Work Text:
15
“Kiss,” Elise commands, pointing up at the bright green Christmas decoration (which may not be considered a staple feature of a mafia boss’ office, but Mori only goes for the stereotypical Mafia things when its suits him anyway) with a dainty hand. “It’s the rule.” Behind his desk - which also sports several seasonal ornaments -, Mori chuckles and makes no move to stop or correct her.
Chuuya can’t believe it. Not only are his clothes sticky with blood from the mission they just finished (to say nothing of the smell), but that useless toothpick of a partner next to him has chosen the very worst moment to lose his silver tongue. If it were anyone else Chuuya’d make an exception because getting a crate dropped on your arm is painful, but it’s Dazai and Dazai can and has talked his way out of impossible situations while doubling as a pin cushion for various knife-wielding maniacs. Getting out of being forced to indulge foreign holiday traditions ought to be child’s play.
“Sorry, Elise, but I -“ Dazai begins (Chuuya knows a bad attempt when he sees one) and attempts to flee.
Faster than he can blink, Elise appears right in front of him. Arms crossed, she forces Dazai to freeze lest he touches her. There’s a glint in Mori’s eye, and Dazai casts a pout toward him.
This is not working out, Chuuya thinks to himself with an internal groan.
“Really, Mori-san, is this -“
“Now, Dazai, if you ignore me, it’s gotta be a kiss on the lips,” Elise cuts him off. She leans forward, and Dazai moves backwards, bumping against Chuuya. They’re right underneath the mistletoe, now.
“But, Elise, I don’t want to kiss a slug,” Dazai whines.
Elise shakes her head. “On the lips.”
Chuuya simultaneously feels like wringing Dazai’s neck and hoping for the ground to swallow him. In any case, Dazai won’t be of help here, so he flashes his best smile at Elise. “Elise-chan, I would rather die than kiss that mackerel. Maybe I could give your hand a kiss instead?”
“Ew,” Dazai mutters in the background. Chuuya kicks his ankle.
Elise giggles, charmed. He’s almost hopeful, but then she waggles her finger. “No, no. It’s you and Dazai under the mistletoe. So, you have to kiss.”
“Can it just be like … on the cheek?” Chuuya asks, a pit opening in his stomach.
“Nu-uh,” Elise singsongs. “On the lips. A real kiss.”
Chuuya sighs. Glares at Dazai and somewhat wistfully realizes that this is going to be his first kiss. Shared with that waste of bandages. This is vaguely disappointing. (Vaguely, because Chuuya would like to convince himself that he’s not the sentimental type of person who cares about whom they share their first kiss with, not at all).
Dazai grimaces. “This is all your fault.”
“And you keep making it worse,” Chuuya replies before Elise can add any more stipulations. Like tongue. He’s seen that and the thought of doing that with Dazai honestly is gross. At least if it’s lips only, they can file it away as another type of unwelcome yet unavoidable bodily contact - the way he’s had to literally hold Dazai’s ribs in place and Dazai needs to touch whatever part of reachable skin to stop Corruption.
Dazai at last seems to have reached the same conclusion. They exchange another glare, before Dazai leans in and Chuuya mirrors him. His eyes close of their own volition.
Dazai’s lips are softer than he expected. They feel warm, pliant. Nice, and Chuuya banishes that thought the moment it arises. There’s nothing nice about that bastard. Nothing. Not even the way his face looks up close; all porcelain skin and long eyelashes.
(There’s a spark there, something kind and gentle and alien to both, but so dearly desired).
Chuuya realizes he’s opened his eyes. He also realizes far too much time has passed since this “kiss” begun. He jerks back sharply, wiping his mouth while Dazai stumbles.
Elise claps cheerfully, and Mori beams at them.
“That was disgusting,” Chuuya declares. His heart beats a mile a minute.
“Likewise,” Dazai says. His hand is trembling, and he shoves it in his pocket.
16
One year later it’s Christmas again and Portmafia - well, Mori Cooperation on paper - hosts a lavish Party in a city’s most famous five-star hotel. All rooms have been booked, no expenses spared. Chandeliers glitter, so do the baubles decorating imported trees, the crystal glasses and champagne bottles, fancy jewelry and bejeweled cufflinks. Chuuya is, admittedly, somewhat tipsy. But the hotel proprietors deemed tonight worthy of opening a few rare vintages, and he’s high enough in Portmafia’s pecking order to be invited. (Even though he’s sixteen, and there had been a few curious glances. But he owns more than one ID, and at least on four of them he’s old enough).
