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[One - nineteen]
During the four years that Soukoku was apart, Dazai would have rather drunk sewage water than forgotten even one of Chuuya’s birthdays. Every year when the pink sakura petals fall and the sweet, crisp scent waft in from the small window of his shitty little "hideout" apartment, he’s reminded of what he must do in the hopes of showing his partner that he hasn’t completely forgotten about him. In fact, that he’s been thinking about him.
Always.
The first time doesn’t take much brainstorming. Dazai knows what Chuuya revels in, what he would love doubtless, what he always finds comfort in despite being a lightweight. Though without the blood money that he found stashed away at the bottom of one of his bags, he wouldn’t have managed to pay for even half of what he wanted to present his chibi with.
The mysterious package arrives at Chuuya’s doorstep with nothing worthy of notice, no address, no name, no note, just a plain cardboard box with not even a warning for the content inside. It takes the redhead by surprise momentarily, instincts sharpening into wariness and caution, but of course, Chuuya has been able to read Dazai too well. There’s no one but his ex-partner who could get away with something like this.
That doesn’t, however, mean it makes its way inside the house. Not yet. The box sits solemnly right outside the door for a good measure of days, with no one to pick it up or with Chuuya routinely and deliberately ignoring it every night when he returns, till one night when it’s a week well over his birthday, and he’s too tired of this absurdity.
It’s heavy with no actual hint of what might be confined but it would have been too wrong for Chuuya to have guessed it as anything else.
But the bottle of Romanee-Conti shatters on in the middle of his living room floor exactly five seconds after he pulls it out and stares at it. He’s breathing hard, heart pounding, eyes wild, rethinking the audacity of this fucker to send him the first wine they drank together as a birthday present with not even a fucking note of apology or acknowledgement, triggering all the pent-up anger and bitterness that he has swallowed for him.
He doesn’t get to do it like this. Not like this. Not after how he was ignorant of what his departure might have caused for Chuuya.
Just...not like this.
[Two - twenty]
Chuuya is 20 when he drinks himself insane yet another night after coming back from a party at the Port Mafia. Well—maybe not insane but he definitely more than enjoyed what everyone prepared for him as a gift, the food, the booze, the presents, all of it. Partly because he didn’t expect anyone to remember his birthday and partly because he didn’t think Akutagawa would be one to shyly shove a package into his hands, wrapped clumsily in pastel pink paper and scrawled an awkward N.C with a sharpie.
He stumbles into his apartment a little after midnight, not wasted but unquestionably past the point of tipsiness. And if he didn’t bother going through the whole process of stripping, brushing his teeth and hydrating himself before falling into bed, he definitely wouldn’t have noticed the envelope sitting on his nightstand.
Again, no address, no name, just a simple plain envelope sitting innocently like a small animal. Chuuya groans internally as he sits, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes. He’s not sober enough for this. He probably should sleep it off, get some rest, deal with it the next day. It has been a good birthday after all. But curiosity gets the best of him, as it always does, and he’s reaching over, tearing the paper open in his fingers before he knows it.
Chuuya,
You might even not see this letter, let alone decide to read this but everything has been a shot in the dark. I cannot care any less.
It has been five years since we first met each other and I know I don’t have any right to be saying this. But, there hasn’t been a day passed that I don’t think of you and there never will be. I always think of you, even if you’re not around, or even if I don’t know it myself. You’re always here in the back of my mind, chibi. I know it might not be the same way around but I want to let you know that I miss you.
I want to come home to you, Chuuya.
But you don’t need to think about that, not about me, not about my self-suppression. No amount of apologies will ever be enough to convey the way that I’m feeling right now, but at least I can send this cowardly letter without showing my face. You deserve everything that makes you happy and treats you right. So, with a coward’s words and a convenience store envelope, I wish you everything you want.
Happy birthday, my love.
Yours,
Dazai Osamu.
God, it’s so wrong. This letter, this situation, everything feels so wrong, undeniably and utterly out of place and Chuuya can’t even cry right now. There’s nothing, no wet tears, or no clenched fists, no urges to yell his heart out and skin his throat raw with all the cries, nothing but a feeling of such immense hollowness in his chest that all he can do is look at the letter in his hands without actually seeing the words.
He could point out a million things wrong with the entirety of this, starting from the very first line. Nothing that Dazai does is a shot in the dark. He might be an ass, but a smart one at that. He knows Chuuya will see this letter and he knows he will decide to read it—hell, he might even be watching him from somewhere like some creepy stalker as he reads this but Chuuya can’t give two shits about that.
