His love was unconditional. It was the ultimate form of love.
Some might say it's maniacal, but he begs to disagree. Because in this matter only he himself could know. Maybe he's the only one who discovered it, this depth of devotion and attachment.
He knows that his love is real, because anything less wouldn't give him enough courage to do what he was doing now.
He sat in a cramp cleaning supplies cabinet in one of the oldest apartments in town. The owner used to be a feisty teenager who got tattoos from him.
Though there is no love lost between the both of them, with a little bribe and a little cunning he got this cramped space for his temporary workshop.
Of course, he hid the fact that he was pursued by the Port Mafia. No one would risk his life to take in a dead man, after all.
A dead man.
That's what he will be— very soon. But before that, he has something that he must do, no matter what.
So he took a shaking breath, wiped at the stream of sweat that dripped down the sides of his face and into his eye.
He hadn't worked on this design for some time now, because of the chaos of fleeing for his life.
But had he done it a thousand times, it wouldn't have been enough, because what he's doing is different, this time.
He winces as he once again laid the needle to his own flesh, looking back and forth between his actual torso and the one in the mirror, and the reference photos and designs clipped all around the place.
Tattooing yourself is hard work, you see, and really painful. But it's going to be worth it.
It's going to be worth it because at least before the mafias catch him and he dies, he could finally meet the love of his life—
—He could finally meet Arahabaki.
Then something pushed his head forward into the needle, piercing deep into his skin.
There was a click of metal, and his eyes widened in terror.
He was caught.
"Now, this hideout is particularly low-end, considering it's the enemy who's up against Chuuya."
A cold voice said from behind him, unexpectedly lightly, but icily emotionless.
"The least you could do is be a little fashionable about it."
"Port Mafia...?" The tattooist breathed.
"Four years ago, the answer would have been yes. I would have told you, I am the Demon Prodigy, the youngest executive of the Port Mafia... but no longer. I defected."
Port Mafia has a nasty reputation of horribly executing every single traitor. And this man said he defected four years ago.
The Port Mafia had let such a key personnel evade their grasp for 4 long years. And that man now hold a gun to his head.
Cold sweat runs down his spine.
"We have time, let's have a little chat, shall we?"
"What do you want from me?"
"Oh, nothing. I want nothing from you. But the right question would be, what do I want to do to you."
"W- Why should that even matter? I'm not targeting anyone. I'm staying well out of mafia territory! What could you possibly want with me!?"
"I said I'm not with the Port Mafia anymore, didn't I? If I was, you'd be far more lucky."
"Lucky?" The cold metal barrel didn't left his temple, nor did it move or shake at all. Could he move fast enough to slap it away and fight hand to hand?
"Well, your ability is quite interesting, Mori-san would want to recruit you. Fortunately, I don't have that restriction."
He whipped his arm in a wide arc, knocking the gun away surprisingly. The thing clattered to the other end of the tiny room and hit the wall.
Then a boot slammed down on the hand he'd used to swipe away the handgun.
The crush of bones.
"Arghhhh!"
"For example, Mori-san would have to preserve your hand, because your ability is dependant on the use of it. Fortunately—"
The boot clamped down harder, more cracks of bone. He grunted painfully.
"Fortunately, I don't have that restriction."
The former Demon Prodigy shifted the weight back to his other leg, lifting the crushing hold on his hand, but before he could even let out a sigh of relieve, that boot swung up and found his chin.
He hit the wall painfully, but through the stars he remembered the gun. Remembered it clattering against this very wall.
Footsteps came his way.
He groped for the gun, found it, and grunted at the pain of the impact his smashed hand made with the object.
He made the mistake of looking down at it, and was greeted with the awful sight of a bloody mess contrasted with stark white bones jutting out.
He felt faint.
"Do you even know what you did with your power, tattooist? You can tattoo symbols representing an ability user on someone to imitate that power, I know you know at least that much. Kenji-kun's character was straightforward, so that was easy, I imagine. Other's abilities and personalities are far more complicated, so you've only tried Kenji-kun and Chuuya— who has literal symbols on his skin when he uses Corruption."
