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When Dazai wakes, it is to sunlight filtering through the blinds of his ADA provided dorm’s windows. He feels sluggish, a heavy weight in his chest dragging him down. The blankets are scratchy against his skin and he wants them off, wants to kick them away but even the thought of moving makes him nauseous. He sees the heater’s beeping lights; it’s running in full blast, but he’s so cold, the kind of cold that seeps into his bones, stays there and freezes him to the core, leaves him nothing but a hollow shell.
Dazai wonders why he’s feeling this way and remembers that today is supposed to be Christmas.
He’s never celebrated Christmas.
He was supposed to do so with Oda and Ango, his first celebration of a holiday so many people find joy in, but now, one of them is dead and other has betrayed him in such a way that Dazai will never be able to forgive, let alone forget.
The ringtone he’s set for Kunikida’s calls blares from the nightstand and Dazai buries his head in the pillows, letting it run its course. The incessant ringing fades of to a quiet, “ It’s Kunikida-kuun~~”, before stopping entirely. Dazai sighs, shoving his hands under his chest. With great strength, stronger than how he feels now (brittle and so, so empty) he pushes himself of off the bed, ending in a crouch on the floor.
His feet pad silently on the wooden floors of the apartment. Dazai brings himself to the bathroom, carefully avoids looking at the coat neatly folded on his table next to a few rolls of bandages and opened cans of crab and sake bottles hastily pushed to the side.
The light of the small bathroom glares at him, bright and yellow, it stings his eyes. Dazai rubs them roughly with the meat of his palms, splotches of crimson blossoming behind his eyelids. Gritting his teeth, Dazai blinks water from his eyes.
“Is this what you wanted from me, Odasaku?”
His reflection feels like a mockery, an echo of the person he was before . Cold, cold, cold. Freezing and dark and everything that Odasaku isn’t. Dazai leaves the bathroom with a growl and stalks into the adjacent living room.
Somehow, for whatever reason, Chuuya is there, sitting on the sofa of his apartment. He’s dressed casually, different from what he usually wears, in a pair of soft blue jeans and a white shirt.
He’s still wearing the hat though, and it looks even more ugly, today.
Dazai watches his former partner fiddle with his phone, the tap, tap, tap of nails hitting a screen the only thing filling the silence of the room. Chuuya blinks, slowly, releasing the bite he has on his bottom lip. The phone’s display fades to black, and Chuuya turns to face.
“Hey.” Chuuya says, a lazy grin forming on his face.
Dazai raises an eyebrow at him, mirroring Chuuya’s grin. “Chuuya~ Did you miss me already~? Couldn’t wait to see me in the tripartite meeting later?”
“The meeting’s been cancelled, idiot.”
“Ah?” Dazai questions. He knows, already, of course, because why else would Kunikida call him on a Christmas morning if not to inform Dazai of the change in schedule.
“I know you know.” Chuuya grumbles, standing and circling the couch to stand before Dazai. He’s a good twenty-one centimeters shorter, but Chuuya has never needed his height to be able to intimidate anyone. Not that he’s ever intimidated Dazai before. “But, well, it’s Christmas and everyone, even the rats, have decided it was a good day to go on a break.”
“Yes.” Dazai answers airily.
Chuuya frowns. Even with how casually Chuuya has dressed himself today Dazai still feels oddly underdressed, in his plain, loose shirt and slacks, vulnerable in way that has him shifting nervously.
He's only ever shown such open emotions with Chuuya and Dazai wonders if all this confusing jumble is worth shouldering through.
"Hey," Chuuya repeats his original greeting, this time with a concerned tone. "You okay?" His voice is soft. So very soft and smooth it slides down Dazai's skin in a comforting baritone like silk and warm cotton.
He pushes down a shudder, teeth sinking into lips. "I'm fine." Dazai manages to croak through the lump in his throat. "Fine."
"Are you sure, Dazai?" Chuuya's warm palm cups his cheeks, thumb slowly stroking the edge of his eye. The steady motion is hypnotizing and Dazai doesn't even think of resisting his need to lean into the touch.
He thinks of Oda, and how the man used treat him, like fragile glass under his hands. Dazai's always wondered what Oda sees in him, and now, he wonders what Chuuya sees, too.
Maybe, maybe it was the right time to return the trust Chuuya's gifted him.
Besides, Dazai's neglected Oda for far too long.
"Chuuya," Dazai covers Chuuya's hand with his own, pushing into it softly before bringing the both of them down. He swallows harshly, avoiding Chuuya's gaze to look down at the hands held in both of his own. Dazai fiddles with the tips of Chuuya's fingers, tracing the jutting knobs of the auburn-haired man's knuckles.
Chuuya's hands are shorter than Dazai's, rough from his martial arts training and oddly smooth on some parts. The gloves he's always worn could've played a part in that.
"Did you... know why I left?" Dazai whispers softly.
"Oda Sakunosuke, was it?"
Dazai heaves out a sigh. "Yes."
Chuuya's gaze goes unbelievably softer, infinitely patient as he threads their fingers together.
"He was... important to me." Dazai admits softly, trying his best to will away the offending crack in his voice. His throat clenches, and something builds in his chest, feeling like a thousand weights pressing against his lungs. "He was the only one, I think, he was the only who… understood .”
"He was the first to even try." Goes unsaid, and yet, Chuuya knows.
