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Chuuya really wishes the target wasn’t so goddamn slow, because he’s going to fucking scream if he has to spend one more minute listening to Dazai blabber on about his scheme to woo a woman into completing a double suicide with him. The plan is just convoluted enough to be recognized as Dazai’s insane logic, but also idiotic enough that Chuuya knows his ex-partner is not actually being serious about it. In short: he’s doing it solely to get on his nerves– and it’s working.
“If you keep talking I’m going to punch the living daylights out of you, bastard,” he finally bites out, his patience having worn thin like the soles of an old pair of shoes. No matter how trusty the pair of shoes, with enough time and mileage, they were going to give in eventually.
“See, you always seem to say that, but only follow through about fifty percent of the time,” he chides with a lilting voice and a smug grin. He would’ve gone and done it right there, socking the idiot in the face, if it wasn’t for the fact that he is all the way across the room from him. Dazai would see the attack coming and evade him with little trouble, so Chuuya determines that it isn’t worth it. Better to save his energy for their mission.
“How does Mori always know when Fukuzawa is sending you? I rejoiced when you left the mafia, only for you to start showing up again with this damn truce,” he grumbles, shoving hands into the pockets of his slacks.
“You said you celebrated my departure with an expensive wine, right? Well, maybe we should crack open another one to celebrate the return of Double Black! I’m sure you’re simply ecstatic to be working with me again.” And though the comment is in jest, it brings up this throng of boiling emotions, something that Chuuya had worked hard to suppress for a long time. So, he presses them down again, and rolls his eyes by way of response, not willing to dignify Dazai with anything more than that.
“By the way,” the other man chirps when he doesn’t reply, “the president wasn’t the one who proposed assigning me to the mission.” He wears his trademark cocky grin and Chuuya wants to slap it off that damn face of his.
“Let me guess, it was that detective kid, right? With the glasses?” His brows furrow at the memory of the guy, who had trapped him in a mystery novel– it wasn’t his finest moment.
“Well, technically we’re all detectives, but you’re talking about Ranpo-san, right?” Then, before he can reply, “Nope, it wasn’t him!” Chuuya thinks he knows the answer just by how cheerful Dazai was acting. “It was me!” He’s right.
“Oh, so after fucking off for four years, you come crawling back to me now, eh?”
“Precisely,” the agency member replies, a tad less energetic than before, dropping the act now that the guessing game is over. “An owner doesn’t like going too long without his dog, after all,” and there it is, the expected insult. “I wonder if Chuuya had any separation anxiety while I was away?” he muses, a contemplative finger placed performatively on his chin as his gaze drifts to the ceiling in wonder.
“I’m not your fucking dog anymore– never was! Owners don’t abandon their dogs anyway,” he growls, folding his arms defiantly.
Chuuya knows that Dazai is pushing his buttons on purpose, this was their comfort zone, but he’s not sure that the other realizes that with every subliminal nudge and prod he’s reopening years-old wounds. These are gashes that were hastily stitched shut after he defected, perhaps not treated with proper care– and though Chuuya wouldn’t admit out loud, he’s not sure they ever quite healed properly. Maybe he should have just pulled a ‘Dazai’ and wrapped it all up in bandages so he wouldn’t have to see his festering wounds every day, a reminder of the man who had left them.
“Chuuya is more bark than bite,” Dazai goads, hopping off the crate he was previously perched on and stretching his arms over his head, a bored yawn escaping his lips.
“I’d say that’s more true for you, actually,” Chuuya retorts with a snarl, “we both know I’m the powerhouse of Double Black, you’re just the strategist and the means to stop Corruption!”
“Of course, of course!” He waves a dismissive hand, before letting out an unamused scoff. “How could I ever forget Mori’s obsession with using you as many times as humanly possible?” he remarks, the bite in his tone only proving Chuuya’s point. “If it weren’t for me, you’d be dead from overuse of your ability, you know.” Though he says this in his usual light, teasing voice, the other man can’t help but feel as if there’s more to it.
“You’re probably right,” he concedes with a shrug, drumming gloved fingers impatiently.
