Chapter Text
Nakahara Chuuya never used to have an issue walking through the halls of the Port Mafia Headquarters. Chuuya used to have no issue speaking to his boss, no ill intent towards any members of the Mafia to which he was an executive. Chuuya had spent the last year getting used to this new animosity firing up within him every time he entered the place he used to call home.
Chuuya also used to have a partner. One that made barging into rooms a habit, and never asked permission, or for forgiveness for that matter.
Sighing as he pushed through a crowd of oblivious underlings, Chuuya adjusted the vest under his jacket and hit the button in the elevator to take him to the top floor. The elevators moved quickly, and within 30 seconds he was on the 21st floor. Despite the short trip, he fidgeted with his suit to no end. Recently, unless Chuuya was drunk or high, every piece of cotton against his skin made him feel like he’d been turned inside out. Everything had started to feel too raw, too unbuffered, and he fought the urge to reach for a cigarette when the elevator doors opened with a soft ding.
Dreading his meeting with his boss, Mori Ougai, Chuuya knocked on the penthouse office. He heard the invitation to open the door, and gave himself half a moment before pushing the heavy door aside. Due to the early hour, what would be pink light outside filtered in through the windows as a shade of red closely resembling the blood now rushing through Chuuya’s ears. The red light cast an eerie glare on Mori’s glasses, making the normally placid expression look intentionally evil. His black hair was combed back as always, and paired with the high collar the Boss insisted on, Mori looked like a cartoon rendition of a vampire. Chuuya had to fight a smile as the mental image of Mori speaking in a transylvanian accent invaded his mind.
Mori took his attention away from his daydreams as soon as he was seated in the overly cushy chair opposite his desk. “Ah, Chuuya, I was beginning to wonder if you’d make it in last night,” Mori didn’t look up from his paperwork to address him, “Kouyou tells me you’ve taken up Dazai’s old habit of drinking his sorrows away.”
Chuuya bristles at the mention of his ex-partner, fully ridding his mind of any innocent daydreams, and he had to pinch himself to keep from blurting out an insult to one of the most powerful men in Yokohama. Mori was consistently the only person who dared speak Dazai’s name when Chuuya was within earshot, let alone address the defectant as casually as he just did. Instead of defending the accusation, he focused on the other name Mori dropped. “Kouyou can worry more than anyone else,” he scoffed, “I make it to work every day, don’t I?”
Now Mori looks up at him, a sinister smile starting to creep on his face, “Are you that insulted that I’d compare you to one of the brightest men I’ve ever met?”
Chuuya begins to interrupt but Mori slams a hand on the desk below him, making the wood rattle harshly. “You’re a goddamn Port Mafia executive, Nakahara! Start fucking acting like it, or I’ll have you as suicidal as Dazai is.”
Normally, Mori wouldn’t lose his composure as easily. The use of the present tense betrays Mori’s wishes for Dazai to return to his right hand, and does not go unnoticed by the executive. Chuuya is now absolutely sure his shootout with a small gang did not go as under the radar as he had originally thought. Especially since the delinquents ended up getting away with a shipment meant for Tokyo. Chuuya swallows around the lump in his throat, trying not to show his emotions on his face. “Sir, I understand. A mistake of this caliber won’t happen again.”
Mori’s normal, placid smile finds its home on its owners face, doing absolutely nothing to settle the rupture of anxiety that had torn open in Chuuya’s chest. Now, Mori’s red eyes met Chuuya’s steadily, all the animosity just showed to the desk evident in his eyes alone. “You know the consequences if it does, you’re on paperwork duty for the time being, Nakahara.”
He fights down a groan before nodding and moving out of the huge office. Before he can leave, Mori speaks up one last time, “Without Dazai this is the only way you’re useful to the Port Mafia.”
Every nerve in his body is on fire when Chuuya steps back on the elevator, punching the button for the mailroom. He knows everyone blames him for Dazai’s defection, and wishes that it had been him driven out of the Port Mafia instead of the Demon Prodigy that had been his partner. Instead, the Port Mafia was left with a half useless executive, unable to use the extent of his ability. Mori’s words circle around his head the entire trip to the basement, and he tries to school his expression to neutral before he hits the bottom floor. When the elevator opens, Chuuya storms out, and this time everyone gives him space.
The mailroom is a dark place, with no windows, the small space is left with only flickering fluorescents that hurt Chuuya’s eyes. Everyone who works the mailroom has been disgraced one way or another without being problematic enough to kill, and they move with their heads down, shuffling from task to task without giving Chuuya a second glance. For his part, Chuuya doesn’t ever try to communicate, let alone observe his coworkers here. Visiting the mailroom is nothing more than a chore, and Chuuya would much rather just have his mail delivered by a subordinate, but his meeting with Mori has him craving taking the stairs back to his office to burn off some of his anger. So, he finds himself standing in front of a mailbox he’s probably opened three times, two of which due to pranks. Dazai used to fill his mailbox with slugs or glitter bombs, and it would take Chuuya weeks to discover, often ending in a thorough scrub of his mailbox.
