Chapter Text
The first time it happened, naturally, was after a fight. Chuuya couldn’t even remember what it was exactly that started the fight, only that Dazai said something to piss him off and it had escalated from there.
Somehow, they ended up here—with Dazai saying, “I can kiss better than you.”
And Chuuya, well, he said the first and only thing that popped into his head, fully aware of how horrible an idea it was.
“Prove it.”
Dazai smirked, like Chuuya had said exactly what Dazai wanted to hear, and if Chuuya was falling into a trap, into one of Dazai’s twisted games, he’d just have to make sure he won.
Dazai made a face of disgust, sticking out his tongue. “Are you asking me to kiss you, Chuuya?” Despite Dazai’s outward appearance, he could see the sparkle in his eye, the way he was trying to taunt Chuuya to his limit.
Too bad for Dazai, Chuuya was made limitless.
“I’m asking you to die in a hole,” Chuuya said. “Since no girls will ever want to kiss you, because you’re gross, and bad at it.”
“You’re bad at it,” Dazai countered, and his expression grew determined. “I bet you’ve never even kissed anyone before.”
“So what?” Chuuya said, not denying it. “I’m still better than you. Besides, I doubt anyone’s ever been dumb enough to kiss you, either.”
Dazai’s lip pulled up ever so slightly, his eyebrows raised in a challenge. “Except you.”
“I haven’t kissed you yet,” Chuuya reminded, though he had every intention of doing so. This was dangerous, as most things involving Dazai were. He refused to back down.
“Because you know I’ll be better than you,” Dazai incited, and that was all Chuuya needed to grab Dazai by the hem of his stupid shirt and smash, quite literally, their lips together.
He was sixteen, and he’d never kissed anyone, and Dazai was annoying.
The kiss lasted all of ten seconds, and when their lips separated, Dazai made a face that looked annoyingly cute for how ugly it was. “That was awful.”
Yeah, Chuuya thought, that was pretty awful. He didn’t give Dazai a warning before he leaned in again, no smashing, just the soft press of his lips against lips. He moved his arms from where they rested awkwardly at his side and wrapped them around Dazai, because that felt right, despite the reach.
He leaned into the kiss, and could not have been prepared for the way Dazai’s arms wrapped around his back, matching Chuuya’s kiss. No, not matching, he realized—taking control. Stupid Dazai, always trying to be the one in charge.
Chuuya wouldn’t let him have it, not so easily. If Dazai wanted to lead, he’d have to work for it, and apparently, that wasn’t a problem, because Dazai deepened the kiss, leaned in, and left a feeling in the bottom Chuuya’s stomach that he couldn’t escape.
He felt the urge to pull away, but pulling away meant losing, and he wasn’t about to let Dazai win. Not in this, and not in anything else. So instead, going against every nerve in his body, he let his tongue slide across the bottom of Dazai’s lip.
Dazai let out a small yelp that sent Chuuya into a fit of laughter before he could help it. “Stop laughing, shorty,” Dazai demanded, defensive. “I was just surprised at how bad your kissing is,” he finished, with only half the normal heat. When Chuuya looked up, catching his breath, he could tell that Dazai was flustered, even though he was trying to hide it.
“You liked it,” Chuuya accused, trying to get a reaction out of Dazai.
“You liked it more,” came Dazai’s irritated response, and Chuuya was caught on the part where Dazai didn’t deny it.
“So you did like it!” Chuuya exclaimed, feeling something like joy bubbling in his chest. He blamed it on the fact that he was beating Dazai at his own game; he had no reason to believe it was anything other than that.
Dazai crossed his arms over his chest. “Your tongue was gross.”
“You’re gross,” Chuuya retorted, real mature.
“If that’s the best you could come up with you’re stupider than I thought.” Dazai said as he uncrossed his arms with a deep scowl. “You suck at using your tongue,” he added, almost as an afterthought.
“You freaked out before I even got a chance!” Chuuya shot back, taking a firm step forward, posture defensive.
Dazai huffed, rolling his eyes. “I didn’t freak out. Here,” he said, closing the small gap between them. “I can show you how it’s done.”
