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Dazai didn’t expect to be up before eight on a Sunday, because his ovaries had apparently decided to wage war on him.
Don’t get him wrong, he had a flair for drama and was well attuned to his body. Usually, he could tell what was going on. But as he shuffled toward the bathroom, hunched over, clutching his stomach with one arm and his lashes glued together, it didn’t even cross his mind that he might be on his period.
Not even for a second.
He staggered toward the toilet. The air freshener, overly neutral, filled his nostrils and churned his stomach.
Was he really about to die with his underwear around his knees from some goddamn food poisoning?
He rested his sweat-soaked forehead against the cold porcelain sink, letting out a near-groan of relief. When he looked down at his underwear, an unconscious movement, his heart sank.
Either he was dealing with internal bleeding, or his period had decided to return from its spiritual retreat. He twisted his mouth, leaned back, and felt a little calmer. He didn’t have a regular cycle; his shitty diet and bad habits had contributed to that. He was doing better now, no doubt about it, and it helped that so many people were looking out for him. But the stress of the past few weeks, with everything going on in Yokohama, and his tendency to slip back into old habits, had only made things worse.
And his body had responded.
His period had never been kind to him, lowering his defenses and making cramps feel like knife wounds. He needed to stay hydrated, curl up under the sheets, maybe get a hot water bottle—if he could remember where he’d put it and if the nausea gave him a break—stuff himself with sweets, and hope for the best.
He wasn’t a religious man, but his period made him consider it. And, honestly, the idea of tearing himself didn’t sound all that bad.
Dazai could almost hear him saying, “You’re such a drama queen, fish-face,” drilling into his eardrums.
Almost.
He reached into the drawer under the sink and his blood ran cold.
No, no, no.
He opened another drawer, and another. There were no pads anywhere, not even the free tampons from his last pack. He slumped against the sink, his heart pounding wildly and his mind buzzing.
He ran a hand through his damp hair and—
Yosano could help.
Dazai drummed his fingers on the edge of the sink, weighing his very limited options. Yosano would help him, no questions asked. She was a nosy witch on her best days, and their relationship might’ve shifted since she found out about his mafia past—about who had been his mentor—but he knew he could count on her. And, without a doubt, she’d keep his secret.
In fact, she was already keeping one for him—a keychain-sized secret, red as dawn and with a sailor’s tongue.
He grabbed the roll of toilet paper.
The problem was—
It was hard to shake something that had burrowed so deeply inside him. His childhood had been far from easy, and things hadn’t exactly improved once he’d ended up under Mori’s wing. Still, he’d managed to stabilize enough to find some semblance of himself.
“What’s your name?”
“...”
“It’s Mori, and you?”
“I’m— Dazai? Dazai Osamu, sir.”
“Hmm, nice to meet you, lad .”
His relationship with Mori was complicated enough that Yosano couldn’t feel comfortable with him again. It would be easier if Dazai hated him openly; he had plenty of reasons for hatred to take root in his gut and cloud everything else, everything that could have been good. But in a world like theirs, where darkness reigned mercilessly—hands stained with blood, thread that held his skin together, and red fabric that he clung to like an anchor in the middle of the ocean—nothing was ever just black and white.
Or maybe he was just putting obstacles in a path already full of them.
Dazai sighed.
He wouldn’t call Yosano with his pants around his knees, clothes ruined.
He wouldn’t ask his coworkers for help yet, not in this pitiful state, and certainly not while his demons were rubbing their hands together hungrily, waiting for a moment of vulnerability to feast on him.
He saw his reflection in the mirror, and what he saw broke his resolve. His eyes burned from the tears pooling in his lashes, the same tears that tightened his throat and made it hard to breathe.
And he hated it. Because just last night, everything had been fine. He’d shared snacks with Ranpo, watched a silly show with Atsushi and Kyouka. For the first time in months, he had actually slept through the night. That should’ve been a warning sign, but he’d let his guard down, and now, he was paying the price.
Dazai stifled a sob and the floodgates gave way.
He needed—
He needed his stuffed animal, the one that certain clingy Slug got him at that stupid festival. He remembered his half-smile, his crooked fang, and his eyes—a perfect juxtaposition; a burnt brown, embers about to burst into flame, and a deep blue, the kind that bathed Yokohama—just for him. Dazai cradled the orange stuffed animal with his heart beating wildly and a rapt gaze, lost in the blush that tinged his freckled cheeks and how the light from the lanterns highlighted his sunset-colored curls.
