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If asked, there were ten reasons Chuuya was dyeing his hair. Who exactly was going to stop him?
—
i.
He lost a bet with that shitty Dazai.
Scowling at the pair of plastic gloves like they personally offended him, he snatched the box dye from its place on the counter and read its instructions. It was aggressively brown, it would not suit him at all, which is exactly why his bastard of a partner had chosen it. He just knew, the brunette didn’t bluff when it came to their bets.
Fucking asshole had chosen the closet thing to his own hair colour. Chuuya wanted to retch.
The problem now wasn’t the dye, but that he certainly wasn’t asking anyone for help. It would be just his luck to fuck up and have random streaks throughout his hair. He didn’t need physical evidence of a job poorly done. Not for everyone else to see, he had more pride in himself than that.
He muttered curses under his breath as he angled his head to guess what he needed to do. How the hell was he supposed to do the back of his head? He’d get a fancier mirror one day. A better apartment with larger rooms, a nicer bathroom and a great view. A fucking penthouse.
It hadn’t been much longer that he heard his door open and close obnoxiously loudly. There were only two real options, both of which liked to raid his fridge. With any luck, they’d do so and leave without looking for him.
No such luck when the stupid bird poked his head around the door.
Chuuya glared at him as they made eye contact in the mirror. It was almost comical, the way Albatross’s eyes dropped to the dye in his hand, landed on the plastic bowl on his counter, before raising to meet his own again with what could only be abject horror.
His squawks of protest ended with several strands of Chuuya’s hair on the blonde’s hands, and his sunglasses thrown somewhere in the bedroom. The dye laid forgotten in his bathroom when they migrated to his kitchen to plot revenge.
—
ii.
He is sixteen with money, insomnia, and zero supervision.
The Sheep’s confidence had been built on a hidden foundation, that being Chuuya’s ability and desire to do right by them. The Mafia was incredibly formal in comparison, a structured business that operated nothing like a street gang full of kids.
As far as appropriate adult supervision went, Chuuya didn’t exactly know what that was meant to look like. Certainly not what he was experiencing. Ane-san would probably throw him out of her office, followed closely by her fan— scratch that. She would thwack him with her fan over the head a few times, threaten to throw him out, then pull him closer to inspect the damage.
Chuuya bought his own dye this time. He’d poured the brown dye over every white shirt Dazai owned, which was pretty much its only use, seeing as he sure as hell wasn’t going to use it.
He stared at the box. A different brand, looked nicer than the cheap shit Dazai had bought. Fucking checked the price out of curiosity, that guy had some nerve. This was all despite the fact that Chuuya could just have just as easily booked an appointment to get his hair dyed. He’d have to ask Ane-san for recommendations though, which defeated the point of zero supervision.
He was a mafioso, for fuck’s sake.
The dye was mixed, just barely darker than his own, at least that was the impression he’d gotten from the box. It looked fine. Barely a change. A bit of a change. Noticeable to someone like Kouyou, who knew the value of one’s appearance. To Dazai, too, but only because he was freakishly observant.
Chuuya frowned, staring at his door through the mirror. The Flags were out and Dazai was meant to be out with Hirotsu.
He could still hear the brunette in his head. Chuuya would tell him to get out, Dazai would respond with something like… “No, no. I need to witness the consequences.” Chuuya would barely resist throwing the brush at him.
His fist tightened around the plastic until the handle snapped. The dye was left abandoned on his counter again.
—
iii.
He needs to be taken more seriously.
Dazai has been touted as the next executive, and it’s no surprise to anyone in the organisation who knows about him. Mori’s protege – his shadow that lurks headquarters so that the boss has eyes everywhere.
Being an executive promised new authority, new expectations, and older subordinates who would still hesitate to take a sixteen-year-old seriously. Dazai’s reputation was known throughout most of the organisation, however his apathy was not. Mori had already chastised him for the disappearance of a few grunts, but none more after, from what Chuuya heard.
Chuuya knew better than to think it was because the dick was listening to the boss. After a little investigating, he found out that he’d recruited someone. A low-level grunt with a supposedly strong ability. Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, he enjoyed the percentage more silence each day and found himself a new group to drink with.
Somewhat put off by their… enthusiasm over his ability, he made a rule that they didn’t talk about it. It was convenient for the organisation to fear him, healthy for both his ego and safety – as if someone would get the drop on him – but he wasn’t prepared for what the appreciation of his strength meant.
So he’d make friends on more even ground. Change the narrative slightly. Fear for only his skill with his ability – not for corruption, not for his status. If he looks older, that ought to do it.
Dazai had a growth spurt just before he turned sixteen, his cheekbones more prominent and his cheeks less full. Paired with not eating well, he looked gaunt in artificial lighting, but unfortunately charming in the sun. Thankfully Chuuya wasn’t faced with that all too often, given the Mafia operated in the dark.
Chuuya bought the dye, a little lighter than his current colour, and it was left behind in the apartment when he moved.
—
iv.
He has to go undercover.