I know it might not be the same way for you.
No, no he doesn’t. Dazai doesn’t get to claim to know anything that goes on in Chuuya’s mind like it’s some...yard that he visits for fun and makes routine observations of. He has not a single idea of what “the way” in question is.
I wish you everything you want—
Everything you want, his ass. Chuuya falls back onto the sheets, letter limp in his hand and not crushed up and torn like he normally would have done. But he’s not normal, has never been. Nothing is considered normal with Dazai involved in it. So instead, he falls asleep just like that, leaving the letter to fall to the floor when it loosens and flutters from his grip as he succumbs to his thoughts of the dream that he knows will never come.
It does find a place in one of his nightstand drawers the next morning.
[Three - twenty-one]
Twenty one for Chuuya comes with the musky sweet scent of wisteria and more laughter from his family.
The flowers remind him of Dazai. Almost everything does, really. After all the distracted days and sleepless nights spent thinking about him, worrying over the thought of Dazai lying in a puddle of blood in some bathroom, or at the bottom of the river, or the train tracks, or—
Well, you get the idea. Chuuya has to consider every single possibility of Dazai dying, therefore, has to look for clues and hints that indicate the bastard is alive.
Definitely not that he’s looking forward to the yearly presents.
The Port Mafia is merry as ever, as “merry” as the darkest underground organization of Yokohama can be, on his birthday, showering their beloved executive with blessings and gifts. Another year, another age, another milestone in his life and the title of the ‘best martial artist in the mafia’ looks good on Chuuya.
It looks perfect.
He loves the title. Fuck, he takes pride in it, unknowingly sated with delight and silently brimming with happiness whenever someone acknowledges him with the rank. He worked hard for it and he’s not going to act like he doesn’t deserve it because he knows he does with every fiber of his being.
He doesn’t want to act like there couldn’t have been a slightly better present, though.
Chuuya appreciates everything, every wish delivered to him, every gift dropped onto his desk, every smile, every ‘hi’, every little gesture that was directed at him, because these are all his people, everyone who trusts him, counts on him, expects everything of him and he doesn’t want to let anyone down, even if it ends up being something as small as not getting smiled back in the halls when they pass him. There might be something else that he wants, someone else that he’s expecting to catch a whiff of all day but that doesn’t make him any less of a charming member of the organization he’s devoted to, certainly not on his birthday, especially not on his birthday.
He’s almost given up on it when he gets home considering all ways to convince himself that Dazai’s not dead, that he probably just forgot or couldn’t deliver a gift for some reason this year, that Chuuya is just being paranoid and he’s not even waiting for the gift itself right now, it could be a damn pigeon for all he cares but just anything to show that Dazai is still breathing, that he’s alive and well and taking care of himself and somewhere out there and—
And his bedroom window is open.
He’s pretty sure he left it closed in the morning. It’s not like he usually even opens that window in the first place anyway.
Bold of Dazai to not take his usual route through the front door.
Chuuya’s cautious as he approaches the open frame, dropping his bags onto the bed and gingerly taking off his gloves. For all he knows, it still couldn’t have been Dazai but considering the security system of his house, it probably is, but he can never be too sure, but then there’s only his partner who would do something like this and—
His lips part unconsciously when he sees what rests on the sill, body laxing and arms held adrift. The petals of the camellia blossom flutter like dandelion fluff in the chill of the night air, red, gorgeous and completely captivating. The yellow tips of the anthers reflect the electric light in his bedroom, glinting flawless gold and Chuuya notices every single thing about it, every crinkle in the petals, every sliver of the stem, every tip, every leaf, every inch of the flower, everything except the oddly similar color of flush crawling onto his cheeks.
Oh, his ex-partner is alive alright.
Alive as he was when he first pushed a less beautiful, less captivating red blossom into Chuuya’s hair one windy night as they roamed through the more deserted parts of the city, lazily passing all sorts of places like abandoned warehouses and even the riverbank, two boys silently walking alongside each other underneath the moonlight, not ready enough to part ways after work but not daring enough to take a step closer either.
And suddenly, Chuuya was turning around to see Dazai holding a red flower in an iron grip, one that he picked from the side of the road but one nonetheless. He was blushing, the puff of pink and pale peaches that dusted across his cheeks, leaving no room for Chuuya to even have his skin heated as Dazai swallowed visibly.
