Chapter Text
Dazai’s hands are sweating. Profusely. Even through the bandages he can feel perspiration seeping uncomfortably. It’s embarrassing, to say the least, considering all he’s trying to do is type a greeting into a text message and hit send. The problem is that he’s never done this before; never openly attempted to connect with someone like this. The man, Chuuya, left his phone number in the tip jar, making sure that Dazai saw him do it before leaving. That meant something, right? There hadn’t been another person on shift at the time, the girls long gone.
Chuuya could have easily snuck by once he started making the next customer’s drink, deposited the bills, and went about his night. Instead, he engaged in conversation, leaving a vague promise to return later and try more drinks.
Nervously, he leaves the conversation on his phone and scrolls to another contact, hitting call before he can convince himself not to.
It rings a couple times before a pleasantly soft and familiar voice greets him. “Dazai. Good morning,”
“Akiko. I’m… I think I’m dying. Something’s wrong with me.”
“If this is your way of asking for medical advice, you know you have to pay me first. Two bottles of wine after last time.”
Dazai grimaces at the memory and shakes his head. “Not… no. It’s only half medical advice and half… pending relationship advice.”
The other line goes deathly silent before there’s a burst of shuffling, as though the woman sat up abruptly from a lying position and nearly dropped her phone.
“Relationship advice?” She sounds too eager, as though she’s been waiting on this day for years. Granted, she probably has. All those wasted nights taking Dazai out to bars only for him to make up an excuse or fake finding someone to go home with so that he can discreetly slip out the door. It’s always been with good intent: Yosano can practically feel the way he aches for affection sometimes. And her hugs can only do so much.
“Pending relationship.”
“Explain yourself, Dazai.”
He quickly recalls the events from the night before to his friend, skipping over the embarrassing details that he’s sure she can deduce on her own. Rambling about Chuuya is surprisingly easy, Dazai finds out. As the words tumble from his mouth, his brain takes over in painting a photo-realistic picture of the redhead. What a pleasant sight.
“I can’t tell if he was being overly kind, or if he intended the number to go to someone else-“
“You were the only one working, were you not?”
“… I was.”
“So..?”
Dazai groans, a hand raking down his face. “What if it’s one big mistake? What if he gets completely put off and decides to stop coming?”
“That would be a real shame, but didn’t he promise to come again and try more tea?”
“Not necessarily-“
Over the phone, Yosano’s bubbly laughter filters through and Dazai can’t find it in himself to be irritated. “Sweetheart, you’re just having a bad case of bisexual panic. You’ve never liked a boy before, right?” His lack of response cues her in: she knows he’s as bright as a tomato right now. “At least not so blatantly.”
“He may not have been flirting with me.” Dazai begins to pace the length of his bedroom, his cat tracking those footsteps from the dresser. “What if I’m misinterpreting?”
“When have you ever done that? Realistically.”
He stops pacing and deflates, mumbling under his breath. “Plenty of times when it comes to people.”
People are confusing. They’re complex and do a complete one hundred and eighty degree flip in a matter of seconds. He’s never been good at reading them: from his days sitting at the dinner table while his parents bickered about something or other, to high school when was ostracized for telling a girl that her essay was barely up to standard. Dazai tried his hardest to do the right thing and still met resistance.
“He’s flirting, Dazai. Believe me. He probably had ‘I’m trying to pick you up, please don’t be an idiot’ plastered on his forehead but you were too busy swooning over his eyes to notice.”
Wait. Had he really rambled on about his eyes that much earlier? Oh God… he’s down bad.
“So… I should text him?”
“Oh Christ. Yes, please send the man a message. He’s probably been waiting all day for you to make a move.”
Dazai pouts another couple seconds before murmuring a ‘thanks’ and hanging up the phone. Deep down, she’s right. He knows that she’s right. But when he opens that empty text conversation again, his fingers shake.
Unfair. So completely unfair.
