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* * *
Mornings are dedicated to roasting and grinding beans, just before the first rays of sunlight splashes against the brilliant red curtains of their cozy café.
There’s no menu printed, just a signboard outside proclaiming that the morning special – one cup of home-brewed coffee plus today’s pastry – is available. The same proclamation is printed in neat kanji, followed by an English translation, on a board above the small cashier’s booth. An array of coffeemakers and presses are in the background, not all of them used, because each day’s brew depends on the mood of the café owner and barista, just as each day’s accompaniment’s sweetness presumably depends on whether the owner’s partner got laid the night before.
There’s no signboard about the café’s name; there are only six four-seater tables available inside the café, plus a long table flush against one long glass window, able to seat four barstools. It’s a quaint little shop, but its clientele is an interesting mix of regulars who swear by the magical brews and the irresistible pastries, foodies who make it their life’s mission to try anything and everything in the neighborhood, bloggers who’ve heard some buzz about the unadvertised café that somehow manages to pull twenty-people queues even beyond the usual rush hours.
And of course, stubborn people who can’t take no for an answer.
* * *
“Please come back to the Port Mafia, Dazai-san.”
Chuuya waits for a few moments before taking pity on the poor kid, because Dazai’s mastered the art of hurting people’s feelings even without using words. He fixes a cup of ginger tea that’s not on the menu, presses it into the hands of Dazai’s ex-subordinate with a sympathetic smile. While he personally thinks there’s no point in attempting to wheedle Dazai into doing something he doesn’t want, there are nicer ways of treating poor kids who have lost their direction and are currently floundering in the open sea.
“Chuuya-san, please—”
Though of course, he also thinks there’s no point in giving Akutagawa false hopes about him being someone who can help him convince Dazai to return. After all, if one actually believes Dazai’s inane ramblings, then one could say that Chuuya himself is the reason for their departure. “—ah, I’ve already made myself clear on this.”
Akutagawa doesn’t actually pout, but he looks miserable enough that Chuuya adds a honeydew jelly donut to the man’s tray before ushering him to sit beside another one of their persistent guests.
“Hi, mom!” Atsushi greets him with a smile that crumbles a little bit when he sees Akutagawa’s wet-cat expression. “…aaaaand Akutagawa too, I guess.”
Chuuya lets out a long-suffering sigh as he lets the name bounce off him, telling himself that Atsushi just has a slow learning curve when it comes to learning his name.
“…Man-tiger.”
“Why do you never call me by my name?” Atsushi heaves out a forlorn sigh. “I don’t call you Squishy Ruffles or Black Coat or Fashion Disaster, do I?”
Akutagawa stares sullenly at his tea, probably pondering why his tactic doesn’t work on Dazai. “I don’t care what you call me, man-tiger.”
“Hm, okay then, Akutawa-kun~”
“…It’s Akutagawa.”
“See, I know you care!”
“I do not, stop being childish, man-tiger.”
“Me?! I’m the childish one?! You’re the one who gave me such a, such a, cute nickname!”
Well, the two of them seems to be doing okay, prompting Chuuya to make an about-face so he can continue making coffee for their customers. Dazai’s constant barrage of hand-kissing every female customer effectively backs-up the queue but there’s not a lot of complaints, probably because Dazai is a damn witch. It helps make Chuuya’s workload… not exactly lighter, but it’s not as fast-paced as it probably should be. He refuses to feel thankful for the bastard’s shenanigans though, not in the least because he also has to gently handle crying ladies who feel betrayed by Dazai’s overall personality, as well as Akutagawa’s persistent, daily ritual of asking Dazai to return to the Port Mafia.
Now that Atsushi’s around to not-so-subtly flail over Akutagawa’s hedgehog personality, Chuuya also has to keep an eye out for damaged tables, either because of a fight breaking out, or because the two finally succumbed to the uncomfortable tension. Either way, it’s not something Chuuya’s interested in witnessing.
