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“She still hasn’t settled down?” Comes Chuuya’s voice from behind him, and Dazai shakes his head.
Dazai strides about the apartment with Aya on his shoulder, patting her back and gently bouncing her body. He catches a glimpse of Chuuya from the periphery of his eye; Chuuya looks harried, his hair a bright flame against the black of his suit. How Chuuya manages to look so good on three hours of sleep is practically unfair, Dazai thinks, the purple bruises under his eyes particularly pronounced against the harsh paleness of his skin.
“She’s been crying for nearly an hour,” Dazai says, still bouncing and rocking, walking in circles around the perimeter of the flat, skirting nappies and cuddly animals. The baby’s face is red, screwed up into a tight little ball of anger with an open toothless mouth.
“You go and get changed,” Chuuya tells him, taking the baby from his husband. “I’ll take a turn with her.”
The volume of Aya’s cries suddenly rises up into a scream, and then subsides into a grunt. And then silence. Alarmed, Chuuya bends towards his baby. Aya’s cheeks are pink, not red, and she gazes at him in myopic wonder. She gurgles and smiles a toothless grin, as if wondering why Chuuya’s making such a fuss.
“See? There’s no need to cry, Sunshine,” Chuuya says, playing with Aya and flicking the lobe of her ear, making her gurgle and coo.
Dazai walks out of their shared bedroom, already dressed in a finely pressed black suit that's a stark contrast to the nappy bag on his shoulder, brightly decorated with sheep and fish. Aya practically glows from her place of honour in Chuuya's arms, sucking contentedly on her own tiny digits.
“She’s fine now,” Chuuya says, moving to deposit Aya in Dazai's arms.
Aya immediately protests the change of arms, her face bobbing and rapidly filling with colour. In vain, Dazai bounces her in gentle repetition, murmuring reassurances, but Aya is inconsolable. Tears gather and pool in her eyes, her sobs a mirrored reflection of her distress. Aya only quietens when she’s returned to Chuuya’s arms, her cries filtering away into nothing as she clings to Chuuya’s neck with tiny, but manacle strong arms.
Chuuya stares in horror that is not directed at his daughter, but rather, the situation that this presents. He knows what this means.
“Sunshine, please don't do this,” Chuuya pleads, but Aya is as stubborn as he is. The minute that Chuuya tries to pass her to Dazai, she revs up, shrieking in objection to the indignity of being out of Chuuya’s arms.
“You wound me, sunshine,” Dazai says mournfully, gazing at his daughter with eyes that are dark and full. “Don't you love your Daddy anymore?”
Aya gurgles.
Chuuya shakes his head and runs a finger down a cheek that's warm and soft. “Aya, I have a meeting. You can't come with me.”
“Or you could leave her with me and let her cry,” Dazai suggests silkily, holding out a finger for Aya to grab.
The thought of Aya ceaselessly wailing for hours on end does not settle well in his stomach. Dazai knows this. His smile widens, far too amused at the situation for Chuuya's liking. But with a fussy child in his arms, he cannot do more than glare at his husband.
Dazai's smile is angelic. “Shall we get going?”
Chuuya ends up conducting the meeting with a three month old baby in his arms. If his subordinates are confused by the smaller mirror of Chuuya, they do well to hide it. Kouyou laughs at him from behind the silk sleeve of her kimono, Dazai laughs openly, and Chuuya thinks he sees a flash of silver as Dazai’s phone is tucked out of sight. There’s bound to be at least ten pictures of him and Aya on that phone, if Chuuya cares to check.
Aya is blessedly well-behaved throughout the meeting. She amuses herself by covering every inch of her fingers in saliva, and when she tires of that, tugs on Chuuya's hair with her wet, tiny fingers, and transfers several strands into her mouth. Aya coos and giggles when he pries a large hank of hair out of her hands and tries to get her to stop.
Chuuya has to pause the meeting to feed Aya her lunch. As soon as he hears her snuffling and grunting, Chuuya rushes to warm a bottle in the microwave, and rushes back. It’s best to catch her early. Once Aya starts crying in earnest, it takes a while to settle her down. The meeting resumes once Aya's sucked down two bottles of warm milk and she's been burped, staring up at him with large, milk-drunk eyes and shell-pink lips that are twisted up into a pout.
Aya is quiet and yawning, cradled in his arms. Adjusting his daughter so that her head is pillowed more comfortably on his shoulder, Chuuya concludes the meeting and asks, “Are there any questions?”
He bites back a curse when Dazai raises a hand.
“Why do you have a baby in your arms?” Dazai asks on a sadistic smile, as though he hadn't helped to pack the baby's diaper bag an hour before.
Chuuya resolves to relegate Dazai to the sofa later that night. But for now, he runs a hand down Aya’s back and acts as if he hasn’t heard Dazai.
“Does anyone have any valid questions?”