Chapter Text
“In observing Dazai-kun, you were forced into a realization… What you really need isn’t a place you call “home”, but trust .”
“In other words, you had a thought… that you want to become a Detective Agency member.”
Sigma was floating.
He’d always wanted to fly, now that he thought about it.
A certain yearning had always filled his heart, watching the birds flutter outside the latticed window of a lavish manor. Nikolai always chuckled at his fascination, stirring his tea idly as the three of them sat silently together, the sunlight dappling Fyodor’s pallid skin and serene smile. While Sigma would never consider them family , they were the closest he would ever get to feeling wanted . That’s why he sat with them, watching silently as Nikolai drew a deck of cards from his pocket, insisting that his partner draw one from the deck with a wide grin. Fyodor was far too intelligent for such games, but he indulged regardless, if only for the incessant giggling that shook Nikolai’s shoulders and wide smile that split his face gruesomely open.
Every time, it was a nine of spades.
Whenever he asked, Nikolai joyfully explained:
“Why, my dear boy, it is nothing more than a card of loss! The one thing I desire most, to kill my darling Fedyenka!”
Fyodor would only chuckle, motioning for Ivan to serve him more tea. Never did he comment on his partner’s murderous antics- if anything, he seemed to enjoy it, especially when Nikolai dragged a razor sharp dagger across his throat, leaving a line of blood behind.
“Now, it’s your turn!” Nikolai would always turn to Sigma next, grinning with his teeth on full display. “Pick a card, boy!”
Sigma’s hands always hesitated when drawing a card.
Each and every time, he drew a five of hearts.
“How curious! My dear boy, are you planning on running from us?”
“What? N-no, of course not!”
“Ah-ah, but that’s not what the card says! It says you plan to leave our home for a new one! How sad, Fedya hold me! I am simply distraught!” Nikolai always used Sigma’s draw as an excuse to fling himself violently across the table into Fyodor’s arms, dramatically wailing as Sigma sat, dumbfounded.
Five of hearts. Leaving one home for a new one.
Was he really home? Sitting at that dainty tea table, lattice windows barring him from the world? Being endlessly scrutinized by a genius and a madman, a mere pawn in their endless game? Feeling like a dove in a cage, like Nikolai often claimed himself to be? The question plagued him, even now, floating carelessly above the world.
The rolling waves of the desert felt so distant now. The dry air, the warm caress of the midday sun across his naked back. The iridescent blue expanse that he’d spent hours admiring, until he was roughly yanked upright by Ivan’s brutish strength. The ticket clutched in his hand, taken with cold detachment and scrutinized like it was nothing more than dirt. The only clue he had to who he was, ripped by Fyodor’s spindly fingers. A station that didn’t exist, branded behind his eyes.
A casino, plated in gold. It was the one place he belonged, a lofty castle embraced by voluminous clouds. He’d memorized every face that passed through that door, counted every dollar spent. His staff called him diligent, hard working. A good man, saving poor souls from bankruptcy as he played the cards in their favor. The cards that had once rolled between Nikolai’s elegant fingers, transferred to his own.
In the casino, he felt needed . The staff looked to him when something went wrong, they relied on him to fix things, to take the weight off their shoulders. Taking care of something… It fed the hole that gnawed at his chest. It never left, but it was stated by countless hours roaming the floor, laughing along with drunken guests and their outrageous stories.
He wasn’t sure how long he floated, memories drifting hazily by. The clouds had gathered around his cold limbs, cradling him with what he would’ve mistaken for kindness.
He remembered Dazai, choosing him.
He remembered the elevator, choking on water and realizing he might die.
He remembered Fyodor, leering down at him as he clutched at his stomach, blood pouring between his fingers and pooling on the ground.
He remembered nothing.
He remembered everything .
But most of all, he remembered those words.
You want to become a Detective Agency member.
Fyodor was right.
He did want to become a part of that agency. One that Dazai would go such lengths to save, that sacrificed everything to make sure that their friends made it out alive. It didn’t take a genius to see that they were a family, plain and simple.
Sigma’s family line started at the collar around his throat. A delicate silver chain, pulled along by Nikolai and Fyodor with care, to ensure their little pet would dance and sing for them without complaint. He didn’t want to choke, now did he? So he danced, danced in their elaborately constructed cage, served as a canary in a collapsing mineshaft for the Hunting Dogs and Agency to find.
But now, he felt untethered. Like the chain had broken, or the hand that held it had finally let go.
He was floating. Flying.
And Fyodor would never drag him back down to earth.
“Oi, Dazai.”
