art by visualtrashman he/xem|23|

Dazai was walking the streets of Yokohoma on a particularly melancholy and cold night, expecting the usual silence of the sleeping city and a certain loneliness that seemed to follow him on nights like these. However, he was not expecting to run into you.

He heard of you through rumors, the new Demon Prodigy of the Port Mafia. You didn’t realize he was standing at the entrance of an alleyway, too busy cleaning up the mess you made during the mission—no witnesses was what Mori said. You turned your back, surprised to see him. Who would be stupid enough to wander these parts of Yokohoma at this time of night?

Instinctively, you pulled out your pistol, pointing it at the man who stood a few strides away.

“Relax, It’s me.” he says, his voice calm and composed. You weren’t sure who it was, walking closer. The streetlights aided your vision and revealed the identity of the man. You only saw him in pictures, documents. Heard of him through stories from Mafia executives—Osamu Dazai. Former Demon prodigy.

It felt…weird. Standing in front of the man who once held the same title as you did. “You look way too young to be holding that. Seriously, does Mori still make kids work for him?” Dazai hums, redirecting your pistol downwards with his finger, careful not to put too much pressure.

“Are you–”

“Osamu Dazai? Yes. I am.”

He looked at you, taking note of how awfully young you looked. Perhaps you were the same age as him when he was still Demon Prodigy.

“How old are you, kid? Don’t you have a bed time?”

“...I’m busy, if you haven’t noticed. Please leave.”

Dazai wasn’t one to judge someone’s character so quickly, but looking at you was almost like looking at a mirror. You even had the same coat Mori gave him. It was uncanny, really—the same eyes, approach, the certain poise he was trained to have—it sent shivers down his spine.

“Huh. You work for Mori?”

“How did you–”

“Kid, you’ve gotta understand that I am not a clueless outsider. I was in the same place as you, you surely must’ve known!” He says in his typical, theatrical tone. “I’ve gotta ask, did your boss miss me that much? He must have! I mean…he went as far as making a copy of me!”

“What are you even talking about?” You retort, the words coming out a lot more aggressive than you intended. “Sorry. You just…talk a lot, huh?” A sigh leaves your lips, wiping away the thin sheen of sweat that rested on your forehead, the adrenaline from the mission wearing off.

Dazai presses a bandaged hand against his chest, as if you had physically pierced his feelings. “You hurt me, kid!” He says, tilting his head to the side. Despite his dramatic attitude, he remains alert. His eyes, sharp as ever, remained cautious with how dangerously close your finger hovered over the grip of the pistol.

“And here I thought the mafia taught the new generation some manners! Respect your seniors–”

“You aren’t my senior, traitor.”

“Whatever…”

He takes a step closer, the cold wind of the city sweeps through the alleyway, carrying the metallic scent of the “mess” you were cleaning up. He didn’t have to squint and look through the shadows, he knew exactly what Mori’s orders looked like. The playful cadence in his voice drops to a casual, almost mocking familiarity. “I talk a lot because you don’t talk enough! You haven’t even told me your name, Demon Prodigy. Let me guess…”

He gestures vaguely at your coat, flashing a sharp grin. “Mori gave you the whole speech of prim and proper mafia etiquette, something like that, didn’t he? How you have a reputation to uphold, and that you were his finest asset, so you should throw away your humanity for the sake of power and the organization?”

He huffs. You click your tongue. Smartass.

He leans against the brick walls of the alleyway casually, a humourless laugh escaping his lips.

“He loves that script! Used it on me, too. It’s funny, really. Did he really think he can just manufacture a perfect executioner if he dresses them up and hands them a gun?”

Dazai looks at you, you can’t tell if his gaze was heavy with something mocking you, or something close to pity, or perhaps a profound sense of nostalgia. “Tell me, kid…do you actually like being a puppet?”

You avert your gaze, avoiding eye contact. “I’m not a puppet. I do this on my own terms.” It was half-lie, half-truth. While you were being honest about doing all this willingly, you couldn’t really convince yourself that you weren’t a puppet. The mafia is all you’ve ever known ever since they picked you up from the streets. A part of you thought that being merciless, but drowning in riches and comfort was better, yet a stubborn part of your heart believed that your humanity was more important. It was a war you fought every waking day, and Dazai could see that. Because he knew.

Oh, he knew.

“Hey, kid…have you eaten yet?” He asks casually, pushing himself off the wall. “You won’t grow if you don’t sleep and eat properly.” Dazai would never admit it, but he saw how tired you looked. Exhausted, even. It was evident in your facial expression and how your body was practically going limp every time a cold breeze came in that you had no fuel in your body.

“Why?”

“There’s a convenience store just a few blocks away!” He says cheerily,

“Go by yourself.”

“No way! The streetlights there are busted, you can’t expect me to walk the scary dark streets alone!”

You scoff, running your fingers through your hair in annoyance at his persistence and stubbornness. “You’re a grown man!”

Dazai throws his hands in the air as if you’ve just accused him of something utterly preposterous. “Age has absolutely nothing to do with the fear of the dark! Besides, I am a very fragile, vulnerable, and delicate civilian now.” He says, gesturing to himself with a mock innocence. “Come on, kid! What if a mugger jumps out, what am I supposed to do? Bore them to death with my charm?”