He needed—
The fish broth Chibi always made for him, the only thing he could stomach. The broth he could never replicate, no matter how simple the recipe or how expensive the ingredients. It never tasted the same. It never would.
“Burn!”
Chuuya narrowed his eyes at him, radiating distrust, and a muscle in his face twitched. His patience was hanging by a thread, tinnier with every second, and Dazai couldn’t figure out why he hadn’t blown up yet. Why he was still holding back. That, more than anything, made Dazai’s skin tingle.
Right in his chest.
“Blow.”
“What?”
Dazai needed to push further, so he sank deeper into the blanket he was cocooned in. It smelled like stupid Chuuya, but it was so warm, so comfortable, that Dazai was willing to make the sacrifice.
Chuuya snorted and shook his head as if the whole situation were ridiculous. Then brought the spoon to his mouth. Dazai’s heart stuttered. Chuuya’s lips were pink, full, and they made Dazai crave things he absolutely shouldn’t.
“Open your mouth.”
Dazai jumped.
“Open your mouth, you damn bandage-wasting machine, before I change my mind.”
He needed his pillow fort.
Blankets, cushions, and a marathon of silly Disney movies, not because he was a fan of princesses exactly. In fact, he found them predictable and soporific. But it wasn’t about the movies. It was about teasing his Chibi—though Chuuya had never really been his—and listening to his hoarse, velvety voice ruin all the songs.
Sometimes they’d fall asleep shoulder to shoulder, waking up with their limbs tangled, but pretending like it never happened. Other times, Chuuya would end up in his lap, and Dazai would play with his hair, fingers winding through his reddish curls, while Chuuya pretended to hate every second of it.
He needed—
He pulled up his pants and grimaced. He was sticky and sore, but he needed to get out of the bathroom, drink a glass of water, and check if he had any medicine somewhere. Probably not, the painkillers barely had any effect on him, and he didn’t trust himself either.
He needed—
“It’s herbal water, yuck.”
“Drink it.”
“If I wanted that crap, I’d go to the park and chew on a handful of grass.”
“Drink it!”
“Chibi!”
“If you drink it, we’ll play that stupid game.”
“When you say—”
“Yeah, that game, the one with the colored circles on the floor.”
“It’s called Twister! Chibi can’t change his mind!”
I missed Ane-san’s tea.
In the mafia, apart from Mori, Kouyou had been the only one who knew his circumstances. They’d never gotten along, but the woman had been there when Dazai showed up in her room pale as a ghost with bloodied thighs, terrified, and she had been there even when Dazai had turned against her.
Chuuya was—
It was a mistake.
Or maybe the mistake was the bullet that had passed too close, and the stubbornness of a very annoying Chibi who refused to back off, insisting on checking the damage and tending to a wound that was barely a scratch. The bandages wrapped around his torso, the purple bruising creeping out from the edges, and that vacant, distant look in his eyes, as if he didn’t want to be there, didn’t want Chuuya to see him like that—it all made Chuuya’s patience snap.
Dazai screamed when Chuuya touched him.
He screamed and screamed and screamed.
And when that didn’t work, he bit his hand, scratched him, and shook him away, but Chuuya stayed. He was patient. He listened even when Dazai did nothing but scream and attack.
“What is this?”
“This is—”
Three days later, Chuuya stood there, an elegant bag firmly clutched in his arms. Dazai leaned against the doorframe of his container, curiosity prickling at the tips of his fingers, but he didn’t reach for the bag. Not yet.
There it was again, he thought, frowning, the nervousness that made Chibi look so damn adorable.
Dazai glanced down at the bag. It smelled like chocolate.
“Don’t be mad,” Chuuya rushed to say, stumbling over his words. Dazai raised an brow, and Chuuya bit his lower lip, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “They’re comfortable, the lady at the store assured me. And even though I know it’s not the same, I bought one to check for myself and wore it all day. You can’t wear it all day, but it’s better than—”
Oh.
Oh, oh.
“Chibi,” Dazai interrupted, his voice high-pitched, as if he were somewhere far away.
