This fic is a sequel to Mafia Boy.

tangled (not good at parting)

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1

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She isn't drunk.

Unlike most her colleagues, alcohol doesn't affect her easily. She is usually the one who has to take care of her friends after parties or when they go out; it makes her feel like a babysitter sometimes, but God knows what those lightweights would do without her.

Two glasses of wine have hardly any effect on her.

Yet Yosano feels a burning pain in her stomach, an itchy heat that reaches all the way up to her throat. Because she isn't used to drinking wine –she doesn't even like it–, she supposes.

A shiver runs down her spine when a new sip wets her swelled up lips. She sets the glass on the windowsill, lets her gaze wander over the city lights. The wind brings silence through the window, but she knows better than to let the quietness fool her.

Yokohama is alive at night, perhaps even more than during daytime if one knows where to look; her jaw tenses when she wonders whether any of the lights hurting her eyes is shedding is wrapping him up in its warmth too.

Trembling fingers grab the glass again, bring its edge to her mouth. Yet she doesn't tilt it enough for the red liquid to fall in her mouth. Her hand shakes as she puts the glass down again; her gaze falls, the brim of a hat she should have gotten rid of weeks ago blocking the lights.

As she closes her eyes, a silent realisation sinks in, the warm fabric over her head growing so heavy she fears it'll crush her. Yet at the same time it feels like it's going to fly away, so her free hand reaches for the hat. But not even her firm grip on the brim stops something about it from slipping between her fingers, a fluid that doesn't really exist but she knows is dark soiling her fingers and failing on the floor, where she will never be able to recover it again.

And then she opens her eyes. Her hand is clean and that hat still on her head.

Yosano is suddenly tempted to break the glass on her forehead.

What is she doing, acting like a heartbroken teenager? She isn't even heartbroken, because her heart was never between her legs, because the only feeling she ever let slip between Chuuya and her was complicity so that nobody found out.

For nothing, because they did.

But Yosano doesn't miss Chuuya. She doesn't think about his eyes or the way his locks keep stubbornly falling on his face no matter how many times she pushes them off. When she closes her eyes, it's not his lopsided grin what she sees engraved behind her lids.

She isn't in love. She is old enough to tell her own feelings apart.

Rather, she misses his chuckle against her skin, the tingling trail of kisses and bites his lips left in their wake. She yearns for the almost painful force pushing them together, the noises he made in her ear as those annoying red locks tickled her neck. The way he slid apologetic fingers against her flourishing little bruises at sunrise, when light bathed her skin.

Yosano doesn't miss Chuuya. She barely knows him enough to find something to get attached to.

And yet, as she slouches on the windowsill, she can't stop longing for those nights that won't come back.

.

Chuuya is out of Yokohama when he's summoned for a Five Executives meeting.

He is in a small village, getting rid of a small organisation whose leader thought they could outsmart the Port Mafia and deceive them without facing the consequences. He picks up right after sinking his knife down a woman's back, can't keep an annoyed expression out of his face when Mori's deceitfully sweet voice comes from the speaker. He has told his colleagues he doesn't like being interrupted during a mission countless times; yet he knows can't snap at his superior.

So he grits his teeth, assures Mori he'll be in Yokohama in a few hours and leaves his subordinates by themselves, confident enough that they can handle the situation without his help from now on. At dawn he is back at the Mafia headquarters, so tired he could fall asleep on his feet but knowing he can't ditch work.

Kouyou throws a disapproving glance at him as soon as he steps into the meeting room, but Chuuya doesn't particularly care about his bloodstained clothes right now. He practically falls on his chair, finding his eyelids heavier with every blink as he waits for the other Executives to arrive.

He flinches when the door is closed with excessive force, glances around in confusion until he spots Mori walking to his seat.

"Dan-kun is in England, but since everybody else is here, we can start."

Chuuya frowns. Looks around again, gaze stopping for a moment on the empty chair in front of him.

"Aren't we waiting for Kobayashi-san?"

Mori raises his eyebrows in surprise. "Didn't Kouyou-kun tell you? He's actually the reason we're having this meeting," he explains when Chuuya fails to show any sign of acknowledgement.

"Did something happen?"

"His health has worsened, yet again," Kouyou interjects. She doesn't meet Chuuya's bewildered, now painfully awake gaze.

Because knowing his colleague has been ill for months, since before they found out his right-hand man had been giving him a slow-acting poison, is one thing, and Chuuya is aware it's serious; but Kouyou's voice is thick with something that isn't the worry that has been laced to her tone whenever she talked about the matter throughout the last months.

It's resignation, and Chuuya doesn't like it in the very least.

"It pains me to say it," Mori adds, "but I don't think he'll last longer than two weeks."

