Archive of Our Own ^beta

“It’s just another way for Mori to show how much power he has.”

“I’m not in third grade, asshole.”

“Oh. Second?”

They made their way toward the middle section, where place cards denoting their aliases were drawn in looping lines of impossible-to-read calligraphy. A frilly white cloth flowed down the sides of the table, surrounding a centerpiece of roses and lilies. Flutes of bubbling champagne stood at each seat where fine shined silverware was laid at left.

“This gala shit is so goddamn stuffy,” Chuuya mumbled, knowing Dazai would hear him, and if not, could easily guess what the redhead had said. Dazai did in fact blow a short laugh through his nose, but their attention was soon snapped to the pompous broad-shouldered agent with too much hair gel waltzing their way.

“What a fucking--”

Dazai nudged him. “Ah, welcome, Monsieur Sauveterre,” he bowed. 

Chuuya followed suit, though regarded Mister-Stupid with a sore, unimpressed gaze when the man held out a hand for them to shake after straightening his posture. Was a bow not greeting enough? Damn Westerners.

Dazai, of course, artful in his practiced nonchalance, simply took the proffered hand.

Except, instead of shaking it, the man brushed a thumb softly along Dazai’s fingers and brought them to his lips. “Tradition in France,” he returned the hand, languidly slow.

Well. Wasn’t that something? Chuuya had spent five months undercover in Paris and never once seen any such thing. 

He took a deliberate step in front of his partner. 

The agent glanced down, flicked his gaze between Chuuya’s eyes and hat, and gave him a toothy smile that was really a sneer. With a nod of his head, he turned back to Dazai.

Why, this motherfucker--

“Shall we sit, then?” came the detective’s lilting voice. It was carefully neutral, crafted to reel in Chuuya’s rising temper-- which made sense, considering the meeting hadn’t even begun and the redhead had half a mind to bring the roof down on their guest. And, yes, even if the agent had so obviously disrespected him-- him, a mafia executive -- by blowing him off like a fucking snob, Dazai was right: it was really in his best interest to concede, let his partner do the talking, and forget the kissy-hand thing ever happened. 

And he really did try.

But the agent didn’t sit down right away.

He looked at Dazai.

Up and down.

Very. Slowly.

“H--” the detective stepped on his foot and drew both chairs out with a tight smile. Chuuya clamped his mouth shut, choosing to instead clench his fists and glare daggers at the man who’d just given his partner an eye fuck. 

Sauveterre set his briefcase on the table. “Let’s get to business, then. What importance is the FFAI to you?”

“Monsieur, I’m afraid you’ve been sticking your nose where it does not belong. Yokohama’s gifted ops are under special government sanction. Regretfully, neither the Armed Detective Agency nor the Port Mafia can afford any affiliation with foreign… amateur organizations such as your own.”

“I see. Although I certainly hope we may still come to an agreement.” Something in the way he said ‘agreement’ made the mafioso’s skin crawl.

“But of course. That’s why we’re here, no?” Dazai said. The seductive drop in inflection was clear-as-fuck-ing-day. Chuuya would’ve had whiplash if not for Dazai digging his heel further into his shoe, directing his gaze forward. “Some information, perhaps, and we may provide certain assets to your cause.”

Chuuya cleared his throat, trying to break up the tension. This conversation, if it hadn’t already, was headed for territory he’d rather not cross into. Too many times he’d dealt with unwanted suitors and self-absorbed fops, and too many times he’d watched Dazai play the part of bullshit-whore black widow. Guess what? This was not his job anymore. He didn’t have to protect Dazai. And the detective in question obviously, clearly, adamantly did not want Chuuya in the way.

But it’s not quite so simple these days, is it? 

No. 

It’s a little harder to let go of someone when there’s something a lot like love between you.

“And what assets does the agency have?”

Dazai uncrossed, recrossed his legs. Sauveterre-- how observant -- didn’t miss the motion, hungry eyes roving over the other’s hips with not an ounce of shame.

Chuuya tightened his hold on the butter knife. “The agency is not interested in negotiations. This is mafia business,” he kicked the other’s ankle from under the table. His mouth was set in a firm line, unlike his partner’s, whose soft lips were slightly parted, subtly pursed. “And we want the threat eliminated.”