Chuuya blinked, then his fear and doubt melted into fierce determination. He reached out and slammed the bag against Dazai’s chest.
Dazai grabbed it, fingers brushing.
When he opened the bag, the first thing he saw was a box of chocolates—his favorite—and then a baby blue box. He took it, even though he had a hunch what it was, he didn't quite know what to do with it, let alone with the heat swirling in his belly.
Maybe that was why he chose the easy way out.
“Chibi bought me a bra? I’m a boy,” he teased, saying it more to annoy him than because he really felt that way, but Chibi turned pale.
“No! They’re binders, not bras. They’re for hiding and protecting your chest, and they’re very comfortable, look—”
“How do you know my size?”
“Huh?”
“Is Chibi a pervert?”
Chuuya opened his mouth, then closed it, cheeks burning. It was hilarious.
Dazai sighed.
And Chuuya launched into an absurd explanation that only stirred up the swarm of bees in his stomach.
Dazai covered his mouth with his hand.
“I was just kidding.”
“Ah.” The word sounded muffled, but the breath against his skin felt weird. Dazai pulled his hand away quickly, wiping it on his clothes.
Chuuya grinned.
Why?
“Do you like it?”
Dazai blushed.
He rested his hands on the counter and his shoulders shook.
The faucet dripped.
He needed—
He didn’t need any of that.
His eyes scanned the room for his phone. He shouldn’t, he told himself as he walked into his room, ignoring the futon, the empty takeout boxes, and the half-finished reports scattered around. He shouldn’t. Because they were enemies. In the eyes of the world, that’s what they were. And with the greater threat looming over Yokohama, he didn’t need anyone setting their sights on Chuuya.
He ignored the phone lying on the floor and crouched down next to a shoebox, half-hidden beneath a pile of junk. Inside, among some old photos, a stray shoelace, and a keychain missing its other half, was a flip phone.
He turned it on.
He hesitated but only for a beat.
A bowl of cereal with cold milk and a reality show featuring rich wives complaining about their husbands was Chuuya’s definition of a perfect Sunday morning. He settled into the couch, spoon in mouth, and cranked up the volume.
He wasn’t big on sweets, but he’d developed a soft spot for the colorful, sugary cereals from the supermarket. He dropped the remote when he thought he heard a buzzing sound coming from the other end of the hallway.
He froze, watching Melanie flaunt her new necklace to the other wives, who pretended to be happy for her while secretly wishing her husband would get gonorrhea or go bankrupt, whichever came first.
His phone was next to the couch.
Chuuya gripped his spoon tightly. The buzzing continued. The bastard wouldn’t dare, would he? He hadn’t used that phone since— Neither of them used it, he didn’t even know the jerk still had it.
His chest tightened just thinking about how he’d once used that phone, convinced that Dazai had gotten rid of it like everything else he left behind. Chuuya loosened his grip on the spoon and fumbled around for the remote, turning up the volume even higher, knowing damn well his morning was probably ruined.
He tried to ignore the buzzing, but it only grew louder.
Damn it.
He slammed the bowl down on the coffee table with a thud, knowing that soon the cereal would be nothing but a soggy mess.
What if...?
“Goddamn it, you better be dying,” he muttered furiously, pushing himself up from the sofa.
The flip phone sat on his nightstand, nestled beside a handful of memories he refused to acknowledge.
Always on.
Chibi
Chibi Chibi
CHIBIII
What the hell do you want?
o(≧▽≦)o
I’m gonna block you, asshole
(Ｔ▽Ｔ)
You better have a good reason or I swear
Chibi will strangle me?
With his little paws??
I’m done
NO WAIT
SORRY
Sorry? What have you smoked?
I need your help
If this is some kinda prank or—
No, no
Okay, let’s say I believe you
Shoot
Dazai was typing and typing and typing. It had to be important if Mackerel was exposing himself like that, but Chuuya knew that whatever it was, it wasn’t his fucking problem.
Even so—
Dazai stopped typing, and anxiety crept into him.
Let it out
It can’t be that bad
I’ve seen you at your worst, and I’m still here, right?
Nothing can make me see you differently, fish-face
He regretted sending the message the moment his finger left the screen. Running a hand through his hair, he cursed under his breath. What was he thinking? He didn’t know this version of Dazai—walking around in broad daylight with that slight smile, doing good deeds without a second thought. Four years. Almost four years had passed, and all it took was a few stupid messages to bring Chuuya to his knees.
