The Wild Geese || DAZAI OSAMU/CHUUYA NAKAHARA

[十三] GHOSTING, LONELY.

A/N: Sexual abuse mentions. Happy reading!

You return to the Port Mafia HQ with whisky on your breath, your hand cradling a cigarette. You can't remember for the life of you what Dazai had said after your confession, but it wasn't any good for your already sinking heart.

"I don't forgive you."

Who said you needed forgiveness? What you needed was a bullet to the head. But you couldn't commit suicide, no; that would give Mori the victory crown. And you will not let that treacherous man win again.

"What took you so long?" Chuuya asks as you burst into the conference room, blue cigarette smoke following you. In your hand is a shard of orange glass of the whisky bottle that you had smashed on your way in. You brush him off drunkenly and take a seat, falling back on the red velvet with a disgruntled look on your face. You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. "You had all of us waiting."

"None of your business," You snap. "Keep your nose outta my shit."

His eyebrows furrow at you, before Mori clears his throat—and that is enough to make the growing tension between the two of you dissipate. Purple irises glitter like amethysts in the dark, refracting and gleaming despite the lack of light: the light came from within. And on the other side of the coin, so did the darkness.

"Sorry, Boss," Chuuya apologises. You sneer at Mori, kick your feet up on the table and lean back on the chair.

"Well? Get on with the conference. We don't got all day now," You say carelessly, examining the dried blood under your nails that you hadn't bothered to clean out. The noise of rustling, card paper crinkles in the air.

"Because of you and Chuuya, we have managed to regain the secret government certificate to allow human experimentation," Mori says, unwrapping the paper that had been folded into quarters. Your eyes narrow and your feet drop to the floor.

"Are we still doing human experimentations? I thought we finished that after I was created."

"After you happened," Mori corrects. You roll your eyes.

"I happened? No, you created me. You made me this way; filth teaches filth. My blood is in your hands."

"Regardless, we cannot let this document go into the wrong hands; it would mean devastation for the Port Mafia," Mori says, ignoring you. The document smelt faintly of feet. You pop a cigarette out of a box and stressfully light the tip, ignoring the look of disdain from one of the other executives in the room. "It would mean our complete annihilation of our reputation."

"We're already in the fucking gutters, old man," You say through the smoke. And it seemed to change the lighting on your face, moving and shifting as though something malicious was brewing underneath the thin veil of skin. Your eyes were dull in the ever-growing darkness in the room, the dim amber lights above pooling down onto your hair like molten lava. You looked detached and disassembled, as though only one foot was in the room and the other was somewhere else, locked deep within your head. "Our reputation's fucked."

"To put it in your terms, (first name), we plan on making it less 'fucked'." He puts that in air quotation marks with his fingers. You sneer, flick the cigarette at him, to which he slides an ashtray towards its descent.

It lands.

You whistle.

"Still wondering why we're continuing our human experimental phase," You say. "It's been done and done. I'm here. I'm proof of that. Unit 731, Doctor Mengele, Canadian Indigenous, Tuskegee syphilis experimentation. And now us."