Work Text:
Chuuya thinks there’s probably blood on his face.
His gloves are certainly clogged with the stuff – tonight’s job wasn’t a pleasant one. He’s already peeled them off and wiped his hands down on his pants as best he can. The gloves are wadded up inside one of his coat pockets.
He reaches around until he finds a (rather crushed-up) packet of cigarettes, takes one out, lights it. Sticks it in his mouth and shoves his hands into the pockets of his pants to distract from the rare discomfort of having them uncovered – soft breezes tearing like sandpaper against skin that’s more familiar with expensive leather than oxygen.
He’s crouched down in the shadows of an alley, head leaned back against a brick wall, when he hears a whimper. He lets his head to loll in the direction of the noise. He can’t see anything, but another whimper floats over to him, decidedly not human, and Chuuya’s heart feels oddly constricted. He hauls himself to his feet and walks slowly over the the dumpster from which the sound i seems to be emanating. A burst of tired rage surges through him for a moment at the prospect of finding some small creature inside the thing itself, at the thought that anyone could so cruelly abandon something that sounds so sweet and innocent amongst the city’s trash, but it passes when he checks inside and finds nothing. It isn’t until he’s bent down and fished out his phone so he can flash its torch under the dumpster that he sees the thing making the whimpering noises.
It’s a puppy, small and scraggly with fur that might be white under all the dirt. Chuuya has no idea what breed it is. The tiny thing’s shivering – it’s winter in Yokohama and the city’s been enduring downpours all week – and the whining is so pitiful that Chuuya’s heart constricts even tighter. He sighs and holds out a hand.
“C’mere,” he murmurs, tobacco smoke leaking from his lips with the words.
The puppy sniffs tentatively, shifts towards his fingers maybe, but makes no move to approach him. Chuuya waits.
It takes many minutes, but finally the puppy uncurls and wobbles closer. Chuuya lets it sniff around his outstretched hand, allows himself a soft grin when it licks at his palm. Eventually he manages to scoop it up – it’s small enough that this is not difficult to do with a single hand.
It is at this moment that it strikes Chuuya that he has absolutely no idea what goes into taking care of a dog. He considers who might be able to help him.
It’s around three in the morning. He can’t imagine Kouyou would be overly pleased to see him on her doorstep, covered in blood and carrying a stray puppy, at this of all times. She would probably allow it, but Chuuya will avoid bothering her if he can. And that leaves him with... approximately nobody else. He supposes this is only natural, given all of his associates are hardcore criminals. Sure, he certainly considers some of them his friends, but he cannot in the slightest envision himself going to them now, for this.
This is what he gets for being in the mafia.
There’s one obvious option, and it’s the option Chuuya is going to choose, though he rages against his easy acceptance of this fact, even as his feet start carrying him in a direction far more familiar than it should be. The puppy wriggles in his arms until he adjusts their position so that he’s cradling it in both, and then it huffs and promptly falls asleep.
Chuuya sighs as his heart squeezes again. He’s so fucked.
—
It isn’t entirely uncommon for Dazai or Chuuya to turn up on the other’s doorstep at unreasonable hours of the day, so Dazai isn’t overly surprised when his partner, hands bare and with blood smeared across his face and caked on his knuckles, is the one on the other side of the peephole when he goes to check who the hell is knocking on his door at four in the morning. Though, to be fair, this is Dazai – what’s he going to be doing at this time, sleeping? The thought is uniquely ludicrous. He opens the door.
And grimaces.
“Chuuya,” he leers, and gestures to the bundle of fur in his arms. “A personal relative of yours?”
“Go fuck yourself,” Chuuya growls, blustering past Dazai without waiting for an invitation inside.