Chuuya lets go of Dazai's elbow, cupping both of Dazai's hands in his own. "You don't have to-"
"No" Dazai hisses. "No. I... You-" He hesitates, looking for the right words to express himself. "I think, I think you should meet him, too, Chuuya."
Through the burn of his eyes, he sees Chuuya's expression and Dazai laughs a little lighter than he's had in years.
---
Oda’s grave is small, simple, hidden on top a hill under a flourishing tree. The leaves cast shades of grey and white; the further it is from the bark, closer to the edges, the lighter it gets. In a way, it describes the life Oda had lived. He would have liked it, Dazai thinks –hopes that he would because Dazai was the one to choose the location, as meticulously as he could when he was on the run from the Port Mafia. Even with the different connections he’s build in the past, it hadn’t been an easy task.
He had of course, arranged the funeral under the alias of Tsushima Shuuji, not as himself, not as Dazai, and came, alone, under the heavy protection of a thunderstorm on the 26th of October, years ago.
The sky had cried and Dazai remembers, vaguely, the coolness of raindrops streaming down his cheeks.
Shifting the bouquet to his left arm, he breathes in deeply and pulls Chuuya up the familiar hill with him by his hand, their fingers loosely intertwined.
When the grave is within view, Dazai hastens his pace to cover the remaining distance between him and his dear friend. "Hello, Odasaku." He greets, brushing snow from the engraved tomb made out of the finest granite he could buy with the limited funds Dazai had managed scrape.
Even with the amorality that is his core, the dirty money he had owned from being an executive felt... wrong in way, to be used to build the grave of someone he could only now call a friend. Odasaku wouldn't have wanted Dazai to run himself to the ground, earning money from odd jobs he could find. He hadn't resorted to stealing, not because Dazai had felt it was wrong to do so , but that it felt erroneous to have commit larceny and build Odasaku’s final resting place with its outcome.
"It's been a few weeks, hasn't it?" Dazai manages to clear as much snow as he can, the cold white tuffs falling by the pull of natural gravity. Part of Odasaku's grave has been encased in ice. Ice that Dazai cannot melt. It covers the S of S.Oda, breaking apart when it reaches the the engraved O . Dazai presses the palm of his hand on the brittle crystalline, feeling the sharp sting of winter bite at his flesh.
"Yokohama’s been rebuilt, after the incident." He continues, white clouds puff out as his breath mixes with the cold air. "You would know, of course, but you've always liked direct confirmation better, don't you?" Dazai chuckles airily. He falls silent once more, the weight of the bouquet growing steadily heavier in his arms.
There's a rustle of fabric behind him. A shift of smooth leather against a cotton shirt, skin slipping into the roughness of denim.
Chuuya.
Dazai sighs, smiling softly, and goes down to kneel on one knee.
Stupid, loyal Chuuya, who feels too much , who's always been better at emotions then Dazai has been, who's always been better at caring.
Chuuya, who've sometimes (always) been there, whether Dazai has asked him or not, even when Dazai has told him, explicitly, that he wants to be left alone to die. Who Dazai has manipulated, hurt and left in the dust.
He still can't quite find it in himself to regret it, because Dazai has never felt regret , except for that one faithful day he's lost a friend he could call a brother. Even then, he wouldn't have regretted enough to leave had Odasaku not told him that there was another way to live.
A life under the light.
There are days when he slips back down, falling into that dark pit of hollowness carved so deeply in him that Dazai wonders if it will ever be filled with anything.
When Oda had gone, Chuuya came, suddenly, unwanted, annoyingly loud and bright like the miniature sun that he is, and, Dazai muses, even with how different both of them are, they've somehow found a way to help him, differently, with their own eccentricities.
"Say, Odasaku." Dazai breathes out, quietly, feeling much like he's admitting a secret he's carried for too long. " Remember the Chibi I've told you about a few times in Lupin?" He tilts his head back to face Chuuya, mouth curling into a wider smile. "This is Chuuya, and you, only, finally get to meet him, now, after so many years, huh."
Chuuya’s breath stutters, eyes widening as he looks at Dazai. Dazai raises an eyebrow at Chuuya, feeling laughter bubbling in him. It wells up, comes out in a small, whispered, "heh." before he turns back to face Oda.
“A lot has happened since you,” Dazai hesitates, clutching the bouquet closer to his chest.” since you left.” Dazai hums, letting the memories filter into his mind.
“You’ve met Atsushi, although I haven’t been able to introduce him to you.” He plucks the chrysanthemums out of the bouquet, laying all five, the remaining ones he could get from the florist, of them down on the grave.
“Kyouka is new, and she’s learning. You would’ve liked her, Odasaku,” Dazai continues. “The ADA’s accepted me, though I’m sure you know that already.” ‘You would’ve have liked it there, Odasaku.’ Dazai whispers in his mind. A stray breeze brushes past him, ruffling his hair as he lays purple hyacinths on the ground. ‘I’m sorry.’
The wind picks up, buffeting Dazai’s face as if to say that his last thought is wrong. Dazai swallows.
The flowers are, oddly, untouched.
“There’s Kunikida and Kenji,” His hand brushed the grave again. “Tachihara and Naomi, Haruno. Yosano-sensei,” Dazai chuckles and places a couple of dark, crimson and pink roses next to the hyacinths. “Shacou and Ranpo,” He pauses. “I think you’ve met him before, Ranpo.” He arranges the flowers in a pile, pushing them close to the bottom of Odasaku’s tombstone.
Only a two stems of flowers are left; a cyclamen and a white violet.