You stare at him, completely deadpan. You’re holding a loaded gun, standing over a freshly cleaned crime scene, and the former mafia executive is currently whining about a broken streetlamp. The sheer absurdity of it all! It made your head ache. You should shoot him, you could shoot him…but would you? An irrational thought of yours was telling you to just do it and get rid of him, but your curiosity got the best of you. But curiosity often killed the cat.

Beneath the annoyance, your stomach betrayed you.

It lets out a loud, aggressive growl.

You freeze, the silence that follows is deafening. A hot flush of embarrassment rising to your cheeks as you fiercely glared at the concrete floor like it was the most interesting thing in the world. You haven’t eaten since yesterday morning—you were juggling consecutive missions and your rigorous training schedule left you starving, but you didn’t have any room for something as trivial as a lunch break.

A slow, triumphant grin spreads across his stupidly handsome face. “Aha! The stomach of the Demon Prodigy has spoken, and it demands tribute!!” He steps forward, slinging an arm over your shoulder, completely ignoring the pistol you still haven’t fully holstered.

“H-hey! Watch it! I’m holding a loaded weapon!” You yelp, backing away and storing away the gun, but it was still close enough for you to reach when needed.

“Come on. My treat. Consider it as tax for taking over my old job.” Your instinct was telling you to run away, to draw your knife, to scream at him. You should call Mori. You should kill him. But as his hand rests lightly on your shoulder, avoiding any pressure points that would trigger a defensive reflex, you remember something terrifying—you completely forgot his ability could nullify yours.

His touch feels heavy. For a split second, the suffocating weight of your own ability—the power that constantly runs through your veins—simply vanishes. It’s quiet. You could tell he was still cautious. He wasn’t as casual as he seemed to be.

“Don’t look so miserable,” He says softly, his tone shifting just enough for you to catch the underlying gravity. “It’s just the convenience store. The Port Mafia won’t crumble if you take twenty minutes to yourself…and dedicate it to me, of course!”

The walk to the store was oddly…peaceful. You stayed quiet while Dazai hummed a tune, keeping you at arm’s length. You weren’t used to this, walking casually like you were buddies. The only walks you go on were either alone, or with subordinates on the way to a mission.

Dazai didn’t mind your silence or reluctance to chat with him, you were right to be wary about him. But that didn’t stop him from being his usual talkative self. “So, are you gonna tell me your name or will you remain Demon Prodigy in my book?”

“You already know that I’m Demon Prodigy, surely you know my name already.” You say softly, watching as your breath turned into mist in the cold night. It was colder than usual.

“I do! But you gotta say it, that’s how you introduce yourself, right?”

“...Y/N.”

“Nice to meet you, lovely Y/N.”

A few steps later, Dazai spoke once more. He sure knew how to keep the conversation going. “How old are you, kid? Again, you seem terribly young to be out at this hour. Let alone hold a gun.”

“I’m 15.” You admit casually. It wasn’t like you kept it a secret, you just weren’t loud about it. You didn’t see any point in bragging about being younger than most in the mafia, it was all about skill–you often just kept quiet about it in order to avoid condescension.

“Great! Same age as I was when I was in your place.”

You halted abruptly, “Look…you seem to reminisce a lot from when you were an executive. Why’d you turn your back on it if you miss it so much?”

It was quiet for a few moments, the two of you nearing the store. “I never said I missed it.”

Dazai walks into the convenience store, a tired clerk half asleep on the cashier. “Pick out whatever you want, my treat.” was what he said before the two of you separated aisles. You picked out a few items—a soda, some candy, and some hair pins.

“That’s quite an assortment of items you’ve got there, but I’m not sure hairpins taste good with soda.” He hums sarcastically from behind, making you startled. You can feel the exhaustion creeping in—for you, the lack of alertness meant you needed to sleep.

“Seriously, Y/N, You gotta eat *something*. Prodigies have to perform well! Food is fuel, kiddo.”

“Stop calling me that. And I need these hairpins. My hair gets in the way.”

Dazai watches as you tuck your hair behind your ears. You looked so endearing in this aisle—choosing out hair pins for your hair was awfully girly of you.

“I still wonder how they chose a girl like you to be my replacement…” He wonders, rubbing his chin dramatically. “Not that I have a problem with you being a girl, of course! It’s just…you don’t look like a cold-hearted mafioso, really. You look like you’re in high school.”

“I am supposed to be in high school.” You answer with an uninterested tone, looking through the shelves. “But I think I’m smart enough.”

The two of you walked to the cashier, having to tap on the clerk’s shoulder to get him to wake up and scan the items. Dazai insisted he walked you home to wherever you were staying, but you turn him down considering your dorm was still mafia property, and you didn’t want to get involved with any trouble he might face.

Outside the store was quiet, the air was cold. You checked your watch, squinting your eyes to see the hands pointing at the numbers. 2:45AM. You tap on Dazai’s shoulder, showing him the time, “Dazai-san…you should head home. Don’t you have work tomorrow?”

He smiles at your politeness, “Ah, how considerate of you! Seems like you do have manners, haha! But don’t worry about me, Y/N-chan! I’m sure my colleagues are used to me slacking off at work by now!”

“And…stop calling me that.”

“Calling you what?”

“Dazai-san. It’s too formal, especially for a kid as rude as you.”

You roll your eyes, clutching the paper bag that carried your items. With a sigh, you looked at him, seeing the dumb grin he had plastered on his face. “What should I call you then?”

“Dazai-nii.”