Chuuya isn’t expecting anything out of the ordinary when he opens his mailbox this time. Knows better than to hope for some trace of Dazai, even if it is a nasty prank he would have to clean up. When he pulls his keys out from his pocket and sticks it into the mailbox labeled Nakahara, C. Chuuya isn’t surprised but disappointed to see a relatively large stack of paperwork, probably from the collateral damage caused in the shootout last week. The mailbox next to his, labeled Dazai, O. was still empty, but Chuuya looked anyway. Sighing, he scooped up his paperwork, and knocked one of the envelopes off the shelf. The envelope is a different paper than used by the Port Mafia, slightly yellowed, and to Chuuya’s surprise, his name his handwritten on the front.
All the anger seeps out of him, and curiosity takes over. Logically, he knows the mailroom scans all packages and mail for explosives, but he wishes for something to take his mind off paperwork.
Forgoing his original plan to take the stairs, Chuuya takes the elevator as quickly as possible back to his office. Chuuya’s office is simple, floor to ceiling windows, a desk, and so many plants the air feels crisp compared to the rest of the office. Trying to feign nonchalance about the letter, he goes through the motions of watering his plants, separating out forms from documents that just need a signature, and adjusting a few pins on the board sitting on the wall opposite his desk. Once he’s convinced himself that he’s not excited about the letter sitting inconspicuously on top of his other paperwork, Chuuya draws the blinds and locks the door, knowing better than announcing the anomaly in case it’s an inside job.
Chuuya stares at the envelope, and all the excitement floods back into him. He’s foolishly hoping Dazai has finally grown a pair and reached out, and that the letter will be an apology or invitation to disappear off the grid wherever Dazai had been hiding for the last six months.
But the kanji is too neat to match Dazai’s regular messy handwriting, and Chuuya isn’t naive enough to think Dazai cares anymore.
The letter reads:
To Executive Nakahara
You are in grave danger. No one in the Port Mafia can know, or I will kill you personally. Watch your back, and don’t trust anyone.
Sincerely- T.S.
“Oh what the fuck,” Chuuya whispers, headache already building between his temples. “A fucking assassination attempt? After a year of nothing but paperwork? This is so goddamn-” The executive is grateful for his forethought to close the blinds as he hastily hits the floor, waiting for the hail of bullets. Nothing happens for a good minute, and he stands back up, anger flaring up in his gut all over again. He yanks open the top drawer of his desk and grabs the pack of cigarettes he leaves there just for the occasions when he gets his hopes up. Not even bothering to open a window, Chuuya sets to work on his paperwork after pinning the letter to his board, next to his mission details.
Nine hours later, Chuuya trudges out of his office, and decides to take the eleven flights of stairs instead of being on an elevator full of faux mafioso’s. Instead of going straight to his car, Chuuya walks the perimeter of Head Quarters, looking for any sign of this mysterious T.S that left him the warning. Strangling the writer would probably relieve some of the tension built up after his less than productive meeting with Mori and all the other shit missions he’s been overseeing.
Chuuya makes it a full loop before realizing there’s no obvious signs from T.S and calls it quits for a night. For the first time in three weeks, Chuuya goes straight home instead of stopping by any of his favorite bars.
Chuuya has resolved to stay sober until he gets to the bottom of this T.S motherfucker. He figures this intruder is slippery enough to get through the Port Mafia’s extensive screening process without leaving a trace. The young executive knows himself well enough to know that dealing with a stalker while dulling his senses will probably end poorly for himself.
An obvious plus to being sober makes Chuuya’s neverending workload of paper go by quickly. Without the buzz of alcohol or weed in his system, Chuuya is free to work quickly without drug induced distractions, or periods of black out. The stack that would’ve taken him the entire month hungover or high took him a mere two weeks, just in time for another handwritten letter to appear in his mailbox.
Chuuya waits for the elevator for thirty seconds before deciding the stairs would be faster. He manipulates gravity to send him flying through the stairwell, excitement lapping at the edges of his senses. When he reaches his office, he closes the blinds, locks the door, and sits in his chair. Instead of apprehension, Chuuya feels a giddy wave of anticipation wash over him as he excitedly rips open the packaging.
The letter is on the same cardstock as before, but this time a slight pinkish tinge stains the corners.
The letter reads:
Dearest Nakahara
Your lack of response has my veiny heart out of my chest. I was possibly looking forward to meeting you one on one after 1007 years of working with you, but you seem like a busy man now. I have bothered you almost as much as I was tempted to disown my fucking dream.
Yours always- T.S
Chuuya is stunned to say the least. The familiar use of ‘dearest’, the bizarre content of the letter. The sentences are disjointed, not making any sense to the redhead. Apparently T.S wants to meet intimately, one on one, but isn’t willing to interrupt Chuuya. Chuuya has worked with many of his subordinates for the entire time he got here, it could be anyone. The juxtaposition of the handwritten note compared to this new typed one is throwing his head for a loop. It was jarring, and it took Chuuya staring at the letter for a solid two minutes before he realized why the letters looked funny. Half of them had been italicized within the words, such subtle differences in the kanji going unnoticed in the mail room.