He places them next to him. “I burned the coat the black coat and got a new one.” Dazai tugs at the lapels, pulling his arms out of the sleeves. “Have you seen it Odasaku? I‘m sure you have!” The air lightens around them as Dazai folds his coat and places it down on the grave beside the pile neat pile of flowers. “Just in case, I’ll leave this here.” A smile, resigned smile blooms across his face.
“Odasaku,” Dazai places a lone cyclamen on top of the folded coat. “Thank you. I’ll see you the next time i do.”
The wind caresses his cheek, as if greeting an old friend. ‘And I, you.’
---
They spend the walk after the grave visit in companionable silence, huddled close enough to be able to share Chuuya's blessedly long scarf. Their difference in height had been a predicament and Chuuya had jokingly offered to either, carry Dazai on his back like the insufferable brat that he is, or to chop away Dazai's additional height by his knees.
Dazai had answered, also jokingly with a hint of fondness, that as tempting as it was to ride Chuuya like a horse, he can still walk, thank you very much.
Chuuya's resulting chortle, beautiful and genuine and free had warmed Dazai more than the scarf Chuuya had thrown Dazai's way. It slapped him in the face, surrounding him with the scent of wine, cinder wood, and the faintest hint of copper underneath. Not unlike the wine cellar he'd convinced Chuuya to break into during their Mafia days.
The mission in Nagano had been quite the ordeal.
One of their own (or, well one of the Port Mafia's, Dazai wouldn't have anyone to call one of his own back then, especially not a sniveling coward of a spy) selling information of the Port Mafia, specifically of the executives, to another group in exchange for protection and just a little additional funds on the side.
An arm around his waist pulls him out of his thoughts, fingers digging tightly into the waistband of his trousers. Dazai can feel the warmth if Chuuya's palms through the thick fabric, burning a brand into his skin the same way Chuuya's lips leaves scorching marks on his wrist when he catches Dazai staring at them for too long; the same way Dazai's own would trail down Chuuya's face, washing away remaining trails of Corruption and blood with his own brand of want and need and them .
Them.
Dazai slings an arm around Chuuya's shoulder, curling his other hand into fire-bright hair to pull Chuuya closer, bury his face into the side of Chuuya's neck.
"Clingy." Chuuya says, laughing.
"No, I'm cold." Dazai mutters, "And you're warm." He whispers quieter, softer. Dazai could stay right here, in the middle of a road, far away from the bustle of the city, from anyone else but them and Odasaku and the ghosts that still haunt them both.
Dazai's own that Chuuya would gladly will away with gentle fingers weaving through chocolate brown hair. Whispered words at nights and playful banters to keep them both grounded, not sane, not quite okay , never, but enough. Enough.
And, now, maybe more.
Chuuya laughs again. Dazai can feel it vibrating in his chest, beating with Chuuya's heart; it's strong, loud like Corruption but different. Controlled, safe, alive.
Chuuya.
Dazai's never held much hope in getting to keep what he wants, what he needs (crumbling to dust and ashes, never staying always leaving, disappearing and gone, gone, gone ). He’s never quite believe anything could, but with Chuuya?
He hopes and he wants.
Cold-numbed hands gather the strands of Chuuya's hair. They flow like water, silky in between Dazai's fingers. He's always loved Chuuya's hair, loved it as much as he hates Chuuya's hat because why hide something so wonderful, so full of personality that Chuuya wouldn't be his Chuuya without it. Dazai weaves in slowly, tugs it into a tight braid and slips a single, white flower in between the strands. Finishes it up with a snap of a rubber band.
"There." Dazai pulls back a little, admiring the way the colours clash and blend with each other. He resists the urge to slap away the offending hat on Chuuya head, because Chuuya likes it and even though Dazai hates it, he's going tolerate it, just for today.
No promises that he won't steal it later to watch it burn.
"What did you do?" Chuuya reaches one arm behind him for the braid. Dazai slaps it away gently, pulls it back to him so that Dazai could play with Chuuya's fingers. His hands have got nothing to do and what better way than to occupy it with Chuuya's warm ones.
"You're not wearing your gloves today." Dazai hums distractedly.
"Yeah. Besides, I'm with you so it's useless."
Dazai raises an eyebrow, "Chuuya's hopeless." He would've booped Chuuya's nose if not for the sudden wind making him gasp, huddling closer to Chuuya. Shivers wreck down his body. It is freezing and Dazai curses the winter.
He's never handled the cold well, after all.
"You're the hopeless one, not bringing your own coat." Chuuya huffs, though he pulls Dazai impossibly closer, wraps the scarf tighter around Dazai's neck.
"I forgot." Dazai whines petulantly.
Chuuya sighs like a wizened old man dealing with a particularly stubborn brat. "Let's get you a new one, then."
"I don't want black."
"Yeah, I know."
---
Dazai doesn't quite remember his childhood, it's a blank hole in his head; one he would rather let stay that way, only brief flashes of crying woman and a hollow feeling in his chest. There's never been a set of clothing he's stuck to quite like he had with the tan coat he's left in Oda's grave -or, maybe he did have one, as a child; a security blanket of sorts as every child are expected to have. It could have been blue, or orange or red or even green.
It most definitely hadn’t been black.
Dazau refuses to believe that he would have clung to that particular colour.
He hates it.
