Chapter Text
Two days later, Dazai is given paid leave.
Fukuzawa had only been in the room for a few seconds before his eyes landed on Dazai. He must have seen something in his eyes, an unsettling kind of darkness over his face, because he dismissed him from work within the same minute.
Apparently the agency doesn’t feel like letting him rot away in his dorm, either.
They all find the time in their days to come by. The Tanizaki siblings will come by with small gifts to decorate his empty dorm, and he won’t have the energy to get up, so they’ll find places to put them for him. They seem to understand that he’s not quite up for small talk, so they wish him well, ask if he needs anything, then they leave.
Kenji likes to stop by with Kyouka. He’ll go around cleaning up the empty cans and alcohol bottles without commenting on them once, talking Dazai and Kyouka’s ears off while they offer minimal responses. When he’s done cleaning, Kyouka will signal him, and they’ll sit in silence without leaving just so Dazai knows they’re there.
Yosano and Ranpo come by together as well, once with the president close behind. Ranpo tends to poke Dazai’s face while Yosano brings groceries to make Dazai a dinner that he can hardly get halfway through. Fukuzawa, inexpressive as he is, briefly put his hand on Dazai’s shoulder the time he visited, and it was strangely relaxing.
Kunikida and Atsushi visit together as well, and they’re the ones who stay the longest.
Atsushi tries to help by filling Dazai’s silent dorm with idle chatter and occasionally music. Kunikida tends to take a seat next to Dazai’s futon and silently work his way through his notebook or work, and it’s so in character for him that he can’t help but be amused.
They make the days a little easier, make them pass a little faster, but they all leave eventually.
They have to, of course. Their worlds do not revolve around Dazai.
He makes it harder on himself, though, still awake every midnight lingering on a particular contact on his phone.
He sees the texts sent to him.
He sees the ones that are deleted not even a minute later.
It’s the fact that they’re deleted so quickly that he doesn’t care to acknowledge them.
He watches his phone light up when he gets a call. He lets it ring, and ring, and ring, and when he finally stops calling he lets the voicemails fill the silence of his empty dorm and he clings to them like a lifeline.
He listens to Chuuya apologise, take it back, curse him out, take it back, ask Dazai to come over and he takes it back again.
There’s not a single time where Chuuya isn’t drunk.
Dazai is pretty sure he doesn’t move from his futon for a week.
-
“Kunikida.”
Yuck. His voice sounds horrible. When was the last time he spoke?
It must have been a while, because next to him, Kunikida’s head whips up so fast he thinks he hears something snap. “Yes?”
“Do you think I’m being an idiot here?”
He kind of regrets the question the second it’s out his mouth. It did, however, take him a week and an extra four hours of Kunikida’s presence to ask it, so he doesn’t spend much time beating himself up for it. Maybe he’ll do that later.
Kunikida gently shuts his computer, setting it aside and officially giving his partner his full attention. “You mean, regarding your ongoing fight with Chuuya?”
Huh. When did he tell him about that?
Did Atsushi tell him?
Does he really care how Kunikida found out? It saves him an explanation.
“Mhm.”
He takes Kunikida’s long pause as a bad sign.
Finally, he opens his mouth, and he’s bracing himself for the answer he’s dreading, but—
“No.”
—apparently, it doesn’t come.
Dazai blinks, turning his head to peer up at the blonde. He feels like a lost child doing this, looking up at the man and waiting for some kind of approval, or reassurance, or anything. It’s a strange feeling, and he doesn’t like it, but he doesn’t have the energy to quash that feeling either.
“From what I hear of your situation, you and Chuuya were stuck in a loop that never led anywhere and never progressed, and it was hurting both of you.” Kunikida turns away now, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, light from beyond the windows shining on the lenses and hiding his eyes from view. “You, then, put an end to it. To me, it sounds like it was necessary. I don’t think you’re an idiot for self preservation.”
How nice.
Dazai turns his head again, staring up at the blank ceiling. “I don’t think it was self preservation. I think I’m hurting myself.”
Kunikida must know what he means, given the pause. Still, he asks, maybe just so Dazai can answer, “why do you think that?”
“Because I think I’m hurting him.” He taps his fingers on his futon, an unpleasant twist in his chest as he admits it. “I hate it. I hate him.”
“But you don’t, really, do you?”
