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It’s on a random night that it happens; that the pathetically small residual distance Dazai has managed to keep between himself and his partner shatters.
It happens in between yelled out allegations of cheating —rightful ones, but Dazai isn’t planning on admitting that anytime soon— at the boring, mindless game of war they’ve got going on. Of course it would; like it’s not bad enough that they’re stuck playing that because it’s all his silly dog can handle!
(Really, because it’s all the mental exercise and visual stimuli Dazai will allow tonight, considering the bad case of a concussion he now has to babysit Chuuya through —even though he’s pretended to bemoan the choice of game as he always does, just so he wouldn’t raise the other boy’s suspicions.)
His angry barking of accusations interrupts itself just as Chuuya’s hand flips over Dazai’s left wrist, and the insults seem to die on his tongue even as the hidden cards spill out from under Dazai’s sleeve and incriminate him completely. Dazai frowns as he follows his partner’s stare, curious to find out what’s stopped him in yet another speech on trust and lies and his overall shittiness as a partner —those cute monologues that don’t even come close to how lowly he thinks of himself anyway.
(Dazai still finds the most self-depreciating corners of his mind disappointed that Chuuya didn’t let this tirade get to the good part before stopping, unlike that one memorable time he got wasted enough to destroy what little filter he does keep on around Dazai. That day, a red surge of raw power encircling his body, Chuuya dared to remind him that the only reason he was even playing video games with him was because all of his actual friends got slaughtered, and as a result he’s been basically forced to spend time with the cockroach-like resilient Demon Prodigy that fails at dying no matter how much he wants to. That’s always a fun memory to revisit whenever Dazai’s bored and remembered to carry his favorite blade; especially Chuuya’s horrified face after he uttered those words and the apology that he had to swallow back down when faced with the overly cheerful, high-pitched laughter Dazai managed to force out in reaction.)
But Chuuya’s not bringing up his former squads of minions right now. Right now, Chuuya’s staring at Dazai’s forearm; at the naked expanse of skin there where he has indeed been discreetly sticking spare face cards into his bandages for the past couple of hours.
(Well, he was discreet at first. He did get less careful as Chuuya’s glass filled and emptied enough times and at a concerning enough pace with his most recent injuries that Dazai decided to cut him off entirely by hiding the bottle and forgot to be careful about his gestures, until he got sloppy enough for even more-than-just-tipsy Chuuya to find him out.)
And he must have tucked one in a little too harshly, because he managed to have it tear at his bandages and eventually bare his inner wrist under the undone sleeve buttons of his shirt to the dim lit room and the, sadly, suddenly more astute than usual eyes of his partner.
Dazai clears his throat and fixes the gauze as well as he can, concealing his scarred and still healing flesh from the intense blue eyes that seemed locked on it even as he regretfully does up the buttons again —that means he’ll have to find another way to cheat if he feels like it, which is a bit annoying.
Chuuya’s cheeks redden in what must be secondhand embarrassment, even as he finally tears himself away from the sore sight even this one glimpse at Dazai’s body makes for. If he wasn’t freaking out about this stupid slip up, Dazai would marvel that his half-God of a partner, who breaks several moral and legal laws every day, can actually blush more fiercely than a more exemplary citizen would at being caught doing something so innocuous as looking at the gruesome proof of Dazai’s monstrous being living under his sorry corporeal envelope.
As it is, Dazai’s having a hard time recovering from an incident he normally easily brushes out of his mind —it’s certainly happened a few times that his subordinates have witnessed him in a worse state— and it really shouldn’t be a surprise how much more he cares about Chuuya’s opinion than any other Port Mafia member’s. He means more to Dazai than the nameless, faceless people who work for him after all —so much more than the other boy will ever know, as long as Dazai has a say in it. As a result there’s a stretch of silence then, where Dazai’s not sure what to expect from his partner for once.
Is he going to mock him for his weakness, for the attempts on his life that keep failing and evidently leave him having to roam this Earth in a crisscrossed, ugly shell of a deformed body, even when he’s the youngest and arguably most powerful Executive in their organization? Is Chuuya going to openly judge him for the habit itself, for how broken his mind is and how pathetic he is to indulge in such a coping mechanism? Or worst than all of this, is he going to pity him and look at him differently than before, even though Dazai’s reason to wear his bandages is all but an open secret in the mafia and as occasional a thought he might spare at his partner’s struggles, Chuuya must have had an idea as to what he’s been hiding under there for the past couple of years they’ve known each other?
