Work Text:
Morning.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
A throbbing headache wakes Chuuya up and it feels like an entire marching band is parading inside his skull. He can see the morning light through his closed eyelids, waiting to blind him as soon as he cracks an eye open. It’s obviously a trap and he doesn’t plan on falling for it, so he just buries himself even more under the covers. The hangover is there, that much is clear. With effort, memories from the past night resurface one after another.
The truce between Port Mafia and the Armed Detective Agency had been going on for a while now and some of the members from both organizations had become reluctant friends, leading to drinking nights between the two parties becoming a common occurrence. Much to his surprise, Chuuya has found in Yosano-sensei a great drinking buddy and a wine lover like him; unfortunately, unfortunately, she can hold her alcohol better than the lightweight could ever hope to match,, which often means Yosano ends up listening to him blabbering about trivial stuff and Dazai — because he talks a lot about Dazai when he’s drunk, or so he’s been told by many.
There’s a slight burn in his throat and a terrible taste in his mouth, the usual Sunday morning telltale of him emptying his stomach after drinking too much.
Come to think of it, he was with Yosano the night before, he clearly remembers ordering a fancy brand of wine she really wanted to try. Everything is clear up until the first half of the second bottle, after that it’s a mess of black mixed with flashes of faces and colors, one of those faces belonging to Dazai. Another groan escapes his lips: the more he pushes the bastard away, the more he ends up seeing him everywhere.
It may not be costly, but
I won’t let go of this single rein,
passing through this gloomy region!
Since that intent has clarified
I don’t grieve over the winter’s night,
only the sorrow of people’s frustration.
The humming of women led by longing
I feel as my venial sin,
I let it pierce my skin.
Great, now he also hears Dazai spewing random poetic shit. Just what he needed to puke again and get rid of the remaining alcohol intoxicating his body.
Those words sound familiar, though…
Though I stagger, I keep the peace;
I admonish my indolence
with something of a sense of formality
as I go under the cold winter’s moon.
Cheerful, serene, and not selling out,
that’s what my soul desired!
Oh, right. These are from one of those poems he writes in his free time.
A mafioso writing poetry has to be the biggest oxymoron of the century, and yet, Chuuya is that very mafioso. Scribbling feelings on paper, choosing the right words to express them, reading more poetry to find inspiration… Those simple acts make him feel lighter, at peace even. It’s a comfortable, safe haven where Chuuya is no one but a human dealing with the most intrinsic feelings of the heart. Somehow, the ink staining those white papers is powerful enough to quiet Arahabaki down too, postponing the urge to forever corrupt his body to another time, when Dazai and No Longer Human are around to save him and Yokohama from ultimate demise. Chuuya had started writing four years ago, to distract himself from Dazai’s betrayal and Arahabaki’s blind rage storming inside his chest, pushing and pulling at his heart until it bled and flooded his ribcage and lungs.
“Chuuya is a poet, who could’ve thought?”
Now, that voice is way too clear to be just a product of his currently fucked-up brain; when he realizes the bed has dipped right beside him under a weight — someone’s weight — it’s already too late and his eyes shoot open: Dazai Osamu himself is sitting right next to him, on his bed, reading through the papers where every crack of his heart and soul is blatantly exposed and vulnerable.
“What the fuck are you doing here?! Get out of my flat!”
The other man finally stops reading when Chuuya’s punch tries to reach his nose, only to dodge it and start reading again.
“I’m impressed, Chuuya. Your meter is very musical, I suppose I should’ve seen it coming from someone who’s good at music.”
Dazai Osamu, on his bed, while he is hungover, on a Sunday morning, complimenting him?
Is this what nightmares feel like?
“... However, your metaphors are pretty strange, can’t say I’m a fan of them.”
Yeah, this is definitely a nightmare.
“Fuck you too, Dazai.”
Is there even a point fighting him, when he is sure he’s already read all of it multiple times and perfected all the puns?
The whole situation is so surreal; there are so many questions whirling in Chuuya’s pulsing head that he doesn’t even know where to start.
How did you find my apartment?
Dumb question, of course shitty Dazai would stalk him to find his address.
Where did you find the keys?
No need, Dazai had been picking locks since before he could even walk.
Why are you going through my personal stuff?
Because it’s Dazai, and he had made a mission out of annoying Chuuya as long as he’s alive.
Why are you on my bed? And why is your tie undone, your hair messy, your shirt unbuttoned…
Oh, fuck. Was he that drunk last night?!
