Work Text:
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To the me before him,
Whatever you do, you should never fall in love. For the sake of the tomorrow that should never be.
Sincerely,
From the me without him
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Chuuya’s still rubbing off the shade of soot that’s stubbornly clinging to the tips of his gloves when he walks into the office. One that Dazai has commandeered away from someone who probably needs it more than two powerhouse teenagers who can, and have had, hold meetings in rooftops of abandoned buildings instead. There’s a smell of exhaust and burnt rubber on his clothes, making his nose wrinkle, but he doesn’t swing by his allocated dorm room inside the headquarters to grab a quick shower and a change of clothes.
“You’re late,” Dazai complains as soon as Chuuya’s heel sets foot on the plush, dark red carpet lining the office floor.
It’s a good carpet, even if it a bit too dull. Chuuya thinks that it just makes clean-up of blood splatters even more difficult, but perhaps that is a good incentive for people to control their tempers and follow mission protocols. After all, in Article 17, it states that: there are underground torture chambers built under the headquarters for a reason.
“I’m right on time,” Chuuya corrects his partner, tossing his cellphone that’s been tampered yet again towards the man’s pouting face. “You can’t fool me even if you change my phone’s clock.”
“Really?” Dazai is draped over a long couch’s cushions like a discarded shawl, limbs askew but his suit somehow manages to look razor-sharp still. It’s a mystery that Chuuya’s never been able to solve, with the months that they’ve known each other. Dazai places Chuuya’s cellphone over his eyes, as though to use it as a visor, as he raises an eyebrow at Chuuya’s approach. “Can you tell the time by the buildings’ shadows or something?”
Chuuya rolls his eyes as he stands beside the couch, relishing the opportunity to look down on the mackerel flopping about. “As a matter of fact, I can.”
Nothing as sophisticated as a sundial. Chuuya likes jobs that take him out of the headquarters’ glass-window confines. Chuuya also likes being aware of his surroundings. Things such as the shadows of the buildings, the sizzle of the pavements under the sun, the salty tang in the breeze drifting over from Yokohama Bay… The time it takes for his stomach to feel half-empty, for the sweat to build up at the back of his nape, for the strands of his hair to dry… All those help Chuuya form a sense of time that can’t be fooled by Dazai mucking around with his phone’s clock.
It also helps that he enjoys seeing the look of frustrated consternation that layer over Dazai’s face whenever he manages to one-up him and thwart his plans, even by just a little bit.
“You’re such a primitive person,” Dazai mutters sullenly, edging closer to the inner side of the couch, leaving behind a tiny space that would be difficult, but not impossible, to squeeze in.
Despite the other’s words and expression, Chuuya feels his stomach flutter at being called a ‘person’. Chuuya’s been called many things—an experiment, a god, a monster, a leader, a soldier, a tool, a weapon—but Dazai’s insults are the kindest of them all. The most annoying ones too, but the sheer acceptance of him as a human being is enough for Chuuya to ignore the annoyances, for just a short while.
So he squeezes in, dirty clothes and all, beside Dazai.
“This is such a small couch,” Chuuya notes as nearly half of his frame is in danger of falling off. He’s a scant distance away from being nose-to-nose with Dazai and he can smell the lingering taste of coffee and the sugary softness of marshmallows from the other’s skin. “Did you eat marshmallows for breakfast again, you walking disaster?!”
“I had coffee for breakfast,” Dazai corrects him haughtily. “And then marshmallows for early lunch.”
“And you’re proud of that?!”
“You’re stalling.”
Chuuya sighs at the dark look on Dazai’s visible eye. He tries to focus on the deep-seated irritation at the fact that even with his legs stretched out, his tiptoes are just about the level of Dazai’s ankles. And yet, all he can see in his mind is the memory fresh from a couple of minutes ago, when he’s ambushed in plain daylight, right after he jogs out of a convenience store five blocks away, a plastic bag filled with four cartons of milk hanging over his wrist.
“…They nearly took out my bike.”
“Did they become stronger?” Dazai doesn’t hide his disappointment at the fact that Chuuya’s bright pink motorcycle is apparently still alive.
“Uh-huh. And still with the same tacky helmets.” Helmets that are tinted so Chuuya can’t see their faces. Helmets that bear the logo of what is presumably their organization. Three Fs connected so that it looks like a ‘Y’ at a distance.
It’s been happening for weeks now.