“An owner must protect it’s dog, after all!”
“Would you cut it with the dog and owner shit, already? Is this some weird kink of yours or something?” Chuuya barks, trying not to think too hard about why his brain is latching onto the idea that Dazai feels the need to protect him, and– well, it’s too late, he’s thinking about it now. “And what the hell do you mean ‘protect’? I can take care of myself damn well, I did so for four years without you, after all!” The energy in the room shifts at this, and once again the mafia executive recognizes that he has let his temper get the better of him, cursing himself internally for it as Dazai regards him with a smirk and a slight tilt of the head. If he’s a yappy dog, then Dazai is a cunning cat.
“No need to get so defensive, chibi,” he says, and the nickname doesn’t help the sizzling frustration Chuuya is fighting to keep restrained within his chest, “though, you do realize that I’ve taken quite good care of you over the years.”
He huffs out a sigh, because he doesn’t know what Dazai is playing at– hell, no one ever fucking does. The guy is a mystery. Chuuya doesn’t even fully understand why he defected from the mafia in the first place. Yes, he had heard of Oda Sakunosuke and his partner’s alleged regard for the man as a friend, but the suicidal maniac never let death phase him, even of those who he knew personally. It wasn’t necessarily a gruesome death, either, just a simple gunshot wound. He supposed the tragedy lies in the man’s previous vow not to kill, broken once the children he had cared for were targeted– but still.
Even though Chuuya knew better than to try to work out Dazai’s motivations, he had spent years attempting to do so anyway. His efforts were fruitless, of course.
“God, what the hell do you mean, shitty Dazai? Fucking off for four years certainly was not helpful, especially since it suspended the use of Corruption which made me less useful! Plus, I had a bunch of your abandoned work dumped on me– it was a fucking pain in the ass.” He leans back on his hands a bit, gaze searching the face of the man standing in front of him. Up on the crate like this, he is slightly above Dazai’s eye level.
“Every time you use Corruption it completely wipes you out, and I was always left to clean up the mess.”
“Oh, so what, it was because you were just too lazy to–”
“Let me finish, idiot,” he cuts in with a glare sharp enough to match his tone, and Chuuya obeys with an affronted huff. “I say this only to stress the fact that I am really the only one who’s had to manage the entire fallout of Corruption– I’m the only one who’s seen the whole of it. Had Mori been fully in control, he wouldn’t have given a shit that you coughed up blood every time, or that your heart rate slowed, or that I consistently stopped you at death’s door.” Chuuya doesn’t like the solemn seriousness in Dazai’s tone, nor the way that he is looking off to the side, towards the entrance of the warehouse where they were awaiting the arrival of their target. “It was getting exponentially worse, too. And so by leaving, and thus eliminating the usage of Corruption entirely, I was doing you a favor. ”
“I didn’t ask you to,” Chuuya bites out, brows furrowed. This conversation is making his head hurt, the territory somewhat unfamiliar for them, especially as they stood now– ex-partners. “What, was this the first step on your journey to becoming goody-two-shoes?”
“No,” Dazai says, the reply quick, but not too much so. He turns away from him fully. “Perhaps it’s a bit of the ‘good’ that Odasaku saw in me or something.” The admission is quiet, uncharacteristic. Chuuya’s world is being knocked off it’s fucking axis with how this evening is progressing, because sure, Dazai had changed quite a bit in his few years with the agency, but this is weird even for his present self. The confessions, the rawness, the transparency are odd for him.
“What the fuck is up with you, Dazai?” Chuuya demands, and though his tone is harsh, he can’t help but let the tiniest bit of concern seep into it. There’s a beat of silence where the other man seems to be mulling over his words, working out what exactly to say. He was trying to discern what he should reveal to his ex-partner and what he should keep under wraps.