“I don’t.” He confirms. “I—”
He bites his tongue, the words getting caught in his throat. But he has to remind himself, it’s just Kunikida.
It’s his partner. The man who trusts him, who believes in him even when Dazai gives him every reason not to.
The heart of the agency. The man he's depended on since he first got here. The man they all depend on.
It’s only Kunikida.
“I miss him.” He murmurs, and if there were any other noise in the room, it might’ve been unheard. “I love him.”
Kunikida, apparently, is unsurprised. He only gives a hum to acknowledge what he’s said, and a part of Dazai—the louder, more energetic, more annoying part of him—deflates at the realisation that Kunikida already knew that. Here he was, thinking he was being sly. “You want to see him again.”
“I do.”
“Has he called?”
“Not in two days.” He smiles at the ceiling, and ignores the fact that it hurts. “Still only reaches out when he’s drunk. How funny is that?”
“Not particularly.”
“I want him to call me. Whether he’s drunk or not, I want him to keep calling.” He closes his eyes, his brows furrow, he sighs. “I told him to forget me, and I don’t want him to.”
“Of course you don’t,” Kunikida smiles, not that he can see it, but he can hear it. “You love him.”
Immediately, Dazai shudders, drawing in on himself with his arms over his stomach. It’s the most expressive he’s been since Atsushi’s last visit, whenever that was. “Don’t even say that, that’s sick.”
“You’re the one who said it.”
“And I’ll never say it again, that was horrible.”
“You know,” Kunikida taps his chin, eyes narrowing as he observes the other man. “I think your issues with admitting your feelings is part of the reason your relationship with him is so fragile.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. He sighs, then holds one hand out. “Do you have a stapler on you?”
“...yes?” Kunikida sounds confused, rightfully, as he pulls out a stapler from who knows where and places it in Dazai’s palm.
“Good.”
He throws the stapler at Kunikida’s head.
-
Eventually, he gets to a point where he’s functional enough to return to work.
He’s glad to see that his coworkers make a point of not treating him like he’s fragile and breakable. They check in, once or twice, assure him that he can take it easy, that they’re here from him, all the speeches he’s heard before, and they fall right back into old dynamics with him. Jabs are thrown, teases are unrelenting, and he’s glad for it.
He’s a little less glad for the poorly hidden looks Atsushi and Junichiro give him when they spot him checking his phone more than usual.
But it’s how they are. They worry. Openly and unnecessarily.
He’s actually, to the shock of those in the room, working his way through a report when his phone starts to ring. His heart leaps into his throat, and he looks at the contact, and he feels pathetic all over again, but it’s overshadowed by how his heart swoons because—
Chuuya.
Unfortunately, the moment he goes to reach for his phone, it’s snatched off of his desk.
“Wh— hey!”
“Sorry,” Yosano holds the phone over her head so he can’t reach from his chair, shaking it to draw attention to the screen. “You’re not doing this to yourself, I know you listen to all these voicemails just to make yourself feel more miserable.”
She makes a show of hanging up, and he scowls. “How do you know that?”
“I had a hunch. Ranpo confirmed it.”
He glares at the detective in question, and from across the room, Ranpo waves with a big, cheeky grin.
“He could be sober.” Dazai tries, looking up at the doctor again. “What if he’s sober?”
“What if he’s not?” She counters, free hand planted firmly on her hip. “If he’s sober, and he wants to fix things, then he needs to get his ass down here in person. You’re not doing something this important over the phone.”
“He could be in danger.”
“Why would he call you if he was in danger? He has subordinates.”
“He could be upset—”
“And that’s not your responsibility to deal with.”
“But he—”
“Dazai.”
He halts at her tone. It’s not intimidating to him, even a little, but it’s the fact that he can tell she’s a few steps away from getting angry, and he doesn’t want to be the reason for that. The horrors of having some form of compassion for these people.
She places the phone back on his desk, locking him in eye contact.
“I’m giving this back to you in case something important comes up, and because it’s yours, and I’m not a teacher.” She straightens up again, arms crossed over his chest. “But if he calls you, you hang up. Don’t hang onto the messages he leaves just to break your own heart, okay?”
He stares, and when she doesn’t relent, he scoffs, sinking back into his chair. “Okay.”
“Great.” She smiles again, something just smug enough to be slightly annoying. “Now, I need to go shopping. Have you seen Atsushi?”