The apartment is nice, if not rather small. It’s a temporary measure, after Mori decided he didn’t like the degree of ease with which Paul Verlaine had found Dazai’s old home, especially not with conflict brewing stronger every day. Their boss was never overly fond of the thought of his prodigy living in an unprotected shipping container at the fringes of the city (nor of said prodigy’s habit of breaking into nearby public buildings to use their bathroom facilities), and Verlaine was all the excuse he needed to put his foot down. Dazai doesn’t relish the decision, but he doesn’t much care, either. And he has to admit the bathroom is relatively convenient.
“No no no,” he calls after Chuuya. “You are not bringing that thing inside my house!”
“This is an apartment!” Chuuya yells from the kitchen. “And it’s not even yours!”
“Oh, in that case, all well and good, then!” Dazai snipes, and stomps off after his partner. “Seriously, get rid of it.”
Chuuya bursts out of the kitchen as soon as Dazai gets there. “Bath,” he says, shaking his head.
“You have no clue what you’re doing, do you,” Dazai deadpans.
“Would I be here if I did?” he snaps.
“Chuuya, I hate dogs,” Dazai whines. “What on earth would possess you to come to me for help with this?”
“Convenient,” Chuuya grumbles, and then he’s shut the bathroom door and Dazai can hear running water.
Dazai waits. Inhales through his nose. Sighs.
“Damn it,” he mutters, and opens the door.
He leans himself lightly against the doorframe. There’s a lot of steam floating around the bathroom already. “That water’s going to be too hot for it.”
Chuuya blinks up at him. “Right.” He turns the cold up. Dazai gets a little shocked thrill out of the fact that he doesn’t even attempt to argue, but he understands. Chuuya’s too unsure here, too worried he’s going to do damage to the innocent ball of fluff he scooped up out of god knows what gutter, and he’s made the (frankly unreasonable and probably a little desperate) decision to trust Dazai with this. Chuuya’s heart beats too strongly for those weaker than him, and Dazai finds himself far too exhausted to bother using it against him right now.
Chuuya has plopped the dog down next to him while he gets the bath ready and rolls up the bloody sleeves of his shirt. There’s blood on his collar, too.
“Bad night?” Dazai questions, keeping his tone light.
“Shitfight,” Chuuya says, and doesn’t elaborate. Dazai doesn’t need him to. He already knows everything he needs to, anyway.
The dog shivers on the tiled floor.
“Turn off the taps,” he suggests reluctantly. “Look how small that thing is. You’re going to drown it if you make the water any deeper.”
Chuuya scoffs but does as he says. He picks the dog up and gently places it in the water, stroking a hand tenderly over its head to placate it.
“She’s a girl, by the way,” he says quietly.
“Whatever,” Dazai responds, pushing himself off the doorframe. “Don’t wash it with my shampoo, that would probably irritate its skin.”
“Your shampoo would irritate steel wool,” Chuuya gripes.
“Just because shrimp likes to waste his money on high-end nonsense does not mean I have to care,” Dazai says dryly. “Do you want me to help, or not?”
“I’m seriously reconsidering, but go on.”
“If you have to use something,” Dazai continues icily, gesturing to the lip of the tub. “I suppose that bar of soap will be fine.” It’s a souvenir of Mori’s medical influence, devoid of any fragrance or unnecessary chemicals.
He leaves Chuuya cooing over the puppy and heads to the kitchen to pour himself some whiskey. It’s already been a long night and it doesn’t look like it’s going to be ending any time soon, so what the hell. He sits down at the kitchen table with his alcohol and waits.
—
With the puppy warmed up, and significantly cleaner, Chuuya sets out to find where Dazai got off to. He’s carrying the puppy swaddled up in the towel he’d used to dry her, and his shirt’s soaked through – though now some of the blood has washed out of the sleeves, so that’s a positive.
He finds Dazai nursing a glass of whiskey in the kitchen, and dimly registers for the first time that night that he’s still in his work clothes too, albeit with his coat and blazer discarded.
“Bad night for you too?” he asks.
“Paperwork,” Dazai grunts.
