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More punctual than Cinderella, the moment the clock strikes twelve on Friday evenings, a magical transformation happens in Yokohama.
No resplendent gowns are involved—unless crossdressing or disguising is in their cards. No glass slippers, only a half-empty glass of wine that Chuuya doesn’t quite manage to finish without his head spinning. With brisk, silent footsteps, Dazai appears beside him and steadies him even when it’s unnecessary, given that he’s slumped against the bar’s wooden top.
Because the weekend has started, Chuuya doesn’t deliver his fist to the mackerel’s jaw. Instead, it lands somewhere a bit lower, fisting the other’s lapels so he’d bend further down and kiss him as a greeting.
On a weekday, if they’re faced with misfortune to the point that they’d bump into each other, they’d end up squabbling like cats and dogs. But because it’s the weekend, it’s part of their personal truce, so Chuuya vents his anger towards the other’s presence by biting his bottom lip.
It’s such a common routine already. Their weekend begins with Dazai picking him up from the bar. None of his subordinates try to alert the whole mafia anymore, sparking a code red about an ex-Executive kidnapping a current Executive. Not after that hilarious first time, at least.
Because it’s a weekend, Chuuya allows the beanpole to carry him away from the bar, stifling his snort about the trembling of the other’s arms and the slow, meandering walk as the mackerel staggers under their combined weight. Because he’s been gently parted from his glass of wine, Chuuya hooks his arms over a bandaged neck, and drinks from the other man instead.
On any other time, it’s Dazai who’d insist on being a bandaged, suicidal Snow White, while he’s tasked to be the Prince who’d come save him from all sorts of machinations.
Now, it’s Chuuya who’s treated as Cinderella, with Dazai removing his shoes as he sits sideways on the passenger seat. One hand on the steering wheel, another kneading the feet that he splays out on the other’s lap.
Dazai’s way of driving seems to be intent on sending its passengers to a morgue as its destination. Tonight’s weather is quite good, so the roof of his convertible slides down, letting air whistle past their ears.
He’s a bit tipsy from the wine, so he good-naturedly doesn’t kick the other’s stomach when he starts crooning along to the song currently playing in the radio. Dazai’s always had a nice voice, but the way he’s changing the lyrics to “I’m stealing away a chibi slug~♪” really is asking for a beating.
“Where are we going?” Falling asleep when Dazai’s at the driver’s seat is possibly one of the most reckless things anyone could do. He finds himself slowly succumbing to slumber, knowing that regardless of their weekend truce, Dazai wouldn’t send them to a double suicide without getting his express agreement first.
“Somewhere interesting,” is the answer that floats to his ears.
Knowing Dazai and his strange tastes, this could be anywhere from a volcanic eruption to a skinny dip in a public beach in the middle of the night.
He drums his toes against the other’s belt buckle. “Wake me up when we arrive.”
“You’ve worked extra-hard this week.” A squeeze to his instep. “Rest, Chuuya.”
Their weekend routine includes going somewhere that isn’t their homes.
It’s not about not wanting to open up their respective homes to each other.
The Agency’s dorms are too cramped and its walls are too thin. Chuuya’s not about to risk Kyouka-chan telling Ane-san about the colorful curse words that she’s learned from listening to him yell at the mackerel, not to mention any other noises that she might hear. His apartment is home to his collection of hats and wines, and therefore would trigger an event similar to the Dragon Head Incident if Dazai so much as breathes wrong at them.
…Fine, so it is a little bit about wanting to keep his belongings away from a slimy bastard’s reach.
Either way, in case of emergencies, it’s not like they don’t have access to each other’s homes and safehouses.
It’s just that, weekends offer a chance to refresh themselves. The world is a very big place, and there are many things that they haven’t seen or experienced.
He wakes up to the feeling of something slimy wriggling against the seam of his lips, as well as a fingernail drawing lines over the lines of his choker. He kisses back and slowly opens his eyes. The other’s windswept hair tickles his eyelids, and through it, the first rays of sunlight filters through his vision. From a few meters away, there’s the slow splash of the waves cresting against an unkempt coastline with scatterings of detritus and seaswept algae.