Chuuya grits his teeth. Nobody in that room really believes Mori is remotely sorry for Kobayashi.

"Then," he starts, uncertain about whether he wants to be right, "we've been summoned here to…"

"So we talk about his successor," Kouyou interrupts him.

"If we wait until he's gone it'll be a chaos," Mori agrees, nodding slightly. "I don't want the mess from four years ago to repeat."

Under the table, Chuuya's hands are closed into fists. "He's not dead yet," he hisses.

There is a tense pause as Mori smiles softly.

"While I find your faith in Kobayashi-kun nothing short of admirable, miracles are too rare to be relied on."

A miracle.

A shudder shakes Chuuya's whole being. He thinks about a woman he once fought against, then about the same woman melting in his arms and laughing against his skin, about the stupid nickname pronounced in hundreds different ways in grey hotel rooms where nothing but them mattered.

And then he thinks about Dazai's warning and the loose threads of a story he both wants to know and isn't really interested in.

Chuuya parts his lips, then presses them together.

"What if…" escapes between them, though, attracting everyone's glances.

"Yes, Chuuya-kun?" Mori's smile vanishes, replaced by an interested expression.

Chuuya closes his eyes. Nobody in the Mafia knows anything about them; only Dazai and the poor soul that has to be his partner these days, and the Armed Detective Agency hardly counts as a threat for him.

Plus, she'll be safe; Mori wouldn't wipe such a useful ability user out so quickly.

And Chuuya doesn't want Kobayashi to die, not after how hard he has fought for months.

"What if Kobayashi-san gets better?" he finally forces out of his mouth.

Mori's eyes widen in surprise.

"How?" Kouyou mutters.

Chuuya stands up, finally making up his mind. "Boss, I ask for a week. If Kobayashi isn't better by then, then––"

Something cold falls on Chuuya's stomach when Mori smirks, painful enough to stop him from talking anymore.

"You seem to have an idea, Chuuya-kun." The Boss stands up too. "Now I'm curious…" Chuuya fights the need to look away from those dark eyes. "But then it wouldn't be fun, would it? I'll let you give it a try." Chuuya forces himself to nod. "We'll hold another meeting next week, then, to discuss the two best candidates to become Executives."

Chuuya barely flinches when Kouyou's fist slams on the table. He stares at Mori, confused until realisation slowly dawns on him.

"Two." he repeats, mouth dry.

Mori's smile is sickeningly sweet when he smooths his shirt out. "I don't like wasting my time, Chuuya-kun. If your idea is fruitless, it will mean it was a mistake… And I don't like making mistakes once, let alone twice. What do you say?"

Chuuya bites the inside of his cheeks. He is nowhere near sure he'll be able to convince her, let alone to keep Mori as far from the matter as possible. Hell, he doesn't even know whether her ability will be enough.

"Alright."

Mori claps his hands together. "Wonderful! I can't wait to know what makes you so confident."

Chuuya's eyes widen. An exhaustion that has nothing to do with his hectic night clings to his body, drags him down with more force than he can counteract with his ability. He swallows down, his throat painfully dry.

No.

"Sure."

Even though his voice doesn't falter, Chuuya feels oddly weak as he drags his feet out of the room.

"Is everything alright, Chuuya?" Kouyou asks quietly. "You look pale."

There is something bitter in his mouth when Chuuya nods, not minding Kouyou doesn't believe his obvious lie.

He only cares about one thing in this moment.

He knows.

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It's past midnight when she gets back home, dress creased and high heels heavy in her hand. Red lipstick stains her neck and shoulders and a floral scent clings to her clothes, fresh yet strangely calming.

Not switching the lights on, Yosano lets her shoes at the entrance and drags her feet towards her bedroom, a lazy, satisfied smile still on her lips. It won't last –lately nothing ever does– but right now she allows herself to bask in the fresh memory of the hands tickling down her sides, in the long, red hair tangled with her fingers just an hour ago.

She notices something is off before stepping into the bedroom, though. Her nose wrinkles when she senses a new smell, bitter yet strangely pleasant.

Yosano grabs the hideous vase she only has to keep her mother happy, holds her breathing as she leans her head on the doorframe, soon locating the intruder inside. She breathes out slowly, opens the door in one quick move and storms in.

It's too dark to aim, but the vase breaks against the wall, pretty close to the dark silhouette that crouches down to dodge it.

"Wa––"

Yosano reaches for her purse to grab a small knife as the figure dashes towards her, letting out a pained grunt when she's pinned against the wall; she raises her hand, scrapes the stranger as she gathers momentum to slice a white, white throat embellished with a black choker. Strong fingers curl around her wrist before she can get rid of her attacker, though.