Chuuya hums – he knows what it means when Dazai has too much paperwork to finish, that it might even be adjacent to the dumpster fire his own assignment was tonight – and heads for the fridge. “The fuck are you supposed to feed puppies, anyway? Milk?”
“I don’t think it’s so young you would still need to give it milk,” Dazai observes critically. “Besides, dogs are lactose intolerant. Dog food would be ideal, but I suppose a bit of meat will do.”
Chuuya hunts through the fridge, though this isn’t too Herculean a task given how empty Dazai’s fridge always is. Thankfully, he finds a packet of thin pork slices towards the back of top shelf – it’s a good thing they’re for the dog, too, because they’re out of date.
He removes the covering and sets the packet down, then goes to fill a bowl with water and sets that down as well. Finally, he allows himself to collapse at the table and snatches the whiskey away from Dazai to pour himself a glass. He doesn’t adore the stuff, but it’ll do.
“How do you know so much about dogs, anyway?” he asks around the pleasant warmth the alcohol leaves in his throat.
Dazai shrugs. “Professional interest. When you don’t like something, it’s a good idea to know how to handle it.”
Chuuya raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, definitely explains why you knew normal shampoo would irritate a dog’s skin.”
“Why wouldn’t it explain that?” Dazai smirks, and Chuuya rolls his eyes.
He takes another sip and allows them to sit in silence, aside from the quiet sounds of the dog eating.
“Maybe I had a dog once,” Dazai offers suddenly.
When Chuuya’s head shoots up in shock, he sees his partner’s eyes trained determinedly on the rim of his glass.
“Lot of families have a dog. So effortlessly happy. No pretending, no lies, no agenda, just happy all the time. So much harder to deal with than humans.”
Leave it to Dazai to find a thing contemptible for being naturally disposed to honesty and simplicity. But Chuuya doesn’t comment, doesn’t prod or say anything at all. It’s a rare occasion Dazai shares something personal of his own volition if it isn’t strictly necessary, or at all for that matter, and Chuuya hasn’t ever heard him make even the slightest reference to his life outside the Port Mafia before. Probably he never will again.
“I’m not going to make it back to my place tonight,” Chuuya mutters after a while.
Dazai shrugs. “Couch is free. Take a shower first though, I’ll be quite irritated if you get blood on the suede.”
Chuuya is fully aware of the fact that he wouldn’t give a shit – there’s probably already blood soaked into the dark material – but he’d probably still be annoying about it. Plus, Chuuya wants that shower regardless, so he isn’t going to argue when it’s being offered to him (because, yes, this is an offer, poorly concealed as it is).
—
Dazai isn’t in the bedroom when Chuuya comes out of the shower. Chuuya knows this because Chuuya is in Dazai’s bedroom.
He was so eager to scrub the night’s filth off his skin that he didn’t stop to consider his lack of clothing to change into. This leaves him with only one option, and one which is so detestable he finds his face screwing up as he rifles through Dazai’s wardrobe. Perhaps it is all the more detestable because this isn’t even the first time he’s had to borrow the beanpole’s shitty clothes.
He settles for sweatpants that are leagues too long (Dazai’s now got a good fifteen centimetres on him) and a shirt that is approximately five sizes too large. It slips down his shoulder as he makes his way back to the living room, and ah.
Dazai is facedown on the table.
“For fuck’s sake,” Chuuya grumbles under his breath. And then, louder, “You aren’t asleep.”
Dazai doesn’t move. Chuuya considers for a moment that he might have actually fallen asleep involuntarily for maybe the first time in his life, but then a huff of air escapes him and his head lolls to the side and his one eye fixes on Chuuya.
“So astute,” he drawls. And is that a slight slur Chuuya detects on his breath?
“Come on,” Chuuya sighs. “Go to bed, you drunkard.” Under normal circumstances, he would have no room to insult anyone’s propensity for inebriation, but it’s not like he isn’t going to take the opportunity to milk this for all it’s worth.