Kouyou-san recommended a wig. A nice brand. A hair net, some glue and a few minutes of fucking around and it sat almost naturally on his head. It was a shade lighter than Dazai’s, which was an unfortunate observation that put him off wearing it almost entirely. As though reading his mind, she said they could change the colour, but that the intention was that he would not be recognised.
That meant changing his build, too. The clothes he wore. Padding. Makeup to make him look older. The only consolation was that he knew Dazai had been through this process before – been dressed like a girl according to both Mori and Kouyou – and would likely be in the position again given his silver tongue.
It made his scalp itchy, though. Chuuya had mentioned it once or twice. In reality, the extra weight made him want to tear the hair off and scratch at his head like the mangey dog Dazai insisted he was.
“You know darker hair won’t magically add five years to your face.”
Dazai didn’t know how to shut up, even in his imagination. Chuuya mourned the days that he was nothing more than a caricature in his head. It was a curse to know Dazai as well as he did, even if their synchronicity was convenient for missions.
He grabbed kitchen scissors and headed to the bathroom with a bottle of wine as soon as he arrived back at his apartment. It still didn’t have the mirror he wanted, but at least it was bigger.
Chuuya approached Ane-san the next day with one less ponytail. It would probably make the wig fit easier, or something.
—
v.
He is in the unfortunate situation of needing to reduce recognition.
Chuuya had thrown Dazai into a wall for it, storming off before he took a glimpse at an expression he knew would piss him off. Smirking, probably, but with blood running from somewhere with any luck. Stupid asshole. It was his plan that put Chuuya’s face back in the hands of the regular authorities.
Mori insisted he would handle it, and Dazai definitely knew more than he was letting on about that, but it wasn’t as though Chuuya could do anything about it.
He’d learned from Kouyou and her girls quickly that makeup was an art – the art of being a shapeshifter. That there were some things that were easy to cover, hide, exaggerate and change. The hair was easy, supposedly.
Kouyou had never been a fan of messing with his hair, only arranging an appointment to clean up his hatchet job in which she spoke gently with the lady about her girls, and eventually pivoted to the topic of a handful of them being excited to get their hands on Chuuya one way or another.
Chuuya flushed remembering the lady’s responding compliments and insistence that he didn’t hide himself. He hadn’t done much more regarding his appearance for a little while, but the fog eased a little as she turned his face in the mirror with two light fingers on his chin, talking him through hair care and facial proportions.
When she turned around and Kouyou was still distracted with her, he turned his phone over to Dazai’s most recent message.
> Bad info, not your fault. Pursuing records for explanation. Thinking mole.
He chose to ignore it, looking at his hair in the mirror and brushing it back to watch it fall lightly. It wasn’t too bad.
—
vi.
He stands out like a motherfucker.
After the recent incident, it only made sense. Chuuya was best known for his ability – that only made sense considering the waves he was making in Yokohama’s Underworld – but those who caught sight of him had apparently decided that the next most noticeable thing about him was his hair.
Fucking idiots. Not the fact that he could split someone’s skull without his ability, or the fact that he now often came as a pair.
After Verlaine, he was a symbol in the Mafia. Some people stuck to the walls, others approached him. The behaviour had reflected further outside of the Mafia, attracting all kinds of attention from nobodies who wanted a bite, to some of Mori’s closest enemies who made their appearances few and far between.
Shibusawa had been on the radar, but not for the reasons Chuuya had thought. Didn’t matter now that he was dead, But it was doubly hard to keep his presence anonymous when he’d taken down a building in the middle of the fucking city on top of his debut months earlier. He’d nearly opted for Albatross’s bike to take the ride to that dipshit Dazai, but was glad he’d changed his mind at the last second. That bike wasn’t worth the bullshit it would’ve driven into.
It had been fine, until that moment. The moment his skin burned with Arahabaki’s summons and his scalp itched like an open wound.
He thought about dyeing his hair again whilst lying awake in the infirmary. Dazai wasn’t there. He was with Oda.
—
vii.
He needed Dazai to shut up about it.
The bastard had been making the same jokes for over a year now, didn’t seem to tire of them at all. While he would’ve preferred to cut out his tongue entirely, Mori seemed nonplussed at the genuine suggestion. Chuuya had made his feelings known after that reaction, which hadn’t yielded any better results.
Stopping by their shared office to the rare sight of Dazai doing some work, he’d settled for throwing the closet object to the door in the other’s direction, relishing in the sweet sound of pained whining being cut off as the door slammed shut.
The day ended in a bar.
He hadn’t gone drinking since Dazai made executive, in which he hadn’t gone out for the bastard; Dazai had tracked him down to the hole-in-the-wall that Chuuya had specifically chosen for its emptiness at that time of night.
He’d never been before, but it was safe to say he wouldn’t go again. Apparently, this is where his shitty partner, the grunt and the wannabe records-keeper met for drinks. He pushed himself off the counter and split the wood slightly under his hands.
“Ah, you should stay and meet them! If you go home, there’s no telling what you’ll do to your hair.”