He gestures with a hand to a door, and she heads off to find him.
Her advice is lost on him, because Chuuya doesn’t call again.
-
It’s been three weeks since Chuuya last called.
Three weeks since Yosano hung up on him.
Dazai worries, horribly, pathetically, that he finally moved on.
-
“Atsushi,” Dazai looks at the boy across from him, both of them knelt on the floor with a meal Atsushi brought for the both of them. “Why are you here?”
“Oh. Uh.” He looks down at his kebab box. “Well, I got these from the Turkish place down the road, but Kyouka’s out with Kenji right now and I didn’t want to let this box go to waste, and I figure that you haven’t eaten in a while so I wanted to—”
“I hope you know that’s not what I meant.” He snorts.
He feels a little lighter, now.
It hasn’t gotten better, his mind and his thoughts still haunt his every move and creep up on him during the nights he spends alone and curled up in his futon, but it’s easier.
A little bit, anyway.
Atsushi, though, is apparently more perceptive than Dazai gives him credit for, because he bows his head and clears his throat. “I know you’re still having a really hard time with everything, so I wanted to keep you company on our days off.”
He smiles a little, taking a bite of a chip in his box. “How kind-hearted of you.”
There’s not as many expectations on him, now, with that admittance. He’s thankful for it. Atsushi doesn’t say anything that Dazai is required to respond to, and it’s enough to just know that the boy is there, rather than basking in his thoughts alone.
It’s calm, and it’s serene, and it’s why it’s such whiplash when there’s a sudden harsh knocking on the door.
Atsushi looks at him, his mouth full of food. “Ish shomeone here?”
Dazai snorts, grinning at him. “Where are your manners? I ought to tell Kunikida you’re talking with your mouth full.”
The boy looks panicked, shaking his head and swallowing it down, promptly coughing and punching his chest. “No— okay— no no, I’m sorry, it’s down.” He places his box on the floor, looking at the door as it starts banging again. “Were you expecting someone?”
“I wasn’t even expecting you, what do you think?”
“Right. I’ll—” he stumbles to his feet, clearing his throat. “I’ll get it.”
He heads for the door, opens it up, and—
“Oh!” Atsushi jumps back without meaning to, eyes wide. “Hi, Chuuya.”
The mafioso blinks up at him, clearly confused. “Kid?”
“Atsushi.” He corrects gently.
Chuuya just nods, stares at him for another moment, before he seems to shake out of it and leans to the side to try and look past the detective. “Where’s—?”
It’s instinctual, and definitely not on purpose, when Atsushi steps to the side and places both his hands on either side of the door frame. He’s stepped closer, effectively blocking Chuuya from peering inside. He didn’t mean to do it, but of all things he could have felt when seeing the most dangerous ability user in Yokohama, it had to be protectiveness.
But then Chuuya pauses, and he glares up at Atsushi like he just killed his whole family. Atsushi’s insides wither and die at the heat behind that glare, but he forces himself to freeze in place rather than run away.
“Move, kid.”
“No.”
Chuuya goes to move closer, but his eyes flick to something behind Atsushi, and it’s like the pure rage etched into his features just melt away.
There’s a hand on Atsushi’s shoulder.
“Easy, tiger,” Dazai grins at him, and he can’t quite tell how much is genuine and how much is faked for his benefit, but it’s comforting. “I don’t want you losing all your limbs to the hands of an angry dog.”
“Dazai,” Chuuya says it like an incantation. Like he’s enchanted by it.
Dazai smiles, and the light in his eyes is brighter than it’s been in weeks.
“Hi, Chuuya.”
He says the mafioso’s name like it’s easier than breathing.
Suddenly, Atsushi can feel that protective instinct in him simmering down, because he doesn’t think Dazai needs to be protected from Chuuya.
Something in him, he thinks, registered Chuuya as more of a threat when he threatened Dazai’s happiness. His mentor who he trusts, and believes in, and cares about. Chuuya driving Dazai to such a depressive state soured his image in Atsushi’s mind more than his rank as an enemy, as a Port Mafia executive.
He thought, for a while there, that Chuuya could only hurt Dazai.
But they have more history between them than Atsushi could ever comprehend. He’s not them, he can’t read their minds, but the looks of relief and adoration on their faces are so open it’d be impossible to miss the unspoken words.