“No,” Chuuya fought back, “I can sh—” but before he had a chance to finish that statement, Dazai was kissing him again, wasting no time before he slid his tongue into Chuuya’s mouth. It was a strange feeling, and not that he would ever admit it to Dazai, but he understood where the yelp came from then, having to hold back one of his own.
Chuuya sank into the feeling, Dazai taking control all too quickly. He needed to be taller right now. but since thirty second growth spurts weren’t a thing, he pushed him back, Dazai’s eyes opening at the motion.
He pulled away, “What are you doing, weirdo?” Dazai asked, only a little out of breath. Chuuya kept pushing, until his goal was accomplished and they were collapsing onto the small couch, side by side.
“Evening the playing field,” Chuuya said, and Dazai smirked.
“You need to drink more milk, Chuuya.”
Chuuya glared. “Shut up, you asshole.”
Dazai leaned in. “Gladly,” he whispered, the kiss gentle and slow at first, before he deepened it, once again tangling their tongues together.
Chuuya much preferred this angle, preferred being able to rest his hand on Dazai’s cheek, to match his movements without strain.
There was a voice in the back of his mind reminding him that they were just trying to prove who the better kisser was, they didn’t need a full on makeout session to decide that, but Chuuya reasoned with the voice that if he pulled away first, Dazai would win.
And Dazai couldn’t win. Chuuya would kiss him all day if he had to, just to prove he could.
Dazai reached for the hem of Chuuya’s collared shirt, using it to pull him in, as close as they could be at the angle they were sitting. He didn’t move his hand like Chuuya thought he would—Dazai kept it there, clutching at the material, keeping Chuuya close.
Chuuya found he really didn’t mind, enjoyed it even. And then Dazai, that monster, bit down on Chuuya’s bottom lip and he had to fight back the urge to audibly gasp.
But not all fights end in a success, and the gasp still managed to leave Chuuya’s mouth, to his great displeasure. He could feel the grin on Dazai’s face, and saw it once he pulled away.
“So that’s what you like then, huh?” Dazai mocked, looking quite pleased with himself.
“You bit my lip, ” Chuuya reasoned, eyes large for effect.
“I’d do it again, but I’m bored, so maybe next time,” Dazai said, finally letting go of Chuuya’s shirt, and there was no way in hell he missed the pressure on his chest, not when it was Dazai’s stupid hand.
“You wish,” Chuuya shot back, but it came out weaker than he wanted.
The next time it happened, they were seventeen. They spent a year not talking about the first kiss, pretending it never happened. That was fine with Chuuya; he’d scrub it from his memory if he could.
It happened after a mission; they came back exhausted, covered in blood and sweat and the stench of an almost failure turned victory, because it was only ever a win when they fought together, even if some battles were harder than others.
Chuuya didn’t remember making the trip back to Port Mafia’s base, could only remember his eyes fluttering slowly open when they made it through the doors, only to shut again a minute later, as Dazai said, “Just rest, Chuuya,” in a voice entirely too kind to belong to Dazai.
Chuuya wondered briefly if he was already dreaming, fabricating a softness to Dazai that only his uncensored self conscious could create. Either way, everything faded to black shortly after that, and there were no thoughts of Dazai, no thoughts of corruption, no thoughts of anything.
When he drifted back to the waking world an unknown amount of time later, he was in a bed, his bed, tucked under far too many covers for his liking. He stirred, moving the blankets as he went, grabbing for his phone, wherever it might be. He doesn’t find his phone—instead, he found Dazai—passed out in a chair in the corner of his room.
He definitely never had a chair in his room before, which meant that Dazai had dragged it in here himself. He didn’t know what to do with the weird feeling that sent through him, so he blamed it on the headache coursing through his head, on the chills running through his body, because now that his blankets were gone he was suddenly quite cold.
He pulled two back to him, grabbed a pillow from above, and chucked it at Dazai as hard as he could. (Only after he had memorized the lines of Dazai’s face when he was peacefully asleep, and not trying to start a fight.)
Dazai let out a strangled yelp, and it wasn’t cute—it wasn’t. Nothing about Dazai was cute.
“Why are you in my room?” Chuuya asked, trying to sound more annoyed than curious.
Dazai scowled. “That’s not a nice way to treat your nurse, Chuuya.”
“Nurse,” Chuuya echoed, letting out a humorless laugh.
