the line of fate

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/47036632.

Rating: Mature
Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: M/M
Fandom: 文豪ストレイドッグス | Bungou Stray Dogs
Relationship: Dazai Osamu/Nakahara Chuuya (Bungou Stray Dogs)
Character: Dazai Osamu (Bungou Stray Dogs), Nakahara Chuuya (Bungou Stray
Dogs), Background & Cameo Characters
Additional Tags: Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe -
Canon Divergence, Post-Dark Era (Bungou Stray Dogs), Port Mafia
Boss Nakahara Chuuya (Bungou Stray Dogs), Alpha Dazai Osamu
(Bungou Stray Dogs), Omega Nakahara Chuuya (Bungou Stray Dogs),
Fake/Pretend Relationship, Canon-Typical Violence, Mission Fic,
Worldbuilding, Developing Relationship, Feelings Realization, Fifteen
Light Novel References (Bungou Stray Dogs), Stormbringer Light Novel
References (Bungou Stray Dogs)
Language: English
Series: Part 301 of soukoku AUs
Stats: Published: 2023-05-08 Completed: 2023-06-25 Words: 14,786
Chapters: 5/5

the line of fate

by setosdarkness

Summary

To protect the world from the sex-crazed ruts Alphas undergo, they're held in protective
custody until an Omega claims them.

After the Mimic Incident, Dazai fails to leave the mafia. He’s instead sent to Yokohama's
Custodial Center for Unmated Alphas, where he stays unclaimed for four years due to his
pheromone causing madness upon exposure.

Until one day, Port Mafia’s new Boss comes by, breathes his scent in, and smiles.

[NOW COMPLETE :: June 25]

 the red star

—————
1
the red star

Today is just like yesterday, the day before, the week before, the year before.

There’s a saying about how those who insist on seeing patterns on everyday occurrences are the
ones prone to believe peddlers of conspiracy theories. In his opinion, those patterns shouldn’t be
dismissed so easily. Everything starts from an observation, before it could be formulated to a
hypothesis, and then put forth as a theory.

In theory: an Alpha should have an assigned mate by the age of eighteen. There is no prescribed
schedule for sexual contact, but receiving calming pheromones from an Omega is imperative, as
the current theory is that Alphas would undergo fast deterioration of mental acuity and self-control
without being exposed to soothing Omega-produced chemicals.

Instinct and genetics mold Alphas into contradictory solitary units who would alienate others while
also being dependent on another. An Alpha would continue to release pheromones and suffer
through sex-crazed ruts if their Omega-deprivation symptoms are not alleviated soon.

“How pitiful,” he breathes, as he listens to the background noise of an Alpha inmate howling on
the two cells away from him. Like he isn’t in a similar situation, when in fact, he could be
considered the most senior captive here.

It’s been four years since he’s been sent here in full restraints: a straitjacket, two-layer blindfold,
ear mufflers and a plastic face mask that also serves as a mouthguard. It’s just one of the many
reasons why he’s subject to unsubtle gossip from the guards that constantly roam the corridors. All
inmates here should have their identities protected by law, but there are some things that couldn’t
be kept under a tight lid.

Current studies state that it should be impossible for someone to stay unmated this long. But he’s
still existing in this world, kept sedated for long periods of time while hidden away in a cramped
cube room that’s wholly padded and monitored, rendering self-harm impossible.

Today is just like yesterday, the day before, the week before, the year before. There are no
indicators that there’d be any meaningful change in the drab routine of his ‘life’ anytime soon.

Even before he’s been caged here, things that go completely out of his predictions are few and far
between.

Today starts to misalign itself from the routine after an unpalatable dreg of a lunch meal is scooped
into his mouth by an astronaut-like guard dressed in Grade S protective clothing. The flavor
remains reminiscent of cardboard, but the texture is less like the usual crusty sand and more like
there are ingredients that belong in the food pyramid. A marked improvement, which means that
extra budget has been approved to handle him, which would mean someone powerful is about to
visit him.

This ‘special treatment’ is even better than the time when some hotshot from the Ministry of
Special Biology has dropped by to experience his infamous pheromone for herself. While it’s true
that he has a long-standing policy of being kind to the ladies, controlling the absurd concentration
of his pheromone is something that he’s incapable of doing.

All of the staff in this facility have military training and protective suits that could filter out
pheromones. After all, it’s not surprising that most people would directly faint or lose control of
their limbs upon breathing in his scent. He has not received any matching calming pheromones
from anyone for twenty-two years. His own pheromone is the very definition of being a poisonous
cocktail. He can’t smell it himself, but he supposes that it’d feel like sludge directly hitting one’s
nostrils and then brain.

“I wonder how long you’d last,” he muses to himself. He doesn’t bother sitting up. He stays flat on
his cot, eyes focused on the ventilators etched on the otherwise-plain ceiling.

He feels the air stir, before he even hears the other’s footsteps and voice. After too many incidents
of guards suffocating from his pheromone, this side of the prison has been kept mostly empty.
Workers only visit him during mealtimes, which also doubles as the cleaning time for his
unexciting toilet. It’s easy to detect another presence under this kind of undisturbed atmosphere.

Even, weighted footsteps that click against the floors. Based on the sound: a half-inch heel, pure
leather. A man in a boring business suit. Judging from the surety of his footsteps, this is someone
confident in his means, used to achieving results. There’s a faint clinking sound—a thin chain that
sways in the wind. That’s a little bit more interesting. A pocket watch in this day and age? Or
perhaps someone who likes to roleplay as a cop ready to apprehend a wrongdoer, bringing with
him fake handcuffs?

Because there’s an incoming visitor, the air in his cubicle becomes tightly controlled. Protective
measures for the visitor, so that they wouldn’t end up an embarrassment from breathing in his
uncontrollable pheromone. This also means that he can’t smell the other party’s scent or cologne.

He continues to stay on his back, eyelids falling to a sleepy half-mast. Laziness goes hand-in-hand
with boredom. He’s not even particularly interested in showing off today. Not because he’s wary of
punishments—he just isn’t interested. Day by day, he wishes he’d be completely devoured by that
sex-crazed rut that he hears about so many times. Perhaps he’d even manage to sever an important
vein during the craze, and he ends up blooming like spider-lilies all over his cell.

Fantasizing about such a development brings a small smile to his face.

One that widens when he hears his visitor stop in front of his cell and declare in a cigarette-hoarse
voice: “Release his pheromones.”

A fool has come to serve himself as his dessert. It’d be rude to refuse sweets delivered right to his
doorstep, so he slowly turns so that he could face the other man. This is a prison, no matter how
everyone else would like to dress it up with words. The prison uniform is thin cotton, scratchy
from too-many turns at the industrial washing machine. It makes his skin itch more than ever, the
moment he ends up meeting the visitor’s gaze.

Blue eyes that remind him of the ocean that repeatedly refuses his embrace. Red hair that looks like
it’s meant to be coiled in one’s hand to pull the other man closer. If he’s a more impulsive man,
he’d immediately suspect that this is harassment from his enemies, sending him a blue-eyed, red-
haired man on the fourth anniversary of his friend’s death.

Nothing about his visitor reeks of being an eager sacrificial lamb; at least, not the sort who’d be
fine with being paraded as a reminder of someone else’s existence.

Not that there’s anything like OdaSaku about this person. Hair and eye color aside, they couldn’t
be further apart. Bloodlust licks the other’s heels, imminent destruction written in the angle of his
posture. An unassuming fighting pose, brimming with the desire to pummel someone should they
breathe in wrong.

A line of black embraces the other’s neck. A stylish way of hiding his glands, but it’s unable to
hide the movement of muscle cords when he raises his neck. A thin silver chain catches light;
there’s a not-so-stylish fedora atop the red mane, completing the visage of someone who has
watched The Godfather too many times.

“Well?” One hand on his pockets, while the other points at him. “I’m waiting.”

Something tell him that the other’s patience is shorter than his height. Like a languid lion, he
stretches over his cot, tilting his head to expose the line of his neck, and the patch placed over his
gland. “It’s for your own safety,” he says, sarcasm wrapped in thin cotton. “Did you wander in here
from preschool, little boy?”

A boyish action: a kick to the glass wall separating them. There’s nothing boy-like about the snarl
that’s lobbed his way, or the way that the wall whines like it’s shaken down to its foundations.
Undeniable strength, and there’s no tell-tale glow of an Ability being activated.

…Interesting.

Before he knows it, he’s sitting up, so he can better size the other up. “This is Yokohama’s
Custodial Center for Unmated Alphas.” With the helpful tone of someone helping a grandmother
cross the road, “I am its most precious inmate, one with a pheromone so strong it could drive
others crazy.”

“I know what you are.” Terse, with just the right amount of arrogance. “I wouldn’t have come here
otherwise.”

Alphas held here should have full privacy protection, but there’s nothing that great curiosity and
greater bank accounts couldn’t solve. That said, the way the other man looks at him is a sign of
something else. “Ah. You’ve heard of me.”

He smiles and generously doesn’t say something about the other being a mafioso.

Before he’s been captured and sent here, he used to be Port Mafia’s Executive. A designation
that’s guaranteed to pull eyes towards him, even if he’s done a great job of ensuring that the
intelligence about him is within his control. Aside from building a strong block of finances for
Mori-san’s organization and handling the hardest torture assignments, he also has the regular job of
dipping his fingers into a large pie of criminal activity. Weaving a net of intelligence network
while acting as the spider in the middle is just one of his responsibilities.

…Past responsibilities, because he’s on his way to wash his hands off mafia entanglement when
his pheromones have exceeded the alert threshold, serving as a shining beacon for him to be
tracked down.

“The Demon Prodigy,” the redhead confirms. “I want to smell your pheromone.”

Facilities like this exist in every major city in the world.

