Chapter Text
If you had asked Dazai what he would be doing next week, he probably would’ve answered ‘Be dead XD.’ Which was very far from the truth, since he was in Mori’s office getting assigned a new mission. And said mission was to take place in a hero school. When he heard those words come out of that man’s mouth, he considered getting up and slamming the door. An idea that was then scrapped when he learned the name of the school, UA, the biggest hero school in Japan, he started envisaging the concept. The heroes were roading around Yokohama more and more often, so the mission was the following: infiltrate the academy, and determine the reason for their sudden interest in the city. That seemed interesting to say the least. Once the boss’ main character monologue about how much he trusted them with this mission- Wait. Them?
Mori intentionally waited until the very end of the task delegation to mention that Chuuya was coming along. Dazai kept a stoic expression. Of course, it was Mori, he had to. If that man were to find out that they actually enjoyed each other's company, he would do his best to separate them as much as possible.
With that out of the way, once the boss’ main character monologue about how much he trusted them with this mission over, Dazai was sent to inform Chuuya about the assignment. Which he did without forgetting to mask into an annoyed expression that left his face after a few seconds, the time he took to get out of Mori’s office. The executive walked, chin high, towards the ginger’s workplace, receiving a few bows on the way which he unwillingly ignored– he was way too preoccupied by the multiple scenarios forming in his head about how he was going to announce that to Chuuya – the older boy wasn’t known for his cold blood.
Once in front of the door separating the two boys, Dazai falters. His fingers– having previously reached the door knob refusing to execute the movement leaving him to his own thoughts. Anyone with a minimum of knowledge about the bandage figure, standing lost in a prison of his own mind, could give you twenty reasons why he should not be left unsurveilled. Unfortunately for them, there he was, his eyes unfocusing, his gaze locked on the hard material–that seemed like metal, up-close. Thankfully, a shift in posture of a subordinate guarding the door made him come back to his senses. He turned the knob and pushed open the door, the cold feeling of the AC left running sending a shiver down his spine. The setting sun caresses his skin and gives an orange hue to his brunette hair.
His scrutiny sweeps the room, searching for a certain ginger. Though it probably wasn’t necessary for him to try and look for the older boy as a very familiar voice starts shouting. “What do you want, shitty Dazai? I told you to never come into my office except for if the building was on fire or the boss was captured.” A grin quickly spreads on the brunette’s face as he closes the—very easily over three meters— door behind him and sits on the older boy’s chair.
“I mean if you’re that mad over your lovely partner taking time out of their day to personally inform you of a new mission instead of sending one of their subordinates, you can just say so,” Dazai answers. A confused look washes over Chuuya’s visage, though it doesn’t last very long as it is replaced by an annoyed expression which was accompanied with a hand movement asking Dazai to elaborate. And honestly, to his credit, he did. It was very rare for the younger boy to not at least push the ginger to the limit of his patience before giving up the smallest bit of information.
The truth being, the quieter of the two already knew the effect this new information would have on Chuuya; it would erode his self-control. Dazai angering him before letting go of the details of the task would only result in Arahabaki fronting. And if anything, we need Chuuya in control of his body—for the time being that is; once the mission is over, he can kill all of UA for all Dazai cares. Watching his partner struggle—so visibly—to resist the urge to hurl his desk out the window was far too satisfying for Dazai to ever acknowledge aloud. Once the ginger started calming down, the younger boy took him by the hand and dragged him to the door. Before opening the door for his partner, the bandaged figure pressed a peck on his cheek—making him slightly blush. The, now set, sun yielded to a crimson moon and its shining stars to bejewel the two shadows.
Packing was fairly easy — for Dazai, that is. The brunette’s closet consisted of several identical suits–all of which looked like they’d been stolen from a Victorian ghost’s wardrobe– and a couple rolls of bandages. He was done in six minutes flat, five of which had been spent deciding whether or not to bring the bandage roll with the smiley face pattern. Chuuya, on the other hand, had declared war on his closet approximately forty-five minutes ago, and the battlefield that had once been their shared living room now looked like an haute couture murder scene.
“You don’t need six pairs of boots when we will be given uniforms,” Dazai had pointed out, hanging upside down from the doorframe like a bat.
“And since when do you care whenever I follow the rules or not?” Chuuya shot back, his voice slightly muffled as he tried to shove a silk shirt into a suitcase already bursting at the seams. “Besides, you wouldn’t get it. You’ve worn the same coat since the Meiji Restoration.”