He expected Dazai to throw him an insult, but instead his eyes lowered and he picked himself up from the chair, taking the tossed pillow with him, and sitting at the edge of Chuuya’s bed. “You looked pretty bad when we got back,” Dazai said, and Chuuya chose to ignore the way his eyes seemed to sparkle with concern. Who was this Dazai in front of him?
“You look pretty bad now,” Chuuya said, because he didn’t want to think about Dazai’s stupid eyes, and honestly, now that he was closer, the bandaged boy did look more beaten up than usual.
“Yeah,” Dazai chuckled. “I need a shower.”
Chuuya narrowed his eyes, suspicious of the Dazai he was seeing. “Why didn’t you just take one when we got back?” He asked. “It’s been hours, right?”
“Four hours, yeah,” Dazai said. “I’m surprised you’re even awake.”
If he was being honest, he was surprised too. He felt exhaustion gnawing at him, trying to pull him back to unconscious bliss. It took all of his energy and then some to sit upright and have this conversation with Dazai.
“Then take a shower, stupid,” Chuuya huffed, forcing his eyes to stay open. “You smell bad.”
“Hmm,” Dazai hummed, shaking his head. “Can’t leave until I know that fever isn’t going to kill you.”
Chuuya raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you want me dead?”
Dazai’s lip twitched up. “Of course I do!” He replied, all too cheery, back to his normal asshole self for the moment, to Chuuya’s relief. He didn’t know how to tread water with the worried Dazai, the one that might look like he cared. “But I think Kouyou would kill me if I let you die. After all, she asked me to look after you until your fever passed!”
The wheels turned in Chuuya’s head, everything clicking into place. Ah, he thought; so that’s why Dazai was really here—to avoid a lecture. Chuuya wasn’t sure if he was irritated or relieved or both. He blamed it on the fever, on the chills making it difficult for him to form coherent thoughts.
“I’m not going to die,” Chuuya said, but the words felt far away, his head cloudy. He wanted to tell Dazai to get the hell out of his room, to stop being a creeper who watches him sleep, but he could feel the last of his energy leaving him, could feel himself falling back down against his pillows.
He heard a laugh, soft and gentle, but he thought he must have been imagining it. He felt the bed shift next to him, felt lips press against his forehead, a deep chill running through him. He was certain he was imagining it, as he drifted off to sleep.
He dreamed of Dazai. He dreamed of being sixteen and pressing a hand to Dazai’s cheek, of kissing him for the first and only time.
They were at the Port Mafia base, sitting on the same couch they’d been on last year, and then suddenly they weren’t. Suddenly they were in the sky, in the clouds, and Chuuya couldn’t see Dazai but he could feel him, could feel his hands grabbing onto his, tight enough to hurt.
“Don’t let go,” Dazai said.
“I won’t,” Chuuya said, but no words came out.
They started falling, and Chuuya tightened his grip, but it didn’t matter, because suddenly there was no Dazai. It was just Chuuya, falling and falling and—
He was on the ground. He looked around, and there were bodies everywhere, blood and destruction each way he turned. He spun in circles, panicked, knowing deep down that this was his fault, that whatever happened, he was the reason.
Dazai started laughing. Chuuya turned, but no one was there. Dazai’s laughter surrounded him, suffocated him, entrapped him. He put his hands to his ears, but it didn’t matter, the laughter somehow only got louder. He fell to his knees, helpless.
“Stop!” He screamed, but it was no use. There were no words, just Dazai’s laugh, like a blade.
He looked at his skin and realized he was bleeding, realized he had bruises covering every inch that he could see.
“Look at what you did,” Dazai said, the laughter finally stopping. His words were colder than any temperature ever could be, freezing him to the core.
“I didn’t do this!” He yelled, feeling something wet run down his cheek.
Dazai didn’t respond. He was gone—Chuuya didn’t know how he knew, but he did. He was alone, crouched on the floor, head in his hands. “I didn’t do this,” he whispered, more tears falling.
“Didn’t you, though? ” A voice whispered. His voice, a breeze in his ear.
When he woke, it was like the air was being forced back into his lungs. His heart was beating rapidly, his breaths uneven, and—there was a hand on his arm.