There you are.
Dazai tears his eyes off of Chuuya, barely, to look at his mentee. “I’ll be alright.”
Atsushi nods, then goes to worm his way past Chuuya. He can’t, though, because the mafioso grabs him by the back of his shirt and tosses him back into the dorm. “Get your food, kid.”
“Oh. Right.”
He hurries to get his kebab box back, then he bows his head as he leaves, hurrying to his own dorm and practically leaping inside.
Chuuya watches him, one eyebrow raised. “Your weretiger is real jumpy.”
“That happens, when members of an enemy organisation show up to our dorms.” Dazai’s lips tug into a sly grin. “People get spooked.”
Chuuya meets his eyes. They’re as fiery as they were last time. “Not you, though.”
“No, not me.” He steps to the side, pushing his door open. “Come in?”
“Sure.”
Dazai goes back to sit where he and Atsushi were a moment ago, eyes on Chuuya as the man gently shuts the door behind him. He slips off his shoes, and sheds the coat and the hat that chain him to the mafia, and there’s something cathartic about the sight.
When Chuuya sits across from the detective, he slides his barely touched kebab box over to him. Chuuya removes his gloves, tosses them to the side, and he slides it right back.
“Put some damn meat on your bones,” he says, frowning as he rakes his eyes over Dazai’s figure. He’s forgone the trench coat, being in his own home, and the waistcoat he wears is really accentuating how slim he’s gotten lately. “You look like a light breeze could knock you over.”
“Rude. First time you see me in weeks and the first thing you do is insult my body.”
“Actually, the first thing I did was scare the shit out of your precious little student.”
“That you did.” Dazai tilts his head, blinking up at him through innocent little doe eyes. “Did you really have to do that? Poor thing was trying to stick up for me.”
Chuuya frowns, like he’s deeply unsettled by the memory, and it’s just funny enough to keep Dazai from really being upset at their less than stellar interaction. “He was keeping me from you.”
“For good reason, of course.”
His frown deepens, and it paints a very adorable picture.
“Yeah. For good reason.”
Dazai takes a bite of one of the chips in the box. Really, it’s more of a pathetic little nibble, and he resents the way Chuuya levels him with a stare that urges him to take a bigger bite.
It works, unfortunately.
Barely.
“So,” Dazai finally prompts, finding himself unable to look away from the man. “Why are you here, Chuuya?”
“Shouldn’t it be obvious?”
“It should be.” Dazai flashes him a smile, deceptively sweet. “But it isn’t. After all, we don’t know each other, do we? I can’t read your mind.”
He sees the grimace pass over the mafioso’s face, and part of his heart sings at the observation.
Another, bigger part of him just feels like shit.
“I’m here because…” only now does Chuuya let his eyes drift. He looks over the barren walls of the dorm, and Dazai is pleasantly amused to note the distaste written across his expression. Chuuya always was a fan of tacky decor. He still is. “It’s been forever since we last talked.”
“It has.”
“And our last talk was a fight.”
“Mhm.”
“And it was worse than our usual spats…”
By now, Dazai’s smile has faded. “Are you going to keep giving me a recap for a situation I was a part of?”
Chuuya sighs, and he squeezes his eyes shut. “I’m here because I missed you.”
It looks like the words hurt to get out.
Like he doesn’t want to admit it.
Like he hates the idea of missing Dazai.
He’s reminded, then, of the many talks he’s had with his coworkers over the past few weeks. Yosano had a good amount of advice to share with him, apparently well versed in relationships and how they should be, and what makes a healthy one versus one you need to work on or abandon entirely.
Dazai has had more experience when it comes to physical relationships, but she has more experience with emotional ones. Ones that last. Ones that are good, and don’t run the risk of tearing you apart.
So the pained expression on the other man’s face sours the message he’s trying to get across.
Dazai smiles, the kind of smile he shows only to potential threats during an assignment. Chuuya must see it, because that fear that he wore before Dazai left his apartment those weeks ago is back.
How funny, that Chuuya only looks scared when he thinks he might lose what he is unwilling to hold onto.
“I think you should leave, Chuuya.”
It hurts to say about as much as getting shot would. He feels like he’s tearing up his own throat. The words taste like acid.
And he feels pathetic, because just like all those times before, his mind is repeating a similar mantra.