Dazai hates it with a burning passion and it's bad enough that both his hair and his eyes are often dark enough to be mistaken as black. Chuuya's told him, time and time again, that they aren't black, that Dazai's hair is more of an umber shade, fluffy and soft, similar to the fur of a pomeranian (to which Dazai would scoff indignantly because Chuuya's compared him to a dog of all things) and that Dazai's eyes are warm and they flow like liquid chocolate when they're not cold and dark.
Cold and dark and black.
It feels childish, to hate a colour so much that if he could he would rip it out of existence, made sure doesn't exist-
But Dazai hates it, has hated it since he first set eyes on the (black, black, black) dark coat and the set of suit cut sharp like Mori's scalpel, immaculate and clean and precise. Unyielding and merciless.
The epitome of Logic.
It is everything that Mori is.
It is everything that Dazai is -was.
(Still is.)
Maybe he had, at some point, loved black. Because besides the endless cries of a woman, Dazai remembers a lot of black. The swishing black of a skirt, of a hat and a veil and...
-and something, something else .
"You've always been different."
Something else he can't quite remember and would like to keep it that way.
"Oi."
Dazai snaps to attention at the sound of Chuuya's voice, tilting his head in a confused manner.
"Stop thinking." Chuuya rolls his eyes at Dazai, exasperation filling the tone of his voice. It's a sort of fond exasperation that Dazai has heard Chuuya use to berate Kyouka or Atsushi in the rare moments that Chuuya's decided to grace the ADA with his presence -except there's so much more warmth to it.
Dazai decides, he likes that warmth. He likes it very, very much.
"I can hear that stupid brain of yours and it's loud. So stop." Chuuya scoffs at him. "Besides, we're here." He gestures, one armed, to the posh-looking shop in front of them. It looks normal, dark wood and light marbles decorating the front. Like the European or the American ones, with a swinging door and a little bell attached to it.
"Ah." It sounds as composed as Dazai usually is but for some reason Chuuya's able to pick it apart and notice the awkward confusion buried inside.
"It's the tailor I promised to take you to two hours ago, you shitty bastard."
"Okay."
"Of course, you'd forget that." Chuuya sighs, tugging Dazai by the hand closer to the store.
"I didn't forget." He really hadn't, Dazai has just been a bit (a lot) distracted by the white clashing against the red of Chuuya's hair.
"Right."
The bell chimes cheerfully as drags him in. Rows upon rows of different coloured blazers greet them, hung up on double stacked racks and laid out neatly on display tables. The shop has a calming air to it, enhanced by the earthy brown tones and faded ivories of the countertops. A man, greying hair and friendly smiles, greets them with a politely uttered, "Welcome."
"Tanaka-san." Chuuya tilts his head slightly.
The old man -Tanaka squints his eyes, leaning so far forward that Dazai wonders, with detached amusement, if the man is going to tumble out of the high chair he is sitting on.
"Oh!" Tanaka exclaims, scrambling for something on the table. Wrinkled fingers close around something small and black, glasses. Tanaka perches them delicately on the bridge of his nose. A larger smile blooms across Tanaka's face as his eyes widen in pleasant surprise. "If it isn't Chuu-kun.”
Dazai's mind stutters.
Chuu-kun.
He raises an eyebrow at Chuuya, to which the shorter man retort with an annoyed slap to Dazai's side. Dazai whines and Chuuya's rolls his eyes hard before turning a 180 to greet Tanaka politely.
"It's been quite some time, Chuu-kun!"
"Ah, yes, it has."
The two of them dissolve into familiar conversation, Dazai trailing hesitantly behind Chuuya because he is, very much, lost in the fact that Chuuya has relations with people who are not from the Port Mafia or the ADA. That is, or course, if the shop isn't a front. It might’ve been a problem because Dazai doesn’t know , but he trust Chuuya enough to not lead Dazai into any sort of trap.
Warmth seeps into Dazai the further they venture into the store, the heater in full blast. They pass through rows upon rows of tailored jackets, some were even only half way done with stray threads peeking out from under the fabric. There was even a hat or two on display. Dazai touches some the more textured one. It feels a little like touching a rabbit, soft with a hint of roughness to it. A glance towards the direction of Chuuya’s voice shows Dazai that the other has stopped in front of a large table filled with different coloured fabrics and tools that Dazai doesn’t know about.
Probably sewing things.
Dazai shifts his gaze back to the row of hats in front of him, spotting on utterly stupid one with -what looked like- a large brown feather stuck to the side of the coral coloured ribbon that had been tied to the base of the hat. Dazai blinks.
Chuuya would probably like it. It looks ridiculous, like his other hat, after all.
He snatches the hat from where it was perched on top of a mannequin’s head, turning on his heels to skip merrily to where Chuuya is currently standing.
“Chuuyaaa~~” Dazai sings out Chuuya’s name in the way he knows will annoy Chuuya very much .
“What?”
It is, of course, very much intentional. The way Chuuya’s attention would snap directly to Dazai’s direction, eyes wide and fiery and passionate--
He flings Chuuya’s hat away. It lands, top-side up on the ground a few meters away, next to a dejected looking mannequin in a bone-white suit.