When he looked down, he half expected the bruises to still be there, the way they had been in the dream. His arm certainly wasn’t free of injury, but it wasn’t the same dark brown, almost black, that it had been just moments ago.
He let out a sigh so big that his whole body shook.
“What were you dreaming about?” Dazai asked, and Chuuya realized the hand holding his arm belonged to him. Suddenly, his skin felt much hotter than it had mere seconds ago.
For a moment, Chuuya only stared at Dazai, trying to make him disappear. He remembered dream Dazai telling him not to let go but letting go himself, laughing at him. He shivered, trying to shake the memory—no, the dream , from his mind.
He took a breath, and used every bit of energy he had to scowl. “How ugly you are.”
Dazai’s response was a stare so deep Chuuya felt he was trying to peer into his soul, but then Dazai was laughing, running his hand down his arm, to his fingers.
“You had me worried,” Dazai said, leaving burns on Chuuya’s skin as he traveled to his fingers, wrapping them in his own.
His hand caught flame, but if Dazai noticed, he didn’t say anything. “Worried,” Chuuya mocked, disbelieving. Since when had Dazai ever worried about him, unless for the sake of a mission?
He pulled his fingers from Dazai’s grip, watched as Dazai’s face remained unchanged, like it was trained not to show the slightest bit of emotion. “Am I not allowed to be worried?” Dazai asked, with the same hollowness that his expression held.
“What’s your angle here, Dazai?” Chuuya asked, his head throbbing, a combination of Dazai and the fever.
Dazai laughed, but there was a self deprecating hint to it, something Chuuya only caught because he spent hours studying Dazai’s cues, the different twists and turns of his face, the levels of his voice.
“Are you feeling better, Chuuya?” Dazai asked, ignoring the question completely. “You look better.”
“I’d feel better if you were gone,” Chuuya said, turning his words into a weapon, like Dazai seemed to be so good at.
“Ah.” Dazai nodded, contemplative. “I’ll leave you alone, then.” He stood up, tossing something onto the bed next to Chuuya. “If you need anything, just call me.” He paused before adding, “Don’t worry. I didn’t look through your texts. I already know you lead a boring life.”
There he was, back to being Dazai, only this time, it wasn’t relief that flooded through him. Instead, a weight settled around his chest, heavy and uncomfortable.
He made a decision, then, that he would later blame on his fever, as it was currently the culprit for all his hasty decisions. He grabbed Dazai’s hand and pulled him back onto the bed, and before Dazai could ruin it by opening his mouth, Chuuya kissed him, soft and maybe, maybe, a little desperate.
He didn’t care that he was sick. He didn’t care that they both smelled like blood and sweat. Apparently, neither did Dazai, because he kissed back, grabbing Chuuya’s hand for a second time.
This time, Chuuya didn’t pull away. He let Dazai wrap their fingers together, let him squeeze—welcomed the heat that made him feel light headed.
When they parted, Dazai dropped his forehead against Chuuya’s, and that action alone said more than either of them had in the last twelve hours. Chuuya leaned into it, and when Dazai placed a hand on his cheek—he leaned in to that, too.
“You almost died,” Dazai whispered, so quiet that Chuuya had to strain to hear him.
He didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything, just squeezed Dazai’s fingers harder, as if to say, I’m alive.
I’m alive, and I’m not going anywhere.
He thought of dream Dazai, letting him fall alone. This Dazai stayed, eyes closed, breathing a little too close for comfort.
A few days later, Dazai fell sick with a fever.
The third time it happened was six months later, on Chuuya’s birthday.
Chuuya had never been one for celebrating, never really had anyone to celebrate with. He didn’t care; it was just another day. Birthdays didn’t mean much in his line of work, besides Mori and Kouyou acknowledging that a year had passed, and really, that was enough. Sometimes Dazai would throw in a comment about how he had one year less to get taller. Last year Dazai got him a jug of milk, which Chuuya rightfully threw at him. It’d been a good birthday, after all, seeing Dazai’s horrified reaction.
This year, however, Dazai had other plans. Chuuya tried to protest, tried to say he didn’t want to do anything, but there was hope churning in the shadows of his mind—hope that Dazai wouldn’t listen, that he’d be forced to go along with whatever Dazai had planned.