He makes three orders of today’s brew, noting the amount of available coffee for the morning. Their café is essentially an extension of their daily life, and Chuuya only brews a certain amount every morning, while Dazai only makes enough batches of his pastries depending on his whimsy.
“There’s only enough for thirty more orders,” Chuuya tells his partner-cashier-baker, smiling at their customers as he hands them their orders.
Dazai leans in close, one hand on his elbow. “I’ll update the signboards.”
“I can do it,” Chuuya keeps the smile on his face, doesn’t move out of Dazai’s hold. The fifth person down the line has her camera focused on the two of them, but Chuuya ignores her. While they technically are still on the run from the Port Mafia, it’s not like they’re not prepared to fight or flee if they come down here, guns blazing. Chuuya can just catapult them back to the headquarters.
Dazai laughs, the sound tickling Chuuya’s ear. The grip on his elbow tightens briefly, before sliding away. “Your penmanship is shit though.”
“Bastard,” Chuuya says without much feeling, but he slides into the cashier’s post, taking the next order while Dazai updates their signboards.
* * *
Every day, their café closes for lunch, which is mostly when the stocks of the day’s brew and pastry runs out.
Some days, their café opens in the late afternoon until early evening, just in time for Chuuya’s experiments with cooking and Dazai’s strange expertise in making art-like cocktails. It usually happens on Sundays and Mondays, because those are the days when the freshest produce appears in the market they frequent, also because Sunday mornings are the time for Dazai to relinquish his hold on the television so Chuuya can watch marathons of cooking shows.
The theme of his dishes changes every time, though Chuuya has a certain fondness for French dishes, as well as making uncommon fusions between different international cuisines.
Every time, there’s always a variation of crab salad available.
Every time, Dazai always gushes about his lovely partner making use of his favorite ingredient.
Every time, Chuuya always punches his shoulder for such presumptuous insolence, though the punch’s weight decreases as time goes by.
* * *
The café feels like someone’s idea of a living room colliding with a dining room—and it essentially is.
Tucked behind some clever, space-saving paneling, there’s a set of stairs leading to the second floor, breaking off the short hallway where the kitchen is. Upstairs, there are two rooms, that is if you count the remodeled bathroom that now accommodates a free-standing bathtub, a five-jet shower, plus a toilet that can accept voice controls.
There used to be two actual bedrooms upstairs, but Dazai had bossed Chuuya into using For The Tainted Sorrow to knock off the thin plaster walls separating the two rooms, having cited their excellent partnership as a reason to break down all barriers between them, including sleeping arrangements. Honestly, Chuuya had known that it’s mostly because Dazai wanted to install an extremely-large-sized TV for his games, an arrangement that would have made one room feel claustrophobic.
Chuuya only gave in because Dazai didn’t stop prattling about it, really.
Also, because despite their numerous offshore bank accounts (separate bank accounts) containing enough money to buy off several small countries, Dazai is a miserly asshole at the end of it all, which is why he had relentlessly bullied Chuuya into doing most of the manual labor needed by his remodeling requests.
(Of course, there’s that little tidbit about them being technically on the run from the Port Mafia, but Chuuya’s still sore about all that hard labor, especially when he remembers that Dazai simply watched and sipped wine the entire time.)
* * *
Speaking of bank accounts.
Two months after they’ve opened the café, Dazai drags the two of them out as soon as they close for the day’s lunch. He fusses over Chuuya’s clothes as soon as he’s out of the shower, ripping the towel off him without care for Chuuya’s dignity and encasing him in some crisp button-down and a waistcoat that he rarely uses.
“…are we sauntering back to Mori-san?” Because the last time Chuuya’s had to wear such a sharp outfit was back when they were still the Port Mafia’s favorite duo.
Dazai’s disgusted face—the scrunch of his nose shouldn’t be adorable, but it is—is enough of an answer.
Chuuya gets his answer soon enough, Dazai’s arm heavy over his shoulder in a show of… camaraderie, partnership, something that people do when they’re apparently opening a joint bank account.