“Oi!” Chuuya protests, moving to pick the hat back up but before he could, Dazai plops the ridiculous-looking hat with the feather on top of Chuuya’s head. It looks a bit to big on Chuuya, or might just be angle of the way Dazai’s placed the hat, falling low enough to cover the whole of Chuuya’s forehead and his eyes. Chuuya scrambles to pull the hat off with a growl of, “What the-”
“Ah! It seems you’ve found one of my recent creations!” Tanaka claps his hand together, his excited exclaim cutting of Chuuya’s outburst of what would have been a very inappropriate stream of curses all aimed at Dazai. Tanaka helps Chuuya right the hat, brushing the tip of the feather fondly. “This here is made out of the finest Peachbloom, a very high quality felt made of rabbit fur.” Tanaka’s gaze shifts downwards, looking quite sad for a man who had just been explaining his ‘greatest creation’.
Oh, right, rabbit fur.
Dazai looks at the older with indifference, he couldn’t quite find it in himself to pity rabbits when he’s killed plenty of men. Kyouka would’ve been affronted by this information but it’s not like Dazai would antagonize her with a hat made from her favorite animal’s fur.
A few moments of silence pass before Tanaka perks up again, “It is, of course, synthetic!”
Dazai glances incredulously at Chuuya because this old man went from zero to a hundred very quickly and it is very worrisome. Chuuya gives him a small shrug, oblivious to, or probably ignoring, Dazai’s plight.
Dazai makes a face because this is very important Chuuya.
To which Chuuya only rolls his eyes in response.
“The feather is, of course, real.” Tanaka continued on with an excited tone. “It came from a Partridge! A type of bird, though I won’t bother you both on the technicalities.” He chuckles. The old man approaches Dazai with a flourish, “Now then, Dazai-san was it? Since I’ve already gotten Chuu-kun measurements from his previous visits, it’s your turn now.”
Dazai tenses.
Chuuya glances towards him, and understands.
“Tanaka-san. Why don’t you let me handle that.” Tanaka’s eyes shifts between Chuuya’s reassuring smile and the hand reaching towards Dazai, a measuring tape already in Chuuya’s grip. “I’ve seen you do it numerous times,” Chuuya continues. “I’m sure I’ll be able to do it. Besides, you need to finish my set, don’t you?”
“Oh! Of course.” Tanaka pulls back, letting Chuuya take his place next to Dazai. “I’m sure you already know where the changing are at, then?” The tailor gives them both a quirky smile, picking a folded piece of blue fabric up and disappears past another door that, presumably, leads to his workshop.
The two of them were left in silence, Dazai shifting minutely in discomfort now that the old man is gone. He’s never been fond of being touched. Chuuya is, of course, an exception (and so was Oda, in a way) given that they are in some sort of… relationship, no matter how oddly it feels it word it that way.
Him and Chuuya, in a relationship.
Dazai doesn’t know how to not think of that without skepticism yet, but he’s getting there.
Chuuya leads him down another door and into a room with a large mirror hung on the opposite wall. There was a small, round stand on the middle, along with several racks filled with various antique vases and tea cups, there was even a typewriter tucked in the left corner on a wooden cabinet.
“Chuuya, I thought we were only getting a coat?"
Chuuya closes the door behind him, ushering Dazai to step on the wooden stand. “I did, and you’re also getting a suit because I’m not going anywhere fancy with you looking like that.”
“But Chuuya, I’m always fancy!”
“As fancy as a trash can, yeah.”
Chuuya throws the measuring tape around Dazai’s chest, winding it just this side of tight that it stops Dazai’s retort and turns it into an offended wheeze. There’s a pressure on Dazai’s back, just below his left shoulder, scritch of pencil on paper following soon after. Chuuya must be jotting something down, the rhythmic movement of the making Dazai shift.
“Chuuya, that tickles.”
“Shut up. I don’t have a table close by and I’m touching you, so my ability doesn’t work.” The tape is lowered down to Dazai’s waist, looser than when it was wound around his chest. A few more scritches and it moves to Dazai’s hip. Chuuya’s breathe fans across the small of Dazai’s back, hot even through the layers of his vest and cotton shirt. Dazai shivers, and it isn’t because of the cold.
“Done.” Chuuya whispers. The tape is dropped and then there are fingers skirting his side. Chuuya’s arm around Dazai’s waist this time, instead of the tape and--
‘It tickles . ’ Dazai wants to repeat but the door slams open and in walks Tanaka with a pair of suits.
Chuuya scrambles away from him and Dazai could only stand there, slightly flushed and a little bit too hot.
“You boys were taking too long.” Tanaka winks at them, hanging the navy suit up on the horizontal pole jutting out from the left wall. Chuuya splutters out an incoherent reply before shoving the paper into Tanaka’s hand, his ears beet red. Dazai imagines it must feel awfully like having Kouyou find out about their… coupling.
Wouldn’t that be interesting.
“Well, this one should be about right for you, Chuu-kun.” Tanaka hands Chuuya the remaining set, a deep maroon piece, the colour just a shade darker than the ribbon of the partridge feather hat. It would look good on Chuuya , Dazai thinks, absently, really good.
“Why don’t you go to the next room, try it on for size, while I help your… friend.” Tanaka flashes them a knowing smile, gently pushing Chuuya out of the room, cople The door shuts with a click , leaving only Dazai and the old man of the tailor shop, who is oddly familiar with Chuuya, in the room.
“Dazai-san.” Tanaka turns to face him. “You must be wondering, aren’t you?” The air shifts around them, Chuuya’s warmth seeping out and leaving cold and suffocating tension. Tanaka steps closer to the rack, unhooking the navy set and draping it over his arm.