Quickly grabbing a pen and paper, Chuuya scanned the letter again, picking out the individual letters and starting to put them together.
L-E-A-V-E-P-O-R-T-M-A-F-I-A-NOW-B-O-D-Y-A-T-D-O-C-K
He stares down at his sheet of paper, his brain trying to assess whether or not it was a legitimate threat. On one hand, Chuuya wouldn’t mind burning up in this god forsaken building, but on the other, he cares about his subordinates, and know’s better than letting his occasional suicidal tendencies affect others, unlike someone he used to know.
Chuuya gives in and calls Mori.
“Nakahara, what could you possibly be stuck on with paperwork?”
Rolling his eyes, Chuuya considers staying in the building and letting everyone burn if this is an actual threat for another split second, “I think I just got a threat in the mail?”
Before Mori has the chance to reply, the fire alarms start going off, and Mori quickly asks for Chuuya to bring his evidence outside as he makes his way to the evacuation location. He gathers his things and makes his way outside, quickly finding Mori huddled next to Elise and Koyou. He passes the typed letter and his own sheet of paper to Mori, who types something on his phone after reading the coded message.
The building is inspected while the executives huddle, waiting for an answer from the probe Mori had sent to the docks. Nothing was found in the building, and five minutes after it clears, the probe sends the all clear back to Mori.
His disappointed frown and forceful shove of the letter back into his hands gives Chuuya all the answers he needs. There was no threat, there was no body, someone is just messing with Chuuya for fun, because he’s an easy target, and he’s already disgraced.
Chuuya leaves the office early that night, heading straight for the bars.
The next few days pass in a haze, and he’s pulled from his drunken stupor on October 7 when his laptop opens to a photo memory of himself and Dazai smiling at each other over a disastrously decorated cake. After four days spent drunk, Chuuya sobers instantly at the genuine look in Dazai’s eyes, put there by their first successful mission that had been completely planned and carried out by only the two of them. In a month they had gone from strangers to a deadly partnership that rivaled any other organization in Yokohama. The picture showed the pair at fifteen, before Dazai had gotten addicted to the supply they were supposed to be shipping, before Chuuya pushed his partnership aside for a quick promotion. At fifteen they had been unstoppable, immortal, and terrifying. The date in the bottom corner of the screen looks so familiar, but Chuuya brushes it off as shock from seeing Dazai first thing after a bender.
Chuuya allows himself another few seconds of drinking in Dazai’s smile before closing his laptop, and checking his emails on his phone instead. Nothing. It was 7:30 already, Chuuya must have already gone to work and came home without even realizing. He should really stop drinking so much, but being sober was too difficult when he knew that everyone wishes Dazai had been the one to stay. Being sober felt like he was torturing himself for no real reason if he could function drunk as well without anyone noticing. Plus, his wine cellar was growing too full for his tastes, and he’d hate for any of it to go to waste.
Instead of drinking alone, like he’d been doing for the last four days apparently, Chuuya grabbed his keys and headed out to his favorite bar just around the corner. When he pulled up, the place was already full of kids his own age, who had no idea just how dangerous he was. He found himself at the bar, ordering the top shelf shit to both flex on the university kids here, and get drunk as fast as possible to ignore the weight of gravity pushing him into the ground. He was pleasantly buzzed in the first half hour, and sizing up the tall brunette staring at him dangerously across the bar when his work phone buzzed in his pocket.
“What?” He growled into the receiver, unwilling to entertain work in this state.
Whoever was on the other line cleared their throat, “Uh, sir,” Akutagawa always lacked the ability to tell when Chuuya was not in the mood to pick up a mess, but he digressed, “We need you down at the docks.”
“Can it wait till morning?” Chuuya is already anticipating the answer, slapping a few thousand yen on the counter before shoving his way through the crowd.
“No sir, we actually found a body at the dock. We suspect foul play, it's one of your direct subordinates too.”
Chuuya wanted to drive his car into oncoming traffic instead of dealing with infighting. Instad, he kept driving, and the date displayed on his watch sent his brain into overdrive. Suddenly, the date on the bottom corner of his laptop blinked in his mind's eye. 10-07-08.
10-07
1007
Neither Mori nor Chuuya thought the 1007 was that significant, so neither could come up with a correlation. Because it wasn’t a year, or an amount, or even a code. It was a date: October 7.
“Fuck.” Chuuya groans into the receiver, “Wait till I get there, and do not touch the body, no exceptions. Tell no one, from now on, anything with this case comes directly to me, understood?”
“Yes sir.” Akutagawa’s answer was short, but Chuuya knew he was getting in over his head with this. He was shit at coding, and had always relied on Dazai’s brilliance to get the information they needed. He wasn’t stupid necessarily, but he couldn’t compare to whatever Dazai had going on. When he reaches the docks in record time, Chuuya looks at the four cars, PM brazenly emblazoned on each door, and punches his steering wheel a few times, trying desperately to sober up before getting out to investigate this new horror.