Don’t go.
Don’t go.
Please don’t—
“I’m sorry.”
Dazai blinks. “What?”
“I’m sorry.” Chuuya says it again, with more power behind the words. “I didn’t realise I was hurting you, every time I called you. I didn’t want to hurt you like that. I thought you were fine.”
The detective flexes his fingers. “Because I always used to be?”
“Because I meant it when I said I don’t know who you are.”
He feels a dip in his stomach. It’s only brief, because that’s when Chuuya starts talking again.
“When I knew you, you were a bastard who never let anything hurt you. It always felt like nothing could hurt you, because anything that came close, you would welcome it with open arms and the biggest damn smile I’d ever seen.” Chuuya glares at the wall, like it wronged him personally. “Maybe things could hurt you. Maybe they did. But you never showed it. You always hid it, somehow. It felt like nothing I did could reach you.”
Dazai’s lips twitch into the faintest little smile. “Did Chuuya want to hurt me? How sweet.”
“Every day, but that’s not what I meant.” He clenches his fist, and he sighs, shaking his head just slightly. “I wanted to make you feel anything. But I couldn’t hurt you, or help you, or make you happy enough to go a damn day without throwing yourself in front of someone’s gun, or in a river, or off a building, or—”
“Oh,” Dazai doesn’t mean for his musing to be said aloud, but Chuuya shuts up and stares at him, so he lets himself keep talking. “Chuuya really did care about me.”
The redhead suddenly looks at him like he’s stupid.
“Dazai, I dragged your ass out of danger every time you went out actively looking for it. No fucking shit I cared about you.”
“You were my partner, you had to protect me.”
“I didn’t have to protect you just because you were my partner.” Chuuya narrows his eyes, a scowl stretching over his face. The irritation only lasts a moment, before he settles into something more sombre. “I had to protect you because I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Dazai tilts his head. “You survived without me. You grew into quite the intimidating man.”
Chuuya snorts, like it’s a joke. Though, his posture straightens, and he holds his head a bit higher, because he’s prideful above all else and it’s truly, undoubtedly adorable.
“I did. But I knew your crafty ass was alive, and that was enough, after a while.” He shrugs. “It’s different knowing that you’re out there, somewhere, and that we’ll cross paths again someday. We always find a way back to each other.”
“Hm, and isn’t that a delight. Almost like we’re drawn to each other.”
Chuuya rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t disagree with the statement.
“It’s fine when I know that we could find each other again, but,” the mafioso clenches his fists, then he relaxes them again, like he just needs something to do with his hands. “I don’t know what I’d do knowing I could never find you again.”
“Is that so.”
Then, Chuuya shuts his eyes, shoulders slumping as he sighs. “You don’t have to sound so unimpressed. I’m trying to spill my heart out, here.”
“I know you are, and how sweet it is,” Dazai goes on, without putting an ounce of emotion in his tone. “Maybe I’d be more inclined to be moved by it, if you could admit these things without looking like you’re in pain.”
He seems to have caught Chuuya between a rock and a hard place. The mafioso stills, his eyes widen just so, his brows draw upward, and he looks conflicted. Caught off-guard. It’s an expression that suits him well, but it’s less than ideal in this situation.
Dazai, however, just smiles at him. “Something to say, Chuuya?”
“...shit.”
“Oh, you know how to make a man swoon.”
“Shut up.” Chuuya sighs, bowing his head and rubbing his face. He seems to be thinking about something, and Dazai has no doubt that he has too many thoughts racing through that pretty head of his.
Eventually, he looks up. He meets Dazai’s gaze with a renewed fire in his eyes, looking delightfully determined.
Just to piss him off, Dazai holds his hand up behind his ear, wiggling his fingers and looking expectant. “Well?”
Chuuya scoffs.
“I miss you.” He says again. He doesn’t look away from Dazai, and he says it with less resentness in his voice, and Dazai’s heart skips. “I hurt you, and I didn’t mean to, but I did. I’m sorry. I don’t want to lose you.”
Oh, and if that doesn’t send a rush of emotions through Dazai.
He feels elated, and smug, and embarrassed, and grateful and smug a few times over.
He’d quite like to gloat in Chuuya’s face for actually pulling an apology out of him, because he used to do that on the occasion that Chuuya would actually do something uncalled for towards Dazai. He’d feel a rush of confusing emotions, because no one ever cared enough to apologise about the things they’d done to him, so he responded with cheeky smiles and annoying words to prompt Chuuya into yelling at him again.