In the name of public security and order, unmated Alphas over the age of 18 are confined in
custodial centers, in order to prevent them from inflicting and receiving harm during their violent
sex-crazed ruts. These centers also act as facilitators for ‘matchmaking’, allowing Omegas to visit
and find ones to their liking. Its usual visitors are unmated Omegas and Omegas looking to have
desirable Alphas to strengthen their bloodline.

For high-profile Omegas, it’s common for them to send representatives to come in with a
transmitter that has a copy of their pheromone, so that they wouldn’t have to personally visit such
places. The representative can just use that transmitter to check if there’s a high pheromone match,
and then send back a copy of the Alpha’s pheromone for approval, so that the Omega can make the
choice.

Of course, that kind of thing probably wouldn’t apply to this scenario. He doesn’t see any such
device on the redhead. More importantly, the look on the other’s eyes is too resolute to act like
such a lackey.

…Oh, how he wants to order him around and challenge the other’s bottom line.

He stands up and approaches the glass separating them. It’s five inches thick, theoretically able to
resist a bombardment. He comes close enough that his forehead is pressed against it, and when he
licks his lips, he also ends up moistening the cool surface.

During the four years of confinement, he has learned plenty of tricks to control his body like an
instrument. Altering his heartbeat at will so that it follows a Morse Code pattern is his favorite
trick to master. Unfortunately, being able to control the spill of his pheromones is something that
even a master like him couldn’t do.

It leaks out of him, constantly active just like his nullification Ability.

As such, he doesn’t have to lift a finger in order to let the redhead take the full force of it.

The red indicator for ventilation control at the very top of his cell stops blinking.

On the other side of the glass, there are four guards wearing Grade S protective clothing. They’re
now on their knees, trembling and writhing, with their hands clutching at their covered heads, as if
they wish to physically claw out the influence of his pheromone from their flesh.

Redhead takes a small step back, eyes widening for a moment.

It takes only one moment.

And then, he strides towards the glass until the tips of his shoe reach the borderline. As if he’s not
bothered at all by the pungent pheromone that’s heavy with blood, gunpowder and ozone, he even
has the audacity to take a deep breath, chest rising and falling with the action.

It’s as if there’s a dagger that has slashed a bloodthirsty smile on his face.

“I’m here to offer your post back, Dazai Osamu.” Words that seem to pulse with a black-red fire.
“I’m Port Mafia’s new Boss, Nakahara Chuuya. I want you to be mine.”

—————
to be continued;
 the red contract
Chapter Summary

“You’re telling me that Mori-san has finally croaked?”

"That is sensitive information,” he says with a ghost of a smirk. “I could only reveal
that to people with the relevant clearance level... That, or to those I’m on intimate
terms with.”

[or: Dazai and Chuuya reach an agreement.]

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

—————
2
the red contract

Today is different from yesterday, the day before, the week before, the year before.

Instead of the dreary and predictable slough of his daily ‘life’, something sparks in the air, like
fireworks lit by someone floating in a raft in the middle of an ocean. Insignificant in the grand
scheme of things and fleeting in the long passage of history, but in this very moment, it’s a fire
burns its image into his eyes.

Combustion is sustained by flames devouring oxygen—and so, the guards on the floor writhe
helplessly, like they’re choking on the lack of air that’s not polluted by pheromones. Dazai feels
the slightest bit breathless too, with something like giddiness trailing spider-veins up his spine,
tickling a line across his neck and pulsing at the base of his head. Nobody had the courage to tell
him face-to-face about how frightening he could be, but he supposes that it awakens now, like a
snake lazily uncoiling from its rest.

They’re separated by that glass, but he makes sure to smear his words over the knife-sharp outline
of the other’s mouth. Channeling that slight breathlessness to his voice, “You’re telling me that
Mori-san has finally croaked?”

For someone who has opened their game with a “I want you to be mine”, Nakahara doesn’t share
any similarities with those who look at him like he’s someone to be possessed and controlled.
There is openness in his stance, contrasted by the tightly-buttoned clothes. “That is sensitive
information,” he says with a ghost of a smirk. “I could only reveal that to people with the relevant
clearance level.”

Patience is a virtue that he has cultivated over the years, but he feels impatience scratch under his
veins. Still, he maintains his posture as he waits for the other’s next words.

He doesn’t have to wait long.

“That, or to those I’m on intimate terms with.”

Ah, there it is.

“How intimate do you wish us to be?” He has a wealth of experience in picking and executing
honeyed words. Something tells him that the usual routine of labyrinthine lies wouldn’t work on
this person. He opts for a straightforward, “Would you be satisfied with me sending something
nine-inch deep to you?”

Nakahara doesn’t flinch from his words or his blatant challenge. “I doubt it’d reach nine inches.”
He denies him the pleasure of seeing him explode in embarrassment. He even shakes his head.
“Even if you rely on your pheromones, you cannot defeat me.”

“Overconfidence is not attractive.” It’s not a complete lie. Overconfidence is an ugly mask on
anyone, but the person in front of him possesses beauty on an otherworldly level that not even the
usual hubris of humans could taint him.

“I don’t need you to find me attractive.” A light shrug, as if he truly doesn’t care for Dazai’s
regard. “All I need for you is to be mine.”

Unlike the glass that separates them, the information flow between them isn’t completely
transparent. That said, it’s not as if this repartee is completely opaque; he isn’t the so-called demon
prodigy because he’s passive when it comes to his dealings. He licks his lips. “Since you want my
hand in marriage, it’s only right that you’re honest with me, yes?”

“Trust is a two-way street.” Nakahara draws to his full height, which isn’t much, but somehow
manages to look imposing all the same. “If you want my honesty, shouldn’t you show your trust
too, to make things fair?”

“You say that you want me to be yours, but all you actually want is my mind.” He fakes a
distressed moue on his lips, willing his eyes to swell with unshed tears. “Isn’t it quite
heartbreaking, when you don’t even want all of me to belong to you?”

Nakahara’s expression wrinkles into something that looks midway to spitting at him. The grave
seriousness cracks the slightest bit, and the fire that leaks out of him is infinitely more delicious
than the visage that he’s currently presenting to him.

“Any relationship starts from the first impression and is built on steadily afterward.” Nakahara
shrugs again, as if he has already recovered from being annoyed by him in that moment. “Once we
spend more time together, I’m sure I’d find more things to want from you.”

He doesn’t spare a glance at the guards still writhing on the ground. His gaze is focused on the
petite man brimming with so much fire and bloodlust, one that’s matched by an equally intense
stare. He splays his left hand on the glass, his palm centered on the other’s face as if he wants to
harvest that head for himself. “Then, I look forward to spending a lot of time with you, my dear
mate.”

———

Thankfully for his gray matter now teased with the promise of stimulation, the matter of him being
sent out of the gray corridors is handled with a swiftness that speaks of underground influence
slicking the process.

It’s not that he’s completely unfamiliar with the name ‘Nakahara Chuuya’. After all, during his
tenure as a mafioso, it’s imperative that he keeps a close eye on the possible forces that could
influence the city’s operations. Perhaps due to the other’s small size and insistence on keeping his
organization as compact and inert as possible, there isn’t much news about his movements. He
retaliates when Sheep is threatened, but doesn’t otherwise do anything of note.

Dazai has always had that little spark of expectation that the two of them would cross paths sooner
or later, but life has pulled them to different directions.

Until now, that is.

Now, Dazai sits at the back of a nondescript Volvo. It’s the usual car used by the mafia whenever
they’re transferring goods that they don’t want intercepted; its interiors are transformed to have
comfortable seats that could be pulled apart to serve as a temporary bomb shelter. He can’t see the
driver from the backseat, courtesy of the opaque privacy partition pulled down. There’s nothing
much to see on the streets through the tinted bulletproof windows; four years isn’t that long a time
period, and Yokohama has only redressed itself in new buildings and new shops, but otherwise
remains the same as ever.

His eyelids remain at half-mast, affecting a sleepy, harmless look. It’s practically tradition to purge
the organization’s employees of the previous leader’s influence, so it wouldn’t be surprising if he
wouldn’t see anybody who’s familiar with him. In fact, it really wouldn’t be surprising—he has a
good memory, but he’s never excelled in keeping track of personnel. He would only remember
those who are worth remembering, which means that a bunch of the black suits register as air to
him.

He’s escorted out of the car by two black suits. The underground parking is the same, save for one
conspicuous flame-red Ducati parked near the entrance to the private elevator that has direct access
to the top two floors.

The glide up is smooth, with his guards keeping him at a distance that would make it easy for them
to subdue him should he try and make a break for it. He doesn’t bother, enjoying the clinking
sounds of the cuffs still connecting his wrists. He remains in the thin cotton of his prisoner
uniform; aside from the handcuffs, the only other restraint on him is the heavy patch over his neck,
aimed to suppress his pheromones as much as possible during his transport.

It doesn’t take long until he’s marched towards a familiar door.

This time, the voice that invites him in is much younger and brasher. The guards remain outside,
not setting foot on the floor belonging to Port Mafia’s Boss.

Dazai raises an eyebrow upon seeing the tiled flooring. “I didn’t think that redecoration would be a
priority for you.”

“Blood is a bitch to clean from thick carpets,” is the casual response. Nakahara circles the table so
that he ends up sitting on the tabletop instead of the seat that he vacates. He sniffs the air. “You
look like in dire need of a scrubbing.”

“Should I be worried?” His eyebrow rises higher, as he raises his hands to jiggle the cuffs
connecting them. “You’ve requested that they keep me in these restraints. Do you have some
strange hobbies that you’d like to let me know?”

Nakahara huffs, crossing his legs and drawing attention to the muscled line that his pants tightly
embrace. “For someone who harped on about honesty, you’re not very honest, are you?” He
matches his raised eyebrow. “Shouldn’t you be the one admitting something to me? You’re the one
who’s willingly staying in cuffs, even though you’ve already undone them.”
He shrugs and snaps his fingers, the cuffs landing on the floor. He gestures towards the glass
windows. “Should we begin? I think it’d be quite the experience to fuck you against the glass.”