And of course, Dazai never listened, which is how they ended up sitting in the corner of a small bakery on the afternoon of his 18th birthday. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected when Dazai dragged him from Port Mafia and out into the city, but it certainly wasn’t this.
“It’s not a birthday without cake!” Dazai had exclaimed when they reached the shop. In his eighteen years of life, Chuuya had never eaten cake on his birthday.
“Don’t look so constipated, Chuuya,” Dazai told him now, picking up the fork on Chuuya’s plate and stealing a bite of cake, because of course he hadn’t gotten one of his own.
Somehow, Dazai insulting him brought him back to reality. “Aren’t you supposed to be nice to me on my birthday or something?” Chuuya asked, narrowing his eyes.
“Hmmm,” Dazai hummed, looking off as if deep in thought. When he looked back a moment later, he let a cheery smile take over his face. “You’re right! That’ll be my gift to you.” Dazai paused, smile growing playful. “It’ll be difficult, but for you—”
Chuuya kicked him under the table.
“Ow!”
“You deserved it,” Chuuya said, taking his fork back. “Thief.”
Dazai grinned at him. “You weren’t going to finish it all, were you?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Chuuya grumbled between bites. “Get your own if you want some.”
“I’d rather share with you,” came Dazai’s automatic response, smooth and calculated.
Chuuya rolled his eyes, huffed out an annoyed breath that did a horrible job of holding any actual annoyance. “If you really wanted to get me a present,” he said, “you could always try a suicide method that actually worked.”
Dazai gasped mockingly. “Chuuya, are you telling me to kill myself?”
“It’d be as much a gift to you as it would be to me,” Chuuya told him, and Dazai laughed, his eyes sparkling, lip twitching up.
“I already got you something,” Dazai said, and Chuuya’s fork paused halfway to his mouth. “Maybe suicide will be my gift to you next year.”
“You got me something?” He asked, unable to hide his shock.
Dazai chuckled. “Try not to look so surprised.”
Chuuya glared. “Knowing you, it’s another jug of milk. Don’t think I won’t spill it all over you again.”
Dazai shuddered dramatically at the memory. “Chuuya was so mean that day, and after I went through all that trouble to get you a gift…”
Chuuya stabbed Dazai’s hand with his fork, only somewhat gentle. “You’re a fucking asshole, Dazai.”
Dazai drew his hand back, but he looked quite pleased with himself. “If you’re going to be so violent, at least let me have another bite of cake.”
Against all reason, Chuuya relented, handing over his fork without a word. Dazai took it with a smile, humming happily.
“So where’s my gift then, huh?” He asked, trying to sound uninterested.
“Patience, shorty,” Dazai droned, slipping a piece of cake between his lips.
“Yeah, it’s my birthday, so shorty’s off limits,” Chuuya snapped, stealing back his fork. There were only a few bites of the cake left, and he wasn’t really hungry, but he was going to eat them, because fuck Dazai.
“Hmm, okay, Chuuya .” Dazai smiled. “Since you asked nicely.”
Chuuya hurried with the last few bites, not at all because he wanted to speed up the process of getting out of this bakery and to wherever his supposed gift was, since it definitely wasn’t here; Chuuya would have seen it already.
“Eager to get out of here?” Dazai asked with a knowing smirk.
“Eager to end this day and get rid of you,” Chuuya retorted, but all it did was make Dazai’s smirk grow. Stupid motherfucker.
“If you insist!” Dazai chirped, standing from his chair and waiting for Chuuya to follow suit.
With a hefty sigh, Chuuya picked himself up, as if the simple action was exhausting. He pointed a figure at Dazai’s chest, just barely touching. “This better be worth my time.”
Dazai bit back a grin. “Are you saying I’m not usually worth your time, Chuuya?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
When they made it back to the Port Mafia base, Dazai led Chuuya to his room, and he couldn’t help but feel he was being led into a trap. He could see it now: Nakahara Chuuya, dead at eighteen by the hands of Port Mafia executive Dazai Osamu. Still, he followed; call it curiosity—nothing more.
They disappeared into the room, Dazai closing the door behind them. “Is this the part where you kill me?” Chuuya asked, making himself at home on the bed, legs crossed on the comforter. If he was about to die, he might as well be comfortable.