Saturday means Dazai’s choice of location, and he usually brings them to watch over sunrise, with a nearby body of water. He squints at their surroundings. Somewhere south of Yokohama, judging from the distant blot of the Cosmo 21 Ferris Wheel that he could see.
“Do you actually want to fish?”
“We’ve never done that yet,” Dazai defends his choice of activity for the day. “Plus, I had to act as a chibi’s driver for a few hours, I need to catch up on my beauty sleep.”
He doesn’t bother pointing out that he has plenty of experience fishing this bandaged mackerel out of rivers. He removes his socks and rolls up his pants, so he can walk barefoot against the sand.
Tucked away behind barnacle-crusted fences, there’s a small fishing outpost that has some old rods swaying gently in the morning seabreeze. They walk towards it, leaving the convertible parked in the last strip of concrete before it gives way to sand.
Dazai yawns and uses him as a makeshift crutch. They trudge along the beach like a malformed hermit crab changing shells from an expensive sportscar to a dilapidated outpost.
…Perhaps that’s really the best description for his transformation over weekends. Far away from his apartment filled with his luxurious wines, he’s instead traveling all over Japan with a fish in tow.
Dazai yawns again, deliberately against his hair this time.
He raises an eyebrow. “How the hell are you so sleepy?”
“Did you not hear me earlier, tiny slug?” Dazai brings him around the outpost, pointing at various equipment they could use to catch fish and store said catch afterwards. “I had to drive during the wee hours of the morning, so—”
An eyeroll. “I’m fairly certain that you slacked off work and napped the whole Friday anyway.”
“…Ah, busted.”
Nevertheless, the mackerel has no shame whatsoever. He cuddles by his side the entire time, leaning his entire weight against him, snoring softly to his earlobe. With the other’s nullification, it means that he can’t use his Ability to assist in fixing the small fishing boat that’s left behind.
Their early Saturday morning is spent like that. Chuuya gets to use his hands and try to decipher how to fix a small boat. Dazai gets to use him as a chin-rest, but the fish does swim away for a bit when he gets hungry, slipping back to the car and finding the stash of biscuits, energy drinks and other snacks that he keeps in the backseat.
They eventually set out to the shallow sea, fishing rods parked on opposite ends of the boat. Dazai has regained a bit of energy, and he’s now lazily lounging on the boat, hands busy in typing on his phone.
“With how seriously you’re looking at your phone, should I feel pity towards a poor soul?” He’s already removed most of his clothes, leaving just his choker, his gloves and his boxers. His legs are partially submerged in the water, as he balances himself on the side of the boat, dipping his toes in.
Casually, “Ah, I’m typing out the next story in my light novel submission.”
“Ah, the delusional series.” He shoots his partner a look. “You’re still continuing to write those?”
“You’re being a spoilsport, but it’s alright.” Dazai’s eyes flick to stare at him, turns back to his writing, before coming back up to linger on his bare chest. “I know you’re just embarrassed to read them.”
“I’m embarrassed to be associated with you,” he corrects. He half-turns so that the fish can appreciate the lines of his muscles easier. “I just get a headache whenever I read them.”
A knowing grin, “And yet you still read them.”
“Because you keep on shoving them to my face.” He considers splashing water on the other’s phone, but he knows the other man would be insufferable if his writing materials get destroyed.
Ever since they’ve started their weekend truce, Dazai has been writing a series of short novels during their trips. It just so happens that they’re novels featuring characters heavily based on the two of them as the protagonists.
Stories about “them” as schoolmates, about “them” dating in a café during Valentine’s, about “them” being a detective and phantom thief pair who are chasing each other, about “them” being members of a rival band, about “them” being in a strange version of the Snow White fairytale, about “them” being a siren and sailor—
“Mm, of course. I’m writing stories about us, so isn’t it just right that you read them?”