He’s in a good mood as he drifts back toward the main hall. Laughter and music float toward him, the air’s warm and his cheeks feel slightly flushed.
“Ah, Chuuya,” a bright voice exclaims and Chuuya turns to find Elise waving at him. She’s dressed in a gorgeous burgundy gown, looking every bit like the spoiled brat she is.
Chuuya waves back with a grin, and thinks he just wants to pick up a small snack from the buffet next door before joining her. So, he turns, and half-collides with the person exiting said doorway.
“Slug,” Dazai huffs. He’s not even made an effort tonight; clad in his customary black suit plus bandages.
Chuuya feels his good mood vanish. “Mackerel,” he says. “Move. I -“
“Ohhh, look!” Elise exclaims. “There’s a mistletoe!”
Of course, Chuuya thinks, heart sinking. What was he expecting? Around them, heads turn, and he hears cheerful whispers and giggling.
They can’t cause a scene here.
“Elise-chan, don’t you think the rules may not be quite so appropriate here?” Dazai asks, and Chuuya thinks “coward”. Not that he wants to kiss that guy. It’s just - chickening out is not the thing to do.
“Nu-uh, Osamu-chan,” Elise tuts and Chuuya feels Dazai cringe at the address (first name in public - ouch. She’s going for the throat). “The rules are the rules.”
“They are, the young missus is correct,” an elderly gentleman chimes in (and not anybody. Guy owns three banks in town and has turned a blind eye to Portmafia’s money laundering activities). If he’s into indulging foreign holiday customs… well, Kouyou’s got at least two business proposals lined up needing his signature that Chuuya knows about.
“And it’s Christmas,” the young, foreign wife of another business mogul chimes in. “It’s a time of love. You should show your friends you appreciate them.” Oh, she couldn’t be further from the truth.
There’s a “we don’t really do these displays of affection” on Dazai’s lips, but Chuuya steps on his foot. (To be fair, it’s an accident. He is drunk).
“She’s right,” an elderly philanthropist agrees sagely. She’s not only exceedingly rich, but also related to about everybody from Yokohama’s mayor to at least ten Diet members and two high-ranking military generals. Her face was on the first ten pages of ‘notable persons’ Kouyou had Chuuya learn about.
Dazai grimaces. Whether it’s because his foot hurts or the prospect of kissing Chuuya is not to his taste is unclear. In any case, for all he’s a brilliant strategist, the social settings can’t be his forte, because he looks as if he’s about to protest. “I -“
“He’s shy,” Chuuya hears himself say. Well. That was not what he planned on saying, but it does make sense. In a way.
He flashes a winning smile at their audience. “Dazai here just hasn’t really had a lot of experience kissing. I mean, we ended up under a mistletoe before, so I can tell.” He laughs, this audience laughs, and feels Dazai glaring at him. Elise nods, cheerfully corroborating his story.
“But you are an expert now?” Dazai asks drily, having at last accepted the inescapability of their situation.
Chuuya grins, and swoops in. In one swift move he kicks out Dazai’s feet from underneath him and at the same time catches him with an arm around his waist. Before Dazai quite realized Chuuya is french-dipping him, Chuuya leans in and presses his lips to Dazai’s. Somebody whistles in the background.
And yet for a moment, the world grows quiet. The constant throb in his blood vanishes, the spinning thoughts fall silent. Dazai’s body is warm in his arms, his lips soft. He feels different from the cool, distant partner - alive, human.
(It feels good).
The hand clutching his shoulder twitches. Chuuya abruptly realizes the kiss has gone on for too long (again?!?) and breaks it. He nearly dumps Dazai onto the floor, but thinks better of it; instead he elegantly puts his dazed partner back on his own feet, winks at their audience and asks: “What do you think? Am I an expert?”
There’s laughter from their audience, yet Chuuya can’t look away from Dazai’s eye as whatever openness in there (and when did that appear?) flickers, before any warmth is locked away and Dazai regains his cold expression. If Chuuya didn’t know better, he’d think he was hurt - but it’s Dazai, he doesn’t do emotions (much).
“Obviously, as you helpfully pointed out before, I can’t reliably judge your skills,” Dazai returns and there’s ice in his voice despite his smile.
