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Chuuya’s first impressions, he had realized, were often absolutely right. He would be talking to someone and a chill would run up his spine, and like that, the person is filed away as a creep. His intuitions always end up being right, even if he doesn’t really talk to the person after that, so he can’t really check, but no one is there to tell him that’s a stupid reasoning, and he can then proudly affirm that he has a really good sixth sense. When he was for the first time properly introduced to Dazai Osamu (not the time he beat the absolute shit out of him), every instinct he had was yelling at him to flee the room, and really he should have. When he tells this to Dazai, half asleep and trying to count his eyelashes, his eye shining weirdly in the moonlight, Dazai only laughs, and it sounds forced, like all his laughs, but he says after “Chuuya doesn’t really mean that, does he ?”, and he looks briefly like a child asking if his mom likes that ugly drawing, so Chuuya just kisses him, trying to wash off the bitter taste the look on his eyes leaves in his mouth.
There’s a sort of moment, in the middle of the night, where they’re both out of time, like the bed they’re on isn’t part of the rest of the world anymore, as if the blood red sheets are made of quantum magic. There, in the soft light of the moon and the street lights, they exchange whispers, secrets, promises. They never mean anything, and they never talk about it after. They belong to the night, and to that special time, the witching hour. It’s said to be an hour where supernatural events happen, and between them, honesty can be considered as one. Chuuya isn’t sure of when that became a thing, and he can say that it’s the post-orgasm lucidity, or the tiredness of the day that unties their tongues, but magic is always a nicer explanation. He likes these moments, where everything feels so calm and simple. Their relationship, if you can even call it that, is always a fight for power and dominance. Sex is no better, and allowing themselves to just stop and exist besides each other, feels almost like they are normal.
They are not dating, of course. They aren’t even exclusive, and even if they wanted to, neither of them is brave enough to say it. The word “lovers” doesn’t even fit, not really. They aren’t making love to one another, because that’s just not how either of them functions. “Does it bother you ?” Dazai had asked, one particularly dark night. Chuuya wanted to say no, and it wasn’t really lying, because that was how things were, and he was fine with it, but he couldn’t deny to himself how everything felt slightly off when it wasn’t with Dazai, like changing suddenly the kind of laundry you buy and all your clothes smell different. “Not really,” he had said, staring at a stain on the ceiling, barely visible in the dark, and Dazai hummed, the sound vibrating on his throat, and Chuuya felt like he understood.
One time, after a mission that almost turned into a disaster, their blood stained clothes carelessly thrown on the expensive carpet, Chuuya asked if Dazai ever felt like he wanted to leave the mafia. “ I think that would be too hard. It’s just not worth the trouble to try.” Chuuya turned to look at Dazai, who was looking up at the ceiling, his expression relaxed, and without all his snarky smiles and witty comments, his age really transpired on his face. It was easy to forget, when he wore that stupid coat that made his shoulders look broader, baby fat still clinging to his cheeks. It was easy to forget that he was still young, and already resigned. He touched a small pimple near his nose, feeling Dazai’s breath on the palm of his hand. “It’s not that bad”, he said later, when he was almost sure that Dazai was asleep.
“Why do you call me Chuuya ?”, he had asked to Dazai’s face below him, stuck between his forearms, red curls spilling on the brunette’s neck, Chuuya studying the marks on his jawline, easily visible even in the pale light. Dazai’s visible eye glowed with mirth. “Have you ever heard someone call a dog by his last name ?” Chuuya huffed a laugh, letting himself fall on Dazai. “Osamu”, he muttered to his collarbone, testing how the name felt against his tongue. A beat of silence passed. “I don’t like it”, they both declared at the same time, Chuuya tracing patterns on Dazai’s shoulder. “I like your hair longer”, he added, admiring how the locks reflected the light. Chuuya cut his hair the next day.
A night, the last night, Chuuya realizes later, Dazai makes the most surprising revelation. “I enjoy this”, he says, nose pressed against Chuuya’s throat, his nails lightly grazing along his bicep. His hair tickles and smells of mango shampoo. Chuuya is suddenly hungry. “Me too”, he almost forgets to answer, and he means it. Dazai kisses him, long and and gentle, and it feels like goodbye. He bores his eye into blue skies and kisses him again. It’s “we will meet again” this time, and Chuuya thinks he can taste the bitterness of tears on his lips.
One night, he drinks more wine that he can pass off as simply appreciating taste like a connaisseur, and he is in a weird state between awake and asleep, eyes fighting against sirupy drowsiness, his fingers feeling the space occupied beside him what seems like years ago. He can almost feel the warmth of a body, the unmistakable smell of gunpowder and cologne, not the cheapest kind, but definitely not like the nice one on Chuuya's bathroom shelf. "I miss you", he admits to the empty room, his hands gripping the pillow he's holding. In the deafening silence, his breath seems too loud. Chuuya breathes out shakily. No one answers. In the distance, a car backfires loudly. The pillow rips.