Having been subjected to those stories, he can only say, “Those are certainly not us.” He stands up and stretches out a leg, so he can rub the other’s chin using his toes. “I would never let myself be tricked into dating a bandaged waste like you.”
Whether it’s a weekday or a weekend, their ability to read each other thoroughly is always present. As such, Dazai kisses his foot, before murmuring, “Because there’s no need for me to trick you into doing so, is there?”
Some things don’t require verbal responses.
The fish that they end up catching are quite pitiful in size, so after swimming a bit, the only thing that Chuuya has managed to catch and keep is a bandaged mackerel. Since this isn’t the first weekend they’ve had together, he comes prepared with a change of clothes for both of them.
There’s a pair of luggage stashed under the backseat. According to Ane-san, it’s as if he’s always prepared to elope with a fish. Eloping is out of the question, because he isn’t some irresponsible sod like his partner who could just disappear from the face of the planet without arranging for someone to take care of his work.
Still, it’s something almost like it. Rather than because of a sense of romance, it’s more because Dazai is fond of getting them into a variety of difficult situations. Being prepared for the worst-case scenario is just part of the usual.
“I’m so hungry,” Dazai whines, as they end up sprawled in the backseat, enjoying the blast of airconditioning. With the sun now high up in the sky, the convertible’s roof is also back up to keep them cool.
Not that it really helps, given that Dazai seems set to make them sweat for the next hour.
The back of his head thunks against the car window. He raises an eyebrow at the handcuffs that Dazai is twirling over his finger. Just like their weekend destinations, Dazai also keeps a checklist of things to try out as they sleep together.
“Didn’t we already try this out?” He could still remember the morning-after—due to the chafing on his wrists, he’d been very slow to type out his reports.
With a shrug, “Oh, this time, let’s cuff ourselves together.”
On a weekday, he’d be more than happy to tie this fish up, cuff him and haul him to the torture room. On this weekend, the torture is more about how cramped the backseat is for luxury cars, and how the soreness that he feels is due to his dismay at the seats being stained.
Thankfully, getting distracted by each other is also part of the usual routine. He has enough wet wipes and another change of clothes.
It’s past the lunch hour rush by the time he drives them to the nearest seafood restaurant. It means that Dazai can insist on eating while seated on his lap, without the risk of them spoiling the appetites of other customers.
The town they’ve landed in is quite small. They walk hand-in-hand as they wait for their food to digest, sightseeing a little bit. It’s near the sea, so the breeze is tinged with salt. They share a cone of ice cream as he spots a yard sale. They come out of it with several trinkets that would make their way into a safehouse that belongs to both of them, a place where Dazai stashes ‘evidence’ of their weekly outings.
They drive a bit further, following the coastline. The next town they pass by is the stronghold of one of the rival groups that are on the Port Mafia’s radar.
“You really can’t stop meddling with my work,” he gripes, but he goes along with the mackerel as they play at detectives gathering information. It’s just a ‘play’, because he knows that Dazai has already acquired all the necessary intel beforehand, but is simply making it seem like it’s a joint effort.
With the fakest tone known to mankind, “It just so happened that I’m so hardworking and ended up hearing something about this case, that’s all.”
Part of their truce means keeping disagreements to minimal violence, which means that he only elbows the other in the gut, instead of shooting at him directly. They gather information in their usual manner—Chuuya looking around in the guise of exercising his credit card swiping skills, Dazai living up to being an enemy of all women, by flirting copiously and seducing intel out of their lips.
They have dinner in this town, barbecued squid, prawn sticks and buttered crab filling their bellies. They buy some sparklers on the way, before driving off to the nearest cliffside.
On a weekday, such a thing would be accompanied by him attempting to shove the other off the cliff. Right now, they sit on the edge, legs dangling over it.
Dazai lights up the sparklers and attempts to draw a slug using the tiny fireworks. He rolls his eyes, but generously doesn’t stab his freshly-lit cigarette on the other’s thigh when an arm slinks around his waist.