“I can give you the pheromone without fucking involved.” Nakahara’s lips twitch at his invitation.

He shakes his head, playing up his disappointment. “You really only want me for my brain.”

“Since that brain is powerful, you should already have an idea why I want you here.” Nakahara
looks like he’s going to invite him out of the building if he dares claim that he’s completely
clueless.

“Sheep is an organization made of drifters and juveniles, implementing a policy of tenfold

retaliation while focusing on defense of its territory and members. So why would its King decide to
take a bite out of Port Mafia’s throat?” Dazai taps his lips, as he circles the room, taking in the
minute changes that have been made. There isn’t much, but it doesn’t reek of Mori-san anymore,
like the room has been directly bleached under direct sunlight.

“I’m not a King,” is Nakahara’s only objection to his words. “I just happen to have the right cards,
and I use them to protect those who are weaker and in need of protection.”

“Such a beautiful sentiment.” He’s overcome with the urge to ruin this man, to pull his hair and
make him cry, to tear him open so he could peer at his insides, to own him as his own underling.
His pheromones surge out of him, despite the patch placed on his neck. “And Sheep is satisfied
with staying stagnant? Of course not, that’s not within human nature.”

Nakahara stiffens a bit at the mention of ‘human nature’. But he recovers beautifully, his eyes
narrowing at him. “Just because I possess ears, it doesn’t mean that I’m willing to listen to your
unsolicited opinion.”

“Let us stick to facts then, shall we?” There’s plenty of time to needle under the other’s skin. He
could retreat for now and resume his attack later. “You need my assistance on three things.” He
starts off with the most obvious, “You need my help with quelling the discontent about the sudden
change of leaders in the mafia.”

With how little things have changed, Nakahara’s ascent to the leader’s position couldn’t have been
more than a few months. He doesn’t seem all that close to any of the employees currently in the
building, which would be par for the course if his leadership style is like Mori-san’s. But he’s the
King of Sheep, the man who has willingly shackled himself to one small organization for so long
—he must be the type who’d ingratiate himself with others. For him to not even trust the guards to
set foot inside his office means that there’s heavy lingering threat of discord.

For that kind of threat to linger, it must also mean that the change of authority has happened in an
unorthodox manner.

“Did Mori-san and the rest of the Executives suddenly disappear?” Even as he asks it, he knows
it’s correct. “You want my help in investigating their disappearance.”

Nakahara blinks at him, before he exhales. “If you’d prefer to be the Boss instead, I don’t really
mind. I just need to know that you’d help me find out went wrong on that day.”

Dazai stares at him, unblinking. They’re back to their initial positions, with Nakahara leaning
against his desk, and Dazai in front of him. It shifts again, when Dazai takes three steps forward,
and then another one, and another one. His pheromone must be saturating the room already, but
Nakahara is unmoved.
 “As for the third thing…” He trails off as he approaches the other man. A beautiful Omega who
meets his gaze and his pheromones head-on. Perhaps ‘man’ and ‘Omega’ aren’t accurate terms to
describe him. Dazai raises a hand and draws a line over the other’s neck. “You made it seem like
you’re going to help me by soothing me with your pheromone, but you need me, don’t you?” He
rubs his thumb against the swell of that throat, and then he shifts it a bit so that he’s pressing down
on the other’s gland. “You’re a rare being who needs an Alpha’s pheromone to soothe yourself—
and not just any Alpha pheromone would do.”

A sneer, and then Nakahara pulls him down by the neckline of his prison uniform, ripping the thin
fabric with his grip. With a razor-sharp grin, “Somehow, I have a craving for the really blood-
soaked pheromones, and they all said that even your blood is mafia-black.”

“Isn’t this quite the inequivalent exchange then? What do I get in return for all these things I’m
helping you out on?” Dazai tilts his neck, displaying his patch-covered gland, daring the other to
rip off the patch and unleash the full force of his pheromones. “I would rather lie down and wait
for death, you know?”

“That’s a lie,” Nakahara says with full conviction. “You’re smiling so happily now that there’s a
puzzle in front of you, so you can quit talking shit.”

Dazai digs his blunt fingernails into the other’s glands. Nakahara retaliates by ripping off the patch
roughly. Both of their pheromones explode at the same time, devouring each other. They move as
one, reaching for each other so they can bite and inflict their pheromones on each other. And it’s
then that Dazai realizes that he really is grinning with delight.

After all, Nakahara’s pheromone scent—

—is that of the nothingness of the great void, like an area purged by sunlight, like life and death
itself.

—————
to be continued;

Chapter End Notes

thanks for reading till the end!!

thanks for sticking around!! i had to take a short break from updating this so i could
focus on that 1k fic thing, but now it's back~

next chapter is their wedding + a little bit more about how did chuuya end up as PM
Boss www
the next chapter is actually already completely written, just not edited, so it shouldn't
take more than a week to post it ^o^//
 the red land
Chapter Summary

“It’s our wedding day and you don’t even have time to look at your dashing husband.”
He saunters into the office, his footsteps clicking against the floors like a metronome.
His posture is that of liquid grace, as he stalks forward and sits on the edge of the
table, stretching his legs to show off the line of his pants. “Should I be worried that
you’re more interested in looking at other men?”

“You’re the one who sent me these files on various men,” Chuuya points out, eyes
sliding towards his perch. Now that they’ve reached an agreement, he’s a lot more
forthcoming about his distaste for him. “Move your ass away from those files, you’re
going to get them wrinkled.”

[or: Dazai and Chuuya get married, and move their plans forward.]

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

—————
3
the red land

Today is his wedding day, an event that sees him wearing a bespoke suit after spending a long time
in a prisoner’s outfit.

He’s never been the sort to care for fashion trends, but his closet is now a dichotomy of black suits
and white bandages. He may have agreed to be Chuuya’s nominal husband in the face of all those
who oppose the sudden change in leadership, but that doesn’t mean that he’s willing to simply roll
over and not do his part in annoying the other party.

“It’s our wedding day and you don’t even have time to look at your dashing husband.” He saunters
into the office, his footsteps clicking against the floors like a metronome. His posture is that of
liquid grace, as he stalks forward and sits on the edge of the table, stretching his legs to show off
the line of his pants. “Should I be worried that you’re more interested in looking at other men?”

Several files are laid out on Chuuya’s desk. Dossiers on prominent figures who are expected to
attend the reception of their wedding. A lot of them are from the local government, with some
representatives from various ministers and parliament members. Most are businessmen who have
dealings with Mori Corporation, in the name of economic cooperation. Not a single one of them is
completely devoid of black ink muddying their fingertips from dipping into underground affairs.

“You’re the one who sent me these files on various men,” Chuuya points out, eyes sliding towards
his perch. Now that they’ve reached an agreement, he’s a lot more forthcoming about his distaste
for him. “Move your ass away from those files, you’re going to get them wrinkled.”

Following instructions has never been his forte. He makes sure to crinkle the papers even further,
as he smiles down at his husband-to-be. Over the past two weeks, they’ve bitten each other five
times. His pheromones aren’t as corrosive as before, but they still leak out of him consistently, an
ever-present provocation. “Should I be touched, that you’re taking your time to study what I’ve
sent you?” A pause to let his words sink their teeth in. “You actually trust the information I’ve
sent. Such a beautiful sentiment, I could just cry.”

“Go ahead and cry then,” is uttered with a ruthlessness that would make anyone agree that this man
is the most potent source of violence on any given situation. “I’m reading through them, to make
sure that you didn’t plant the wrong intel in order to trap me, or some shit.”

“Oho? Don’t you know? Having that level of paranoia could make one shrink.” Of course, he has
sprinkled five pieces of wrong information all over the files. Just enough to make things exciting,
because seeing the other man wrongfooted would be prime entertainment. He still hasn’t decided
whether it’s nice or annoying that Chuuya’s stupid enough to become the head of an organization
for the sake of others, while also being keen enough to suspect his tricks.

It’d be so much better if Chuuya’s easy to dupe, to become more like the doll that his looks
suggest. It’s also fairly exciting that he’s able to nimbly dodge all the pits that he’s digging for
him.

Right now, Dazai dodges the punch that whips his way.

Chuuya clicks his tongue, but otherwise doesn’t look too disappointed that his attack doesn’t land.
He rescues the remaining papers that were wrinkled from becoming temporary seat warmers. “For
someone supposedly so smart, you are quite lacking in your supply of insults.”

It’s just a whim, but he has decided on working hard to own this redhead for a lifetime, however
short that may be. Someone brimming with this much confidence and power, while also bowing
his neck to him instead of anyone else—it’s enough to whet his interest for a dance. Aside from his
pitiful height, his fashion sense that’s seemingly rooted in a hodgepodge of detective noir and
Akihabara’s glitz, the only thing worth insulting about him is his loyalty to undeserving sheep.

Not that he’d say those words out loud. “Because I’m smart, I don’t want to waste my mind on
thinking up insults for you.”

Another loud click of his tongue, but Chuuya doesn’t push the issue. He cleans up his desk, before
gesturing at him. “If you’re this excited to get married, let’s get going already.”

“It does make sense that your marriage is something pre-arranged.” He doesn’t protest about how
the other man isn’t wearing anything special today. “You are too lacking in romance, Chuuya.”

“You’ve already agreed to marry me. What’s the point of romancing you?” Despite his words,
Chuuya stands on his tiptoes so he could press his teeth against his neck, caressing his glands and
wrapping the two of them up with that blissful nothingness.

———

Registering their marriage and updating their family registration forms in order to reflect their new
status: it takes less than an hour, thanks to Chuuya using money and the mafia’s influence to fast-
track bureaucracy. They exchange a kiss that’s more bite than softness, and Dazai keeps an arm
over the other’s waist throughout the whole process, in order to project a convincing act.