“Nnnnnnnnno,” Dazai smiles.
“Fucker,” Chuuya barks, and then marches towards Dazai before the other has a chance to do anything.
“What are you d – HEY –“ but Dazai, a dangerously lanky sack of bones and not much else, can do nothing to stop his shorter but considerably bulkier partner from scooping him up by the waist and tossing him over his shoulder.
He grunts when said shoulder catches him right in the gut and then proceeds to knock his chin into Chuuya’s back.
“This is rather unceremonious,” he announces, but he barely makes it through all the words clearly.
“It’s ceremonious as fuck,” Chuuya retorts, and he’s glad that Dazai’s somehow had enough to get himself even a little drunk, because holy shit, that was a terrible comeback.
He kicks Dazai’s door open and dumps his partner in a pile of tangled stick-limbs and ignores Dazai’s little manic giggle when he bounces on the mattress.
“Chuuya’s wearing my clothes?” he inquires.
“Fuck else am I supposed to wear?” Chuuya grumbles, but he opens Dazai’s drawers back up so he can find something to put the idiot in that isn’t half of a perfectly tailored suit.
“Chuuya’s wearing my clothes,” Dazai repeats.
Chuuya fights the urge to grind his teeth.
“Here,” he says, flinging something sleep-appropriate towards Dazai. “That’s all you’re getting. I’m going to go sleep.”
He shuts the door behind him wondering if Dazai’s going to remove the shirt from where it landed draped over his face.
–
When Dazai wakes the next morning, there is quiet in the apartment, and he concludes that Chuuya has either left or is still asleep. He leaves his room in a pair of comfortable pants and a shirt he barely remembers wrestling himself into, and ventures towards the kitchen with the itch for a hot cup of coffee tickling his senses.
He briefly considers the fact that Chuuya didn’t just sleep in the bed with him. It wouldn’t have been the first time the other ignored Dazai’s offer of the couch and stubbornly climbed under the covers next to Dazai, or dragged the latter into his own bed on the occasion that his apartment was the chosen venue for their late night/early morning nonsense, but perhaps a certain level of drunkenness is required for that sort of behaviour.
Besides, Dazai supposes the situation is slightly different from when they used to curl up on the same beaten up futon in a shipping container because there was literally no alternative – now, he actually has furniture.
Then he walks around the couch and he realises there might have been other reasons.
Chuuya is sprawled out on the couch – in Dazai’s ridiculously oversized clothes, no less – and the dog is curled into his side with its head resting on his slowly rising and falling chest, both of them peacefully unaware of the waking world.
Dazai grimaces. There’s going to be dog hair all over his couch forever after this – he knows how hard that stuff sticks, and it’s not like he’s in the habit of deep-cleaning anyway – but the scowl on his face feels off somehow, like the corners of his mouth are trying to turn up instead of down. He shakes his head until his face smoothes out and continues in his pursuit of coffee.
As it turns out, the sound of the kettle boiling is loud enough to wake Chuuya. He stumbles into the kitchen as Dazai is spooning coffee grounds into the French press, rubbing at his eyes. Dazai’s shirt has slipped down his shoulder. The dog follows behind him.
“Making coffee?” he asks groggily.
“Mhm.”
The dog trots over and, unexplainably, drops down to sit at Dazai’s feet. He raises his eyebrows and she stares up at him, and his face twists.
“Dazai,” Chuuya warns, the huskiness of sleep lowering his words to a growl.
“I won’t hurt it,” Dazai sighs, working his expression back into neutrality. “That would just be unnecessary.”
Chuuya gives him a look that speaks of many a relative situation in which Dazai has acted in a way that his partner would deem unnecessary, but Dazai knows he will trust him anyway. And he himself is aware that he isn’t lying, despite the distaste swirling in his chest. It’s just that the dog’s big eyes, full of so much unfiltered hope, and the gentle, happy thumping of her tail against the hardwood floor fills him with the same cloying rush of terror that floods him whenever people treat him with the particular kindness – the genuine, directionless sort that belies no ulterior agenda – that always seems to crawl under his bandages and scratch at his skin.
