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The downpour outside happens in a hail of gunfire without silencers outfitted. Steady torrent of cold, fat droplets hammer down on the pavements and batters against the glass windows. A swell of people has sought refuge in the nearest place they could squeeze themselves into. Given that it’s smack in the middle of a busy business district, this remodeled coffee shop now sports a queue akin to an anaconda in its long, winding loop. The crowd’s noise blends against the deluge that manages to break past any soundproofing.
This also means that finding an available seat is downright hellish. The summerstorm is too sudden, there are too many people compared to the number of available umbrellas outside. A lot of people are waiting it out, literally rubbing elbows with strangers as they all cramp and commiserate together.
Chuuya clutches his order (double espresso frappe, scrimping on the sugar) close to his chest. A small berth opens up wherever he walks, several murmurs of appreciation sparking off like store-bought fireworks. He’s all casual summer street-clothes, ones lifted directly from a fashion magazine. A bright yellow hoodie curves over his head that’s smoothened by the shape of the sports-cap he has on top. His long sleeves aren’t enough to ward off the chill from the airconditioning and the assessing gazes he draws; he tucks his gloved hands inside the pockets of the pants that hang low on his hips. Weather reports have placed today to be blisteringly hot, which is why he’s gone out in a crop top and a cropped sweater, but rainclouds have proven to be more temperamental than even his most mercurial of moods.
Because of the small berths that open up for him, he manages to spot a rare empty booth. He nearly breaks into a run then, his actions stuttered by the heavy human traffic. Baristas calling out orders to be claimed, hissing of steam from the coffee presses, a thousand conversations happening at once. He squares his shoulders and approaches the empty booth like a soldier heading for war.
“Oh, didn’t you see? This table is mine.”
A silky voice pipes up from his left. Chuuya looks, and hates that he has to look up.
A shit-eating grin is on the other’s face. Eyes the color of his espresso twinkle down at him. “Ah, you probably didn’t, did you? Given how short you are.”
Chuuya bristles like a cat that has been caught in a sudden downpour. “I don’t see you reserving this table, no.” With a huff, he slams his paper-cup filled with hot coffee on the table, before sliding in to the seat before the asshole wearing an unholy amount of bandages can open his mouth and start spraying him with more bullshit.
“No, but you see, I was here first.” The man is undeterred by the open hostility Chuuya glares at him with, smoothly taking up the opposite seat.
It’s a small round table made for one person, or a very intimate couple. Their legs brush against each other. After looking around and determining that even a dying wail would probably go unnoticed with how noisy and busy the place is, Chuuya kicks hard at the other’s shin. “Stop rubbing your feet against mine, you lecher!”
A pout. “Why would you even think I’m interested in someone like you?” A condescending look, followed by a blatant once-over. The table futilely separating them together is rendered irrelevant. “You can’t even find the right size of clothes to fit you.”
“Ha? The fuck are you talking about?”
“I mean, did you shop at the toddler’s section? Your bellybutton is all exposed.”
“Stop looking at it!” Chuuya kicks him again, but light enough that it doesn’t cause their drinks to spill. The queue is a lazy, unmoving monster now. “Also, this is called fashion-sense!” He looks at the other’s hideous mustard scarf paired with an eggplant-purple shirt and mimes throwing up in disgust.
“All I see is a tiny microorganism trying to cheat his height by wearing a cap.”
“That’s not—!”
“But before we digress…” As though he isn’t the one who started steering the conversation to its odd direction, “you’re trespassing on my table, you know?”
A derisive roll of his eyes. He’s unfortunately quite familiar with dealing with assholes, so this kind of smarmy behavior isn’t new to him. “I don’t see your name here, fucker.”
Brown eyes blink at him, assessing. A smirk languidly spreads on his lips, a sticky, suffocating oil spill corrupting his not-entirely-objectionable looks. “Mm, is that your way of asking me for my name, chibikko?”