“Obviously,” Dazai said, bending down to the floor to get something from under the bed. Chuuya watched as he pulled out a small—but not too small—wrapped gift. He handed it to Chuuya once he was standing again, sitting on the bed in a position that mirrored Chuuya’s.
“Happy birthday,” he said, his expression kinder, no malice or sarcasm in sight. It made Chuuya’s stomach stir as he took the present and moved it around in his hands.
A moment passed, and Dazai asked, “Are you going to open it or just play with it?”
Chuuya elbowed him. “I’m making sure it’s not set to explode.”
“Damn.” Dazai laughed. “My plan has been ruined.”
Chuuya rolled his eyes before cautiously removing the wrapping paper, not a single clue as to what it could be. With the paper set aside on the bed, he was left with a box. He carefully lifted the lid, half expecting something to jump out. Inside, there was a blue baseball cap.
“I saw it one day and it made me think of you,” Dazai said. “I don’t know why, but I figured why not? It’s not much better than a jug of milk, but hey, it beats the ugly hat you’re wearing now.”
Chuuya was grateful for the insult, because there was something about it made me think of you that was eating at his insides, making it hard to breathe.
“You’re really bad at being nice,” Chuuya accused, flicking Dazai’s knee. He took the hat from the box, took off the one he was wearing, and replaced it with the blue baseball cap.
“How does it look?” He dared to ask.
Dazai smiled, one of those genuine, non-scheming smiles that always tugged at Chuuya’s heart strings a little too hard. “It looks great,” he said, nothing but sincere.
“You finally got the hang of being nice, huh?”
Dazai laughed, and then—“That’s not the only gift,” he added.
Chuuya screwed up his eyes. “You got me something else?”
“Not exactly,” Dazai said, all sorts of mysterious.
“Stop playing games, Dazai,” Chuuya warned.
Dazai bit back the beginnings of a smile. “Close your eyes.”
“What?” Chuuya asked, surprised. “No way in hell.”
“ Chuuya,” Dazai all but purred. “Just close your eyes.”
Every muscle in his body screamed at him that this was a bad idea, but he still found his eyes falling shut. Maybe it was the way his name on Dazai’s lips made his ears ring.
He felt Dazai’s breath on his lips before he felt Dazai’s actual lips, almost as if he was giving Chuuya a chance to pull away. He didn’t—couldn’t, even if he wanted to.
When he stayed put, Dazai’s lips found his, and Chuuya moved without thinking, propping himself up on his knees and pulling Dazai closer. With their chests pressed together and their positions identical, Chuuya wrapped his arms around Dazai, deepening the kiss. Dazai rested one hand on his waist and placed the other across his back.
When their lips parted, breathless, Dazai grinned stupidly, and Chuuya braced for whatever idiot crap he was about to say.
“You’ve gotten so much better at this, Chuuya,” Dazai told him, pressing a light kiss to his lips before adding, “Have you been kissing other people?”
Chuuya moved his hands from around Dazai’s neck to place them firmly on his chest, palms flat. “Dazai,” he breathed, pushing him down against the bed. “Shut. The. Hell. Up.”
Dazai obliged, for once in his goddamn miserable life, and Chuuya leaned down to kiss him again, still wearing the baseball cap.
The fourth and final time that it happened while they were both under Port Mafia was in the middle of the night.
Chuuya awoke to the sound of the door opening, and he instinctively grabbed for his knife, before his eyes adjusted to the dark and he saw Dazai’s figure slumped near the door.
Chuuya swallowed, his heart rate picking up. “Dazai?” He asked, quiet. Unsure. This was new territory for them.
The sound of his voice seemed to snap Dazai into awareness, as his head went up, and he stumbled towards the bed. Chuuya was not prepared for the way he crashed on top of him, like his feet were giving out underneath.
Chuuya felt something close to fear coarse through him—something very much like worry. “Dazai, what’s wrong?” He asked, grabbing Dazai’s head and lifting it towards him.
“I want to sleep with you tonight,” Dazai said, in the most unlike Dazai voice he’d ever heard. He sounded like a ghost—looked like one, too.
“Okay,” Chuuya agreed easily, because there was no way he’d turn him away—not like this. He struggled to take off Dazai’s jacket and realized there was blood on his clothes. “Dazai,” he whispered, because speaking at a normal volume didn’t feel right. “Are you hurt?”