How is it that a writer, someone who spends so much of his time attempting to draft creations from written word, can’t decide on a single text message to send the guy? It’s four in the afternoon, but Dazai has been at this since three when he woke up. Yosano’s words bounce around in his head, and they should instill some semblance of confidence, but… they don’t.
A meow breaks his intense focus again, and Dazai jumps. Mrs Meowington is still perched on the dresser, fixing him with one of those ‘you’re being pathetic’ glares. Dazai agrees wholeheartedly.
“Fine, then you tell me what the hell I’m supposed to say. ‘Hey, thanks for leaving your number in the tip jar, hope it wasn’t a mistake!’ ‘Maybe I can make you another tea the next time you visit the shop, as though that isn’t my job already!’ ‘Are you gay, or just find pleasure in torturing bisexual, confused men like me?’” The last one stings especially, but Dazai certainly considered the possibility.
Men didn’t just give him their phone numbers. So maybe this Chuuya guy truly was trying to get a laugh out of the situation. Does he read so blatantly as someone with no relationship experience who doesn’t know any better? Could Chuuya see right through him from the beginning? No, Chuuya didn’t seem like that kind of guy. Sure, he had this sort of ‘punk’ aesthetic about him, but that didn’t mean he was an actual punk.
With a groan, Dazai tries typing another sentence.
Hi Chuuya, it’s Dazai. I never introduced myself last night, but I’m the barista who made your tea. Surely you realized as much, what other unknown number would be sending you a message with your name included? A stalker, probably. So. definitely not me. Anyway, it was wonderful meeting you!
It hurts in the most literal way for Dazai to read over the message, and he sighs loudly. Meowington stretches and makes a leap from the dresser to his futon, causing the flimsy piece of furniture to shift and slide on the wood floor. The sound surprises him and Dazai fumbles as his phone drops from his hands onto the hard ground. With a muffled curse, and after ensuring the cat is fine, he picks the device back up and his stomach drops.
The message sent.
The message in which he equates himself to a stalker somehow sent, and the small ‘Delivered’ notification is glaring at him straight in the face. Suddenly, a noose from that sturdy beam in the kitchen doesn’t sound so bad. He’s tested it before, that could work. There must be some spare rope laying around somewhere after the last time…
“Oh no… oh no, no no no, you have got to be kidding me-Mrs Meowington! This is-you did-gah!”
How expensive would it be to start over? Buy a new shop far away, uproot his entire life, live underground for a couple years to ensure the trail is lost? His savings couldn’t cover that… but selling the current shop probably could. Maybe he could get a couple bucks for the menace creating a nest in his futon at the moment, acting as though she’d done nothing wrong at all.
Ding!
The room goes deathly still, and Dazai blinks. He must have been hallucinating. His phone rarely rang. Yosano wouldn’t be pressuring him so quickly: she knows how long he takes to commit to something like this, and surely he wasn’t getting a response so quickly from Chuuya. Not after calling himself a stalker and all but ruining their first social interaction outside of his business. He takes a chance and scans the phone screen. Sure enough.
From Chuuya: wouldn’t mind having a stalker if they looked as good as you, tbh. Good morning, btw. Glad you decided to text me, after all.
Huh. Maybe his cat was good for something productive.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dazai’s hands are dry and nearly cracking by the time he’s done with the second round of dishes, finger pads rubbing unpleasantly against palms. There might be a stray bottle of lotion in the back room: some obnoxious mockery of the way cherry blossoms smell. It has to be better than nothing, even if all the fragrance irritates his skin further.
“Do you ever wonder if gods are real?” A young man, Ethan, asks from his position at the edge of the counter. He’s a foreign exchange student who comes in quite often when he feels homesick, reveling in the fresh brews Dazai provides. He’s a kind young man studying Japanese literature; there’s never a lack of philosophical inquiries when he’s in the shop.
“Not really,” Dazai answers easily, organizing a couple of dry glasses. “Even if there were, they seem like a cruel bunch.”
Ethan hums. “How so?”