“Oi, what are you looking like a stupid mackerel for—
“You’d look really stupid like that, chibi!” his voice was unnecessarily shrill and Chuuya didn’t get the chance to register what happened. All he knew was that, a second later, there was a shriveled up flower in his hair, Dazai was sprinting down ahead of him, and that he was following the bastard with his fist in the air.
If only he had known better. If only he had squinted enough to see why Dazai was blushing.
It wasn’t even romantic, hell it wasn’t even a camellia, but the memory is fresh as ever, spiking in the back of his brain. Chuuya sighs, picking up the lone flower from his window sill and brushing at the creamy petals with the pads of his fingers.
You’re alive. You’re still out there somewhere.
And for one night, knowing that is enough.
(The scarlet token, too, finds a place in his nightstand drawer, wilted and dried after days but pressed firmly in between the folded letter nonetheless.)
[Four - twenty-two]
His twenty second birthday brings him something special, or more specifically, someone special. Technically, all of what Dazai gives him are special for him, souvenirs of memories and apologies spilled in ink but this time, he has met the bastard. And if there is anyone who can see through all of Chuuya’s layers, it’s no one but Dazai.
Chuuya looks drawn. He knows that, no matter the confident demeanor he has or the powerful facade that he puts on. Maybe it breaks Dazai’s heart more than a little to see that he’s not where he’s supposed to be, which is beside his partner, and maybe he thinks sending someone else in his stead might have not been the best idea he’s ever come up with, but what he knows for sure is that Chuuya is tired. It makes him realize that the redhead...must have felt as lonely as he did. True that he had Kouyou, Akutagawa and a bunch of other people in the mafia that admired and hung out with him but surely without Dazai…
He must have been a tad bit lonely.
Right?
This time the plain box isn’t dumped at the door but delivered right into his house, sitting in the middle of the living room innocently. It’s only natural that Chuuya eyes it skeptically when he first sees it, because he knows Dazai wouldn’t have put it inside his house if it wasn’t something important, something he surely can’t miss to see. It could have been a prank, something framed to get Chuuya flushed, flustered and irritated, but the lids are loose, the box not even properly taped and it’s heavy and light at the same time and making Chuuya’s nerves prickle by the passing seconds.
But he could never have been prepared for what he found inside.
Chuuya’s lips fall open into a heartfelt ‘O’, seeing an adorable orange tabby the exact length of his palm pawing and cowering away to the other end of the box, turning around to hiss a soft ‘meow’ in his direction. His heart is in his throat and his breath catches in the back of it, sitting down on his knees and just...staring at the little cat. God, what did Dazai do? Sending him what clearly is supposed to be a pet, leaving this poor thing in a box in Chuuya’s apartment. He’s a mafioso, for fuck’s sake, he doesn’t have the time nor the mindset to raise this little guy…
Chuuya’s hand absentmindedly unfurls into the box and the tabby, the wonderful petite creature, sniffs at his gloved fingers exactly twice before it all but leaps at his hand, chin nudging into the bent knuckles and low, satisfied purrs rolling off of it in waves. Chuuya stares. This couldn’t be true. He has a cat. One that likes him and doesn’t scratch and doesn’t snarl or hiss at him in vehement protest every time he tries to pick it up, not that he has tried that. But he—
“Whoa,” he yelps feebly, cupping his hands together to lessen the fall of the kitten when it tries to jump out of the box towards Chuuya. For christ’s sake, the cat probably doesn’t need his help. They’re self aware and instinctive animals, having senses better than humans could ever dream of. But the need to protect it, as if it’s some kind of delicate glass ball rolling around seeking self-destruction, is overwhelming right now.
“Hello,” he greets as he holds the feline up in front of his face, fingers wrapped around its middle. The tabby gives an answering meow and Chuuya can’t actually figure out if it is annoyed or being needy but it definitely seems to be making grabby-hands to the spot on his shoulder.
So, he puts it there.
“What did Dazai bribe you with to get you into the box, little fella?” he asks, feeling it nuzzling its face into the spot between his neck and his ear, its whole body vibrating with tiny contented croons, “because as far as I know, the mackerel has never been good with animals.”
It kind of tickles when its whiskers brush his cheek but he leans into it anyway. “Or did you end up giving him twenty-nine scratches?” Chuuya chuckles and picks up the cat because it was getting a little too clingy and he still needs to shower.
Well, now on the nights of his off days, Chuuya falls asleep on the couch in front of the TV with a warm, familiar weight of a napping tabby on his chest and Dazai can breathe a little better knowing that.