Chuuya can already hear the roaring laughter of his colleagues picking on him for shagging Dazai Osamu, of all people in Yokohama, during one of his drunken adventures.
“Dazai.”
“Mh?”
“Why are you here?”
The man seems genuinely surprised by his question. “You mean you don’t remember?!”
Chuuya tries to swallow but there’s no more saliva left in his mouth, be it from the hangover or the implication of Dazai’s words about last night’s events.
“Is there something I should remember?”
The glint in Dazai’s eyes isn’t encouraging in the slightest, if anything it fuels Chuuya’s worries to such an extent he needs to mentally scan the entirety of his body to spot any specific ache. And he can’t find any, which makes him worry even more.
“That offends me, Chuuya. You seemed to like it a lot when I—“
“Stopstopstop! I don’t wanna hear any of that crap, just go away and forget whatever we did.”
His panic has to be the most pitiful state Dazai has ever seen him in, he can’t bring himself to care. Their relationship is built on unfortunate chemistry and too many words left unspoken, and Chuuya isn’t strong enough to deal with this kind of aftermath, not when he’s still in the process of sobering up; or any other time, really.
“— When I held your head while you puked your guts out. Chuuya shouldn’t drink so much on an empty stomach, what a childish habit to have still.”
… What?
“Come again?”
“Are you full of alcohol up to your ears? I said you’re stupid for drinking this much without eating properly bef—”
Chuuya jumps on his knees and grabs at Dazai’s loose collar. “Listen to me, you ass. Tell me what happened last night before I get seriously pissed and kick you into the next life!”
“Oh, you can finally reach my neck, amazing!” Dazai dodges another punch. “Okay, okay! Fine! You ought to do something about that terrible attitude, though.”
Dazai wraps both hands around Chuuya’s wrists and unceremoniously yanks them from his garment.
“I’m surprised you think I’d willingly lay a finger on you like that, I’d rather listen to Kunikida-kun’s endless complaining,” Dazai releases the other man’s wrists. “You got so hammered last night Yosano-sensei called me to take you home, since she was drunk too and didn’t know your address. I took you here, you threw up twice, I helped you to get in bed, that’s it.”
That’s… surprisingly thoughtful of Dazai.
“That’s it? And you stayed here because…?”
“Couldn’t miss the chance to see you choke on your own vomit while you’re sleeping.”
At this point, punches have become boring and Chuuya opts for a kick, the bastard dodges that too.
“Well, I’m alive, so you can go home now.”
Relief washes over Chuuya as soon as he realizes nothing had happened between them and he slumps back against the pillows. Another realization slaps him in the face: he’s wearing pajamas, he chooses to ignore the implication of that. Dazai doesn’t move an inch from the spot where he’s still sitting, and the silence that falls over them is terribly unnerving. He has the audacity to resume reading Chuuya’s manuscripts.
“Oi, stop that! That’s private stuff, nosy mackerel,” he kicks him again. This time Dazai doesn’t move and lets the papers scatter on the polished floors of the mafioso’s apartment.
“Do you really think you have the right to write poetry with that bloodied hand of yours?”
Dazai still hasn’t moved an inch from his position and yet, he feels like he has just punched the air out of him. There’s malice in his words and his eyes have emptied of all light, they’re similar to those of Port Mafia Dazai he used to know.
“Everyone can do poetry,” Chuuya retorts. “You don’t have to be a philanthropist.”
“Writing is sacred, Chuuya. It’s not something you, a mafioso, can do lightheartedly or for fun.”
Chuuya can taste the bitterness on his tongue now, but it’s not from his stale breath anymore. “What I do in my spare time is none of your business. And it’s not like you are exempt from that either, stupid beanpole.”
“I never said I’m excused from that. I’m just saying you — we — don’t deserve the beauty of poetry. Writing about human hearts, human feelings, human experiences… It’s a human privilege only.”
A genuinely confused frown twists Chuuya’s forehead. Has he forgotten the Assassination King incident already?
“I am human, Dazai.”
“Are you, Chuuya? Biologically speaking, yes. Your soul, however, is far from being one of a human.” A hint of sadness, pity maybe, is coating his words. Chuuya, weirdly enough, doesn’t feel provoked by it.
“I am human, period. The fact that I sleep, shit, feel hungry, have emotions, all of this makes me a real human. As a human, I’m entitled to write random shit on paper. And you’re a human too, Dazai.” Another punch but this time it’s softer, comforting, almost a caress on Dazai’s shoulder. No Longer Human washes over him along with the familiar feeling of nothingness that comes with it, Arahabaki goes still and the Earth’s gravity pushes against him in a whole different way.
