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Chuuya’s authenticity, as far as Dazai can remember, is the only constant in both their lives.
No matter the sluggish weight Dazai feels at the end of each week, the exhaustion which bursts behind his eyelids at noon each day, Dazai can never find a way to hide from Chuuya for too long. He’s too real, and he sees people — if Dazai even fits into that category.
Chuuya has always peered from the shadows of Dazai’s rooms when he’s inking his arms with ballpoint pens, a nagging (comforting) force. He remains vibrant in the sunlight — running laps like he’s got nothing to lose, sweating more from using his brain rather than when he’s using his limbs.
Despite gaining cognition of how great Chuuya effortlessly is, it’s unsaid that Dazai still feels the need to mess with him — for both their sakes.
And despite that, Chuuya sticks around. He doesn’t make a big deal out of it, would hate to make it bigger than it is, actually. Dazai doesn’t call their time spent together a truce, but a few others have referred to it as such.
Somewhere along the way, Chuuya started to grab his knuckles and let light kisses reside there after Dazai managed to barely run a lap. Dazai kissed him on the lips when he felt a little lonely, or sad, or happy — whenever. Behind closed doors, unspoken, never addressed. It’s better this way.
It marks Chuuya as Dazai’s first — first something. And it counts, it counts more than anybody would have.
Counting as Dazai’s first something includes self-sacrifice, not that Chuuya bothered to mention it. Sacrificing the parties he was invited to, only to stay home and watch a movie you’ve seen a million times before with your self-proclaimed “least favorite person in the world.” It was enough to prove Chuuya’s loyalty, his endless commitment to Dazai and what Dazai liked to call his problems. (Chuuya didn’t like that term.)
Doubt never vanishes, but it was never prominent. Things between them were good, they were well. Losing interest is inevitable, but Dazai (and Chuuya himself) convinced himself that it wouldn’t happen, because they’re them.
Whatever that means.
Yet, at the ripe age of seventeen, Dazai thinks he might’ve been wrong. Just a bit.
“Eat up,” Chuuta nods to Dazai’s untouched bowls. They’re both filled to the brim, one with rice and the other with soup’s broth.
Dazai meets his eyes. They’re flat and tired from over-exertion and nonstop studying, lashes naturally curled from the steam of the shower he’d taken earlier.
“Not hungry?” Chuuya swallows, tearing his eyes away from Dazai’s. He looks pained, like he knows Dazai’s having an off day. This would be the first time he neglected bringing it up.
Nonetheless, Dazai shakes his head, giving Chuuya a tight smile, despite not having the latter’s attention anymore.
When Chuuya doesn’t pry, Dazai flings his head back too quickly, it hits the rear of the dining table’s chair with a thud. Chuuya’s insistence to shove food down Dazai's throat disintegrating to thin air shouldn’t annoy him this badly, but it does, and now he feels like an attention-seeker. He is one.
They’re fine, and Chuuya’s fine, Dazai is fine. His effort to get better worked, and now he’s better. It’s a done deal, and it never needs to be discussed again. That’s the only thing that’s keeping him from dropping his head into his hands, lip wobbling as he tugs on Chuuya’s sleeve like a toddler.
He won’t do it — he’s grown and all better now.
Instead, he pushes the wooden tray away. It makes an unpleasant screech, and that’s what grabs Chuuya’s attention. His eyes linger on the tray, trail up to Dazai’s face, and they make a home there. Dazai’s the one to pull his eyes away this time, and Chuuya knows better than to stare.
II.
A movie runs in the background as Dazai has his head laid in Chuuya’s lap, warm and protected from the rain outside. He hides his smiles into Chuuya’s thighs — even having the energy to laugh some. Chuuya’s one of those, the ones who talk during movies, exaggerated reactions and speaking to the characters like they can hear him.
Chuuya’s fingers feel nice in his hair, untangling the knots that Dazai couldn’t care to brush out. He slowly moves up, his chest against Chuuya’s, close enough to feel the warmth of his heartbeat from the outside. (That’s what he likes to think, at least.)
Bickering in moments like this isn’t right. There are moments where they’ll slur noncommittal insults and end up chuckling lowly at each other, but their stimulants right now are each other rather than their words.