They all happen as if they’re part of life’s everyday mundanities, and not a life-changing
experience for someone who doesn’t even find beauty in life itself.

In no time, they’re at the backseat of a mafia-issued car, on their way to their reception at The
InterContinental’s main ballroom. The privacy partition is up, protecting the private secret of them
being on opposite ends of the seat, without the intimacy of a newly-wedded couple.

Chuuya checks the time on his phone. “Do you want a stopover so you can grab a snack?”

He blinks, rubbing his fingers in contemplation at this sudden thoughtfulness from his now-
husband.

Of course, there’s nothing to think about.

Not even five seconds later, their car stops in front of an intersection to make way for a parade
crossing the street. Amidst the fanfare, there’s a firecracker-like pop that shatters the car’s
windows. Dazai yawns, just as Chuuya catches the first bullet and the two succeeding ones.

He checks his phone, and continues his interrupted Fruit Ninja game. “Three,” he sighs, referring
to the four gunmen aiming at them from the back.

“Lying bastard,” is how Chuuya thanks him for the intel, kneeling on the seat so he could punch
the back windows and use gravity to slash those gunmen’s throats using the broken shards.

Because the little man is facing the back, Dazai thoughtfully helps him block the gunshot from
their driver, who has lowered down the privacy partition. He caresses a line up his partner’s thighs,
palms those muscled buttocks, and then steals away a serrated dagger so he could use that to greet
their driver. “You could shoot your little Boss,” he offers, drawing a thin line over the driver’s
throat. “But if you miss and end up hitting his face or his glands, I’d be very disappointed.”

Chuuya doesn’t turn around, as if he’s fine with entrusting his back to him. He continues kneeling
on the backseat, head tilted as he surveys the surroundings. He’s already on the phone,
commanding Black Lizard to secure the perimeter and prevent the local police from detaining
them. Then, to Dazai, “You’re fond of my face?”

“It’s the least offensive thing about you,” he responds with equal sweetness. “If I end up being
bored of our marriage, I might just take your head away and preserve it for my collection.”

“You can’t defeat me.”

“A pity,” he sighs again, and stabs the driver’s throat.

“We could have detained him and made him spill more information.” That said, Chuuya doesn’t
sound all that disappointed that blood now seeps through the front seats.

“Darling husband, we are going to be late for our wedding reception if we waste more time.” He
has spent several hours making sure that the final meal plan included several crab dishes, so he
must make sure to reap his rewards. Even if they’ve only known each other a short while, he
knows that the other’s personality is serious when it comes to work, so he sweetens the pot with, “I
already have a lead about the person behind this assassination attempt. I’ve already planted a bomb
under his car, and it’d be disguised as an accident.”

Chuuya gives him a look. “And you’ve made all those arrangements without noting it in the files
you’ve sent me.”

A winning smile. “Darling husband, shouldn’t you appreciate me taking the initiative in cleaning
up your opponents?”

“You were thinking that it’d be funny if they could take me out.” One hand caresses his face. It
just so happens that the three bullets that have been caught are also in that same palm, and the
metal still carries warmth from the gun they came from. “You just want to watch to see how I’d
deal with them.”

Denial is useless, so he doesn’t bother. “You only need to look at the mafia’s archives to learn
about my achievements as the youngest Port Mafia Executive in history. Can you blame me, for
wanting to see my husband’s prowess first-hand?”

There’s hardly any news about the elusive King of Sheep. Only some scattered notes about their
defensive policy, about a fearsome gravity manipulator, about their blue bracelets, about their
membership criteria being so accepting of everyone, as long as they’re not adults. With this kind of
information drought, it could only mean one of these things: that the King of Sheep does nothing of
note; that the King of Sheep has used absurd amounts of money to do a long-term media blackout;
that anyone who could reveal anything about the King of Sheep is silenced by either loyalty or
terror.

“One cannot escape gravity,” Chuuya tells him, in direct continuation of his thoughts. Then, he tilts
his head again, exposing the line of his neck that’s interrupted by that black choker. “We need an
excuse for being late to the reception.”

An Alpha’s instinct is tied to a desire to dominate and possess. Dazai’s mouth waters at the sight in
front of him, and he catches the other’s skin between his teeth, so he could mark him in a way that
cannot be ignored by anyone else.

———

There are flecks of blood all over their suits when they arrive for their reception, but Chuuya’s
pheromone is like a black hole that dissipates all other scents. It’s enough to dispel the iron,
allowing him to enjoy the appetizer of crab soup.

“It’s really good, come take a bite,” he gushes his praise and even gamely offers to spoon it up for
his husband. Of course, the main reason for this display is because he knows that it’d annoy
Chuuya, and that it’d also frighten those who have known him before.

They have to maintain a united front. He’s pleased at how Chuuya capitulates, opening his mouth
and swallowing down the soup that he obviously suspects to be poisoned. It isn’t, because to have
too many attacks is too predictable. There’s an art to harassing someone, and he needs to
intersperse calm moments in order to make his attacks more impactful.

It’s that same principle that nets them a relatively peaceful reception. Nobody disturbs the dinner
program, and everyone has fake smiles plastered on their faces as they congratulate the
newlyweds. For his part, Dazai plays the ever-doting husband. He keeps an arm around his
partner’s shoulders or waist, and he insists on feeding him even though he has a pair of hands that
are curled into fists on his lap, an obvious sign of him holding back the urge to punch.

Aside from the two of them, there’s nobody else in the world who knows that Nakahara Chuuya’s
heart is full of unwillingness when it comes to becoming Port Mafia’s Boss. There’s nobody else
who knows that this all started when Europe’s international coalition of Ability organizations have
made an agreement to purchase Suribachi Island from Yokohama’s government. Chuuya has
remained tight-lipped about his reasons, but there’s no doubt that he has snuck into the rumored
facility in the middle of that deep crater, and that’s when he has inexplicably been caught up in a
blast that has whisked away Mori-san and his escorts on that day.

Why would the leader of an inert organization like Sheep sneak around the remains of a
government facility? Mori-san investigating shady things is already a given, but Chuuya seems like
he’s content with simply protecting those under his wings. So why would he involve himself in
something that could involve him with various forces?

Dazai isn’t particularly invested in having his pheromone problem resolved. He could have spent
the rest of his days in that facility, and await the fate that would supposedly befall an unmated
Alpha. But the answer to that puzzle eludes him, hence his agreement to dance this waltz of
cooperation.

…Plus, it really is quite fun, seeing Chuuya withhold his anger at being teased like this.

Of course, there’s no such thing as eternal joy, as all good things come to an end.

At the end of their wedding reception, they excuse themselves so they could go to their
honeymoon. It just so happens that their definition of a lovey-dovey vacation is to stealthily sneak
back to Suribachi Island in order to hold their investigation. No Longer Human would serve as their
guarantee, in case the phenomenon that has taken Mori-san, Kouyou-san and Hirotsu-san is
Ability-based.

Before they could get into the car waiting for them in the underground parking, a familiar man
stops them. A briefcase in hand, glinting glasses on his face.

“Sorry, Ango,” he calls out to this person he once called a friend. He tightens his arm around
Chuuya’s waist, bringing them closer to each other so he could hook his fingers over the other’s
beltloops. “This little fairy is already my husband, so I won’t allow him to talk to strange men.”

“Aren’t you the strangest one of them all,” Chuuya grumbles, but he cooperatively raises his chin
in the bossiest manner imaginable. Louder, “We’re busy, so if you don’t have anything of import to
say, you can just scram, Prof Glasses.”

He makes a face. “I’m your husband, but you don’t have a cutesy nickname for me. Should I be
worried, little one?”

“Shitty Dazai sounds perfectly apt.” Chuuya half-turns to him, eyebrows raised. This close, he
could count the other’s lashes and breathe in the same air.

“I am attending on behalf of the Special Abilities Division,” Ango says, cutting into the thick
tension that tethers them together. “Congratulations on your marriage, Nakahara-kun, Dazai-kun.”
He offers the briefcase in his hands, expression matching a funeral. “Please accept this wedding
gift from our leader.”

Politeness is underrated, so he opens the briefcase immediately to expose its contents. A satellite
phone, a couple million in foreign currency, a pair of tickets to a resort in Australia bearing the
same name as the pair of fake IDs atop it. There’s even an access card to what must be a safehouse.

“I’m honored that the government wishes me to have the most romantic honeymoon,” Dazai says
after a moment. Basically, to pressure them to leave the country and leave Port Mafia, Sheep,
Yokohama and Suribachi Island.

“Thank you for the money. I’ll use it well to buy myself a much better husband.” Chuuya closes
the briefcase, expression blank. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, we’re going to have a lot of sex to
celebrate our wedding.”

The mention of intimacy does make Ango balk, at least to the point that he seems to swallow down
the futile apologies that must be lingering in his tongue. With one last look at them, he slinks back
 to where he came from, and his bodyguards appear from the shadows to whisk him away.

Dazai follows them with his eyes, and his thoughts are interrupted when Chuuya suddenly pushes
him against their car’s door. “I also don’t allow you to stare at other men,” he spits out the jealous
words without any hint of actual jealousy in his tone. Dispassionate acting it may be, there’s more
than enough heat when he releases his pheromones and soaks the air with it. The kiss that ensues is
full of teeth like always, but there’s also some soothing flicks of their tongue against each other,
like two wounded beasts circling each other.

This sudden bout of passion would suffice for any pairs of eyes tracking their movements. Dazai
palms the other’s lower back over his suit, and he taps a Morse Code of his question meant only for
the other’s ears. Sneak into Suribachi Island after 14 hours have passed?

A silent voice, shame and toad. That’s the reply that Chuuya scratches over his back, using a code
that combines the Caesar Shift with the iroha alphabet.

