Chapter Text
It’s another Friday night at the arcade. Fifteen-year-old Chuuya is playing his favorite video game, a stupid zombie shooter he’s maintained the high score on for the past 3 weeks. The arcade is as busy as always, alive with the chatter of teenagers and bored, tired arcade employees sweeping up spilled popcorn and tiredly handing out prizes that Chuuya’s already managed to obtain at least one of each. But he’s still eyeing that Walkman- just 500 more tickets to go. He could always buy it with what Mori pays him, but where’s the fun in that?
Then he sees it. White bandages peeking out from the edge of a sleeve as an arm shoots out, plunking a quarter down on the screen. There’s no way…right? Could it be? His game round complete, he turns and lets his eyes trail up the arm to its owner. His head tilts higher and higher until he finally reaches a face—warm amber eyes lazily focusing on him, framed by messy brown hair, bangs drooping over his forehead. The confidence of a self-assured man evident in how the jaw’s set.
It’s one of the most attractive faces he’s ever seen, and he’s seen a lot.
The arm tucks a strand of hair behind his ears, resting behind his neck and Chuuya’s gaze is drawn to his sleeve falling further down. From what he can tell, his arm is completely wrapped in bandages. Finally, after years of dreaming, wondering, imagining, this might be his soulmate in front of him.
“So…are you done?” Chuuya’s shaken from his stupor by the boy’s voice, a hint of arrogance overlying a velvet tone.
“Huh? Oh, um, I guess,” Chuuya stammers. Zero points for being suave. A chance meeting he’s dreamed of, but he can’t even get his words out properly.
The boy drops his arm from his neck. “Great! Hey, Oda, the station’s open.” The boy turns his head, seemingly talking to another boy around the same age, copper-haired and focusing on a pinball game.
“Be there in a few minutes Dazai,” the boy replies without looking up once.
His name is Dazai. Of course he’d have a name as mysterious as he is, with a black coat overlaying his shoulders, more bandages wrapped up to his neck, a white patch taped to his cheek.
Dazai sighs. “Figures—he’s been griping about trying to beat the damn thing all week, dragging me along today to see his ‘ultimate victory.’”
It’s now or never—Chuuya’s not about to spend the next seven years waiting for this opportunity to come back around, not when working at Port Mafia means the next day could very well be your last.
“For that one, just count exactly three seconds from when the ball drops and swing up suddenly. I’ve gotten the high score every time doing that—exactly three seconds is the trick.” Once the topic’s shifted to games, it’s Chuuya’s domain, and he finds his nerves settling.
“That’s actually helpful. I’ll let Oda struggle for a little while and maybe we’ll retry it after we finish this game. Thanks, chibi.” Chuuya’s temper flares—Kouyou did always chide him for how short his fuse is.
“Chibi? I have a name, you know!” He replies indignantly, clenching his jaw.
Dazai waves his hand flippantly. “Pft, I’m so bad with names, and chibi fits you so well! I mean, at your height, you could probably pass for a grade schooler!”
Chuuya’s about three seconds from punching him in the face and proving his title as the #1 martial arts expert in Yokohama, but he’s in public with innocent civilians, and he has standards. Doesn’t mean he can’t imagine it, however.
“It’s Nakahara Chuuya, bastard. Learn it before I have to pound it into your skull,” he snarls.
“Chuuya, huh. That’s cute. But can you even reach my skull?” Dazai smirks.
That’s the final straw, morals be damned. Chuuya clenches his hand into a fist and aims straight for Dazai’s face.
Dazai, seemingly anticipating this, holds a hand in front of his face right when he’s about to have impact, closing his long fingers over the fist.
“I’ll commend you on the speed and angle of that one, but it’ll take a little more than that to pull a fast one on me,” he chuckles. "Oh?"
Dazai’s grip lessens and he turns Chuuya’s wrist seemingly noting how the action made Chuuya’s shirt catch on his elbow, exposing the bandages on his wrist.
“So you have bandages too?” Despite the maddening nature of this beanpole in front of him, Chuuya feels his heart thundering in his chest. Does the too mean that—
"Let go of my hand, bastard, and maybe I’ll think about answering that question.” Dazai’s grin widens but he lets go, and Chuuya snatches his hand back, rubbing at it. There’s a surprising warmth lingering on his palm.
“Yeah, I do. Showed up when I was eight,” he responds.
His heart picks up double time but he’s from the Port Mafia—he’s not about to start squealing like a shojo manga heroine in front of this pathetic prick. If anything, he’s half-hoping it’s some weird coincidence they both have it, but at the same time…
“Huh. For me too.” Shit, that all but confirms it.
“Looks like you took the approach of leaving only that one arm covered, though. I thought it was weird, so I covered myself entirely with bandages—the symmetry is nice, and it complements my ‘tall, dark, and handsome’ sexy bad boy image well, wouldn’t you say?”
Oh god, how Chuuya would love to punch this guy into the next century, soulmates be damned.
Chuuya notices Oda walking up to them. Oda wraps an arm around Dazai’s waist, giving him a back hug as he rests his chin on his shoulder. “Who’s this guy?” Oda tightens his grip and Dazai brings a hand up to Oda’s cheek, stroking at his sideburns.
“He was just leaving, darling,” Dazai drawls as he turns to Oda and presses a kiss to his cheek. Chuuya’s heart sinks in his chest—maybe Dazai doesn’t know about the soulmate phenomenon?
Dazai turns back to Chuuya and his brown eyes narrow, a challenge rising in their depths. “See you around, soulmate,” his tone dripping with condescension. So that’s the game he wants to play? A twisted game of cat and mouse, when the cat’s already toying with different prey? Then fine. But two can play at his game.
He slyly slips a finger down to the plastic trigger, clicking it four times. Giving Dazai his best polite smile, no trace of his boiling rage and disappointment in his voice, he counters in a sickly-sweet tone. “Back at you, sweetheart. Enjoy the rest of your evening. Maybe we’ll see each other around sometime.”
Not bothering to wait for a response, he turns around and starts walking towards the exit. He allows himself a large, triumphant smile when he hears a “Fucking bloody shit- DAMN YOU, CHUUYA!"