Dazai’s relieved that his “off-week” has passed. The discomfort that settled under his skin had been drowned out by overwhelming attention given to him, courtesy of Chuuya. (He knew, of course he did.)
“We should’ve gone out today.” Chuuya twists his lips like he’s tasted something sour, eyes glazing over Dazai’s expression carefully. He pulls his lips together, feigning consideration.
Humming, he says, “It’s raining though.”
“Rain never stopped anybody. You’re just a homebody who doesn’t like to go anywhere.” Chuuya chuckles, fingers dancing over Dazai’s unkempt eyebrows.
His eyes shine when he says this next thing, witty as ever, “I should get a new boyfriend, one that’s into following me like a dog, hm?”
His voice holds mirth, and it’s obviously a joke, a mere mockery of how Dazai’s fond of calling Chuuya his dog — but that doesn’t stop Dazai’s throat from getting a little too tight, his heart dropping to his stomach.
Since when isn’t he able to take jokes? He’d usually be able to respond with something witty in return, always keeping Chuuya on the tip of his toes.
Chuuya is more than accepting of all the string-alongs that come with Dazai’s depression. Hell, it took a lot of effort to even get Dazai to admit he was ill. Helping Dazai clean his room and washing the week-old dishes sitting on the vanity, being on the receiving end of Dazai’s frustrating indifference — that never mattered.
It went without saying that Chuuya wouldn’t leave him for something he couldn’t control. But if Chuuya wants a guy who can be dragged out on weekends, even when it’s raining, to do — whatever guys like that fancy, then so be it.
Dazai only manages a dry chuckle after his few beats of silence, “Yeah, you should.”
Dazai doesn't know what compels him to say it, but he says it anyway. He’s subconsciously hoping that Chuuya’ll yell, or pause, even if it’s for a moment, but he doesn’t.
Chuuya only twirls Dazai’s locks between his fingers, humming.
Dazai doesn't speak much for the rest of the evening.
III.
“What’s got you so distracted, Dazai-kun?” Ango asks him, kicking his leg from under the table. The lunchroom is suffocating, Dazai wants the period to end, even if it means having to listen to that sensei with the nasally voice afterwards.
Rather than Chuuya noticing his… “odd” behavior like Dazai wanted him to — Ango does instead.
Chuuya sits across the lunch room from them, looking quite interested in what the blonde girl across from him has to say. He doesn’t share many words, only opening his mouth when he goes to shove a bit of his lunch inside. Dazai can’t help but clench his jaw at the utter annoyance that flutters in the pit of his stomach, forcing his eyes away.
Ango narrows his eyes, “What's up with you?”
“Like I’d tell you.”
Dazai bites his tongue, breathing stuttering at his own slip-up. He still gives Ango the most saccharine smile he can muster after the fact.
“Not going to pry before that boyfriend of yours breaks my jaw.”
“Ironic.” He nods to Chuuya, conveniently laughing and smiling with his group of friends. He fits right in. Ango follows his gaze, snorting when he catches sight.
“Trouble in paradise?”
“You could say that.” He kicks Ango’s foot from under the table once more, lacking the energy to make a scene, much less explain what this trouble is.
Ango drums his fingers across the countertop of the table, inhaling deeply. Dazai meets his eye, the glint of his glasses makes it difficult to see clearly. He motions for Dazai to stand up, “Let’s sit outside.”
Normally, he’d refuse. And he tries,
“Lunch is almost over.”
Ango slants his head, raising a single brow at him knowingly. Instead of using nonexistent energy to argue, he slings his bag around his shoulder and follows suit.
He makes a point not to glance back at Chuuya.
It’s not like he’s looking for Dazai anyway.
IV.
Leaving school without his boyfriend isn’t a wise decision. Frankly, it’s petty and below the person he’s worked so hard to become. Abandoning Chuuya, despite knowing full well the latter can handle himself, feels wrong.
Attention-seeker.
Him, quite literally. Bawling like a baby when he doesn’t get Chuuya’s undivided attention, acting out like a toddler when he feels like he’s been wronged. The ache that stems from his stomach grows near his chest, and while his eyes are far from water, he oddly feels like crying.