Sauveterre did not even deign to glance at Chuuya, even after he’d quite literally just delivered a death threat. “Surely, though,” the agent went on as Dazai fluttered his long lashes, “if the ADA were willing to trade, it would be a benefit to both organizations.”

“Surely,” the detective agreed, lazing his head on an open palm. 

That deserved another kick.

Dazai paid him no mind. 

“Suppose we did come to an arrangement. Would you be willing to trade information on, say, the codices of ability-users in France, Britain, Germany? Ones we’ve not yet been privy to, of course.”

“I would.”

Dazai gazed at him cooly. “How much?”

“How high is your price?”

He played up the act of concentration, mulling the amount over in his mind, stalling, drawing out the time. “Twenty minutes,” he finally said.

Chuuya slammed his wine glass down. “No.”

He was ignored.

“Give me two hours.”

“One. No longer. I have other things to do.”

“Other things, or other people?” The man joked. Chuuya did not laugh. His wine glass was now broken, having been held too tightly, and the deep red drink seeping from cracks his ability couldn’t hold together stained his fingers. He cut a murderous glare into Sauveterre’s rich ugly, worn face and wished his hand was stained with something else; something just as red and just as dark. “Hmm,” the agent went on. “I suppose. But that’ll only give you so much.”

“Be specific, Monsieur,” Dazai drawled, voice raspy and raw. 

“I’ll hand you a case file for every climax.”

The glass smashed to the floor, forgotten, in a great shower of shiny, shattered bits. Lively dancers, chatter, and music muffled the sound of both the fallen drink and Chuuya’s abrupt hop up from a clattering chair.

“Dirty,” Dazai winked, playing along as though his partner didn’t exist. He lowered his voice and eyes. “Keep your words down, hm?”

He stood calmly and whispered to Chuuya, eyes dull, face blank, the way he’d seen it so many times before. “Tell the others I’ll be busy. Should be back in less than sixty minutes. I’m sure I can get it out of him sooner.”

Chuuya caught his arm. “You’re not doing any of that. Sit down,” he said in his ear. “I’m damn sure this isn’t what your president instructed you to--”

“What the president doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

“This wasn’t the mission.”

“Change of plans.” Dazai shrugged him off and pushed his chair in.

The pair walked eastward, leaving Chuuya behind, stunned at the tableside before his wits came back in a flash-- when clumsy fingers fumbled for his cell, wrangling the damn thing from his pocket and flipping it open. 

From his vantage point, he could see the pair fading into the crowd of partygoers, but not before-- Chuuya swallowed, mouth dry not just from drinking wine-- Sauveterre snaked an arm around Dazai’s waist to pull him close against his side.

It was significantly harder to type when he could only see the color red.

Send.Send.Send.Send.Send. He jammed his thumb on the button until it broke.

“You bet your fucking ass there’s been a change in plans…” he stalked off in the opposite direction with his eyes still on the screen.

• Capture T alive + clean

• T dangerous

• Heading E to L Exit

•  Dazai w/ T

Luckily, signal was on his side; the texts went through almost immediately and, knowing Akutagawa and Higuchi, had probably already been read and received. He loosened his tie and breathed a sigh of relief. And a sigh of regret.

Because Dazai was going to be pissed.

Over the years, they’d gotten into plenty of shouting matches over this exact sort of situation-- which, thinking it over, was far, far too many times. But the shit always went the same: Dazai would play his innocent ‘I-was-getting-information’ card while Chuuya screamed at volumes unintended for human ears, and the both of them would kick and fight and push and shove while nothing ever changed, no one listened, and neither stayed the night.

Lovely. Such a lovely duo, those Soukoku fuck-ups.

Or, a sudden idea popped into his mind, Chuuya could just leave, right now. He could fly home, knock down another glass of cabernet, and forget it all.

It wasn’t like tonight’s showdown would change anything.

It wasn’t like Dazai would open up and realize he wasn’t actually a machine programmed to whatever setting a mission required.

It wasn’t like any good would come of any of it.

And yet, he stayed.

Higuchi had been in charge of renting the rooms, and she’d actually done a good job. The only problem was the thin walls, and the ear-splitting argument between him and the bandage-wasting bastard that would soon without a doubt ensue.

“I’m fine.” Dazai brushed him off again, smoothing his hair down in the mirror. A comb was stuck between his teeth.