Dazai might’ve laughed. Some say he also made fun of Chuuya’s inability to travel light, which may or may not have led to the mysterious hole in the drywall by the shoe rack. Others believe that particular incident had more to do with the bowling ball thrown in at him last year, but no witness has dared to confirm. Either way, after some minor threats of violence and a promise from Dazai not to turn Chuuya’s fedora into a makeshift ramen bowl again, the ginger reluctantly agreed to leave behind three jackets, two belts, and a single pair of gloves. Progress.
By the time they left the house and made their way toward the station, peace had settled like a fragile ceasefire. That peace lasted until they reached Shin-Yokohama Station—where Dazai stopped dead in his tracks.
“Oh no, ” he muttered, his eyes wide. “I forgot to check if FamilyMart had Yaki Imo…”
There was a full two seconds of silence before Chuuya sighed and turned on his heel. “We’re not going back.”
But they did. Of course they did. Because Dazai ‘needed closure.’ Spoiler alert: they were out of Yaki Imo. Eighteen thousand yen—charged to Mori’s card—and two Shinkensen tickets later, the bandaged menace was already skipping ahead to the Hikari platform, claiming he needed to ‘mentally prepare for sitting still for ninety whole minutes.’ Which was a lie. A blatant, shameless lie. Chuuya knew it. Dazai knew it. The elderly lady two steps behind them definitely knew it.
Not even twenty minutes into the ride, Dazai had vanished under the pretense of ‘stretching his legs.’ He returned an entire stop later with one missing shoelace, a complimentary pamphlet for a Buddhist temple in Kyoto, and a biberon. No one asked. Chuuya sure as hell didn’t.
They finally arrived in Shizuoka Prefecture, greeted by clear skies and one very relieved passenger who had spent the ride trapped beside Dazai and now resembled a war veteran post-trench. The woman dropped her senbei three times during the ride, each time thanks to the brunette’s sudden movements, and muttered a very heartfelt prayer of thanks to Kami when he stood up to leave. Chuuya gave her a look of mutual sympathy.
The flat Mori had arranged was small, functional, and completely lacking in personal charm—until Dazai immediately shoved the two single beds together to create a makeshift king-size and flung himself dramatically onto the centre.
“Oi,” Chuuya said, voice heavy with exhaustion. “At least change your clothes first.”
“But Chibikkooooo,” came the whiny reply from the tangled mass of limbs and bandages. “I’m so tired.”
Chuuya didn’t even bother arguing. One swift movement later, Dazai was being yanked up by the back of his shirt and deposited beside the suitcase he hadn’t unpacked. The moment his feet hit the floor, he let out a melodramatic groan loud enough to wake the spirits of every samurai who ever lived in the region.
They say time flies when you’re having fun. But Chuuya would argue that whoever came up with that phrase had never spent a week rooming with Dazai. The past seven days had been a psychological experiment in patience. Every single afternoon at exactly 2PM, Dazai would vanish into the shopping district and return one hour later on the dot wearing a different colour variation of the same “I ♥ SHIZUOKA” shirt, all purchased from the same tourist trap gift shop.
And every evening at the local convenience store, the brunette would gasp at the shelves.
“Oh WOW! Is that a microwavable oden bowl?”
The cashier, who clearly hadn’t been paid enough for this, stopped blinking three days ago.
Still, the week had passed faster than expected. Too fast, in fact. Which was suspicious in and of itself, because now it was today —and today was the UA entrance exam.
Something felt… wrong.
Dazai was too quiet. Too composed. Which for Dazai, meant something was deeply unhinged beneath the surface.
Chuuya had spent the morning reviewing the exam structure: a standard written test followed by a physical trial that was, in his opinion, a glorified blood sport. According to the principal’s statements, they supposedly evaluated strategy, composure, adaptability, and strength. That sounded nice in theory. But in practice? Unless your Quirk–or Ability, for that matter– could make explosions, split mountains, or summon lightning bolts from your ears, you could just go home, and the results would be the same.
Sure, Chuuya’s Upon the Tainted Sorrow made him the perfect candidat. But Dazai?
Well, Nullification didn’t look very impressive when you were being chased by thirty robot death machines with flamethrowers.
So Chuuya asked what he was planning to do. A totally normal question that will get a totally normal response, right? Wrong.
He smiled. A slow smile. Wide. Devilish. Not quite human.
“Oh, I’ll manage,” he said simply, “I have a strategy.”