“Chibikko—?!”
“Since you haven’t introduced yourself,” the man says it casually, as though people are supposed to fall all over themselves in haste to get their names out when faced with him. “I’ve taken the liberty to christen you with a name that befits someone of your stature—”
“It’s Chuuya, goddamn it!”
“I see.” A pause. “Chibi, my name is Dazai.”
“I already told you my name!”
“Chibi fits a chibi better.”
He kicks Dazai’s shins once more.
“Aren’t I nice? Now you know what name to scream later.” Lasciviousness drips from his tone, impossible to ignore.
He ignores it anyway, a disaffected twist to his lips. “Yes, when I yell your name as I kick your ass.”
“Ah, you’re just like my ex-boyfriend.” Lower lip juts out in a pout. “He’s always quick to go to mindless violence when dealing with me.”
Despite knowing better, Chuuya freezes for a moment. Gaze sweeps all over the bandages that peek out from the other’s clothes. Pale bandages even bridge the gap between the edge of his gloves and his cuffs. It takes some effort for him to flatly say, “Someone like you actually managed to snag a boyfriend?”
“I have a celebrity-level face, a coffee-smooth voice, a body to lust for, a great position at my company, a great taste in fashion, and a genius mind to top it off.” A shameless list, capped off with a light clap that speaks volumes of satisfaction, rising tall above the white noise of the crowd. “I am a very excellent catch, if I say so myself.”
“What are you, a fish?” He rolls his eyes and ignores the unabashed recounting of ‘merits’. He pauses briefly to wet his mouth with a sip of coffee, cooling rapidly despite the heat rising between them. “No… with all that bullshit you’ve just spewed, you’re more like a shitty mackerel, huh.”
Dazai sets his hands back on the table, slender fingers tapping out a gentle tune. “It is better to be a mackerel than be a tuna, so I’ll take that.”
“I really couldn’t care less what kind of insult you’d prefer!”
Drawled-out, “Now, now, if you’re this feisty, then however can you get a boyfriend of your own?”
“I have no need for one.” He pairs this declaration with a haughty sniff. “And before you can wiggle your eyebrows at me, I’m perfectly capable of having an ex-boyfriend before, thank you.”
If Dazai is put-out at his line of teasing blocked, he doesn’t show it. Instead his smile curves into something full of meaning. “How did you end up boyfriend-less? Is it because you’re too short and therefore hard to kiss?”
He rolls his eyes at the way the term ‘break-up’ is avoided like some snake going through hoops. Colder than his now-lukewarm coffee, “Irreconcilable differences.”
“That’s not good, chibikko.” Dazai leans back against his chair, drawing attention to the fact that throughout their conversation, they’ve been leaning forward more and more, invading each other’s space. Presumably to be heard over the heavy rain and the noisy crowd. Chuuya mimics the retreat back to his own space, just as Dazai adds, “Communication is important in relationships, yes? Have you tried to talk it out?”
Despite himself, he lets out a sharp bark of laughter. “That ex-boyfriend of mine ran his mouth a lot, and yet he did not think to tell me about important things. How’s that for communication, hmm?”
“Come to think of it, my ex is like that as well.” Tit-for-tat. “He yelled a bunch of nonsensical things, but the important things he kept to himself.” Half-lidded gaze, staring straight into him. “I’ve always thought he’s an idiot who’s too honest to be able to keep a secret, but little did I know...”
“Oh?” A raised eyebrow. “Did you properly listen to these things that you’ve deemed ‘nonsensical’ then?” He rests his hands against the table too. It’s too small to offer much space, which means that their pinkies brush against each other like this. “If you did, then your ex would have told you about his major secret.”
Dazai doesn’t blink, staring intently at him. He moves his hands by a millimeter, lifts his finger slightly so that he’s trapping his pinky underneath. The airconditioning is cool and so is the temperature outside. His hand is very warm, slightly damp from sweat.