Chuuya signs the papers in a daze; he has a feeling that Dazai could have actually done this outing on his own, because he’s a fucktard who’s used to forging Chuuya’s signature and has access to all of his IDs anyway. But they’re here together, opening a joint bank account that will be filled with their profit from the café, because that’s apparently what people do when they sleep in the same bed together, when they open a café together, when they run away from their old lives together.
(Sometimes, Chuuya’s not sure whether to hate or thank OdaSaku, because Dazai apparently got his brilliant idea of going for his dreams, happiness, something, from the man. And that something apparently includes dragging Chuuya to this madness, and it’s also dreams, happiness and something for him.)
* * *
Chuuya actually prefers to shop alone, because there’s less chances of Dazai filling the grocery cart with useless junk, and there’s also more chances of his blood pressure surviving the ordeal. Given that Dazai hasn’t tapered off his lovingly-broadcasted invitations for double suicides, being out and about with him always carries the possibility of getting into a fistfight or a shouting match, thanks to the boyfriends-family-decent bystander-whathaveyou of the women he invites to die with him.
But then again, it’s been years since he’s met Dazai and he’s pretty much resigned himself to not having his preferences granted.
So, they shop together.
(Come to think of it, they do practically everything together now—and Chuuya would have liked to be able to proudly say that at least they don’t use the bathroom together, but that’s also a lie. Dazai has the gall to saunter in and take a piss or brush his teeth or use the shower or soak in bubbles even when it’s Chuuya’s schedule to use the bathroom.)
They shop together and Chuuya gets an extra produce or two when he passes by the open market, the shopkeepers cooing over him being such a lovely househusband. The butchers they frequent call him ‘the wife’, which irks Chuuya so much (because why is he the wife goddamnit, he’s not girly!), but not to the point that he’ll stop shopping here, because their products are amazingly fresh. Dazai sweet-talks the rest of the vendors, lowers the price by a hundred yen or so, because he’s still a miserly bastard.
They shop together and again—Chuuya prefers doing so alone, because at least he can just use his Ability to float all of his shopping bags. But no, since Dazai is here, who can’t seem to control his wandering hands, his Ability gets cancelled out and he’s forced to use a cart or have his hands suffer from plastic-burn.
“You’re such a lovely couple,” is something that Chuuya hears at least once a day, and you know what, it’s getting kind of tiring to correct everyone so he just ignores those comments, just the way he ignores the hand that touches his tailbone or the arm that settles by his waist.
* * *
Most days, Dazai takes a very long time dragging himself out of bed. And because he’s an inconsiderate asshole, he usually clings like some sixteen-tentacled octopus hybrid around any and all available space in Chuuya’s person. And sadly, because Chuuya’s… not a very large person, there’s only so much space available for Dazai to cling to without some sensitive areas coming into play—or more frequently, without Chuuya feeling half-strangled.
Most days, Chuuya wakes up and spends five minutes just wondering how is this is his life.
“Hnnnngh, let me go, I need to take a piss,” Chuuya hisses through a mouthful of Dazai’s hair, his words cradled by the other’s forehead.
Dazai passive-aggressively bitches a lot about how his long hair gets him mistaken for a woman half the time, but his bangs are also getting longer and they usually end up on Chuuya’s mouth in the course of the evening, but does he complain?! Fuck yes, he complains. “Also, your hair sticks out like a wild animal’s, what is this nest?!”
“Chuuuuya,” the man replies to none of Chuuya’s concerns, which again: inconsiderate asshole. Just to further his point, he tightens his hold around Chuuya’s waist—which again, Dazai passive-aggressively bitches about, because he’s apparently incapable of gaining weight despite running a food business. On the other hand, Dazai’s stomach is steadily gaining a bit of pudge because he always polishes off the pastries that ‘don’t meet his standards’, which is just the jerk’s way of saying that he’s got a sweet tooth that he indulges to excess.
Chuuya kicks at the other’s shins, but since their legs are tangled, he ends up kicking his other foot too. Asshole. “I’ll fucking piss on you if you don’t let me up in the next five seconds.”