“Not quite, or maybe no longer.”
“Surprisingly optimistic of you.”
“Isn’t it. I can’t speak or act like one, I don’t feel things like humans do. Chibi, it’s not that difficult, not even for your little dog brain!”
Armed detective Dazai seems to be back now, and so is Chuuya’s need to rough him up. The thing he hates most about Dazai is that he — Chuuya — can’t overlook all the tragic things his partner is made of, he can’t not care about him, despite their troubled past.
“God, you’re such a dramatic idiot. Tell me, Dazai, don’t you trust me on the battlefield?”
The surprise on Dazai’s face is so satisfying to witness, Chuuya wishes he could take a photo with his phone right now. Only God knows where Dazai has thrown that thing.
“Begrudgingly, yes.”
“And didn’t you change your life to save people and save an orphan too?”
“Yes, Chuuya, so what?”
“Shut it, I’m getting there. Didn’t you bring me here, despite us being enemies, and went as far as helping me?”
“I should’ve let you deal with that on your own, you threw up on my shoes too.”
“Oh, how I wish I remembered your face. Anyway, haven’t you tried to kill yourself basically every day?”
“Yes and I’m still here talking to you, sadly enough.”
Chuuya holds up four fingers. “Trust,” one finger goes down. “Empathy,” another one goes down. “Compassion,” another one. “Emptiness,” the last finger. “I could list more, but these things make you a human too. An idiot, manipulative human. A terrible human. A human that thinks he can judge others for writing poetry. But still a damn human . You should write too sometimes, maybe you wouldn’t be such a constipated ass.”
Chuuya takes in the sight of a speechless Dazai, a once-in-a-lifetime event he will forever treasure.
The light in his eyes is back, there’s a slight smile tugging on his lips and Chuuya can’t help but give him his signature lopsided smile.
“These are four reasons, petit mafia. I thought you could count at least up to five?”
Well, it was nice until it lasted. Chuuya throws a pillow at him, charged with gravity.
“Find it yourself since you’re so smart! I’m never consoling you again, it was a mistake.”
That’s how it always is with Dazai, he doesn’t even get that pissed anymore. That man has toyed with him more than he cares to acknowledge and yet there is still this supernatural, unwavering trust between them that sometimes has Chuuya wondering if it’s even normal to trust a person this much. He’s never gotten an answer so far and maybe he doesn’t even want it in the end, it’s enough to see Dazai doing the same with him. Facts over words is usually a better approach to human relationships, that much is clear to him.
“I didn’t need you to comfort me, chibi, I was merely stating the truth. I appreciate it, by the way,” he shrugs, his face turns into the usual unreadable expression.
“Listen, I don’t know what kind of shit you’ve been telling yourself but being a broken human doesn’t make you less of a human. Now let me sleep, my head is killing me.”
Surprisingly, Chuuya had always been better at words than Dazai, despite the latter’s tendency to ramble. Honest, comforting words, a little harsh sometimes, but never rough on sensitive spots.
“Thank you. Can I keep reading Chuuya’s poems? They are kinda funny and I need the laugh,” Dazai sneers at him once again with that expression Chuuya hates. He’s too exhausted to fight it (and openly acknowledging Dazai’s gratitude is off the table because even thinking about it makes his cheeks grow uncomfortably hot).
“As long as you shut the fuck up while I try to sleep the hangover away. Help yourself with whatever I have in the kitchen if you get hungry, don’t open the door if someone rings the bell, don’t fucking answer the phone in my place. And don’t thank me, it’s gross.”
It’s barely whispered from below the covers but the other man still hears it, and smiles fondly.
Dazai observes Chuuya passing out in a matter of seconds and a strange warmth invades his chest. He could literally kill him in his sleep without much effort, as vulnerable as he is. They have quite the history together, after all, he knows when and how to act in such a situation. And yet, he still chooses to trust him in every aspect of his life that doesn’t involve the battlefield. The dear hatrack has always had this bad habit, among many others, and it has to be the most dangerous one so far.
Chuuya has always had the ability to surprise Dazai, from the raw power of Corruption to his innate, disarming honesty. There’s no filter between his soul and the world around him, he is just like that: openly tainted, shamelessly living a life of crime, being unapologetically a human with his flaws and values. A weird mixture of pride and jealousy clutches at his stomach.
Noon.
Time passes and noon comes almost unnoticed.