“I understand most things,” Dazai states, and though his back is still to him, Chuuya can see him lift his gaze up to the ceiling with how he tilts his head back. “Oda was someone I could not understand. His morals, his motivation– it fascinated me. What I understood least, though, was his acceptance of who I was when I knew him. I was his friend, and he was mine, despite the fact that we shared little in our views of the world. He had hope, where I did not. He refused to kill, while I didn’t hesitate to do so, often needlessly. He was, at his core, a good man, and I…” he let out a soft snort through his nose, “I definitely wasn’t. Still don’t think I am.” He sighs, and Chuuya processes this information, allowing it to seep into his skin. Vulnerability from Dazai is something he’s not sure he’s ever fully encountered. The mafioso had seen it in flashes, these quick bursts and small moments, but never like this, for so long. So he remains silent, scared to break the spell. Dazai lowers his head.
“I don’t know what that man saw in me, but he believed I had it in me to become a good man. So I figured, ‘fake it ‘til you make it’.” His hands slide into the pockets of his trench coat, and Chuuya thinks there might have been a slight tremor to them.
“And why am I only finding this out now, huh? Seems to me that Sakunoske was the only one you considered a friend.” The sour-tasting words leave his mouth before he gets the chance to even think them, tumbling out of him like they’d been suddenly ejected from his brain.
“I blew up your car, Chuuya,” Dazai states, turning his head towards his ex-partner.
“Yeah, thanks for that,” he replies bitterly, sarcasm quite evident in the flat tone of his voice.
“You’re welcome. It was so Mori didn’t suspect you as an accomplice in my defection.” A tense pause. “And also because I knew it would piss you off.”
Chuuya wants to protest against the latter portion of the statement, fall back into their familiar, heated banter, but he is far too focused on the revelation that the bomb under his vehicle was for his protection.
“It did piss me off. I mean, I didn’t figure out it was you at the time, but I still fucking hated you.”
“That was the goal,” Dazai remarks, “it’s easier for you to just hate me, correct?”
“No,” the answer is immediate and he shakes his head. He hates that his anger is rising, but it’s not like Dazai hadn’t seen his rage before. “I was so goddamned confused, you bastard! If you’d at least fucking told me then maybe– maybe I would’ve been able to accept it or– or–”
“If I had told you, you would have tried to talk me out of it, and when that didn’t work, you would’ve threatened to tell Mori.” Chuuya opens his mouth to object, but Dazai shoots down the thought before he gets the chance to say it. “You wouldn’t have come with me, Chuuya. You’re too loyal for that. I wasn’t going to drag you into my mess.” He scrubs a hand over his face, frowning. “There was no good way of going about it, but I did what was best for both of us, alright?”
“And who were you to determine what’s best for me?” He’s hopped down off the crate now, approaching Dazai with years of frustration and hurt pumping through his veins, moving him forward. “I’m not just some fucking puppet or robot you can manipulate as you please! You– you didn’t even give me a choice, the semblance of a warning, even! You fucking dragged me into the mafia just to leave me there alone, the only person in the whole organization I really fucking trusted and you just– just left me in the dust. Because what if Mori decided to use Corruption anyway and I died? You’d want even more blood on your hands? Would you have even regretted it?”
“That wouldn’t have happened as long as I was alive. Corruption is too powerful to dispose of so carelessly– your safety was ensured.” He doesn’t want to admit the bastard is right, but of course he is. Dazai is always right. There was no good solution for the predicament, and though he recognizes this, he can’t help but feel a lingering resentment.
“What if I would’ve gone with you, though?” he offers, and though his voice is still hot with that anger, it is also slightly more subdued– a smoldering thing.
“You wouldn’t have, I know my partner.”
“You’re right , I wouldn’t have!” he exclaims, throwing his hands up in defeat and frustration. “I wouldn’t have gone. But you didn’t even give me a choice! You decided to play god and choose for me,” he grumbles, folding his arms and looking up at Dazai, who holds his gaze. “I fucking resent that. You left me high and dry, even if you were protecting me. I would’ve dealt with Mori–”
“We’re going in circles like this,” he interrupts, “you were never going to be happy with the decision either way, so perhaps I took the selfish option of keeping you safe and cutting you off so I didn’t have to deal with confronting you, okay?” There is an edge to his voice, like something cracked and slipped through, something genuine.