The din of the customers’ chatter fill the space, but doesn’t fully pierce the bubble around them.
A deep breath, until the voice that’s been sold as ‘coffee-smooth’ pours into his ears. “There were things that weren’t worth discussing, I thought.”
At that kind of shitty start, Chuuya nearly jerks his hand away from the strange hand-hold, but Dazai presses down harder, firmer.
“I didn’t think that it would matter,” Dazai adds, neither imploring nor apologetic. Just a relation of facts from the past. “I thought that it could stay that way forever, just the two of us enjoying nights and the occasional mornings together.”
Chuuya huffs, already tired of the pretense. “You did not think disclosing the fact that you’re the Port Mafia’s Boss would matter to our relationship?”
“You did not tell me that you’re the King of Sheep either,” Dazai points out.
“I could sense something was off! Why would I admit such an important secret to someone who’s acting all secretive!” Thankfully, their drinks are already finished, so nothing spills when he bangs his fist against the table. The sound swallowed up by the swell of other sounds. “P-Plus! We’ve been dating for four years, and you haven’t even told me that you l-l-liked me!”
“Four years?” Dazai grabs his hand fully, tightly. “We’ve been together for seven years!”
“Seven?!” Chuuya grabs the hand back. His throat, his tongue and his thoughts are all tied-up. “What the fuck! Why would you—did you count—what the hell! You’ve been counting since that time?”
“Since the first time we’ve met in this coffee shop,” Dazai admits quietly.
It’s in sharp contrast to the memory of their first meeting, where they’ve literally bumped into each other, screams in the background as two mafia groups have duked it out in plain daylight, culminating in a shoot-out inside this very same coffee shop.
…Perhaps they both should have suspected each other’s identities more, given that they’ve met in such a colorful manner. But they’ve both been wearing casual outfits that day, because they’re both young bosses of cutthroat mafia groups and are trying not to broadcast their affiliations. They’ve both worked under the shadows, keeping two lives separate.
Chuuya deflates, his anger suddenly all siphoned out of him. He looks at the idiot in front of him. Upon closer inspection, there’s a grayish pallor over his face, dark bags lining his eyes. It’s rare to see the other man be so out of sorts. None of his easygoing outfits, none of his austere suits. He looks like he’s literally rolled out of bed and has merely grabbed whatever he could find. Chuuya scrunches his nose at the color scheme. It really is too offensive to his eyes.
He isn’t all that better, the hoodie and his cap doing a great job of casting shadows over his face so the evidence of his past sleepless nights are hidden away.
“…You’re still the bigger idiot,” Chuuya says in the end, as he interlocks their fingers. Public display of affection is rare between them—rather, displays of affection that don’t outright involve sleeping together… those are a rarity for them.
“I’m taller, that’s true.”
“You—!!!”
In a day of rarities, Dazai sports a pink flush on his cheeks. “But… I rather dislike having an ex-boyfriend.”
For a brief moment, Chuuya worries about Yokohama’s underworld. It should be quite the explosive news, the heads of two rival factions suddenly coming out together. Between the two of them, their organizations should control more than half of all of the underworld’s businesses. Their enemies would either cower in fear, or band together to go against them.
…He’s rather looking forward to such excitement, truth be told.
Still, he doesn’t plan on letting Dazai off so easily. At least a new wine cellar, and a bunch of imported, custom-made hats… plus…
“Do you, now?” He flashes a grin, all teeth. “You better get used to it then, I’m not in the market for a boyfriend nowadays.”
Unadulterated terror sparks in Dazai’s eyes, before it’s washed away by realization, when Chuuya rubs his thumb against the base of his ring finger.
“Let’s get married right now!”
Without waiting for his answer, Dazai pulls him up and drags him out of the coffee shop, intent on running towards the nearest Ward Office, so they can get married as soon as possible.
Outside, the weather cooperates, and the rain slows down to a light drizzle.
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end