[Five - twenty-three]
By Chuuya’s twenty third birthday, you would’ve thought Dazai was done pining after his partner like some lovesick teenager too scared to actually go talk to him but finding out new ways to woo him by sending him one thing after another in symbolisms of his longing.
That is not entirely true.
Because Dazai isn’t scared to talk to him. He has met Chuuya, fought alongside him, poked and teased and tripped and argued with him like they always did before but now...he can’t actually face him. The elephant in the room is too big.
They do need to talk about it at some point. He can’t constantly keep ignoring and dodging Chuuya like the mafioso is some tennis ball machine raining kicks and punches onto him. But he hopes at least that Chuuya would understand.
Understand that there is nothing more Dazai wants to do right now than pull them both out of this mess, not to be standing across him at the battle line but to be standing with him as they fight against their internal conflict between the two of them, the arena of his heart scattered with a mosaic of broken emotions and torn promises. Understand that Dazai wants to meet Chuuya, see him, hear the laugh that only Dazai can reel out from him and patch up all the wounds of past mistakes like he once kissed away the pleasure-pain of the bruised flesh on Chuuya’s body.
To understand that Dazai still loves him.
But that, saying that, would never be easy because he knows the pain he inflicted on his partner, might go out of his way to act like he doesn’t, another one of his childish masks to seal himself away from what he thinks he doesn’t deserve. Dazai can’t build what they once had again, not after the fall has damaged Chuuya to the point where it broke him completely.
Because it was good. It was so good.
Because getting wasted together at bars was so good, making out in the backseats of cars was so good, chasing the sharp, sweet tang of the wine on Chuuya’s tongue was so good, stumbling home together after long days, taking care of each other in the shower, late-night calls when they were thousands of miles apart, arcade dates and winter nights and listening to each other’s heartbeats in between the sheets, the adoration in Chuuya’s blue eyes when he looks up at Dazai, the reflected fluttering awe of a brown gaze, touches and glances and smiles and blushes and kissing and laughing and fighting and loving and loving and loving...was so good.
Till Dazai took away all of it in one night and left Chuuya hollow.
Fuck, he really is an asshole.
But that doesn’t stop him from sending Chuuya gift after gift every year(and it definitely doesn’t stop Chuuya from always wondering when would Dazai figure out what to actually send him). They might be in ruins, but only soukoku would soak in those shambles of a relationship. They’re not “making it work”, they’re not “rebuilding” anything.
They miss each other. It’s as simple as that.
And maybe even if they can’t have what they once had, Dazai dares to hope for a similar, if not a better, ‘perhaps’ in the future.
The contrast is particularly striking the night that Chuuya crawls back to the warmth of his humble abode, bloodied and bruised and exhausted to his marrow, but it’s not like Dazai is on the other side of the door to pick him up and take care of the aftermath of his battles. It’s not like he needs Dazai either, screw him. He’s more than capable of taking care of himself. It’s just that…
“Hey...Baki…” Chuuya sighs wearily as the tabby runs and paws at his ankles the moment he steps inside, slithering around his legs in excited circles. Chuuya picks it up after he closes the door, placing it on his shoulder like he always does once he made the discovery that it was Baki’s favorite spot. The cat warmed up to Chuuya in no time, always waiting around, never pestering him or scratching at his couches when he’s not home. It’s good company, Chuuya would admit. And he’s always wanted a cat but only ever told it to one person.
Who’s not here.
His clothes, his gloves, his coat, even his hat, basically his whole body is covered in absolute filth, splotches of dried blood and cakes of mud in spots he can’t even see but he’s not really capable of making a straight trip to the bathroom right now, not without sitting down for a while first. Dragging his feet, he makes his way to the couch, falling face first and trying to marshal any coherent thoughts he has left.
“...”
Chuuya turns his head to crack one eye open, seeing the cat hop on the coffee table where he dumped his mail this morning. Right. He still has to sort out the packages he ordered. But Baki is persistent today.
He pulls himself upright, reaching for the delivered parcels and stacks of envelopes. Purchases, cards, bills, bills, more cards, more purchases—
Something slips out of the mass of papers and flutters to the floor beneath him. It lands backwards, making Chuuya reach down between his feet to pick it up and turn it over—
His own face stares back at him from the polaroid, and Chuuya...Chuuya just…
His heart sinks.
God, what now?
