Chapter Text
★☆★☆★
Nakahara Chuuya getting into fights – and winning, somehow – whenever he ingests more than a couple of drops of alcohol is one of the mainstay displays of the Port Mafia Bar.
There’s no weekend that passes by without the sight of the curly-haired man hollering insults to everyone within a ten-meter radius, nursing the most expensive glass of wine, swinging his fists about without any clear intent to hurt.
Of course, it always starts that way – but before the evening is over, he unfailingly ends up yelling some absurd battlecry while punching and kicking someone, or several someones, just like that one time.
His drunken rampage is popular - and destructive - enough that the bartenders all know to move any expensive furniture prior to Chuuya Fridays. It’s a relief that his display is entertaining enough for the bar to not warrant a television or pool table or anything too expensive and too breakable to attract patrons.
There’s even an betting pool as to when would the Chuuya Fridays stop from being a Thing, as well as another betting pool as to the identity of the person who can defeat the aptly nicknamed ‘Drunken Kung Fu Master’.
There’s an ongoing estimate that ninety percent of Port Mafia Bar guests during Fridays are here to watch the spectacle.
This Friday doesn’t disappoint - Chuuya’s already shouting about ‘dead fish eyes’ and ‘slug-like idiots’ and some other things that can only be some foreign language. There’s a stoic Russian patron who makes a downright horrified face when he hears one of the incomprehensible words from Chuuya’s mouth, just as there’s a gruff-looking Englishman who chuckles wryly at one of the drunken ramblings.
In ten more minutes, Chuuya’s already swaying and dragging a whole table of rowdy university seniors into a fight.
The rest of the patrons vacant their seats and form an spectator’s circle, the bet for the people finally wiping the floor with Chuuya ongoing.
It’s not a very interesting bet for the night, since Chuuya’s flexible and quick enough to avoid the wide swings of fists, but he’s apparently a seasoned fighter to a point that one uppercut from him suffices to knock someone twice his size.
There’s only two or so students left and the crowd’s cheers for more action has calmed down considerably.
Chuuya’s swaying in his feet, about to keel over from sheer drunkenness.
“Come onnnnn, leshgoooo fuckersss.”
“You are very strong for someone of your stature,” a voice that anyone who’s worth his dime knows surfaces from the crowd. Even the whimpering university student stops pleading for his life, mainly to stop his nose from being broken, in respect to the intruder.
Chuuya punches the coward in his grip anyway and doesn’t care about the interruption.
“Just like a cute sheepdog barking,” the voice continues and the word ‘sheepdog’ triggers a reaction from Chuuya.
“mnot a sheepdog!” Chuuya bares his teeth at the person who just made himself known. “Take that back, you fucking fuck!”
“Very cute,” the voice says and Chuuya leaps to pummel the other down.
He ends up missing by a slight margin, but the press of the fist on his diaphragm stutters his entire momentum and bile rises from his throat but before he can throw up, black curtains fall on his vision and—
★☆★☆★
Urgh.
Shit.
Just like all the Saturdays before, those are the two words that first crawl out of Chuuya’s mind. His eyes aren’t even open yet, but he’s already dreading the burn of sunlight against his sight, already dreading the cardboard-like texture of his bedsheets that makes him want to hurl his intestines out into his older-than-him bedside rug.
Urgh.
He mentally counts to ten, before forcing his eyes open, wincing in advance as preparation for the noontime sunlight to incinerate him on the spot.
No burning whatsover happens and waitaminute.
Thick curtains are covering the window, which cannot be the case, because he’s too poor to afford curtains thicker than flimsy lace. Come to think of it, even the cushion underneath his back is way too soft compared to what he’s used to.
He closes his eyes.
He mentally counts to fifty this time, before opening them again. Nope, there’s still the thick cur tains. He pinches himself for good measure, but the view in front of him doesn’t change.
Did he pass out and hit his head against the pavement???
What’s going on???
The possibility that he got kidnapped is too laughable - he has money only for wine and maybe an occasional imported limited-edition book or two, but he has nothing to spare for ransom.
Shit.
He’s not wearing yesterday’s clothes - he’s actually wearing clean, silk-soft pajamas.
What the everloving fuck.
He staggers out of the bed, eyebrows shooting up when he spots a glass of water, an extra bottle of water, two pills of aspirin, and a short note about ‘Hope you don’t get that bad of a hangover ♪’.
Fucking shit what the hell’s happening.
He downs the medicine with the water provided, moderately grateful that the person who apparently kidnapped him is being so considerate. It’s possible he’s in a coma now and he’s in those weird coma experiences where he’s living a great life yadda yadda. He eyes the bedroom door, judging whether he should actually venture out of this not-really locked room experience.
Before he can even make that decision, the door opens and in comes his apparent savior. He barely remembers him, something pinging in his stomach about something important, but he does remember bits and pieces, and his mouth goes dry even though he just downed water.
“Good morning!” The man says, smiling as though world peace has just been granted, clapping bandaged hands together. “I’m Dazai!”
There’s a pause and Chuuya doesn’t know how to react.
“It’s such a nice day, isn’t it?” Dazai gestures to the windows that are covered by the curtains. The smile grows wider, friendliness and affection oozing out of him. “It’s nice to meet you!”
“...I’m sorry for punching you!” He blurts out, bowing his head in horror. “I’m really sorry!”
There’s another pause but Chuuya doesn’t pay it any heed because shit he just got helped out by the guy he tried to beat up yesterday! Stupid, idiot, it’s fucking embarrassing!
“I’m not really mad, but I’d feel better if you eat breakfast with me to compensate for my trouble~~~”
“S-Sure,” Chuuya agrees automatically, because damn it, anything to make up for his behavior last night!
Though... He’s not really sure how eating breakfast together is supposed to make up for it...?
★
“...Hey, isn’t that man...”
“Yeah. Isn’t he that Demon?”
“He’s even creepier and more stoic in person!”
“...just like a walking block of ice, really.”
“Shouldn’t we rescue the Drunken Kung Fu Master?”
“And go against that Demon?! Fuck no!”
“Poor guy, he doesn’t deserve being involved in that mess...”