But, he is currently trying to prove a point that he’s changed since the mafia, so he fights the urge to do such a thing. Maybe another time, when it’s less tense, and when Chuuya isn’t looking at him so expectantly.
However, he is still Dazai Osamu, so he manages to put a little flavour on the genuine sentiment.
He places a hand over his chest, bowing his head. “Nakahara Chuuya,”
“Oh Christ.”
“I have been a scoundrel, and a fiend, and I have hurt you many a time in the past without apologising…” He pauses, just to consider something, and he grimaces slightly. “Except, maybe, once or twice.”
Chuuya cracks a grin, and at least, that’s how Dazai knows he isn’t making things worse. “And I remember those apologies vividly, thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” The mafioso snickers, and Dazai goes on. “You were right, before. I never reach out to you first, and it’s a bit of a fatal flaw of mine. One of many. Whenever I would see you sober, angry and defensive, I responded in ways I knew would anger you. For that, I am sorry.”
The redhead continues to look at him. His brows twitch, just enough to look thoughtful, and Dazai smiles a little wider.
“I’m not sorry I left,” he says then, completely honest. “But I am sorry I said nothing to you. I don’t think it’s what you’d like to hear, but it’s about as honest as you’ll ever hear me.”
Suddenly, Chuuya goes from thoughtful, to a brief look of realisation, to charmingly pleased. “That so? No other honest things you’d like to say to me?”
“Hm. Maybe one thing, one day.”
He shakes his head, a nice red dusting over his cheeks. “Whatever. Are we okay?”
“Not quite.” Dazai sighs, closing his kebab box. At least, until Chuuya fixes him with a particularly harsh glare, and he opens it back up again with a huff. “I’m afraid I have more to say.”
The executive raises an eyebrow. “Oh, yeah?”
With great reluctance, he eats some more meat from the box in front of him. “Yosano was quite determined to smack some sense into how I handle our relationship these past few weeks. Literally. I’m pretty sure I have bruises.” For emphasis, he looks over his bandaged arm, as if he could see the marks under them somehow.
He takes in a breath, and he vehemently ignores the inquisitive stare that the mafioso is giving him. It’s a little embarrassing that he actually needs a moment to gather himself before saying this, but it’s not something he’s used to.
He’s not used to being honest about his intentions. Least of all with Chuuya. He’s always relied on their inherent understanding of each other, but he’s starting to learn that Chuuya has less faith in their old bond than he does.
And, admittedly, he doesn’t like that.
So he knows he needs to fix it, somehow.
”Chuuya,” he smiles, because smiling when he says the man’s name feels like the most natural thing in the world. “You have called me many things in the past. More things than I can count. A mackerel, a vagabond, a social misfit—”
“A walking waste of bandages.” Chuuya adds with a grin.
Dazai pauses. He considers, briefly, just how well Chuuya and Kunikida would get along, and he shudders at the thought.
“A walking waste of bandages,” he confirms with a nod. “You have continued to call me a great many things since our reunion, but I’m aware of the fact that you’ve avoided calling me the one thing my heart longs for.”
Chuuya narrows his eyes, then he scoffs, turning away. “You’re not even taking this seriously.”
“I am! As much as I can.” He tilts his head, letting his voice quieten, enough to sound soft without quite being there. “Chuuya, look at me?”
After a long moment, he sighs, but he does look back to the detective.
His cheeks are red.
It’s nice.
“I’m aware I can’t force your opinion of our relationship to change.” Dazai murmurs, not letting himself sound as defeated as he feels by that admission. “So I won’t ask you to refer to me any differently. Not yet, at least.”
Because he does plan on hearing his given name from a sober Chuuya, just not now.
“You can call me what you like. But four years of separation changed a lot between us, and you being my partner wasn’t one of those things.”
He thinks he sees the moment his words process in the redhead’s mind. His eyes widen just slightly, his breath stutters, and he’s acutely aware of how a blush appears to accentuate the man’s freckles. A part of him wonders if his heart rate spiked, or if it skipped a beat, or if it didn’t change its pace at all.
A bigger part of him wants to reach out and find out for himself.
