You reflect.
It’s what you do.
Noise you don’t want to hear, fists thrown, bullets fired—all of it bounces back and strikes your attacker with the slightest bit of your attention, or even less.
Chuuya woke up in his own apartment, blinking eyes open to familiar aching pain of aftermath. There were other familiar things: annoying singing in an all too familiar voice, the sound of shoes on his floor.
“No shoes,” he said before he stopped to think. “Shitty Mackerel,” he added, teeth gritting around the words. He peeled himself out of the covers to sit up gingerly.
“Chuuya! You’re awake,” Dazai singsonged, coming in close.
For a moment, a breath, they were teenagers again, before Chuuya remembered this was all wrong and he had no partner. “Dazai.” He didn’t kick him out.
He had a plan, a perfect plan even. All it required was Chuuya to cooperate.
Dazai considered that and changed the plan. The only part Chuuya would cooperate with was the one that ended with Chuuya’s fist or foot through the middle of Dazai’s chest, and he wouldn’t fake it, so Dazai would have to think of another way to leave the Mafia and take Chuuya with him.
He didn’t need to drug his partner’s drink, kidnap him, and blow up his car to cover their tracks.
On the plus side, death by Chuuya was still a very real possibility.