His phone buzzed.
I’m out of pads and it hurts and I can’t go out like this
Chuuya’s stomach dropped. The pressure in his chest—like a hand squeezing his sternum—began to fade. He sighed, and for a moment, he couldn’t help it. His first thought, the one that hit him hardest, the one that almost buckled his knees, was that he asked me for help.
Chibi?
Forget it
20 minus
You need anything else?
He was typing again.
Those chocolate-filled cookies with cotton candy?
I saw them the other day at the super
Okay
If Chibi wants to spoil me...
Or just a pack
CHIBI IS CRUEL (╯°□°)╯
He was worried that Dazai hadn’t asked anyone at the Agency for help—it meant there were still things he was keeping to himself, things that would fester and take root. The words “Don’t hide from them” caught in his throat.
Who was he to say anything?
Back in the living room, he left the bowl in the sink to clean later, then took his leather jacket and motorcycle keys before heading to the elevator. At the supermarket, he picked up a few packs of cookies and chocolates, then made his way to the hygiene aisle. There were more options than he recalled. He grabbed a blue pack and a green one, studying them with a confused expression.
“Need help, sir?”
“Uh, well—” He glanced quickly at the shelf, searching for some sort of inspiration to save him. Finding none, he turned to the employee with an apologetic smile. “I think so? I’m not really sure.”
"Is it for someone else?"
“For my— For my partner.”
The word felt strange on his tongue, but the girl didn’t seem to notice. She immediately launched into a long explanation about the pros and cons of each product. Dazai had asked him for a pack of pads, so he quickly ruled out the menstrual cup, the disc, and tampons for another time.
In the past, the idiot used the smallest size. His body barely survived, and his periods, though painful, weren’t particularly heavy. But now?
A sharp pain shot through his chest.
Before, he wouldn’t have hesitated.
Before, he wouldn’t have needed to ask if his favorite cookies were still his favorites.
“Sir?”
Chuuya jumped.
“Sorry, I’ll—I’ll call my partner instead.”
But that was normal, right?
Four years had passed; it was impossible for everything to stay the same. Still, as he looked for a quiet corner, he couldn't shake the feeling gnawing at him or the bitter taste in his mouth.
He didn’t know his partner.
He wasn’t his partner anymore.
Dazai picked up immediately.
“Chibikko!”
He cleared his throat, mustering his courage.
“Which one do you want?”
“Hmm?”
“You know— the ones with wings?”
“Did Chibi fall off his bike and hit his head?”
“I’m serious, damn it!”
“With wings,” Dazai sounded disappointed, and that stung more than a kick. “I don’t care about the brand, but I want the large size, or the night— the more absorbent ones. I’m dying here, Chibi! I’m bleeding out! Hurry!”
Chuuya snorted, but it came out wrong—strained, like someone was choking him.
“Glad to see your dramatic side is still intact. I’ll grab you two packs.”
“Aren’t you curious?”
His tone was a warning in itself, like a caress, but Chuuya was a fool when it came to Dazai, and only that bastard could make his pulse race like that.
“About what?”
“About the size of my pussy, of course!”
Chuuya blinked once, twice, three times.
And then he exploded.
“You’re the worst, you brainless mackerel! You’re impossible!”
And his laughter, shrill, genuine, and entirely his own, filled his chest and twisted his insides, wringing from him, against his better judgment, a half-smile.
“Oh, don’t make me laugh, it hurts.”
“Have you taken anything?”
“I wish, but ibuprofen doesn’t even tickle me, and they won’t let me have anything stronger.”
Smart, a point for them.
“I’ll stop by the pharmacy on the way. Do you have a TV there?”
“Kunikida’s laptop,” Dazai hummed.
“Of course you do, you damn menace.”
“Will Chibi buy me one?”
Chuuya hung up, grabbed two packs, and, as a last-minute idea, added a seed heating pad to help with cramps. And a pack of tea bags. It wasn’t his favorite tea—Ane-san would throw a fit if she saw him buying supermarket tea—but there was no time to waste.
And Dazai’s taste buds were already beyond saving.