“Are you operating under a monotheistic or polytheistic view? If you’re imagining a singular, all knowing god, he seems like a conceited being.” Dazai pulls a face. “Modeling creations in his own image, playing devil’s advocate to decide who lives and dies, allowing tragedy to run rampant. If there truly is one ‘man’ up there calling the shots, that would take all of our autonomy away. What’s the point in living if that’s the case?”
The boy at the counter studied him with wide eyes, taking an abandoned sip of his tea. “I’ve never thought of that.”
“I’m not interested in someone else controlling my life.”
“I certainly hope nobody would be.”
Dazai smiles crookedly. “What do you think, Ethan? Are Gods real?” Suddenly, he fidgets in his seat. “I’ve no bias against those who possess strong faith for something they can’t see. Whatever makes your life more fulfilling.”
“I… I don’t know if I believe in gods. The idea is daunting. A being we can’t see, having control of all aspects of life.”
With a weary smile, Dazai begins unwrapping a pastry to place in the oven for the student, sensing that he could use a pick-me-up. “Some people find comfort in that type of thing: in knowing that whatever happens is meant to happen.”
Ethan props his cheek into his open palm, shoulders slumped. “Don’t think that’s me.”
Silence is allowed to take over as Dazai plates the newly heated croissant and drops it at Ethan’s spot.
“Oh, I didn’t-“
“Still, enjoy. Think of it as divine intervention for your stomach while you ponder otherworldly questions.”
The bell chimes at the front door as Ethan offers a warm, slightly distressed grin.
“Hi welcome,” Dazai’s attention shifts to the three people who just walked in: two young women and an achingly familiar man with red hair and a secretive smile. The girls are carrying drawing pads and chatting brightly, even though it’s just past midnight. Ah, his favorite type of people. “What can I get started for you two?”
Chuuya passes the counter in favor of claiming his favorite spot in the shop: a corner seat with a view of just about everybody else. He’s wearing loose shorts and a plain t-shirt, which accentuates the tattoos that Dazai only recently learned live on the skin of his upper arms. He must have just come from the gym, another place Dazai could never see himself stepping into voluntarily.
“We need lots of caffeine tonight. These projects have to get done before eight in the morning!”
“Well, a nitro will give you the most caffeine in a single cup. But, I can also do lattes with double shots of espresso, or a flat white.”
One of them practically squeals. “Give me that nitro cold brew!”
Her friend guffaws. “You are absolutely insane. You don’t need that much caffeine, do you?”
“Always.”
“No shaming caffeine addicts in my shop,” Dazai teases as he taps the order in.
“See! He understands!”
The other girl, who appears slightly more sane, orders a simple chai tea latte with oat milk. As they’re deciding on who is going to pay and Dazai starts making their drinks, one of them perks up. “Dazai, are you married?”
Immediately, he sputters and nearly drops the glass in his hand. He knows the two young women, has seen them plenty of times, but he’s never had a substantial conversation with them as they’re always caught up in their own world. They come in, order drinks, and become absorbed in their drawings. For them to go from zero to a hundred surprises him: although it really shouldn’t.
“Ah, I’m not.”
“Engaged?”
“Negative.”
“Taken?”
Dazai throws a crooked grin over his shoulder. “Why are you both so interested?”
“I’m not,” the one who isn’t paying says, and gestures to her friend who is fighting with the card machine and blushing vibrant red colors. “But she is. She thinks you’re out of her league.”
Suddenly, there are bright blue eyes that Dazai can feel on the side of his head: a sixth sense he’s developed since Chuuya began frequenting his shop nearly every night of the week. The girl sheepishly tucking hair behind her ear as she fumbles with her wallet is quite charming, but Dazai has a strict rule against fraternizing with customers.
Okay, he used to, but that’s beside the point.
“I’m quite flattered, such a beautiful young lady finding me attractive.” He muses quietly, pouring a hefty serving of chai tea into a cup. “But I am seeing someone right now.”
He can see the despair take over the girl’s face as she smiles through it. “I’m sure she’s an incredibly lucky lady.”
