hide the truth

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at [Link]

Rating: Not Rated

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)
Characters: Nakahara Chuuya (Bungou Stray Dogs), Dazai Osamu (Bungou Stray
Dogs), Kunikida Doppo (Bungou Stray Dogs), Nakajima Atsushi
(Bungou Stray Dogs), Izumi Kyouka (Bungou Stray Dogs), Ozaki
Kouyou (Bungou Stray Dogs), Hirotsu Ryuurou (Bungou Stray Dogs),
Yosano Akiko (Bungou Stray Dogs), Most of the ADA has a cameo
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Post-Dead Apple (Bungou Stray
Dogs), Amnesia, Unreliable Narrator, Character Study, Fluff and Angst,
Developing Relationship, Dazai-Typical Suicide Mentions (Bungou
Stray Dogs), Pining, Canon-Typical Violence, Dazai-Typical Suicide
References (Bungou Stray Dogs), Implied Sexual Content
Language: English
Collections: One shots, miQ_y's fav fav fics, Soukoku fics, bungou stray dogs, Vee's

✨ ✨
God Tier Fics, SakurAlpha's Fic Rec of Pure how did you create this you
amazing bean, Hurt/comfort fics for the soul, Quality Fics, Other
Fanfics , I'm not Allowed to Make Comments on Ongoing Port Mafia
Record's Legal Disputes.. BUT, completed bsd fics that give me life,
Soukoku Fics that I love more than Dazai loves Suicide, shinjuu
Stats: Published: 2018-11-06 Words: 24,611 Chapters: 1/1
 hide the truth
by writingfromtheshadows

Summary

When Chuuya wakes up in the middle of an ongoing fight without any memory of how he
got there or what happened to him, he ends up turning to someone saved as 'bandage-waster'
in his phone. Somehow, it just feels like the right decision.

Russian Translation

Notes

About a month ago I woke up thinking about an amnesia Chuuya concept and tweeted about
it. With people expressing interest in it, this story ended up being my early-release monthly
oneshot for October. However, I had so much more I wanted to develop and ended up adding
quite a bit to it before uploading it here. Thank you to my lovely supporters who voted for me
to write this concept last month because I ended up really invested and enjoying this piece
and I'm quite proud of it. Also, thank you for not making fun of the shitty title it originally
had because I was too exhausted to think of a good title when I first posted it lol.

Verse notes: This story is set before the manga arc with Fyodor and the Rats and is Dead
Apple compliant. If you haven't seen Dead Apple, don't worry about it as it's not essential for
understanding the story!

Fic title comes from the song "Sick of Losing Soulmates" by dodie. The entire song fits the
fic perfectly so if you're interested in taking a listen you can find it here.

See the end of the work for more notes

He hurts.

It feels like every inch of his body is crying out in protest, like every molecule that creates his
being is in pure agony and, for a second, he thinks he must be dying. The moment passes as
he shifts slightly, feeling the ground move around him; he hurts, but he has worked through
worse. Not that he can remember what exactly ‘worse’ was or when it happened, he merely
flexes his fingers experimentally; the pain is horrible but his body isn’t ready to give up just
yet so he must have dealt with worse.

Blinking his eyes open, he squints against the darkness of the night. And by opening his eyes
he must have brought himself back to the world around him because the noise is suddenly
deafening. There is rapid and concentrated gunfire and screams echoing nearby and he
winces, wanting to cover his ears but not wanting to move.

“Chuuya-san! Chuuya-san!” One of the screams solidify into a name and he frowns
thoughtfully at it, feeling like there is something he should know about that particular name
but not sure what it is. A head appears above him, eyes wide in shock as a young man stares
at him with clear concern. “Chuuya-san, are you alright?”

A bandage is covering the man’s nose and he wonders if it’s covering a recent injury. Then,
he wonders if he needs bandages, which wouldn’t be surprising given how much everything
hurts. Slowly, he pushes himself upright and bites back a groan of protest.

The man is still talking, he realizes. Repeating that name and rambling about casualty
numbers and enemy location and backup and other things that make absolutely no sense.

“Chuuya-san, we need to-”

He holds up a hand in a silent request for quiet that gets heeded instantly, the man staring
down at him expectantly, as if waiting for orders. He doesn’t know why, but he knows this
man will hear him out, will listen to his questions and answer accordingly, so he asks, “Who
are you?”

Confusion flashes across the young man’s face. “I’m…I’m Tachihara, sir. But you’ve-”

Now that the first question has left his lips, he finds himself needing to ask more. His head is
spinning, everything hurts, he knows he has felt worse, thinks he has been in worse situations
before, but he can’t remember them.

He can’t remember anything.

Trying not to panic, he cuts across the man’s—Tachihara’s—rambling again. “Why do you
keep calling me sir?”

Tachihara’s eyebrows draw down at that question and there’s a brief flicker of concern in the
man’s gaze before it vanishes. “You’re in charge of this operation, and an executive, it’s only
right for me to address you with respect, Chuuya-san.”
“Chuuya,” he repeats the name carefully, finding its weight familiar on his tongue but not as
familiar as he gets the sense that it should be. The next question is one he doesn’t want to ask
—he doesn’t want to know just how bad everything is, doesn’t want Tachihara to panic
(because he has a feeling Tachihara will panic), but he needs to know. “Is that my name?”

There isn’t a reply straight away. Tachihara stares down at him, face pale, before glancing
away and snapping a few orders. People out of sight respond and footsteps sound around
him, indicating others are moving away.

Screams are still echoing, gunfire is still ringing through the night sky, he has no idea how he
got here, has no idea what is going on.

Tachihara reaches down, offering a hand that he takes gratefully, letting the young man help
him to his feet. Once standing, he realizes he’s in a crater of some kind, in the middle of a
road, and he climbs out of it (ignoring the way his body protests with each movement). Now
on level ground with Tachihara, he can make out more about their surroundings, can see
people fighting just within eyesight, can hear more commands being shouted.

“Chuuya-san…do you remember me?” Tachihara asks, voice soft.

There is that name again, but Tachihara hasn’t answered his last question.

“No, I don’t. I don’t remember anything that happened before I opened my eyes down there,”
he replies, “is that my name? Chuuya?”

Tachihara nods slowly, “Nakahara Chuuya, that’s you. You’re an executive in the Port
Mafia.”

Looking around them again, he takes in the chaos of the night, takes in the bodies littered on
the street, the stench of death and bloodshed that is somehow achingly familiar and
shockingly foreign all at once. Deep down in his gut, he knows that some of the corpses are
his doing, that he must have killed more than a handful to be an executive in this ‘Port
Mafia’, to be in charge of such an operation.

Meeting Tachihara’s gaze, he asks, “Is there someone who can take command from here? I
won’t be much help right now considering that I don’t even remember what the Port Mafia
is.”

“The reinforcements will be here soon with Hirotsu, he can take charge. Do you want to…?”
Tachihara trails off, looking a little lost though certainly nowhere near as lost as he feels.

“I’ll take cover,” he offers, waving to the shipping crates behind himself. “Don’t worry about
me.”

Tachihara’s hesitation is considerable, but the young man eventually nods. “When the
reinforcements arrive, I’ll have them send a squad over to guard the area and make sure no
one gets too close. I think…it would be best if I didn’t tell anyone what’s going on.”
He waves Tachihara off with a murmur of agreement, waiting for the other man to rush
toward the fighting before turning and making his way to the crates. Stepping around them,
he’s surprised to be greeted with the sea and he squints across its surface. Just where the hell
is he?

Taking a seat at the base of one of the crates, he digs into his pant pocket and pulls out a
phone. Thankfully, it opens with his fingerprint since he has no idea what his password might
have been. Not seeing a use for the tattered gloves he had been wearing he tosses them over
his shoulder and occupies himself with going through the latest messages, trying to piece
together what his life has been, who he actually is. There are messages from someone named
Kouyou and based on the content of them he assumes they’re relatively close. A text from an
Akutagawa makes him quirk his eyebrow with how short and to-the-point it is but he moves
on.

His finger hovers over a message conversation with someone listed in his phone as ‘bandage-
waster’. There is something about it, something that echoes in the back recesses of his mind
(perhaps where all his memories are locked away) that compels him to open the conversation
and flick through it. It’s mostly an exchange of insults, on both sides, but the ‘bandage-
waster’ makes several references to knowing him better than anyone else alive and, before he
can stop himself, he’s clicking the call button.

Bringing the phone to his ear, he waits, heart in his throat.

The call is answered after three rings.

“Now this is a surprise!” The voice that filters through the line is overly upbeat and cheery,
giving the impression that it’s somewhat of an act. “Never in my wildest dreams did I think
Chuuya would actually call me in the middle of a top-secret mafia mission.”

Chuuya. That name again. His name? The fact that it has now been used to address him by
more than one person makes him feel more comfortable with the idea of it belonging to him.

“Who is this?” he asks.

“Nice try, chibi, there’s no way you would ever forget me. I am your partner after all.”

Partner? That didn’t sound quite right. If he had a partner why wasn’t that partner here as
backup?

“I don’t remember you,” he replies, voice soft as if wanting to prevent eavesdroppers, “I

don’t remember anything.”

There is a long pause and when the person on the other end of the line speaks the mocking lilt
in their voice is gone. “Chuuya, where are you?”

“I don’t know,” looking around, he says, “by the water, I’m guessing it’s some kind of
shipping port. There’s a lot of fighting; evidently, I was leading an operation but I had them
switch command since I don’t even know what the Port Mafia is.”
“Don’t move, I’m coming to you.”

The line cuts before he can protest and he pulls his phone back to stare at the screen. There
isn’t a contact picture of ‘bandage-waster’ and he doubts there is any more information on his
phone about who it is. He doesn’t know anything about the person claiming they’ll come to
find him, but he can’t shake the feeling of security that washed over him at the other’s
statement.

He believes that they are on their way, and that’s enough to lessen just a little bit of the panic
creeping into his chest over how confusing everything has felt since he opened his eyes in
that crater.
It’s not difficult to deduce where Chuuya is. There aren’t a lot of places in Yokohama where
the Port Mafia could launch a full-scale attack without being concerned about authorities or
the agency interfering. From there, the list narrows even further based on Chuuya saying he
was near water.

And, as he gets closer, Dazai can hear the sounds of combat stark in the otherwise quiet night.

His gaze narrows in the direction of the fighting. There is too much activity, the group
encroaching on mafia territory is putting up too much resistance: that alone would be
concerning in its own right even if he didn’t have the strange call from Chuuya playing on
repeat in his head.

When he answered the phone, Dazai had known something was going on. After all, getting a
phone call from the hat rack was more than unusual, it was without precedent. But the way
Chuuya had sounded, the fact that Chuuya didn’t even protest being called partners (as he
vehemently did at any other time, insisting on being referred to as an ex-partner) was what
tipped him off to something being wrong, even before Chuuya said he didn’t remember
anything.

It is absurd to imagine, Chuuya without any memories at all, and part of Dazai is fervently
hoping the other man is baiting him for some reason even if he knows that isn’t the case.

Turning away from the fighting, Dazai studies the rest of the port, considering possible hiding
places for the short stack and dismissing them at the speed of light before his gaze falls on a
collection of shipping crates.

Making his way over to it, Dazai pauses just outside of the shadows of the crates and softly
calls, “Chuuya?”

Something shifts to his right and Dazai can barely make out someone struggling to their feet,
using the crates to steady themselves as they say, “Who is there?”

“Dazai,” he replies, even though he knows the answer is probably meaningless if Chuuya
really has lost all his memories. “I think you have me listed in your phone as bandage-waster,
if I’m not mistaken.”
“You’re my partner?” the confusion in Chuuya’s voice as he asks this is like a blow to
Dazai’s gut, but he doesn’t let it show on his face. “If you’re my partner why weren’t you
here?”

Letting out a sigh, Dazai admits, “It’s a long story. Do you have backup coming?”

“Tachihara,” Chuuya says the name like it’s foreign to him, “said reinforcements were on the
way and that he would send a squad to guard this area when they came. Someone named…
Hirotsu is with them, I think.”

“Do you mind if I come closer?” The last thing he needs is to startle Chuuya into losing
control of his ability, and without any memories about its possible existence, it’s more than
likely that Chuuya’s grip over Corruption is weaker now than it ever has been.

Chuuya shifts, taking a step forward so he is no longer hidden by the shadows of the crates.
He looks like shit. A bruise is coloring the side of his face and scratches are visible on every
bare surface of his skin. Both his signature hat and jacket are gone, his remaining clothes
ripped in various areas, speaking to an ugly fight. Anyone who could do this much damage to
Chuuya is not to be taken lightly, and the possibility of them still being nearby makes Dazai
itch to get them both out of here and to somewhere safer.

Blue eyes are carefully scanning Dazai, a mixture of wariness and fatigue in their depths. It’s
not the first time Dazai has stood under Chuuya’s scrutiny but this is worlds apart from any
other time they’ve stared each other down. Chuuya isn’t looking at him like a traitor, like his
ex-partner who walked away from the Port Mafia, like someone he resents having to work
with, like someone he has any sort of pull toward or history with or any of the dozens of
other ways Chuuya has studied him in the past. Chuuya is looking at him like he’s a stranger
and Dazai hates how much it bothers him.

“What do you want to do?” It probably isn’t fair of him to be asking this.

Even though Chuuya is doing his best to avoid showing any weakness (and it’s a little bit of a
relief to see how much Chuuya is still acting like himself even in these circumstances), Dazai
doesn’t lie when he talks about knowing Chuuya better than anyone else. He can see the
sliver of doubt not entirely masked by Chuuya’s half-formed scowl, can see the fear Chuuya
must be feeling, evidenced by the tension in Chuuya’s frame.

It would probably be easier if Dazai made a decision for them both, but that’s wandering into
dangerous territory. If, and Dazai hates to entertain the idea, but if Chuuya’s memories never
come back, it doesn’t do anyone any good if Chuuya is only familiar with relying on others to
make his decisions. And the Chuuya he knows would be furious at the breach in his
autonomy.

So, Dazai waits, keeping his body relaxed so Chuuya doesn’t feel rushed to his choice despite
how the fighting edges closer to their location.

Chuuya’s gaze flicks over Dazai’s shoulders, in the direction of the fighting, and he stares for
several long minutes. Finally, he shakes his head and meets Dazai’s gaze again. “I don’t
remember who you are or how we know each other, but I can’t shake the feeling that I trust
you, with my life.”

Dazai knows that, has seen evidence of it over and over again in the years they have known
each other. Chuuya has never said it out loud before, not to him, and he finds his words
catching in his throat at the fact that, without any memories at all, Chuuya can say such a
thing.

Luckily for him, Chuuya isn’t finished speaking, “Do you have a way to contact them and let
them know I’m safe? I don’t want them thinking I got kidnapped or something.”

“I can call Hirotsu and let him know.”

“And I’m presuming you have someplace safe where I can lie low?”

“Relatively.”

Chuuya takes another step, swaying on his feet before finding his balance. Dazai doesn’t
bother to reach for him, strongly suspecting that any sudden movements won’t be received
well. “Then let’s get out of here…Dazai.”