Her arm trembles, even though it hasn't been up for too long, too heavy to keep that position; Yosano still fights against that invisible force, against a certainty that should mean nothing, manages to move her hand until the knife is pressed against that throat, teeth gritted as both her hand and the stranger's tremble out of exertion.

"Would you mind," a familiar voice hisses, "not trying to kill me even before I talk to you?"

Yosano narrows her eyes.

"Would you mind not making my arm fall off?"

Chuuya chuckles, raises his head to look at her. In the dim room Yosano can barely discern his blue eyes, but she does see the blood trickling down his cheek from where she has just cut him.

"Let go of the knife."

"Let go of me."

The hand that isn't grabbing Yosano's wrist is on her shoulder, pressing her with too much force against the wall.

A sigh leaves Chuuya's lips. "On the count of three?"

"Sounds fair." And Yosano really hopes he keeps his promise, because her arm alone feels heavier than the rest of her body. "One?"

"Two…"

"Three."

They say it at the same time, Chuuya letting go of her wrist and taking a couple steps back and Yosano uncurling her fingers as air gets easily into her lungs again. The knife jingles on the floor as they stare at each other cautiously. It's strange, Yosano thinks, how different everything is now; the last time she saw Chuuya they were desperate to get rid of the air between them, while now…

Now it's the way it should be.

Chuuya breaks the silence first.

"So? Did you have fun?" Yosano knows he's talking about the lipstick smeared all over her shoulders, and part of her curses Chuuya's sharp night vision.

"I had a good time," she admits, shrugging. "Why are you in my house?"

Chuuya raises his arms. "Don't look at me like that. I'm not here to get rid of you or anything. It's true!" he insists when Yosano raises a sceptic eyebrow. "I could have killed you five times since you set a foot inside the building, anyway."

"I guess that's why you're the one bleeding, then," Yosano teases back.

"I'm not here to hurt you."

"Your methods beg to differ, Mafia Boy."

Chuuya huffs, obviously annoyed. "Anyway, can I talk to you?"

After switching the light on, Yosano sits on the chair of her desk, facing Chuuya, who has made himself comfortable on her bed and presses a handkerchief to his bleeding wound, his hat laying next to him. She purposefully ignores the mess the vase has been reduced to; she'll worry about her mother's reaction later.

"So?" Yosano prompts.

Chuuya exhales slowly.

"Your ability allows you to heal anything," he starts. Yosano raises an eyebrow, but keeps quiet. "Poisoning too?"

"As long as it's lethal, yes," she confirms.

Chuuya's expression lightens up. "That's good. Great." He toys with the brim of his hat. "Because I need your help."

"Don't worry, that cut is not even infected."

"It's not for me." Chuuya bites his lower lip. "An Executive has been ill for a while, but now he's–– What?"

Yosano's eyes widen for a second. She shakes her head, lips tense. "I'm not saving a mafioso's life," she states. "What for? So dozens of people keep dying because of him?"

"That's not––" Chuuya grits his teeth. "He isn't––"

"You can't even make up an excuse," Yosano interrupts him. She can't keep sadness out of her tone. "He probably deserves what happens to him."

She watches as Chuuya's hands curl into fists, face straight even under his furious glare.

"Do you really think all we do is killing people?"

"Killing them, hurting them, making their lives miserable." Yosano looks down. "Nothing good, in any case."

"Then what about you?" She knows letting her guard down in front of an enemy is, at best, foolish, but she doesn't raise her gaze even when she hears Chuuya stand up. "Aren't you supposed to help people? Or only those that meet your standards?"

Yosano jolts up, driven by a wrath she hasn't felt in a long time. She doesn't mind the chair falls behind her.

"Who do you think you are?" she hisses, gritting her teeth, walking up to Chuuya in two strides. "You don't have any right to talk about morals when all you do is fucking people's lives up."

Handkerchief forgotten on the floor, blood keeps flowing from the wound in Chuuya's cheek. He hasn't complained about it yet; he doesn't even seem to feel any pain as red droplets drip from his chin, staining the collar of his white shirt.

"So you are the judge, then?" he spits. "You refuse to treat bad people. Does that include thieves? And scammers? How about rapists and bullies? Does it depend on how serious the crime was? Oh, wait, you get to decide that."

Yosano grits her teeth. "Shut up."

"By the way." Chuuya's gaze turns suddenly taunting, eyes narrowing, "what about Dazai? I bet you would help him, and I bet you don't have the slightest idea of the things he has done."

It takes a lot for Yosano not to push him away. Drawing in a sharp breath she turns around, lifts the fallen chair and grabs the back with both hands, trying to stop them from trembling.