Her friend pulls her toward an opening drawing table, muttering something along the lines of “see, now you can move on.” Dazai huffs through his nose and focuses on not spilling the nitro cold brew. He knows that Chuuya will have something snarky to say about the scene.
When the redhead stands at the counter, Dazai doesn’t give him the time of day, wanting to get the women’s drinks out before he’s completely overtaken by his presence. It’s a usual occurrence, so Chuuya just pretends to read over the menu despite knowing exactly what he’s ordering. Tea again, especially after a gym session.
They’ve been seeing each other for roughly three weeks: one date per week, though Chuuya spends hours on end in the cozy atmosphere of Roast on the Rocks practically every night that Dazai works. They hold conversations over the end of the bar, or sit in silence while Chuuya draws (designs of some kind, Dazai has gathered) and the owner attempts to write another few paragraphs on a never ending draft.
It’s nice, refreshing: having a companion to share space with. Someone who doesn’t demand Dazai talk endlessly, or ask why he isn’t so talkative some nights. He has his good and bad days just like the next person. Sometimes, living is harder than Dazai cares to admit, and he speaks only when spoken to. Chuuya takes whatever Dazai gives him and never forces their relationship, almost like he knows exactly what the other man needs without it being vocalized.
The two dates they went on were to other coffee shops (Dazai wouldn’t be caught dead on a date by his own employees), and he’s getting antsy. He wants to take it a step further, maybe go to a restaurant or a movie, but there’s also a sense of impending dread seeping into his bones. This week, if they follow the trend of another date, would make the third. Traditionally, the third date is when they… sleep together, isn’t it?
He isn’t too fond of the idea. Not like he hasn’t thought of it at all, but giving himself over to someone terrifies him, even if it’s Chuuya. Chuuya whom he already trusts implicitly. There are reasons that he wraps himself in protective layers every day, and having those get peeled away is beyond daunting. Horrifying. Not that Dazai would ever admit it outloud.
What happens when Chuuya expects him to put out and is met with inexperienced inadequacies? Will he laugh in Dazai’s face and ask how a twenty-seven year old is still a virgin? Will he finally demand to know what’s underneath the bandages and recoil in horror? Or when he learns the reason that Dazai shies away from physical touch and can’t imagine himself being taken by another man? He’s developed a strong liking to that tiny man, and Dazai doesn’t know if he’s capable of feeling his heart ripped to pieces just yet by rejection. Not when this is so new, thrilling, comforting.
“Well?” Chuuya speaks up when Dazai returns from delivering drinks, although he’s gazing down at his phone in nonchalance. “Is she a lucky girl?”
Flames of self-consciousness lick at Dazai’s skin, so he plasters on a grin as convincing as could be. “The luckiest lady to walk the planet, actually. She’s tiny, and incredibly lucky that I can even see her most days.”
“Oi-”
“I’m genuinely shocked that I haven’t accidentally stepped on her.”
“You know what, you little-”
Dazai squints, as though unable to see the man who stands just feet away. “In fact, she’s lucky that I even realize she’s talking to me sometimes. Half the time I think a bug has mutated-”
Chuuya’s palm lands flat on the counter and Dazai cocks a playful brow in challenge. The redhead inhales slowly and then lets all the air go, straightening his back. “You are so lucky that there are people in here right now, otherwise your ass would be on the floor.”
“Threatening me so openly! Chuuya is quite the brute. I do have security cameras in here, you know?” Sure, they might be fifteen years old and barely working, but they’re still better than nothing.
Chuuya dismisses the comment with the wave of a hand, shoulders relaxing. Dazai finds that he quite likes teasing the young man before him. He gets flustered, those fingers ball into tight fists, and his brow furrows in an adorably endearing way. The way Chuuya’s face twists from muted anger to playful indignance is something that Dazai wished so desperately to capture on paper. It’s poetic-Chuuya is poetic. A beautiful ball of light to warm the chill that surrounds Dazai on a daily basis.
“If you’re going to an ass, I’ll take my business elsewhere.”