Dazai leads him away from the port, away from the fighting, and through the streets of a city
that he doesn’t remember the name to.

They walk in silence. He tries not to make it clear how much pain he is in, tries not to slow
them down, but Dazai seems to know just how quickly they can walk before it is too much
for him, pausing randomly without explanation for just long enough for him to catch his
breath and re-attune to the pain before moving on.

That, more than anything Dazai could have said, makes it obvious that there is a history
between them that can’t be summed up with a few sentences or a simple description. Dazai is
in tune with his body, with what he can do and when he is pushing too hard, and Dazai
accommodates without a word and without making a scene. It is enough to make him feel
almost…comfortable, for the first time since realizing his memories were gone.

Glancing at the man beside him, he takes in Dazai’s appearance. When the taller man had
first arrived, his mind had been too scattered to concentrate on anything more than the
sharpness in brown eyes and the way something akin to concern was glittering in their
depths.

Now, his gaze takes in everything from the brown hair that he suspects to be soft to the touch
to the long tan trench coat that Dazai’s hands are stuffed inside to the bandages that peek
above the collar of Dazai’s shirt. His eyes narrow at the gauze, wondering if the wrappings
are the origin of the name Dazai is saved under in his phone and if that means there are more
bandages along Dazai’s body.

Why are they there?

Was that a question he used to know the answer to?

He bites back a scowl. There is so much he doesn’t know, so much he feels like he had
known and had somehow lost in an instant. He has the aching suspicion that his survival in
this city, in this Port Mafia, is reliant on that information, on knowing where he stands with
the people around him and how to interact with him.

This feeling of helplessness tastes bitter on his tongue, is more painful than any physical
sensation tearing through his body.

What if his memories never come back?

The thought makes him stumble, his body over-correcting forward and tipping him off-
balance too far for him to recover from, threatening a tumble face-first onto the pavement. A
surge of warmth bursts under his skin and suddenly he is weightless, tilting back to a proper
standing position before dropping a scant inch to stand on his feet again.

Eyes wide, he looks at Dazai, who doesn’t seem even mildly surprised at what just happened.
“What was that?”

“Your ability.”

“Ability?”

Dazai nods. “It’s a supernatural power that some people are born with. Your ability is gravity
manipulation.”

Something in Dazai’s tone gives him the impression that there is more to the story, but he
doesn’t know if it’s something he even wants to hear about right now, not when he’s slowly
feeling overwhelmed by everything happening. Brushing the moment aside, for now, he asks,
“Do you have an ability?”

“Yes, my ability nullifies other abilities.”

He frowns. Unlike how his own ability just saved him from eating pavement, Dazai’s doesn’t
sound like it would be useful in too many contexts. “Is that particularly helpful?”

“It can be, depending on the circumstance,” Dazai replies, voice airy. Before he can ask a
follow-up question, Dazai turns away from the sidewalk, pulling a set of keys from his
pocket. “Here we are.”

A key is pushed into the lock and the door pushed open. Dazai ushers him inside, closing and
locking the door behind them before flicking on a light. Instinctively, he toes off his shoes,
leaving them by the entrance as he stares into the flat that he assumes Dazai lives in.
He assumes Dazai lives here and that it isn’t just a generic safe house, but there wasn’t much
to back up that belief. The place looks more like a rental than anywhere someone had set
down roots and, as Dazai moves further inside, flicking on lights, he briefly wonders how
many people Dazai even lets into this space, much less how much time Dazai spends here.

Above it all, he is struck with the sensation that the apartment is impersonal because its
owner doesn’t have plans to be around for long and the feeling makes him stare at Dazai
anew, wondering just what the other man is like when there isn’t the pressing issue of
someone having amnesia to deal with. For some reason, he gets the sense that the answer
would make him feel sad, and he doesn’t quite know what to make of that.

“I assume you want a shower,” Dazai was saying as if oblivious to the way he is being
studied, which feels doubtful considering how observant Dazai has already proved to be.

“I guess a shower would be nice,” he replies, venturing further inside.

Dazai nods and motions him to follow through the main room, past the small kitchen, and
into the bathroom. Making quick work of getting the water running, Dazai explains where a
few helpful items can be found while pulling out towels. “I’ll leave a fresh set of clothes for
you just outside the door. Take your time.”

Before the taller man can leave, he reaches out, his fingers closing around thin wrists. Briefly
distracted, he looks down to take note of the fact that more bandages rest under his grip,
peeking from underneath the sleeve of the trench coat Dazai has yet to take off.

“Something wrong?” Dazai prompts, bringing him back to the matter at hand.

“Why are you doing this for me?” he asks, looking up to meet Dazai’s gaze.

Dazai’s head tilts slightly, “Isn’t it natural to help someone you know when they need help?”

“I don’t know if it’s natural for you. Obviously, it wasn’t natural for me to ask you for help
because you sounded surprised over the phone. You dropped whatever you were doing to
come find me, but I could have been pretending, or luring you into a trip, or-”

“Chuuya,” Dazai cuts him off, voice not unkind as a flicker of amusement shows in brown
eyes, “trust me when I say that I know you well enough to have known if you were lying.”

“How can you know me if I don’t even know myself?” he mutters.

Dazai gives a hum and, somehow, he knows that whatever is going to come out of the taller
man’s mouth next is going to be a deflection. “Easy! I’ve always known more than you
anyway, it’s a miracle you’re able to get anything done on your own.”

Rolling his eyes, he lets go of Dazai. “You’re not going to be able to avoid this conversation
forever. I want to know who you are to me, sooner rather than later.”

“I told you, I’m your partner.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Something flashes across Dazai’s expression, there and gone, too complex for him to pick
apart before it vanishes with a shrug of Dazai’s shoulders. “Suit yourself. I’ve got to go let
Hirotsu know you’re safe before the mafia levels the city to find you. Don’t drown in the
bathtub!”

Dazai is gone before he can even think of two words to string together in response. Glaring at
the closed door that the other man vanished through, he lets out a huff of exasperation. There
is something familiar about the resigned annoyance seeping through his body at Dazai’s
antics, but even if the way Dazai seems determined to avoid his questions is a bit irritating,
it’s also a relief not to be treated like he’s going to break at any second.

Turning his back on the door, he comes to a halt in front of the mirror, eyes widening as he
stares at a stranger.

Slowly, he reaches a hand up, watching as the man in the mirror does the same, to tug on red
locks. He feels the tug in his scalp and lets go, running fingers through his hair to pull it away
from his face, baring bright blue eyes.

In the mayhem of his night, he hadn’t even stopped to consider the fact that he had no idea
what he looked like. Through the scratches and bruises, he looks…younger than he would
have anticipated based on what Tachihara had said. He can’t be any older than twenty-five
and yet he is an executive in a mafia? In charge of a massive operation just tonight and likely
countless over the last year? That must speak to his usefulness to the organization and he
wonders if having to step back from commanding the operation will reflect poorly on him
from now on. He can’t decide if that would bother him even if he suspects that it should.

His clothes are beyond repair. Muddied and bloodied and torn in various places, but
underneath the dirt, he can tell that they’re of rather high quality. Was he paid in the Port
Mafia? He must be, to afford clothing like this. Reaching up, he taps at the choker around his
neck, frowning thoughtfully, it is a bit of an odd fashion choice, he wonders if it was
something he wore often.

This was what Nakahara Chuuya looked like.

He wonders how long it will take for that name to resonate with him, if it ever would again.

“I’m sure the boss would prefer it if Chuuya was under mafia protection,” Hirotsu’s voice
filters through the phone, sounding every bit as exhausted as Dazai feels.

Letting out a snort of derision, Dazai replies, “Chuuya will be more than safe with me and he
was the one who made the decision to come with me. I won’t be handing him over to the
mafia while he’s in this state.”

There is a slight pause. “How bad is it?”

Part of Dazai wants to lie, to downplay how complete Chuuya’s amnesia is for the sake of
putting the mafia at ease long enough for him to come up with a solid plan. He only
entertains the idea for a moment before recognizing the truth is the best option, and the best
way to keep Chuuya out of Mori’s grasp until he can fend for himself against the mafia boss
again. Dazai knows what Mori will do, knows Mori might take this as an opportunity to
‘perfect’ Chuuya as a subordinate, reshape him into someone even more loyal and devoted
than Chuuya already is.

Dazai will be damned if he lets that happen.

“He has retrograde amnesia,” Dazai says, “he doesn’t remember anything that happened
before he spoke to Tachihara. He doesn’t remember his name, his job, he didn’t even know
about his own ability, which means he also doesn’t know how to control it properly.
Everyone is safer if he stays with me in case he accidentally triggers Corruption.”

Hirotsu takes in a sharp breath, “Do you think he’ll recover?”

“I don’t know. I’ll take him to the agency’s doctor to see what she says. Is there any
information on how this happened?”

“According to the reports I’ve heard so far, he did take a hard fall and was unconscious in the
resulting crater for a few minutes.”

“Chuuya takes hard falls all the time,” Dazai says, dismissively, “what are the chances of it
being an ability user?”

“So far, I haven’t received any information that indicates there was another ability user
present but we’re still handling clean up. I’ll see if I can find any evidence to the contrary and
keep you informed.” The line cuts and Dazai is left to sigh into the receiver before shoving
his phone back in his pocket.

That will buy him a week, at most, before the mafia members start getting antsy. It might not
even buy him that long when it comes to Kouyou, but she is someone Dazai can handle. The
most important factor is how long he has before Mori decides to take his chances on Chuuya
losing control of Corruption.

Dazai can’t shake the feeling that this isn’t going to be a problem with an easy solution.

The door to the bathroom opens and Chuuya steps out into the hall, eyes lighting on Dazai
immediately. Since Dazai doesn’t own any clothes meant for short stacks, Chuuya looks
comically underdressed compared to his normal attire. A plain shirt goes almost to his knees,
almost covering the gym shorts underneath (and Dazai can’t even remember why he owns
either article of clothing but he’s more than pleased with the results as he takes in Chuuya’s
appearance).
“Do you have anything to eat?” Chuuya asks, tearing Dazai away from his survey of the
shorter man to frown thoughtfully.

“No.”

Chuuya mirrors his frown, “Isn’t this your place?”

“Yes.”

“Then why don’t you have any food?” Chuuya sounds bewildered, and it’s just one more
example of the fact that Chuuya doesn’t know him at all, doesn’t remember anything about
Dazai (because if he did remember, he wouldn’t be even mildly surprised that Dazai’s
apartment is lacking in basic necessities).

With a shrug, Dazai turns away, steps into his kitchen, and opens a drawer filled with take-
out menus. “I’ll order take-out. How hungry are you?”

“I’m starving,” Chuuya pauses, scrutinizing Dazai in a way that means he’s debating if he
wants to hear whatever response Dazai will give to his next comment. After a few seconds,
he says, “I suppose you know what kind of food I like? I don’t.”

Dazai opens his mouth to say “of course, I know” and hesitates, frown returning. He knows
what foods Chuuya hates because that has always been of much more interest to him for the
sake of pissing the shorter man off. When they were partners in the Port Mafia, the few times
they ate together were in the middle of jobs, which meant Chuuya ate whatever was
available. And while, over the recent weeks, they have been getting to relearn each other, to
stumble haphazardly into something bearing a mocking resemblance to the beginnings of a
relationship, they haven’t exactly been spending the majority of their time at the dinner table.

Finally, he replies, “I can avoid the foods that I know you don’t like, someone else would
have to reintroduce you to your favorites.”

“Why do I get the sense that our relationship is much more antagonistic than you’ve been
treating me?”

Internally, Dazai answers the question immediately, it doesn’t take a second of thought. It’s
because, contrary to what Dazai says whenever asked, Chuuya isn’t an idiot. He’s perceptive,
able to read people extremely well and, apparently, that skill didn’t get lost with his
memories.

Out loud, Dazai responds, “Earlier you said you trusted me with your life, why would our
relationship be antagonistic?”

“It probably has something to do with the fact that you like withholding information and
lording it over people and prefer to be evasive instead of having an actual conversation.”

Dazai blinks.

Chuuya quirks an eyebrow, as if daring Dazai to claim his statement is wrong. Everything
about him, from his facial expression to the set of his body, makes it clear that Chuuya is
completely confident in his observation in a way that he hasn’t been since Dazai found him at
the ports. It’s a good lesson, Dazai supposes: Chuuya may be amnesic, but he isn’t that much
less Chuuya than he ever has been.

That bodes well. Even if his memories never come back he should be able to handle himself
just fine.

Not bothering to hide his pleased smile over the discovery—aware that Chuuya will draw the
wrong conclusion from his expression and get irritated with him—Dazai merely shrugs, and
picks out a take-out menu, scanning the options as he dials the listed number. “Whatever
Chuuya believes is fine with me.”

If Chuuya has a response, Dazai doesn’t pay it any attention as the worker on the other end of
the phone answers and starts taking his order. When he’s finished, and the menu is stored
back in its place, Dazai finds that Chuuya has migrated to stand in front of the half-empty
bookcase and bites back a smirk. Unless Chuuya’s tastes have changed with his memory loss,
there isn’t a single novel on his shelves that Chuuya will enjoy, but he decides to let Chuuya
figure that out for himself as he heads for the door.

“Do me a favor and don’t vanish before I come back, Chuuya,” Dazai calls over his shoulder.

“Just don’t take forever,” Chuuya calls after him.

With a huff of laughter, Dazai steps back out into the night.

Brushing his fingers over the nearly perfect spines of the books on Dazai’s bookshelf, he
reads the titles with vague interest. There is plenty of open space on Dazai’s bookshelf, as if
Dazai had planned to fill it all with novels and got distracted halfway, moving onto another
endeavor. Because there is no sign of wear on the books, he doubts they will provide as much
insight about the strange man as he had originally hoped, but he keeps skimming titles.

At least he remembers how to read.

Does that apply to everything he once knew how to do? If he had known how to fly a plane
(and why he would know that he can’t fathom but he’s heard a lot of weird things today) did
he still know how to fly a plane? Would he even know he knew how to fly a plane until he
was thrust into a situation where it was necessary?

Perhaps he should ask Dazai about his skill set as soon as possible. Knowing what he can and
can’t do will be important, in fact, it’s a basic tenant of survival. He can’t afford to
overextend himself, but he also doesn’t want to be a burden when he has the ability to hold
his own weight.
He must be able to fight. Other than the obvious fact that he had lost his memories in the
middle of a fight, he had been wearing nearly a dozen daggers, which was quite the surprise
to find as he got undressed to take his shower. Their weight had been comfortable in his
hands, it had been second-nature to find the buckles for the sheaths; his body’s familiarity
with the blades must mean that he can fight.

And not just fight, but he must have had to be fairly decent in a fight to become a mafia
executive in the first place.

His ability is another matter altogether. The quick spurt of warmth he had felt when it
activated subconsciously was at once comforting and horrifying. Did it have limits? Would
he wake up in the middle of the night to find himself floating in mid-air? Could he mean to
take a normal step and sink his foot through the floor panels?

Lips turned down in a frown, he wonders if he’ll need training for his ability or if he just
remembers how to use it.