Chuuya’s mouth opens, hesitant and unlike himself, and Dazai feels his own eyes widening when he realizes what words he’s likely to let out next.
“Just ask already, idiot,” he interrupts, because he can’t fathom the concept of Chuuya apologizing to him, in any circumstances.
Chuuya cracks a frown, probably just as pissed at having been read accurately by Dazai as he is at the insult. But his indignation seems to morph into intense focus instead of giving into his anger, as he keeps staring at the scars’ emplacement even now they’re no longer on display.
(Dazai’s heart wants to beat a little faster at that, at just how adorable a trying-to-be-serious-while-drunk-and-concussed Chuuya looks.
He doesn’t let it.
Spending time with Chuuya is really doing wonders for his training, he thinks —and tries not to retch as the smug and proud face of his mentor manifests in his mind then.)
“I thought you hated pain,” is what Chuuya eventually settles on and blurts out.
He turns a darker shade of pink as he picks up his empty glass, and awkwardly plays with it with a faked nonchalance that’s so out of place Dazai has to bite down to contain his laughter.
“I do,” Dazai confirms. He leaves a purposeful pause there, drinking in the confusion writing itself on Chuuya’s delicate features and savoring it like the other boy always does his pricey, snobby red wines —that he’s probably craving more of right now, but too bad. And Dazai blames the, to him, equally heady feeling of Chuuya’s full attention, for the generous gift of an explanation he can’t resist giving him when he adds, “There are some things I hate more than that, though.”
Chuuya hums, surely too soon for him to have gotten Dazai’s meaning in his current state. He slumps forward, putting down his glass with a little too much force —either from his buzzed state, or because he’s angry to only have noticed it was empty just as he brought it to his lips, Dazai doesn’t know for sure— and sitting back up. His eyes wander to Dazai’s sleeve again, and he snaps them upwards with sudden determination, scooting closer to Dazai’s spot on the couch.
Dazai stays rooted in place, the smiling mask freezing on his face; warily eyeing the way Chuuya seems to try and gather his own courage before speaking —which is not something he usually does, at all— and the way he so thoughtlessly invades his personal space —although that is, arguably, a much more common occurrence between the two members of Double Black.
“Dazai?” He needlessly calls, breath so hot and heavily saturated in alcohol it hits Dazai’s cheek like the warm summer breeze had near that distillery Mori sent them to reclaim from a rival organization last year.
“Yes, my drunk little Chuuya?” He can’t not tease —not if he wants to have a shot at hiding just how affected he is by this proximity to the intoxicating sight Chuuya makes right now.
The possessive tones of that nickname don’t seem to register in his partner’s muddled mind, because Chuuya seems to be prey to other, more troubling thoughts that —for once— Dazai can’t fully guess at.
He doesn’t have to, thankfully, because soon Chuuya swallows with some difficulty, treacherously bringing Dazai’s attention to the lump of his throat and the choker that resides there that he really doesn’t need to be fixating on when they’re sitting so close; his hand finding Dazai’s, laying only centimeters away from the disgusting patch of skin revealed to him earlier, and his blue, honest, open eyes staring right down into Dazai’s soulless one when he speaks.
“I hate you the most,” is what he says.
Dazai blinks. Chuuya doesn’t; and he doesn’t add anything after that, either.
So, Dazai does the one thing that makes sense in this situation.
He bursts out laughing.
“Well, color me flattered! I didn’t know I held such a special place in Chuuya’s life,” he bites back with more sour laughter, forcing bile to stay down his throat.
(Trying his hardest not to conjure up cursed names of people he knows for a fact Chuuya loathes much more than he does Dazai, like say, one specific ability user whose single name alone could instantly bring Chuuya’s most traumatic experiences back to life. Trying his damned best to not let his heartbreak over that devastatingly honest declaration show so pathetically to his too-knowing partner, to hurt him back and then some.
Trying to find joy in the confirmation that he’s reached his goal in making sure to drive enough of a wedge between them that Chuuya won’t ever get too close to the inhuman being he is, even though his efforts were lukewarm in this endeavor and he naively expected what seemed like somewhat mutual banter was some level of fun even to his partner as well.)