It’s right there, in between his fingers, the blurry image of him and his partner when they were eighteen, the first night that they went “officially” drinking, which obviously ended with Chuuya passing out and Dazai carrying him back to his dorm. If you ask him if he remembers that night, he will frankly say that he doesn’t. He didn’t even know this picture existed before today. What he did remember was cursing the fuck out of the brunet because his laugh was being too loud, Dazai refilling his booze again, and again...and again and…
And the evidence is here, a polaroid capturing the midway moment of Dazai draping his coat around Chuuya’s shoulders while Chuuya is barely upright on his stool, a hand steadying him on his back and the brunet’s face bent low towards his asking him something with a concerned expression.
Christ.
Osamu, I...mmmp—
Chibi? Are you okay? Do you wanna throw up?
...I need to—mmmp!
Chuuya—!
Chuuya hides his face behind his hands even now, cheeks heating as a violent flush crawls up onto his skin. Much to his absolute mortification, he fucking remembers it, Dazai holding his hair up while he emptied his entrails right at the bar, the bartender shooing them both out of the place for being too chaotic, and tucking himself smaller into the coat, into Dazai’s arms, on the way back home, because it was too fucking cold that night.
The polaroid feels heavy in his hand. Fuck, he doesn’t even remember who took it, but by the looks of it, Dazai definitely bribed someone to probably catch Chuuya being embarrassing while drunk and rowdy but this split-second of Dazai being genuinely worried for Chuuya accidentally got photographed.
And the idiot fucking kept it all these years without telling him.
“Ugh…” he rests his head against the back of the couch, drained and bone-tired. The only thing that feels comforting right now is the weight of Baki on his lap and the soft purrs vibrating within him, the cat staring up and probably wondering why his owner looks so sad.
Like he’s in so much pain.
[Twenty-four - "I would've waited, forever and always."]
“Sorry!”
“Watch where you’re going, bandaged freak.”
“Ah, my apologies, Oji-san.”
Dazai’s feet are light as he weaves his way through the mass of people strolling the streets of Yokohama, his presence as slick as the tendrils of golden street light threading in between the crowds as he walks. There’s a spring festival tonight, and oddly enough, people have been utterly abuzz about the annual tradition more than usual, which just so happens to be on the very night of April 29th.
Chuuya’s birthday.
The detective almost sprints, his heartbeat in tandem with the pace of his feet while his anticipation not so much. He doesn’t really think he can actually put a name on it. Anxiety? Nervousness? Excitement? Fear? All he knows is that his heart is pounding in his chest and he wants to get to his destination quick.
Chuuya likes festivals.
Fairs, carnivals, you name it. He’s the life of the party in social outings, one where everyone’s eyes are turned towards and the loudest voice is any room.
But all of it has ever been for Dazai.
Because, even when they were dating, the only reason Chuuya even wanted to go out to places like these was to drag his partner, who is supposedly a homebody, to get a breath of fresh air, to experience the merriness of the things he missed out in his childhood, to walk, to talk, to laugh, to love and people might stare when the redhead smiles(because god forbid, Chuuya is too beautiful) but Dazai knows every smile has always been directed at him.
Maybe he can make that happen again tonight.
He’s got his wallet full, heavy in his pocket. He even went out of his way to shower and style his hair, so as to look at least decent after work but none of that seems to be aiding in preparing himself for what comes next, because for the first time since he started occasionally breaking and entering into Chuuya’s apartment unnoticed, the redhead is going to actually be there.
And awake, possibly.
Please let him be okay. Please let us be okay.
He doesn’t hear it, his insecure subconsciousness whispering intently at the very back of his head but for now, his consciousness is enough, the push driving the casualty in his steps, towards the building he has traced his way a plethora of times. He knows Chuuya will be home tonight. Because, let’s be real, Dazai would question his tactics and hunches in maybe the slightest sense for a thick capacity of other things but with Chuuya? He has known head and tail about his partner since he laid eyes on him. There’s no way that he can go wrong.
He doesn’t attempt the window or raid the kitchen like he customarily would but takes himself to the front door for tonight. This needs to be nonchalant, needs to be breezy. He’s not panicking. He’s perfectly and wonderfully, extraordinarily...fine.
The door gives away under his hands after the few minutes of his usual picking, swinging open to reveal a surprisingly over-organized but empty living room. He makes his way inside, closing the door with a soft click and burying himself in complete silence, until…
He hears the water running in the bathroom. Chuuya must be showering.
Now don’t get Dazai wrong. He has seen Chuuya naked plenty of times, bathed with him, been in bed with him, taken care of him while he’s vulnerable, physically and emotionally. He’s not nervous about running into Chuuya while he’s undressed. But he sure as hell doesn’t want to be fucking punched in the face for freaking him out the moment he steps out of the shower like they’re in some 90s horror flick.
