a wildlife museum

And he just kept following you around

He even started targeting people that looked like you?

He just wanted the body parts to add to his collection

Without having to ruin the original

Eventually, he would kidnap you and lock you in his own personal “museum”

He’d show you his pieces every time he completed one

He’d bring you your favorite foods though which is nice

Then he’d watch you from the security cam he set up in your room

Brahms Heelshire

Such a needy boi

He likes to watch you

Secretively, in the walls

Orrr just sitting across from you, cross legged

You could be changing or you could be reading/watching TV

It doesn’t matter.

He’s always so infatuated by you

I really wish I could get behind the idea that Brahms is a huge sub and would call you daddy

But I just can’t???

He likes to have control.

There’s no way he’d want to give that up

You essentially have to trick him into doing anything around the house

So enjoy being his slave

The Other

I guess this kind of depends on how far your relationship has been established

You probably started off as neighbors or maybe just acquaintances that ran into each other at the grocery story every once in awhile

I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say that he appreciates a good age gap and has more than enough experience with the opposite sex *wink*

def a bi boi

His attraction to you didn’t go far beyond sexual at first, but then he seen how well you interacted with his daughter and that’s what broke him

I swear it’s like he has two personalities

When he’s out with you and your guys’ daughter, he’s a typical suburban husband/dad

Has a retirement plan, pays the bills, works his ass off in an average blue collar job, drinks beer with the bois and complains about your nagging

Also brags about how good you are to him and has no shame in his game

Purely domestic

But then??? When it’s just you two, it’s like a switch goes off where he doesn’t need to put on the act

He controls every aspect of you and your body; much like Brahms, he won’t be able to give up his control

He’s an absolute dom

Christian Grey ain’t got shit on what’s in his garage.

#slashers headcanons #slashers x reader #slashers #brahms heelshire x reader #the collector x reader #The Other x reader #bubba x reader #thomas hewitt x reader #leatherface x reader #otis driftwood x reader #freddy krueger x reader #michael myers x reader #chucky x reader #chop top x reader #nubbins x reader

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izanyas · 6 years

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Nothing Noble (3)

Here it is at last. The third chapter of the agency!Chuuya and mafia!Dazai fic.

Rating: M Words: 8,000 Warnings: very vague allusion to potential sexual assault (no actual assault takes place).

[Read from Chapter 1]

Nothing Noble Chapter 3

Something about the air that day should have given Chuuya warning.

The sky had opened sometime during the night, letting through needles of starlight. He had spent those unslept hours pouring over the files obtained through Sasaki, listening to the whispers of the city and the soft murmur of Katai's snoring. Katai never did close his bedroom door fully. The change in weather had resulted in a sun-bright morning, colder maybe for it than it would have been through the thick of clouds.

Chuuya was too used to insomnia by now for it to bother him. He showered leisurely as the city awoke, scorching water unknotting his back and flattening his hair against his scalp. The bangs over his forehead were almost long enough to reach his eyes; he'd have to take care of that soon.

He brushed his teeth, dried himself, put on clean clothes. He glanced at his fogged reflection in the mirror; he traced the ugly scar on his cheekbone habitually, feeling the depth and width of it with his index finger; he plastered gauze on it, hiding it from view.

"You're always up so early," Katai mumbled when he emerged from the bathroom.

He was stumbling half-blindly toward the couch, a bowl of cereal threatening to spill its content in hand. Chuuya kept it from doing so without thought, milk turning pink under the glow of his power until Katai was seated at last. His roommate thanked him with what sounded more like a groan than an actual word. The TV lit up without any of them touching the remote—whose location had long been forgotten by both of them anyway.

"Gotta get to the agency early anyway," Chuuya said, grabbing his coat from where it hung on the back of a kitchen chair. "I said I'd help Yosano sort through the archives."

"Mrrph," was Katai's answer. His mouth was full.

"See you later."

Katai swallowed hurriedly. "Tell them I'll be around at ten! I promised Kunikida I'd take Atsushi out on his first mission."

Chuuya waved at him and left, the door creaking loudly behind him.

The outside air hit him like an ice wall once he exited the building. Everywhere he looked people were walking by, scarves wound around their faces and hats pulled over their ears. Chuuya tightened his collar around his throat in a meager attempt to ward off the cold, his scarred cheek flaring with pain under the dry and icy wind. Not even his leather gloves could prevent it from filtering in like tiny little knives, their tips pricking his fingers to numbness. Walking did little to keep him warm that day.

"Hey," Yosano greeted him once he hurried inside the office.

"You turned on the heaters," he huffed, tugging off his gloves. "Thank fuck."

"I'm not about to work in a freezer, am I?"

He shot her an absent smile. It seemed they were the only ones in yet; Kunikida's desk was stacked neatly with the files of the day, not yet opened for perusal, and Edogawa's wasn't yet covered in wrappings or empty bottles of soft drinks.

A loud thumping sound broke him out of his observations. He turned back toward Yosano, standing near the newbie's—Nakajima's—desk with several piles of old carton binders. Some were so full of documents that only thick rubber bands held them together, their spine long torn or gone away.

