DELIRIA - YANDERE!CHUUYA NAKAHARA

One: Greetings, Nakahara Chuuya.

Chuuya's smoking a cigarette by the bar counter when he encounters you, at the ripe age of eighteen. His hair was in a confused state: it was in the midst of growing out yet not quite looking grown out—it was in its own realm of puberty. It awkwardly rested over his velvety shoulder, like a freshly lit ember, glowing in the dim lighting of the bar. He's nursing a shot of whisky in his fingers, balancing his cigarette while muttering curses about his comrade.

He notices you at the very end of the bar, looking straight ahead. You have an uncommonly pretty face, he thinks to himself; a type of face that would garner attention no matter what. Like it had its own definition of beauty that could only be understood by a select few of society; it had violence in its corners, the lighting bringing out sharp contours of your face.

"Scotch on the rocks," You say to the bartender. Your voice is like a flute, almost on the verge of breaking out into laughter. It was a foreign voice, as though you hadn't spent years using Japanese as your first language, but as if you were an immigrant in the foreign territory of Kanji and Katakana and Hiragana. You still don't meet his gaze despite his scorching stare at you.

Despite all that, the bartender gives you your drink after fancily preparing it for you, the spherical ice floating in the amber, like an insect trapped in tree sap: Tree blood. You were drinking what looked like tree blood.

"You're not new around here, are you?" Chuuya finds himself asking. He walks over to you, hat once resting on the counter now on his head. You don't turn your head.

"No."

"How have I not seen you around, then?" He questions curiously, taking another inhale of his cigarette. Ashes flutter around him like sakura petals on a spring day.

"I don't spend much time in Japan," You stoically answer, your voice like staccato notes, as though you were speaking from your stomach. "I take the foreign missions."

"Huh," He says, taking a bar seat next to yours. "Mind if I smoke?"

"No."

"Not a fan of Japan?"

"No."

He sucks on the end of his cigarette, blue smoke rising up from the lit end and permeating the pores of his face. "You're not a talker, are you?"

"No."

You finally take a sip of your drink. The distinctly smoky flavour mingles in your tongue like the smoke from his cigarette lingers in the air. The ice sphere bounces against the block of your teeth, clinking before bobbing back down into the dark amber liquid.

"Who're you?" You ask, turning your head towards him. Your gaze is piercing; the dim lights of the bar have turned your eyes into solar flares, where only a thin ring of (eye colour) remains in your irises. But it was almost as if you were looking through him, past him, as if he was devoid of the weight of his muscles and colours, as if he was nothing to you but a ghostly outline of what Chuuya Nakahara was. There was a twinge of subtle hostility in your eyes, like the impending growl of a tiger, the unsheathing of claws, when he approached you.

"I'm Chuuya Nakahara," He answers. He puts his cigarette down on the brown polished ashtray provided by the bartender to extend a hand. You stare down at it, stare up into his eyes, and take it into your own hand as a sign of reciprocated respect.

"I've heard about you."

"Really?"

"Yes. From Dazai."

His face immediately drops into a scowl. "Are you serious?"

"He says many things about you."

"Like what?" He brings the cigarette into his lips once more.

"Like how you can control gravity. How you're his rotton, no good for nothing comrade. Soukoku. How short you are."

He angrily stubs the end of his cigarette into the ashtray, where the thin column of ash breaks away and bends under his strength. "Cheeky loose lipped bastard. I'll kill him next time I see him."

You don't reply to that; instead, you turn your head back to the front and cradle your drink into your fingers. Your meticulous eyes watch the sphere of ice bob in your drink, clicking against the side of the glass melodically before you set it down once more, disinterested in its clinking.

"You haven't heard about me, have you?" You say, your voice on the verge of a whisper. Chuuya immediately catches onto what you're trying to conceal: A secret. You're hiding something. You're hiding something dark and monstrous behind your back and passing it off as shadows. He hasn't heard of you, but he thinks your face is familiar; a face that's well accustomed to the harsh doings of the Port Mafia, a face that he's seen exiting Mori's office without a hint of remorse.

"No, I haven't," He answers cooly, truthfully. It was true he hadn't heard about you; this was the first time he's met you, despite hearing your name here and there being spread like a hysteria by his subordinates: Hysteria meant greed. There was greed to know you. Knowing you was a currency. "Why?"

"Good," Your back straightens, and you look at him in your peripherals, side eyeing him. Yet despite that, your gaze has him like wolfish teeth to his throat; it has him on his tiptoes, straining his ears to hear the undertones of your words, the blank space between each line of speech, the space in the intonations of your pronunciations. You catch him off guard, like a bullet going off, forcing his hand to trigger his ability. "Good."

That was the first interaction you have had with Chuuya Nakahara, when you were eighteen.