“It’s not fine.”

“Chuuya,” he plucked the comb from his mouth and set it on the table. “Is this not getting through to you? Mmm-- I suppose that’s normal. Nothing concerning,” he slid his eyes from the person in the glass to the actual human at his left. “I. Don’t. Care.”

“I care!”

“Is that all you’re going to do tonight? Contradict me?” he yawned. “How lame. You need to work on your rhetoric. What sorrow! So undeserving I am of Chibi’s…” he trailed off, sensing the other’s frustration. Which, while usually funny enough to send him into a laughing fit, now made him feel very alone and very confused. Bristled, he countered, “Why? Why do you care?”

“Because I do!” he wrenched his shoulders toward him. “When they… when they do that to you, I--”

“It’s called sex, Chibikko-kun, we’re not children, are we? Call it sex.”

“Fuck you! You didn’t need to agree! You went along with it just ‘cause you saw him drooling over you!” He took another breath to start again, but Dazai broke in.

“So you’re saying that I used him? Aww… are you upset because you know the feeling?”

That stung. 

He’s lashing out. He doesn’t want you to go further, he’s trying to push you away. 

Still. Stung. 

“Shut up,” he pushed the words from his mind. “This has nothing to do with me. You were about to give yourself up and have sex with some arrogant French pervert, for what? Random info that wouldn’t have been relevant in the first place? That’s not even what we were sent to do! It was to talk him into leaving the city, now he knows if he wants a good fuck he just has to come back here and--”

“Don’t start this with me! If I’m not mistaken, I come up with the plans and you follow the orders like the shit-for-brains sidekick you are. We were going to get our hands on top-secret classified files for free , but you ruined it.” He yanked Chuuya’s arm away.

The redhead fought back, slapping his wrist. “Because it wasn’t free! That’s not something you buy and sell!”

“That’s exactly what it is,” he spat. “Or was Kouyou’s brothel just a figment of my imagination?”

“You’re not on that side anymore!”

“Whose side?! I’m not any side--”

“THE SIDE THAT DOESN’T DO THAT--”

“Just fucking call it sex!”

“What does that have to do with ANYTHING?!?”

“It has to do with you acting like a complete child over this!”

The shouting was getting louder, the scuffling and hits escalating in physicality.

“A child, huh? That’s rich. That’s really rich coming from you.”

“Oh-ho! What’s this? I’m the kid? I’m the toddler who can’t play games with the grown-ups?”

“It’s not a game. You just sold yourself out back there and made me watch--”

“Forgive me, Chibi, I should have invited you, too." His tone was clipped, venomous, dripping daggers and poison. "I know how bad you want to see me with a dick up my--” 

“SHUT UP, What the fuck is wrong with you?! That’s fucking revolting, you piece of shit, that’s not what I was saying at all!”

He narrowed his eyes. “My mistake. I guess I was confused because you can’t ever seem to keep your hands to yourself!”

“What the hell are you talking about?! I’ve never once done what--”

“Every time you try one of these ‘talks’ and try to ‘help’ me you get in my face and say things that aren’t true and you won’t leave me alone, you never let me do anything on my own, you don't let me out of your sight-- you compromised a mission because of it-- and you can’t fucking get your hands off me!”

Something is wrong. This doesn’t add up. He’s not making sense.

“Dazai, stop,” Chuuya was at a complete loss. “I don’t. I don’t. I don’t get it. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve never, I wouldn’t ever do anything like that. I don’t understand.”

Dazai stayed in his spot by the wall, shoulders up and on guard. “No. You wouldn’t,” he sighs. “You’re just a little chibi who doesn’t have the brain space to know better.”

“That’s not funny!” he grit his teeth. “I’m not laughing!”

“Neither am I.”

They stared at each other a few moments longer.

“...Are you-- Do you mean… when I punch you? Hit you? It’s,” he wet his lips. “It’s fucked-up, okay, I know. I’m just used to it from when we were younger and--”

“No.”

He tried again. “Well, I know I could tone down the yelling and shit but you just piss me off and… Dazai, I don’t touch you like that.”

He signaled up a hand for the stammering to stop. “You sound ridiculous. What are you, begging?”

“Yes! Yes, I am! You can’t accuse me of something like that and not elaborate!”

“I don’t like it when Slug touches me. The end,” he said, like that solved every problem.