But the fingers over his own don’t let him withdraw like he’d planned, like he doesn’t have a choice but to, really. Instead, they squeeze his hand harder in Chuuya’s trembling, almost desperate hold.
“No,” he stresses, rushing the words out like he’s genuinely afraid of Dazai misunderstanding him, “you don’t get it. I’m not saying I hate you more than everyone else I hate. I’m saying,” he develops, frowning and gestures wildly with his other hand, “that out of everyone in this world, I’m the one who hates you the most. Actually, it’s more like…”
He cuts off after that, but Dazai doesn’t fear him passing out on him in the middle of a speech like he’s been known to do on occasion after drinking too much. Chuuya’s eyes are too wide open for that, searching in the void he’s staring at in front of them like the abandoned card game laying on the table will give him the answer he’s looking for.
So Dazai waits as patiently as he can, trying not to combust under the burning contact between them that Chuuya still hasn’t let go off, under surges of a lab-made God thrumming just below his skin that Dazai still feels in the milliseconds it takes his own ability to annihilate.
(He doesn’t let himself think it’s endearing, that Chuuya’s thinking so hard about this he forgot to keep reign over the power inside him that he’s otherwise always repressing. He doesn’t, because he knows rationally that it’s mostly to blame on the alcohol, and not on his partner reciprocating any kind of unhealthy obsession for him that Dazai will die before admitting on his part.)
When Chuuya finally solves his inner conundrum, he snaps his head back fully towards Dazai, startling him in his silent observation. That’s only made worse by the way he grabs at Dazai’s shirt with his free hand, tugging on it so harshly Dazai has to physically stop himself from falling forward and knocking their foreheads together.
“I know! Look, think of all of the Dazai hate like it’s gravity. Well, I control it! It’s mine, all of it, and it’s all here,” he explains, letting go of the fabric over Dazai’s chest to put his palm over his own, parting the V neck of his sleep shirt —he got changed into comfortable clothes after Dazai helped him tend to his scalp wound, unlike his unplanned guest who’s still wearing his work attire— in the process. “And I’m not lending you any, you hear me, shitty Dazai? Not even if you beg.”
Dazai wishes he could tear at the bandages around his head to free his left eye, just so he can get a proper look at the ridiculously triumphant, captivating grin on Chuuya’s face right now. Just so he can accurately tattoo into his brain this surreal memory, where the boy that means more to him than anything on the face of the planet proudly announces he hates him so much Dazai somehow deserves a place in his heart, too; even if he only means on the same level as the ability he tends to loathe and only tolerates for its intermittent usefulness.
He forces himself to look away, still, to not lose himself in admiring the way the column of Chuuya’s throat dies in the hollow crux above his sternum; he fights the sudden itch to count the shallow breaths Chuuya’s lungs are taking right under that freckled hand that was over his own clothed chest not a minute ago.
“If I beg for the right to hate myself?” He tries to clear up instead.
Of course he’s unable to sound anything but mocking at that nonsensical explanation, unwilling as he is to show how troubled it leaves him that Chuuya would so adamantly link anything that has to do with his feelings for Dazai, with the fiercely alive, human organ beating in his stupidly, enticingly ripped chest.
“That’s right, asshole,” Chuuya replies smugly, used to and unfazed by Dazai’s tone. “You can beg all you want, you’re not getting any of it. It’s all mine. So back off and find yourself another hobby, alright?”
He even glares at him for a good few seconds, like a petulant child trying to make their point about not sharing their favorite toy.
Then he huffs, almost falling backwards as he sits back in his previous spot to pick up the cards and shuffle the pack again. Dazai smiles a more honest smile than usual —but it’s okay, because with how silly he’s just been, there’s no chance in hell Chuuya will notice or remember this tomorrow anyway— and lets the usual insult and the irritated tone he’s grown irreversibly fond of soothe his sorrows temporarily as he lets go of some of the darker thoughts in his mind for once. He gives in for a minute and focuses fully on the very angry, very drunk mafioso he had a handful of until a second ago.
(He doesn’t spare a thought to Ango and Oda’s raised eyebrows last time he explained to them that, apart from their own company, Chuuya is the only person who manages to ground him into the present instead of letting himself float out to unpleasant memories. He was drunk himself when he said that, anyway, so it doesn’t count.