While he has no real idea what his life was like before this happened, he knows it had to be
easier. Any life is easier than not knowing anything about yourself.

His fingers brush against a spine that is worn and he pauses, blinking himself out of his own
thoughts so that the bookshelf comes back into focus. The softer sensation of a binding
regularly opened is a first so far and, curious about the one book out of the dozens that Dazai
actually reads, he pulls it off the shelf. It’s thinner than most of the other books, the cover red
with white markings. Meandering away from the shelf, he settles on the couch and opens the
front cover.

The word ‘suicide’ jumps up at him, and his eyebrows draw down.

Perhaps it was some sort of fictional novel?

That theory is quickly thrown out the window as he begins flicking through the pages of the
short book, reading increasingly complex ways for one to kill themselves. And he could have
tried to dismiss it as a joke book, something Dazai used for the sole purpose of scaring the
unsuspected snooper if it weren’t for the fact that there is too much evidence of Dazai
actually taking the words of the book to heart.

Pages are wrinkled in the corners, as if Dazai had dog-eared them for reference and tried to
flatten them at a later date. Notes are scratched in the margins in pencil, theorizing ways to
improve the methods depicted or writing…

“What the fuck, Dazai,” he mutters under his breath as he considers the damned reviews.

Next to a self-drawn diagram of an oil drum and a person settled inside, legs and head up
sticking out above the rim, is a note that he somehow knows is Dazai’s handwriting: Too
painful, didn’t last long before asking Atsushi-kun for help. Turns out it was a torture method,
not suicide.
The section on ways to drown oneself is heavily edited, detailing at least twelve different
failed attempts with varying techniques, all with their own notes about what made them
unsuccessful, as if Dazai was trying to perfect his drowning method before actually dying.

At the very least, the chapter detailing more violent deaths like a gun to the skull or jumping
in front of a car is less annotated, as if Dazai skipped it altogether.

But still, how often did Dazai read this book? How seriously did Dazai take these words?

Was Dazai even coming back with food or would he have to go out to find Dazai only to find
a bandaged body dangling from a light-post halfway between here and whatever restaurant
Dazai went to?

Just the thought makes his chest heart, his heart seemingly twisting in knots at the mental
picture, and he wants to get up and chase after Dazai, supervise the apparent idiot, but he
doesn’t know his way around this city, doesn’t even know what city it is.

How the fuck is he supposed to trust someone who might not even be here tomorrow? And
why does the thought of waking up to the news of Dazai’s death bother him so much when he
didn’t even know who the man was just an hour ago, when he doesn’t even remember who
they are to each other outside of Dazai’s vague response of ‘partners’?

The front door opens and he feels his breath catch in his throat, freezing in his seat as he
waits to hear who it is.

“Chuuya didn’t vanish, did he?” Dazai’s voice floats in from the entryway, accompanied with
the sound of socked feet padding on the floor.

He’s on his feet before he even realizes he has moved, whirling to face the small hall that
opens to the main room and hurling the book at Dazai’s head the moment it comes into view.
His aim is surprisingly good, the book would have hit Dazai right in the forehead if Dazai
didn’t immediately duck out of the way with the speed of someone with far too much
practice.

A single eyebrow raises in his direction, Dazai’s eyes narrowing as they scan his face
(probably wondering if he remembered something). “Did I do something while I was gone?
It’s rare for me not to know how I upset you.”

He doesn’t reply, jaw tight as he glares at Dazai. The truth—that he had panicked at the
thought of one of Dazai’s apparently numerous suicide attempts working—sounds childish
even in his head. There must be something in his face that Dazai can read because the other
man calmly walks further into the room, drops the food on the counter, and walks back to
pick up the book on the ground.

Even with only Dazai’s profile facing him, he can see understanding flicker across Dazai’s
face before Dazai turns back to him, expression carefully neutral. “I believe you mentioned
something about being starving. The food will get cold if you stand there glaring at me all
night.”
“Tell me it’s a joke,” he says, ignoring Dazai’s comment about the food.

“Would you believe me if I did?” Dazai asks, voice light as if they aren’t talking about the
fact that he just found a fucking book filled with suicidal ideations on Dazai’s shelf.

“I don’t know anything about you, I might believe it.”

Dazai hums thoughtfully, “I don’t think that’s true. You know plenty about me, you just don’t
remember it all. You must remember some things though, even if you don’t understand the
details, because you already know that I would be lying if I said it is a joke.”

He thinks he’s going to be sick.

“Would you feel better if I swore to put a hold on my pursuit for death until either your
memories return or you’re settled somewhere?” Dazai asks.

“How would I know you weren’t just bluffing to make me less jumpy?”

That pulls a dry laugh from Dazai, “Jumpy isn’t a word I’d use to describe you, not even
now. Do you want me to make the promise or not? It won’t bother me if you say no.”

Breaking eye contact, he glances to the side, at the bookshelf that had seemed so innocuous
when he went to explore it. It would make him feel better if Dazai made the mentioned
promise, would make the current paranoia at suddenly losing the one person he has felt
immediately comfortable around vanish, would take the assumption of safety he found in
Dazai’s presence and make it into somewhat of a reality. But admitting that makes his mouth
go dry, as if such honesty is foreign (and he wonders if it’s being honest with his emotions or
being honest with his emotions to Dazai that makes him feel so uncomfortable).

He lost his memories. No one seems to know why or how or if he’ll get them back.

Who would really judge him for this moment of weakness after the day he has had?

Still refusing to look at Dazai, he nods. “Promise me, then.”

“I promise. If I die before you get your memories back or you are settled down somewhere it
will be because someone killed me, probably you, at this rate. Now, are you going to eat?”

It’s infuriating that Dazai thinks they can just gloss over this with a few flowery words and
the promise of food, but he feels his stomach rumble and the is still exhaustion creeping
throughout his body. Even if he wants to drag this out, ask what it is about living that Dazai
seems to hate so much, ask how long Dazai he has been like this, ask if he has always known
about Dazai’s…inclinations, he doubts he’ll get actual answers, not from Dazai.

With a curt nod, he crosses the room to the kitchen counter and starts pulling out take-out
containers, tersely asking, “Do you have plates or are you completely hopeless?”

“No need, I’m not eating,” Dazai replies, stepping behind him and heading toward the only
room he hasn’t been in yet (what he assumes is the bedroom). “I’ll set out a futon for you.”
He turns to berate Dazai for not eating but the words die in his throat as he wonders why the
hell he cares and what is the point of getting attached to someone so determined to die.

Somewhere between when he stopped looking at Dazai and now, the book has vanished from
Dazai’s hands in some sort of sleight of hand that makes him doubt he’ll ever be able to
locate it again.

Stifling a sigh, he mutters a word of acknowledgment to Dazai’s statement and turns back to
the food.

The next day he wakes up to incessant pounding on the front door and he groans, bringing an
arm to cover his face while he fervently wishes whoever is at the door will go away. Instead
of heeding his wish, the knocking gets louder, accompanied with some muffled threats that
sound like they are meant for Dazai.

Swearing under his breath, he turns his head to the left, where Dazai’s futon is laid out and
where Dazai (the bastard) is sleeping soundly through the noise. He considers kicking Dazai
awake and making the taller man answer the damn door before he pauses, thinking it through
a little more. If whoever is at the door knows Dazai, it’s possible they know him too, and
might even know how he and Dazai are connected, might provide answers to the questions
Dazai refuses to take seriously.

Sitting up, he moves quietly (not that he thinks Dazai is likely to wake up now after sleeping
through everything else), slipping out from underneath the blanket he had used the previous
night and ignoring the residual aches of his body.

Once out of the bedroom, the knocking is distinctively louder, as are the threats, and they are
definitely aimed at Dazai. They’re creative too, he muses as he strides toward the door,
pausing to pick up one of the dozens of daggers that he had set out on the kitchen counter
after pulling them from their various hiding places in his clothes yesterday. The blade’s
weight is reassuring in his hand and he tosses it idly, catching it with ease; if, for whatever
reason, the person on the other side of the door attacks him he thinks he’ll be able to handle
his own just fine.

Unlocking the door, he swings it open and blinks up at a man with blond hair tied back in a
ponytail and a fierce glare behind glasses, hand raised to knock again. Standing behind the
angry man is another one who looks younger, white hair sporting an asymmetrical cut and
face wearing a rueful expression.
“Can I help you?” he asks, eyes flicking back to the angry man who is now frowning at him.

“What are you doing here, Nakahara?”

It isn’t a question asked in a particularly friendly tone, if anything, there is an edge of

hostility that is fascinating. This man knows who he is, is the first person to address him by
the family name Tachihara had mentioned, and the two of them are clearly not on great terms.

“I could ask you the same thing,” he replies, not wanting to reveal his predicament to
someone who might be an enemy.

“Dazai was supposed to be at work three hours ago,” the man says, looking behind him into
the apartment, “I’m assuming that if you killed him you wouldn’t have answered the door.”

“Why would I kill him?” he asks, voice bored even though he is all but desperate to hear the
answer, to get some clue about his dynamic with the strange man still asleep in the bedroom.

The man quirks an eyebrow, “You only threaten to every time you two have to work together.
Look, I don’t have time for small talk. Is Dazai here or not?”

“Kunikida-kun,” a sing-song sounds behind him, answering the man’s question in a way that
has a forehead vein bulging above the man’s glasses, “what a pleasant surprise.” He feels a
presence at his back and steps to the side so Dazai can draw level with him and lean forward,
grinning from ear-to-ear and fully dressed. “Ah, and Atsushi-kun, usually I have to miss a
couple of days of work to get a joint visit from you two.”

“You shouldn’t be missing any work, you lazy ass,” the man who Dazai had called Kunikida
snaps.

“The president said he wants to talk to you, Dazai-san,” the new voice comes from the
younger man, Atsushi, who had previously been watching Kunikida and him interact with
mild concern.

Dazai’s smile doesn’t falter but, standing in such close proximity, he can feel the lanky body
tense for a split-second before relaxing again, “Did he happen to say why?”

“Does your boss need a reason to speak to you?” Kunikida cuts in.

“No, but I might need a reason to hurry when I have such wonderful company.”

Two pairs of eyes flick to him, Kunikida scowling and Atsushi blushing slightly, before
turning back to Dazai. It is Kunikida who relents with a sigh, “He had a visitor when I came
in this morning and has been in locked in his office since, he didn’t say who is there or what
it was about but…” Kunikida trails off, looking down at him meaningfully, seeming to imply
that the odd behavior of Dazai’s boss has something to do with his presence at Dazai’s
apartment.

Dazai hums thoughtfully, seeming to consider whether or not responding to the summons is
worth the time. And he has no idea what Dazai does for a living (hadn’t thought to ask about
it yesterday), but he can’t imagine someone being able to get away with missing work for
days on end or not responding to a summons from their superior. Just the idea makes him
exasperated.

Eventually, Dazai says, “I suppose it can’t be helped. Chuuya and I will be in within the
hour.”

“What do you mean ‘Chuuya and I’?” Kunikida asks, “The president didn’t say anything
about letting a mafia member stroll into the office with you.”

“We are in the middle of a truce,” Dazai replies.

“That doesn’t mean you can just-”

“See you later, Kunikida-kun!” Dazai cuts across Kunikida as a hand closes around his arm
and yanks him backward, out of the way of the door that Dazai slams shut in the other man’s
face.

Kunikida shouts a few more threats through the door, which Dazai chuckles at but doesn’t
reply to, moving further into the flat.

“Why am I coming with you?” he asks Dazai after the shouts die down and it seems like
Kunikida and Atsushi have left.

“I was planning to bring you soon to see our doctor, might as well do it now,” comes the
absent-minded explanation.

“Are they good?”

Dazai grins again, but this time it isn’t the shit-eating expression used to antagonize
Kunikida. The grin doesn’t quite reach brown eyes and it has a sharp edge. “If what happened
to you has a medical reason, she’ll be able to reverse it.”

The prospect of being done with this, of finally remembering who he is and what he is meant
to be doing, is immediately energizing. “Well then give me something suitable to change into
and let’s go.”

“So eager to leave me, Chuuya?”

“If we’re really partners, why would me getting my memories back mean I was leaving
you?” he questions, raising an eyebrow in a challenge.

Dazai doesn’t look so much as ruffled by the question, “Considering that you’ll be able to
remember how to get to your own apartment, it seems obvious.”

They both know Dazai wasn’t referring to him moving back into his own place and they stare
at each other, his own eyes narrowed as he tries to pick apart the carefully innocent
expression on Dazai’s face that seems to have no cracks. After several long minutes, he lets
out a huff and breaks the staring contest, “Just give me something to wear, bastard.”
If Dazai had his way, he would have waited at least a day before bringing Chuuya to the
agency offices with him. No matter how well Chuuya was pretending to cope with it,
forgetting twenty-two years of life in an instant would be stressful for anyone. Dazai himself
isn’t sure how well he’d handle it if he were in Chuuya’s shoes.

Glancing at Chuuya out of the corner of his eye, Dazai takes in the neutral expression on the
man’s face, recognizing it easily as the one Chuuya wears when he doesn’t want to reveal his
concerns. It isn’t entirely successful, the stress is still evident on Chuuya’s face, slightly more
prominent than it had been the previous night, but Dazai can guess part of the reason behind
it.

Chuuya had a nightmare last night.

Dazai had woke up to the sound of Chuuya thrashing on his futon just a few feet away,
eyelids fluttering rapidly as aborted protests left his lips. Scrambling out from under his
blankets, he quickly shook Chuuya awake, pulling Chuuya so he was sitting upright and
holding him steady as the shorter man took in deep lungfuls of air.

They had sat that way for twenty minutes, Dazai keeping Chuuya steady and grounded,
Chuuya staring off into the distance, his face empty.

Chuuya had broken the silence first, muttering, “I suppose you also know whether or not it’s
regular for me to have nightmares like that.”

There were a lot of answers Dazai could have given. He could have said that the last time he
had witnessed Chuuya having a nightmare they had been sixteen, could have said that he had
known Chuuya didn’t stop having nightmares at sixteen but had just gotten better at having
them silently and hiding the evidence. He could have said that he didn’t know if Chuuya had
nightmares anymore, that this was the first time they had fallen asleep in the same room
together since Dazai had left the Port Mafia.

Instead, he had said, “No, I don’t.”

More silence had fallen after that, Chuuya’s face still pale, his breath still coming too quickly,
Dazai’s hands still gripping Chuuya’s shoulders because he didn’t want to let go and Chuuya
didn’t seem to mind.

Eventually, Chuuya’s eyes slid to meet Dazai’s, something wary in his gaze as he asked, “My
ability is gravity manipulation, right?”

Not sure why the question had come up, Dazai nodded, “Yes.”

“So, I can float in the air or make things heavy. I can’t…create blackholes or anything,
right?”
Dazai’s fingers had twitched against Chuuya’s shoulders and he finally let go. “Why do you
ask? Did something like that happen in your dream?”

“Does it matter? It’s my ability, I should know how it works.”

Shrugging, Dazai had replied, “Your ability is gravity manipulation, Chuuya.”