Chuuya’s hands flew to his hair, tearing out strands of red-orange and scarlet. “I DON’T! I don’t, and you’re really pissing me off! This isn’t something you fucking joke about, I’m not a goddamn sex offender and--”

“I never said you were,” Dazai sounded puzzled. Puzzled?! “I just said--”

“I HEARD WHAT YOU FUCKING SAID! IT DOESN’T MAKE ANY GODDAMN SENSE!”  Chuuya took a step forward to throttle the other’s collar, but stopped short, considering their conversation.

“I don’t like it when you touch me,” Dazai said again. “I don’t like it when you pull me away and hug me and do any of… that.” His face contorts into a grimace. “But you don’t ever listen. And that’s all. I’m not making a big deal out of this. You are.”

“Dazai,” he sat still on the bed, “there is no way I can’t make a big deal out of this. You told me five seconds ago that I fucking assaulted you.” He hissed, “I have a reputation. I might be in the mafia but I don’t stoop that low. Imagine if your agency caught wind of a rumor like that-- there’d be an all-out gang war. Your tiger kid, not to mention Akutagawa, would fucking kill me. You can’t just say that shit. I wouldn't do it anyway, and I sure as hell wouldn’t ever do it to you. Do you understand that? I would never... hurt you. I care about you. Can’t you see I care about you?”

Dazai was bent over now, sliding down against the wall with a pale stricken face of distraught. “Yes. I can see.”

“What’s wrong?” Chuuya’s pained whisper cut through. “Dazai, what is wrong?”

“I don’t like it when you say things like that,” came the weak reply.

“When I say I care about you?” His tone wavered, undulating, dipping down in ache and back up in confusion. “Dazai,” his voice broke saying the name again. “Dazai, that shouldn’t hurt.”

Again after no reply, Chuuya took slow, deliberate steps toward the taller man, folded into a third his size against the wall. “Don’t touch me.”

“I won’t. I just want to sit. Can I just sit by you?”

A bobbing of hair hid between two knees. Yes.

So they sat together, the minutes slipping by in silence.

“You want to kiss me,” Dazai stated suddenly.

And fuck if Chuuya had expected that to be the first words out of his mouth.

 “I-- yes.” His face burnt a bright cherry red, especially knowing that, under any other circumstance, Dazai would have laughed himself right to death at his humiliation. Recalling his partner’s words from earlier, he quickly stammered out, “But only if you wanted to.”

“I don’t.”

Chuuya glanced to the side, suddenly very interested in the bookshelf by the door. “Oh.”

“Not--” Dazai started, as though realizing he’d misspoke. “I didn’t mean it like that. Well, I did. But it’s not… it’s not that simple.”

“Is this why you’ve been weird with me?” Their dynamic had been off since the night with Lovecraft and Steinbeck. Because they were… they were full adults now. Not hormonal teenagers thrown into a life-threatening lottery where they had none but the other to rely on. Sue him, if after their years of strife and struggle and hatred and jealousy, Chuuya wanted to fix things and maybe get to know his partner better. The right way. Because, in Chuuya’s case, he’d been trying since about age seventeen. Going about it wrong, yes-- but passionate, sexually-frustrated and horny all where it counted. Yet Dazai hadn’t seemed to pick up on any of that; hadn’t ever mentioned it, until now. “It’s alright. I’m not a kid, you know, I can deal with rejection.”

He ignored him. “Chuuya. Did you want to… pursue... me?”

“Do you mean a fucking crush?” he asked, exasperated. “Is that what you’re trying to say? Are you fucking serious? Good fuck, huh, this really is just a big joke to you-- making fun of me, holding this over my head, playing with my feelings, like always.” He muttered, “Can’t believe my shitty luck, falling for an asshole who gets off on manipulating me,” to himself before speaking up again and straightening his legs to stand. “I can’t have a single conversation with you and we’re twenty-two years old. Forget I said anything.”

“No, no,” Dazai lifted his head up, eyes wide, and outstretched a hand toward the other’s pant leg. “That’s not what I was getting at. Please stay.”

“You’re having a hard time ‘getting at’ things today. Hit your fucking head or something? And saying ‘please’? Pinch me. God, what the fuck is going on....”

“Can you just answer the question I asked?”