And he’d gotten drunk before going to Lupin, he’d had to add when Ango had looked at his first order of the night sitting untouched in front of them.)
“So… You really think you hate me the most in the entire world?” He teases as they start playing again, trying to make sure that as disorganized as his ideas are, Chuuya's corny take isn't a neurological symptom —just proof that he's much too sentimental to have anyone doubt his humanity, like Dazai's always thought.
And Dazai starts winning again, because he starts cheating again —but Chuuya seems to have forgotten that he caught him red-handed before, and he only curses at himself for every card Dazai steals from him.
“That’s right, sucker,” he sneers from under the unruly hair Dazai helped him wash earlier, giving up several cards in a row without much of a care. “Call me Nakahara Chuuya, Dazai’s number one hater!”
Nothing, not even being so acutely aware of his own inappropriate feelings for him, could have prepared Dazai for the odd sensation that seizes his chest at that. For the strength with which those words dig in between his lungs, and the breathtaking violence with which they squeeze out the weak, barely beating muscle there —like Chuuya’s magical, all-powerful hold upon anyone that wasn’t cursed with an ability-canceling power.
“Aww, would you look at that,” Dazai has the hardest time sarcastically replying, “my dog wants a title with its master’s name in it!”
That finally flares up the tiny match of humanized anger that is Dazai’s partner, and he retaliates by throwing his share of cards —a pathetically thin part of the pack, by now— in his face. “Stop it with the goddamn dog jokes already! It’s been years.”
“But then who would I get to call my fierce little Chuu-huahua?” Dazai mock-asks, pouting.
Chuuya stops himself from growling at the nickname at the very last second, knowing from experience that only gives Dazai more ammunition for similar jabs. He glares, and blinks slowly as if it’s becoming difficult to think of anything coherent to retort —and considering how late it is and how much he drank after getting brutally hit over the head, Dazai’s not shocked.
“You’re the fucking worst,” he settles on after some time, half-yawning around his own declaration.
“I know, I know. And you hate me,” Dazai reminds him, magnanimous.
“I hate you the most,” Chuuya corrects with a kick to his shin —one that misses, because he's that slow right now.
“Right,” Dazai concedes as he grabs onto Chuuya’s offending leg, tightening his hold as the other boy immediately tries to wiggle free.
But Chuuya seems to change his mind fairly quickly about getting away, and instead tugs at Dazai’s tie until the taller boy almost falls on him, landing precociously over his lap. He watches as Chuuya visibly gathers all his remaining wits to order his thoughts, before he glares up at him intensely again.
“I hate you so much there’s no Dazai-hate left, so you can’t hate yourself anymore. There. You’re gonna remember that, genius freak?” He asks practically in Dazai's face, like the proximity isn’t disturbing him nearly as much as it is affecting Dazai —and it probably isn’t, because they don’t usually care much for such ridiculous societal norms anyway.
(Dazai just forgot to pass that message along to his poor stupid heart tonight, that’s all.)
“I will,” he croaks out, unable and unwilling to argue any further.
Chuuya stares at him, unimpressed, and after a definite nod, shoves him off hard enough that Dazai is almost lying down on the couch. He ends up completely on his back a few seconds later, when Chuuya’s dead weight falls upon him.
“You better,” he adds, grumbling around another yawn.
He closes his eyes and pats around for the thick plaid Dazai always uses as a blanket when he crashes here, and spreads it over both of thm, clearly settling for the night right here even though his bed is in the room next door and his guest has had absolutely no say in the matter.
“For his part,” Dazai can’t help but point out, “Chuuya should remember he doesn’t have the authority to tell an Executive what to do.”
For a minute there’s no reply, and as much as he enjoys their current position, Dazai swallows back his disappointment that Chuuya’s fallen asleep so fast.
Then, something pinches at him just below his jaw, the only uncovered part of his skin apart from his hands and face, and he lets out a surprised yelp.
“I really fucking hate you,” Chuuya reiterates in a sigh, sounding half-asleep on Dazai's chest already.
Dazai chuckles and shushes him, letting a hand slowly pat over his back to close that endless debate —for now.
He joins him in sleep quicker than he has in forever —with a smile on his lips, his number one hater comfortably sprawled out on top of him, and his craving for this closeness temporarily outweighing the hateful thoughts that, apparently, don't belong to him anymore.