At first, it had been quite annoying, but nothing strong enough to warrant more than a passing huff and a light retaliation. ‘Double Black’ has been making its name and reputation over the organizations crowding under Japan’s underground world, so finding stragglers who want to make a name for themselves by attempting to attack them are unfortunately commonplace. The attacks were weak, no weapons used to make Chuuya suspect a new player in the underground arms distribution.
But then, it keeps on coming.
At this point, most people already know and fear going against Dazai or Chuuya. Dazai, because he’s the Demon Prodigy and because what he lacks in physical abilities, he more than makes up for with ensuring that he has Chuuya to do his dirty work for him. Chuuya, because… well, he’s Chuuya. He’s never been the type to shy from any physical altercation.
But they keep on coming. Growing stronger and bolder than the last. Still not enough to cause serious injury to Chuuya, but…
Chuuya stares at the shitty mackerel.
It won’t be long until they grow powerful enough to add to the litany of scars and injuries peppered over Dazai’s form. And Dazai would surely use it as an excuse to demand another truckload of bandages, expenses directly debited from Chuuya’s card, as Chuuya hasn’t quite figured out how to keep his PIN impossible for Dazai to guess. More than the additional financial blow, Dazai would be insufferable. An injured Dazai would make it a point to harass Chuuya into spoon-feeding and sponge-bathing him, just to see Chuuya be unnerved by the amount of gentleness he’d be required to dole out. An injured Dazai who’d get the injury while partnered with Chuuya would never stop with the ‘undisciplined and useless dog’ complaints—and oh, just thinking about it is enough to give Chuuya a migraine.
So, no. This can’t go on.
“I’ve asked around and nobody has even heard of those shitty bastards.” There are only two explanations for such a mum on information. Either they’re up against such a low-level gang that they don’t even register on anyone’s radar—or they’re up against people who are so good that they don’t even leave shadows behind.
“You probably just asked around in bars,” Dazai accuses him like he’s the one who’s cuddled up to a PSP inside an airconditioned room, instead of walking around Yokohama at the height of a 36-degree summer.
“And the docks too,” Chuuya counters, reaching up and flicking over Dazai’s nose using the tip of his dirtied glove. “Recognize the smell?”
Dazai’s bottom lip juts out to a full pout, before he complains, “You smell like an unwashed dog.”
“I couldn’t smell any familiar chemicals,” Chuuya says with a shrug. Chuuya’s confident in his senses and the crash training he did in quick identification of chemicals used in explosives. But he hasn’t been able to pinpoint the chemicals that were used in their weapons earlier. “Also, why the hell do you know how an unwashed dog smells?!”
“It smells like Chuuya,” Dazai parries quickly, grinning even though there’s a shade of worry over his eye at the fact the ash and soot don’t appear to have any of the usual suspects like nitroglycerin involved.
“You’re lying! I just bought an expensive bath set, damn it!”
“A dog always smells like a dog~~~♫”
“Urgh, I can’t believe you!” Chuuya jumps off from the couch, landing on his feet gracefully before dragging Dazai up with him. “I’ll show you!”
“Why is Chuuya inviting me to watch him take a bath?” For his part, Dazai doesn’t try to shrug off Chuuya’s grip on his arms. “Or are you asking me to help you take a bath? I think there’s a garden hose here somewhere…”
Chuuya barely resists the urge to kick Dazai’s shins as Dazai repositions himself so he can hang over Chuuya’s shoulderblades like a heavy, useless, overgrown cape. Gritting his teeth, he continues dragging Dazai with him, out of the office and towards his dorm room, ignoring the wide-eyed gazes of their colleagues as they whisper about the two favorites of the Boss.
“You’re going to smell my body wash and you’re going to love it, you fucker.”
Dazai tightens his hold around Chuuya’s shoulders.
“I bet I can find more information about this gang before you can, chibikko.”
“You’re so fucking on,” Chuuya mutters back. “Winner gets to order the loser around for one day.”
“Eh, but I always get to order you around anyway?”
“Brave words from someone who’d lose.”
“Fufufu, it’s better if the winner gets to be spoiled for a whole day by the loser~~~”
“Isn’t that just basically the same?”
“And that’s why you’re a mere chibi,” Dazai teases, blowing a raspberry behind Chuuya’s right ear. Chuuya’s entire body tenses at that, so of course Dazai pushes the envelope further by dragging his tongue against Chuuya’s earlobe. “Ew, you taste like a sweaty dog.”
“Stop licking me then! You’re gross!” Chuuya tries to shake Dazai away from his back, to no avail. “Also, why the hell do you know how a sweaty dog tastes?!”
“It tastes like Chuuya.”
“You—!!!”