Because Chuuya is that person who would absolutely kill a creepy burglar slash undead spirit before he can blink.
So he makes his way around the room for a quick re-tour while waiting for his partner to emerge from the bathroom, taking in the alternations in the surroundings with a swift swipe of his eyes. There isn’t drastic of a change, really. The old record player on which Chuuya plays countless French ballads is still there, spotless and well-maintained, the stacks of movies in alphabetical order, the bookshelf in a similarly neat assembly of color-coordinated paperbacks. Does chibi still have his diary-like scribbles of his teenage years buried in there somewhere? Are those books tucked away into some special category by now? He’s already standing in front of the shelves when something propped against a copy of some book named ‘The Setting Sun’ halts him altogether, fingers hovering in the air, mouth slightly parted.
Ah, there it is. The polaroid that Dazai sent him last year, a memory in print of the two of them on their first night at a bar a few months after Dazai’s eighteenth birthday. He recalled how hard it was to catch time with Chuuya back then. Still, it didn’t stop them from having their very much belated celebration for Dazai’s eighteenth birthday, which they have been postponing for months after months till Christmas threatened to roll around the corner. It was Chuuya’s idea to get trashed. It was Dazai’s idea to go along with it and hope to get wasted for once rather than being satisfied with the tipsiness of one glass of whiskey, because that’s all that can do to him, really. The night obviously did not go as planned. Dazai hoped to get himself wasted and be carried back home like how all those movies described the first time you get drunk, not the other way around.
Because galaxy brain or not, there is no way he would have known the extent of his partner’s alcohol tolerance, not if he hasn’t seen Chuuya completely trashing himself like this, all the teenage years they sneaked booze from the stash and experimented around a little bit not counting. That couldn’t even compare to how Chuuya was that night, all garbled words and puked up fluids but...having the chance to hold him a little tighter with each advancing step on the way back home? Dazai would have admitted any time it was more than worth it. Smiling at the memory, he brushes his fingers at their faces. Christ, it was so cold too, the—
“What are you doing?” comes the sharp voice, almost making Dazai jump and—
He turns to see the redhead leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed over his chest, a crimson silk robe draped on him and flowing off of his body like a waterfall of burgundy wine, hinting at the beautiful bare legs underneath. His hair is still slightly damp from his shower, curled and twisted to one side of his shoulders while loose wild ringlets of graceful golden-red frame his face like a fiery halo.
Dazai swallows.
“Hi.”
Chuuya eyes narrow further, voice hardening even more. Hi?
“I said, what are you doing here?”
“Coming to wish you a happy birthday, chibi! Obviously.” Dazai answers with an excited bravado that he doesn’t really feel. His head seems to be occupied with Chuuya, Chuuya, Chuuya standing in front of him. “What else would I be doing?”
Chuuya’s eyes flick to the propped polaroid momentarily—before he all but turns his back on the brunet. “Well, now that you have, leave.”
“Chibi—
“You’re here uninvited, mind you. This counts as trespassing—
“Chuuya.” The way the word came out of Dazai’s lips does halt Chuuya, stopping him from retreating inside or saying anything counter. “I wanted to see you.”
And that’s it? That’s how it goes? Dazai can show up one night in the middle of his fucking living room because he wants to see him suddenly and Chuuya’s just supposed to go along with it? Be happy and thankful that his ex-partner finally decided to shed some fucking attention to him since they blew what they had to ruins? He thinks the fuck not.
“There’s a spring festival, chibi,” Dazai continues apprehensively, scratching at the sprung-up itchiness of the bandages around his wrists. “I thought…”
“You thought what?” he could see the steel in Chuuya’s spine, could hear the iron in his voice, but it’s like words are rushing out of him and he can’t stop.
“I...we could, I mean, we always used to go together—
Chuuya’s laugh bites. “Yeah. You’re absolutely right, we used to. Leave, Dazai.”
“Is that what we’re going to do then? To keep avoiding this like everything is okay between us?”
Dazai should’ve known. That is the breaking point where Chuuya snaps.
Chuuya rounds on him. “Avoiding? Avoiding?! Says the asshole who’s been avoiding me for five fucking years and didn’t bother to send a fucking text? What am I supposed to say other than leave when you’ve been pushing me away for years?”