Technically, it wasn’t a lie, and Dazai can’t find it in himself to be remorseful for withholding
the truth. He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to find a way to return Chuuya’s memories before
the other man accidentally activates Corruption, but it has to be safer if Chuuya doesn’t know
there is something more to activate.

And his eyes had looked so haunted that Dazai knows the nightmare had been about
Corruption, that Chuuya must have been subconsciously remembering something about his
past. What harm was there in letting Chuuya live without the floating ax of Corruption
hovering above his neck for a few days?

As they walk to the agency, Dazai keeps careful track of their surroundings. He has no doubt
that Mori has people tailing them, probably as much to keep Chuuya safe as to make sure
Dazai doesn’t turn one of his most ‘loyal dogs’ to the light. It takes him three minutes to find
their tail and another two to decide to leave it alone—when it comes down to it he’ll be able
to shake this one easily.

For now, it’s more important to keep Mori comfortable than to have privacy.

When they arrive at the office, Dazai knows immediately that Kunikida prepared the others
for Chuuya’s arrive. It’s surprisingly considerate of him, Dazai makes a mental note to be
slightly less annoying for a couple of days as he motions Chuuya to a seat in the waiting area.

“I’ll talk to the president and then take you to see the doctor,” he explains as Chuuya settles
into a chair.

Blue eyes are scanning the office, Chuuya’s shoulders tensing just slightly as he murmurs,
“That truce you mentioned to Kunikida, how long has it been going on?”

“Not long enough for them to be comfortable with you being here,” Dazai answers honestly
with a shrug, “I won’t take long, don’t miss me too much!” With a wink, he is gone before
Chuuya can ask more questions, crossing the room to knock on the president’s door and slip
inside.

Immediately, Dazai wants to turn around and walk out.

“Good afternoon, Dazai-kun,” Mori says with a smile that is meant to be placating but that
falls far short of putting Dazai at ease.

Ignoring the greeting, Dazai shifts his gaze to Fukuzawa, who is seated on the couch opposite
the mafia boss. “I didn’t think Chuuya’s condition would be treated this seriously right
away.”
“For anyone else, it might not be, but Nakahara’s ability does complicate things,” Fukuzawa
replies. “Mori-sensei came to speak to me about it personally and with our current ceasefire it
has been decided we will put people from both organizations on the case.”

“Chuuya hasn’t been evaluated by a medical professional yet. It’s possible that there isn’t a
case.”

Mori chuckles, “If you really believed that you would have taken him to the agency doctor as
soon as you found him. He was that much closer to death last night than he is today, dear
Yosano’s job would have been much easier.

Turning his attention (reluctantly) back to the mafia boss, he says, “I was under the
impression that there was no evidence of an ability user at Chuuya’s last operation. It has to
be one or the other.”

Reaching into his jacket, Mori produces a folded piece of paper, the smile still playing around
his mouth though with an edge of bemusement, “At the time you spoke with Hirotsu there
was no evidence of an ability user involved. We now have reason to believe otherwise.”

“And the price of the mafia’s willingness to share this information?” Dazai prompts.

“I am sure I don’t need to emphasize Chuuya’s importance to the Port Mafia,” Mori muses, “I
am quite invested in making sure he has a quick and full recovery. If that doesn’t happen in
your company within three weeks, we will take over completely.”

Dazai opens his mouth to say in polite but no uncertain terms that he’ll hand an amnesic
Chuuya over to Mori’s custody over his dead body. However, Fukuzawa speaks first,
preventing him from showing any more of his hand to Mori than he already has.

“I have already told Mori-sensei that the agency will comply with those terms,” the president
says.

Not the response he would prefer, but with both bosses in agreement, Dazai merely inclines
his head in deference to the statement. Stepping further into the office, he accepts the folded
document from Mori, meeting red eyes and reading the unspoken threat in them. Trying to
work around the terms of the agreement will end poorly for Chuuya, Dazai doesn’t have a
single doubt about that, and he doesn’t let anything show on his face than polite disinterest in
everything that Mori’s gaze implies as he pockets the paper without looking at its contents.

“With such a tight deadline, I would like to get to work. Is there anything else, president?”

Fukuzawa shakes his head, “Keep me updated, Dazai.”

With a nod of acknowledgment, Dazai slips back out of the office, closing the door firmly
behind him to prevent curious blue eyes from seeing (or catching the attention of) the mafia
boss behind him.
It turns out Dazai is a detective.

Somehow, it’s baffling and completely unsurprising at the same time. Even though he has
spent less than twenty-four hours with Dazai, it didn’t take long at all to realize that Dazai is
brilliant, mind running a mile a second at all times. It would make sense that such a degree of
intelligence would be right at home with detective work.

Except the Armed Detective Agency feels like more than a detective office. After all, he’s
quite curious to learn where the ‘Armed’ part of the name comes into play, especially since
he doesn’t see any weapons.

While Dazai is in the closed-door meeting with the agency president, he studies the others in
the room.

There are eight people in the office. While they all seem aware of his presence, almost no one
is paying him attention.

Almost no one.

His eyes flick to meet blue, the youngest person the room holds his stare for a split-second
before dropping her attention back to her work. He vaguely wonders why the Armed
Detective Agency is employing children, wonders why she alone studies him so closely, as if
she has some investment in his presence here.

The door to the side office opens, pulling his attention away from the girl to meet Dazai’s
gaze as Dazai steps out of the office and closes the door before he can even catch a glimpse
of who the president’s mysterious visitor is. Dazai waves a hand in a silent command that he
follows, getting up from the seat and crossing the room to meet Dazai in front of the door to
another corridor.

Once up close, he frowns. “Is something wrong?”

Dazai quirks an eyebrow, “What makes you say that?”

“You look upset,” he replies with a shrug.

“I look the same way I did when I walked into the office.”

He studies Dazai’s face again, the statement isn’t entirely true. While the serene look that
Dazai had been wearing is still there, something about it just feels inauthentic. He can’t put
his finger on what it is or how he even knows, but he knows he is right.

Dazai has said more than once that no one knows him better than Dazai does…perhaps the
reverse is also true.

Aware that he won’t get an answer out of Dazai, he shrugs again, “Where is the doctor?”
Dazai leads the way down the hallway, knocking on the frame of an open door before
stepping inside. “A patient for you, sensei.”

“I haven’t heard of anyone going out on a job,” a woman replies, back turned to the door,
“how did someone…?” she trails off as she turns around to meet his gaze. Unlike most of the
others in the main office (everyone save the girl, really), something about her feels familiar.
Quirking an eyebrow, she says, “He looks less injured than last time.”

Last time? Why would he be visiting an agency doctor if he was in the Port Mafia? Wouldn’t
the mafia have physicians of their own?

“It’s a bit of a special case,” Dazai says, explaining the situation as the doctor ushers him
inside and to a seat next to a workstation.

As Dazai talks, the woman starts evaluating him, shining lights in his eyes, testing his vitals,
humming thoughtfully to herself as she quickly scratches down notes. When Dazai stops
speaking, she straightens, frowning at Dazai, “You said he fell hard? Was it from a higher
height than he has endured before? He didn’t use his ability to soften the landing?”

“Nothing seemed notable to the people who were there with him.”

“For a normal person, the types of falls he takes regularly would have caused problems long
before this, I find it hard to believe just the one event is responsible,” the doctor muses. Her
next statement is directed down at him, “Do you remember anything about before you woke
up?”

He shakes his head.

“Not even your name?”

“No. I’ve been told it’s Chuuya.”

“It is Chuuya,” Dazai says.

He shrugs, “The name doesn’t mean anything to me.”

The doctor half-turns so she can look at Dazai. “I can’t say with certainty whether it is
completely medical or not. We can always go ahead and treat him, I’m sure with Nakahara’s
history there are plenty of old wounds that have been healed incorrectly for me to handle
even if the amnesia isn’t caused by his fall yesterday. Not sure how he’ll handle the process if
he doesn’t remember how my ability works.”

“You’re an ability user?” he asks.

She glances at him with a nod, “Almost everyone here is. I’m assuming Dazai didn’t give
you much information?”

“He didn’t even tell me your name,” he says.

With an exasperated look in Dazai’s direction, she gives him a small smile. “I’m Yosano, I
suppose I should say that it’s nice to meet you again, Nakahara.”

Echoing the slightly odd sentiment, he continues, “Dazai did say that you would be able to
reverse my memory loss if it was medical, that has to do with your ability?”

“I can heal any wound,” she explains. He thinks that sounds much more useful than
nullification, “but my patient has to be half-dead for it to work.”

He isn’t fond of the direction this seems to be going. “Since I’m not half-dead…”

“I would have to torture you until you are,” The inclusion of the words ‘have to’ in Yosano’s
sentence makes it sound like a burden but there’s a sadistic edge to her tone that makes him
think she is more than willing to handle that step whenever the situation calls for it.

Thinking it over, he points out, “But no one seems to think my amnesia was actually caused
by however I fell. What else could have caused it?”

“An ability user,” Dazai replies.

“Can’t you just nullify it then?” he asks.

“I’d need to get my hands on the ability user to do that.”

He rolls his eyes. If someone has an ability less useful than Dazai’s he’d be surprised to learn
that. It’s probably a miracle the bandaged bastard is still alive considering how stick thin
Dazai is and how obnoxious Dazai can apparently be.

“Which one do you think it is, Dazai?”

Dazai hesitates before admitting, “An ability user makes more sense.”

“Then I’d rather exhaust that route before letting her torture me half-to-death,” glancing at
the doctor, he adds, “not to be disrespectful, Yosano-sensei.”

She flashes him a predator’s grin, “Don’t worry about my feelings, Nakahara, someone
always gets injured eventually. Come find me if you change your mind.”

They don’t make their escape from the infirmary as quickly as he would have liked. As much
as he doesn’t doubt that Yosano is great at her job, something about her makes him nervous
(probably the part of her that seems very excited to bring him to death’s door in order to heal
him).

When they make their way back to the main office, Dazai makes an off-hand comment about
people already looking into the leads they have on a possible ability user and says there isn’t
anything to worry about right now. Then, Dazai is dragged by the collar of the trench coat to
an empty desk by Kunikida, who smacks the bastard around the back of the head with a
notebook and states that Dazai can’t just skip work whenever the mood hits.
Stifling a sigh, he returns to his seat in the waiting area and stares out the window, wondering
just how long it will take to make progress in the search for the ability user. Wondering if any
of his memories will come back in the interim.

He sits, lost in his thoughts, for the better part of four hours until Dazai finishes working and
herds Chuuya out of the offices and back to the apartment.

It becomes a routine. Waking up, making a cup of coffee, dragging Dazai’s lazy ass out of
bed, and walking to the Armed Detective Agency’s office. There, while Dazai occasionally
works (or more commonly lazes around), he researches. While the agency has files on the
Port Mafia they don’t seem to want a not-quite-enemy to read through them, which leaves
him no other options than to gather information through interactions with the other agency
members.

He starts with Yosano-sensei since her workspace is set apart from everyone else. From her,
he doesn’t get a whole lot of information. He gets the sense that she respects him as a
potential threat, but that’s about it.

“Even with the truce, you and I never have reason to work together,” Yosano says as she
scratches notes on a pad, “your job is generally to kill as many people as possible while mine
is usually to keep as many alive as possible.”

Shifting slightly in his seat at that picture, and at the ice in Yosano’s tone as she talks about
his evidently high body-count, he replies, “I can see why we wouldn’t have much overlap.”

She nods, squints at something on the laptop screen in front of her, and takes another note.
“Not that I can’t hold my own in a fight, but I’ve been given the impression that you are
usually sent in as a team of one. The only time you ever seem to be sent to a job with
someone from the agency is when you’re sent in with Dazai.”

“Kunikida mentioned that Dazai and I get paired together for work reasons, but no one has
explained why.”

“Because together the pair of you could level a government in a day,” Yosano mutters, as if
not really paying attention to her words. Silence falls between them and she seems to realize
what she said, finally looking over at him. “If you want more information, talk to Dazai. All I
really know about you is that you’re dangerous.”

For some reason, he doesn’t quite believe that statement but he lets it slide, nodding and
murmuring a few words of thanks before leaving the infirmary.
If that is all Yosano knows about him, it doesn’t explain why she felt more familiar to him
than the others in the agency, why he keeps having unnervingly clear nightmares that
sometimes end with him laying on her infirmary table half-dead.

Regardless, pestering the doctor on the matter won’t get him anywhere. He moves on.

From Kenji, he gets plenty of chatter, though nothing he would really call information. He
listens as the boy, with almost visible stars in gold eyes, describes the first time they met and
how he had hung from the ceiling without his hat dropping off. Kenji glosses over why they
had been fighting to sing his praises for several minutes. It’s entertaining and gives him a bit
of an ego boost, but it isn’t all that helpful.

Naomi shortly informs him that the reason he had fought Kenji (and evidently Yosano) was
so that he could help the mafia use her and the other clerk as bait. He doesn’t press much
further on that and opts not to talk to her older brother for the sake of keeping the peace in the
small office.

It is a little tricky to get anything out of Ranpo. The odd man seems to find his presence
completely boring, or at least less interesting than the numerous sweets that pile high on the
desk at the back of the office. Ranpo informs him that who he was, ultimately, means nothing
since the world would only truly be missing out on anything if Ranpo were the one with
amnesia.

“After all,” Ranpo says, not even deigning to look up at him, “you really could rebuild your
life however you feel like it and it would be of no consequence to the rest of the world. The
mafia boss would find someone to replace you; losing your ability might be a bit of a blow at
first but they would adapt. In the grand scheme of things, you’re just not that important.”

Fists clenching into the material of his jeans, he reminds himself that decking Ranpo across
the face would be a bad idea, that the people around him are already on edge about his
presence without him resorting to violence.

Ranpo continues, seemingly oblivious to his growing anger, “Now, if I lost my memories it
could be potentially catastrophic. I wouldn’t lose my ability so I could still solve cases, but
you’re living evidence that the loss of memories does seem to impact the usefulness of an
ability. You probably don’t even remember the extent of your strength-”

He turns on his heel and walks away, teeth gritting as Ranpo continues to ramble to thin air.

Out of all the conversations he has had, he thinks that one might have been the biggest waste
of his time. However, he is a little amazed he found someone who gets on his nerves easier
than Dazai does.

After the way their initial interaction had gone at Dazai’s place, he skips over talking to
Kunikida. He gets the impression that Kunikida barely knew him at all and had no interest in
getting to know him. Although he is intrigued by the idea of Kunikida being partners with the
man who has claimed over and over again to be his partner, he doesn’t think pressing the
issue with Kunikida will do any good.
He hesitates when it comes to talking with Kyouka. For some reason, she still takes to
watching him closely while he’s inside the agency’s office, as if searching for any sign that
his memories have returned. When he decides to speak with her, talking quietly as she files in
a side room, Kyouka reveals that she used to be a member of the Port Mafia. When she
explains that she was an assassin, his lips twist down into a frown, trying to reconcile his
place in an organization that used (still uses?) children as killers. While they had a few
interactions, she explained, their only real connection had been a shared mentor.