Chuuya frowned. "Is that it?"

"Oh no," Yosano replied, smiling darkly. "That's just the first row. We're going in alphabetical order."

Great.

They sat on either side of the desk and went to work.

The good thing with Yosano was that she valued silence. As flashy as her personality could be given the right circumstances, as dark as her words and eyes could get, she was an accommodating woman. Their interactions easily reduced themselves to asking each other for one file or the next, she telling him what to do and he requesting her advice. The rest was comfortable and quiet in the soft, curtained light, their side warmed by the wall heater and paper shuffling between their fingers. If comments there were, they were equally peaceful. Chuuya couldn't imagine working with any other member of the agency with such ease. Kunikida would be tense by his side as he always was, Katai nervous and distracted, the Tanizaki siblings or Miyazawa playful. He preferred not to think at all of working with Edogawa.

The others trickled in one by one—or two, in the Tanizakis' case. Chuuya let their greetings go unanswered, though Yosano took the time to salute each of them. He filtered through the archives, noting down the ones to be copied by hand or on a screen, putting aside those too damaged to be read by anyone but Yosano herself.

"This is gonna take us weeks," he muttered once they reached the bottom of the third stack Yosano had brought out of the archive room. "Some of this stuff isn't even from the agency."

"My old clinic," Yosano replied. "I still see some of the patients. And Fukuzawa brought in relics of his work to get the agency opened in the first place, alongside Souseki's own stuff. Plus a ton of other things from the previous occupants of this floor."

"Loan sharks," Chuuya said. He'd never been very good at numbers, but he knew suspicious money exchanges when he saw them. Not to mention a few familiar names.

Yosano frowned. "I thought they worked in real estate."

"Loan sharks parading as real estate agents, then. It's not unheard of."

"Bringing back memories?"

Chuuya hadn't stooped so low as to startle, but the sound of Edogawa's voice was always an unwelcome one. He eyed with disdain the mug full of hot cocoa that the man put on the desk beside them—firmly enough that droplets of the beverage stained the old documents brown in places, he noticed irritatedly—and then his face, once he had brought close a chair and sat in it. "Morning, sensei," Edogawa chirped, his piercing eyes fixed on Chuuya.

"Hey," Yosano replied. "How's it going?"

"Good, good. Excellent, even."

Chuuya once more thanked Yosano, internally, for her tact. He had no doubt that she had heard Edogawa's comment, as she must have all the comments he had made since Chuuya had joined the agency, but as usual she paid it no mind at all. She simply went back to her work.

It gave him the energy to withstand Edogawa's stare. "Are you gonna help us?" he asked.

"No," Edogawa answered happily.

"Then fuck off."

"That's no way to talk to a senior," Kunikida declared, announcing his arrival and making a beeline for his desk. "Ranpo-san, Yosano-sensei, good morning." His eyes landed on Chuuya. "Kashiwamura," he added.

"Not my name," Chuuya said.

Kunikida's face pinched into some sort of pained expression. It was becoming a permanent fixture every time they interacted.

Though by now the exchange was more game than anything else, at least for Chuuya, he still didn't enjoy being called by that name. It hadn't been his since he was only a boy, hadn't been his when Kouyou had forged a new one for him and he had adopted it into the depth of his heart like a secret treasure, a bounty of love and acceptance, the kind he had never felt before.

It was a weakness. He knew it. Having most everyone he met call him by his first name was easily done, but it wasn't something he should do. Not anymore. He might as well have introduced himself as Nakahara to them, for all that his birth mother's name was worth as a disguise.

Pain rang hollowly through his chest at the thought of Kouyou, images flashing through his mind as they did every time he slept, every time he let down his guard—the mansion floor awash with sticky blood, her ashen face and limp hair and torn clothes as he stood, still, in the knowledge that he had been too late.

Her cold hand in his as he forgot how to breathe.

It grew inside him like a weed, rotted his heart and lungs with the acrid bite of anger, burned his words to ash at the back of his throat.

Mori Ougai. Sakaguchi Ango.

Chuuya exhaled.

His eyes landed on the timid silhouette of Nakajima Atsushi, who had trailed into the office behind Kunikida like a scared cat. The boy hadn't addressed him a word since Chuuya had run his entrance exam, which might have been understandable for someone without the guts to throw themself into the way of a flying knife; yet that had been almost a week ago. Nakajima had opened up to almost everyone else, the eldest Tanizaki especially. He hadn't stopped looking at Chuuya with worry tensing up his shoulders.

"Hey," Chuuya called out to him.

The boy jumped as if electrified.

"Er, me?" he said weakly.

"Yeah." Chuuya turned around in his chair to look at him more closely. Now that he thought about it, he and Yosano were occupying the boy's desk. No one else's had enough room for them to sort through the thick binders. "Katai says he'll be here later to take you out. Show you the ropes. A client has an appointment with us, something about smugglers around her neighborhood."

"Oh." The boy blinked, some of his fear abating, probably out of understanding that Chuuya was not about to try and stab him again. "That's great, then. I need to apologize to him."