The night was cool on his sweaty skin, Chuuya’s glare boring into his skin. They both knew what the executive was thinking, long before he broke the comfortable silence that had descended upon them. Nikolai Gogol had long since fled, taking what remained of his partner without a word, leaving them in peace. The helicopter that had originally served as their escape route was totalled, and according to whoever Chuuya had been talking to earlier, they were stuck until further notice. Dazai really would’ve rather thrown himself into the sea then be stuck with Chibi over here, but alas, he still had some loose ends to tie up. And no beautiful woman to do it with, what a shame…
“Are you going to take the fucking antidote, or do I have to cram it down your damn throat?” Chuuya’s voice was raspy from the near drowning accident, his body still wet from the near-drowning accident. Dazai didn’t necessarily feel bad about almost drowning his ex-partner, but there had been something in the pit of his stomach, an ugly feeling that had risen as he watched Chuuya struggle and gasp against the rising water, until only his ugly hat remained. He didn’t like the feeling, now that he’d had time to ruminate on it. “Oi, are you listening to me!”
“Nope! Just thinking about how fun it was to watch you drown~” Dazai grinned from where he sat on the cold concrete, ignoring the painful throb of his pulse in his broken leg. “Chibi was so cute, paddling water like a little doggy!”
“You-”
“Ah, ah. No touching! I’m hurt, you know. My leg is broken!” Dazai tried to scoot away from Chuuya’s grabbing hands, but it did nothing other than leave a streak of blood across the pavement.
“Well I don’t give a shit! You were walking on that leg just fine a couple minutes ago, when we went to go get that weird robot thing you wanted!”
“Oh, how rude! He’s a person, Chuuya, unlike you!”
“The fuck are you on about now-”
“You’re my dog, remember? We made a bet seven years ago-”
“It was a stupid bet!”
Dazai scoffed, rolling his eyes. “And yet you still agreed to it! So now you’re my little doggie, forever~” Reaching out, he prodded Chuuya’s hip lightly, grinning as the executive violently batted his hand away. “A doggie isn’t a person, Chuuya!”
“Oh shut it! Don’t make me shove my foot up your ass! We have bigger problems, like the thing on the ground. What are we going to do with it?”
Oh right, Sigma. They had gone back to recover the casino boss (and shook him around a bit), that was currently laid out on the landing pad next to them. He looked almost peaceful while asleep (read: comatose), unlike the uptight and panicked look that seemed to pervade his features for the brief time Dazai had spent with him. The man was constantly worrying, looking over his shoulder as if that weird clown man was about to appear behind him, like some freaky jack-in-the-box. It was a cruel reminder of Dazai’s own younger days, when he watched his back with almost compulsive paranoia. He almost felt bad for the man, not only for his meek personality but the way that rat Fyodor looked at him. He’d been staring down that fucker for weeks, unphased, and yet that single moment where Fyodor had looked over at Sigma made his skin itch unpleasantly.
“I don’t know. But he’s helpless.”
“No shit, Sherlock. So what? You want to take him back with you? To make him into another Akutagawa-” Chuuya choked as Dazai’s fist made contact with the back of his knee, bringing him down to his ex-partner’s level.
“Don’t fucking mention him.” Dazai’s tone was neutral, painfully so, but the anger boiling in his gut struggled to claw its way up his throat, to hit Chuuya back for such a pointed jab. “I have no intention of repeating my past mistakes. You, of all people, should know that.”
“Yeah, yeah. You’re a new man, and all that dumb shit.”
“It’s not dumb, Chuuya.”
“Yeah, it fucking is. You might not be in the Port Mafia anymore but you still manipulate people. You still kill people. I mean-” Chuuya glanced over at the still smoking wreckage of the helicopter, nose wrinkling in disgust. “-you set him up to die. Not that I’m against it, but don’t go around preaching that bullshit to me. I know what you are, Dazai. You’re not a fucking good person.”
“You don’t get to judge me, Nakahara.” Chuuya’s eyes widened at the use of his last name, cold and disconnected as it tumbled from between Dazai’s teeth. “You don’t get to judge me, not with what you’ve done.”
“At least I’m not fucking ashamed of it! I don’t go around, pretending to be good when I’m not! I know I’m a fucking monster, and I own it! You run away from it, pretend that you’re human, and for what?! So that fucking president that you’re sucking the cock of will give you a treat?” The shouts echoed off the concrete building, so loud that it made Dazai’s ears hurt.
Chuuya’s eyes were hardened, his walls raised even after the defeat of their common enemy. Once, they may have been soft with Dazai, sitting in his shipping container while they chatted about stupid arcade games and missions gone awry. But he’d left. And now, Chuuya looked at him like he was nothing but dirt. He couldn’t blame him, he felt like dirt most of the time, but he would not insult the man who’d given him a new life. Who hid him away from the Port Mafia, helped him tend to the cuts he inflicted upon himself, sat with him when the night terrors were too much. Who had grabbed him off the edge of the building’s roof, holding him as Dazai cried, screamed his pain to the night sky.
“Don’t talk about him that way.”
“I’ll talk about him however the fuck I want!” Chuuya wrung his hands, a single tell that Dazai had grown all too familiar with. He was getting frustrated, anxious. He could probably feel Arahabaki burning under his skin, feeding off his anger. “I just- I can’t fucking stand it anymore!”