“Is that the woman called Kouyou?” he asks, remembering the name from a phone call he
overheard Dazai having a few days prior and his phone contacts.

Kyouka nods, something dark flickering across her face. “I’m never going back.”

“I don’t blame you,” he murmurs.

Her eyes widen, surprise etched on her face as she pauses in her work, staring at him for a
long moment before a small smile curls onto her lips. “That’s what you said the first time I
saw you after leaving the mafia, when I told you I was staying with the agency. You really
haven’t changed, Chuuya-san.”

Later, when Dazai is finished pretending to do work and they make their way back to Dazai’s
flat, he plays Kyouka’s words over in his head, repeating what she had said about him not
changing, about his reactions being the same as Nakahara Chuuya.

He isn’t sure how he feels about that.

He is dying.

He has to be, there is no other explanation for the unspeakable agony tearing through his
veins, the sensation that fire has replaced his lifeblood and is eating him alive.

It feels as if there is something inside his body, controlling his limbs, deciding his movements
for him, that is far too massive for his skin to contain. It is pressing against his bones and
muscles, demanding more space, threatening to tear him apart, to rip him into shreds without
a care that it will be the end of his life.

It feels like he is captive in his own body, like it is no longer his own but that he offered it
over to some ancient being in exchange for unspeakable power. The very idea is absurd but it
is the only explanation that explains both his pain and the fact that he is holding a building in
his hands, lifting through dense fog to float in mid-air and stare at…at…

Is that a fucking dragon?

It is a dragon and he should feel more afraid than he does. He doesn’t know if the lack of
sheer terror is because his body isn’t his or if it is because he truly believes he can win this
fight.

(And who the hell picks a fight with a dragon? A dragon so massive that it seems to be
sprawled across the length of this city, the one that Dazai had informed him just the other day
is called Yokohama.)

The building swings in a giant arc, moving with the pull of not-quite-his arms to smash the
beast over the top of the head. And it goes down, crumpling underneath the force of the
attack with a deafening thud before following up with an even louder roar.

Great, he just made the dragon mad.

He is dreaming.

He has to be, there is no other explanation for why he is fighting a goddamn dragon when he
doesn’t remember how a dragon got here in the first place, let alone leaving Dazai’s
apartment and deciding to battle such a creature, let alone why he would want to do this at all.

Except…it doesn’t quite explain everything.

It doesn’t explain why everything is so vivid, so lifelike. Why the colors are so bright and the
continued battle is so precise. Why he feels the pain so clearly without it tugging him from
his sleep. Why an almost overwhelming sense of déjà vu has swamped him.

It’s almost like…

…almost like…

He wakes up with a gasp, jerking upright in his futon to stare blindly into the darkness.

His heartbeat is thundering in his ears, racing so rapidly he is almost concerned that it will
just give up and give out at any second. His breath is coming too quickly, almost in gasps,
and he tries to regulate it, tries to slow it down so he can think beyond the stomach-turning
fear that gripped him the moment he opened his eyes.

This is the first time he has dreamed about this particular battle, but it isn’t the first time he
has had a dream like this.

Every night since losing his memories, ten days ago, he has had a dream like this. A dream
that wakes him up in a cold sweat, that is too vivid, to crystalline while he is dreaming and
after he has woken up, for him to be comfortable calling it a dream.

They have to be memories.

It is the only thing that makes sense.

And that is terrifying in its own right. That he used to be the type of man who would stare
down a dragon without flinching, that there is something inside of him that gives him the
power to stare down a dragon while simultaneously killing him slowly for drawing on that
power. He can’t shake the sense that it has something to do with his ability, that there is
something more to it than gravity manipulation. And if he has that kind of power at his
fingertips, how often does he use it? How does he keep it from killing him?

Why does he willingly give up control of his own body?

The answers are just out of reach, as if the only memories he is allowed to access are the ones
that will terrify him but not tell him why, only allowed to have the memories that flirt with
the concept of ‘what’ but ignore the ‘how’.

They are answers that he suspects aren’t only locked away in his own head but in Dazai’s as
well, if the way brown eyes carefully search his face every night after a nightmare is any
indication.

One of Dazai’s hands is resting on his shoulder, it always is after one of these dreams, the
other man offering support in silence, waiting for him to sort through his own thoughts and
orient himself without pushing for conversation. He suspects Dazai is more than glad to keep
quiet, suspects that Dazai knows he is dreaming about his own memories and that Dazai is
choosing to say nothing about it.

On previous nights, that thought, just the very idea that Dazai is withholding information
directly about him, is infuriating.

Tonight, he is too exhausted to get indignant about it.

Blinking himself back to reality, he slowly shifts his gaze away from staring off into the
distance to meet Dazai’s. Those brown eyes are too measuring, they always are after a
nightmare, as if Dazai is expecting him to wake up with his memories. It is tiring enough to
constantly want to remember every detail he used to know, but the desires of others, the
sensation that they’re all just waiting for this other man to reappear, for Nakahara Chuuya to
come back—looking at him like he has all but killed the person he used to be—is enough to
make him never want to leave this apartment again.

The only time he has ever asked Dazai about the nightmares, Dazai lied to him.

He can’t explain how he knows it was a lie, how he can tell when Dazai’s face has no visible
changes, when Dazai’s tone never wavers. He could just tell that Dazai was lying to him.

Perhaps it’s because of the shared history that Dazai won’t tell him about.

Stifling a yawn, he tilts his head up at the ceiling, “I’m getting tired of these things. Even if
my memories can come back naturally, how can they do that if I’m sleep-deprived from
waking up in the middle of the night, every night?”
“That does seem unlikely,” Dazai comments.

Whether Dazai thinks his memories coming back naturally is unlikely or coming back with
his state of sleep-deprivation unlikely he isn’t sure. He doesn’t particularly want to ask for
clarification.

Shaking his head, he shrugs off Dazai’s hand and settles back on his futon, ignoring the small
voice in the corner of his head that protests breaking the only moment of contact Dazai ever
seems to allow between them. Rolling over so his back is facing Dazai, he stares at the blank
wall, listening as Dazai shifts back to the other futon and settles down as well.

Dazai’s breathing evens out, but he can’t tell if Dazai has fallen asleep or if the other man is
pretending to sleep, just like he is.

Trying his best not to remember the pain from his dream (and isn’t it ironic that he is trying
to forget anything at all?) he counts his inhales and exhales, waiting until the sun rises so he
can give up the farce of restful sleep and go about the day.

It takes thirteen days before he is able to pull Atsushi aside for a talk, a whole three days after
he has already worked his way through the rest of the Armed Detective Agency (save their
seldom-seen president).

Atsushi is the last person he talks to simply because Atsushi turns out to be the hardest
person to have a conversation with outside of Dazai’s earshot. He can’t tell if Dazai was
going out of the way to prevent them from speaking or if the mentor/mentee dynamic in the
agency is just that airtight. However, after almost two weeks of watching them interact he
gets the sense that Atsushi understands Dazai better than anyone suspects.

His chance comes when Kunikida drags Dazai out of the office to go look for clues on a job
they’re working. Casually, he asks if he can buy Atsushi a drink from the cafe on the first
floor of the agency building, pleased when the boy immediately says yes. They make their
way downstairs with only a few curious looks from the others and take a seat at a booth.
While waiting for their drinks, they make small talk about Atsushi’s latest case, but as soon
as the cups are set down on their table and the waiter walks away, the smile shrinks from the
boy’s face.

“You still can’t remember anything, Chuuya-san?”

It’s straight to the point, he appreciates it. “No, I can’t.”

“I wish I could be more help but I never did interact with you much, you were busy with
mafia business most of the time.”
“Do you know why Dazai doesn’t want me to stay with someone from the mafia?” he asks,
moving straight to the questions that he suspects Atsushi might have answers too.

Surprise flickers on the boy’s face. “For your safety, I suppose. I’ve met the mafia boss,
there’s no telling what he would do to try and get your memories to come back.”

“And Dazai can just stand up to the boss of the Port Mafia? Just like that?”

Atsushi shrugs, “He has before. Dazai-san’s history is really complicated, I don’t know much
about it, but he has said before that he’s too important for the mafia boss to kill him.”

He snorts, “That isn’t just Dazai being arrogant?”

“He did use to be a mafia executive, over four years ago now. Akutagawa told me that people
assumed he would become the boss one day.”

That’s new information. New information that feels extremely important, that he thinks
someone should have thought to tell him earlier. It explains so much. Explains why Dazai
seemingly has the contact information of so many mafia members, how Dazai had been able
to find him so easily that first night, how they would have known each other without anyone
else in the agency knowing him.

But if Dazai hasn’t been with the Port Mafia for over for yours, and the agency and the Port
Mafia were enemies up until a few months ago, that means Dazai was lying about them being
partners.

For some reason, that conclusion leaves a sour taste in his mouth.

“Sounds like Dazai is only protecting me from the mafia to cripple their organization,” he
murmurs into his cup.

Atsushi frowns. “I figured it was because you’re important to him.”

He blinks, “Excuse me?”

“It’s hard to explain, but he treats you differently, especially from any other mafia members.
Part of it must just from you two being partners for so long back then, I guess. You two seem
to speak a different language with each other. But whenever something happens he always
knows where you are.”

“So, he keeps track of a threat.”

A ghost of a smile flickers on Atsushi’s face, “Dazai-san doesn’t let threats know where he
lives, and he doesn’t answer their calls in the middle of a job, much less vanish immediately
after.”

“He was working when I called him?” he asks, exasperated, “no wonder Kunikida was
furious.”
“Kunikida is always mad when he ditches work,” Atsushi says with a laugh. “Either way, I
hope your memories come back to you, Chuuya-san.”

“Wouldn’t that be more trouble for you all?”

Another shrug, “I think it would make Dazai feel better.”

When Dazai returns and they make their way back to the apartment, his head is still spinning
from his conversation with Atsushi. He tunes out Dazai’s mindless chatter, watching the taller
man’s facial expressions instead and trying to piece together all the clues he has received so
far to create a picture of who Chuuya and Dazai were to each other.

It’s hard to figure out when the one person who actually knows the truth refuses to say
anything.

As he considers Dazai from across the table over yet another meal of take-out, he wonders
just what he’ll have to do to get an answer out of the taller man. Pushing his food around with
his chopsticks, he decides there isn’t anything to lose by being blunt (and even less room for
Dazai to redirect the conversation).

“Did we sleep together?”

Dazai almost chokes on the food.

He smirks, that alone makes having this conversation worth it.

Regaining composure, Dazai says, “Where did that come from?”

“You know I’ve been trying to figure out what our relationship was before this happened,”
his voice is even, as calm as if they’re discussing what to order for dinner instead of the
possibility of them being lovers.

“And your best guess is that we were fucking?” Dazai asks, incredulity dripping from each
word.

He quirks an eyebrow, not buying the tone of Dazai’s response. “My memories are gone, not
my ability to tell when someone is checking me out.” He waves at his attire to make his
point. Since Dazai doesn’t, in fact, have any clothes that suitably fit him, they had ended up
at a clothing store a day after speaking with the agency’s doctor. While he had been the one to
try on jeans almost sculpted to his body, he hadn’t forced Dazai’s gaze to linger on his ass
then or at any point since then.

Noting the way Dazai doesn’t seem inclined to argue the point, he continues, “It explains
why we would be contacting each other regularly, outside of work reasons, despite being in
organizations that barely manage to maintain a civil truce. I’d think we were dating if our
dynamic wasn’t so obviously antagonistic from the outside.”

“Chuuya-”
Not interested in whatever deflection Dazai had prepared, he cuts the detective off, changing
the subject on his own terms. “You know, that name still doesn’t resonate with me.”

One thing he appreciates immensely about Dazai is how easily Dazai rolls with any change of
subject, how quickly the other man’s mind catches up to whatever he is talking about.
Sometimes it feels a little invasive, the way Dazai can all but read his mood changes without
any effort, but he has largely found it comforting.

It’s weird to meet strangers who seemingly know who you are, but Dazai is the only person
he’s met so far that never completely felt like a stranger, and he thinks this has something to
do with it.

Dazai’s head is tilted to the side, “It has only been two weeks.”

“Isn’t two weeks a long time not to associate a name with yourself?” he points out, eyes
dropping back to his food. “It means this isn’t going to wear off for a while, if it ever does.”

There isn’t a reply right away. When Dazai does speak, the words come out slowly, as if
being considered twice before being voiced. “Have you considered the possibility that you
won’t get your memories back?”

He doesn’t look back up at Dazai as he pushes rice around in his dish. “Of course, I have.”

“And?” Dazai prompts.

“And what? It’s not like I’ll be able to just define a new life for myself when the agency and
the Port Mafia are so invested in me. I wouldn’t be able to live in Yokohama, anyway,
considering that I think I’m a wanted criminal. I don’t know what I would do.” Glancing up
at Dazai from underneath his lashes, he asks, “What would you do? If I never got my
memories back.”

Emotions flicker across Dazai’s face, moving too quickly for him to even hazard what they
are but present enough to be a shock. After two weeks with Dazai, he knows it’s rare for
Dazai’s carefully crafted masks to falter and reveal what the man is actually thinking and
this…this is more than a falter. Fascinated, he leans forward slightly, waiting for Dazai’s
thoughts to stop swirling and for Dazai to actually reply.

Eventually, Dazai says, “I suppose I would help you find wherever you end up wanting to
go.”

“What if I wanted to move to the other side of the world?”

Dazai shrugs, “Then I would get you there.”

“You have known me for at least five years,” he muses, Atsushi’s earlier words playing in the
back of his mind, “we stayed in contact even though you left the Port Mafia, you’re probably
branded a traitor and I’m an executive, we shouldn’t have stayed in contact the way we did.”

“Does Chuuya have a point with all of his rambling?”

He doesn’t reply. Instead, he puts down his chopsticks and gets to his feet, stepping around
the table, hyper-aware of the way brown eyes watch his every move. When he comes to a
stop beside Dazai, he reaches out, carding his fingers through brown locks.

“What are you doing?” Dazai asks him, voice all but a whisper.

“Your hair is soft,” he murmurs, more to himself than to Dazai, “I wondered if it was.”

“Chuuya.”

He thinks it is meant to be a warning but what good is a warning made out of a name he
doesn’t recognize? Fingers sliding down to rest at the back of Dazai’s neck, he leans down
and brushes his lips against Dazai’s.

It feels familiar.

As much the way Dazai’s presence had when they first met, or the warmth of his ability
activating under his skin, or even the weight of a dagger in the palm of his hand, this feels
familiar. It feels like a memory tugging at the corner of his brain, trying to burst past
whatever blockade has kept him from remembering, as if this might be the spark that sets
everything aflame.

Fingers curling into the short hairs under his grip, he presses into another kiss, and a third,
chasing the feeling of the ever-distant memories that somehow, for some reason, seem to
respond to this. His eyes flutter shut as he concentrates on them, almost forgetting the
sensation of soft lips against his.

Almost, but not quite.