“And where would you go at an hour like this?”
“There are twenty-four hour diners open that serve better coffee than you ever could.”
Oh that little…
It’s Dazai’s turn to glower. “For your sake, I will pretend that you didn’t say such an unforgivable, insulting thing to me.”
“For my sake? Who’s threatening who now?”
Dazai grumbles under his breath, but can’t help the small smile that takes over as he begins making Chuuya’s usual tea. He’s discovered that the man likes fragrant, light drinks. Something that won’t upset his stomach and isn’t too sweet on his taste buds. He never seems to use the drinks for a caffeine kick, instead opting for something that will soothe him from inside as he goes about whatever project he’s working on that night. Dazai has stored that information away in a safe place, and has been spending time when Chuuya isn’t there testing new flavor combinations for him to try. Sure, he likes the validation of making a drink someone enjoys so deeply, but the gaze of fondness that Chuuya gives him after he takes the first sip of something new? Irreplaceable.
The redhead simply grins and rocks back and forth on his heels as he waits for Dazai to ring him up. He’s truly a vision of beauty even in old gym clothes, and Dazai hates him for that.
“Oh, I was wondering,” Chuuya pulls out his phone again and taps something on the keyboard, scanning the screen before he hums in delight. “Do you want to get dinner this week? I know a place nearby that’s got amazing seafood.”
Dazai raises an eyebrow, steeping the tea with delicate fingers. “I thought Chuuya didn’t like seafood?”
The man in question shrugs. “But you do. And they have some non-seafood options, too.”
Something warm and fuzzy bubbles up inside of Dazai and he bites his lip to keep whatever it is from spilling right out. He’d mentioned his affinity for seafood once in passing, when the two had been conversing about their cooking habits. Chuuya had remembered such a small detail and even went so far as to look for a place that had his preference at the forefront, despite his own displeasure towards the food.
“We can find somewhere else if you-”
“It sounds great. What time?”
Chuuya’s eyes light up, although he maintains a cool composure. “Thursday night around nine?” It was a late dinner for the rest of the city, but not for the two of them who woke in the afternoon hours. Decent crab would do him some good.
“Sounds… tolerable.” Dazai slides the tea cup across the counter and types in the order, feigning indifference. His partner knows better. The excitement isn’t hidden as well as he hopes.
~~~~~
Dazai regrets agreeing to this date. He regrets convincing himself that he could behave normally in a place like this, regrets thinking that he could control his anxiety for what was to come after the date. Instead of enjoying the gentle atmosphere, he’s been worrying about how suffocating his clothes feel all of a sudden, and how Chuuya’s eyes keep fluttering between his lips, eyes, and chest. Deep down, he knows that Chuuya doesn’t mean anything by it, he’s just admiring Dazai in something other than a white polo, jeans, and a blue apron. His dark purple dress shirt hugs what little curves he has, and reveals the edges of his collar bones (though still covered by bandages) through an open top button. His slacks are a dark gray, and his shoes match the theme. He doesn’t have very many ‘fancy’ outfits, so this is the best he could throw together.
Chuuya on the other hand, oh Lord. It’s been made clear that Chuuya embraces the feminine features that he’s been blessed with: likely because of the masculine beauty that intertwines. But Dazai never expected something like this. He’s wearing a dark red dress shirt (those sleeves rolled up), black pants, and sleek, leather shoes. His hat-which is sitting on the table out of harm's reach-has a chain hanging from the lip, and a ribbon accent that matches his shirt. On top of that, his choker sits beautifully against his slightly tanned skin, and Dazai noticed immediately that he’s wearing black winged eyeliner. The real kicker? A black half corset that draws his waist in to create a perfect shape.
It makes for an irresistible cocktail of masculinity and femininity that nearly breaks Dazai’s brain. The clothing hugs his curves perfectly, and… Jesus, Dazai feels so inferior. The longer he gazes across the table, the harder it becomes to sit still. Cotton bandages begin to feel more rough against his skin as Dazai can’t help but compare the two of them. The sophisticated, fit, kindhearted man across from an imposter playing dress up.