Chuuya opens his eyes to a dimly lit room, the curtains half-closed. There’s a strong smell of fresh coffee in the air and much to his surprise, there’s an actual cup of coffee on his nightstand. Dazai is nowhere to be seen; unfortunately, he can be heard with his stupid suicide song.
Dazai being kind to him is far too suspicious and the tangy smell of the drink is a clear indication of the prank he almost fell for. Must be poison, Chuuya’s greatest weakness. A tentative sip, just so he has a reason to kill Dazai, and his heart drops to his stomach. Lemon and coffee , classic hangover remedy; it tastes like shit and Chuuya gags a few times as he tries to empty the cup. His head feels a little too light after the realization has dawned upon him and his heart is still trying to make its way back to the ribcage, spectacularly failing in its mission. Pushing those feelings aside, he opts for a shower to wash off the sweat and the stench of alcohol and whatever other fluid he might have touched while drunk.
Now fresher and with the intoxication steadily going down thanks to that special coffee, Chuuya feels a little more ready to deal with Dazai and his antics; the door of his bedroom opens and his living room is still there — thank fuck — but he’s not sure how long it’s gonna last, since the suicidal maniac’s attempts to stop the fire that’s charring one of his pans aren’t working in the slightest.
“What the fuck are you doing,” Chuuya says, it’s more of a statement than a question.
“Hi, Chuuya! Cooking lunch, obviously!” Dazai replies in earnest with a shit-eating grin plastered on his face.
“Gimme that before you burn down the entire building!”
Chuuya ends up fixing lunch for both while humming to whatever song his mind can think of, because the vibe is a little too familiar and relaxed and it’s not normal. Sharing a homemade meal with him as they sit on the stools of the kitchen counter and make small talk is so not normal. Dazai never asks what he’s been up to, he teases relentlessly until Chuuya wants to beat the ever-loving shit out of him and that’s about it.
“So, what are you plotting? Don’t give me that face, I know you’re up to something.”
“I’m not plotting anything, dumb slug. We both happen to have a day off and the Agency wouldn’t have forgiven me if I let you die,” Dazai shrugs as he shoves a spoonful of miso soup in his mouth.
“I don’t have a day off.”
“You do, I sent Ane-san a message,” he states, matter-of-factly.
“I told you not to touch my phone!”
“Actually, you told me not to answer the phone. She texted you and I told her you were disposing of your hangover, for some reason she was a bit cold to me,” Dazai says in his usual dramatic voice.
“I bet she was,” Chuuya grabs his phone, left unattended on the counter, and scrolls down to find the texts.
Ane-san
Good morning, Chuuya. How are you?
Today’s meeting is at 3 PM.
Chuuya? Don’t tell me you drank last night!
Chuuya
yo ane-san!! Dazai here!
he’s safe and sound dw! just drunk out of his mind, doesn’t look like he’s gonna feel better anytime soon :)
Ane-san
He better be, Dazai.
Tell him he’s got the day off, I’ll deal with Mori.
A defeated sigh leaves his throat. The stupid waste of bandages is clearly plotting something and maybe he doesn’t actually have the energy to deal with that; not to mention how much it bothers him having Dazai around after so much time and the whole traitor ’incident’.
“I can go away if you want,” those words catch him off guard. Dazai has always let him have a choice, with Corruption at least, but if annoying Chuuya was the goal he wouldn’t have backed down for anything in the world.
“Why would you wanna stay in the first place? After four years of silence. Not even two years after leaving the mafia you were already playing the good guy at the Agency.”
That bitter taste is back now, along with an uncomfortable feeling at the back of his neck. Chuuya usually wears his heart on his sleeve and because of that, there’s no need to guess how he feels. With Dazai, however, he’s already an open book and exposing himself more than he already has, is crossing a line that shouldn’t be crossed.
“It’s not a game, Chuuya, not this time, but I understand. I understand I hurt you and I understand I should’ve asked you to come with m—”
A hand slams on the marble counter, and a web of cracks opens under the palm. “You’re full of shit! I’m happy as I am, Port Mafia is my family and I’d never leave. I thought you’d know me better, Dazai.”
Happy.
That word echoes in the other man’s head, ricocheting inside his skull like a stray bullet. He wonders if he has ever felt ‘happy’ once in his life.
“I do know you, but I also know Mori pulls the strings of his subordinates. Are you okay with being treated like a puppet?”
Now he seems angry, for reasons Chuuya can’t quite understand. Having this kind of conversation with him is already enough to make his head spin: it’s so unlike the Dazai he used to know to try and save someone.