Dazai’s lips give way easily against his. At first, he assumes it is due to surprise—he has
been reluctant to touch anyone since waking up, not wanting to potentially make a major
social faux pas with someone he has a bad history with. But this, this feels…right, and
Dazai’s reaction affirms his suspicion that this isn’t anywhere near a first for either of them.

A hand splays against his chest, resting there for a moment before applying pressure,
breaking them apart. Chuuya blinks his eyes open and looks down at Dazai, taking in the way
Dazai’s lips are pressed together in a thin line and the faint pink on his cheeks.

Biting back a smirk, he tilts his head, “You look flustered.”

Dazai opens his mouth to reply and hesitates, eyes narrowed as he stares at Chuuya. “What
happened?”

Sinking to his knees beside Dazai, he asks, “What do you mean?”

“You look…different. Like you remembered something.”

He hums in acknowledgment and drops his hand from Dazai’s hair, glancing away as he tries
to gather his thoughts.
Memories are flicking through his head at rapid speeds, pushed to the forefront and then
vanishing before he can get more than a glimpse. It feels like grabbing for snowflakes: an
exercise in futility as each one he catches melts before his eyes. The little flashes he does
piece together are all Dazai.

Dazai laughing at him as he feels heat rise to his cheeks and a responding laugh bubbling in
his own chest. Dazai with a bandage over his eye—is it injured?—and looking young, so
painfully young that Chuuya doesn’t want to know why blood is splattered on his face, why
Dazai’s visible eye looks so dead. Dazai’s hands tangled through his hair, much like Chuuya’s
had just been in Dazai’s, pulling them closer together. A soft smirk playing on Dazai’s lips as
he collapses onto a soft bed half on top of Chuuya, both of them naked and buzzing with
satisfaction. A strong sense of relief and trust, so strong that it’s almost overwhelming to feel
just the echoes here, in a faint memory, as Dazai appears in the midst of a battlefield,
completely poised as if the world isn’t falling to shit around them.

What he says out loud is, “I remember that my name is Chuuya.”

That earns him a quirked eyebrow, “You didn’t really have to remember that since everyone
has already told you that much.”

Rolling his eyes, Chuuya retorts, “And I just told you that the name didn’t mean anything to
me before. Now it does. That’s progress.”

Dazai considers him, eyes roving Chuuya’s face in silence before he says, “You remembered
more than that, I can tell you did.”

“How can you tell?” he asks, stalling so he can hopefully find something to say that isn’t ‘I
remembered that we did use to fuck’.

“It’s in your eyes,” Dazai replies.

Shrugging, Chuuya gets to his feet and walks back around the table, settling back in his
original seat and reaching for his drink. “It wasn’t anything particularly helpful, just little
snippets out of order, without context. All they told me is that we’ve known each other for a
while—which I already figured out—and that this wasn’t the first time we have kissed and
definitely not the most intimate we’ve ever been—which I also already figured out.”

If that matters to Dazai, means anything to Dazai, nothing shows on his face. Instead, Dazai’s
voice takes on a slightly sing-song quality that lets Chuuya know that there isn’t anything
else productive to be gained from this conversation. “If the key to you remembering things is
to be told that they are true, I might get a little disappointed.”

Chuuya doesn’t bother replying, turning his attention back to his food, trying not to dwell on
the memories he did get back, trying not to fixate on the memory of how soft Dazai’s hair
had been, how utterly pliant Dazai had gone in his grip. It is obvious Dazai doesn’t have any
interest in pursuing it further, and why would he if Chuuya can’t remember the evidently
considerable history they had together?
Up until this point, his focus has largely been on unraveling his connection to Dazai. In fact,
it had almost become obsessive. He thinks he can be excused, given that he is living with
Dazai, given that Dazai is the only person he has met that he felt he could immediately trust.

Now, it is time to turn his focus to himself, to focus on remembering who he was for the sake
of him, not for anyone else.

He can handle that.

Maybe.

He still doesn’t know how exactly to get his memories back but he supposes it is one step at a
time.

That night, he dreams about Dazai.

And, really, Chuuya thinks he should have seen this one coming after the day he had. He
should have anticipated that being inundated with memories of the bandaged bastard meant
that such memories would carry over to the memory-filled dreams he has every night.

Though, he might have anticipated something with rose-tinted lenses. A dream about
laughing together as teenagers or about the time (or more likely times) they had slept together
over the course of however many years they had known each other. A dream about being
partners, perhaps, because he is finally starting to buy the line Dazai has repeated to him over
and over anytime he asked about their relationship.

Instead, his brain sticks to the pattern and drops him into a nightmare.

It isn’t like any of the others. There is no physical pain, no sensation of being a spectator in
his body, no battle or fight or corpses dropping in front of him. Compared to all of his other
dreams, it’s relatively mundane from start to finish. Chuuya debarks from a plane, slides into
the back seat of a car that comes to pick him up, idly converses with the man driving, gets
dropped off at a skyscraper, and rides the elevator up to the top office to meet a man that
sends a slight shudder down his spine.

He supposes it is a nightmare because Dazai isn’t there.

And Dazai hasn’t been in any of his dreams before so, normally, the absence wouldn’t be
unusual. But he dreams about Dazai, about how Dazai is supposed to be there, how Dazai has
always been somewhere nearby on days like that one, how Dazai isn’t just absent but that
Dazai has vanished entirely.
That Dazai left. Left the organization (it must be the Port Mafia, he realizes), left their
partnership, left Chuuya behind.

It is this dream, more than any of the others, that Chuuya is positive isn’t just a dream. If he
hadn’t already concluded that he was reliving old memories, this would be the final straw,
would be the red flag he couldn’t ignore.

Because Dazai keeps claiming that they are partners, but Dazai wasn’t there when Chuuya
lost his memories, wasn’t there when Chuuya woke up in the middle of a battlefield, doesn’t
even work in the same organization that Chuuya is evidently a higher-up in.

All the pieces of the abstract puzzle Chuuya has been fiddling with make sense if the dream
is true, if Dazai really did walk away without a glance back, without so much as a note or a
word of goodbye.

It makes sense why Kunikida said Chuuya always threatens to kill Dazai, the sense of
betrayal that rips through him in his dream is so intense that he looks down to see if someone
also sank a physical dagger into his gut and then twisted.

It makes sense why there isn’t any information about Dazai in his phone, why the name isn’t
even saved under ‘Dazai’ because he would be texting not just a traitor to his organization,
but someone that betrayed his personal trust, regularly.

It makes sense why Dazai won’t explain who they are to each other, what their history is,
because he is furious in this dream, angry and hurt and livid and those must be emotions
Dazai doesn’t want to deal with again, doesn’t want to apologize his way through again (if he
ever apologized at all).

When Chuuya wakes up, jolting upright on the futon, staring blindly at the opposite wall,
heart pounding and breath too quick, no hand rests on his shoulder.

Even without looking over, Chuuya knows that Dazai isn’t here, that Dazai is gone.

He knows the dream is a memory because all he can feel is resignation at the reality of
Dazai’s absence now. He can’t dredge up an ounce of surprise over the fact that, after two
weeks of being there when Chuuya needs him, Dazai would vanish the one night when
Dazai’s presence would mean more to Chuuya than it has in the past.

That just seems to be consistent with the type of man Dazai is, to Nakahara Chuuya at least.

If Chuuya had known this was what his relationship with Dazai is like, he never would have
persisted so stubbornly to know the truth.
Dazai has always been most comfortable at night.

The hours when there aren’t any people to perform to, no need to keep his thoughts and
emotions off of his face, have always been liberating. In the Port Mafia, those hours were
well past midnight, the short window of time between when he was finished handling
missions and before the sun began to peek over the horizon. In the Armed Detective Agency,
he is able to take midnight walks like a relatively normal person, to be back at his apartment
before the streets are completely dead at the ghost hours of the morning.

When he first left the mafia, Dazai had been apprehensive about the comfort he found in the
night, afraid that it spoke more to his inability to change, to the fact that he was so steeped in
the violence of Yokohama’s underworld that he would never be able to do real good. Now, he
has learned, and come to accept, that the night and the darkness are two different things.

It would be one thing if this was a calming influence for him because he is most comfortable
in the shadows, but that isn’t the case.

Dazai is most comfortable without watching eyes, without the expectations of brilliance or
trouble or reliability that others have come to put on him. If he could find such a thing in the
light of day, he would relish it just as much as he relishes the empty streets and quiet stillness
of Yokohama after most of the law-abiding citizens have gone to bed.

He has been wandering for the better part of an hour, trying to make sense of the rapid tumble
of thoughts and emotions that have been cluttering his head since dinner, since Chuuya had
crashed through the carefully maintained barrier Dazai had placed between them the moment
he knew Chuuya’s memories were gone.

Even now, nearly four hours after it happened, Dazai can still feel the phantom of Chuuya’s
lips against his and he presses them into a thin line, trying to shove away the rush of disdain
at himself for letting such a thing happen. He spent two damn weeks keeping himself just
distant enough from Chuuya to be safe, two weeks avoiding any physical contact other than
the minutes in the middle of the night when he kept hold of Chuuya after a nightmare and
waited for Chuuya to free himself of the memories that chase his subconscious (and he
wishes he could say the gesture is completely altruistic, that he didn’t selfishly relish the
moments of quiet he steals, that he didn’t stay awake later and wait for Chuuya to fall asleep,
drinking in the sight of Chuuya peaceful and vulnerable in a way Chuuya never would have
allowed if he had his memories).

Two weeks living with Chuuya, watching as Chuuya found some semblance of a home with
him and being irritated with himself for savoring each moment so much.

All of the careful distance, the work he put into keeping his voice the right side of casual, his
expression as platonic as possible, thrown out the window at the first brush of Chuuya’s lips
against his.

And he had melted.

Thoughts and calculations and caution abandoned as his body fixated on the feeling of
Chuuya’s fingers curled in his hair and Chuuya’s mouth pressed against his. Becoming pliant
in Chuuya’s grip as if two weeks without any touch more than the gentle hold on Chuuya’s
shoulder at night had starved Dazai’s body of something it needs to survive, as if he didn’t go
four damn years without so much as a word to the other man.

It is difficult to view it as anything other than taking advantage.

Chuuya lost his memories, lost his self of being, his own identity, and put his trust in Dazai,
to keep him alive through this. And while Chuuya never explicitly asked, Dazai knows part
of that trust is to prevent Chuuya from doing anything that he would regret if he were
completely himself.

Even if Chuuya had instigated it, had been the one to press into the embrace, the fact that
Dazai didn’t immediately push him away, didn’t brush it off with a laugh and a joke and
switch the topic, the fact that Dazai had pressed into the kiss, was betraying Chuuya’s trust.

Because he doesn’t know if it is something Chuuya would have done if the circumstances
were different.

It isn’t anything Chuuya has ever done before. Then again, neither is staying over at Dazai’s
place, eating regular meals with Dazai, calling him in the middle of a mafia operation.

They have had a lot of ‘firsts’ over the course of these two weeks, but all the others were
matters of necessity, to keep Chuuya safe until someone has a stroke of luck when it comes to
finding whoever did this to him.

Despite how much he wants to rationalize, to pretend that it is something Chuuya might have
done, Dazai suspects, deep down, that it isn’t true. It is only over the last six months that their
relationship has morphed into anything more than tossed insults and forced collaborations on
missions. It was only four months ago when Chuuya finally took him up on one of his half-
joking propositions and followed Dazai to his apartment after one such mission, and that had
been nothing more than a rush of heat and the need for any warm body at all—the fact that it
was the two of them, after everything they had been through, was coincidence. It was only
within the last two months that it became something regular, something more than a matter of
convenience but so much less than what it had had the potential to be before Dazai had
walked away from the Port Mafia so many years ago.

It was only one month before this all happened that Dazai let himself even entertain the
possibility of something more than semi-regular fucks, that Chuuya’s touches and kisses had
softened, lost their harsh edge for something mimicking at tenderness, that Chuuya had
actually started replying to his random texts instead of ignoring them, that (every now and
then), Chuuya had answered Dazai’s phone calls and entertained Dazai’s baseless rambling
for increasingly longer periods of times before hanging up on him.

Whatever all that has been building up to, it certainly wouldn’t have happened so quickly, not
the way it did tonight. And if—when—Chuuya gets his memories back Dazai has no doubt
that tonight will have ruined whatever might have happened between them in the future.
Because Chuuya had kissed him out of curiosity, out of a sort of desperation for answers that
Dazai still couldn’t bring himself to provide, and they both know it.
And Chuuya will know it when his memories are back, will recognize that Dazai also knew
why the moment was wrong, will know that Dazai let it happen, and, if Dazai is lucky,
Chuuya will go back to tossed insults when they’re forced to working together without so
much of a mention of why he cut contact entirely.

It has taken so long for them to slowly open back up to each other and he doubts Chuuya, his
Chuuya, will be all that surprised that Dazai managed to fuck it up in one night.

“Rather late for you to be wandering the streets, Dazai-kun.”

The voice comes from his left and Dazai stops walking, eyes fluttering closed for a moment
as if the split-second of ignoring his surroundings will fortify him for a conversation he is in
no mental state to have. He opens his eyes again the next moment and turns to face the
woman standing under the awning of a closed bakery, a genial smile that they both know to
be false stretching on his lips.

“I had wondered how long it would take until you couldn’t stay away any longer,” Dazai
replies, taking in Kouyou’s appearance and quickly concluding that she didn’t seek him out to
kill him. With that out of the way, he glances back down the direction he came, wondering if
he can pick out the tail he somehow missed. “I knew Mori had people watching me but I
didn’t anticipate you being so invested in my movements as of late.”

“You know that my interest is in Chuuya and his safety. You merely injected yourself into the
equation and you could easily take yourself out of it.”

His smile grows a touch wider, “I didn’t inject myself in, my presence was requested, by
Chuuya. He has also made it clear that he doesn’t want me removing myself from the matter
until it is resolved. If that hurt your feelings, it truly is regrettable, Kouyou-nee, but there is
nothing for me to do about it.” Irritation flickers across her face at that, as he knew it would,
and Dazai continues, “So, why seek me out now?”

Kouyou taps a finger on the stem of her umbrella, her face unreadable as she says, “Stop
stalling.”

“Stalling?” Dazai repeats, quirking an eyebrow.

“If you truly wanted it, you would have already located the ability user behind this and
nullified his gift. You may be of the opinion that the boss’ three-week deadline gives you
permission to drag your feet but, I assure you, that isn’t the case.”

The smile drops from Dazai’s face as if wiped clean, and he narrows his eyes. “As flattering
as your confidence in my abilities is, it is the Port Mafia that holds most of the information
regarding how this may have happened to Chuuya and your organization has not been
entirely forthcoming with it. Not to mention leaving Chuuya alone for too long-”

“Save your breath,” Kouyou cuts him off and Dazai forces his face to stay calm even as he
feels a faint twinge of surprise at the ice in the mafia executive’s voice. Their relationship has
never been particularly amicable. They play at being agreeable with each other, converse in
words full of overly polite language to mask the mutual distaste they have for each other. It is
rare for that facade to slip, even when they are alone, but he feels it splintering in Kouyou
now. “If you were so concerned about Chuuya being alone you wouldn’t be out here, you
would be with him. Clearly, you’ve concluded that there isn’t that much of a risk of
Corruption being unleashed as you made it seem.”