Chuuya blinks, yet before he can form a reply (or make sense of Dazai’s reaction), Elise chimes up. “It did look very professional!” she declares, and with that their audience turns away, satisfied.
With the attention gone from them Chuuya can’t help wondering what’s going on with Dazai. The other holds himself stiff as if he was nursing a hidden injury- Chuuya suppresses a groan, grabs Dazai’s wrist and starts to tug him along. Dazai initially tries to resist, but a warning squeeze to his wrist puts a stop to that (they really don’t need to cause another scene) and Chuuya steers them into a secluded washroom.
“Alright, what’s wrong with you,” he demands as he locks the door behind him. This isn’t a particularly busy area, it will take a while until staff notices the door has been locked. It ought to give them enough time to stitch up any cuts if no artery’s been nicked. But Dazai’s pallor isn’t going grey.
Dazai blinks at him. “What’s wrong? The question is more what’s wrong with you?”
“Wrong with me? You’re the one who suddenly started acting like five-year old out there! What on earth were you thinking?” Chuuya’s voice echoes shrilly off the tiled walls; but he can’t help it. Trust Dazai to be an unreasonable bastard at the worst of times.
“That I didn’t want to kiss a slug,” Dazai returns coldly, and Chuuya will deny the words sting until the end of his life. “Seriously, did you expect me to be charmed? I’m not one of those witless girls that make cow-eyes at you. Or are all those hormones getting to your head? I mean, in such a small body they have far fewer places to go, and your head is probably the emptiest space of it all.”
Chuuya balls his hands to fists. His body vibrates, and he forces down the hurt, the urge to throw himself at Dazai and punch that vicious grin off his face. It’s what he wants, it’s what that cruelty’s supposed to invoke, but Chuuya’s not inhuman enough to be immune. “Fuck you,” he says, and he can’t help if his voice shakes. “I was wondering if you were actually hurt.”
For a split second something flickers in Dazai’s eyes. It’s gone immediately, and Chuuya’s got enough self-preservation not to stay. He spins around on his heels, stalks out. Let Dazai bleed out if he’s actually hurt. Chuuya doesn’t care.
He heads straight for the bar instead.
***
The hangover lasts two days, the bad air between them longer, and the holiday season appears to stretch endlessly. Logically Chuuya knows there’s only a week left until the year is over, but for him it can’t end soon enough. Having lined up joint missions with Dazai nearly every day doesn’t make it better. He’s gone over to only speaking the bare minimum, and everyone - down to the newest goon in Portmafia - can tell something is wrong.
Only Dazai gives no indication he’s noticing anything.
They’re in a small town up north, slogging through ankle-high snow with more flakes drifting from above, when there’s another mistletoe incident. It’s late at night, and except for the holiday decorations most lights in shopping passage have been extinguished. There’s no one but them around - it being Christmas Eve or date night, and honestly, Chuuya would have missed the mistletoe over the entrance completely.
“Ah,” Dazai says, pointing up. His breath fogs in the cold air, and snowflakes have settled in his hair like tiny crystals.
Chuuya glances up and grimaces. He wants to return to their hotel and take a hot shower as fast as possible. And then to go back to Yokohama as fast as possible. “What?” he asks flatly.
Dazai gives him a tiny smile. “It’s a mistletoe.”
“And?” Chuuya raises an eyebrow but stops. Dazai turns toward him.
Cool hands reach up to gently grasp his cheeks, and Chuuya freezes, abruptly breathless. Dazai tilts his head up, and there’s a warmth to his eyes Chuuya doesn’t think he’s seen before, something honest and vulnerable.
“Merry Christmas, Chuuya,” Dazai whispers and leans down to press his lips against Chuuya’s. It’s sweet and short and innocent and yet enough to make Chuuya’s head spin. Light sparkles in Dazai’s eye when he steps back.
What the fuck, Chuuya thinks, but he’s not angry. Confused, happy (oh, he shouldn’t be, he thinks), dizzy. “What was that?” he hears himself ask, and there’s no heat in his voice. As far as kisses go, this one was cute.
Dazai merely smiles at him, trying for mysterious, but there’s a light flush to his cheeks. Incredulity blossoms in Chuuya’s chest - after the idiot threw such a tantrum, he’s now pulling this?