“Th...” He coughed. Communication between the pair was either excruciating or nonexistent, and yet, immediately understood-- clear to only the two of them, words shared not just between partners but a pair of souls connected by a red string of fate. Chuuya’s response was answer to both. “Yes.” 

Dazai spoke softly at the ground, his fingers wound up in the fabric of Chuuya’s slacks as the executive sat back down, this time a bit closer. “One more thing, just to be sure: you wanted to… be intimate?”

Chuuya’s mouth hung open. “Dazai, was it not you five minutes ago that told me to just call it ‘sex’?” He didn’t raise his voice, however; far too resigned to retaliate, and far too close to getting an answer for all this madness. The detective didn’t elaborate. Alternating between looking at Chuuya’s hair and the floor, he waited patiently for a response. “Fine. Yes,” he grumbled after a beat, hating the silence and the sad sense of unease. “I mean, that’s the idea, right?”

Dazai swallowed, flicked his eyes to the left but brought them quickly back onto Chuuya. “Listen closely,” he said. “Because I know you’ve got a short attention span: I like you. I… care about you, too. To a degree. I guess. But I don’t want to do anything.”

“You can say, ‘let’s just be friends.’ It’s a lot simpler.”

“No, I--” he ran a frustrated hand down his face. “I like you. I don’t really want to be friends . I just don’t know what there is besides that when what I want isn’t what that means.”

“What?” This was like trying to decode a riddle in Arabic by reading in Braille. “You like me-- romantically? Or not?”

He cocked his head and shrugged. “Maybe. Not really. I don’t know.”

“How do you not know?” It was hardly audible.

“I don’t…” Dazai said. “I don’t know.”

They sat in resigned silence, staring at one another’s tired eyes and faces, marred with years of anger and exhaustion and age in an artform of deep, drawn lines.

“How do you not know?”

The detective drew in a short breath. “I like you,” he began. “And that’s all I know.

“I noticed, okay? When we were kids. When you would tell me all those things, how you wanted me to be safe, how you didn’t like some of the mission requirements, didn’t agree with Mori on… stuff, and it’s like… you know, I’m not stupid, it’s obvious, I could tell you were… looking at me? I could tell you were interested in me… didn’t understand why, but still knew. And still thought I could… you know, feel like that, too. About you. I just thought I was messed up because of,” he waved his hand off, gesturing to what Chuuya could only assume meant ‘Mori’ and ‘Sauveterre’, and a shitload of other people who’d crossed a dark and despicable line. “But it’s been four years and I’m still like this. Still like this. And I just… avoided it. Everything. Avoided you, because I don’t want to,” he leaned his head against the wall, “disappoint you. 

“But I can’t do it. I can’t have sex with you. I can’t kiss you. I just can’t.”

Chuuya’s blue eyes folded in confusion.

 “Dazai,” he whispered. “I don’t care.”

Dazai turned, his bangs falling to the side and brown eyes a rare shade of shiny, sparkling amber in the dim lamplight.

“I do not give a shit,” Chuuya said, louder and yet softer. “I don’t care if I never kiss you. I couldn’t care less about making it to third base with your scrawny ass. I mean, I could, but-- I really only give one flying fuck, damn it, and it’s that I don’t have to ever see you like this again.”

“Chibi doesn’t mean that,” he closed them. “Chibi can be done playing nice.”

“I do too mean it,” he said. “And you’re not messed up ‘cause of them, shithead. You were screwed from the beginning. Born crazy.”

That drew out a chuckle. “Boo,” he pouted. “I like to think I was at least sane before I met--”

“And I’ll kill him.”

“No,” Dazai said, tone gravely serious, “you won’t. That makes absolutely no sense, and you know it. Mori’s influence is crucial to the safety of Yokohama, and who would replace him if was killed? You?” He snorted. “The city would fall apart. And it’s fine. Like I said, I don’t care.”

“You don’t care? You just told me how you can’t have sex with me, can’t kiss me, can’t do anything, but it’s just ‘oh whatever’ when they do it?”

“I’m telling the truth. It doesn’t affect me. Maybe it did. Maybe it should. But I just take it. I’m just there, you know? I’m just letting it happen. Just going to work. It doesn’t matter. I can’t with you because it... does.”

Chuuya tried his best to decipher the words. “...It matters with me?”