Dazai doesn’t have the patience for this.

His head is still swirling with too many emotions and he hadn’t sorted through the tangle
nearly as well as he needs to in order to face Chuuya in the morning and pretend like
everything is fine. Dropping all traces of his own facade, he gives Kouyou a cool glare. “If I
could have Chuuya back to normal by now, I would. Whether you believe me or not is your
problem, but it is the truth. If you’ll excuse me, Kouyou-nee, I was utilizing the quiet night to
think through possible plans to fix this situation and the longer you delay me here for your
lectures the longer it will take me to fix him.”

For a breath, Dazai thinks he pushed her too far.

A murderous glint flickers through red eyes and the hand on her umbrella tightens briefly.
Then, as if the conversation never happened, Kouyou relaxes completely and a pleasant smile
is on her face as she dips her head. “My apologies for keeping you, Dazai-kun. Enjoy the rest
of your walk.”

Turning his back on Kouyou is always dangerous. Even if her ability is useless against him,
her own speed with her katana is nothing to laugh at. Turning his back on Kouyou after
provoking her as he did is almost suicidal, and he vaguely wonders if it means he is breaking
the promise he gave Chuuya the first night of this mess even as he walks away from the
mafia executive. As long as she doesn’t kill him, he supposes it doesn’t matter and Chuuya
doesn’t need to know.

Chuuya hasn’t said a word to him all day.

Under normal circumstances, that wouldn’t be anything unusual. Dazai is used to going days,
even weeks, without exchanging so much as a passing text with the hat rack, but these aren’t
normal circumstances. Ignoring his work, Dazai leans back in his seat and stares absently at
the ceiling, trying to figure out what he did between last night and this morning to piss
Chuuya off enough to receive such a steady (and admirably committed) display of the silent
treatment.

The only thing that happened was the kiss, but Dazai can’t fathom Chuuya being mad at him
for that since Chuuya was the one who instigated. It would only make sense for Chuuya to be
mad at him for that if Chuuya’s memories were back, but they aren’t, he’s positive. For one
thing, if they were back, Chuuya wouldn’t be here, wouldn’t be diligently helping Kyouka
with a few harmless reports with a work ethic that no doubt is making Kunikida wish that
Chuuya was the one who deserted the Port Mafia instead of Dazai. On top of that, Dazai can
still see the lack of memories in Chuuya’s eyes, can still see the pieces of the Chuuya he
knows so well are missing whenever they make eye contact.

So, no memories, so no reason to be mad at Dazai for a kiss.

But that’s the only thing that was different about yesterday. Twirling a pen around his fingers,
Dazai walks back everything that happened over the last twenty-four hours. Even if Chuuya
tends to be temperamental with him, Chuuya’s mood shifts are never without some sort of
cause, something that Dazai can pinpoint (usually within seconds).

Did someone from the mafia contact Chuuya? Unlikely, Chuuya would have told Dazai about
it in an attempt to mine for more information.

Did Dazai do something that made Chuuya mad? He can’t think of anything that he did
differently yesterday. He did push Chuuya away but Chuuya hadn’t shown any indication of
that bothering him. In fact, Chuuya’s thoughts were already somewhere else, his attention not
even on Dazai as he worked through the new memories that flickered through his head.

And Chuuya had mentioned getting snippets about Dazai. It is possible that the snippets
Chuuya got were all bad, memories of their fights or the times when they had genuinely been
trying to hurt each other. But, if that was the case, Chuuya would have gotten mad at him
then and there, not twelve hours after the memories came back, the next morning.

Was it something Dazai didn’t do?

While he had (somewhat) broken his promise to Chuuya about reigning in his suicidal
tendencies, there was no way Chuuya would know about Dazai’s conversation with Kouyou,
much less know why exposing his back to Kouyou may have counted as breaking that
promise. And Dazai has followed the promise to the letter since making it, hasn’t tossed
himself in any rivers and has (regrettably) walked past almost a dozen of structures that
would have been perfect for hanging himself.

Everything else had been perfectly in-line with the routine they have tumbled into since the
first time Dazai brought Chuuya to the agency’s office. The only thing Dazai had done
yesterday that was unusual compared to the last two weeks was his walk in the middle of the
night, but Chuuya had been asleep when he left and when he came back, it wasn’t like Dazai
had missed anything while he was gone, it wasn’t like-

His thoughts screech to a halt.

Oh.

The nightmares.

He hadn’t been there for Chuuya’s nightmare.

It hadn’t happened before he left for the walk and it hadn’t happened after his walk. Dazai
had originally just chalked it up to Chuuya finally getting a peaceful night of sleep which, in
hindsight, was a stupid assumption for him to make. After fourteen straight days of having a
nightmare every single night, it made more sense for Dazai to have been gone during the
episode than for it to have never happened. And Chuuya definitely has more than fourteen
nights’ worth of horrible memories for his subconscious to draw from.

It is the only thing that makes sense.

Last night, when Chuuya had woken in the middle of the night, mind full of whatever
horrible thing he had dreamed about, the terror still flowing through his veins, Dazai hadn’t
been there and Chuuya was angry about it.

Dragging his gaze away from the ceiling, Dazai studies Chuuya, wondering if there is a way
for him to fix this quickly, before Chuuya does something rash like agreeing to stay with
someone with the mafia instead. Outright apologizing probably won’t work because, even
like this, Chuuya hates showing weakness and has apparently decided that any kind of
emotional attachment to Dazai falls under that category. Making sure he is there tonight
might do the trick, if Chuuya even lets Dazai come close enough to touch him.

His phone vibrates on his desk and Dazai absently reaches out and answers, “Hello?”

“We’ve located the ability user,” Hirotsu’s voice is even through the phone, as if he isn’t
giving Dazai the news he has been wanting for days with the worst possible timing for the
continued tranquility of his and Chuuya’s relationship. “He is currently in an area too risky to
send an operation in but we will be tailing him throughout the day.”

Sitting upright in his seat, Dazai half-turns, dropping his voice so it can’t be heard across the
room (from Kyouka’s desk). “And does Mori plan to have him killed or are you calling me
for my assistance?”

“Although killing him would be the simplest solution, the likelihood that he possess
information relevant to the operation Chuuya-san was originally leading earlier this month is
high. If you would be willing to make yourself available to bring him in alive, the boss has
indicated that he would be willing to repay the favor at a later date.”

Having the boss of the Port Mafia owe him a debt isn’t anything to be laughed at, it makes it
almost impossible for Dazai to even entertain saying no. “Is there a time-frame for this
operation?”

“It will go live tonight.”

Dazai scowls briefly, wondering if that means he’ll be gone during Chuuya’s nightmare this
evening as well. Though, by getting his hands on the ability user he should also get rid of
Chuuya’s amnesia, which means the nightmares will be the smallest thing Chuuya will have
to deal with. Glancing back over at Chuuya, he’s surprised to meet blue eyes, Chuuya’s
narrowed as if he can tell exactly what Dazai is talking about.
Not dropping Chuuya’s gaze, Dazai says, “That’s reasonable. Send me the coordinates when
you are ready for my assistance.”

He hangs up and tosses his phone back on his desk, tearing his eyes away from Chuuya’s
stare and letting them fall on the paperwork he hasn’t touched all day. Readjusting his hold
on the pen, he begins working through it with a diligence that he knows the others in the
office will no doubt find shocking. But the monotony of the paperwork—hellish at all other
times—is soothing right now, the mind-numbing task allowing him to almost forget about
everything that Hirotsu’s call implies.

Tonight, this will all be over.

Chuuya will be Chuuya again which means he’ll go back to living in his much more
extravagant apartment, go back to his awful fashion sense, go back to being the picture-
perfect mafia executive. That is straightforward, and Dazai has always anticipated it
happening sooner rather than later. While he had forced himself to entertain the possibility of
Chuuya’s memories never coming back, he had never seriously believed that would happen.
With the Port Mafia’s attention focused on finding whoever was responsible for Chuuya’s
amnesia, the likelihood of that person escaping was slim, at best.

What Dazai is less sure about, and doesn’t want to dwell on, is what that will mean for the
two of them. At best, he supposes, Chuuya will pretend the last two weeks never happened
and they will go back to the odd dance of being more than rivals and partners but less than
being in any kind of steady relationship. At worst, Chuuya will be angry about how the
previous day went and put more distance between them than there has been in half a year.

He can’t decide which outcome he finds more likely, doesn’t particularly want to make a
prediction.

So, instead, he works, tuning out the rest of the office as he makes his way through the stack
on the corner of his desk, ignoring the odd looks he receives from Kunikida and Atsushi, and
not bothering to glance at Chuuya again until the day is over and it is time for them to leave
the office.

As they make their way out of the office, Dazai can feel Chuuya sizing him up, no doubt
weighing his desire to keep being mad at Dazai against his curiosity. It takes five minutes for
Chuuya to cave.

“What’s going on?”

Dazai glances over at him, quirking an eyebrow without opening his mouth.

Chuuya scowls, “You know what I’m talking about, Dazai. You’ve been acting weird today.”

“I assumed Chuuya was too busy being mad at me to notice,” the response slips out
habitually, the usual sharp-edged banter between them is something Dazai has tried to hold
back on for the sake of not confusing Chuuya further.
It doesn’t seem to faze Chuuya now because his scowl deepens, “If something is going on
that concerns me and this damn amnesia, just tell me without being deliberately obtuse about
it. If not, just leave it, I don’t care.”

Letting out a huff of air, Dazai admits, “They found the ability user. Once they have him
cornered they’ll call me so I can nullify it. By this time tomorrow, you should have all your
memories back.”

Chuuya doesn’t react, not right away, not like Dazai expected he might. And in the silence
that falls, Dazai tears himself out of his own thoughts long enough to look over at Chuuya.
Chuuya’s eyebrows have drawn down slightly, making the burrow that is typical of occasions
when Chuuya is working through something that bothers him.

When Chuuya finally does speak, he says, “That’s short notice.”

“I thought you would be ecstatic about it,” Dazai replies.

“The man everyone sees when they look at me, Nakahara Chuuya, isn’t here, he hasn’t been
here for two weeks, hasn’t existed. Once he comes back, this me will basically die. It’s just
sudden.”

Pausing outside the door to his apartment, Dazai searches Chuuya’s face, realization
dawning, “You’re not sure if you want to go back to who you used to be.”

“Who chooses a life like that?” Chuuya asks, voice flat. “All I can really remember are the
nightmares I keep having but those are all things that guy did, that’s the kind of life he has,
surrounded by death and destruction all the time and being ripped apart from the inside to use
some power that is evidently strong enough to destroy entire organizations.”

Looking away, Dazai unlocks his door and steps inside, aware that Chuuya follows behind
him and locks the door after himself. They make their way into the apartment in silence,
toeing off their shoes and disposing of jackets as Dazai turns Chuuya’s words over in his
head. He had never considered the idea that Chuuya would be apprehensive about returning
to his old life, because he knows Chuuya can handle himself in the Port Mafia, can take
whatever is thrown at him in his stride, but this Chuuya doesn’t know that. All this Chuuya
really knows is what little he has been able to pry out of people and the terror of his
nightmares.

Eventually, Dazai replies, “You’ll be fine, you always are.”

“I’m fine right now. That Chuuya is always alone.”

“Alone?” Dazai repeats, slightly bewildered. Chuuya is, and has always been, well-liked
wherever he goes. It’s just simple charisma that makes him popular among his subordinates
and fellows. Any given night, Chuuya can call up a dozen people to go to dinner with or have
drinks alongside.

Rolling his eyes, Chuuya mutters, “No wonder our relationship is such a mess if you’re
oblivious like this all the time. You were the one who said you know me better than anyone
else alive.”

“I do.”

He does, he knows he does.

So why is he being completely blindsided by this conversation?

“And if no one else knows me nearly as well as you do, and you fucking left me to fend for
myself, how the hell was I supposed to open up to other people like that again? Nakahara
Chuuya might have friends or people who rely on him or whatever the fuck everyone wants
my memories to come back for but that kind of a connection isn’t meaningful.”

Dazai opens his mouth to reply and…hesitates.

Usually, he knows exactly what to say to Chuuya and exactly when to say it to get the effect
he wants. But he doesn’t know what he wants out of Chuuya right now, doesn’t know if
convincing Chuuya that having his memories back is what he actually wants, especially
considering Chuuya himself isn’t enthused over the idea. He also isn’t quite sure what to do
with the information Chuuya just laid out for him, because Chuuya figured out that Dazai had
left the Port Mafia, had mentioned as much yesterday, but he hadn’t said it like this.

This tone hadn’t been in Chuuya’s words over the topic of Dazai leaving the mafia yesterday.

And this tone is the one he is used to hearing from Chuuya, the barely even one that is
obviously hiding some number of emotions even if those emotions are never allowed to leak
through.

This tone isn’t a matter of Chuuya piecing something together but of Chuuya remembering,
and it all adds up, why Chuuya was so mad at him today. Chuuya must have dreamed about
when Dazai had left the Port Mafia and, when Chuuya woke up, Dazai had been gone once
again.

Not reacting is difficult, keeping his face calm is a fight that he isn’t sure he wins because
something flashes in Chuuya’s gaze.

Keeping his voice deliberately light so that Chuuya can take it as honesty or a joke at his own
discretion, Dazai says, “You don’t have to be alone, Chuuya. When your other memories
come back, you won’t forget these ones.”

“And?” Chuuya prompts, voice still inflectionless.

“And I didn’t leave for good because I came for you, didn’t I?” Dazai asks. “All you did was
call and I was there because I’m still your partner, even if I’m not in the Port Mafia. You
don’t have to keep me at arm’s length anymore.”

“How am I supposed to believe you?”

Dazai shrugs, “Either you do or you don’t, but I’ve been here with you throughout this, I can
be there for you when you’re back to being a mafia executive.”
His phone vibrates in his pocket and he digs the device out, glancing at the message from
Hirotsu. “That’s my cue. Do you want me to do this or not?”

“Does it matter what I want? The rest of Yokohama seems to have made the decision
already.”

“But they can’t nullify the ability without me, and I’m leaving it up to you, Chuuya.”

Chuuya drops his gaze, staring across the room to look at nothing, his thoughts unclear on his
face as the seconds tick by into minutes. And then, so softly that Dazai might have missed it,
Chuuya says, “Just go.”

And Dazai does.

When Dazai arrives on the scene, the ability user is holed up in a seedy motel room,
obviously aware that something is going on, that someone is after him. He doesn’t pay any
attention to the low-level subordinates he walks past, only spares a brief wave to Gin who
nods in greeting, and comes to a stop next to Hirotsu, eying the building in front of them.

“Who am I looking for?” he asks without preamble.

“A foreigner,” Hirotsu explains, “British and sickly, looks like he’ll collapse at any second.”

Quirking an eyebrow, Dazai glances around him at the might of a full Black Lizard assault.
“If he’s so sickly are all the bells and whistles necessary?”