“No, seriously,” Chuuya says again, though he thinks the kiss may have been an apology. Which doesn’t make any more sense, because Dazai doesn’t apologize, merely waltzes on without a care. “What was that?”
“A kiss?” Dazai offers. “Though maybe my skills aren’t up to par.” He says it with amusement, and Chuuya wants to hate him for it. Whenever he’s convinced Dazai isn’t human, the other goes and throws him a curveball all with emotions and feelings and other sticky things.
But well. Chuuya’s never backed down from a challenge. “Na, they’re not,” he growls, and pushes Dazai back until his back collides with a building. “Not by far.” He slams a hand against the wall next to Dazai’s head, notices the slight widening of his eye with satisfaction. His other hand buries itself in Dazai’s hair, tugs him forward - and he ignores Dazai sliding down the wall, so their faces are at the same height. Chuuya smashes his lips onto Dazai’s with the intention on making it a kiss the mackerel will remember. Which is why, without thinking further about it, he uses the little surprised gasp from Dazai to push his tongue into the other’s mouth.
(In hindsight, many years later, Chuuya will admit that at sixteen his kissing skills certainly were not nearly as sophisticated as he would have liked to claim they were).
Dazai’s eyes fly open, but Chuuya’s grip keeps him in place. The strange sensation shifts to something warm, tingling. It’s like sparks dancing over his skin, and Chuuya instinctively seeks for more. His face grows hot, their legs tangle. When they break for air, Dazai’s chest is heaving and Chuuya’s face red, and they stare at each other, bemused.
The kiss - and there’s no denying it - was real. The emotions in it, too, though of the kind neither of them would ever say to another. It wiped away Dazai’s cruelty, Chuuya’s brashness and all the other masks they wear; and exposed them for being two lost souls seeking warmth and belonging.
And the moment lingers. As Chuuya slowly untangles his hand from Dazai’s hair he can’t help but notice its softness, while Dazai smiles at him.
“I think,” Dazai says after a heartbeat, “it’s for the best this wasn’t the kiss we shared at the party last week.”
Chuuya bursts out laughing.
17
The year passes even faster than the last one. Dazai makes executive, and Chuuya realizes that he’s one of the few persons Dazai hasn’t completely closed himself off to. Sure, he’s not Odasaku, but they share an honesty that grows rare in Chuuya’s life as he, too, rises in the ranks.
Christmas that year sees them concluding a mission in Osaka. Dazai had gotten himself kidnapped by a rival organization that had been encroaching on Portmafia business in order to learn about their structures, members, and all the other relevant details, while Chuuya had been waiting to break him free. With three days it’s one of the longer kidnapping ruses they’ve done, and Dazai’s not in a great shape when Chuuya finds him. Apparently, the kidnappers left him chained in the same uncomfortable position the entire time (which, Chuuya knows, is among the more effective torture methods), and Dazai’s pallor confirms it.
But they’ve gotten the required intel, and they make it out with only two bodies lining their way and nothing leading back to their hotel. Dazai’s lip is bloody from biting it by the time they reach the room (quite garishly decorated because apparently hotel staff took the generous tip as a wish for special treatment (what they don’t know: Elise left a note suggesting they help two lovebirds spend a nice Christmas)), because every movement hurts, and Chuuya feels a spark of sympathy.
“Alright, hot shower?” he asks as the door closes behind them.
“Please,” Dazai replies with a wince and limps toward the bathroom. His fingers are too stiff and swollen to be able to undo the button; not that the shirt’s worth salvaging anyway. Chuuya cuts it off with scissors, then pushes it from Dazai’s shoulders, pretending not to notice the pained sound that makes it through Dazai’s teeth.
“I’m doing the bandages, too,” Chuuya says, stepping behind Dazai. He can feel how hard the muscles in Dazai’s back are even as his hands merely glide over them. The bandages are stiff with sweat and dried blood, though the bruising underneath does not look too bad. Or rather, Chuuya’s seen much worse; whereas most of the blood apparently stems from the headwound Dazai got when he was first knocked out.
Chuuya reaches for the bandages wrapped around Dazai’s head, feels the other stiffen. “These are filthy,” he says. “And I need to take a look at that wound.” Chances are, if Dazai had a concussion it’s already passed.