Dazai had a broken nose in under thirty seconds, and Chuuya muttered an apology to the bartender under his breath as he plucked a napkin from its box and poorly attempted to wipe up the blood from the countertop where he’d planted the brunette’s face.
He’d left as the two men walked in. Ango smelled more like cigarettes than he had the first time he’d met him. That probably meant something.
—
viii.
He just needed a change.
The colour was unique, but not that rare. There had been a few children with the Sheep that had almost the same colour. Noriko was probably nine or ten now – she was eight when he joined the Mafia, if memory served – and hers was brighter, closer to blonde at the tips. He wasn’t sure where she’d come from.
Same with Machi. She’d left before he did, though. Hers was darker, closer to brown than his own. She was adamant that he was strawberry blonde, which sounded non-threatening enough for Shirase to insist otherwise – that Chuuya’s hair was similar to how poisonous frogs told predators to stay away with their bright colours.
Chuuya wasn’t entirely sure that was better. On the fence at the time, one could say. He’d punched him in the arm extra hard when they were alone next.
Ane-san had visited just as he was raising the brush to the tips of his hair. The colour was much darker than his own, but still had a distinct copper tint. It wouldn’t look bad, in his opinion. A small change that ultimately meant nothing; a marker of sorts, perhaps, to separate him from the before and after of the past nine months.
He gave himself away as they sat together to eat some pastries she’d bought. He was wearing an old t-shirt that earned a raised eyebrow, and asked for the contact of the lady who did his hair. She’d given him some confidence back, for sure. Chuuya found he liked taking care of his hair.
Kouyou stared him down before cleaning a dainty hand and reaching over to run her fingers over the ends. Needless to say, he didn’t do anything to it, only adding the contact to his phone.
—
ix.
He didn’t quite feel like himself.
It was easiest to change his physicality. He wore something different. His old outfit stayed in the back of his closet, and glasses in a drawer somewhere in his bedroom, he didn’t quite remember. As much as Dazai took the piss out of his appearance and his dress sense, at least he wasn’t walking around with greasy hair and an identical outfit. His wardrobe at home was fucking depressing.
Ah. Home. Fucking shipping container. Chuuya kept a spare dress shirt and pants at his own apartment now in case they needed to speak with someone important so Dazai didn’t smell like fucking fish and rubbish.
Disgusting asshole. Hearing him speak was depressing enough, though the heavy smell of cologne these days made Chuuya think that his lack of routine was tiresome even for himself. Dazai was an asshole, but Chuuya didn’t always need to return the favour. He was far better than the brunette, whatever that meant.
It was probably a good idea that Dazai didn’t walk around headquarters after having done basic hygiene like showering. It would take away from his image. The bounce of his hair made him look surprisingly young.
“People spiral in less visible ways,” Dazai had said upon spying Chuuya’s self-cut hair when he and Kouyou were leaving for the hair appointment. Chuuya had flared in anger at the time, but that was likely the most acknowledgement he would get. Projection.
Chuuya laid awake in bed all night with his fists balled into the blanket. After a few hours, he stood up, walked over to the bathroom door and slammed it shut so hard the wall cracked.
—
x.
Chuuya didn’t see himself in the mirror.
He watched his skin melt, raising his hand only to meet solid skin, blemished by small bumps that he’d tireless tried to get rid of with Ane-san’s guidance – disappointed, to say the least, when she’d told him it was merely puberty, only his body working naturally – and a scar he’d earned from sparring with Dazai one of the few times the prick got off his lazy ass.
He saw bone and blue. His eyes were holes.
There was red on his hands. It wasn’t red or blue, it was brown. The same dye from last time, saved by the bell, Kouyou, but there was no-one to stop him tonight. It looked red on his hands, though. Because of his skin tone, or something.
His breaths were coming in harsh and fast, vision blurred slightly as he watched a skeletal hand creep over his shoulder. It wasn’t there but he could feel it. It could feel it everywhere, cold and foreboding.
He felt like he was going to die. He was already—
Something moved behind him, drawing his attention just enough for his eyes to focus. He caught sight of his own reflection. Terrified, pale, he was frozen in place. He didn’t take his eyes off his own expression, unable to move them an inch over his shoulder to see the shadowy figure behind.
Not shadowy. His vision was darkening at the edges. His chest hurt, he couldn’t breathe.
There was dye everywhere.
But— something moved behind him. Pressed closer. Proximity.
The cold wasn’t death. It was No Longer Human. Dazai’s hand was on the bare skin of his neck. Chuuya hiccuped at the dye smeared on those long fingers. Not you too.
He leaned back slightly, meeting the other’s chest. He pressed in slightly to make sure he wasn’t going to fall backwards, before he took a breath in that whistled in his throat. His mouth had fallen open and his lips were dry and quivering.
Dazai removed his hand, lowering it slowly within view so Chuuya could watch it wrap lightly around his gloveless hand. Now they were both red. "Where's the bleach, silly dog?"
Idiot, Chuuya thought. Dyeing without wearing gloves?