"No need for that. I'm sure he doesn't even think about it anymore."

Or at least, Katai had stopped having night terrors about a great white tiger and taking refuge at the foot of Chuuya's bed for protection.

"Still," Nakajima mumbled.

There was nothing else Chuuya could think of saying. Nakajima's eyes had lowered, no doubt to stare at the bandage on his cheek as he had been wont to do since they met. "I'll take that back with me," Chuuya told Yosano, grabbing what was left of the pile they had been working on, turning away from the boy entirely. "Same time tomorrow?"

"And the next, and probably the whole week after," Yosano promised grimly.

Chuuya allowed himself a sharp laugh.

Their short morning hours slugged by uneventfully. The heated air inside the office, coupled with sunlight streaming through the windows, made it feel like a spring day rather than a cold winter one. Chuuya's desk was next to Kunikida's, his back to one of the windows, a space made stifling by weather and tension both. Chuuya hadn't been sent out to do more than investigation and paperwork in a while, and so his workload had consistently dimmed over the days. He took the opportunity to sort through more of the archives, eyeing the elegant penmanship of their director and the unreadable scribbles of who he guessed to be Souseki Natsume, the man's mentor and the one who had supposedly acquired a permit for the agency in the first place.

Weirdly enough, most of the pages left by him looked like manuscripts of short stories. Maybe even a scrapped novel idea or two. Chuuya let his eyes wander upon the words and thought, not for the first time, of the half-finished poems he had left behind in Kouyou's mansion.

(A mocking voice by his ear, like a cold breeze on canicular evenings—"Poems."

"Shut up."

"Of all useless things you could be writing—"

Hitches in the words, a paltry attempt at keeping things the same, even as Chuuya could feel the arm around his shoulders grip him for dear life. Even as he could sense the struggle, even as he had to all but drag the weight on his back to the closest place he could find help.

Stop talking. Stop, stop, stop.

There was a bullet lodged between Dazai's ribs.)

"What did you say your name was?"

"I didn't say."

"Ah, um… yes, yes. You didn't, did you."

Chuuya paid very little attention to the discussion taking place on the other side of the office. From his desk he could only see a fragment of the reception area anyway: the cut-off silhouette of the sharply-dressed young woman who was their only appointment of the day. It was amusing to hear Katai blubber his way through the questions he ought to ask her and trying his best to appear unbothered and professional in front of Nakajima, who was probably sitting by his side and hunching in on himself.

He was proud of the progress Katai had made, though. He still remembered the pale man he had met all those years ago who couldn't stand to step foot outside of his home.

"He's doing well," Kunikida said quietly, echoing his thoughts, his eyes fixed to the green plants giving the lounge a semblance of privacy. The scent of green tea wafted through the air, similar to the kind Katai always prepared at home.

"He had an appointment in town the other day too," Chuuya replied. Kunikida gave him a startled glance. "Went out all on his own and everything."

"That's… good. That's extremely good."

He seemed surprised. Chuuya told him as much.

"I am surprised." Kunikida's pen was not touching the paper on which he was drafting his report anymore; it spun between his fingers deftly, an anxious habit that had more than once thrown Chuuya back years ago to another desk and another person playing idly instead of doing any work.

Funny how such different people could develop the same ticks.

"I've never managed to really help him with his agoraphobia," Kunikida said. "I tried, but he never really wanted to improve."

Once, twice, thud. Rinse and repeat. Kunikida spun the pen and touched it to the desk and spun it again in perfect, precise order.

You've got your own issues to deal with, Chuuya thought.

"I guess," Kunikida continued, voice tense, "I have you to thank for this."

"I did nothing," Chuuya replied. It was true; Katai had changed all on his own. "No need to push yourself into having a good opinion of me."

Katai may have once seen him at his worst, and Fukuzawa offered him pity, but Kunikida would never extend the same mercy. Not after Chuuya had sequestered and threatened his oldest friend, not with what he knew of Chuuya's past exactions, however little that was.

Kunikida rubbed the lacquered length of his black pen with his thumb. "Kashiwamura—"

Noise from the reception area interrupted him. They both turned their heads toward it, watching Katai and Atsushi rise from their couch and the young woman do the same, her fine suit uncreased despite the long time spent sitting down.

It was rare of a woman to pick such stiff fabric at any tailor's, Chuuya wondered, eyeing the gloss of the suit's finish, the sharp and steely gleam of the buttons keeping it close over her upper body. This wasn't just any wear. It was fitted to her, expansive and practical at once, betraying the youth in her face for a lie—no soft-spoken, demure lady wore such things. If anything the bulky handbag she carried on her arm clashed with the rest of her outfit; it was shiny, cream-colored, digging deep into her sleeve as she carried it up. There was no makeup on her face that he could see, nor jewelry or heeled shoes to balance the femininity of it.

Chuuya frowned.

"We'll join you in a few minutes, then," Katai told her, hand trembling at his side as he probably considered offering to shake hers. The woman made no such offer on her end, and so Katai refrained with obvious relief. "Feel free to use the bathroom, or… there's a café downstairs?"