He turns away so that he doesn’t have to see her eyes any more.
Chuuya reaches around Dazai and pours the water into the French press and screws the lid on. Dazai leaves him to it. Chuuya has become rather particular about coffee over the years. Recently, he has started ordering plain espressos, although he hasn’t quite managed to phase the sugar out of his drink yet. Still, it’s a far cry from the fifteen year old who would exclusively order the sweetest, most extravagant drink on any given menu simply for the joy of having money to spend on such luxuries. Although, Dazai does suspect he’s forcing himself out of his sweet tooth simply for the snobbery of it all.
He puts milk in his coffee this morning though, because Dazai buys the cheapest grounds and even he has to admit the flavour’s pretty terrible on its own.
His eyes trail the exposed stretch of Chuuya’s neck absently as they sip their coffees in silence. Chuuya doesn’t notice, because he’s busy rubbing the dog’s stomach with his foot and smiling softly down at her. He really shouldn’t wear everything so openly like this, but Chuuya doesn’t and has never known how to lie. He doesn’t really need to, after all. A flick of his fingers and most enemies would be reduced to a bloodstain on the floor. A little more effort and the rest end up exactly the same. It’s only ever a matter of time, with Chuuya’s particular talents.
Still, Dazai isn’t going to end up a bloodstain by Chuuya’s hand, and that soft smile is all he needs to make it hurt.
“You know you can’t keep it,” he says.
Chuuya‘s expression closes immediately.
“Says who,” he says, and it sounds more like a threat than a question.
“Don’t be stupid, slug,” Dazai drawls. “You’re a mafia executive. You have the single least-suited-to-pet-owning career in the country. Even if you had the time to take it for all the walks it needs, which you really do not –“ especially not now with a gang war looming closer every day, he doesn’t say, “– dogs need company. That young especially, they need a lot of supervision.”
“You think I’m going to care if she chews up my shoes or whatever?” Chuuya snarls.
Dazai doesn’t bother pointing out that of course he would. “I’m not talking about that,” he sighs. “Puppies need training. You know I’m right, Chuuya. Don’t bother trying to pretend this has any chance of being long term.”
Chuuya slams down his cup down on the bench, somehow avoiding smashing it to pieces in the process, and he looks like he wants to punch Dazai. He might well, too, if not for the little start the dog gives at the noise. He looks down at her immediately, brows drawn, and bends to pick her up, stroking her soothingly. He glowers at Dazai.
“This was a shit idea,” he says, like they haven’t both been explicit about that from the beginning. “I’m leaving. Fuck you.”
And he‘s gone.
—
He flies back in through Dazai’s open window not even an hour later.
“Fucking not allowed pets in the fucking complex,” he’s muttering.
Dazai looks up from where he’s been laying on the floor doing nothing for the past twenty minutes.
“And you let that stop you?”
“It’s the boss’ building, what do you expect me to do?”
“Ignore the rules,” Dazai deadpans, knowing full well that Chuuya will never break Mori’s rules.
Chuuya knows he knows, and doesn’t bother dignifying this with a response. Instead, he lays the dog carefully back down on the floor and then makes himself at home on the couch again. The blankets he’d slept in last night are still bundled on top of the cushions. Of course they are; Dazai isn’t going to bother cleaning his living space any time soon. Besides, it’s minimal enough for it to be already pretty difficult to make much mess.
“Thought you were mad at me?” he hums, propping himself up on an elbow.
“I am,” Chuuya replies instantly. “I’m always mad at you.”
Dazai hums again. That’s fair.
“So what will you do? You know you can’t keep her, not even physically now.”
