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The Chuuya that had once been the King of the Sheep looked above Yokohama one day from his disadvantaged point in Suribachi city; saw the towering obelisk of the Port Mafia’s offices, and with resound surety decided that the mafia were sick and dramatic bastards. It loomed above as though it was intended to lead its strays back home, a north star, a lighthouse to the scrags and scraps in Yokohama’s dark corners.
Then further, he was brought into that building by force. If he hadn’t only barely regained consciousness at the time, he might have had the impulse to count each floor as the lift rose with him inside it. Mori spoke to him in front of those grand office windows and not for one second did he value the view.
That was a long time ago. Chuuya’s allegiances had changed, since. With this new appreciation, whenever he felt empty, he could leave smudges of his fingerprints against the glass on long windows in the mafia’s tower and stare toward the dock with shallow breath.
Behind him, the door clicked open. He didn’t turn but in the reflection through the glass he saw a figure clad in black, with the peeking white accents of bandages and knew it was Dazai. And likewise, how Chuuya had not acknowledged Dazai, Dazai didn’t acknowledge him. Chuuya knew him too well; he knew that Dazai would see in the reflection the bare flit of his eyes over the other and the settling of his indifference.
Like adjacency pairs, Dazai of course stepped forward. He forewent a greeting, and instead opened with, “I don’t wanna hear you talk.”
Chuuya whipped around in indignation. “What the hell did you just say!?” he spat.
He expected an argument exactly in tune with all their others. This conversation, it had all the indictors, the beats and subtle cues. Dazai was always surprising him, though. He wrapped his hand around Chuuya’s wrist, then pulled it toward himself until it lay flat, palm up, and into that palm he placed something black and soft. He did it without any expression shifting his face and beats after it was done, he let go.
Chuuya looked. It was a black collar… no, choker. It felt like leather, but the inside was soft, not like silk or velvet, closer to fur but not as thick. It had a simple silver buckle which just barely caught the sun over his shoulder and made it glint like treasure. It was light, and small, and clean. In his own confounding way, Dazai was giving him a gift. Chuuya couldn’t take his eyes off of it.
There were long seconds wherein he felt Dazai’s gaze on him, unshifting, before he turned and left the room. The aborted thought occurred to Chuuya that in the whole exchange Dazai had only spoken once.
Chuuya rubbed the palm of his free hand against his trouser leg a couple of times. It was a thoughtless action, stemming from the instinct he’d had not to touch the choker without cleaning his fingers somewhat. Then, he twisted it slowly around those fingers, letting it fall against knuckles and drag down to his palm.
He wondered, if he was to wear it somewhere public, what would people think? Would his mafia colleagues assume Dazai was flaunting his dog-based comparisons? Would they think he was acting out, or treat him like less-than? Would they keep all their scorn to themselves for fear of what he can do?
Though in the long run, none of that mattered. Chuuya knew his partner better than anyone, and it was for that reason that he knew what it was really for. Once, he’d had his pockets, and then Rimbaud’s hat and his gloves to make him feel grounded. This could be one of those anchors, too. It would push against his skin every time he breathed, tight and constricting, maybe, but constricting only the parts of him that he wanted to constrict.
And most of all, it would cover the tattoo of a barcode that stained the right side of his neck. He wanted to be more than just what Arahabaki was, and in his own confounding way, Dazai was giving him a piece of that. Chuuya wanted to wrap something around his throat and become one person.
He put the choker on right there in the room, and let the window serve as his mirror again to assess the style and fit. It really suited him.
Eventually, over the course of many years, that choker would wear and tire. The consequences of how many times he himself had run his fingers over it, then later how he would let Dazai’s hands linger there. One day it would break in two, dying of old age, and it would be replaced, the sentiment carrying on. Eventually, he would feel naked without it, but not in how it sealed the god in his bones. He would feel bereft, instead, of how it connected him to his own body and one treasured other thing.