Temperatures drop as the night deepens. This far away from the bustling city centers, the nighttime sky is clear enough that they could see a lot of stars. Earlier on, he’s brought along a thick blanket, and it drapes over their shoulders as they stargaze while bickering.
Before they could catch a cold—or rather, before Dazai gets a cold, then sneezes on him multiple times in order to infect him—Chuuya bundles them both into the car, heat turned up.
As the clock turns to midnight, he grins and settles himself on the driver’s seat. He turns to the mackerel beside him. “Your Ability is activated based on your consciousness, right.” It’s not really a question.
“Mm, as long as my heart is active enough to pump blood to my brain.” Dazai hums and takes off his shoes so he can embrace his folded legs. Cheek resting atop his knees, a raised eyebrow in challenge.
Sunday is for his itinerary.
They don’t need to exchange further words, as he grins in acceptance of that provocation. He pulls back the roof of the convertible so they could feel the breeze in their hair. He changes gears, then his car zooms past the cliff, floating mid-air until it reaches the sea. It skims over the waves’ surface, as red surrounds them, gravity manipulation acting upon the vehicle while Dazai controls his heartbeat to the point that it stops beating for a few moments, deactivating No Longer Human.
He accelerates them, a red comet blazing across the waters. With this speed, they manage to cross an entire prefecture in a few seconds.
Without a need for prior arrangement, Dazai lets his heartbeat resume, reaching out with bandaged fingers to hold his wrist. His Ability is nullified, but there’s enough momentum to carry the car throughout the remaining distance.
As they drift over the sea, Chuuya looks at Dazai who’s looking at him. He shifts his hand so that their fingers are interlocked. They’re both grinning like kids, and despite this stunt that’s certainly unlike a normal human’s idea of a normal weekend trip—he thinks that they both are very human in this moment.
Just before they completely torpedo into the steel barrier of the highway that embraces the coastline’s curves, Chuuya changes gears again and drives them smoothly enough that they don’t end up being thrown out of the car in a massive explosion.
Adrenaline courses through his veins as he says, “See that? My weekend plans are so much cooler than yours, shitty Dazai!”
Of course, the shitty mackerel feigns disinterest, wiping his expression clear of the boyish enthusiasm from earlier. “Ehh, it’s so-so.”
Their bickering accompanies the drive to the nearest hotel. It’s not affiliated with Port Mafia, but his black card is enough to guarantee them the penthouse suite.
After sleeping comfortably and having each other for breakfast, the rest of the day is spent in lazy grandeur. He likes going shopping with Dazai, because they always have mini-contests about guessing the price of items, as well as having deduction games in which they guess a passersby life story based on sight alone.
When the clock creeps closer to midnight, Chuuya drives them both back to Yokohama. The backseat is filled to bursting with various knickknacks and shopping bags.
Just like always, a minute before midnight has Chuuya’s car arriving in front of the Agency’s dorms. It’s annoying to act as Dazai’s chauffeur, but he simply considers it as part of a modern-day noblesse oblige.
Weekend is about to end, so he clicks his tongue in annoyance as he makes shooing motions at the pest in the passenger’s seat. Just like always, “Get your face out of my sight. If I see you again this week, I’m going to run you over.”
On weekdays, they’re enemies who wouldn’t hesitate on shoving explosives down each other’s shirts. On weekends… they’re still enemies, it’s just that they give more time to trying to rip each other’s shirts apart.
Dazai blinks at him, before reaching out to snatch his phone.
“Oi, bastard, what the hell—?!”
Slowly, mischievously, Dazai dangles his phone back to him. The time and date settings on his phone has been changed. He doesn’t even want to know how the fish has been able to convert his calendar to be entirely replaced by Saturdays and Sundays.
“You shouldn’t say such harsh words to me,” Dazai tells him softly, before leaning in and kissing him. “After all, weekends are reserved for a lover’s sweetness.”
His heart trembles for a moment, before shoving the other’s face away from him. “You’re so full of shit,” he says, but he doesn’t insist on kicking the other off his car as he drives back to his apartment.
Monday arrives, but it now possesses the same weekend sweetness.
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end