Then, they draw back a bit to look at each other, before they trade equally cunning grins.

Today is different from before. Today, tomorrow, and perhaps even the following days too, there
seems to be a partner who can stand by his side.

—————
to be continued;

Chapter End Notes

thanks for reading till the end!!

part 4 is already completed and is just awaiting edits, so it shouldn't take too long for it
to be posted too www hope to see you next time, and hope you enjoyed this chapter <3

+ Caesar Shift is a cipher type once used by Julius Caesar;

+ the iroha alphabet;
 the red god
Chapter Summary

“The moon is beautiful tonight,” he observes, peering at the mess that is Suribachi
Island’s crater.

[or: Dazai and Chuuya go on their definition of a honeymoon, and the truth starts to
unveil itself.]

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

—————
4
the red god

Today starts out with a kick to his thigh, and a hand dragging him up by the forearm.

Even without lifting his eyelids, he knows that sunrise remains far away. “You’re insatiable,” he
affects an exhausted tone. “I only managed to fall asleep, and you already want to go another
round?”

He’s pinched with enough force to warrant a yelp, which he lets out, prolonging the syllables so
that it’d sound downright coquettish. Sure enough, that has Chuuya dropping him back on his bed.
He opens his eyes just in time to witness the scowl blooming on the other’s face.

“You’re incorrigible.”

Nighttime suits Chuuya well. He’s colorful enough to suffice as a lighthouse on a port city, but an
all-black attire makes it seem like he’s about to melt into the shadows, reappearing only to slash a
path to one’s aorta. It really is a shame that he has stayed for so long surrounded by wool; leather
and silk look like they’re tailor-made for him.

“You’re the one who climbed to my bed in the middle of the night,” he points out, blatantly
ignoring the fact that they’ve made arrangements to sneak back to Suribachi Island, while the
government thinks that they’re enjoying a stopover in Macau before heading for their Australian
beachside honeymoon.

Chuuya fixes his high ponytail. His conditioner’s scent overpowers the ammonia from the dye that
colors their hairs in the same shade. “Less yapping and more moving.”

“How bossy.” It’s not an actual complaint, but he makes it sound like one.

Their hotel room’s soundproofing is immaculate; without opening the windows, they’re kept away
from the booming sounds of the ever-present pool party. It’s quite surprising that Ango has
acquiesced to them booking this stopover—he’s always thought that his ex-friend is stingy. His
gaze slants over his fake husband. Perhaps persuasiveness is part of his ability. Just look at him,
appreciating beautiful women and lovely suicides, and ending up with a very male husband who
has no compunctions kicking him again when he tries to slink back under the covers.

“We have less than two hours left to catch the flight back to Narita.” Chuuya’s pheromones smell
like nothingness, but it’s the type that’s impossible to ignore. As if the absent void itself has an
imposing presence of its own. It tickles his nose, with its aggression of a beast showing off its
teeth.

Dazai stretches, a languid leopard lounging under a lion’s unimpressed glare. “There’s a Ducati in
the hotel’s underground parking.”

Unlike before, there’s someone who could catch his non-sequitur. Brows knitted, Chuuya has one
hand on his hip, and another patting down his body for his now-missing dagger. “Your
nullification Ability is always-active.”

“Isn’t it more exciting?” He waggles his eyebrows, and drags the dagger that he has stolen from
the other’s clothes, sliding it up the other’s waist, all the way to his choker. “Unless you’re not
confident in your ability to drive it well?”

Because of their pheromones being capable of soothing violent ruts, Omegas are regarded as
people who exist for nurturing and gentling. Expectations are certainly not along the lines of
someone who’d bare his teeth at the provocation, and certainly not one who would sink said teeth
against his wrist in equal warning and temptation. But one Nakahara Chuuya appears deadest on
dismantling any of the usual preconceptions about him, whether it’s regarding his identity as the
King of Sheep, a special Omega or the new Boss of the Port Mafia.

So, they end up rolling over the sheets, messing it up as they try to inflict their pheromones upon
each other.

It’s to the point that he doesn’t even have to exaggerate the way he drapes himself like a coat over
the other’s shoulders when they eventually stumble out of their room. It’s a grand piece of theater,
if he must say so himself. They put up a convincing act of a couple drunk with alcohol and lust,
mimicking a lopsided octopus hugging itself with all their limbs entwined. They vanish into a
bathroom, tumbling out ten minutes later, before dipping into the casino attached to their hotel.

Chuuya kisses his dice and gives him a saucy wink, taking up his spot perched on his thigh. They
make a show of kissing with plenty of tongue at each small win, that they end up being politely
escorted out. With linked arms, they drag themselves to the nearest club, before fading into the
darkness.

Thirty minutes later, they meet up at a certain back-alley, with Chuuya seated on a stolen Ducati.
Without a helmet, moonlight shines directly over his head when he cocks his chin and asks,
“Going my way?”

“Are you taking me to a nice drive to hell?” Without waiting for an answer, he hops onto the
motorcycle, plastering his body over Chuuya’s. This time, it’s not because they’re weaving a show
for the security cameras; this time, it’s because he needs to secure himself, lest he ends up being
left in the dust.

Restraint is one way to describe Sheep’s existence over the years. There’s no such restraint in
Chuuya now, the bike roaring under his petite body, slashing a line over the streets, defying gravity
by running up buildings so he could gallop through the skies, doing a motorized version of a
parkour.

Today, life isn’t so boring, given that he has a front-row seat to a ride most thrilling.
They drive to the airport and then past it.

One of the tricks that he has learned while idling away in that prison is the ability to control his
heartbeat to send out a Morse Code. Controlling it for a full stop for several seconds isn’t that
difficult compared to that.

Chuuya notices it the moment it happens—because he also activates his gravity manipulation at the
same time. Even though they haven’t made prior arrangement, they both know that they’d try
things this way.

Genuine laughter comes from one of them, or perhaps both at the same time.

The bike floats through the air and lands atop the plane, the two of them hitching a ride back to
Narita Airport, undetected. Wind whips around them, but he could only feel warmth.

Today, life isn’t so boring in his eyes.

———

Today, he wakes up first, because someone knees him on his spleen.

Deep sleep has always eluded his grasp, but the past day’s thrill has seemingly succeeded in
quieting his brain long enough for him to enjoy several hours of uninterrupted slumber. Or maybe
it’s because there’s someone nestled against him, gnawing at his neck like he hungers even in
sleep. His nose is filled with the scent of the other’s conditioner, and his body is warm from the
mix of their pheromones.

After landing back in Japan, it’s time for Dazai to contribute one of his old safehouses for use.
They need to catch some rest before proceeding to the next part of their plan, and his time as the
demon prodigy has afforded him several bases for lying low.

Back then, his plans were for one person only. Never in a million years would he have predicted
that he’d willingly bring someone to share his single bed, especially someone who drools in his
sleep and has the habit of kicking about.

He watches Chuuya for a few more moments, only retracting his gaze and feigning sleep when he
senses the shorty about to awaken. It’s like a little game, and Chuuya apparently doesn’t notice his
deception.

A tentative lick to his neck, and then to his jaw. Curiosity rather sensuality. That tongue traces his
lips, before dipping down to his neck, lightly kissing him over his glands, as if to coax him to
produce more pheromones. Like he truly finds it delectable. If there’s any doubt that Chuuya is a
strange creature, this preference for his pheromone is a blinking marquee pointing at his weirdness.

“It smells like a mackerel,” Chuuya grumbles, but he gives one vicious bite over his glands, before
standing up, smacking Dazai’s forehead in the process. “Get up already, bastard. We need to get to
work.”

“How bossy.” It’s still not an actual complaint, but it fills the air nicely.

Unlike his other ends of the agreement, this next mission has him at a disadvantage when it comes
to information. Even with his best hacking skills, a lot of the files regarding Suribachi Island are
simply non-existent. As if they’ve never been recorded at all, as if they’ve been whisked away to
another dimension, leaving no leftover traces.
These are the things that he knows: there used to be a facility in the middle of the island, focusing
on research related to Abilities and how they could be used for the betterment of the country. Of
course, that’s how it’s framed to investors and the general public. There are rumors that they’ve
made forays into the divine, the supernatural, the heretical. Humanoid soldiers, modified Abilities,
artificial humans, sentient weapons.

Until one day, fourteen years ago, the facility is blown sky-high, the explosion etching a dome
deep into the earth. All records are supposedly wiped at that point, so whatever platitude was
released to the press became accepted as truth.

There’s definitely something fishy. Why else would an entire continent’s coalition seek to buy that
place if there’s nothing important there? That’s the place where Mori-san has disappeared from—
and he even brought Kouyou-san and Hirotsu-san with him. They’re far from pushovers, which
means Mori-san had an inkling of the level of danger, but his logical calculations have failed to
save him.

What kind of Pandora’s Box is in there, for it to gather the interests of so many different factions?

Dazai has his guesses, but nothing that stands out as an absolute truth. For someone who has been
embroiled in a fog of boredom for so long, the presence of this mystery is more than a tantalizing
oasis presented to a man lost at desert. It’s the primary reason why he doesn’t complain as much
when Chuuya urges him to leave the safehouse under the cover of nighttime, so they could
investigate.

“It really pains me, you know? We’re already married accomplices, but you still withhold
information from me.” Mainly, the reason why Chuuya’s gone to that crater in the first place.

This time, the bike that they use is a modified Yamaha, something that has been taken out of
Chuuya’s hidden garage. He has apparently made friends with a mechanic who enjoys outfitting
him with bikes sporting the loudest of colors; this time, they go for something in matte black, for
the sake of stealth. Still foregoing a helmet, Chuuya’s voice reaches him without blockade.
“Wouldn’t you be more motivated to help out, if you have a mystery left to solve?”