But Chuuya opens his mouth, and suddenly, he’s garnered all of Dazai’s attention. “You better not be fucking with me. I’ll kick your ass if you’re fucking with me.”
To try and prove himself, Dazai raises his right hand. “I assure you, I’m not. Cross my heart.”
He seems to remain unconvinced, but he’s getting there. It’s progress.
“You swear I’m still your partner?”
So distrustful. Is Dazai the one who made him so suspicious of genuine admissions like this, or was it the Sheep?
Was it any one person, or a lifetime of betrayal and manipulation that made him this way?
It’s a shame, but it’s no wonder one of them had to leave in order for them to be good to each other.
“You’ll always be my partner, Chuuya.” He cracks a grin, one more boyish and joyful than the sharp edged one he used to wear in the mafia. He thinks Chuuya will appreciate this one more. “After all, you’re my dog for life, aren’t you?”
And he thinks he said something right, this time.
Because Chuuya looks so startled by the words, and it’s that much more noticeable when his expression then settles into something he thinks an outsider might call enamoured.
“...fuck.” Chuuya clenches his fists, before a grin breaks out over his face. “I guess I am.”
He would’ve loved to make a comment on how he thinks that’s the first time Chuuya ever accepted being his dog.
He probably would have laughed, and Chuuya would have yelled, and it would’ve felt like nothing had changed between them, and that would have been comforting.
He almost did.
However, the small mafioso suddenly pouncing on him made saying anything a bit hard.
It takes a great amount of effort to avoid toppling over backwards, and once he’s regained his balance and Chuuya seems to have settled, his attention is then dragged to the fact that—
Chuuya is kissing him.
Chuuya is in his lap.
Chuuya is kissing him, in his lap, kissing him, grabbing him and kissing him and holy shit he might DIE—
The redhead pulls back, and it takes everything Dazai has to not cry out right then and there. He stares up at Chuuya, dazed, his vision a little blurry, but not enough to miss the way he’s grinning down at him. “You gonna do anything, or are you really this lazy with everything?”
Right. He has to move.
Does he have to speak, too? He doesn’t quite think he can.
He should also do something before Chuuya realises a single kiss made him speechless.
Dazai reaches up, fast enough so the shakiness of his hands isn’t obvious, and he all but yanks Chuuya down again. There’s more purpose in this one than the last one, more vigour, and it’s not enough, and Dazai keeps wanting more . He wants all that Chuuya will offer him, and he’s convinced he might die without it.
It’s not fair, the way he can feel Chuuya basking in his own pride, like he knows exactly what he does to Dazai. It’s not fair that Dazai loves that he knows.
Chuuya lets his arms find their ways around Dazai’s neck, strong fingers raking through his hair and capturing his curls in a vice grip. His knees are planted firmly on either side of Dazai’s waist, and he feels wrapped up in him. His touch burns through layers of clothing and bandages, and it feels dangerously close to being consumed by a raging inferno.
He thinks that burning alive might not be a bad way to go, if it feels anything like this.
The next moves he makes are more natural, than conscious. Instinctual after being in this situation many times in the past.
He places a hand on the small of Chuuya’s back, and a distant part of his mind preens at how it feels like a perfect fit. His other hand travels to his hip, pressing down with his fingertips and pulling a soft sigh out of his partner.
His partner.
His dog.
His Chuuya.
He’s horribly, pathetically aware of how much this one man can turn his world upside down. He could get addicted to his touch, he thinks he already is, and that’s already a dangerous thought.
Dazai tries to carefully lean forwards, an attempt made to lay Chuuya down to cage him in. It’s a pity that it’s such a mechanical motion for him, but he handles the mafioso with more care than he’s been able to grant any partners in the past. That alone is an active decision made on his part.
But then Chuuya grabs him by his shoulders and shoves him away.
Well.
More accurately, he shoves him down, and Dazai’s back hits the floorboards and pulls a grunt out of him. His eyes shut, teeth grit, and when he looks up—
He is so fucked.
Chuuya hovers over him, pupils so dilated they almost block out the pretty blue of his eyes. His face is flushed, lips parted and glistening, hair curling around his cheeks like fire licking at his skin and the light behind him frames him in enough light to make him look ethereal.
He grins, then, sharp and dangerous and beautifully enticing.
“Were you tryna manhandle me?”
And oh, he could listen to the man speak with that breathless tone for hours.