“I know,” Chuuya growls. “I’ll figure something out. I’ll – I’ll find somewhere.”
Dazai watches him turn away as unhappy lines dig into his face. Dazai knows Chuuya better than the backs of his own hands at this point, but it never fails to surprise him just how much love the other has to give. His heart must be a bottomless pit full of all that shocking goodness and kindness and all those other qualities that one might assume would prevent a person from finding himself in a leadership position in one of the most ruthless mafia organisations in the country – and yet. What an anomaly. As much as it annoys him, Dazai remains as fascinated as he was the moment Chuuya pinned him to the floor in Suribachi city.
“Chuuya!” he yells.
“What!” comes back from the lounge room.
“I’m going to work!” he gets a grunt in response. “Be out of my house by the time I get back!”
—
“I told you before, this isn’t a house,” is all he gets hours later when Chuuya is, in fact, still there.
There’s blood under his nails and whiskey on his breath. His bandages are loose around his wrists and he really is too tired to deal with this right now.
“Thought you had places to be tonight,” he accuses on his way to the bathroom.
“I did,” Chuuya says. “I went, I kicked the shit out of some low-level assholes, I’m back now.”
“Please don’t tell me you left that thing here alone.”
“You mean the puppy?”
He’s vaguely aware of the sound of footsteps following him. Not even a good hour of pleasant conversation with Ango and Odasaku has given him to enough energy to deal with… this. Them.
Dazai is tired.
“Fine. I won’t tell you.”
“Slug –“
“She didn’t do anything. It’s a shame, I would have liked to see some of your shitty shoes gone.”
Dazai noticed on his way in that his shoes were at some point removed from the hallway – whether because Chuuya was worried he’d be angry at the dog or because he actually cares about Dazai’s footwear is up for debate. Maybe he just knows Mori bought those shoes and would rather not deal with that particular conversation.
“Your voice is so annoying,” Dazai says, allowing a small touch of a whine into his voice. If he’s going to sound like a child, it may as well be intentional.
Somehow they have ended up standing, glaring at each other, in Dazai’s bathroom.
“Get out,” Dazai barks.
“No,” Chuuya says instantly – too fast, reflexive opposition even if he doesn’t actually want to stay here.
Then again, he has entered of his own free will, so who can actually be sure what he wants. Certainly not he himself, Dazai is sure.
He finds himself absently tugging at the bandages on his wrists, but he stops when Chuuya’s eyes snag on the movement.
“Going to change your dumb mummy getup?” he sneers.
“Yes, actually,” Dazai sighs. “So you can leave.”
Chuuya blinks at him. “Are you going to at least take a shower?”
“Who has the time?” he says.
I’m exhausted, he doesn’t.
Chuuya wrinkles his nose. “You’re disgusting.”
And then suddenly Dazai is being crowded onto the ledge of the bath, and the sound of running water is crashing in his ears. Chuuya has turned the shower on.
Dazai lets his coat slide off his shoulders and somehow manages to slide his arms out of his blazer.
“You gonna wash your hair if I leave you in here alone?”
“Only slug cares about his hair that much,” Dazai says.
And that is how he ends up sitting on the floor of the shower, fully clothed, with Chuuya’s fingers in his hair and shampoo running into his eyes.
Dazai would suffer the greatest pains the world has to offer before admitting it feels… nice. Chuuya’s nails drag against his scalp and it makes shivers threaten to climb over his skin, but he’s Dazai, and involuntary responses stand no chance against his demonic self-control.
Chuuya gets done with rinsing the shampoo out and tugs his head out of the water so he can replace it with conditioner. Dazai finds he greatly dislikes the slimy feeling against his neck. He likes it even less when Chuuya rinses it out and it runs down his shirt. And then Chuuya is up and gesturing to him in all of his sodden glory.
“Fix this,” he orders, and is gone.
Dazai sighs and sets about peeling fabric away from skin and scrubbing the conditioner off.