He almost missed the silent shake of Dazai’s head.
Chuuya sighed to himself, all kinds of confused. This was not a version of Dazai he ever thought he’d see, and it was scary to admit the way Dazai’s sadness broke his own heart, too.
“Can you move a little?” Chuuya asked softly, pulling at his jacket. Dazai followed his request, allowing Chuuya to get him out of the heavy coat. “I’m going to take the rest of your clothes off, too, okay?”
Dazai didn’t say anything, which Chuuya took as permission. He worked Dazai out of the remainder of his blood stained clothes, leaving only his boxers.
“I’ll be right back,” he whispered, shifting from his bed and to the dresser, grabbing a plain black t-shirt for Dazai to wear.
When he slipped back into the bed, Dazai had fallen into the middle, holding tightly to Chuuya’s blankets. He spared a moment to look at Dazai like this, an unusual, terrifying sight. He wanted to know what the hell had happened to turn him into pieces in Chuuya’s bed.
“Put this on,” he said finally, placing the shirt in Dazai’s hands. Dazai, again, followed his request—and then he sunk into Chuuya in a way they’d never before been close.
Chuuya held onto him, tight and reassuring, running a hand through his hair in hopes that maybe, somehow, it would lessen whatever pain it was that Dazai was feeling.
He let Dazai cling to him, and when Dazai broke out into quiet sobs, he didn’t say anything, just continued to stroke his hair, wishing there was something he could do— anything he could do, to take his pain away.
Eventually, the tears stopped, and Chuuya thought that maybe Dazai had fallen asleep, but then he felt wet lips against his, and Chuuya’s heart sprung forward.
Dazai kissed him like the world was ending, both gentle and rough, but above all else—full of need.
When Dazai finally pulled away, Chuuya cupped his cheek in one hand, wiping away stray tears with the other.
“I’m sorry,” Dazai whispered, sounding like a broken man.
Chuuya’s eyes widened, and then he shook his head. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”
But it did no good, because the sorrowed look in his eyes only grew deeper before he dropped his head back to Chuuya’s chest, falling asleep like that, their arms wrapped tightly around each other.
Chuuya had never held anyone like this before, never even thought about holding anyone like this. But with Dazai, it felt like something he could do again and again.
It was a difficult idea to come to terms with, but they’d have the morning to figure it all out. Because whatever this was, there was no ignoring it. There was no making it go away.
When Chuuya woke to an empty bed, for the shortest of seconds, he forgot about Dazai falling asleep in his arms. And then it all came rushing back to him and his heart swelled, worried and confused all the same. He threw his blankets to the side, got dressed in an instant, and went to track Dazai down.
It took him ten minutes to find out that Dazai was gone.
Chuuya didn’t believe it, not when he saw Dazai’s cleared out room and not when he heard the words from Mori himself. It wasn’t possible. Dazai wasn’t gone—he couldn’t be.
He wouldn’t leave. But then again—wouldn’t he? This was Dazai he was thinking about, not the shattered mess of a boy he’d held last night.
And Dazai didn’t care who he left behind, or who he hurt in the process.
Chuuya remembered his dream, then—from when he was seventeen and messed up from corruption. He remembered the Dazai in his dream holding onto him, asking him not to let go, and then being the one to do exactly that.
He remembered Dazai’s words last night.
I’m sorry.
Dazai hadn’t been apologizing for waking him, or for crying in his arms. He’d been apologizing for this, for leaving , which meant that while Dazai clung to Chuuya with everything he had—he was doing so knowing it would be the last time.
It meant that Dazai’s kiss hadn’t been anything other than a goodbye.
Chuuya was angry, suddenly. He had so much rage boiling inside him that he wasn’t sure he could contain it. He kicked the chair next to him and screamed, not caring who heard.
He wanted to find Dazai and kill him.
He wanted to find Dazai and hold him.
He wanted to collapse in bed and let this day run its course without him.
He wanted to go back to last night, to beg Dazai to stay.
He wanted to never see Dazai’s stupid, traitorous face again.
He wanted so much that it hurt, and while he’d been there last night to pick up Dazai’s shattered pieces, there was no one here now to pick up Chuuya’s.