"I'll wait in front of the building," she replied bluntly.

She had taken a step toward the exit when her eyes met Chuuya's. He expected her to stare at the side of his face, but instead her pace turned hesitant for the briefest second.

"Have we met somewhere?" she asked, her voice steady across the room.

All heads turned to look at her and Chuuya both.

He had no memories of ever meeting her. Chuuya didn't fancy himself able to remember names and faces any better than the next man, but he thought distantly that he would not soon forget someone who cut as striking a figure as she did.

This consideration drowned under the tension suddenly gripping his spine. He felt his heart beat against his palate as he answered, "No," keeping his voice even.

The woman stared at him for another second, the glimmer of recognition in her eyes igniting something akin to fear in Chuuya himself; it vanished, however, and her face went back to looking as it had since she came into the office.

She left.

Chuuya leaned back into his chair, heart beating off-tempo, the collar of his own jacket suddenly suffocating. He undid it a bit too forcefully; the button holding it close to his sternum pulled harshly, its string loosening in the process.

"I wonder what that was about," Katai said in a strangled voice, shooting Chuuya panicked glances. "Well, Atsushi-kun, we better get going and all. See you guys later!"

Nakajima must have been in the process of saying something—his mouth closed sharply as Katai tugged him toward the exit as well.

Kunikida took a deep breath. Chuuya turned his back to him and said, "I've got work to do."

He couldn't read a single word anymore.

There were so many reasons this could have been a scare without substance. Chuuya had roamed the streets of the city so many times, face open to the sights of the crowd, attracting looks for his outfits and hair color; he could have met the woman in any sort of way through the years even without remembering it—she could be family of any worker on the docks, perhaps a worker there herself, though he doubted it. She could be one of the paper-filling employees of the city's many construction companies, which he had visited on behalf of the mafia for so many reasons. Maybe it didn't have to do with his days in the mafia at all. Maybe he had crossed paths with her in the streets during the past months, maybe she had noticed him and simply had a knack for remembering faces that he himself lacked.

The possibility that she was affiliated with the port mafia, with the ministry, was so thin. No employee of the mafia would come to a detective agency to deal with smugglers, for one. Neither would anyone working for the special ability department.

Sometimes people met by sheer, simple luck—and Chuuya had no memory of her at all. None that could indicate she was a threat to him.

He barely saw Yosano sitting down on the corner of his desk. "You know, I could take care of that if you want," she said, and for a second he had no idea what she was talking about.

It was only when she pointed to her own cheek that he realized he had been thumbing the gauze on his, feeling the shape of the scar under it unthinkingly.

"There's nothing to take care of," he replied at last, lowering his hand.

Yosano's look was skeptical. "It won't be pleasant, but I can make any scar disappear. You wouldn't have to walk around looking like you've lost a fight anymore."

"I don't give a shit about that."

His tone had been harsh, perhaps, but he couldn't find it in himself to regret it. Yosano simply shrugged and walked way, the door to her office left ajar behind her.

Chuuya looked back at his desk, at the scratched and scribbled words left by a man who must have fancied himself an author, and closed the binder sharply.

He spent the following half-hour pushing all thought out of his mind, inhaling dust as he filed the archives of the agency one by one and left traces of his fingers onto paper, the buzz of Miyazawa's young voice and Edogawa's snide comments hanging over his head like a wasps' nest.

He fooled himself so well into complacency that he thought perhaps this would be the end of the day's surprises. That he would be going home later that night and ask Katai how Nakajima had dealt with his first official mission, that he would spend the dark hours that followed browsing once more through the piles and piles of information he had gathered over the years for a glance, a trace, a whisper of Sakaguchi Ango's whereabouts.

Yokohama shone in the sun like a beacon, winter making way to spring for the first time of the year. Cold air crawled between the feet of passersby; light flashed off of the ocean's wave and pulled out of the dark things ready to be woken.

"Shit," Kunikida murmured after a long string of silence. "I forgot to give them one of the flyers."

"What flyers?" Chuuya asked mechanically.

"The director got them from the police last night," Kunikida said, opening the first drawer of his desk and quickly pulling a stack of thin-papered photographs out of it. He slid one of them toward Chuuya, his other hand pulling up his phone. "This guy—no one knows his name—he was witnessed murdering a member of the city council yesterday morning, you must've heard about it on the news. He's an ability user, very dangerous…"

Kunikida's voice drowned out of Chuuya's focus.

He picked up the picture. It wasn't blurry at all, as though its subject had chosen to pose for the snap. Another man may have smiled at the camera, even, smothered in the certainty of his own strength, but not this one. Though he had been caught red-handed and never before cared for witnesses, Akutagawa didn't smile.

"Kunikida," Chuuya said, cutting the man in the middle of his monologue. He hadn't realized that the other was still talking. "Where was it that the woman earlier said there were smugglers to take care of?"

"What?"

"I just remembered I forgot to tell Katai something."

Kunikida didn't immediately answer. Chuuya wondered if it had anything to do with what Kunikida knew of him—that he seldom forgot to do anything—or if he suspected something, the way Edogawa, staring at them from his side of the room, probably did.