“Kind of. I care about you. Not them. Sex is a tool. Intimacy is different. I think.”

“That’s the most romantic thing that’s ever left your mouth.”

“Thanks.” A pause. “This is probably when we’d kiss, huh?” he laughed.

“Maybe.”

They looked at each other. 

 “Um,” Chuuya started, and even if Dazai wasn’t a psychosocial master of predictability, he could have guessed exactly what the redhead was working himself up to ask. “Do you ever think… no rush or anything, but do you think you’d ever… I don’t know, learn to want to do it?”

“No.” He leaned his head against the other’s shoulder. Offering touch in exchange for what couldn’t be given and hoping it would be enough. “So please don’t ask.”

“Hey,” Chuuya’s voice was closer to his ear as he turned. “Don’t be weird. Don’t be laying on me and shit because you feel guilty.”

“Hm? It’s not like that.”

Except it kind of was.

And Chuuya’s momentary silence implied he very well knew.

“It’s fine. I want to,” and he kind of did. He did like Chuuya. He did feel safe with Chuuya. It was kind of always like that: Chuuya-Chuuya-Chuuya-Chuuya. He did  want to be with Chuuya and hold him and be held-- but only partly, only sometimes, and only in the safety of knowing the other expected nothing more. 

“Okay. Well. You better not be lying to me, ’cause we’re not starting any more fights. I’m tired as fuck.”

He nodded, tucking his head deeper in the satin suit jacket. 

“And you gotta tell me what you want.”

“I don’t know what I want.”

I just want to be with you. I just want to exist and I just want you there. I don’t want to lose you.

“Then tell me what you don’t. That can’t happen again,” he gestures in reference to their heated argument. “Okay? I didn’t know I was doing anything to upset you. And I really, really don’t want to upset you. That’s sort of the goal here.”

“But shouting at ninety-five decibels is so charming...”

“I won’t do it if you don’t want me to.”

Dazai snorted. “Like you could stop that. You can yell, Chibikko. That would be like me telling a dog to stop barking. Oh, wait…”

“Asshole,” he said, not unkindly, and pulled off his hat to shove it over Dazai’s face.

He caught it with both hands; it smelled like Chuuya, warm and loud and reliable and drenched in overpriced cologne that no one in their right mind would ever buy. 

He held it gently over his nose. Hiding. 

“The hatless hat rack knows he doesn’t have to be nice to me..?”

“‘M not being nice.” He tapped his finger on the crown.

And yet he had to be.

Because Chuuya so obviously wanted more-- had been clear in his desires, his wishes, his need for all the things that he rightfully deserved as a symbol of humanity. 

This was but another impossible gap of isolation between them. Chuuya wanted -- wanted sex and love and passion-- because he was so human, so carnal, so bright and full of breathing life. Dazai was not.  

Chuuya should be with someone beautiful, who could provide something beautiful for him. Dazai could not.

And he did not want, he did not give. Wasn’t that funny? When, after years of pestering and pranking and causing grief for the man he was hanging onto-- a man he’d taken almost everything from, ripped from his hands, and torn apart-- he could not give a single thing? All that he had ever done was take and take and take. And use and use and use. He had tried to change-- truly and honestly. But even after leaving, joining, and starting anew, it was all the same: He was a shell, desperate to be human, and failing horrendously at the simplest of tasks.

Alien. Inable. Alone. 

Selfish. 

“Chibi. I’m sorry.”

Something in that dumbass nickname and tone and selection of words cracked a chasm in the mafioso’s heart.

“I’m sorry--”

“Hey, hey, there’s nothing to apologize for. C’mere,” he gently shifted his legs to draw Dazai into his lap.
“I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, stop--” he cried out and pushed the arms away as if he’d been burnt. Dazai shot backward and dug his nails deep into his upper arms-- where Chuuya had touched him. He shook his head. “I can’t do that. I’m sorry.”

Tears sprang in Chuuya’s eyes. “No, no, I’m sorry, I’m sorry that was so stupid--” he threw his hands up, not knowing what else to do with them-- “I wasn’t thinking about it like that, I wasn’t gonna do anything, I promise, I just meant, just... Fuck.”

Dazai regained control of his lungs and sucked in the musty air. He brushed away imaginary dirt on his pants and did the same with Chuuya’s hat, still clutched and cradled in his hands. “Not your fault. Should’ve told you.”