It’s an accurate read on him, making him squirm over the bike’s backseat. Something blooms in
him, a nostalgia for a time that doesn’t even belong to them. It would have been nice if he’s known
Chuuya ever since before—they’d probably be more explosive in their interactions, but it would
have been nice, to spend years being read by someone.

Right now, Chuuya doesn’t speed past an empty intersection. Instead, he briefly leans back, so that
their bodies are plastered together. Because he’s not wearing a helmet, in this kind of position, his
nape is placed conveniently within Dazai’s biting range.

“It’s because I’m used to dealing with the kids at Sheep.” There’s no bite to Chuuya’s words.
There’s also seemingly no connection to their current conversation, but they both know that’s not
the case. The light turns green, just as his earlobes turn red. “Hold on tight, so I don’t leave you
behind.”

Following instructions has never been his forte, but he finds himself obeying this time around.

———

“The moon is beautiful tonight,” he observes, peering at the mess that is Suribachi Island’s crater.

Shanties and other informal dwellings have embraced the area, like colorful fungi teeming from
soil covered in detritus. Quite vibrant, like bursting capillaries that pulse with human life. Despite
the many human lives existing in this lawless zone, the scent of the sea remains the most
pervasive. Second to that is the undercurrent of sulfur, as if this place has been struck down by a
mighty lightning, and hasn’t managed to recover since.

Unfortunately, his partner is more interested in comparing the reality with the blueprint that he’s
managed to acquire through various channels. His gaze doesn’t lift from his phone’s screen. “It’s
so fucking cloudy that you can’t see the moon, oi.”

“You truly have no sense of romance.” He stays one step beside the other. Their arrangement is
that he provides the intel, the nullification ability, and the knowledge from his stint as a Port Mafia
Executive in order to help trace the missing people’s movements. There’s a gun holstered on his
left thigh, and a small bomb he has hidden away in his pocket. The heavy lifting is up to Chuuya,
who has made no secret of his gravity manipulation ability.

“You truly don’t know when to shut up.” A gesture for him to come closer.

He obliges by hooking his thumb inside the edge of the other’s glove, so he could rub the pulse
point throbbing with life.

They use the terrain to their advantage, hiding themselves in the shadows cast by the debris.
Footsteps as light as a cat’s, they weave through the maze-like remains of the facility. In contrast to
the vivid colors of the settlement around the crater, the innermost area exists in monochrome.
White blocks of cement, silvery skeletons of steel foundation, grayish glass shards dirtied by
passage of time. Black soot is everywhere, and even the soil looks like charcoal, of all evidence
burnt to a crisp.

Chuuya stops just before the centermost part of the crater. “It’s around this area.” He points
towards a lopsided doorway, if the Leaning Tower of Pisa is instead made of steel panels and is
located in Japan. “When I arrived, three people from the mafia are already inside.”

“Was there anyone else inside, at that time?” He checks the blueprint, which isn’t much. Oh, it’s
detailed, but it doesn’t match reality at all. Whatever the blueprint that has been submitted for the
building inspections, it has long been modified to house the facility’s needs. Judging from the sight
in front of them, the room where Mori-san was last seen was at the central part. From this distance,
he could see remains of dark bands, glass shards, a dense and peculiar formation of moss. “They
can’t be the only ones interested in seeing the remains of where the facility’s most important
specimen was once held, right?”

Comical is an apt description for the way Chuuya whips around to look at him, eyes mirroring
saucers. After a few moments, “…You know?”

“It looks like there have been shattered remains of cylindrical tanks.” He squints at the patches of
dark green from afar. “With that level of growth, a nutrient solution was spilled. Everything else
could be explained with that.”

Instead of giving him a standing ovation for his deduction, Chuuya’s gaze swivels back to the area
ahead of them. “I heard two other voices that didn’t sound like they belonged to that lady or that
grandpa. Neither did it belong to that doctor.”

The phrasing is a bit odd. “You heard their voices… but you didn’t detect their presence.”

This time, there’s more appreciation in Chuuya’s eyes, like he’s also amused at how he could read
him well. “No extra heartbeats, no staticky noise from an electronic communication. Unless
they’re some vampire who doesn’t have a heartbeat, they’re probably assassins with some really
strong stealth skills.”

“Someone who could get past you must be exceptional beings.” They circle the area, but everyone
who’s gone here ahead of them have been careful: no tracks remain. “Perhaps the same level as the
famous Assassin King?”

A heavy frown. “Isn’t he a—”

“—it’d make sense, given the influence from Europe. “

“But didn’t he—”

“—this one is pure speculation, but the sources are sound. His partner has already recovered, and it
coincides with the resumption of his activities.”

More impatient now, “Let me finish—”

“—Organizations from Europe with to obtain this land formally, but they want to secure something
ahead of time, so they send Transcendentals to scout the area ahead of time.” He narrows his eyes,
the picture forming in his mind. Calling it speculation is a disservice, since he is patching together
the truth based on the clues and their conversation. “However, Mori-san has heard about this ahead
of time, so he brings Ane-san and Hirotsu-san with him, in order to thwart this operation.”

This time, Chuuya doesn’t bother trying to get a word edgewise. He simply fists his lapels, then
brings him down to eye-level. “Shut up and let me talk,” he grouses, before slipping tongue into
him, alongside a powerful burst of pheromones.

He’s used to being able to discern the truth from the faintest of clues. But there’s one thing that he
can’t place into his reconstruction of the truth. And that is—

“—What are you doing here?”

It’s a voice that comes out of nowhere. Hidden in the syllables is a deadly intent, and a gunshot
that’s barely deflected by Chuuya shoving him to the side. The bullet slashes a thin red line near
Chuuya’s elbow, before it’s swallowed by the red of the other’s gravity.

A man with long curly hair approaches them, disbelief on his face. “You… also have gravity
manipulation?”

Chuuya narrows his eyes, taking a half-step to the side to widen his stance and include Dazai in his
protective pose. “You look troublesome to deal with. How did you manage to sneak up on me?”

Dazai has always been a man who follows logic, despite indulging his whimsy every so often.

Today, he acts on pure instinct.

Before Chuuya could release his pheromones in agitation, he goes one step ahead and releases his
own first. The fact that Chuuya smells like the void, like nothingness itself: it’s a morsel of
knowledge that he wants to swallow and safekeep inside his own stomach, so that nobody else
would be privy to it.

———

Back then, in a time that’s not privy to him, things go like this: a pair of Transcendentals go to
 Yokohama to steal Arahabaki, but as one shoots the other, they end up destroying their target
specimen’s cylindrical tank. It results in Arahabaki rampaging upon being freed, but the Assassin
King has focused on saving the partner that he just had a quarrel with, taking him away without
attempting to complete their mission: the capture of the red god.

—————
to be continued;

Chapter End Notes

thanks for reading till the end!!

the next chapter's also been completely written, just in need for some final
spelling+grammar readthrough... it should be up on or before sunday night www hope
to see you in the last part too~~

+ the heartbeat thing—in this setup, Dazai-san basically controls his heartbeat so that
it’d stop, which would deactivate NLH, so Chuuya can use gravity for his next bike
stunts;
+ “the moon is beautiful tonight”—according to IRL Natsume, saying this is the best
way to confess one’s love;
+ “going my way?” line/scene is inspired by a certain scene from Hannibal S3E13 :)
 the red world and the red line of fate
Chapter Summary

In another world, some things have changed, while some things remain the same.

Dazai and Chuuya work together to stop Rimbaud and Verlaine, and thus, soukoku is
formed.

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

—————
5
the red world

Today is the day the world ends.

Or at least, it feels like it, given the battle that ensues immediately.

It’s not as if he has absolutely no idea about the other’s capabilities. With that kind of confidence,
plus Sheep’s continued existence without being squeezed out of all the players in the underworld,
there must be a really powerful strength hidden in Chuuya’s petite frame.

Nothing could have prepared him for witnessing the full force of it.

The long-haired man in winter clothes has a peculiar Ability—he’s able to create another
dimension enclosed in his golden box. Inside that dimension, laws of physics fail to exert
themselves, countering Chuuya’s gravity manipulation. Not that Chuuya allows it to stop himself;
he simply goes faster than the boxes being sent after him, and he simply punches harder than the
hits that come his way.

Dazai could feel the ground trembling. After all, this is merely an artificial island built atop a
portion of Yokohama Bay. A strong-enough blow could pummel this area to the bottom of the sea.
If this has happened four years ago, he would have even orchestrated for things to end up this way:
to be suddenly plunged into the waves’ embrace, cradled by a pressure that robs one of breath.

But the Dazai Osamu of today is married to another person, one who has made no secret of it being
a transactional marriage. And according to their transaction, he should help the other undercover
the truth about this place. That means that he can’t just allow this area to sink into the sea.

“A pity,” he murmurs to himself, followed by a louder, “Chuuya, left!”

It should be a baffling command. Going left would mean facing the attacking golden box head-on.
In the midst of a serious battle, this kind of sudden instruction would have been baffling enough to
backfire.

But today, he has a partner who could understand him really well.

Chuuya pivots mid-air, body twisting in a manner that makes him think of beautiful ocean waves,
deadly enough to suffocate him if he just lets things wash over him unhindered. Show of flexibility
aside, this also displays his strength and creativity of using his ability, gravity thickened over his
fists like a crimson gauntlet, the scarlet power cloaking him like he’s donning an armor of red.

Ordinary laws of physics may not apply in this dimension that they’re caught in, but Chuuya only
applies the gravity to his own body, strengthening him so that he could brute-force the destruction
of the box. Dazai stands a few meters away, and even as he breathlessly spectates, his palms grow
sweaty from witnessing all of this. The enemy is caught wrongfooted by this sudden attack, and
one could see his palpable disbelief at his ability being countered this way.