Sneaking into the Agency dorms without anyone noticing was child’s play. Finding Dazai’s door wasn’t hard either, but he faltered as he raised his fist, his heart stumbling against his ribs.
It was the first time since their reunion in the dungeons, and the tentacle monster, that they would share space without a mission between them.
What if...?
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
my dog need permission? (¬_¬)
Not all of us are as shameless as you, moron
Okaaaay, you can come in
the door’s not locked ( ˘ ³˘)♥
Honestly, Chuuya had no idea what to expect when he stepped into the genkan. He took off his shoes and peeked into the hallway. Well, it wasn’t exactly a hallway—on his left was a small, open kitchen, and on his right, a door. He bit the inside of his cheek, indecisive, when a cry cut through his thoughts.
“Oh no, a stupid slug has invaded my dorm!” Dazai whined from the other side of the door. “Help!”
“Will you shut up? You’ll alert the whole damn building,” Chuuya hissed.
They weren’t at war, but the situation between their organizations was unstable, to say the least. Chuuya didn’t know the details of the history his boss and the president shared, but it couldn’t have been good, given the tension that thickened the air whenever they were in the same room. And that had only happened twice.
What would happen if someone found an executive there? The boss would find out, and Chuuya refused to listen to his nonsense about bringing back the asshole Dazai. He didn't have that power, never had, and even if he did, he thought, peeking into what looked like the bathroom and scanning the place, he would never use it.
If Dazai was ever going back to the mafia, it would be on his own terms.
He arched a brow and stepped into the bath.
“What the hell are you doing in there?”
The tub was empty and Dazai seemed unharmed, the bandages hanging loosely from his wrists and his bangs pulled back with a pink headband, but what caught Chuuya’s attention, and made him smirk, was the bear pajamas.
Chuuya leaned a hip against the doorframe and crossed his arms.
“Cute bears.”
Something flashed across Dazai’s amber eyes.
“Nice shirt.”
Chuuya wrinkled his nose, uncrossed his arms, and looked down, completely confused by what the hell Dazai was talking about. Heat flooded his cheeks, and his heart began to race. It couldn’t be true.
He couldn’t have left the house dressed like that.
“‘I’m a whore, got a problem with that?’” Dazai read mockingly, almost savoring it. “Chuuya, you got something to say to me?”
Chuuya threw the bag at his face before turning away.
“Wait!”
With his hand grasping the doorknob, Chuuya barked, “What!? Don’t you know how to put on a pad!?”
Dazai didn’t take the bait.
And that—more than the nervous blush tinting his cheeks or how he bit his lower lip—was enough to shatter Chuuya’s anger. He sneered.
“Stay.”
Then, he lost his balance, as if someone had yanked the floor out from under him. Dazai, gaining confidence, rested his arms on the edge of the tub.
“Silly movies and snacks? How does that sound?”
The “How it used to be” wasn’t said, but it hung between them. He shouldn’t accept; he should tell him it was a bad idea. The words were right there, at his fingertips, but so was everything else.
What they could never say to each other.
What they had said too quietly.
And what remained between them—a rough rope, winding around their wrists, tightening more with every step they took, pulling them closer while pushing them further apart. Chuuya clenched his fists at his sides, helplessness building in his lower abdomen, stretching its long fingers up to squeeze his throat.
He blinked.
He shouldn’t, but—
Dazai had called him.
“Why me?”
Dazai flinched. It was subtle—his shoulders slumped, his gaze darkened. It was stupid, but even though this proved some things wouldn’t change, or would take longer to change, it didn’t make him feel any better.
Don’t push me away.
“I haven’t told them.”
“Don’t you want to?”
Dazai grimaced.
“I do, but not like this.”
“Like what?”
“Are you really going to make me say it?” he asked, almost defensively. Chuuya was playing a dangerous game; one wrong move, and Dazai would pull him away.
But—
Chuuya needed this—the certainty that he wasn’t risking everything for nothing. It was the least he could do, right? After all this time, after all the stumbles, the falls, and the unhealed wounds. If he was going to let Dazai drag him into his life and turn his world upside down, he needed this.
“What do you think, genius?”
Dazai sulked, sinking into the tub.
“I’m wet and sticky.”
“Don’t make it sound dirty.”