“I trust Chuuya enough that he wouldn’t be as foolish as he was back then,” The sudden change of name has Dazai tensing. “and I’m not quite sure what exactly he sees in the Demon Prodigy , of all people, that he would settle down with you .” Tanaka’s smile turns a hint sharper, his eyes a little darker, in a way that Dazai is familiar with. Except he’s never been on the opposing side of that particular expression, not with somebody who isn’t Mori .
“I may not trust him then, but I trust that he knows what he’s doing now.”
Dazai’s mind whirls and he steps down from the pedestal, approaching Tanaka with an air of nonchalant-ignorance. He takes the the suit set from Tanaka with a flippant smile. “Of course, white-coat .”
Tanaka twitches slightly, looking very much like he would like to, either, crawl out of his skin or strangle Dazai. Or maybe both, but that has always been the universal reaction to anyone who’s met Dazai. Tanaka sighs softly, running one hand through his hair. “That’s not my story to tell, Dazai-san, nor is it yours to uncover.”
Narrowing his eyes, Dazai questions, “Does Chuuya know?”
“Yes.” Tanaka answers with stubborn hesitation.”He was the one who approached me.”
“Alright.”
“You’re not going to let this lie, are you?”
“Of course not.” Dazai smirks, his intention clearly shown in the way he relaxes, gaze dark and cold. “But, for now.” He gestures to the clothing in his arm. “A little privacy would be splendid.”
The door shuts with a soft click for a second time.
---
The blue of the wool would probably be the closest Dazai would ever have as a favorite colour. Not that he does, not that he ever will , but this blue would probably be the closest.
It’s a deep navy, slightly faded out in colour. Bitter as Dazai is to admit it, Tanaka, former scientist he might be, is a very accomplished tailor. He’s somehow managed to get Dazai’s size right, even without knowing his measurements (or, maybe, Chuuya had told Tanaka before, already planning to get Dazai a new set). It might be a tad too loose on his frame, the sleeves of the suit a little too long that, hanging past Dazai’s ring finger, but it wasn’t something that couldn’t be fixed with a simple fold and tuck. It isn’t as if Dazai is going to be wearing it often, anyway.
But with how Chuuya is looking at him, maybe he might.
“So, how do I look?” Dazai asks, fastening the grey tie around his neck.
Chuuya doesn’t deign him with a reply.
“Chuuya?” Dazai prompts with a knowing smirk.
“Great!” Chuuya exclaims. Dazai can see the flash of a blush in Chuuya’s reflection before he turns away from the mirror, his back to Dazai. “You look great.”
“Chuuyaaaa,” Dazai whines. “Just great?”
“YES! Just,” Chuuya fiddles with the his own grey tie. Tanaka had cheekily shoved matching ties into Chuuya’s arm a few minutes ago, right after Chuuya had entered the room clad in a blue dress shirt and maroon pants. The jacket, which had been draped over his arm before, now rest on the a chair. “You look- nice.”
“You look very nice, too, Chuuya.” Dazai laughs softly when Chuuya’s ears go beet red again, similar to how he had when Tanaka had walked in on them. “Matching ties, huh.”
“It was the old man’s idea.”
“I figured.”
They fall back into comfortable silence as Chuuya continues to fasten his vest, the tie still undone around his neck. Dazai’s already done up and ready in his own set, though he doesn’t, exactly, know why he couldn’t change back into his usual clothing, except that Chuuya apparently going to take him out on a fancy date of some sort.
The clock ticks.
Dazai turns when Chuuya stops moving, grabbing the loose tie and doing it up with dexterous fingers. “It’s already six, Chuuya, and,” He pauses when he comes across a particular stubborn part of the know. “I can’t believe I’m being the punctual one, but if you really are going to ‘take me out on a fancy date’ then we might have to leave now.” He finishes his sentence with a firm tug of the knot, letting it rest lightly just below Chuuya’s throat.
Dazai really just wants to leave. Now, if possible.
“Right, right.” Chuuya picks his jacket up, putting it on and tugging the lapels to straighten the folds. It really is a nice look on him. “Let’s go.”
---
“What do you mean there aren’t any open tables left?” Chuuya speaks slowly, a calm, deadly edge to his voice. The receptionist in question. “I’ve reserved one this morning.”
The receptionist across from them ducks her head, apologies that Dazai can’t quite bother to pay attention to spewing from her lips.
“This morning .” Chuuya repeats. “Under the name of Kobayashi .”
“I’m sorry sir.” She replies quickly. “There isn’t anyone listed under Kobayashi.”
Le Ciel has already garnered a large crowd, people waiting on the outside like flocks of birds, it would be unusual for such a fancy restaurant but given that it was Christmas, and with the recent fade of the KFC trend -it still is a popular Christmas-y food but most seems to have already gotten bored of oily, fried chicken of the very unhealthy variant (not that Dazai would know, he’s only ever eaten canned crab)- fancy dining must have been the new in.
“Kobayashi Hideo?” Chuuya tries again. Dazai’s gaze slowly shifts to Chuuya’s clenched fist, the growl building up in his throat and wonders why a simple, missed dinner is upsetting him so much.
“I’m sorry-”
“Sweat-heart,” Dazai cuts the receptionist’s umpteenth apology with a softly uttered endearment that feels flat on his tongue, the word ringing weirdly in his head. “we can always find another place.”
Chuuya’s protest dies in his throat, his expression ridiculously shocked as he stares at Dazai. Dazai flashed a smile grin at the receptionist, gaining a small blush and an shy giggle, before dragging Chuuya out of the restaurant and into festive streets.