“I didn’t avoid you completely, Chuuya, I sent you gifts every birthday—
“Oh, right. Wow, lucky me I guess.”
“I was trying, chibi—
“Trying to what?
“Trying to make us okay!”
“By sending me letters and flowers and fucking photos?! That’s not how it works, Dazai!”
“Then how does it work?! You tell me!.”
Dazai doesn’t normally raise his voice, doesn’t lose his temper over things easily. But with Chuuya, that has always been an exception. Because his partner has blades for a tongue and bullets for words. Their fights have always been tornados of clashing conversation and slamming objects. That’s what their relationship becomes in the darkest of times, when they fight till they exhaust themselves.
Because one brings out the worst in the other.
But it's also only them that brings out the bestin each other.
“God, you’re so fucking stupid, you know?”
“Yeah, the repetition of the very phrase for our whole partnership didn’t inform me enough so, thanks for the reminder, I guess.”
Chuuya glowers at him like he could burn a hole into Dazai’s head. (Maybe he can.) “I didn’t ask for anything. I didn’t ask you to buy me wine that you can’t afford and spend your whole wallet on it. I didn’t ask for love letters and flowers and stalker polaroids! I didn’t ask for any of that!
“Oh, apologies for not knowing what to send because I had no idea what the literal fuck you were expecting. Did you ask for something else? Something less of a shitty present from me? Because if you did, you could’ve warned me long ago—
“I didn’t want anything! WHAT I WANTED WAS YOU!”
Silence follows, along with the quiet pants of raging breaths by the mafioso and finally, Chuuya drops his face into his hands, shoulders sagging.
“...what I wanted...was you, idiot.” he repeats, just to cut the density of the silence and Dazai stares. “Everything...all that I...I could’ve been satisfied with a word, one visit, anything.”
The heat in the atmosphere is gone just as quickly as it sprung up, leaving the both of them feeling like they were standing in the middle of a moving stream, the air biting and cold.
“Why didn’t you, by the way?” Chuuya hugs his arms.
Why didn’t you come and meet me once? Why did you lie? Why did you sneak in then run away before I could reach you?
Why didn’t you come to me?
“Was it...was it because of something I said? Was it because you thought I was gonna kill you? Did I…?”
“N-no.” Dazai answers a little too quickly, slightly tripping on his feet when he tries to cross the room and approach Chuuya but he knows he can’t get too close. The redhead can have him at arm’s length. And he will. “It wasn’t you. I...I didn’t think you’d want to see me, Chuuya.”
Chuuya gnaws on his bottom lip, staring at the carpeted floor. Baki has crawled out of the bedroom some time during all the yelling, like testing if curiosity would really kill the cat, and was now nudging against Chuuya’s ankle. Chuuya bends down to pick it up, cradling the ball of fur and warmth in his arms.
“I thought...well, you have this part of your life with you and it’s probably better that I don’t step into it anyway. I wanted you to be happy, Chuuya. I still do.”
“There aren’t…” Chuuya sighs, like he clearly can’t believe how someone can still be so stupid. “...parts of my life, Dazai. It’s just me.”
What I wanted was you.
The air feels thick, like the room itself is sealed away in a plastic bag and they’re close to suffocating.
Chuuya doesn’t need a reason to tell Dazai why he shouldn’t be in his apartment right now. It’s his birthday, he planned out one peaceful evening perfectly. He just showered and pampered himself an unnecessary amount. He’s got chilled wine in the fridge, the movie is already picked and he plans to stuff himself full of his favorite meal, which is currently on the stove. The evening was supposed to be nice, all by himself, getting tipsy and fine, getting comfortable.
But here they are.
“Are you gonna pay?”
“What?” Dazai’s head snaps up.
Chuuya lets Baki down again, straightening and leveling Dazai with his gaze. “Are you gonna pay for everything if we go? Because I sure as hell don’t plan to spend my money.”
He’s irritated and tired. He can at least take this for granted if he’s going to have this night go some other way.
Dazai’s face finally breaks into a smile since he first came in. “I can at least offer you mochi.”
Chuuya shakes his head, returning into the bedroom to change while leaving an annoyed mutter of ‘five minutes’ in his wake.
Five minutes. Yeah, sure, Dazai can wait five minutes to finally have a chance at this. He’s waited five years after all. And he’d be willing to wait five thousand more if it means fixing this and being together with Chuuya again.
“You’ve always had this weird habit of tearing off the “layer” of buns before you eat them.”
“You’re supposed to tear the first layer off, idiot.”