"Why is that guy so important?" she demands to know.

The silence between them seems to spread for hours.

"I just don't want him to die." He sounds hesitant, and Yosano doesn't need to look at him to know it's a lie. Or at least, it's not the whole answer. "So?"

Yosano turns around. She shouldn't feel so tired.

"You know I'm not supposed to help the Mafia, right?"

Chuuya looks down.

"Yeah."

Then, quietly:

"I'm sorry."

Light steps take Yosano back to Chuuya. She holds his chin with her fingers, carefully tilts his face up. There are thousands of conflicting feelings in that blue gaze, but his determination is clear.

"So am I."

Yosano still smells the faint scent of the woman she spent the evening with. It doesn't stop her from inching closer, from brushing Chuuya's lips once again. And she knows she will regret it, she knows she will need twice as many nights as she spent with Chuuya to stop thinking about this, but right now there is nothing she wishes more than this quiet moment.

"I'll think about it," she whispers as she draws back.

Chuuya's mouth hangs open for a moment; then he looks aside.

"Tomorrow I'll be busy, but the day after I'll come to hear you answer." He steps back and grabs his hat from the bed. "Well, good night."

Yosano only calls after him when she hears the entrance door opening. "I could clean your wound."

She doesn't know why the lack of an answer bothers her, but it does.

.

Did Chuuya say he trusted his subordinates to get rid of a minor organisation by themselves?

Well, he takes it back.

In their defence, the organisation had their gifted members very well hidden. Which isn't really an excuse, because not even two days after the attempt Mori thwarted he finds himself at their base again, hoping to finish this in time to see Yosano again.

He walks into a building that stands in a clearing of the forest through the main door, not bothering to hide. He doesn't know what abilities those people have, exactly, but Chuuya's gift is powerful enough to deal with them– and it's not like he's defenceless even if it isn't effective, anyway.

He orders his men to register the ground floor, while he climbs the stairs to explore the first one on his own. Nobody calls for him, so Chuuya assumes there is no one down there. He kicks every door open, hands in his pockets as he whistles between his teeth; part of him is disappointed those rats have locked themselves up in the highest floor. He might be in a rush, but he always enjoys a good fight. They are stimulating.

His frown deepens when it turns out the second floor is empty, too. Chuuya sincerely hopes they aren't in the third and last one; nobody can be that stupid, not even those third-rate thieves.

A smirk makes its way to his lips when he hears the unmistakable sound of a trigger being pulled. The bullet stops as soon as it touches his back, jingles as it falls on the floor. Chuuya turns around, excitement bubbling in his stomach as he dashes towards the door his attacker is hiding behind––

All trace of colour leaves his face.

Chuuya's gaze wanders over the astounding amount of explosive piled up in the room, fixes on the man that still holds a gun in one hand and a remote in the other, thumb hovering over the only button it has.

There is no time to stop him.

Chuuya can only yell for his subordinates to evacuate the building as the man detonates the bomb.

After that everything is blurry. The blast throws Chuuya back, with enough force to break a window; Chuuya's ears ring as he falls down through cold air, gaze fixed on a moon that drifts further and further away and a panicked voice in the back of his mind tells him that he's falling, that he has to do something…

Perhaps it's instinct, then, what activates his ability to slow down his fall; it hurts when his back hits the ground, but way less than he supposes it should have. He doesn't move, too dazed to even try yet; instead he lays there, staring at the sky and wondering why everything is suddenly so silent all of a sudden until several faces block the view.

Enemies.

Too calmly, Chuuya presses his palm to the ground. He closes his eyes for a second, slightly reassured when he listens to the cracks of the earth and those people's cries as they fall into the improvised craters.

He hasn't gone deaf, at least.

His limbs tremble as he sits up, slowly more aware of the pain running through his whole body. He wipes blood from his chin, realising the cut Yosano gave him last night has reopened. The memory makes him smile, for some reason.

Chuuya stumbles a bit when he stands up, but upon closer inspection he concludes his injures don't seem serious. He looks around, spots the crumbling building he was in only minutes ago.

A flash of panic shoots through his whole body, momentarily sharpening his senses as he remembers his men must be still there. Heart beating in his throat, Chuuya limps towards the building, shuddering even though he isn't cold.

They can't be dead.

They can't be dead.

The only thought that hammers in his muddy mind is too loud, too overwhelming; Chuuya feels like throwing up.

Perhaps that's why he doesn't register the three shots tearing the night apart.

And that's definitely the reason he does nothing to stop them.

He only feels two impacts. The first one tears a scream off his throat, more surprised than pained, while the second one cuts it off along with his breathing as he falls again, down, down, down to a hungry darkness his ability can't protect him from.