They weave through the crowds, passing chattering teenagers looking for gifts, weary men walking home from work. As rare as the occasion is, Dazai leads them, tugging Chuuya along, their intertwined hands carefully hidden from prying eyes.
Chuuya, having gathered his wits, starts, “But…” He trails off, finishing lamely. “ They have crab.”
“Yes, Chuuya, a majority of fancy, french restaurants have crab.”
“No. Not this one. It‘s special.”
Dazai hums. “How special?” There’s a distant shout as the crowd thins around them, the glaring lights of the city slowly giving way to soft, warm glow from the lamps hung on the trees. Mitsuke park is blessedly quiet, barren trees and snowy stacked hills surrounding them instead of the usual tall buildings and chattering, noisy people. It is places like this that Dazai prefers more than the bustling city part of Yokohama.
Chuuya sighs, stepping beside Dazai. Dazai can feel him relax, shoulders slumping as Chuuya bumps Dazai’s arm with quiet affection. He’s pleased, Dazai realizes, that they were away from the crowd.
A preference for calm places might be one of the few things they have in common.
“They only have it on Christmas,” Chuuya shrugs. “ I figured you’d like it. Foie gras, too”
Dazai blinks at the white blanket of snow. “Foie Gras?” He says, butchering up the word so much it doesn’t sound like ‘ Foe-Gra’ but more of a ‘ Fo-ei Gla’.
“You need to work on your pronunciation.” Chuuya cringes.
“Well, not all of us are experts in French Cuisine.” Dazai scoffs, crouching down to pick up a handful of snow.
“You don’t have to be an expert in French Cuisine to be able to pronounce Foie gras right, Dazai-”
To which Dazai answers with a balled up piece of snow aimed at Chuuya’s face.
It hits, the force knocking Chuuya a few steps but not enough to topple him. Dazai realizes his mistake when Chuuya stills suddenly, the snow on his face slowly slipping down, down, down to land on the ground with a dull splat .
Chuuya twitches.
Dazai backs away shakily, watching the scene unfold before him like a man watching a volcano erupt; with awe at the majesticity and fear for his safety. Dazai’s pretty sure his expression resembles the one on that electric fur-rat meme, from the oddly addicting game that he used to play when he still had his console, currently circling around among youngster these days.
Chuuya twitches, again, harder this time as a low growl starts to form in his throat. “Daazaaaii-” He begins to glow, a brilliant red outline enveloping him along with the snow in his immediate vicinity.
Dazai gulps. “Ah, Chuu-”
There isn’t much Dazai could do but squeak as a metric ton of snow, further powered by Chuuya’s ability, pummels him into the ground.
---
“You’re an idiot, you know that?” Chuuya grumbles as he drops Dazai, looking like a damp, miserable cat, off on the Agency’s entrance. “A hopeless idiot.”
Dazai shivers as a blast of wind hit him. “I-i it’s C-CC Chuuya’s ffffault.” He manages to stutter out pass his chattering teeth. Huddling into himself for warmth Dazai pushes the door to the agency open, sighing as blessed, warm air envelops them. The lights in the cafe have been left on, although none of the usual staffs could be seen.
“I’ll be going then.” Chuuya tips his hat, turning to leave.
Dazai catches Chuuya by his wrist and drags him into the cafe. “Chuuyaaaa, you can’t just leave.” He whines. Chuuya’s wrist is cold under his hand. Dazai’s pretty sure Chuuya’s not as comfortable out in the winter climate as he tries to pretend he is, even though he does tend to run warmer than Dazai. “The Port-”
“Dazai-san!!” Atsushi’s voice calls out from the stairs leading towards the building’s second storey. The wooden stairs creak under his steps as Atsushi runs. “Dazai-san, you’re here!”
Atsushi’s voice is soon followed by Atsushi himself, his usual oddly cut white hair sliding into view. The loose end of the belt trails behind him like a tiger’s tail. Coming to a stop just beside the stairs, Atsushi blinks at them both. “Oh! Nakahara-san, you’re here too.”
Chuuya tilts his head at Atsushi. “Nakajima.”
It takes Atsushi a moment to register both of their suits, the colours a complete opposite of each other, and, of course, the matching ties. His mouth drops open slightly, forming an amusing O shape.
“A-” Dazai silently curses his stutter. “Atsushi-kkkkun.” He tries for a smirk but it probably comes out lopsided with how much his teeth is still chattering. Chuuya’s snort doesn’t help either.
Atsushi’s gaze shift from disbelief to worry as he glances at Dazai, “Are you alright, Dazai-san?”
“The idiot’s just cold.” Chuuya cuts off Dazai’s reply. “Bundle him up in a blanket and he’ll be fine.”
“Ah-” Atsushi, bless him , Dazai thinks, dives behind counter and somehow manages to pull a blanket out of nowhere. It’s ratty and old, dusty too, probably been deprived of sunlight for too long, but when Atsushi hands it to Dazai, wrapping it around his trembling hands, it feels like blessed warmth and relief.
“Thank you Atsushi-kun.” Dazai wraps the blanket around his shoulder, sighing happily. “This is very nice.”
“I’d think so.” Chuuya snorts.
Dazai ignores him.
“Atsu-”
A crash and a loud cheer erupts from somewhere above them before several thuds echo from the stairway again. They sound heavier than Atsushi’s footsteps. It’s probably Kunikida--
“Dazai.”