“Stand what?”
Chuuya paused, his chest heaving. His face was flushed, which Dazai would’ve teased him about if he weren’t so angry. “I… You really don’t have a fucking clue, do you?” His voice was so small, compared to his screams of rage. “You know what, nevermind. I’m going to take a walk. Fuck off.”
With that, Chuuya turned on his heel, shoving his hands in his pockets. He didn’t leave, but rather stalked towards the other end of the platform, his steps heavier than usual. Dazai could spot the latent effects of his gift anywhere, and the gravity increasing on Chuuya’s body betrayed his hurt. His anger. His frustration. His sadness. All things that Dazai had witnessed before, but never thought much about. He didn’t care , if he was being honest, not enough to go after Chuuya and comfort him. Besides, he’d probably get 10 g's worth of force to the face if he did.
So instead, he crawled over to where Sigma was resting, taking a closer look at the man. He looked almost like an angel, his hair splayed out in a poor imitation of a halo, blood leaking lazily from the stab to his gut. Oh, right. The stab. Dazai had to do something about that, before all his efforts went to waste. There wasn’t much material around to use to pack a wound, but the sleeve of his shirt worked just fine, wrangled off his arm with a loud rip! and a groan of pain. His shoulder still stung from where Chuuya had shot him, but that didn’t stop him from clumsily pressing the cloth into the still bleeding wound, feeling the warmth soak through and stain his palm. He was no medic, but he’d suffered many a stab wound in his time as the demon prodigy, and back then, it was fix yourself up or die.
He wouldn’t think about Chuuya picking him up and carrying him to safety. He wouldn’t think about calloused and scarred hands sewing his wounds shut. He wouldn’t think about waking up to Chuuya sleeping next to him, close enough to touch but just far enough away that Dazai wouldn’t panic when waking up. He wouldn’t.
Now that Fyodor was dead, it was over. He’d done everything he could, now it was up to Ranpo and the president to see it through to the end. He knew they would. He’d never seen them fail, in all his years at the agency. Their bond was something even he couldn’t pry apart, an unfathomable trust that transcended the “shallow” bond between himself and the man now stress smoking on the other end of the landing pad. Soon enough, Chuuya would get the call that it was over, and within the night, they’d be home.
Home.
Dazai wasn’t sure when he’d started thinking about the Detective Agency as his home, but it was a nice thought. He’d been festering in his own grime for days, a shower and a toothbrush would be heaven right about now. Clothes that weren’t covered in blood would also be nice. And maybe some bandages, as his current ones were starting to fray. The orb was nice and all, but it didn’t include a copy of 101 Ways to Commit Suicide , and he had to stare at Fyodor’s pasty face the whole time. Ew.
“Oi, shitty Dazai.”
Chuuya’s breath on his ear startled him, shoulders jerking as he whirled around to look at his ex-partner. He hadn’t heard Chuuya approach, but given that he was shakily floating in the air at the moment, there’s no way he could’ve. Especially not in his current condition, shot up and exhausted.
“You never took the antidote.”
Damn. Despite the distraction (read: argument), Chuuya had still remembered the silver case, now sitting near Dazai’s bandaged foot.
“What about it? I’m not foaming at the mouth yet, Chibi~”
“We’re not waiting until you’re foaming at the mouth, fucker. Give it here.” Chuuya thrust his hand out expectantly, ignoring that he could very well snatch it with his ability. It was a begrudging choice to trust Dazai, one that smarter men had died for. But Dazai was too tired to fight him, and even if he did, Chuuya had the brute strength advantage.
So he relented. Limber fingers grasped at the case, presenting it to Chuuya clumsily. His wry smile made Chuuya’s eyes darken with an emotion Dazai couldn’t begin to unpack, but the Port Mafia executive didn’t comment, instead opening the case with gloved hands. His movements were calculated, meticulous as he shucked off the leather covered calloused palms, taking the needle and gently inserting it into the fluid. His brow furrowed in concentration, preparation so careful that Dazai forgot the man that had shot him three extra times.
“Hold still.”
Chuuya took his arm with surprising care, now kneeling before him on the bloodstained, cold ground. The pinch of his skin was gentle, just enough to isolate the vein, and the faint sting of the needle penetrating his flesh was lost in the way Chuuya leaned closer, cigarette still clamped between his teeth. Once the fluid was gone, Chuuya took the needle out, patting Dazai’s arm thoughtlessly, a surprisingly tender gesture for the circumstances.
“Boss says there should be someone coming to recover us soon.”
“Good. I’m ready to get outta this place.”
“Hm.”
“So… what happened to taking a walk?”
“Oh, fuck off.”
Dazai chuckled, but Chuuya didn’t move away, instead taking up the task of pressing the fabric into Sigma’s wound, blowing smoke out over choppy waves.