Dazai lets himself get agitated by Chuuya regularly, it’s their little song and dance, their comfort zone. This is a different kind of frustration, though, and Chuuya realizes as he searches his ex-partner’s expression. It is something deeper than the typical simple petty agitation.
It is defensiveness.
“Selfish, huh?” Chuuya muses, and something flashes in the other man’s face for a split second, too quickly for him to scrutinize. “You’ve always been a selfish bastard.”
“I know.”
“And I–”
“Shut up,” Dazai said, holding up his hand, and Chuuya wants to protest until he remembers that they are actually in the middle of a mission and– oh god, how had he let himself get so distracted?
(The answer to this question is plain as day, but Chuuya is one stubborn son of a bitch– it’s a Taurus thing– and so he refuses to even entertain the thought.)
Chuuya is convinced that the man has some sort of sixth sense, because approximately two seconds before a barrage of bullets fills the room, Dazai shoves him to the ground, dropping down so he is laying flat, as well. As soon as Chuuya has a grasp of the situation, though, he has no problem standing up and deflecting the bullets with his ability, effectively protecting himself without having to even lift a finger.
Their target is a small organization of terrorists that have been causing trouble for both the agency and the port mafia as of late. On the surface, it seems that such a matter would have been effectively resolved by someone of a lower rank in each of the organizations, but the special brand of chaos is why Double Black appears to have been called upon. The leader of this organization is faceless and nameless, but it appears that they have the ability to bring the dead to life by stitching corpses together– and these corpses? They have been randomly terrorizing the local populus of Yokohama, and were now surrounding the warehouse that Chuuya and Dazai are situated in.
“Apparently those monsters are intelligent enough to wield guns, huh,” Chuuya mumbles, more to himself than his ex-partner.
“And we were correct about the tip the mafia received being a trap.”
“You still haven’t told me how you knew about that.”
“I’m not sure such things are important at the moment,” Dazai remarks, his chest to the ground as he avoids the line of fire.
“D’you think the gifted is here?” Chuuya questions, turning the bullets that he had collected around and firing them back at the army of patchwork creatures that are attacking them. They hardly react to this though, which makes the ginger tch. Apparently, this was going to be a tad more difficult than previously anticipated.
They muddle through, but there are a few close calls in combat. On more than one occasion, Chuuya has to step in to make sure his ex-partner isn’t about to get his brain bashed in by one of those ridiculous monstrosities. A blade, no matter how sharp and skillfully handled by Dazai, is nothing compared to the Tainted Sorrow, especially with No Longer Human rendered useless against the beings. Eventually, they render all the creatures immobile, narrowly avoiding the use of Corruption– and thank god, because Chuuya really doesn’t feel like spending the next couple of days coughing up a lung and struggling to keep food down. Of course, such a thought only serves as a reminder of Dazai’s alleged “protection” of him, and suddenly his brain is stuck on their unusually candid conversation.
But when he turns around to address Dazai on the subject, he’s gone.
Chuuya curses out loud, and he is frustrated by more than just being left to deal with the aftermath of their battle.
- ☾ -
Dazai Osamu is not an easy guy to get a hold of, and Chuuya knows this all too well from his four years apart from the man, so he is a bit surprised that he finds him on his tenth guess at Lupin.
“What the fuck is up with you, shitty Dazai?” he greets eloquently, making a show of bursting through the door of the small bar, startling the cat curled up on the counter (which is definitely against some sort of health code in the first place).
“So you’ve managed to sniff me out, such a good doggy,” he comments, not even turning to address the ginger.
