petitmafioso:
Dazai was an awfully good strategist, and much as Chuuya loathed to admit it, it was… just how it is. But both plans - focused on taking slow enemies with more power than both of them - relied on Dazai staying out of the way, and for Chuuya to cover him. That idiot always worked like that. Always leaving the hard work to others, refraining from dirtying his hands further.
Chuuya had enough power to get whatever he wanted, and his loyalty meant that he did not mind his incredibly bloodstained hands. Two people marked by their efficiency, by how entrenched they were in the dark ways of the Port Mafia. “Double Black” was terribly ironic now, now that Dazai had turned his back on them. Chuuya wishes he could just let the whistles smack Dazai really hard, and then rescue him when the time is right. He does not do that, as disappointing as it is. Dazai makes Chuuya test his own strength, and he is very aware they are in a different situation now. But this also meant that Chuuya would have to be extra aware of his surroundings. Using his skills was never something he had a problem with, even when they did not include his ability. Dazai also knew that.
“Shut up and reload.”
There is something that courses through his veins. Excitement. Adrenaline. The moment before a battle begins, the bloodlust. He enjoys fighting, and this is a secret to no one. If it is something he found out on his own or influence of Arahabaki, he does not want to know it. The group of monsters start to spread apart once one is hit, and Chuuya dashes towards the staggered creature without hesitating. Even without his abilities, he wasn’t someone who you would take lightly. Not with how he smiles as he swings down the weapon on the creature’s head, listening to the satisfying crack of something splitting open. The sound of crystals shattering, the abnormality of it all.
It stops moving. Chuuya hits it again, making sure it will not get up. A monster just meant that it was hard to actually know where any vitals would be. It meant hitting everything, even if all the shattered crystals on the floor made it awfully harder. Chuuya pays attention to where he steps, using the corpse as a ledge to perform a jumping attack on the next one. Again, the sound of a weapon colliding with something hard.
It does not last long. The definitely annoying sound was there again, and something freezes him in place. That horrifying noise. The sound of two animals clashing. He did not pay attention to the creature next to him. The claws sink against his shoulder, and it takes everything he has not to scream. The weapon is dropped, but he still gathers his strength to hold the creature by its otherworldly shoulders, forcing it to turn around. Forcing it to be wide open for Dazai.
And that is why Chuuya hated these kind of plans. Becoming bait so his partner could take them down with ease was just a pretty way of saying “go get beat up and don’t die”. The pain flares up, and the claws sink in deeper. But he doesn’t let go. It is just that he doesn’t know if he’s screaming from his wound or screaming at Dazai. Or both.
Probably both, considering how annoyed he felt right now.
“Just shoot this thing already, damn it! Do you want it to rip my arm off!?”
Dazai’s next shot pulls a fraction to the left, clips a crystalline growth, and chips a fragment of it off. Not what he was going for, but it at least distracts the whistle he’d fired at. He tracks Chuuya’s movements while he reloads, preparing to focus down his own target.
Chuuya’s fighting is as flashy and high-energy as ever. It works as well as ever, too, so Dazai has no complaints, but it’s just so distinctly Chuuya. Dazai’s gotten used to working his way through scuffles and skirmishes alongside Kunikida, who’s far more conservative, far more restrained; Kunikida fights to end a conflict as quickly as possible, where Chuuya fights to feel like a person.
Dazai chooses not to reflect on the parallels.
The rest of the creatures converge on Chuuya, drawn in either by the more direct threat he poses or by how utterly, unbearably alive he looks as he smashes his way through them. Dazai coolly picks off three of the monsters on the periphery of the group while they’re distracted, disabling them with bolts through the voice box and joints.
Chuuya screams, and Dazai’s cold, calculating attention is instantly on the creatures attacking him. He fires another bolt and it punches through the singing whistle’s neck, cutting its voice off with an agonized hiss. As soon as he’s free, Chuuya wrestles the one attacking him into position for Dazai.
The seconds he spends loading the crossbow feel impossibly long. If any of the knives he could access from this position were weighted for throwing, he’d toss the bow down and go for them instead, but that’s not an option. So Dazai focuses on putting as much weight as possible into his draw, takes half a moment to aim, and watches the bolt smash into a cluster of crystals on the creature’s back, fracturing it.
The blood-covered whistle jitters violently -- if Chuuya’s wound isn’t already ugly, it’s about to be -- and drags its claws out of Chuuya’s flesh like a butcher unhooking a piece of meat. It turns towards Dazai and, with a long, drawn-out wailing note, sings him into stillness. Having his life drained away by a creature that wants it more than Dazai himself does wouldn’t be the worst way to go, he thinks, but still. He has things to do back in Yokohama. And Chuuya is too much of a loyal dog, even after all these years, to let him die like this.