"Behind the Red Brick Warehouse," he said at last. "She said that's where she suspected the transactions were taking place."

Chuuya rose from his desk. He grabbed his coat from where he had left it at the entrance of the office, sparing no thought for gloves, and closed the door behind himself carefully.

Then he rushed to the nearest window.

The streets were populated at this time of day. Lunch break was near for many, and although Chuuya could find no one watching up from the street, he had no doubt that someone, somewhere, must have caught on to the exceptionally clement weather and be staring out from a neighboring building. He'd have to take the risk.

He opened the latch with one last glance behind himself and floated out of the window, kicking against the building to drive himself up to the roof.

The Warehouse was about twenty minutes away by foot. Thirty if they took their time, which they must have, with Katai explaining to Nakajima what they would do on the way. Chuuya could make his way there in five with the help of his ability and as long as no one spotted him on the way—and he prayed, for a silent second, that no one would, that by some miracle no port mafia or ministry scion would be out and about at this time and in this perimeter, or at least none who would recognize him.

He flew from rooftop to rooftop with as much speed as he could gather, his feet digging into concrete as if it were butter each time he landed and leaped again. Another day perhaps he would've relished in the feeling of flight, in the wind stabbing his marred face, but with Akutagawa's somber face still gripped tight in his hand, he had not the heart to.

What kind of person would come to the armed detective agency for a matter of non-gifted smuggling that could be handled by the police? What kind of woman wore suits made of fabric so stiff it gave nary a crease—the kind he himself had worn to conceal much more than simple body shape?

He was a fucking idiot. Of course she would have known his face.

Air whistled past his ears at every turn he made, numbing his skin until he couldn't feel anything at all, not even the sharp tugs his scar gave into the dry and cold. One of the roofs he landed on had clothes and sheets hung up on strings to dry; Chuuya tore a beanie from one of them and shoved it onto his head as far down as it would go. He closed his coat, raised its collar, concealing what he could.

Gunshots rang through the silence when he reached the Warehouse. Chuuya perched himself atop its tower-like peak, heart solidified to ice, listening as screams echoed down in the street and people started panicking.

In a way, it saved him the trouble of trying to be discreet. No one would pay attention to the roofs when a machine gun could be heard from one of the alleyways and all were too busy running to safety. He flew over the red building and the narrow streets behind, fearing the sound of violence as much as he sought it.

Katai was there. He was there, unarmed, with for only defense a boy who couldn't control his powers.

Chuuya found them in the dark of the smallest alley. It was a foray between buildings with only one exit, like an accidental turn of the pen on the map of the city—and the woman from earlier, whose heavy handbag now rested at her feet, had both arms loaded with firearms.

He didn't pay attention to what she was saying, or to Nakajima's screams of anger and terror. It was obvious that she had already proved her willingness to aim and shoot; Chuuya felt no need for sympathy.

He jumped down, lading behind her and kicking her knees out from under her.

One of them cracked ominously, and to her credit the woman only grunted. Chuuya grabbed both her arms and twisted until she did yell out; the guns fell from her lax hands.

"You—"

"Where's Katai?" Chuuya interrupted, looking up from the bent back of the woman to meet Nakajima's eyes.

They were ever so bright.

He didn't answer, but Chuuya didn't need him to. The lack of light around them could not mask the slick sound of spilled blood, nor the brownish tint that the ground was taking in the shadow of the farthest building. Katai was lying on the ground, and he wasn't moving.

"Go see if he's alive," he heard himself order.

Nakajima didn't move.

"Now!"

Chuuya didn't watch him scramble away. The woman had started squirming under his hold, twisting this way and that in familiar movements. Whatever martial art training she had received would not be enough to push him away, however; he swept her off her knees entirely, making sure her head hit the pavement as she landed on her back, and pressed a foot against her throat.

She choked, pain and anger warring over her face in equal measures. Chuuya bent down to pick up one of the guns. He kicked the other one away, and her bag with it for good measure.

"He's breathing," came Nakajima's trembling voice, "but he's bleeding so much, I don't know—"

"Take off your shirt and use it to put pressure on the wound," Chuuya replied. He didn't let relief take him, not yet. "Use his phone to call an ambulance and then call Yosano, he's got her as an emergency contact. The pin code is 0830."

He looked down at the woman again. She grinned viciously at him, though her leg must be in agony.

"It's useless," she wheezed out. "We'll get the man-tiger, your tiny little agency can't protect him against the port mafia—"

Chuuya pressed down onto her neck with his foot until she choked again. "I don't care," he replied, "I just want to know who you called for back-up."

Her smile was gone. She didn't answer him.

For a long while nothing else happened. Chuuya was reluctant to knock her out on the off-chance she would talk; he was reluctant to force answers out of her in one of the many ways he knew as well, not only because of Nakajima's presence, not only because Katai had such faith in his being able to turn a page from his past.

He hadn't come back to Yokohama to torture the port mafia's lower ranks. There was only one among them he planned to find and bring vengeance upon.