“Not everyone needs to find his life purpose like you, shit head. I’m content enough with existing and doing what feels right to me. I don’t need ‘ saving ’, you’re being selfish,” he feels Dazai needs time to process, and that he does. Chuuya sits back on the stool and watches him ponder his words with care, a deep frown crumpling his face.
All of this mess aside, Dazai looks like an entirely different person, but somehow still the same too. His fashion sense has changed, his view on life has changed. He has physically changed too, he weighs more, his complexion looks healthier, his hair shinier, his eyes soulful and deep. Chuuya remembers them being jet-black with hues of red, but as full of light as they are now, they are actually of a sweet and warm toffee color. Dazai seems to have learned to take care of himself at last, and that makes him smile openly without even realizing it.
When they lock their gaze, because Chuuya is literally staring at him, he jolts and turns away as he busies himself washing the dishes.
“I’m sorry, I was wrong,” Dazai says. “Cut me some slack, you evil chibi!”
There it is that mocking tone again. The redhead relaxes his shoulders and grins.
“Now that’s something I wasn’t expecting to hear from you, I wish I recorded it!”
Behind him, Dazai rises on his feet and he hears his footsteps approaching, a lump forming in his throat. He scrubs the plate even harder when the man leans over the counter, right next to the sink.
“You still think I’m a human?”
The scrubbing stops but he still can’t bring himself to look him in the eyes. ‘Good’ Dazai is way too intense, in the worst (or best) way possible.
“Insufferably human,” Chuuya corrects him. “You just apologized to me, of all people. That’s a thing dumb humans do: apologizing to their enemy to brag about their goodness.”
“Is Chuuya an enemy, though? I wouldn’t call you that, you are… someone I care about, I guess. A friend, perhaps?”
“Huh?! Gross, don’t you fuckin’ dare repeat that ever again!” Chuuya throws the sponge and the plate in the soapy water and finally faces him.
He’s not liking the sly smile on the former Demon Prodigy in the slightest. A hand lands on his cheek, if it wasn’t for the bandages brushing a little rougher than his palm, his touch is akin to a ghost’s, but much warmer.
“You’re so mean! What would you like to be called then, ‘sheepdog’?” Dazai taunts. His hold on Chuuya’s face is firmer without being constrictive, despite the familiar sting of a knife against his neck.
“I don’t want to be called anything by you, shitty mackerel, but I’m sure as hell you want to be called dead!”
“Oh, indeed I do!”
“Fuckin’ weirdo.”
“So I’ve been told. Say, are you up for a day together, to catch up?”
‘Good’ Dazai is such a handful, Chuuya muses. He would never admit it out loud but he’s so much more exciting to bicker with now.
“That’s your plan, making up for lost time?”
“Yes! And I’m going to do it regardless of what you think!” Dazai exclaims like only a little kid would.
At this point, Chuuya can’t be bothered to hide his soft expression anymore. “... It can’t be helped, I guess.” The knife drops on the floor with a metallic sound.
Afternoon.
Chuuya’s state doesn’t allow them to step outside the door, neither seem to be bothered by that. The air is thick with words and noises coming from kitchenware and music whose volume is a tad too high, heavy steps on the floor, thrown objects and endless bantering.
It’s enjoyable, almost peaceful in its chaos. There are calmer moments too, when Chuuya dozes off on the couch, when he has to reply to a work email, or when he goes outside, on the terrace, to smoke.
“I don’t like the smell of cigarettes.”
“Don’t come near me then, asshole.”
Chuuya only smokes when he’s stressed and judging by the number of cigarettes he’s smoked so far, he’s very much on edge. Dazai doesn’t blame him, being a Mafia Executive is a lot already, not to mention he has to deal with him after four years of silence, and seven of reciprocal attempted murders. He’s almost tempted to leave him be and discreetly sneak out of the apartment, but that would declare Dazai’s defeat and he can’t let that happen.
Chuuya is back in the living room and there’s something in his short glory, in the mismatched pajamas and messy hair that dries Dazai’s mouth and makes his heart skip several beats. Again, Chuuya is before him as his pure, tainted self. His partner feels so alive it’s unreal and it makes Dazai eager to get closer and closer and hold on tight to him before he disappears as a vision would.
“Oi, the fuck you starin’ at?”
Pure, tainted self, right.
“I think I might love Chuuya.” Blunt, brief. Almost as honest as the chibi.
The redhead definitely brushes it off way too easily with another lopsided grin, not registering the real meaning of his words at all. “I bet, I’m a delight to have around. You’re being weird today — even more than usual, just so you know.”