“How do you want it to sound?” Dazai sighed, tugging at a loose strip of bandage on his wrist. His long lashes brushed against his cheekbones before he looked up, determination and fear dancing in his amber eyes. “I called you because I wanted you. Happy?”
Oh.
Oh.
Chuuya parted his lips, but Dazai was quicker.
“Can I clean myself without an audience?” His eyes flashed, two slits of pure liquid fire. But Chuuya didn’t miss the playful gleam that bathed his face, which pulled at his mouth and wrinkled his eyes slightly. There he was, his Dazai. “Or does Chuuya want to clean me up?”
“Don’t be long, I’ll wait outside.”
“Boring!”
Chuuya made an obscene gesture with his fingers before slamming the door behind him.
He pressed a hand to his chest, gripping his shirt as if that might slow his racing heart.
He was screwed.
When he stepped out of the bath, he wasn’t surprised to find that his dog had gotten rid of all the accumulated trash and taken over his small kitchen. Still, his heart did something strange when he saw him from behind, wearing the apron Yosano had given him—the one with the buttered abs—and his hair tied up with a chopstick.
He could blame it on hormones, but he couldn’t stop himself from slipping into the redhead’s space. Chuuya stiffened before Dazai’s arms wrapped around him, and the distance between them, just a few inches, became claustrophobic.
It was his fault. Dazai had done this.
Chuuya, ever the faithful dog, acted as if nothing was amiss and pointed a wooden spoon at him. Dazai raised his hands in a mock surrender, but when his gaze shifted to the stove, his eyes widened, and his mouth formed a perfect “o.” His Chibikko was cooking lunch.
He searched Chuuya’s two-colored eyes for answers, first the brown—darker than he remembered, as if the pupil had swallowed the iris, leaving it hiding in the sclera. When he found nothing there, his stare lingered on the blue. Deeper, more vibrant. It took his breath away, just like the first time.
It was the blue from his memories—intense, electric.
Dazai reached out to smooth the crease between Chuuya’s brows, but stopped himself just in time.
“Crab broth? Chibi’s being generous.”
“It was the only thing you had, you asshole.”
It was strange, orbiting each other like nothing had changed, like there wasn’t a chasm—four years of silence—between them. Dazai remained around him, attentive to his every move but always one step behind.
No more leaning on his shoulders.
No more wrapping his arms around his waist and resting his chin on his head.
No more—for now.
It itched under the bandages that were too tight, but even though he knew that this—the suspicion, the mistrust, the distance—was natural, it didn't make it any easier to digest.
Dazai clenched his jaw, nails biting into his palms.
It shouldn’t be like this. They shouldn’t feel like strangers.
Chuuya snapped him out of his thoughts, placing two bowls of broth on the table. Dazai blinked, his confusion giving way to a quick rush of embarrassment when he realized his nails had left marks in his hands.
There was a question dancing in Chuuya’s irises.
His Chuuya was there, still here.
“Eat.”
Dazai pouted. His stomach was throwing a party, but he wasn’t about to waste this opportunity.
“It’s hot.”
It wasn’t intentional, as much as he enjoyed getting under his Chibi’s skin to provoke a reaction—and the one he got was delicious—he didn’t mean to upset him, not like that, not yet at least. The redhead almost choked, broth came out of his nose, and when he stood up so quickly, he nearly knocked the table over.
Whether it was embarrassment or anger, Dazai wasn’t sure. His Chibi could be so damn confusing. Either way, it darkened his gaze.
Burnt wood.
A raging ocean.
Dazai pondered it quietly. Did he want to see him explode? He couldn’t risk pushing too far, no matter how tempting it was.
He nodded toward the broth.
“Blow on it.”
What a day.
“You’re doing this on purpose,” Chuuya growled through his teeth.
The tension in the air was thick. Dazai shifted uncomfortably. This should’ve been good—this clash—that was what he wanted most. But for some reason, it still felt off, like something was missing.
“It’s hot,” he insisted. And if Chuuya caught the desperation hidden in his voice, he didn’t comment on it. Dazai sighed, resting his elbows on the table. “It was just a joke.”
“Eat and shut up, damn it.”
The “Are we okay? Will we be okay?” got stuck in his throat.
He couldn’t finish the crab broth; after four spoonfuls, he was already full. Chuuya didn’t press him or complain. Instead, he cleared the table, handed him a glass of water, and a pill. Their eyes met, and Dazai didn’t hesitate for a moment—their fingers brushed, sending an electric shock through him—before he swallowed the medicine.