It almost makes him sick to his stomach.
“Dazai?”
“Hm?” Oh. Chuuya’s looking expectantly in his direction. “Sorry. What did you say?”
“I asked if you were enjoying the crab.”
The plate in front of him is virtually untouched, anxious swells of emotion keeping him from eating. At any other meal he eats the bare minimum anyway, but he’d skipped ‘breakfast’ in the hopes that he’d eat most of the serving provided at dinner. Clearly, that went out the window.
“It’s really good,” in truth, he feels out of place the longer he sits there. He hadn’t known the place before arrival, but given Chuuya’s cryptic text a couple hours prior with instructions to ‘dress a little nicer than normal’, he had a feeling it was a place he didn’t belong. These types of luxuries were lost on him.
Chuuya hums, and props his chin into an open hand. The restaurant isn’t especially busy, but each clang of pots and pans from the kitchen grates against Dazai’s senses. The conversations around him are making it hard to focus on a single task, even Chuuya’s voice startles him out of trances every now and then. He hates this: hates that he can’t have a normal meal without anxieties aggravating.
“Do you want to get out of here and go back to my place? We can take it to-go. I have better wine there.”
There it is, the question that’s been bouncing around in his head the entire night. His stomach stirs unpleasantly, but he tries to hide his displeasure. He wants to go with him, wants to spend more time with Chuuya. But the expectations…
Dazai pulls something akin to a pout, crossing his arms over his chest. “Wine is gross.”
“Whiskey, then?”
Yeah, the cheap, bottom shelf stuff. Given the price tags on the menu and the more refined environment of the place itself, Dazai has to assume that the man’s alcohol stash costs more than his own paycheck. And given Chuuya’s reaction, he must ascertain Dazai’s affinity for the drink, and signals for the check. Sly, observant bastard.
Dazai doesn’t even get a chance to see the total cost of their meal, but he feels a heaviness settle on his shoulders as Chuuya hands his credit card over to the waitress. He’s barely there as they pack up the boxes of food, and Chuuya takes it upon himself to carry the bag as they head for the door.
Fresh air helps. It’s cool against what skin is revealed, and manages to soothe the burn in his lungs that he didn’t even know had developed. Thankfully, Chuuya doesn’t speak much as they walk down the street. The restaurant was within walking distance of his apartment, but Dazai needed every single spare moment that he could drag out of that walk.
The feelings of unease intensify when Dazai is let into Chuuya’s apartment. It’s a penthouse, because of course it is and far bigger than his own; decorated in sophisticated grays and blues. Modern, with a western flair. It becomes achingly clear: Dazai doesn’t belong there. Chuuya is far too good for a guy like him.
“Dazai? You okay?”
His velvety smooth voice shocks Dazai out of his reverie and he jumps.
“Yes.”
Doubtful eyes look him up and down. “You’re breathing heavier.”
“Huh?”
“I was hoping it would ease up on the walk.” Chuuya takes his hand tentatively, soft pads of his fingers massaging the tense muscles of Dazai’s palm. “When you get anxious, you breathe quicker. You do it at work too, when you’re overwhelmed. You take lots of deep breaths.”
Dazai blinks. What a strange feeling: to know that someone cares so much. He’s been observed in silence for weeks, tendencies and intricacies filed away for further examination. He can’t find the words to express the sinking feeling in his chest, so he shrugs halfheartedly, and mourns the fact that this can’t go on. Chuuya just continues to enforce that.
“Make yourself at home.” Chuuya leads him to the couch, and points at the nearest cushion. “Sit, and stay.”
“I’m not a dog.”
“You sure do wonder off like one sometimes.”
Dazai snorts at that; he isn’t entirely wrong. He gets a bit spacey from time to time, forgets where he’s going or what he’s doing. Perhaps that’s a premonition of something far worse to come in his future, but specialist doctors cost too much at the moment for him to try seeking answers.