“Yeah, your lack of brain cells must have infected me,” Dazai replies, without missing a beat.
His tongue sticks out for one second only because the next one he has to dodge a glowing-red kick.
“I hate you so much it’s unbelievable I still put up with your shit.” ‘And it’s because I love you too, dumbass. I’ve been loving you for years,’ is what his mind wants him to scream but his mouth won’t obey the order. Because it would be so fucking complicated, borderline impossible. Probably more challenging than his work assignments, definitely more painful. Dazai is just confused, overwhelmed to have his old partner back in his life. Dazai doesn’t like people that way, let alone him. Dazai wants to die, it’s a lost cause from the start anyway.
The brunet’s fond-looking gaze stings painfully now.
“You’ll get wrinkles at twenty-two if you keep scowling like that,” Dazai taunts, and it gets on his nerves badly, as if he had just flicked the switch of his long-buried hatred for the stupid man who is toying — he has to be, there’s no other explanation — with him again.
“You should go home, Dazai.”
“Why, it’s fun playing house with Chuuya!”
“This is not a fucking game! This is not a game and you’re playing anyway, if it’s a toy you want, go play with your nooses or something.”
If wine is poison for his system, he’s getting rid of it by spitting it all at Dazai; in the back of his mind there’s a little alarm that’s gone off, warning him that what he is saying might become a source of regret for him, and he bites his tongue to shut himself up. Dazai keeps his composure, only betrayed by his pained expression.
“Okay, I’ll go grab my coat.”
The spell that had covered their day in soft cotton white has disappeared, showing the truth Chuuya had desperately tried to ignore while he was indulging in this stupid mistake.
“Wait, you’ve helped me. I might as well take you home so we’re even.”
The ride on his chopper is windy enough to let them be alone with their thoughts. Chuuya’s eyes often shift from the road to the rear-view mirrors to look at Dazai, he looks almost as distressed as him and it’s torture. Yes, Dazai had always left him a choice, but he has never seen him like this. He feels him moving, restless on his seat, jittery. Raw emotions similar to a scared stray dog. It was so much easier when all they wanted was to snap each other's neck, so much simpler. That pure hatred, fuelled by their aggressive need for competition, was more manageable than the stupid warmth filling his chest every time Dazai is in his field of vision. It was easier when he had actual reasons for wanting to kill him. "Chuuya’s loyalty will be his doom", he recalls those words he had said once to him, to which Chuuya, unfortunately, has to agree.
It happens all of a sudden, Dazai tilts a bit too much on one side, throwing the motorcycle and its driver off balance. With No Longer Human touching the vehicle, gravity manipulation isn’t an option. Chuuya, in an attempt to save both, slams on the breaks not hard enough to risk a frontflip but enough for Dazai to be launched forward against Chuuya’s back, arms folding instinctively around his waist; his arm flies backward to grab at Dazai, praying his gloved hand has enough grip to keep him from falling down. At this point, the only things that are keeping both them and the vehicle upright are Chuuya’s leg and core strength.
“Are you alright, Dazai?!” Chuuya’s voice raises and it’s coated in worry and fear. This dumbass really tried to fall from a speeding cycle.
“Aw, you should have let me fall! With that speed, I would have broken my spine against the concrete in a heartbeat!”
With the same hand that had saved him the second before, Chuuya lifts him and slams him on the ground of the sidewalk with unfiltered rage. His helmet gets thrown even farther now that his ability is flowing freely in his system again.
“Fuck you, Dazai! You don’t weigh your fucking words or actions because you don’t plan on living tomorrow! Do you think taking me home from a bar gives you the right to be back in my life like nothing happened?! Going as far as reading my stupid poetry and telling me we’re friends, that you love me, in the span of two hours? Fuck, no! You’re still the manipulative bastard I used to know, but I preferred it when you were trying to kill me physically.”
When he’s finally done, salty drops are falling down from his face. There’s sweat covering his forehead and dripping down, a slight tremor shakes his bottom lip, but his blurry sight is what makes him realize he is crying in front of Dazai. Humiliation starts gnawing at him.
Exhaustion brings him down and Chuuya lets gravity decide for him, he falls to the ground in a messy sitting position on the road that skirts Yokohama’s bay. The smell of dried salt from the sea claws at the back of his throat and the urge to scream to scratch it harder is strong.