Chuuya is probably confused, jumping to the conclusion Dazai was angry, he’s not angry, that’s not the right word at all. That feeling that he’s been trying to ignore for these past couple of weeks has returned stronger, making Dazai feel as if he could double over and vomit right there.
Chuuya would jump to the conclusion that something happened, he’d be worried — but he wouldn’t let it show on his face. He’d linger around the front gates until five minutes after, only then would he get visibly antsy. Dazai can only imagine how angry he’d be once he found out Dazai was home, peacefully sitting upright on his bed.
The door shuts behind him, and the house is quiet. Nobody’s home. At this time, he’d be accompanied by the comforting sound of Chuuya sliding off his shoes and placing them on the rack, but…
His phone vibrates in his pocket. He makes an effort to just ignore it, but he can’t.
It’s pathetic, how not getting the attention he wants is making him this upset. At this point, he’s deluding himself into thinking he deserves more attention than he gets. It’s no wonder why Chuuya’s losing interest in him, or why Chuuya wants a new boyfriend.
Dazai wouldn’t want to be his own boyfriend, for fuck’s sake. Nobody wants a partner who’s emotionally incompetent, or who likes to stay inside all the time, or can barely gather the energy to brush his hair some days.
The phone rings again, and he has to shut his eyes tightly before deciding to answer it.
“Where the hell are you?!”
Dazai winces, exhaling through his nose deeply, “Home.”
“Christ — I thought something happened, Osamu.”
There’s nothing to say. He keeps quiet until he hears Chuuya’s exasperated sigh coming from the other side.
“Should I even bother coming over?”
A hitch in his breath, “Yes. Please bother.”
Despite everything, Chuuya’s telltale snort is heard loud and clear. “I’ll be there.”
— ୨୧ —
“You wanna tell me why you left me by the gate today, or are we gunna pretend that just… didn’t happen?”
Dazai had been waiting for it to come up. Chuuya hadn’t ambushed him with questions and angry accusations right away, but he should’ve known not to expect that, anyway. Chuuya isn’t like that anymore, and Dazai needs to learn to give him more credit for trying to be gentle.
“Well, you see,” He fiddles with the end of his sweater cuffs, planning on bullshitting an excuse that he knows Chuuya won’t buy.
“Oh, stop it.” Chuuya scoffs, “Cut the crap. Please.”
He didn’t even give Dazai a minute to breathe, keeping him on the tips of his toes. He should’ve expected that, too.
Nibbling on his bottom lip, destroying the flesh, won't help any of the words to come out of his mouth, so he forces himself to stop. He sets his palms down on the dining room table, “I am… having trouble. Dealing with something.”
“Dealing with what?”
“You.”
Chuuya looks taken aback, “Me?”
Dazai grunts, “Not — Not you, I’m just feeling a bit neglected.”
“Neglected… by me?”
Chuuya still isn’t catching the drift, or maybe he does and he’s playing dumb, but either way — he wants, he needs, Dazai to say it. Blunt and out in the open, no misinterpretations allowed.
“I want your attention.”
Soft and spoken like if he says it too loud, it’ll be broadcasted to the local news channel. Chuuya stares at him owlishly, looking like a deer in the headlights for a few brief moments. Then, there’s a hand coming up to shield his mouth, a smile peeking out from what Dazai can see.
He doesn’t bother to act genuinely upset, “Laughing at me, are we now?”
Chuuya’s free hand comes up to pet the top of his head, leaving the chair behind to stand adjacent to Dazai, leaning down to press a warm kiss to the crown of his head. The kisses continue, growing from soft to aggressive, squishing Dazai’s cheeks until he can hardly breathe.
“You’re such an idiot.” Chuuya sighs, fondly, Dazai hopes.
“I wouldn’t be such an idiot if Chuuya paid more attention to me!”
Chuuya chuckles, blowing air over Dazai’s shut eyelids, “Brat. You’re spoiled enough.”
“Not true…”
Chuuya pulls him close then, having Dazai squashed into his chest. He bends down to nip the shell of Dazai’s ear, “Tell me next time. Instead of, you know, leaving me high and dry.”
“I’ll try.”
Chuuya’s sigh is definitely fond this time around, “I know. You’re good at trying.”
That’s more praise — more attention — than Dazai deserves.