“Alright,” Dazai mutters, and Chuuya swiftly undoes the bandages covering half his face. He can feel Dazai blink (he’s always a little lost when his other eye is uncovered, as if one of his masks was stripped away) but ignores it in order to seek out the injury responsible for the blood. He finds it fast, clotted hair guiding his way, and it’s already scabbed over, looking to be healing fine.
“Looks fine,” Chuuya says, and then gives a tug to Dazai’s belt. They’ve done this before, and after it Chuuya uses his knife to cut the belt and into the back of the trousers. This way is, they’ve learned (Chuuya’s been in this position, too, since Corruption tends to leave his fingers useless for days), less undignified. Especially as he turns away, saying “I’ll start a bath” and busies himself with setting the temperature and preparing the tub while Dazai awkwardly shimmies out of his trousers.
Once the bathtub is filling, Chuuya picks up the extra shower head, chooses a low temperature and looks back to Dazai. The other’s successfully stripped off all his clothes, leaving him bare and hunched over, head bowed, and expression hidden by his hair. Chuuya doesn’t ask, instead he hums and squats down.
He’s not usually this gentle, but tonight he reaches out to take Dazai’s ankle with one hand and directs the water onto it with the other. There’s a sigh, drowned out by the water merrily rushing into the tub, while Chuuya sets the showerhead down and very carefully traces the tendons in Dazai’s foot with his fingers. Everything is rock hard, and the skin pearly white from bad blood flow. It takes nearly two minutes of gentle coaxing and warm water before a pink sheen returns to the skin and Chuuya feels confident enough to rotate the ankle. Once, twice, and at the third time there’s an echoing crack.
Chuuya glances up, but Dazai’s expression remains hidden, yet the foot in his hands is pliant. He must have done right, he thinks with a small smile and repeats the procedure with the other appendage.
The one good thing about Dazai being a beanpole, he contemplates as he starts working up his way to Dazai’s knees, is that there’s not too much muscle to work with. With Chuuya, whenever he goes to a massage, they need nearly thirty minutes to sort out one of his legs, and that’s without foot or thigh involved. Still, he doesn’t force Dazai’s legs to stretch out straight - there’s still too much tension in his knees, but hopefully the hot bath will remove it.
Steam has begun to fill the bathroom and sweat forms on Chuuya’s back. Truth to be told, he doesn’t mind this. Dazai’s quiet, apart from the one or other appreciative noise, or the cracks from his body as stiff joints realign themselves. He’s a mess, Chuuya must admit as he carefully rubs the tension from the other’s bruised back, more so than usual.
“Cinnamon?” Dazai asks abruptly.
Chuuya’s brows furrow, then he catches the scent in the air. “Must be the bath foam,” he says. He’d simply picked what the hotel supplied and hadn’t noted any descriptions.
“They really like the season,” Dazai says, sounding amused. He slowly rotates his shoulders, and the movement is a far cry from what Chuuya knows he is capable off, but a lot better already.
He steps back. “Have you seen the room? There’s a tree in there.”
Dazai makes an affirmative noise, and Chuuya takes it as a sign Dazai will be fine to bathe on his own. He still moves like he was eighty, but the hot water will improve things. With that, Chuuya leaves the bathroom, and wanders back into the living room of their suite. The hotel staff truly outdid themselves. Not only are there holiday-themed decorations all over the room, but the tree is real and nicely decorated (kitschy, perhaps. but Chuuya can’t say he minds).
Lacking anything else to do, he plops down on one of the sitting cushions between couch table and tree. With the floor heating turned on, it’s comfortable, and he gets out his phone, begins scrolling through messages and news. Nothing much is happening, but quite a few people are on dates, and well -
There is a part in him that misses that. Misses that he’ll never have a chance at all the ordinary experiences of dating and falling in love and dealing with in-laws and the stuff that happens in the soap operas on tv. But he’s not unhappy. Life now is good, perhaps the best it can get for him. Even Dazai isn’t that bad (sometimes).
He sighs and pushes the melancholy thoughts aside. Opens a mindless game, and wastes time until he hears the bathroom open again.
Dazai steps out, skin pink and bare underneath a white hotel bathrobe. He moves easier, though the pains can’t have all gone yet. With a few steps, he joins Chuuya on the ground, and studies the Christmas tree while Chuuya eyes him in turn. It’s rare to see Dazai without bandages; it makes him look more human and less like Portmafia’s demon prodigy.
“It’s not going to be sturdy enough for hanging,” Chuuya says, because there is a gleam to Dazai’s eyes.