“Yes, I’m a manipulative bastard, I knew you were going to catch me. You know, I haven’t actually tried to kill myself for six months and four days. It’s hard to resist it, I’m not gonna lie, I almost fell back into old habits several times, but Atsushi-kun and Akutagawa both need guidance to become the new Double Black. All of that aside, I know I joke a lot but Chuuya isn’t someone I’m willing to joke on, what I said earlier is real and backed up by my currently nonexistent suicide attempts. After all, to love someone is already putting life on the line and you know how serious I am when it comes to this matter. That said, if you want me to leave I will, if you want me to be nothing but a work partner I will — because the truce is gonna last for a while, I’m afraid — and I won’t bother you again anywhere but on the battlefield. It’s your choice, Chuuya.”
Everything is silent again and time seems to have stopped, not even the seagulls can be heard anymore, or the waves crashing against the lonely ships anchored to the dock.
“You talk so easily about love and yet you still lie to my face,” the older man replies, voice cracking against his will. “You almost killed yourself a second ago.”
“Heh, it was the easiest way to get you to stop driving, I wanted to talk about this. I told you I knew you were going to catch me,” Dazai shrugs, and the fact that he is serious, Chuuya can tell, makes him want to chuck him into the sea. Like the wise man he is, he decides to skate over Dazai’s dumbassery this time.
“Are you serious about what you said?”
“Which part?” Dazai asks in a mocking tone. He’s quick to reply though because Chuuya looks one second from murder. “I’m dead— hehe —serious about everything I said, for the first time in my life. Like you said, I’m terrible at being a human and I’m still learning to address these situations properly.”
“I hate you so goddamn much, you’re the biggest pain in my ass, and in my life!” Chuuya groans, swallowing warm and defeated tears again.
“No-huh. I’m not a pain in your ass yet. We’ll get to that, eventually.”
“The fuck we will! You’re a disgusting perv, you reckless manipulative bastard, you’re a walking contradiction, I hate you so fucking much.”
This time all of his words are muffled by Dazai’s chest and he gladly lets him push his head against his shirt, the closer to his heart the better. The scent of cologne and medicated bandages is something that is so unique, so Dazai, the ounce of honesty he could never fake. He wants to smell it forever.
“I absolutely agree. If you’re done and you’ve made your choice, the Agency is having dinner together tonight and we all have a plus one invitation, care to join?”
His voice is barely a whisper against his ear. It’s smooth like the finest whiskey and Chuuya feels like he’s about to melt on that very concrete.
“I’m not your trophy wife to show around, dumbass.”
“Trophy partner it is, then!”
Evening.
Chuuya avoids drinking this time, but he wishes he had been less responsible because dinner with his (supposedly) natural enemies is awkward and embarrassing and he doesn’t know what to do with himself. It was different with Yosano, she had told him about her past with Mori, which in hindsight it’s why he feels so at ease with her, trauma bonding or whatever it is called. Anyway, nobody had batted an eye since he had stepped inside the door of the Agency (aside from Ranpo, but it doesn’t hold the same hatred anymore). They all made him feel at home, in their own ways.
Kenji-kun had unceremoniously shoved tempura in his mouth.
Kunikida-san had given him the freedom to sit wherever and then busied himself to drag his friend, Tayama Katai, out of the electrical room.
Tanizaki-kun and Naomi-chan were too busy to do… whatever they were doing but apparently, they felt safe enough to keep being weirdos with a mafioso sitting in front of them.
Kyouka-chan sat near him and made much appreciated small talk. He had missed the kid, truly. They reminisced the days spent together with Kouyou, remembered the last time they had tea together like they were a normal family catching up on the latest gossips.
Atsushi-kun had brought along Akutagawa himself and Chuuya had to hold his stomach after laughing so hard at the weretiger’s plus one.
Fukuzawa-san was at the head of the table and barely spared him a glance, preferring to nod politely at Ranpo-kun and Haruno-san’s constant chatting.
It was different from the mafia’s environment, welcoming in a whole different way, warmer. Dazai’s hand, under the table, had never left his.
The moon was high in the sky already when they got back to the dormitories, and a faint smell of flowers in bloom in the air, a sign that Spring is just around the corner.
“Chuuyaaa~”
“What now?”
“Are you tired?”
Chuuya clicks his tongue. “My answer entirely depends on what you’re about to propose.”
Dazai lets out a dramatic sigh. “You’re always so suspicious. I’m asking because I’m not sleepy and you don’t have anything better to do but to stay with me!”
“I would literally enjoy watching paint dry more than staying with you, but go on,” Chuuya indulges him despite his snarky remark.
“How does a walk and you reading what I’ve written today sound?”