—
Chuuya hears the shower shut off eventually. He’s in the lounge room, in the same clothes he’d lifted from Dazai’s wardrobe the previous night, jumping around so the dog can chase him.
Dazai’s sentiment from before weighs heavy in his lungs, sinking deeper every time the dog leaps after his feet. He knows it would be ridiculous to keep her, has known from the start, really, but it still hurts. Dazai said it because it would hurt, after all.
Chuuya hates him.
He allows Dazai twenty minutes of suspicious silence before he goes to check whether or not his bastard partner has accidentally killed himself by slipping over on wet tiles. Wouldn’t that be ironic.
He has not. He’s simply sprawled out on his bed, the lights still on, staring up at the ceiling out of one unblinking eye. He’s at least managed to get a fresh lot of bandages around his limbs, and has donned a pair of pants and a shirt – small mercies.
Chuuya should leave him here, shut off the lights and let him fall asleep – or stay staring up at the ceiling like a dead fish all night, doesn’t matter.
He lets a breath hiss out from between clenched teeth and sits on the bed.
“Every mission these days is a blood bath, isn’t it?” he sighs.
Dazai’s head lolls to the side so that dead fish eye of his is boring into Chuuya. Chuuya wants nothing more than to look away, but he meets Dazai’s gaze like it’s a challenge.
“Tiring you out, is it?”
Chuuya would really, really like to hit him. He digs his hands into the sheets.
“Not me,” he grinds out. “More of our men die or go missing every day. I guess you don’t give a shit about that, though.”
Dazai looks back up at the ceiling and Chuuya tears his eyes away.
“No,” Dazai agrees. “Envy them, sure. Care, no.”
“Some of them are your own men. They’re under your command. How can you not be bothered by it?”
“We’re on the brink of all-out war here, Chuuya. They’re just pawns in Mori’s games, you know that.”
“You never change, do you?”
“Were you expecting me to?”
“I don’t know,” Chuuya says. “That’s what people do. Maybe I was.”
“You know what my ability’s called.”
Chuuya knows very well. “Load of bullshit,” slips past his lips before he can stop it.
Dazai looks at his again, and this time, unconscionably, some of that lifeless sheen is gone from his eye.
“Oh?” he prompts. “Do elaborate.”
Chuuya glares. “Fuck you.”
Dazai laughs and Chuuya just glares harder. Dazai goes on about how he doesn’t consider himself human just about every time he opens his mouth, especially these days. It enrages Chuuya in a way he won’t ever verbalise, probably couldn’t even if he wanted to. How dare Dazai look Chuuya in the eye and profess his lack of humanity without any trace of hesitation? Especially Chuuya – Chuuya who was born in a tube, Chuuya who was made to be the furthest thing from human his creators could manage, Chuuya who only remains able to pretend at humanity because of Dazai and his stupidly named ability. The irony makes him furious.
The dog chooses that moment to totter into the room. Dazai’s expression sours. She walks over, tail wagging, and bumps her head into Chuuya’s leg. If Chuuya were the sort of person who cries, he thinks he would burst into tears on the spot. He scoops her up gently and she settles into his arms, staring up at him with big hopeful eyes, and yaps softly.
“Remove that thing from my bedroom immediately,” Dazai orders dourly.
“Whatever,” Chuuya growls. “I’m going to sleep.”
He stands and leaves the room, dog held to his chest. He leaves the lights on just so Dazai will have to get up to turn them off. He collapses on the couch and checks to make sure the dog’s alright. She crawls off his chest and turns in circles a few times before settling down and curling up against his ribs. He strokes her head while she falls asleep and thinks.
He hates Dazai so much it burns him up from the inside, to the point where he feels like the hatred has buried so deep in him as to be the thing at his core. But as much as he hates Dazai, his partner has never once been wrong. Needlessly cruel, yes, but the only reason his cruelty stings the way it does is because there’s always some truth to what he says. Chuuya stares at the little warm spot at his side and knows with a dreadful sinking feeling that this is not the life a creature so capable of endless devotion and love deserves.