The man breathes out, awe surging in his eyes, “The same level of gravity manipulation.”

The point of contact between them shines bright, before exploding. It’s strong enough to send
shockwaves through the air, pushing Chuuya back until he skids in front of Dazai.

Parts of his clothes are tattered and slashed by debris, but he remains whole. Blue eyes shift to him.
“How is it,” is uttered with full seriousness, the look of someone who would believe him no matter
what he says.

It’s not the first time Dazai has been given such heavy responsibility and regard, but it thrills him
nevertheless. “Given Europe’s involvement, with this kind of otherworldly prowess, he could only
be a Transcendental.”

The other man swiftly recovers from his disbelief at seeing someone wield gravity this way. It’s as
if he’s had contact with a similar ability before, it’s as if he’s surprised, but not to the point that
he’d question his world views. Dazai’s brows furrow; he’s certain that Chuuya’s Ability is known
by others, but not its extent. How is this man looking at Chuuya as if his existence here is within
expectations, also with a bit of longing?

Chuuya notices his sudden grave expression. His elbow has a line of dried blood, but there’s no
overwhelming scent of iron when he raises his hand to knead the middle of his forehead,
smoothing out his eyebrows. “It’s fine. I’ll defeat them all. You can just hide somewhere and blast
out rock music for me in the background.”

“…How childish.”

They take the moment to regroup. They stand on one side, a leftover room filled with metal
skeletons of what must be a massive file drawer. Tubes on the ground like slumbering snakes, a red
canister of what must have been a fire extinguisher. All of the research files have been burnt, and
not even their ashes remain. Chuuya’s pheromone swims under his nose, contained to their spot, as
if to forcibly sterilize their turf.

“Unless you want to act as my meat shield.” Chuuya rotates his wrist, miming dragging him
around and using his nullification as a temporary barrier when fighting against the
Transcendental’s illuminated boxes.

“You truly are lacking in romance. You want to manhandle your husband in front of others?” He
watches the enemy, who also makes no secret of watching them. “That guy is likely to be hiding
another form of his Ability.”

“I can capture a corpse inside my box, and transform that corpse into my puppet,” their enemy
offers the information freely. “My name is Arthur Rimbaud, Ability Name: Illuminations. I’m a
spy from the Continent, and am part of the Transcendentals.”
“That kind of information surely isn’t free,” Chuuya calls out, maneuvering them so that he’s acting
as a blockade. He’s smaller than him, so he could see the whorl atop the other’s head like this, but
it does make him feel warm, watching this protective stance.

“I’ve come here to retrieve my missing partner.” Emotion blooms in his face at those words,
making him appear more genuine. “Why don’t we exchange information, instead of our fists? I’m
certain you have questions too.”

“And how can we trust that your information is true, Randou-san?” He deliberately mispronounces
the other’s name and doesn’t follow the other’s accent, in a bid to appear more clueless and
harmless than he really is.

“I wouldn’t lie to family,” is a simple response, enough to make him feel like he’s really clueless,
after all. That gaze is focused towards Chuuya, and even without his Ability deployed, he seems to
be dividing a world just for the two of them, when he claims, “You must be Paul’s brother, given
that you also possess a similar ability. Arahabaki, the red god cultivated by this nation.”

———

Stories about humans attempting to cross into divine territory aren’t rare. There already are
fantastical Abilities in this world, so why not push the envelope further and attempt to experiment
combining human Abilities with divine beings?

Despite that, Dazai still finds himself unwilling to reconcile the facts divulged to their ears. In fact,
it’s said to Chuuya, but he remains standing there beside the other man. The special Omega, one
who had been at the center of this island’s explosion so many years ago. The 5158th experiment in
trapping a god inside a vessel that harnesses gravity manipulation, not only to create a being with
powerful physical force, but also to give them an advantage when it comes to pheromones.

Creating a ‘black hole’ when it comes to the scents, absorbing everything around him so that
nothingness remains.

Despite these revelations, Chuuya’s first reaction is to turn to him and ask, “Oi. Are you okay?” A
worried slant to his mouth. “I know that you actually are a control freak, even if you try to deny it.
Don’t feel too bad that you were used as an observation subject.”

He’s rendered silent by the other’s words. It shouldn’t be surprising. Chuuya has all the landmark
qualities of a worrywart and a motherhen; he’s the one who’s revealed to be possibly not human,
but his first focus is to make sure his partner is fine.

Dazai shakes his head. “I’m used to people watching my every move.”

The reason for Chuuya’s concern: Rimbaud reveals that Yokohama’s researchers are working on a
theory that Alphas who have been kept away from Omega pheromones for too long have the
possibility of strengthening their abilities. As if their body would attempt to compensate for the
lack of soothing and gentling they could get from a mate. Therefore, the facility that Dazai has
been held up in for four years has a secondary function of observing unmated Alphas who are also
Ability Users.

But then, even with all of the logic and reasoning in his arsenal, nothing could have prepared him
for the extent of Chuuya’s otherworldly characteristics.

“It’s possible that they’ve actually found an actual Omega match for you, but they simply kept it a
secret, so they could observe you longer.” Blue eyes are full of solemnity, of stubbornness, of
searing fire. “However, it doesn’t matter if you have an actual match somewhere. Dazai Osamu,
you already belong to me.”

A statement of ownership shouldn’t sound so appealing. Perhaps because he really isn’t like the
usual Omega—or a usual anything, for that matter. Nothing about him is commonplace, and that
includes common sense.

He shakes his head, the need to oppose the other’s words ingrained in him. “Before anything else,
I’m the one who allowed you to be mine.”

They stare each other down, both unwilling to back off from their claim.

Rimbaud interrupts them, clearing his throat. “On that day, your Ability must have clashed against
Paul’s. The last time it had happened, it caused this island’s explosion.” He makes a gesture that’s
both imploring and inviting. “And then a few months ago, the clash of two gravitational forces
must have forced a rift in space-time, whisking them away in an alternate dimension. I’m unable to
reach them using Illuminations.”

Chuuya frowns, like all this talk is giving him a headache. They’ve gone here in search of answers,
but they’re not particular nice ones.

“That’s simply pure speculation at this point, Randou-san.” This time, it’s his turn to widen his
stance, crowding Chuuya out a bit so that he’d step behind him and let him deal with this. “This
little fairy here is content to just punch and kick his way through. Using complex calculations to
increase gravitational density, enough to rip through the exact fabric of space-time as before?
You’re asking for too much.”

“I’m not actually stupid, oi, I’m sure I can—”

“—Shut up, Chuuya.” He can’t remember the last time he’s been this terse and tense. “Not even
the world’s top scientists are able to fully understand this kind of phenomenon. There’s no need to
risk it in order to help bring Mori-san back here.”

Aren’t things fine as they are now? They could just annex Sheep into Port Mafia, if Chuuya really
wants to keep his old organization. There’s no need to find the actual leader of the mafia, Chuuya
can simply continue leading the organization. Dazai is there anyway, so if anyone continues to
harbor thoughts of dissent, it would be easy to take action. There’s this mess about foreign Ability
organizations that might come for Chuuya, if he’s really an important experimental subject, but
he’s certain that he can make plans to take care of that too.

The important thing is that—

“—Oi, shitty Dazai.” For the first time since they’ve met, Chuuya sports a look so innocently
mystified, like that of a kid’s initial discovery of the existence of candy. His words carry sweetness,
one that should mismatch the situation they’re in. “You’re actually worried about me?”

“It’s just that, we haven’t arranged the split of our properties and finances, in the event of the death
of the other party.” Even as he says it, he knows that it’s far from convincing. He diverts his eyes
so he could look at their surroundings. “If you introduce another explosion in this area, all the clues
about your past might just disappear entirely.”

Extrapolating from the previous revelations: upon learning that this area would soon become off-
limits due to interference from foreign parties, Chuuya had snuck in here to investigate his origins.
It just so happened that this place is also a beacon for other investigations, and the coincidental
clash of different forces have caused that little accident.

Chuuya blinks at him, before his face softens. “It’s fine. I did get the answers that I needed. How I
choose to live moving forward is what’s more important.” He stands beside him, firm and
unrelenting. “I have a place in this world.” He reaches out to take his wrist, encircling it like he’s
trying to cuff him using his grip. “And so do those missing people, so it’s only right that I help
bring them back.”

The hold on his wrist is perfectly aligned to the loop of his bandages. They trade a glance—and
today, he really does have a partner. They could feel the plan forming between them.

It’s a little bit reckless; somehow, he’s a little bit excited to try it out. The same excitement is
mirrored on Chuuya’s face, and their words come out in machinegun-speed.

“The timing—”
“—edge of the bandage.”
“In your sleeve?”
“Then tug me back.”
“You believe it will run?”
“It should work as a conductor.”
“Just like walking a dog.”
“Fuck you, asshole.”

No further words are needed.

Under Rimbaud’s bewildered gaze, the two of them execute a plan to use his bandages as a way to
channel the nullification ability, just in time to break through the space-time coordinate that
Chuuya would calculate using his instinctive feel for gravity.

Today, Dazai’s heart actually beats in exhilaration, as he keeps his eyes open in order to witness
the miracles this world has to offer.

———

Good things always come to an end.

Before Dazai could even properly tug Chuuya back so he could show his appreciation for their
impeccable display of coordination, someone else is already clapping. It’s followed by a familiar,
“I knew you could do it, Dazai-kun.”

A smile full of teeth comes to him naturally. “It is such a shame that you look unharmed, Mori-
san.”

He faces the person who has moved people around like pieces over a chessboard. It’s a sentiment
that he could understand, intellectually. But humans are biased creatures, and he isn’t going to
claim that the difference doesn’t lie in the fact that his dear friend got caught in the crossfire.