Chuuya gave him an unimpressed look.
“What if it was poison?”
“Chibi doesn’t want a double suicide~”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Chuuya replied irritably. “And use the water, damn it!”
Dazai ran his fingertip along the rim of the glass, shooting him a sly look from beneath his lashes.
“If it’s poison, I’ll haunt you like a ghost.”
“Good thing it’s not poison.”
“Boring.”
Chuuya put his hands on Dazai’s shoulders and spun him around.
“Time for a nap.”
“What?” Dazai gasped, twisting like a slippery snake. “But it hurts so much!”
“Sleeping will help.”
Dazai crossed his arms, his expression defiant.
“I refuse.”
“You’re not a kid, don’t act like—”
Chuuya squinted, and something sparked in his eyes. Dazai, intrigued, followed the direction of his glance and then his own face lit up.
“You promised to watch a movie!”
Chuuya could reject him, and Dazai wouldn’t blame him.
“I didn’t promise any such thing, bandage-wasting machine!”
“Chibi!”
Chuuya absentmindedly played with the piercing on his lip, his hesitation clear.
“One movie,” Chuuya relented with a long sigh, shooting Dazai a glare. “And nothing gross, because I swear, my fist will give you a new face.”
“Disney!”
Dazai feared he’d pushed it too far, but the damage was already done. Better to apologize than regret it—or whatever the saying was.
“We still have plenty of movies to critique.”
“Yes, the last ones,” Chuuya agreed, saying it as if emphasizing a fact, thought it felt more like a kick.
Sometimes, Dazai couldn’t help but wonder what would’ve happened if, that day nearly four years ago, instead of leaving without a second glance, he had waited for Chuuya. He could’ve done it, he could have hidden somewhere only the redhead would find him, or contacted him. Maybe not immediately, the wounds would’ve been too fresh, and the surveillance too tight, but he would’ve figured something out.
He told himself there wasn’t time, that he didn’t want to drag Chuuya into that mess, but deep down, the truth was that he was terrified.
What if Chuuya rejected him?
What if Chuuya agreed to leave with him?
They settled down on the futon. Dazai curled up in a blanket like a burrito, and Chuuya hugged a cushion to his chest. It was easy enough to sit together, watch a movie, and eat snacks, but every time their shoulders bumped, their fingers brushed, or they glanced at each other, Chuuya’s face would cloud over and he would withdraw, pulling away.
Not immediately, not abruptly, but it hurt anyway.
What would’ve happened if—?
Sometimes, Dazai found himself reading through the messages Chuuya had sent him over the years. Sometimes he did it because he missed him—because reading his words and hearing his voice in his mind, eyes closed, made him feel a little closer to the redhead. Other times, when the demons inside him grew stronger, he did it to punish himself.
“Hey, Mackerel.”
“Hmm?”
“You’re as red as a tomato.” Chuuya tapped his forehead with his knuckles, and Dazai shivered. “Oi! Are you with me? Damn, you’re burning up.”
He could’ve joked about Chuuya looking for an excuse to strip him, but the truth was, it was too hot, his thoughts were piling up until they blurred, and— Oh. He grimaced in discomfort.
“I think I’ve stained myself.”
“It’s okay, let me give you a hand.”
“I hate staining everything,” he muttered, leaning against Chuuya with his forehead resting on his shoulder, turning his face away. “Why do you even keep it?”
“What?”
Dazai reached up and gently touched the choker around Chuuya’s neck.
“It’s not the same.” Chuuya pushed his hand away, silently urging him to stay still. Before Dazai could tease him, or say it was the same, or comment on the blush creeping up his neck, Chuuya spoke again. “C’mon, big guy. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Chuuya moved to pick him up, but Dazai squirmed to break free of his grip.
“I didn’t know Chibi had a thing for menstruation.”
A smirk spread across his mouth, twisting it, and Dazai had the sudden urge to bite it off.
“Mackerel, it wouldn’t be the first time you’ve stained me.”
“Disgusting.”
Chuuya slipped one arm under his knees and the other around his back. Dazai instinctively wrapped his arms around his neck, pulling himself closer.
“Damn it, why do you have to be so tall?”