A few sticky notes appear from his pockets. Chuuya almost chokes him. “Who the fuck told you to steal my sticky notes and write shit on them?”
“Chuuya, you should be glad I didn’t use your face as my personal notebook!”
Like he hasn’t done that already, more than once.
“I would’ve crushed your stupid face on the ground. But okay, sure, I might as well read them since you wasted them. Let’s sit though, I can’t focus while walking.”
Dazai jokes about his multitasking skills and earns a much-deserved kick; he doesn’t dodge it this time. They sit on a bench, shadowed from the moonlight by a cherry tree foliage. Dazai scoots closer, the air is chilly and Chuuya is always as hot as a damn stove.
“What are you, a goddamn penguin? Get off me, you smell like sake!”
Dazai flicks Chuuya on the nose fondly. “Says the straight-edge. So, what do you think?”
Everything passes.
That is the one and only thing I have thought resembled a truth in the society of human beings where I have dwelled up to now as in a burning hell.
Everything passes.
“This shit’s depressing, and I don’t usually read nor write prose, so I can’t really tell, but I suppose it’s very… you ?”
Dazai looks at him dumbfounded and totally confused. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
“Fuck if I know, is it even a compliment being you?” Chuuya scans the yellow little papers again. “Yeah, it’s very Dazai. You almost managed to make it sound uplifting.”
“Read this one, this one’s pretty happy, isn’t it?”
This I want to believe implicitly: Man was born for love and revolution.
“Do you actually believe what you write or is this only for aesthetic purposes?”
“I wrote this thinking about you, stupid chibi. Of course I mean it,” Dazai pouts, like the infant he is.
“The love part or the revolutionary part?”
“Take a wild guess, short-stack.”
Sure his voice would betray him if he dared to speak his mind out loud, Chuuya preferred to skip to the other note.
He could only consider me as the living corpse of a would-be suicide, a person dead to shame, an idiot ghost.
Chuuya feels a knot form in his throat again. “Who is 'he ’?”
He already knows who that ‘he’ is, obviously, and for this reason Dazai remains silent as he stares at the lull of the night, taking it all in, both light and darkness.
Two gloved hands land on his cheeks with a slapping sound and jerk his head in order to meet Chuuya’s eyes. Irises so blue, it would be an honor to drown in them.
“I do think you’re an idiot, Dazai, but I don’t think any of the other shit you listed. You’re not a corpse, you’re alive and you’re human and you deserve to enjoy your life, alright?”
Odasaku’s last words flood his mind like a raging river. That hole in his soul will forever be there because patches can only do so much. Darkness, however, is just part of the day as much as death is part of life. If you’re not alone, if you choose to live in the sunset instead of the night, wandering becomes pleasant and darkness isn’t scary anymore. Dazai’s lips slightly curve upwards: for the first time, he can prove Odasaku wrong.
When Chuuya finally realizes why he still feels No Longer Human depriving him of his power, Dazai’s lips are already on his and his hands are straying from his shoulders to the back of his neck. It’s sweet, innocent, and long. It’s almost childish and it’s literally everything he wasn’t expecting from a Dazai kiss and it’s absolutely perfect. His own heart is beating fast, he can feel it on his lips, and during a moment of clarity, he hopes Dazai isn’t feeling it as well or it would have been fucking embarrassing to face him after. It’s pounding so hard he fears it might crack his ribcage, but it’s a pain he’s happy to endure if it means kissing him again and again, until his lungs are emptied of all air and his tongue becomes unable to taste anything else but Dazai’s cheap sake.
When they part, there’s no blush on Dazai’s face — what is he, a damn machine? — but his usual stupid smile plus something new shines in his eyes. Chuuya can’t really put his finger on it but it looks a lot like yearning and all of a sudden he feels intoxicated again.
“Ha, I knew Chuuya loved me too!”
“Of course I love you, shitty mackerel. Learn to read between the lines.”
~~~
I like roses best. But they bloom in all four seasons. I wonder if people who like roses best have to die four times over again.
“Tsk, remind me to never buy you roses. I couldn’t stand you for three lives more.”
“Fuck you, slug.”
“Fuck you too, now shut up and let me sleep.”
Dazai hums into Chuuya’s hair as he switches off the lights and throws the paper on the floor right beside their bed, where Dazai had thrown his poems a year before.
It will take time, sure, and maybe it’s a rocky road the one that opened in front of them; still, it’s a challenge humans face every day and, last time they checked, they had everything they needed to succeed in their journey.