“No. It’s mine. It is my fucking fault. Alright?” he waited for Dazai’s nod, which after some ten seconds ticked by was apparently not going to happen. “And I’m so sorry. It won’t happen again, I swear, I’ll stay over here-- I just want to talk to you, alright? Just please talk to me. I don’t want you to go.”

And then, finally, it came, slowly but surely, almost imperceptible but a nod all the same.

“I can just ask the questions, if you want. And you can just say yes or no.”

Another nod, this one at least easier to discern. His thin fingers gripped the brim tightly, close to bending it-- something that would have normally sparked Chuuya into an uncontrollable rage. But Dazai looked so lost, so sad-- and if the fedora brought comfort that Chuuya’s touch could not, then he would not ever take it away.

“Okay. Well, let’s start off easy. Sex is out the window.”

Nod. Yes. 

“And no kissing.”

Nod. Yes.

“It’s--” Dazai said softly. “It’s so gross. I don’t know how you like it.”

Chuuya shrugged. “I don’t know. Spit can be kind of hot.”

“You’re disgusting, Chibi,” he shook his head.

“I try. So, you don’t want me to hug you?”

A shrug. “... It’s the hands. I don’t like hands. Near me.”

“Alright. But you can’t sit with me? Because I… um, I thought because you were leaning on me it would be fine.”

He shook his head and scooted somewhat forward. “It was fine. Really. Just not in your lap. Not against… you. That’s all.”

“Oh.” He fidgeted with his gloves. “Yeah. That was pretty stupid of me. Heh.”

“It’s fine, Chuuya.”

“Stop fuckin’ comforting me. You don’t even know how. And this ain’t about me, shithead, I’m supposed to be helping you.”

“So sweet,” he smiled prettily.

Chuuya blushed. “Whatever.” He unfolded Dazai’s grip from the hat and placed it ever-so-domestically upon his brunet crown of curls. “So, what are we doing? What is ‘this’? Like, we can’t be together. Not with you there and me here and Mori everywhere. Not even right now, with the truce. But I just can’t do this anymore-- can’t watch you get hurt and pretend I don’t care and act like I hate you-- I do-- but, like, I also really fucking don’t.”

“You’re right.” Dazai was now back in his original position, black fedora a funny addition to his silhouette. “It doesn’t work. It can’t work. And Slug shouldn’t put himself in danger,” he hummed and, as if it had never left, laid his head down onto Chuuya’s shoulder while he spoke. “Though wouldn’t it be a lovely rescue? I could ride in on your bike, duel Mori... We could elope, go on the run--”

“As if I’d let you on my bike.”

“I think we should hide out in Egypt.”

“Eh? Why there?”

“Don’t you think it would be fun to live in a pyramid?”

He flicked the hat rim. “There’s no way in hell I’d live in a pyramid with you. Those things are full of death traps and creepy bugs-- neither of which I want to imagine you in control of.”

“Yeah, yeah. You’re just saying that because you don’t want sand in your hair,” he twirled a lock of red between his fingers.

He rolled his eyes. “Not true.”

Their laughter and banter faded, giving way to noisy vehicles and far-away sirens. The wispy hotel curtains fluttered and swayed, filtering the bright street lights into delicate shades of gray and blue. Their shoulders, left and right, supported in turn the other’s mismatched height. 

They stared at the floor, at each other’s feet, and at each other.

“I want to be with you.”

“You are with me.”

“I mean for longer. For real,” he explained.

Dazai shifted, raising his neck, pulling away. “I can’t give you what you want.”

“You are all I want,” Chuuya spoke, his words quiet and eyes echo-deep. “Only you.”

Their worn leather shoes tapped themselves together.

“It doesn’t work.”

“I know. But I wish it did.”

They sidled subconsciously closer.

“There’s always Egypt,” Dazai huffed.

“Shut up,” he smiled sadly. He tilted his head so it rested atop the other’s and sighed. “We’re so fucked up.”

“I know.”

“This is so shitty.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“Not you, though.”

“Huh?”

“I said you’re not shitty, Shitty Dazai.”

"Oh."

"And I love you."

Oh.

"Me too. I mean you, too. I mean, I don't-"

"It's okay. You don't need to say it. I know it."

His eyelids sank softly closed.

"Thank you."