“Hmm, no you’re not. There isn’t any legitimate reason, and,” Dazai holds up a finger, “you get to eat less.”
“No, okay, it’s a layer for a reason—
“It’s not a layer. It’s a bun as a whole!”
“What if someone else touched it before you did? You can never know if—
“Now you’re just being paranoid,” Dazai points out. "They use clamps for food."
“I’m not being paranoid, it’s called taking precautions. You don’t wanna get a bug from eating a pork bun—
Chuuya breaks off as Dazai takes a humongous bite out of his own bun, grinning widely like he has zero regrets.
“Yeah, you know what? Forget I ever said anything. Just don’t come crawling when you catch food poisoning. You know jack about taking care of yourself.”
“That’s because you used to take care of me all the time,” Dazai says quietly and Chuuya stops in his tracks.
They’ve arrived at the outskirts of the festival area now, the night wind in Chuuya’s hair and tugging at the hoodie he’s wearing. Oh, Dazai knows that hoodie, has bought it for himself before a certain chibi stole it from him one Christmas, saying there weren’t any clothes as comfy as that in his collection.
It still dwarfs him the same, baggy and cozy-looking but in Dazai’s opinion, it looks better on Chuuya than it ever will on himself. Dazai looks down at him, into the glistening blue abyss of his eyes shining under the silver moonlight and suddenly it feels like he can’t catch his breath.
“Chuuya?”
“Yeah?”
Dazai lowers his eyes a little, averting his gaze. “Why did you wait for me?”
Chuuya’s face is cool, calm and collected, while Dazai’s heart is going haywire in his chest.
“What do you mean, mackerel?”
“You know what I mean,” his voice is strained. “You shouldn’t have waited for me. What if i couldn’t come back?”
“But you’re here now.”
“It could’ve gone a different way.”
Chuuya frowns. “Everything in life could’ve “gone a different way”, I couldn’t have waited either, if that’s the case.”
“I’d think you’d have moved on from me,” Dazai admits. “You could have, Chuuya.”
“Osamu,” Chuuya takes a step closer to him, practically standing so close in his personal space that Dazai can even smell the scent of his shampoo. And it’s fascinating.“I didn’t even know if you were alive when you disappeared.”
Dazai’s expression turns to something close to that of guilt at that. Because, he can’t outright deny that there hadn’t been days when he considered ending it once and for all, give in to the craving he has had for so long, nights when it got too tiring to keep breathing and when he wanted to melt into the shadows and disappear like a ghost, go out like one of the stars in the sky.
“But I still waited for you.” Chuuya tries to catch his gaze, not stopping till he locks eyes with Dazai and sees how the brunet looks so sad. “You know why?”
Dazai shakes his head.
“Because I believe in us.” Chuuya answers as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I believe that if what we had was real, we would be together again, one way or another. It doesn't matter if we are...on opposite sides or in different lives. I would’ve waited for you as long as it took, forever and always.”
It’s as though Chuuya is reaching into him and shaking Dazai down to the core with every word, as if Dazai hasn’t suffered enough by the sincerity in those hopeful blue eyes.
Chuuya places a hand on his chest, right over his heart. “I was mad at you, Dazai. I still am. But that doesn’t mean I ever once stopped loving you.”
The wind shifts, squirming into what little space they have between each other but they’re standing way too close to care about any of that right now.
“Chibikko,” Dazai chokes out. “Can I kiss you?”
Instead of answering, Chuuya leans up onto his tiptoes and presses their lips together, immediately winding his arms around Dazai’s neck, and god, he tastes exactly how Dazai remembers, soft, sweet with a sharpness to the flavor on his tongue and the kiss speaks for every silence they’ve shared and every corner of the distance they’ve had between them for the past five years. Dazai gathers Chuuya up against him, snaking both arms around his small waist and pulling himself closer till their chests are flattened against each other. And people might be staring, sneering, thinking if they can’t control themselves in public, but it feels like he can breathe and feels like he can’t and feels like desire and longing and memories and laughter and everything that he has ever thought of Chuuya.
It feels like home.
Like perfection.
And said people can fuck off.
When they break apart, Chuuya lingers in his embrace just long enough to press their foreheads together, cupping Dazai’s jaw tenderly.
“I’m sorry,” Dazai murmurs before he drops a peck onto Chuuya’s lips again. “Happy birthday, sweetheart.”
Chuuya smiles against his mouth, leaning into him further like no matter how close they get, it could never be enough.
This really is the best present after all.
“Thank you, Osamu.”