Sleep comes slow and torturous.
—
Chuuya gets rid of the dog the next day.
Dazai’s happy to see her go – nothing will ever actually shake the discomfort that prickles his senses around dogs – but the shift in acquired familiarity is notable all the same. Once or twice in the hours leading up to her departure, he catches Chuuya staring at the puppy with a hollowness in his eyes, and he looks away. He knows how to hit Chuuya where it hurts, and needling him over something like this would be too easy to be of interest to Dazai right now. At best, he can leave this for a rainy day if Chuuya decides to be particularly frustrating. And anyway, there’s something about that hollowness that’s similar enough to the thing Dazai finds every time he catches his own eye in a mirror that he doesn’t want to look.
Once Chuuya has left, taking the dog with him – he’s going to hand her in to a vet or a shelter or something, apparently – Dazai sits alone at the dining table of a living space that is not his own and thinks into the silence.
—
Dazai gets a call at one in the morning.
Chuuya’s wasted and Dazai’s on speed dial, the usual. Dazai taunts and teases and is generally unhelpful down the line, and fifteen minutes later a Port Mafia car has dropped Chuuya at Dazai’s door.
He lets the driver wrestle Chuuya into the building, only dismissing him when Chuuya has tripped over his threshold – he’s annoying and unwieldy like this, but Dazai’s residence is not for strangers.
He shuts his door and sighs at the fiery-haired figure sprawled on his floor, hat fallen off his head and laying beside him. Chuuya will yell in the morning, but Dazai isn’t hanging the damn thing up.
He hoists his partner up by the scruff of his shirt and manages to get him onto the couch. Chuuya is babbling the whole time, cursing some other drunk patron of whatever bar he’d been in for being disrespectful. If it was a Port Mafia bar, the poor guy’s probably already been blacklisted, but Dazai will look into it tomorrow just to be sure.
“You gonna sleep in those clothes?” he asks dryly.
Chuuya looks down at himself, rumpled suit pants and ridiculous leather jacket.
“Fuck these clothes,” he mumbles.
He must be pretty drunk to be insulting his own wardrobe. Nevertheless, Dazai digs the clothes Chuuya had worn the previous two nights out of his wardrobe. When he returns, Chuuya is shirtless and his belt is discarded. The pants remain, thank god.
“You’re so vulgar,” he says dryly. “Put your stupid arms up.”
“Arms aren’t stupid,” Chuuya retorts messily, but holds his arms out anyway. Dazai manages to manoeuvre the shirt over his head, then throws the pants at him.
“I’m done here,” he says curtly, and goes back to bed.
So of course Chuuya stumbles into his room half an hour later.
Dazai blinks at his form in the doorway. He seems slightly less drunk, but still a long way from sober.
“Get out of my room,” he barks, and then feels like a child.
Instead, Chuuya walks over and tosses the bedsheets back, then unceremoniously flops down beside Dazai.
“Sad,” he mutters at the ceiling.
Dazai pinches the bridge of his nose. He’s going to break into Chuuya’s house later and throw out several of his most expensive wines out of spite. For the moment, he pulls the bedsheet back up and resolutely turns away from Chuuya.
Moments later, he feels arms snaking around his waist, Chuuya tucking his knees in behind Dazai’s and nestling his forehead into Dazai’s back. Dazai can’t really say he’s shocked – Chuuya’s a clingy and irritatingly uninhibited drunk. He’s going to be really mad in the morning. The thought’s pretty funny and Dazai smiles against his pillow, deciding he can endure this if it means he gets to annoy Chuuya about it tomorrow.
With that thought comforting him, and the warm weight of Chuuya curled around him, Dazai shuts his eyes and allows himself to fall into the blackness of sleep.