Nakajima's labored breathing came to him in the dark. Chuuya focused on it rather than anything else, though his eyes never left the woman's face. There was no sound yet of an ambulance coming; no sign of Yosano or anyone else coming to their aid.

"You should kill me," the woman said.

Chuuya leveled a warning glance at her. Her next words were spat, and no doubt that he would have felt them on his face had she been in any state to stand.

"You moralistic, idealistic fools—if you don't kill me now you'll only regret it later," she said.

"Shut up before I make you."

"With what?" she laughed roughly, a hint of hysteria shooting through her from adrenaline alone. Her twisted knee spasmed once against the ground. "People like you don't have the balls to prove your words with action. Pathetic."

"Nakajima," Chuuya called instead of answering her, "any update?"

"He's still alive," the boy replied. "I don't—I don't know how bad it is."

Chuuya wished he could go and see for himself. If he could get close enough to Katai then he could use the Tainted Sorrow to at least stop the bleeding efficiently, but he dared not leave Nakajima in charge of a port mafia member by himself. She wouldn't hesitate to shoot again if she got her hands back on a weapon.

Frowning, his tension kept at bay by the news of Katai's continued living, Chuuya crouched above the woman's body. He replaced his foot with a hand, gripping her knee in warning so that she wouldn't move, and used his other to pat her sides.

Her eyes widened. "What are you—"

"Checking for weapons," he told her.

Her fear was not unjustified. It did little to stop the disgust that washed through him once he understood it. Chuuya focused on stripping her of the knives strapped to her forearms and the handgun concealed at her hip, and only when he pulled back did her eyes stop staring at him in open fright.

She must not be as old as her outfit and attitude would let think. The mafia had always liked to hire them young.

"Did you call for back-up?" he asked her once again.

Now that he was within breathing distance, she did spit at his face. Chuuya wiped it off with a mere grunt of distaste.

"It would be easier for you if you cooperated."

"Loosen your tongue and lose your life," she replied.

He smiled tersely. Those words were as familiar to him as nursery rhymes were to some.

He might as well knock her out, then. They needed to be off as soon as the ambulance arrived, and she would be difficult to transport if she fought him the whole way. At least it seemed she hadn't recognized him; Chuuya was in the middle of thinking through what he should do to make sure she never heard his name or wondered who he was while in agency custody, when she started laughing.

"What is it?" he snapped.

She breathed in deeply, choked by her own laughter. "You're dead, detective," she replied.

The very air split around them.

Chuuya used his powers without thinking; a tendril of black matter, sharp as a blade, stabbed the place where he was crouched a second ago. His feet buried themselves deep into the ground as he landed a few feet away, holding the stolen beanie down on his head and waiting for the wind of the attack to stop slapping around him like the heart of a hurricane.

Nakajima was not so lucky; Chuuya felt his heart lurch at the scream of agony he let out and didn't dare turn around to look, not when all he could stare at was the thin silhouette of Akutagawa emerging from the shadows.

"Move around and I'll cut the other one, were-tiger," Akutagawa rasped out.

The woman had moved as soon as she had felt Chuuya's hands leave her. She managed to get herself up, somehow, limping toward Akutagawa and picking up the gun Chuuya had dropped on the way. She aimed it at him as soon as she was by Akutagawa's side.

"Senpai—"

"Shut up," Akutagawa cut in. "I thought you could handle this."

She hesitated, sweating bullets from the pain of standing but still keeping her composure somehow. "I could, but that man…"

For the first time in years, Akutagawa met Chuuya's eyes.

He could have thought himself back at the black tower, in one of the training rooms, looking from the side as Dazai disciplined his student. Akutagawa had changed without changing; the white streaks in his hair had not regained color, he was still thin as a skeleton, he still dressed like someone come from a past century. He was taller, though. His steps quiet enough not to be heard even by Chuuya. The black coat Dazai had once given him didn't hang limply from his shoulders anymore.

Chuuya realized how futile his own disguise was at the same time Akutagawa did. He could cut and dye his hair, he could dress as banally as possible, hide himself behind high collars and low hats all he wanted… there was nothing to be done about the recognition twisting Akutagawa's fine features into shock.

For the most fleeting of seconds, he almost wanted to say Hi.

The air moved once more. White light unfurled around them as if a sun had suddenly appeared in the alley, blinding the sky and blinding them, and this time Chuuya did turn around to look at Nakajima.

Except it wasn't Nakajima anymore.

He had heard all about the white tiger from Katai and Kunikida before. Shapeshifting wasn't an uncommon ability to have, and Chuuya had expected the creature to look like the ones he had seen in photographs during his life. The beast that emerged out of the pool of blood Nakajima had been lying in was none of that.

Twice as big as a normal tiger and at least thrice as powerful, it sat on the gored ground like a nightmare come alive. Saliva steamed out of its open mouth and light shone brightly off of its claws, each as long as a blade. The tiger's growl resonated through the very walls. Its golden eyes were fixed to Chuuya's left.

Before he could do anything, it had leaped at Akutagawa.