Dazai sighs. “A pity. But did you notice they put a mistletoe on the tree?”
“... that makes no sense,” Chuuya says, but he spots the green ornament and can’t help but grin. Then he notices Dazai’s eyes on him and his body grows hot. He can’t be thinking -
Chuuya gulps, and their eyes meet. There’s insecurity there, hesitation. Tonight, no one’s telling them to abide by foreign customs, nor is there an audience to please. But it’s a little less lonely together (has been, since last year), and something in Chuuya’s chest wants.
He’s so distracted by his spinning thoughts, the lips touching his take him by surprise. Chuuya straightens up, blinking, and Dazai gives him a tiny smile. “Merry Christmas?”
Chuuya kicks him. Gently.
He’s not admitting it felt good. And the fact that he ends up massaging the remaining knots out of Dazai’s back later that night has nothing to do with it, either.
(Maybe they’re both longing for something. Chuuya’s starting to recognize it; others have seen the emptiness in Dazai. But they’re Portmafia, they’re not supposed to yearn for warmth and closeness as these things can get you killed. So, they’re hiding, pushing away, but those snatches - neither can deny the spark in them, so they close their eyes and turn away).
22
Chuuya nearly forgets about Christmas that year. Between the guild, Dazai’s reappearance and the rats they’re too busy, and all he notices is changing decorations on the streets. Mori Cooperation does host a party, certainly, though Chuuya doesn’t go, instead he finds himself accompanying Mori to a meeting the Agency boss at a little downtown cafe. The location is Elise’s choice, though apparently the Agency’s master detective agrees, as he’s quite enthusiastic about trying the various cakes they serve.
Fukuzawa looks as if he’d rather were anywhere else, and Chuuya has taken to guarding the entrance to their separée. It’s better than being part of the conversation, or whatever type of communication happening here.
Of course, that means when Dazai arrives, he and Chuuya share the doorframe.
Elise’s eyes widen, and a smile appears on her face.
“Ah,” says Ranpo between a mouthful of sweet strawberry cake.
Mori smiles, and Fukuzawa’s face is cut from stone, but Chuuya doesn’t need to look up to know there’s a mistletoe above their heads. Honestly, if he didn’t know better, he’d suspect Elise having an ability to create mistletoes… but an ability can’t have an ability, right?
In any case, he and Dazai exchange a look that tries to be a glare but is far too exhausted and familiar for it. The stint in prison didn’t do Dazai much good, and Chuuya doubts he himself looks much better, what with the many sleepless nights behind him. Consequently, neither of them makes a serious attempt at fighting.
Dazai leans down, Chuuya tilts his head up, they press their lips together for a moment (and it’s warm and gentle and conjures up all those memories of things Chuuya ought not to want but can’t help longing for).
“Ah,” Ranpo says again, yet this time he looks contemplative.
23
The year flies past, and the Agency and Portmafia cooperate more often than they confront each other. It goes a long way to soothe old hurts and form new ties (though Chuuya is still skeptical about the weretiger and Akutagawa combination. They fight to much, and he doesn’t think Dazai and him fought so much. Though Kouyou claims they did…). In any case, somehow he and Dazai end up falling back together, and well.
By the time Christmas rolls around, they’ve got another joint mission. It goes well, leaves them with most the night ahead, and as they walk through the busy entertainment district filled with couples, their hands brush against another. Neither of them flinches away, yet neither of them pretends it is on purpose when their fingers interlink.
Chuuya face grows hot, he can’t help himself. It feels good, though it shouldn’t, because Dazai’s a heartless bastard (except he’s not), and everything in the past was never serious or honest anyway. This shouldn’t mean anything, but Chuuya’s heart is a foolish thing (has grown more so, when he’d expected to become jaded) and the warmth between them fills him with hope.
“There’s a hotel,” Dazai says, apropos of nothing. He’s not looking at Chuuya, but his cheeks appear pink. Chuuya follows his arm, spots a very pink sign in a side street. A love hotel, to be precise.
Chuuya swallows. “They’re probably busy tonight.” He has stopped walking.
“It’s still early,” Dazai returns. Most couples will be having dinner, or heading to the movies, or doing similar things together. Chuuya thinks about his apartment - beautiful, but there’s nobody waiting there.