“Kunikida-kuunnn~” Dazai sing songs from under the blanket.
Kunikida approaches him in a hurried fashion, pulling the blanket down from Dazai’s head. “You’re coming with me.”
Kunikida drags him by the fluttering ends of the blanket, forcing Dazai to take several stumbling steps as Kunikida climbs up the stairs again. Chuuya’s lighter footsteps sound from behind them, along with Atsushi’s so Dazai doesn’t have to worry about Chuuya slipping away.
The double doors leading to the Agency’s office were practically punched open as Kunikida steps into the threshold, Dazai still dragged behind like a sack of potatoes on legs.
There’s music, suddenly.
Loud, cheery Christmas music and a whole lot of light shining into Dazai’s eyes. He squints against the brightness, freeing one hand from under the blanket to hood his eyes. Ones the glare lessens, Dazai lets out a garbled snort because the Agency is having a Christmas Party.
They’d somehow managed to procure a lot of KFC; a whole, steaming, seven buckets worth of the fried chicken. There’s a cake placed precariously in the middle of several tables that had been pushed together, forming a giant square in the middle of the room. It’s covered with white frosting, like snow piled on top, with several miniature dress and reindeer toys positioned to look like a forest. The younger agency members must have baked it, given that both Naomi and Kyouka can cook well, Dazai’s not surprised that it turned out oddly neat.
“Uwahh, what this? A party and you didn’t invite me to it, Kunikida-kuuuunn?”
Kunikida rolls his eyes. “We’ve been trying to contact you since this morning.”
“Ehh?”Dazai recalls the call he had ignored this morning.
Kunikida opens his mouth to answer, but Ranpo beats him with a whine of, “We need a tree or Yosano won’t let me eat the cake!!” He points towards Dazai. “He looks like a blue tree, use him.”
Dazai’s still trying to figure out how exactly he looked like a blue tree when he’s blinded, again, by light. His grip on the blanket loosens, the heavy fabric slipping and dropping to the floor silently.
“Oi, careful with that, he’s damp.” Chuuya’s voice sounds from behind him. A pair of hands pull the offending lights away from his eyes, rearranging it so that the cables sit carefully on the top of his head. Dazai feels Chuuya tuck a strand of his hair behind his ear, letting a part of the light hang beside it. “There, better?”
“Not really.” Dazai pouts at him, tugging at the stream of lights. He’s about to whine more when Chuuya’s eyes widens, delightful surprise flitting in his expression. Something is plopped on Dazai’s head; it’s soft, heavy and most definitely alive as the thing coos and buries itself further into Dazai’s hair.
“Wha-”
“It’s a bird.” Chuuya says. He’s trying -and failing- to suppress his chuckles as he bows over, clutching his stomach. “A partridge-”
“In a pear tree~~” Yosano sings, slipping into Dazai’s view with a wicked smirk. The bold red santa hat on her had draws his attention. It sits crookedly, looking both odd yet fitting when paired with the green garnish hanging around her neck like a very bushy Hawaiian necklace.
“Have I been degraded into a pear tree now?????” Dazai squawks indignantly.
“Sorry Dazai-san, guess you have.” Atsushi appears beside him, a plate of the snow-cake held lightly in his hands. Kyouka follows, soon after, slipping silently next to Yosano with a small smile on her face. Before, the Demon Prodigy would’ve never even cared about Kyouka, much less glance her way. Now, though he hasn’t been able to bring himself to feel happy for her, Dazai is glad Kyouka’s found a place in the Agency.
As Atsushi has.
As he has, too, Dazai supposes.
His eyes feel drawn to move, sweeping across the room to pass Tanizaki, Naomi and Haruno, huddling around the cake and passing each other plates of fried chicken; to Ranpo and Kenji, both of them shoving food down their throat, the older detective discreetly (not) stealing candy from Kenji’s pocket; and, finally, he settles on Fukuzawa, standing tall and proud with a softly fond expression on their president’s face. Dazai’s breath hitches when Fukuzawa meets his gaze.
Dazai tilts his head at Fukuzawa, offering his own tentative smile. Fukuzawa returns it with his own, eyes tender and shining with content.
It’s warm here, not the blazing heat that he shares with Chuuya, nor is it the once-steady going fire burning between him and Oda but it’s warmth and it may not be home yet , but there’s a tentative hope welling inside of him that says, ‘ one day, it might be.’
Chuuya siddles up beside him when the other’s leave to rejoin the party, pulling Dazai’s attention to the small box in his hand. “One more thing.” He says, opening the box to reveal a pair of earrings. Their a brilliant, glittering gold, long with a single feather attached to the end of the thin chain.
“But, Chuuya-”
“They’re clip ons.” Chuuya beats his protest of not having a piercing hole. “I’ve been wanting to see what you’d look like in these.”
“If I wear one, you have to wear one too.” Dazai teases as Chuuya slips one on, the pressure slightly painful on his ear but otherwise, it’s light and barely noticeable. Dazai nudges Chuuya’s shoulder, gesturing towards his preoccupied hands that were tangled in light cables. “Come onnnn, Chuuyaaaa.”
Chuuya rolls his eyes at Dazai. “No.” He scoffs, his words contradicting his actions as Chuuya puts the other earring on. The gold glints prettily against the light, accentuated further by the red of Chuuya’s hair. It looks perfect on him, especially when paired with the single white violet that Dazai had slipped on his braid earlier.
“Happy?”
“Yes.”