Rashoumon opened around Akutagawa like black wings to parry its attack, yet it could not seem to hurt it at all. Its black tendrils, which Chuuya had watched cut through rock and steel in the past, ricocheted off the beast's fur as if stopped by an invisible wall. Through the chaos of the fight he saw the blond woman open fire on the tiger—saw with his own eyes the bullets fall uselessly to the ground, their target unharmed.

Chuuya took his chance while she was reloading. Her attention was completely caught by the monstrous battle happening a few feet away; she made the mistake of taking her eyes off of her remaining opponent, allowing him to sweep her feet from under her once more and knock her out for good this time.

In the back of his mind, thoughts of Katai bleeding out without anyone to tend to him kept his heart athrill. Chuuya ran to his side and pressed the man's own hand over his bleeding belly—he could see two holes through it, closer to his flank than his center—and pushed gravity into doing its job. Only then did he turn back to the carnage that the other two were making.

The tiger's massive jaw had opened around Rashoumon's barrier. It pierced through it as if breaking simple glass, and in the ashen glow radiating from its form, Akutagawa's face seemed like a corpse's.

Chuuya planted his foot into the ground and pulled the beast down.

It fell with a roar, thrashing against the invisible bonds keeping it tied to earth; Chuuya had never had to struggle so to keep anything in his grip, be it man or army, and sweat slicked his temples under the woolen beanie. He fended off Rashoumon's next attacks more easily, focusing his energy on the coat Akutagawa wore until the man himself had no choice but to kneel down under its weight.

Only then did he let go of his breath. At least seventy percent of his strength had to be focused on the tiger alone, which left very little for the fine control required to keep Katai's wound pressurized and Rashoumon down. He could only hope that Akutagawa would not notice how thinly he was stretched as he approached him.

Though the tiger was still squirming and growling, its claws scratching the pavement as if tearing through mere paper, Akutagawa was not watching it anymore.

"Nakahara Chuuya," he murmured, staring at Chuuya with apprehension.

Chuuya stopped a few feet away from him. "I half-expected to see you here, to be honest."

Akutagawa bristled, Rashoumon fluttering in vain over his back and shoulders.

Chuuya ignored the painful tightness in his chest. He looked at Nakajima's struggling form for a moment and wondered how to proceed.

He wouldn't be able to hold on for much longer. Whatever Nakajima's true form was, it was no simple animal. Chuuya felt as though his strength were being siphoned out of him, each second leaving him more brittle, his hands threatening to shake. He wouldn't be able to apprehend Akutagawa by himself, not if he had to maintain control on Nakajima and Katai at the same time.

"Fuck," he said between his teeth.

He glanced at Akutagawa again. The other was still looking at him, face impenetrable.

Then, to Chuuya's surprise, he asked: "Are you going to kill me now?"

Chuuya found himself entirely wordless.

Akutagawa had never been one to fool around. His bluntness and single-minded attitude had been his downfall the entire time Dazai had trained him; Chuuya had too many memories to count of trying to talk sense into his then-kouhai, only for his words to fall on deaf ears. There was only ever one person who could get Akutagawa to listen, and even he had struggled to.

Akutagawa didn't back down. He didn't surrender. He never asked such questions, no matter how battered he was.

"Why would I kill you?" Chuuya replied warily.

The look he was given was even more confusing; Akutagawa seemed more astonished by his words than his very presence.

"I thought—"

The sound of a siren reached them, growing stronger by the second and cutting Akutagawa short. His face paled even further. Chuuya felt him start to resist gravity's hold.

He let go of it.

Part of him expected Akutagawa to attack him on the spot. The man wasn't exactly the type to pull his punches, no matter how many times it had landed him in trouble. But Akutagawa only rose to his feet and brushed the dirt from his sleeves and legs, still looking like a man headed to the gallows.

Nakajima chose this moment to revert back to his human shape. White light once more enveloped the narrow street, blinding Chuuya to all but its source. When it was gone, the boy lay on the ground, unconscious but unscathed.

"Take the girl and go," Chuuya said, releasing his grip on Nakajima's body. He almost reeled back with relief. "Unless you want to try and fight me with the military police on its way."

Akutagawa was at least smart enough not to tempt the devil. Rashoumon's tendrils picked up his subordinate with less care than they probably should, and he stepped away from Chuuya without showing his back to him.

The realization made Chuuya ache in a new way. This pain was distant and fogged, like something half-forgotten which he ought to have prepared for.

"You won't escape alive," Akutagawa said, almost a whisper. His asthma must not have improved over the years, for he coughed afterward, a frightening gargle rising from his throat. He wiped spit from his lips and added, "Not now that we know where you are."

"I'm not that easy to kill," Chuuya retorted.

"Dazai-san—"

"I don't want to hear it."

He felt exhausted. The ambulance must be very close now, and its siren rang through Chuuya's head like the beginning of a migraine. He shot Akutagawa another glare, as dark and furious as he could make it when his heart still stung with nostalgia.

"Tell that shitty Dazai not to get in my way," he gritted out. "Or I'll grant his wishes and have him eat grass by the root."