“I didn’t do anything, and you know that damn well,” he replies with a huff, taking the seat next to Dazai. “If you really wanted to hide from me, you would’ve been able to.” He remains silent, perhaps an acknowledgement that Chuuya is correct without having to actually admit it aloud. Instead, the agency member takes a sip of whiskey from his nearly full glass (which leaves Chuuya to wonder if he had only shown up only a few minutes prior, anticipating his time of arrival). The mafioso requests a merlot from the bartender. An uneasy silence sits between them as Dazai watches him disappear into a back room to retrieve the requested alcohol, his nails clicking on his glass as he drums them. He’s trying to appear as his usual calm and composed self, but Chuuya notes that the other man’s jaw is clenched. It’s an uncharacteristic tell.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so quiet, you’ve always got some snide remark or insult or whatever, so what the hell’s wrong, Dazai? Why the fuck’d you leave me the other night?”
“It’s not like I’ve never abandoned you after a mission before,” he comments with a soft snort. It’s meant to rile Chuuya up, but he recognizes it as the deflection it is.
“Yes, I remember Lovecraft, thanks for the reminder,” he grumbles, “but you know that’s not my point. Don’t think you can worm your way outta this one.” The bartender sets the glass of wine on the counter and disappears into the back room once again.
“Shelley,” Dazai states, not looking up, swirling his drink. His voice is strained, just the tiniest bit. “That’s the name of the gifted behind the monsters. She hates society, hates how it ousts certain individuals, and so she decided to attack society indiscriminately. The agency–”
“I don’t care– I don’t fucking care about the damn terrorist!” He slams a fist on the bar. “Cut the bullshit, Dazai– I’m trying to have a damn conversation with you right now about all the shit you just dumped on me the other night, and–”
“I made a mistake talking about all of that,” Dazai says, his voice low and somewhat gravelly, but still severe. He remains still and doesn’t meet the other man’s eye, opting to stare at his drink instead.
“You don’t make mistakes, Dazai.”
“Exactly,” and there’s something a bit raw in that single word, it carries a weight. Dazai is a man of masks, but here and now Chuuya suspects that he’s struggling to keep one on. His expression isn’t as controlled as normal– there’s a slight twitch of his lips, and his dull eyes refuse to look at his ex-partner. The curtain has dropped, the performance is over, though the actor still wears the costume and clings onto his character’s mannerisms.
After a much-needed sip of wine and a few moments of silence, Chuuya says, “You obviously don’t wanna have this conversation, but you also let me find you, so what gives?” He stares at the side of the other man’s head. “Seems like being truthful for once really fucked you up, huh?” Dazai physically winces at that– winces. The behavior is so uncharacteristic and vulnerable that for a split second Chuuya considers that he’s somehow under the influence of an ability (he knows this isn’t correct, though he doesn’t know why he’s so sure of this).
“I don’t want to have this conversation, but the other night brought up some thoughts, and this, right now, only confirms their validity,” Dazai says in a mumble, like his mind is somewhere far away from the bar (or perhaps it is in the bar, but far in the past). Then, he downs the rest of the drink before rising from his seat.
“Where the fuck d’you think you’re going?” He grabs Dazai’s wrist, causing him to flinch away like he’s been burned . Chuuya doesn’t let go. “At least let me finish my drink before you scurry off, asshole.” There’s this moment of hesitation, both of them frozen and knowing this is uncharted territory, and yet Dazai doesn’t pull against his grip. He stays still and doesn’t look back at the other when he speaks.
“You make me feel,” Dazai mutters, his posture horribly tense. “I’m not in control.”
“What the hell’re you going on about?” Chuuya really wishes he would turn around.
“Human,” he bows his head, “I feel human, ” the words probably burn his throat to verbalize, “and I’ve been feeling like that more in general because of my work at the agency, but… but you’ve almost always made me feel like that. You and Odasaku have, but in different ways, I think.” There is a beat of silence, where Chuuya is wrapping his head around the words just spoken to him, trying to absorb them properly. “Let go of me.”
“No,” he states, and the other sighs at this, “not again.” Dazai’s fist clenches.
“Chuuya–”
“Listen to me, you bastard,” he says through clenched teeth, grip tightening on the other man’s wrist. He knows his ability has been nullified, he feels the chill down his spine, the ice in his veins. Dazai could so easily wrench his arm out of Chuuya’s grasp and knock him to the ground if he really wanted to, yet he does not. “I don’t know about your past before the mafia or whatever, but something tells me you didn’t have the best childhood.”