Chuuya leaves to the kitchen, where he hears the fridge open and close, glass clank and liquid pour. The contrasts between the two of them grow greater with each passing moment. Dazai is lanky, awkward, and unsure of himself in almost every facet of his life. He lives in a run-down apartment with a single bedroom and a fridge stocked only with cheap booze, canned crab, and crackers. Chuuya is short, but well-built, and walks with a confidence that’s nearly unbeatable. He knows how to talk to strangers, how to make them feel special and valuable. The apartment has more than two bedrooms from the look of it, and is practically spotless.
What the hell was he doing here entertaining such a lofty idea? Chuuya deserved a whole lot better than what he could bring to the table.
“Here, take a sip.” An ornate glass finds its way into Dazai’s hand and his fingers trail over the deep ridges. He does as instructed, and the liquor burns on the way down. Perfect: get him ready to say what needs to be said. Put space between him and Chuuya, rip the bandaid off so that this doesn’t end up hurting more than he knows it will. Dazai can live with Chuuya never wanting to see him again, but he doesn’t know if he can live with the look of disgust he’s bound to get once he spills his guts.
“It’s good.”
Chuuya’s wine glass touches his lips and Dazai finds himself yearning to replace them with his own, yet knowing he can’t.
“This wine is my-“
“I’m a virgin.” The words are blurted out with an embarrassing squeak, so quickly that Dazai doesn’t even process them until Chuuya is placing both of their glasses onto the coffee table and giving him undivided attention. He wears a somewhat… knowing look. “I’m a virgin and I’ve never been in a relationship before. I have no idea what I’m doing, or-or how this even happened. You clearly… deserve someone a little more experienced than I am, I mean look at you, I-“
He’s rambling. He’s rambling and self-deprecating, shoving his insecurities right into the spotlight. Chuuya doesn’t stop him. He watches Dazai speak with soft eyes, demanding nothing more than he’s willing to give. Yet again, as always. He’s too kind to someone like Dazai.
“Does it bother you? That you’re a virgin?”
The question shocks him a little bit. “Does it bother me?”
“Yeah, does that make you want to back away from this relationship?”
“Why would it?”
Chuuya shrugs. “Not sure. Why do you think it would make me want to back away?”
There’s a stagnant silence in the air, and suddenly the room feels stuffy. Dazai picks at his bandaged wrist, going through the motions as words tumble around his brain. “I figured it wouldn’t be worth your time to pursue any further once you knew. I don’t have a whole lot to bring to the table. You already bring so much: your kindness, patience, determination. You have… money, and status, poise. I don’t have anything like that,” his hands are beginning to shake again and Dazai interlocks his own fingers with a hard squeeze to try and calm the motion. “I-I’ll grab my stuff and-”
“But you just got here,” Chuuya, although still overtly patient, has a hint of something unpleasant playing in his eyes: something akin to disappointment. “If you’re uncomfortable, of course you can leave, I’ll drive you home or call a cab, but-”
“I can’t have sex with you tonight.”
Those blue eyes grow slightly wider, and Dazai feels himself searching for the clearest path to the front door. He’s done it now, made Chuuya realize what a waste of time this is, how he should be going after someone more stable, someone more-
“I didn’t realize that was even on the table so quickly.”
Wait… what?
Dazai studies him critically, eyebrows furrowed in clear confusion. He called Yosano about this date, asked her what it all meant. Going to a fancy restaurant, the possibility of returning to someone’s house afterwards, expectations that came with it. She tried to assure him that the ‘sex on the third date’ thing wasn’t a standing rule: that it was likely just another societal standard that the younger generation imposed. But Dazai hadn’t been sold, and after further research online (with highly unreliable sources), he came to the conclusion that if he went home with Chuuya he’d certainly be tasked with having sex with him.
He was curious, what type of lover would Chuuya be? Attentive, most likely. Highly attuned with the subtle signs of pleasure radiating off of his partner, able to pinpoint pleasure spots with ease and use them to his advantage. He probably whispers sweet nothings in their ears simply for the satisfaction of watching them squirm underneath him. Dazai wanted to experience it-at least, he thought he did. Sex in general is a daunting idea, laying himself so barren for someone to either hold and treasure or bash into a million pieces.