His anger broke apart as the words left his lips.

In the second that followed, Chuuya felt the kind of exhaustion he hadn't known since that night of blood and grief. He wanted to say something without knowing what to say; he watched Akutagawa hesitate, caught in that same fragile reluctance to part, his thin lips open on air.

He said nothing. The unconscious woman held up by Rashoumon floated away from them both, and Akutagawa followed her, his grey eyes leaving Chuuya's at last.

Now he was alone, Nakajima's soft breathing in his ears and in his mind the awareness of Katai's still-moving chest, caught under the pressure keeping him alive. For now.

There wouldn't be anyone waiting for him at the apartment. No tea to warm his hands and hollow heart, no voice to quiet the horror and fear in a child leaving his home behind.

Akutagawa didn't linger in the hospital wing of headquarters after leaving Higuchi there. She had remained unconscious through the journey home, though the resident nurse had assured him that outside of a twisted knee and sprained wrist, there was nothing to worry about. The bump on her head wasn't dangerous at all—the blow there had been delivered, he knew, with great precision.

He made his way through the long corridors without speaking to anyone. At noon the activities in headquarters weren't so intense, at least, lessening the risk of someone stopping him on his way. Night was the port mafia's time, the moon-silver hours the ones which they tainted with their presence.

You may yet claim responsibility for Kouyou's death.

Why would I kill you?

It made no sense at all.

Akutagawa knew fear very well. He had grown nurtured and shaped by it through all of his formative years; fear for himself, fear for Gin, fear of the world and what it could do to them. His fear had been honed into a weapon in the hands of his mentor, to the point of leaving him estranged from his body each time they met.

Yet he hadn't known the kind of fear he discovered upon recognizing Nakahara Chuuya in that alleyway earlier.

The man had seemed a ghost himself, utterly unrecognizable if not for his eyes and voice. Akutagawa had not forgot that voice talking to him eons ago, soothing aches he hadn't noticed with its mere presence. He could never forget the times he had met Nakahara Chuuya as a superior, as a mentor figure of his own, someone he ached to reach for as he failed and failed and failed to win Dazai's approval.

Dazai had told him that Chuuya would kill him; Dazai had said that his poorly-played part in the Mimic conflict four years ago had been one of the causes for Ozaki's untimely demise, one of the reasons for Nakahara's defection and vow of vengeance.

When he had seen him earlier—when he had met his cold eyes in the dark of the city—Akutagawa had felt death stare him in the face. He had felt the need to fall to his knees and beg; he had felt remorse like a bite at the throat, so much more frightening than the man-tiger's sharp fangs breaking Rashoumon apart.

After this kind of fear, walking to his superior's office with the news of his failure was nothing at all.

"Enter," came Dazai's bored voice when he knocked on the door.

"Akutagawa-kun!" He was greeted thus, Dazai's obviously fake enthusiasm failing for once to make him shudder. "I've been waiting all morning for you. How went the hunt? I expect great things from you, you know."

"Higuchi and I failed to retrieve the shapeshifter," Akutagawa replied bluntly.

There was no point in beating around the bush. Dazai would punish him more for excuses than he would for honesty.

Dazai sighed dramatically, letting his chin hit his desk in a mockery of disappointment. His eyes slid away from Akutagawa and toward the man who was always by his side. "Why do I always get my hopes up, Odasaku?" he asked plaintively.

"You like to see the best in others," Oda replied.

"That is hilarious. Truly, truly hilarious."

Akutagawa watched the theatrics unfold wordlessly. His fear of Dazai felt for once detached from him, as though dimmed by the absolute terror he had experienced in front of Nakahara earlier. He didn't twitch even as Dazai rose from his chair and made his way around the desk, his eyes dull with distaste.

"I thought my orders were so simple," he bemoaned, and Akutagawa tensed only when Dazai was but a foot away, staring down at him. "I said 'get the tiger boy back alive and as unharmed as possible', didn't I?"

"You did," Akutagawa replied between his teeth.

Dazai shook his head. He was so close that Akutagawa felt the air move against his face. "So tell me, how do the port mafia's most destructive ability user and his trigger-happy subordinate fail to recover a teenager with no training or control whatsoever? I'm sure this is gonna be a fascinating story."

Akutagawa could have told him of the tiger's monstrous strength, of its claws tearing stone apart like mud or its immense, gaping jaw. He could've told him that not even Rashoumon's control of matter had resisted its assault—something that was bound to impress even Dazai, considering his involvement in shaping that defense technique to perfection.

He said, "I found Nakahara Chuuya."

Dazai didn't still, per se. He didn't gasp or widen his eyes or sneer at the name like he had so many times before. Instead Oda was the one whose movements stopped altogether, his bright blue eyes open to the light of late-winter.

Dazai hummed, considering, and the thumb of his right hand started rubbing its neighboring index rhythmically. Back and forth, back and forth, as if massaging pain away.

"Well," he said in the silence. "This is getting interesting."

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#bsd #bungou stray dogs #nakahara chuuya #dazai osamu #soukoku #fic: nothing noble

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