“Kinky.”
“Oh, you’ll be the one stuck changing the mattress and the bedsheets.”
“Mm, do I need to wear a maid outfit for it?” Chuuya feels the words before he hears them, feels the curve of Dazai’s smirk against his collarbone.
In retaliation, he bops the other’s head, then slaps the other’s cheek a bit, until Dazai whines like some dying seal as Chuuya keeps up the abuse so that he can actually start his day.
Dazai ends up letting him go, but makes sure to traumatize him further by slapping his ass as he goes.
Inconsiderate asshole.
* * *
Chuuya would like to be able to proudly say that they haven’t been sleeping together on the same bed for a long time, but honestly, the two of them have always shared their… living spaces and resting areas ever since… huh.
It’s a bit of a shock to realize that it’s been happening forever.
Chuuya ends up staring at his chopping board, imported pomegranates split open, dark seeds spilling out in front of him. He idly catches a train of thought – as to how the two of them have always been called the Grim Reaper by their enemies, even by their colleagues. It soon flies by him, because the more arresting revelation is that they’ve been technically sleeping together since the first few months of meeting each other.
“Do you know we’ve been technically sleeping together for like… ten years now?” Chuuya asks as soon as he feels Dazai’s presence in the kitchen. It’s not because he hears the other’s cat-like footsteps—he just knows. It’s hard to explain, but as long as it’s not telepathy, Chuuya thinks he can live with it.
“You suck at math, Chuuya,” is what he gets as a reply, followed by a brief touch to where his apron is tied behind his back. The button-down shirt he’s wearing underneath has its sleeves folded up to his elbow, so that the meal’s sauce doesn’t splatter the white fabric. Dazai’s hands then touch the space between the folded fabric and his skin, cool fingertips making him shiver in the warmth of the open stoves. “It’s been fourteen years, nine months.”
“…I’m sure you also have the weeks and days,” Chuuya eventually wrangles out of his throat, his whole body boxed by Dazai’s presence behind him. A chin rests on his left shoulder, which should make his succeeding slices to the celery uneven—if not for how familiar all this is, for how used to the situation he is.
“Sure you won’t freak out if you know that much detail?”
“I don’t freak out.”
He smashes things, then sends them like some big league curveball towards the Port Mafia’s headquarters. He kicks Dazai’s face with thirty percent success rate, which unfairly just makes him more handsome afterwards, the purple-yellow bruises complementing him very well, the stupid mummy-bandage fashion making him so different from everyone else. Inconsiderate asshole who doesn’t even get beaten up properly, urgh.
“So you say,” Dazai hums, his arms going around the waist that he prattles about being too skinny.
Like this, if someone were to barge into the kitchen, one would think that there’s only one person there, for how effectively Dazai blankets over Chuuya.
But nobody barges in, and their peace goes on.
* * *
One night—
Dazai brings Chuuya’s injured hand to his lips, ignoring the grimace on his face from the pull. But in a way, he knows what this is about, because his heart is also pounding several thousand lightning bolts a minute, despite the recent use of Corruption supposedly draining him to near-death.
There’s a deep purple bruise by Dazai’s chin, the most visible injury he has, for most of them have already been covered by bandages.
“Did we get him?”
“…Of course.”
Of course. They’re the Port Mafia’s best duo, they have a hundred percent success rate. They never fail, even as they encounter death on a daily basis. Today’s the nearest they’ve been to failure, a split-second delay in Dazai reaching out to Chuuya’s hand to stop Corruption. Tomorrow’s another day and they’ll have this kind of encounter again and again, the split-seconds splitting into tinier pieces of possibilities.
Chuuya watches Dazai contemplate things, his fingers growing numb against Dazai’s mouth.
After a few minutes, Dazai eventually tilts his head up, eyes filled with some sort of primal fear—of losing, of failing, of possibly losing Chuuya—
“…Let’s run away.”
—and that’s how Chuuya knows that he’ll agree to whatever it is Dazai wants.