“What gave it away?” His tone is flat– he is being sarcastic, but without his usual mirth.
“Shut it, asshole,” Chuuya grumbles, “I’m trying to make a point here.” Dazai gestures with his other hand for him to go on. “I’m gonna assume you didn’t experience a lot of affection before, and you certainly didn’t get any of that from Mori. But with Sakunoske? Yeah, I think that guy cared for you, and that’s why you felt like that. You…” he hesitates, the words feel odd in his mouth, “you loved him, I guess– and not necessarily in a romantic way or anything, just in a way where you cared, which you didn’t really do all that much back then.”
“And what about Chuuya?” It’s a soft, small question, with the weight of the world contained within it. Chuuya shifts his grip so that his thumb is over Dazai’s pulse point– and despite the fact that the man has the ability to control his heart rate, it is hammering quite rapidly.
“That whole thing the other day was about how you left me behind because you thought you were fucking protecting me, so yeah, I think you might care a tiny bit–”
“No, I meant that–” he stops for a moment, brows drawn together like he was confused that he was stumbling over himself, “I– well, do you care about me?”
“Fucking god, Dazai, you’re supposed to be the smart one,” he breathes, and he thinks his heart rate might match the other’s. “Hey, look at me.” He tugs lightly on his ex-partner’s arm, and he turns to look at him, albeit hesitantly. His expression is pained, like the conversation hurts, like the prospect of love hurts. “Why’d you think I got so pissed when you left without a trace? If– if I actually hated you, I would’ve killed you ages ago.” But Dazai knew this already, didn’t he? Obviously, dancing around the fact has done them little good thus far, and so Chuuya swallows his pride and decides he owes Dazai a direct response just this once. “Of course I fucking care, you idiot. I hate to admit it, but I do.” A tense pause. “Okay?”
He really hopes the bartender is entertained, because that back door definitely is not blocking out this terribly vulnerable conversation. It’s an exchange in which both men have ripped all their stitches and have bled out their secrets– the crimson stains Chuuya’s pristine clothes, and it appears in blotches on Dazai’s bandages. Will they now take care to sew each other up? Or, when Chuuya lets go, will Dazai turn and leave, leaving his own trail of blood dripping behind him?
Chuuya frees Dazai’s wrist, and he does not leave. No, he steps forward and he brushes the back of his hand on Chuuya’s cheek, he gazes down at him with an expression so tender it looks foreign on him, he holds Chuuya’s jaw, he lets his thumb gently drag across his cheek. Chuuya is holding his breath, he is frozen and wide-eyed, he feels heat rush to where Dazai touches him, he can’t break eye contact, and he wants to speak, but he cannot– he can’t even fucking blink.
“What would you say defines humanity?” Dazai asks, quiet, near-silent. He doesn’t receive an answer, but he probably isn’t expecting one. “I’d say that it’s love.”
He leans down, slow enough to make his intention clear, and their lips meet. It’s Chuuya’s first kiss, actually, and at twenty-two years old. He isn’t sure what he was expecting, but not necessarily this , gentle in a way he never thought Dazai could be. It’s small yet it holds all the weight of the world, it’s a brushing of lips, it’s warm, it’s fucking romantic and that’s a shock.
Chuuya almost expects him to turn and leave after that, scared away by another human “mistake”. He does not, though. Dazai pulls away, blinking rapidly a few times like the gesture surprised him, but his hand does not move, cradling the other’s face. The taller man huffs out one short, quiet laugh, like he can’t believe he did that. The shorter smirks at this.
“That bad, huh?” Chuuya jokes, because someone needs to ease this tension, it’s fucking palpable. Dazai snorts quite attractively at the question, and then his other hand comes up to Chuuya’s face so that he’s gently holding both sides. And then– and then he wears an expression that’s actually decipherable for once. The crinkle of his eyes, the small smile tugging at his lips, the light tinge of pink on his cheeks– it’s an expression of fondness.
“Thank you, Chuuya.”
Chuuya can’t help but grin.