Chuuya’s a little unsteady from the exertion of his ability, but he wraps a protective arm around his
waist, and cocks his head towards the four new arrivals. He looks like he’s about to invite all four
of them to a spar. He looks especially intrigued at the katana sheathed inside Kouyou-san’s
umbrella’s handle.

Hirotsu-san takes the lead in dispensing pleasantries. “It is great to see that you’re doing well,
Dazai-san.” A slight bow, as if he doesn’t want to look any longer at how there’s someone bodily
clinging to him.
Kouyou-san has no such reservations. “Are congratulations in order? It is nice to see that you have
settled down.”

There’s no air of desperation from the trio. As if getting whisked away to an untouchable rift for
several months is simply child’s play. That, or within expectations.

Dazai narrows his eyes. Behind the three top members of the mafia, Rimbaud immediately goes to
embrace a tall blond man wearing a stylish suit and a fedora in the same style that Chuuya favors.

It’s not his style to advocate for the concept of fate, but something tells him that this kind of
encounter is something that’s preordained. As if no matter what happens, this kind of development
is inevitable, and all of their paths crossing is a must.

In a low tone, “Was this all within your plan, Mori-san?”

After all, before he became a doctor working for the old Boss, Mori-san was part of the military.
He should have plenty of information about the facility that was once here, and he should know
what the foreign organizations want to achieve from buying this island. He should be aware that
this is a landmine that will be fought over by several factions, and so, in order to lessen the losses,
one has to make the first move.

Chuuya doesn’t know Mori-san, but he seems to follow the threads of his thought. With a voice
lined with steel, “You’re the one who made sure that shitty Dazai was captured in that facility.”

“It’s merely placing safety nets ahead of time.” He doesn’t look bothered by someone talking to
him in an impolite tone, especially since that someone is the person who has technically usurped
him as the Boss. “All I did was ensure that the best possible outcome is achieved, for the sake of
Yokohama.”

He glances at the two foreigners, who are still embracing while talking to each other in French.
“And you’ve used the time away to recruit new members.”

“Verlaine’s skills would be invaluable in training assassins.” Kouyou-san raises her sleeve to hide
the curve of her mouth. “He will be a good addition to the Executives.”

“The best outcome would be if you return too, Dazai-kun.” A kindly smile fits on Mori-san’s face.
Because he’s already matched up with an Alpha, he doesn’t radiate a piercing pheromone anymore,
but he looks like he wishes he could do it now. “Of course, Chuuya-kun is free to continue his
Executive post as well.”

Dazai blinks, before he ends up laughing. He hugs Chuuya close, smothering his laughter against
the other’s hairline. “You’re definitely a human being,” he tells him. “So human that you’re stupid
enough to become Port Mafia’s boss for the sake of protecting Sheep. So human that not even
Mori-san could predict your actions.”

So human, that Dazai can’t help but want to cherish him for however long possible.

Today, life is a little bit more interesting than before.

—————
epilogue
the red line of fate

Today, there are two people seated atop a metal crate, a blanket splayed out under them, as if
they’re out on a picnic.
There are various snacks, but the contents of the basket beside them are guns, daggers and bullets.
A disassembled sniper rifle is currently being fiddled with by bandaged hands, all while the person
is swinging his legs off the crate, eyes on a laptop that shows live footage from a drone.

Chuuya munches on potato chips while he busies himself with his own laptop, currently arranged
on a split-screen between a group chat, a manga reader, and a travel guide. Shirase’s last message
is about accepting a joint operation with a Port Mafia subgroup called Flags. They’re supposed to
be escorting the arrival of a Dr. Frankenstein from the Continent, the leader of a small faction who
disagrees with the push for Europe’s organizations to interfere with Yokohama. There are
apparently androids involved, so he has them promise to send him details, so he’d know just how
cool an android would be.

In the meantime, a cool hand reaches out to curve over his neck, following the course of his
choker. “Chuuya, I agreed to not divorce you, but our agreement is that you’d never look at other
men.”

“Have you already gone senile? I’m pretty sure that’s not how it went.” That said, his memory is a
bit fuzzy, given that they’ve had that conversation in the middle of an enthusiastic romp, a feverish
heat overtaking both of them. He does know that he’d never agree to such a thing though, because
it would be easily misconstrued as him agreeing to let Dazai gouge his eyes out should he look at
another person for more than two seconds.

“I wouldn’t blame you if it slipped your mind.” A thumb slips inside the leather, in order to rub his
skin directly. “You were too busy mewling for me, weren’t you?”

“I should ask Yuan for the books we bought for some of Sheep’s younger members. Looks like
you’re in dire need of a dictionary, if ‘mewling’ is the only word you can use to describe that.”

“Bringing up other people during our date isn’t allowed.” Dazai drags him close, hand curling over
his longer lock of hair, maneuvering his face so that they’re wordlessly arguing with their tongues.

Like each time that Dazai shows any hint of excitement, his pheromone coils in the air, venomous
to those who don’t have an immunity to it. A lot like the vast plains in the midst of a thunderstorm,
so that whoever’s brave enough to stand in the middle is simply inviting for lightning to strike him
down. Provocative and dangerous, and just the faintest hint of suggestion is enough to spark a
wildfire.

His whole life—the parts he could remember, at least—he has always been concerned about being
too different from others. At least when it comes to having more power than others, he could
comfort himself with the thought that he’s been given the cards of power, and therefore it’s his
responsibility to use it protect those who are weaker. But what about his strange pheromone, one
that seems to be actively erasing others, like he’s introducing blackholes in his wake?

Meeting Dazai is comforting. Someone who’s even weirder than him, someone who’s unique in all
aspects. A reminder that he isn’t the sole outcast in this world, and there’s a bastard out there who’s
so strange, and yet so comfortable with his strangeness.

So what if his scent is like a siphon against others? It just means that when he stands beside this
asshole who leaks madness everywhere, he could accept it all and stop them from becoming
wanted as bioterrorists for polluting the air with too much abhorrent pheromones.

He’s never really put stock in things like destiny, but meeting Dazai is a lot like meeting the red
thread of fate, capturing it for himself, and using it to loop them together.
When he pulls back, his lips are swollen. He’s comforted by the knowledge that Dazai is in a
similar situation. “Aren’t we on a mission?”

“Multitasking is important,” is said with a self-righteous tone. “As hired mercenaries, how we
handle the mission is to our discretion.”

It’s the slightest bit different from working directly under the Port Mafia. With the discovery that
their identities are quite sensitive, staying put in one place is dangerous. With the defection of
Rimbaud and Verlaine from the Transcendentals and their subsequent joining to the Port Mafia, it’s
enough of a blow to the foreign organization. On the other hand, it’s very likely that it would spark
further effort to attain Suribachi Island and its secrets.

Sheep loses its leader, but they become an auxiliary group to a more stable Port Mafia. In the
meantime, the two of them lie low while picking up various work on the side, investigating more
about other secrets hidden under the research facility. Not being directly affiliated to any
organization means that if they oh-so-accidentally end up clashing with any new envoys from
abroad, it wouldn’t directly blow up as a diplomatic incident, as it could be explained away as a
pair of troublemakers doing their own thing.

Chuuya has to admit—that Mori guy’s planning coupled with Dazai’s cunning ensures that the best
outcome could be reached.

“If you’re so smart, then decide already on what we’ll name our mercenary team.” They do need to
work, and getting business is difficult when they’re advertising themselves as ‘Those Two Guys’.
He’s had a whole notebook of suggestions, but Dazai has vetoed all of them, claiming that they’re
too tacky and reminiscent of middle-schoolers. “We need to sound really cool and badass, oi.”

He returns to fiddling with the sniper rifle’s parts, but this time he keeps one arm around his waist.
“Dazai(tall) and Dazai(small) is a perfectly good name.”

“Fuck you,” he spits out, rolling his eyes. “You have even worse naming sense than me!”

Dazai leans against him, squishing their bodies together. “Then, how about ‘soukoku’?”

“…Ha?”

“Twin stars of darkness, destroying all the bad guys~ ✩!” He’s practically sparkling at him. “See,
it sounds cool enough for your tastes, right?”

He smacks the other’s arm so he’d stop clinging to him, but otherwise doesn’t protest against that
name. Of course, that’s because three of their targets have snuck onto the top of the metal crate
they’re in, so Chuuya busies himself with rescuing his potato chips from being splattered with
blood. He ignores the huffy complaint from Dazai, one that’s full of grievances as to why did he
prioritize his food instead of protecting him.

It’s full of shit, because Dazai simply narrows his eyes and floods the air with his pheromones, in
order to suppress their targets’ movements. It gives enough time for Chuuya to placate his husband
by shoving a handful of chips to his mouth, and then sweeping a kick towards their opponents,
hard enough to send them flying, alongside a yelled message of, “Stop disturbing our date!”

Today is not like yesterday, the day before, the week before, the year before. And when tomorrow
comes, he’s certain that it’d be different again, save for the one person tied to his side by the red
string of fate that they’ve made themselves.
 —————
the end

Chapter End Notes

thanks for reading till the end!!

it was a blast thinking of the divergence+world building for this AU (oh, if you've seen
the messy notes lol)!! i hope you enjoyed this little divergent line!! comments are
always appreciated <3

+ the whole bandage thing is a reference (?) to the 15 LN version of how soukoku
defeats rimbaud (it was not through handholding, unlike the anime lol)
+ [そうこく/”soukoku”]’s actual reading is[相克], which means
“rivalry/antagonism”; asagiri-sensei then made a pun out of it, and made-up the word
[双黒/double black] from it www

+ have a request for me? send it to my request box (link is on my twitter);

+ my socmed list/ game accounts // my AO3 profile;
+ want to translate / make art / make something inspired by my work? please go ahead,
just make sure to provide proper credits/links & make sure to send me a link once
you’re done!
+ do not use/send any part of my work to any AI or AI-related programs/sites, whether
it’s for personal, commercial or training use. just don’t.

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