Chapter Text
The silence in Mori’s office was a living thing, thick with the residue of pain and shame. My balls throbbed with a deep, sickening heat. Every heartbeat sent a fresh pulse of agony through my groin. Dazai and I stood there, trousers still around our ankles, trying to muster the dignity to move.
Mori surveyed us, his expression unreadable. Then, he walked back to his desk, opened a drawer, and pulled out two giant, garishly colored spiral lollipops. They were nearly the size of my face. He held them out.
“For your trouble,” he said, his voice flat.
I stared, blinking through the blur of leftover tears. Dazai, ever faster to adapt to sheer absurdity, reached out and took one. He peeled the plastic wrapper with a crisp crinkle and stuck the red monstrosity in his mouth, his cheeks hollowing.
“Mmm. Strawberry,” he said, the words slightly muffled. He looked at me, his eyes glittering with something between hysteria and triumph. “Come on, shota. Don’t leave the nice man waiting.”
Feeling utterly detached from reality, I took the other lollipop, a violent shade of blue. I didn’t unwrap it. I just held it, a ridiculous, candy-colored scepter in my trembling hand.
“You may go,” Mori stated, turning his back to us, a clear dismissal. “Albatross is outside. He will see Chuuya back to his quarters. Dazai, find somewhere else to be.”
We dressed in clumsy, pained silence. Every movement was a fresh reminder of the birch rods. Pulling my briefs over the tender, swollen skin was a special kind of hell. Once mostly decent, I followed Dazai out into the hall.
Albatross was leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed. His eyes went from Dazai’s giant lollipop to mine, still wrapped in my fist. His brows shot up.
“Well, that’s a new one,” he drawled, his Australian accent cutting the tense air. “Survival sweets?”
Dazai patted my shoulder, a gesture that was somehow both mocking and conspiratorial. “Be a good boy and go with your minder, Chuuya. I have a sudden urge to go bother Hirotsu about budget allocations. I’ll be so very contrite.” He sauntered off down the corridor, the giant lollipop bobbing with each step.
I just stood there, shell-shocked. Albatross pushed off the wall. “Right then. Let’s get you back to the Flags’ lounge. You look like you’ve been hit by a truck, mate.”
The walk was a blur of muted corridor lights and the distant hum of Port Mafia business. My mind replayed Mori’s words on a loop. A manifestation of my will. I felt it. The shame was a colder, deeper ache than the physical pain.
We reached the familiar door to the Flags’ shared space. Albatross pushed it open without knocking.
The lounge was in its usual state of controlled chaos. Iceman was at the small bar, meticulously polishing a glass. Lippmann was reclined in an armchair, sketching in a notebook. Pianoman was a long, lean shape sprawled across the main couch, an arm thrown over his eyes, clearly mid-nap.
Albatross cleared his throat. “Gents. You’ll never believe what the ankle-biter survived.”
All activity stopped. Iceman set the glass down. Lippmann’s pencil hovered. Pianoman didn’t move, but his breathing changed.
Iceman’s sharp eyes scanned me, taking in my pale face, the way I was standing slightly bow-legged. “Report.”
“He fucked Elise,” Albatross announced, his voice brimming with incredulous glee. “Right on the Boss’s desk. With Dazai bloody helping. And the Boss walked in.”
Lippmann’s sketchbook slid from his lap. “You’re joking.”
“Wish I was. Saw it with my own eyes. Elise flat on her back, Chuuya here going to town, Dazai feeding her his—”
“I get the picture,” Iceman interrupted, pinching the bridge of his nose. He focused on me. “And you weren’t terminated?”
My voice came out rough. “Ten strokes. Birch rods. To the… you know.”
A low whistle came from the direction of the couch. Pianoman slowly sat up, rubbing his eyes. His hair was mussed from sleep. “I take a nap for twenty minutes,” he mumbled, his voice gravelly, “and Chuuya gets into utter tom fuckery.” He blinked at me. “You alright, kid? That sounds… rough.”
The genuine concern, mixed with the sheer absurdity of it all, finally cracked something inside me. A weak, shaky laugh bubbled out of my throat. “It fucking hurts.”
“I bet it does,” Iceman said, a faint trace of sympathy breaking through his stern demeanor. He walked over and guided me to sit in the armchair Lippmann had vacated. “Here. Sit before you fall.”
Lippmann had recovered, his dramatic instincts taking over. “The artistry of the punishment! The symbolism! The birch, the very tree of purification, applied to the seat of primal sin! It’s almost poetic.”
“It’s almost psychotic, you mean,” Albatross chuckled, collapsing onto the couch next to Pianoman. “The look on Mori’s face when he walked in! Priceless. And then Dazai, cool as you please, with his ‘just keeping her entertained’ line. Brass balls on that one. Well, had them, anyway.”
Pianoman was fully awake now, shaking his head in bemused disbelief. “So let me get this straight. You actually pulled it off? With Elise? And you’re just… here? With a giant blue lollipop?”
I looked down at the candy still clutched in my hand. I slowly unwrapped it and put it in my mouth. The synthetic ramune flavor exploded, cloying and sweet. It was so stupid. So completely, utterly stupid. I nodded.
Silence settled over the room again, this time filled with a kind of awed, horrified respect.
Iceman broke it, his voice dropping into a serious, low register. “This stays in this room. All of it. We do not speak a word of this to anyone.” His gaze swept over everyone, landing pointedly on Albatross and Lippmann, the biggest gossips. “Especially not to Verlaine.”
A collective, grave understanding passed between us all.
Pianoman summed it up, lying back down and throwing his arm over his eyes again. “World War Three would actually break out. No doubt about it. The Frenchman finds out his little brother got whipped in the family jewels for banging the boss’s psychic doll? He’d burn Yokohama to the ground starting with Mori’s office.”
“He’s not wrong,” Lippmann murmured, retrieving his sketchbook. “The fallout would be… operatic. But ultimately messy. Best avoided.”
Albatross grinned, kicking his feet up on the coffee table. “So our secret then. The great ‘Desk Debacle.’” He looked at me, his grin softening just a fraction. “You’re one lucky, stupid bastard, Chuuya. And you owe me a case of beer for not laughing too hard when you were getting your bells rung.”
I sucked on the giant, ridiculous lollipop, the sweet taste a bizarre counterpoint to the bitter humiliation and the dull, aching pain. I was alive. I was with my team. The world hadn’t ended.
“Yeah,” I said, the word barely audible around the candy.