“I guess we could check?” he says. (And making executive has not rendered him this nervous. But this time, there’s no pretext. Whatever excuse they may use - scratching an itch and the like - they both know there’s a past behind them, empty homes, and something between them that’s held strong through many years. Yet this is baring it; this is an admission. And Dazai’s just as unsure as him).
But they both take what courage they have (and for they may have ample in life-or-death fights, emotions are a different battlefield) and guide their steps toward the alley. Thankfully, the lobby is all automatized, and the cameras are easy to ignore.
“Christmas-themed room,” Dazai asks as he studies the available options, a wonderous half-smile on his face as if he himself can’t quite believe what’s happening. “For old times’ sake?”
Chuuya grins. “Sure.”
Later, after Chuuya has peeled away layers of bandages, catalogued the new and old scars, and Dazai has left his lips imprinted on Chuuya’s skin, they slip from the room as quietly as they arrived. It’s grown late, and the street has emptied, but some sort of magic lingers (or maybe it’s simple afterglow; Chuuya won’t complain).
“Should we celebrate together, next year?” Chuuya asks, and he’s half-serious about it.
Dazai smiles, looking as Chuuya feels, a little lost, but also content. “Maybe?”
24
Dazai asks for time off instead of simply skipping work. Chuuya tells everyone to only contact him in emergencies. A tree gets delivered to Chuuya’s apartment, as do baubles, mistletoe, and various other ornaments. Coming home the weeks leading up to Christmas is like stepping into another world. Chuuya isn’t entirely convinced he fits into a scene that could be straight out of a foreign holiday film (where families are intact, people understand love, and everyone gets a happy ending), but pretending is nice.
Chuuya prepares fancy dishes, takes the time to study foreign recipes, curses bad translations, and hunts down imported ingredients. For all that he tells himself it’s only him and Dazai, he’s having fun, and Kouyou does, in fact, tell him he looks happy.
(Chuuya checks in a mirror. He doesn’t think he looks any different).
But Dazai, he thinks, does.
On Christmas day, Chuuya returns from his morning workout to find Dazai already in his flat. The other has arranged cushions on the floor next to the tree, like the hotel setup all those years ago. He’s wearing a beige sweater and has borrowed a red decorative blanket Chuuya’s put on the sofa, and well. If Chuuya recalls the gloomy, cold teenager from back then, these two appear to be different persons.
Certainly, there’s still bandages, but fewer. And the spark in Dazai’s eyes as he turns to grin at Chuuya is something that had been near completely absent during his mafia days.
“Welcome back, Chuuya,” Dazai greets, waving. “I saw you bought presents.”
It had been a whim (a sentimental one, but Chuuya’d enjoyed the shopping. He also thinks at least Kouyou will appreciate her gift). Plus: “So did you.”
Dazai ducks his head, because Chuuya’s right and there are more wrapped parcels under the tree. They’re both terrible at this, Chuuya thinks and grins. Terrible, but trying, and even if they’re playing house, celebrating a foreign holiday, copying motions they’ve in films and advertisements - the sentiment underlying it all is real.
He crosses over, settles himself next to Dazai. With the lights off, only the electric candles from the tree plus the ambient light from outside paint the room in a soft glow. It makes the darkness in Dazai’s eyes look warm, and as the sweater covers his bandages, he looks nearly normal. Chuuya wonders about himself, hopes that tonight the dim lighting hides his own demons, makes him human.
“You remembered the mistletoe,” he realizes, spotting the tiny ornament clipped onto the tree - he’s not put it there himself, unlike the rest of the decorations (he did put up mistletoe in the bedroom, and hadn’t that given him red cheeks). Green against green is nearly invisible, but a nice ribbon and red berries make it stand out.
“How could I forget,” Dazai returns cheerfully. On a whim, Chuuya reaches out, plucks the ornament from the tree and clips it onto the red blanket Dazai’s wearing.
“Now you have to kiss me,” Dazai points out, lightly.
Chuuya obliges with a smile. Perhaps it’s wrong - there’s ghosts buried in their past, old hurts that can break open anytime, a holiday they only accidentally relate to, and the knowledge that neither of them will ever attain that perfectly ordinary happiness. But as their lips touch, all that fades away. The yearning in Chuuya’s chest quietens, the darkness in Dazai’s heart recedes, and it’s together that they can touch upon something warm and whole and the world feels a little less cold.
Fin