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“Wow, you’re really drunk, huh?”
An observation that doesn’t require a genius or overly sensitive eyes, really. Dazai bends down a bit so he can peer into the chibikko hugging an empty wine bottle like a particularly doggy version of a ‘Madonna and child’ painting. Chuuya’s mouth is left in an unattractive half-open state, drool forming a shiny line down his chin, fruity-sweet breath wafting out of him like he’s been marinated in alcohol for hours.
It has been hours since the party has started. A year-end celebration attended by representatives from the government, the mafia and the agency. A show of affirmation of their three-way truce. Port Mafia has paid for the hotel and for the extravagant food as a show of goodwill. It’s started out rather stiff and stilted, but then Atsushi and Akutagawa ended up shoving each other to the buffet table, and so has literally broken the ice. Dazai would have preferred that it was him and Chuuya to do it, but Ane-san and Hirotsu-san had been guarding the chibikko well, keeping him away from alcohol and from embarrassing himself. Not that it was ultimately successful—Chuuya’s doggy tendencies means he’s very good at playing fetch and has therefore fetched himself a full bottle of wine when everyone else was busy making nice.
All in all, once the party has winded down, Ane-san approached him with a firm smile, and told him, “I know it was you who placed a wine bottle within easy reach, Dazai-kun. Good adults take full responsibilities for their actions, do they not?”
And so, here they are. One master and one sleepy drunk dog.
Everyone else has scattered off to their own homes (or each other’s homes, if certain pairs are to be believed). It’s just the staff working on cleaning up the venue. There’s still some cake on the ceiling from the impromptu fight between the younger ones earlier (Ranpo included in this label).
Chuuya’s slumped over one of the corner tables. His right cheek is smushed against the tablecloth, his tacky hat seated on the chair beside him like a silent drinking buddy. He’s even snoring lightly, truly carefree. The longer locks of his hair is half-plastered on his left cheek and half-nearly-slurped into his half-open mouth.
…Very ugly. So ugly in fact, that Dazai double-checks his phone’s camera to ensure that the flash is off and the shutter sound is set to silent. And of course he takes lots of pictures. Even saves a video of one loud snuffling breath, and then Chuuya almost choking on his own drool and hair. And then, just in case it’s not obvious who the drunk idiot is, he reaches out and tucks the asymmetrically-long hair strands on the other’s ear, leaving an unhindered view of the other’s face.
He takes another round of pictures. He takes Randou’s hat from the chair and flops it on top of his head; he drags the chair closer so that he can get better close-ups without having to stay bent over the shortstack.
“Aren’t dogs supposed to be taller if they’re seated?” Dazai muses as he tries to take the empty wine bottle away from Chuuya’s protective grip, only to be rebuffed with a groan. “You’re even so much smaller now, chibikko.”
Chuuya’s nose twitches as though sensing the insults to his height. He continues drooling though, cheeks flushed from intoxication.
“You really never change.” His phone is already overheated and he tucks it back on his pockets. He reaches out and pokes the swell of the other’s left cheek and finds it even warmer than his own phone. “You get drunk so easily and yet you still insist on drinking. Even at being a drunkard, you’re quite stupid, aren’t you?”
Unlike every other time when the two of them are this close, Chuuya doesn’t swat him away. Nor does he have a comeback on his lips. No, right now, he only has a shiny layer of liquid over them.
His fingers slide down the curve of the other’s face, until his thumb is pressed against the middle of the shiny bottom lip. He swipes it to the left, warm, wet breath against the pad of his finger. Chuuya lets out a grumbling sound, and shakes his head a bit, as though trying to dislodge the extra appendage that has attached itself to his face.
“They’ve left you behind for me to take care of,” Dazai tells the unconscious chibi. “Maybe I should drag you by your short, short legs. And then dump you in the dumpster behind this hotel.”
Oblivious to the threat, Chuuya continues snoring and drooling. Very carefree, incredibly trusting. Confidence in his own strength that nobody can touch him?
“But see, I’m touching you like this,” he murmurs and lets his hand cup the other’s face more fully.
Belief that the people around him can be trusted?
He shakes his head and tells him, “You’re such a silly dog.”
That they trust each other with their lives on life-or-death matters is a given, something honed over several years, together and apart. Dazai’s always treated his life as nothing much more than a bargaining chip against the world, against any lingering threats. It’s not all that meaningful, not that much weighty, to entrust it to someone else. Worst case scenario is that he ends up dying, but even that is a victory for him.
…Chuuya though. He’s always scoffed at the idea of surrendering—whether to enemies or to his own self or to his own doubts. He’s always been a bright flame, unable to be snuffed out even by the lack of air or common sense. A brilliant spark that doesn’t need anyone. He can survive and thrive without Dazai, without anyone else. He actually likes being alive, even with all the pain that comes hand-in-hand with existing in an imperfect world. And yet, he trusts Dazai with his life.
“You really are so silly,” he repeats with conviction.
He dips forward, so that his knees are now supported by Chuuya’s chair, drawing close until he’s drunk from the smell of alcohol coming from the other’s mouth. Before he can eliminate all the distance between them, though, Chuuya chooses that moment to gain a bit of lucidity, cracking his eyes half-open, blue shiny and bright even with Dazai casting a shadow over him at this proximity.
Dazai freezes, mind working in overdrive to give an explanation for how he’s, horror of all horrors, millimeters away from kissing a chibi.
Alcohol-addled sleepy voice then says, “O, Osh,” then a small yawn, before continuing on with a, “Oshamoo?” As though giving him a heart attack isn’t enough, Chuuya tilts his head slightly so that his mouth is pressed right against Dazai’s, before letting out a satisfied hum. And while Dazai is rendered catatonic with an additional stroke, Chuuya yawns on his face, then goes back to sleep.
It takes about five minutes for his brain to reboot from the assault, and by then Chuuya’s already sleeping the sleep of the dead, refusing to wake up no matter how much Dazai pinches him awake.
“How can you be this irresponsible,” Dazai complains, heart pumping like he’s sending a war cry via Morse Code. “I’m really going to throw you in a dumpster! Wake up, Chuuyaaaaa!”
Chuuya just hugs his wine bottle harder and snores even louder.
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The next day, Chuuya wakes up at an unfamiliar place, wearing unfamiliar clothes, tucked inside an unfamiliar futon. There’s a very familiar man beside him, still clothed in yesterday’s clothes. Chuuya takes a few moments observing Dazai’s face, before reaching out for his phone that’s been considerately placed on Dazai’s side so he’d have to crawl over him to get it.
The moment he gets it, he takes a selfie and posts an update so that his subordinates and Ane-san don’t have to worry about his whereabouts.
I’ve woken up in a dumpster, he posts, then rewards the shitty mackerel for his better-than-usual behavior by pinching his nose and giving him air to breathe using his mouth.
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end