Dazai has never been the kind to talk too much during interrogations. It only wastes time and let the enemy recuperate. The key to torture was to hurt the victim right as they were going to recover, keeping them out of breath, letting them lapse out of defense mode, and hitting them before they could recover.
Dazai kicked the gun away. With the proximity to the tattooist's hand, and the grunt that it incurred, he suspects that it hurt.
"But do you know that your ability triggers theirs?" Dazai asked still coldly. But he could feel the anger, rising in him, hot and suffocating.
"Do you know how much Chuuya suffered because of your stupid ability? Do you know how taxing Corruption is to the body? Do you know how painful it is when every single organ in the body is overworked, aching from the inside out?"
His voice was rising— not good. What is this feeling? He had been in the Port Mafia for years, and never felt like this. He wants this damned ability user to suffer, to break him, destroy him, over and over and over. To never ever ever ever let him die. To make him wallow in eternal pain and fear and utter despair.
"But you do know, didn't you?"
Dazai questioned.
He was breathing harder now. His heart was racing. It was so unlike him to feel like this. The man who'd hurt Chuuya lies there on the floor, several bones broken, limbs mangled.
"You do know how taxing the power is on the body. Your test subjects fucking died every time you tested it! You knew! You knew and you fucking—!"
"Dazai-san."
Dazai stopped abruptly, resumed a calm posture.
"What, Akutagawa, I told you stand guard outside, didn't I?"
"Are you going to kill him, Dazai-san?" Akutagawa asked, equally emotionlessly. "If not, I will."
"No." Dazai said immediately, gliding to Akutagawa and laid a hand on his shoulder so he couldn't do anything rash with his ability.
I want to torture him forever. Was something Dazai would never admit to anyone, least of all his former mentee.
"He poses too much risk, Dazai-san, you know that! If we let him live, there is every chance he would find a way to do something behind our backs! As long as he is alive, his power can be activated and Chuuya-san can be in danger!"
"I know that!" Dazai snapped.
He fought hi own rage. Reached for the gun. Aimed.
"Death is far too good a fate for you." Dazai pronounced,
But before he could pull the trigger, there was a thin, reedy voice from the limp body.
"You c- can't kill... me."
"What?" Akutagawa asked in surprise, and Dazai stayed his hand on the trigger.
Between heavy breathing, the tattooist pushed himself up with his good hand. The pistol moved with him, fixed on his forehead.
"I planted a— a bomb, you see. Tattooed… one last subject. Twenty-something lad. Foreign tourist. Slight. Blue eyes. Red hair. Beautiful lad really….. he was desperate. All my— victims— were that way."
Dazai's grip on the gun tightened.
"So, you see. That lad's— in hiding, somewhere. If he ever operates his power, you'll need to touch me to disable it. You… need me. As an insurance."
Dazai's hand on the gun was gripped so tight it was shaking. Akutagawa had never seen his mentor this out of control before.
"Or…. you could let your own redhead die."
Dazai gritted his teeth and with a sudden movement thrown the gun at the sitting tattooist, it hit him in the head so hard that the guy was knocked down once again.
"Akutagawa, bind him,"
When he did, Akutagawa saw blood, flowing from his head. The gun was in pieces a distance away. Turning to go, his brown coat fluttering, the Demon Prodigy added, "And Akutagawa? Make it painful."
Obediently, the man tightened his cloak-strip Rashoumon around their captive, carefully avoiding vital parts, but opted for non-vital, nerve-filled sensitive areas. He would much prefer a clean killing, but for Chuuya-san, he could do as much.
After the shady pair left, a figure stepped out of the shadows. His blue eyes were well adjusted to the darkness of the dusk, and had no trouble seeing the blood stains, the broken gun, and the blood-soaked tattooing equipments that makes his bile rise.
These things were also the origin of the noises he had been overhearing for the last half hour.
The redhead sighed deeply, expressing his frustration. He probably should be heading back to the hospital now. It's almost time for the nurses' rounds.
Adjusting his hat, Nakahara Chuuya descended the stairs of the run-down apartment, and headed back the way he'd come.