He gets the strange feeling that Chuuya would have the ability to do both quite easily.
How was Dazai supposed to keep up with that? How was he supposed to parade around with false confidence enough to let Chuuya see all his imperfections up close and personal? Chuuya must sense the way his brain is stuttering, and sighs. “When did I ever say that we should have sex tonight?”
“You… you invited me back for drinks after the date was over.”
“Yeah, to get to know you better somewhere less busy? You seemed overwhelmed at the restaurant.”
He was, wasn’t he? Hardly touching his food, eyes constantly jumping from person to person, nerves shooting unpleasant spikes up his back at the slightest of loud sounds. Had it been so obvious?”
“I thought the third date was when you were supposed to…”
For a moment, Chuuya studies him closely, those blue eyes burning marks into his skin. Then, he laughs suddenly, causing Dazai to jump yet again. “You really thought I invited you over so that I could get you drunk, and what? Force myself on you?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time.”
The laughter is gone in a split second, and Chuuya looks as though he’s had a bucket of ice water splashed onto his head. He turns sideways on the couch, propping a knee onto the cushions between himself and Dazai, but doesn’t make any move to close the gap between them. The tension in Dazai’s shoulders is almost palpable even from a distance. It’s the pity that he can’t stand when people find out what happened to him.
“I would never do anything like that to you, I promise. That isn’t even-I can’t imagine-God… I’m so sorry. If I ever gave you such a shitty impression-”
“You didn’t. It was just… me.”
Dazai feels like even more of an idiot than he did at the start of the night. He could have been up front with Chuuya from the beginning, and told him that he wasn’t ready for intimacy. That would have spared both of them the awkward tension and uncertainty. Now that he’s sitting here with that ball of warmth looking at him with such honest, open eyes… the concerns are silly. Chuuya wasn’t that kind of guy, he’d never force himself on someone.
From the beginning he had the best intentions, but Dazai is far too stubborn and inexperienced to even realize it.
Chuuya sighs deeply. “I can drive you home if you want? Seems like this might have been a lot-“
“No,” Dazai’s hand reaches shakily across the space between them, daring to bridge the two. Chuuya’s hand is warm and doesn’t hesitate to rub comforting circles through bandages. “No. I want to stay, if that’s still… alright.”
“Of course you can stay. Use my spare tonight.” Chuuya grins ever so softly, shoulders dropping in relief. It fans a fire of affection deep in Dazai’s gut and he can feel his face heating up. This entire encounter was so silly. He was silly. A giggle builds up until Dazai is flopping back onto the couch with a loud, airy sigh. Chuuya reclines as well, wine glass perched in his fingers again. “Seems a little silly to be so worried now?”
“Extremely.” Dazai studies those bright blue eyes for a moment before abruptly sitting up again. “Can I… do something?”
The redhead grins, tongue poking out to wet his lips. “Whatever you want.” Here, lounging on the couch with shoes and hat neatly stored by the front door, and first buttons open on the maroon shirt, Chuuya looks ethereal. His hair frames his face like the most precious of paintings, and Dazai wonders not for the first time what those locks would feel like in between his own fingers.
Well. Chuuya said whatever he wants, so Dazai takes the first major leap he’s committed to in years and closes the gap between their bodies. One hand frames Chuuya’s face while the other threads into his hair and-why is Dazai the one gasping at the feeling? It’s soft and smooth, and he never wants to let go. Tentative hands are felt wrapping around Dazai’s waist to pull him that much closer, and he melts.
It isn’t his first kiss, but it’s the only one that matters from here on out.
That night when Dazai lays in bed, it’s surrounded by plush, warm blankets that smell faintly of Chuuya, and soft pillows that cradle his head in all the best ways. He feels safe, genuinely safe. Perhaps something like love doesn’t have to be so terrifying.