“I thought you were meant to be a genius,” one of his hands travels down from his shoulder, to his chest, til it’s resting over his navel. “Yet you couldn’t figure out how this would go? What a damn shame.”
Dazai inhales through the feeling that he can’t breathe. “Chuuya—”
“You were moving like you were on autopilot for a moment, there. Don’t think I didn’t notice.” Chuuya tilts his head, eyes narrowed, and Dazai can’t help but feel exposed. “Were you gonna try treat me the way you’d treat anyone else?”
He knows what he’d like to say.
It repeats like a mantra in his head.
Not you.
Never.
I would never—
Instead, he’s pretty sure what comes out is just another call of the man’s name.
“I’m willing to bet that you’d like to be lazy throughout situations like this, right?” Chuuya leans down, until they’re chest to chest, and Dazai finds himself incapable of looking away because Chuuya’s staring at him like he wants to eat him alive.
“Do you want me to take care of you, Osamu?”
Holy shit.
He starts to lean up, to try and reach him, to try and kiss him again because he really thinks he might be about to die if he doesn’t kiss him right now, but then Chuuya presses a finger to his lips, keeping him down, and it’s like he’s going through the five stages of grief.
He’s pretty sure he looks like he’s about to bite Chuuya’s finger off, because he laughs, then he sits up and he’s gone and it’s ridiculous how Dazai immediately feels cold without him.
He feels stupid and pathetic when he reaches out for him, but Chuuya just grins, rising to his feet and shaking his head. “Get your ass up. I’m not doing anything with you here.”
“What—” Dazai blinks a few times, blindly looking around the room. “What’s wrong with— what?”
“I haven’t been saying anything because we were meant to be serious and nice, but your dorm is kind of shit.” Chuuya looks around, lips twitching in barely visible distaste. “I’m pretty sure your walls are paper thin, too. You also only have a futon and a couple little decorations that look handmade.”
“They are handmade,” Dazai blurts out, because that’s the thing to focus on right now. “My coworkers gave them to me. Two of them. Two of my coworkers.”
The mafioso snorts. “Makes sense. Now get up.”
He resists the inherent urge to make a joke. And maybe because of the commanding tone, maybe because of the way his bones and brain were reduced to mush a minute ago, maybe just because it’s Chuuya, but Dazai just finds himself complying with a smile. “Aye aye.”
-
Chuuya wasn’t wrong.
His apartment is better than the agency dorm. From the food, to the decor, to the size, to the bed itself, it’s just a little more comfortable than Dazai’s little futon in a mostly empty room. It feels more like a home. Chuuya’s left his influence and all that he is in every nook and cranny of these rooms.
He could do with a couple handmade decorations, though.
Dazai could line them up on the windowsill in the bedroom. If he planned it right, they could be the first things he woke up to, if Chuuya weren’t here.
Assuming Dazai would ever be here when Chuuya wasn’t.
Assuming Dazai would be waking up here at all.
“Oi.”
He turns his head, and he finds big blue eyes blinking up at him. “Hm?”
“I can hear you thinking too much.”
It’s interesting.
He wonders if Chuuya really did understand him best all this time, and just didn’t trust his gut. He wonders if Chuuya no longer understood him, but Dazai’s earlier words helped him get there again. He wonders if it changes anything. He wonders why it does.
Hm.
He sees what Chuuya means.
Dazai smiles, and it feels dopey. Active as his mind is again, his body still feels a bit boneless. “Would Chuuya like to distract me?”
He likes the idea of that. Of Chuuya distracting him from the destruction of his own mind. It feels a bit like being protected.
Chuuya rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling, and he starts moving his hand. Fingertips purposefully drag along the bare skin of Dazai’s arms, no longer covered in bandages, courtesy of Chuuya himself. The mafioso smiles, his eyes tracing the movement, running over every inch of his exposed skin like he’s proud of what he sees.
Like he’s proud of himself for still having Dazai’s trust.
It’s a silly thing to be proud of, because of course he still trusts Chuuya. How could he not?
He loves him.
He loves him.
Chuuya’s hand comes up to his cheek, and their eyes meet again. Chuuya’s expression shifts, eyes gleaming in amusement. He brushes his thumb along his cheekbone, bringing his face closer to Dazai’s.
“I love you too, ‘Samu.”