“He looks like he’ll collapse, he isn’t anywhere near as fragile as he looks. And the last time
we tried to handle this group with a soft touch we ended up losing an executive.”

“Temporarily,” Dazai points out, turning his gaze back to the motel, squinting at the room in
question where he thinks he can see movement behind the curtains.

“Even temporarily, it is nothing to be taken lightly, and it’s likely he has more associates we
haven’t identified. Chuuya-san was injured that night, whoever was able to do that may be
nearby.”

Nodding in acknowledgment of Hirotsu’s points, Dazai waves Gin and Tachihara forward,
holding out an expectant hand to the latter. Tachihara’s face doesn’t so much as twitch in
irritation over Dazai’s silent order (even if Dazai can feel said irritation rolling off the
younger man) as he reaches into the flap of his coat and pulls out a handgun, placing it in
Dazai’s waiting palm. Considering the weight of the weapon, Dazai forces any and all
thoughts about Chuuya’s reservations about this out of his mind and rattles off a few orders.
Despite the fact that he is, technically, supposed to just be support for this mission, meant to
just wait for an opportunity to nullify their target’s ability, the people around him
immediately follow his commands, no doubt told by their boss to do just that because Mori
anticipated how this evening would go. It sends a slight spark of annoyance through him that
he’s playing into Mori’s predictions, but this is the quickest way to get this ordeal over with
and the best way to guarantee nothing goes wrong.

When everything is in place, Dazai nods at Hirotsu, who gives the order to attack. The door
to the motel room in question is burst off of its hinges as a group of mafia members situates
themselves at the fire exit, preventing their prey from making an escape. More mafia
members establish a perimeter, searching for any possible reinforcements as Dazai strides
forward, Hirotsu at his heel.

Stepping inside the motel room, he casts his eyes around, taking in the papers splayed on the
desk and the open suitcase on the bed before turning his gaze to the only other door inside.
With an almost lazy aim, he shoots the lock of the door and waves Tachihara and Gin
forward. They rush around him and into what must be the bathroom.

A muffled shout and the sounds of a few well-placed punches later, they are dragging a man
who meets Hirotsu’s earlier description out of the bathroom and into the main room of the
motel. Dazai doesn’t much care about the ability user, who he is or who he works for is
Mori’s problem. He briefly takes in skin so pale it’s nearly translucent, gaunt cheeks and
sunken eyes—the man looks like he is on the verge of death—before taking in a sight that is
much more fascinating.

Namely, the way an ugly red rash is rapidly spreading up the necks, across the faces, and
down the arms of Tachihara and Gin. The pair look, for all the world, like they contracted
smallpox between when they entered the bathroom and left. Tachihara is even swaying on his
feet as if dizzy, and sweat is glistening on Gin’s forehead in a way disproportionate to how
little work she had to do to reach their target, as if she has a fever.

Stepping forward, Dazai taps the man’s cheek in a patronizing way. The room glows with the
blue light of his ability and the rashes on Tachihara and Gin vanish in the same breath.

Turning his back on the ability user, he catches Hirotsu’s gaze, “Unless you want the entire
Port Mafia to catch the plague or something equally ridiculous I’d recommend not letting
anyone come into skin-on-skin contact with him.”

Hirotsu nods thoughtfully, “I’ll make sure of it. Thank you for your assistance, Dazai-san.”

Setting the borrowed gun on the motel’s cheap bed, Dazai strides out of the room, leaving
Hirotsu to handle the cleanup and transportation of the ability user.

He doesn’t run, but Dazai’s steps are noticeably quick as he sets off down the street and
toward his apartment. He half expects to get a phone call or a text from Chuuya, letting him
know that the amnesia is gone and telling him to piss off.

Neither arrives and when Dazai finally gets back to his place almost twenty minutes after
nullifying the man’s ability, he finds himself holding his breath as he unlocks and opens the
door.

He steps inside, mouth opening to call for Chuuya before the name dies on his lips.

His apartment is empty.

Chuuya is gone.

There isn’t so much as a note to indicate that Chuuya is okay but Dazai thinks he knows
exactly what message to take in the silence of the flat. Closing the door firmly behind him,
Dazai tells himself that at least this means Chuuya’s amnesia is gone, that his memories are
back and the universe is just a little more the way it is supposed to be.

He’ll have to be content with that.

Over the next week, there really isn’t much to indicate Chuuya’s return to the Port Mafia. In
fact, there isn’t much activity from the Port Mafia at all, at least nothing flashy or obvious or
outside their normal mode of operations. Dazai himself can only notice Chuuya’s return to
the mafia in little things, like the tails that had been following them to the Agency vanishing
overnight and the unsigned thank you note that appears on his desk two days later, in a
handwriting he wishes didn’t still make his gut turn, that he burns the moment he sets eyes on
it.

Still, he doesn’t get so much as a text or a call from Chuuya, which seems to answer Dazai’s
question of how the events of the last two week would impact the slowly morphing
relationship between the two of them.

He goes about work as usual, slacks off as usual, ignores Kunikida’s lectures as usual, and
tries to forget how much more comfortable his apartment had been when he wasn’t alone all
the time.

He doesn’t dwell on what Chuuya had said about being lonely, about how unwilling to open
up to other people Chuuya had been after Dazai left the Port Mafia, doesn’t dwell on how
visibly upset Chuuya had been that first night at the very idea of Dazai dying prematurely
(such a stark change from the dismissive way Chuuya always handled the matter that it had
almost shocked Dazai into stillness).

When he walks home from work six days after nullifying that man’s ability, he ignores the
part of him that thinks the walk is too solitary without Chuuya keeping step with him.

When he slides his lock into the door, turns it, and realizes his door is already unlocked, he
doesn’t even dare to entertain the possibility that Chuuya is the one who broke into his
apartment.

But Chuuya is the one who broke into his apartment, and he’s standing in the middle of the
main room, back in his ridiculous wardrobe, ugly hat on top of red hair, hands shoved in his
pocket, his gaze steady on Dazai as Dazai closes the door and steps further inside. Chuuya’s
expression is unreadable, his eyes guarded in a way they hadn’t been around Dazai during his
amnesic bout but that tells Dazai more than anything else could that all of Chuuya’s
memories are back.

Shoving his own hands in his pockets, he walks forward until he is just out of reach and
stops, waiting.

Chuuya stares at him for just a second longer before letting out a huff of exasperation and
glancing away, “I don’t remember the last time I was as terrified as I was when I woke up in
that goddamn crater and didn’t even know my own name.” Dazai tilts his head, surprised at
where Chuuya starts (having expected to be verbally chewed out instead), but he listens
carefully, hanging onto Chuuya’s every word. “I was terrified and in the middle of the fight
and didn’t know anything that was going on and I scrolled through four other conversations
with people who I could have asked for help but I was afraid they would use my amnesia, use
me, for whatever their goals were. You were the only person I thought about calling and I
didn’t even know who the fuck you were.”

Frowning slightly, Dazai tries to figure out where this is going, unable to come up with
anything other than the conclusion he had assumed was impossible when he had returned to
an empty apartment.

“And you, you idiot, dropped whatever the hell you were doing to come toward a mafia
conflict and then pluck an amnesic executive right from underneath the mafia’s noses like
that wouldn’t make every other executive and the boss furious with you.”

“When I spoke with Mori he didn’t seem that upset,” Dazai comments.

“He had time to cool off. According to Ane-san he was livid the mafia didn’t keep track of
me before you got there,” Chuuya explains, gaze flicking back to meet Dazai’s only this time
it’s less guarded, it’s searching, as if Chuuya already asked a question that Dazai missed and
is looking for the answer, “and I heard about how often they tried to talk you into letting me
stay with someone else and how you wouldn’t budge even after it was obvious Corruption
wouldn’t just activate randomly.”

Chuuya pauses, as if waiting for Dazai to say something. He doesn’t, doesn’t even open his
mouth, because he hasn’t gotten the whole picture, he can sense that there is more Chuuya
wants to lay out between them and he wasn’t prepared to have this conversation today, much
less right now.

Taking his silence for what it is, Chuuya continues, “Would you really not have nullified the
ability if I had told you not to?”

“Yes.”
“Kouyou would have been after your neck, Mori probably would have been too.”

“I’m aware.”

“Why?”

Dazai shrugs, “Because it should have been your choice, and if you didn’t want to remember
the shit you’ve been through then I wasn’t going to force you to.”

“And then what? Keep me with you and have me join the agency and pretend like the Port
Mafia wouldn’t just kill the ability user to get me back?”

“I didn’t think it through that far,” Dazai admits, “I hadn’t considered the fact that you might
not have wanted your memories back. But I told you that I would have helped you relocate,
and I would have. It wasn’t about a strategy or anything, Chuuya.”

“What was it about, then?” Chuuya challenges.

Dazai has asked himself the same question more than once over the past week and the answer
comes out easily. “You looked happier without the memories.”

“I was terrified.”

“You were,” Dazai concedes, but doesn’t retract his previous statement, because the two
aren’t mutually exclusive.

Chuuya had been scared, the looming reality of forgotten memories, of a forgotten identity,
wasn’t something that Chuuya ever really escaped from over those two weeks but he had also
been, if not happy at least content with his day-to-day. He got up and walked with Dazai to
work, the slight stiffness that sometimes followed Chuuya after too much use of his ability
vanishing within a week and his expression clearing slightly with it. The nightmares had been
persistent but they rarely kept him awake all night, once they were over he was well-rested
and ready to help Kyouka or Yosano or Atsushi with their work without the pressure that
comes along with being a mafia executive, a pressure Dazai himself is all too familiar with.

Dazai can’t say whether Chuuya staying without his memories would have been better in the
long run or worse, only that it would have lead to a different Chuuya than the one he is used
to, but this wasn’t a matter of what Dazai would have preferred. At the end of the day, if
Dazai had refused to nullify the ability, it would have been because that was what Chuuya
wanted, and that was that.

Blue eyes are still searching Dazai’s face, still looking for something that Chuuya evidently
hasn’t found yet. “Why didn’t you tell me the truth?”

“About?” Dazai prompts because he hadn’t been very upfront with Chuuya about his past
regarding much.

“Us. Our…dynamic, our history.”

Dazai lets out a wry laugh, “Spend hours walking through that mess? Why would I? And
how was I supposed to explain it if neither of us knows what it is, to begin with?”

“When I asked if we were sleeping together you could have just said yes, it would have been
the truth.”

“You might have felt pressured about it, like I was expecting you to see me that way. I didn’t
want that.”

Chuuya frowns, tilting his head slightly as he says, “Didn’t want what? Don’t tell me you
thought you would have been…what? Taking advantage of me?”

The words, stolen straight from the tip of Dazai’s tongue, hang in the air between them when
Dazai doesn’t deny them. Chuuya stares at him, eyes widening just a fraction before he snorts
with amusement.

Which is…not the reaction Dazai was expecting.

Rolling his eyes, Chuuya steps forward, putting them firmly within touching distance, and
reaches out, jabbing a finger at Dazai’s chest. “Listen carefully, mackerel, with or without my
memories there is no way you would be able to take advantage of me like that. I’d sooner cut
your dick off. If anything happened, it would have been because I wanted it to. Got it?”

Dazai smiles, a small genuine expression that he doesn’t wear often. “I almost missed hearing
you call me that,” he murmurs instead of answering Chuuya’s question.

“That’s what you take away from this?” Chuuya asks, sounding exasperated.

“You also made your point crystal clear,” Dazai adds, a hint of mischief leaking into his smile
at the way Chuuya sounds. At how familiar Chuuya’s tone is and how, at one point, he wasn’t
sure if he would ever hear this particular mixture of exasperation, laced with something he
has always hesitated to name, again.

“Good,” Chuuya says, his hand not withdrawing like he normally would but instead letting it
travel up to grip at Dazai’s collar. A slight tug has Dazai leaning forward, not exactly sure
what Chuuya wants now as a smile curls onto Chuuya’s lips. “Let’s make sure this is clear
too, I’ve been thinking about what you said to me that night before you went to handle the
ability user and I still haven’t decided whether or not I believe you.”

“That’s fair.”

“I wasn’t done talking,” Chuuya says, with a pointed look. Dazai quirks an eyebrow and
waits. “As I was saying,” Chuuya continues, “I haven’t decided if I believe you or if I can
trust you or whatever I want out of this, but…your actions have always been more honest
than anything that leaves your mouth, and you were there for me during all of this in a way I
wouldn’t have anticipated if had I remembered anything about you.”

“I assume there is a point coming somewhere,” Dazai prods, unable to resist.

The point, he finds out in the next breath, is Chuuya’s lips against his, pressing insistently
against his mouth with none of the violence or anger or desperation that had characterized
their scant kisses before this all started. The point, evidently, is in the way Chuuya licks into
his mouth, hand sliding up to grip Dazai’s locks as he steps closer, into the curve of Dazai’s
body and doesn’t so much as tense when Dazai brings an arm up to curl around Chuuya’s
waist. The point, is in the way that Chuuya’s movements never speed up, how Chuuya never
lets go of the deliberate pace that he set at the beginning as they stumble through the
apartment and topple onto the couch.

The point, Dazai is delighted to learn, is wordlessly spoken in volumes by the way that
Chuuya doesn’t immediately stand up and look for his clothes when they collapse against
each other in a tangle of limbs gone weak from satisfaction, breath still coming too quickly.

And he has grown used to falling asleep in the same room as Chuuya over the two weeks of
this not-quite-disaster but he hasn’t ever had the chance to fall asleep with Chuuya in his
arms, to watch up close as Chuuya’s eyelids grow heavy and his breathing starts to even out.

Just before Chuuya slips off into, what Dazai hopes to be, a restful night of sleep, Dazai
mumbles, “It’s good to have you back chibi.”

Chuuya’s nose wrinkles slightly and he turns further toward the cushion underneath them.
“Don’t get all sentimental, it’s weird coming from you.”

With a soft chuckle, Dazai lets his own eyes flutter shut and drifts off to sleep, confident that
neither of them will be gone when morning comes around.
End Notes

EPILOGUE: And then Dazai and Chuuya continued to have healthy and honest
conversations about their feelings like emotionally maturing adults!

The conversation Kyouka refers to having with Chuuya is inspired by this quick prompt fill I
did months ago.

Ability User Notes: Jack London, ability: The Scarlet Plague (reference: The Scarlet
Plague).

This ability allows the user to inflict a disease or medical condition on his target.

The disease/condition manifests exactly the way it would be if it was contracted

naturally and can be treated the same way. This means the ability is most dangerous if
used to give someone a disease without a concrete cure.

It only encompasses real-life diseases, so fictional ailments are not included.

This ability requires skin-on-skin contact to be effective, though even a second of

contact is good enough.

***I've never mentioned this on AO3 before, but my BSD OCs are free game if you ever
need a quick ability user for one of your stories! Please just credit them back to me.

Since I'm moving away from writing chapter fics, I plan to write more stories like this (i.e.
massive oneshots) and I already have a couple in the planning stages. I hope you enjoy this
shift in my writing!

Read my original webnovel, Daughter of Shadows, on Tapas!

Please drop by the Archive and comment to let the creator know if you enjoyed their work!