“Why are you still so short?”
There was nothing sexual about the way Chuuya held him, but Dazai couldn’t tear his eyes away as Chuuya carried him to the bathroom and started helping him undress. When Chuuya’s fingers hesitated upon reaching the bandages, Dazai closed his around his wrist and nodded once.
“Y’sure?”
Not at all.
And Chuuya must have seen it in his eyes, because his expression softened. The hesitation melted into quiet understanding.
“I want to,” Dazai insisted.
I wanna to feel safe again.
“I can leave,” Chuuya offered, his voice careful.
“Stay,” Dazai pleaded, quieter. “Together.”
Chuuya bit his lip piercing, the hesitation still there.
“Not if you’re not—”
“I don’t want to be alone.”
The truth was a little more complicated, with more layers and too many doubts. Chuuya knew that—he’d always been able to see beyond Dazai’s masks and tricks. But still, he gave in. Still, he stayed.
Dazai’s heart had never felt so full.
Chuuya’s body was a map he once knew by heart—moles, freckles, scars, and now ink, kissing the skin of his arm and reaching his heart—which dried his throat and made him anxious, greedy. He wanted to trace it with his hands, every curve, every line, every imperfection. And if Chuuya allowed it, not now, maybe never, he’d redraw it with his mouth.
Later, much later.
It was the same body sculpted by gods, yet completely different.
And Chuuya, when his eyes—an anomaly, a juxtaposition, a human miracle—fell on him, seemed to feel the same way. Hope found its way through, warm in his belly, and made him feel lighter, more in tune. Unaware of his thoughts, or maybe aware of them, Chuuya complained about the size of the tub and how his shower gel smelled artificial.
“Not all of us can afford 30,000 yen gel.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Dazai stuck out his tongue but couldn’t hide the affection that bubbled over and pulled the corners of his mouth upward.
“Next time, we’re going to Chuuya’s apartment.”
“Ha!? No way. Forget it.”
“I want to try your fancy stuff.”
“Yeah, that’s not happening.”
“Gel, shampoo, towels, his bed!”
“Not in your best dreams!”
“In my dreams, it’s just pretty girls.”
Chuuya tried to kick him, but Dazai caught his calf, and Chuuya retaliated by throwing the sponge at his head.
They didn’t stay in the tub much longer. Chuuya was the first to get out, splashing water everywhere—and of course, Dazai couldn’t help but glance at his ass.
“You’ve got more freckles,” he whispered, amazed.
“I’m gonna gut you, damn it.”
There was no bitterness in his voice, but a hint of embarrassment. Dazai licked his lips, squinting before clasping his hands together.
“First, sit on my face!”
Chuuya lunged at him, one hand gripping the edge of the tub to avoid slipping, the other grabbing a handful of brown hair. Dazai yelped, and they both ended up in the water again, tangled in an impossible mess of limbs, Chuuya’s knee dangerously close to his crotch, a foot in Dazai’s side, and Dazai’s hand on Chuuya’s hip.
It wasn’t comfortable, but—
“Kinky! I like it.”
“Argh! I can’t stand you!”
His fingers drawing random shapes on his skin, a path of freckles and moles.
Chuuya pinched his side.
“Brute!”
They’d have to talk soon, maybe during dinner if Chuuya stayed, or maybe at another time if Dazai got his way. Though the idea of being honest, of laying himself bare and exposing his heart, made him break out in hives and pushed him to lash out, as long as he clung to this, to this little piece of intimacy and domesticity that didn’t belong to the past or the future, but to now, to the present—fleeting and ephemeral, it was all that mattered.
Dazai rested his forehead on Chuuya’s stomach.
“Chibi staying?”
“You tell me,” Chuuya replied, his fingers weaving through the soft waves of Dazai’s hair.
Later, Chuuya wrapped Dazai in a fluffy towel, and Dazai braided his hair. They ended up back in the bedroom, Chuuya wearing his oversized t-shirt—too big, but too tight on the shoulders—and Dazai curled up against his chest, the redhead’s hands in his hair again, playing with the strands and scratching his scalp. No more Disney movies, just some silly show, and the two of them tucked in clean sheets.
It was enough.
For now.
“Chibi.”
“Hmm?”
“Should we skip work tomorrow?
“Don’t push it.”