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There are very few and far between joys in the hellish turmoil of life, but Dazai must admit–lazy Sunday mornings are up there.
It’s a relatively new feeling, as he only recently began having them. Most mornings are technically lazy for him, but Sundays are the mornings where no one yells at him for it, ever since Chuuya made him schedule an official day off every week. It’s difficult taking time off as a detective–weekdays are busy, and weekends are even busier. But Sundays sit right in the sweet spot.
If he’s called in, he’s called in–but it’s relaxing knowing that he has no obligation to show up.
Before, his lazy mornings were cold and limp, hazy with the sour tinge of alcohol still lingering in his mouth. The curtains were drawn, but the late morning sun would always manage to find the single crack left behind and shine directly into his eyes. Dragging himself out of bed would be a herculean task, and finding his way out of the door would be near-impossible.
There are still days like that, but he never wakes up alone, now, if he can help it.
This morning is heavy and sticky with warmth, dragging him to wakefulness through the thick syrup of a deep sleep. There’s a form sprawled out next to him, tiny body taking up most of the mattress, a blanket half-covering the boy it belongs to. For a gravity manipulator, Chuuya turns rather ungraceful as soon as he’s asleep. Dazai’s arms and legs are wrapped around his restless body like vines around a log.
His head is resting on Chuuya’s chest, listening for the soft rumble of the older man’s snoring, but all he hears is the steady thud of his heartbeat and the gentle rise-and-fall of his breathing. He’s awake, then. There’s a hand on his head, not petting or combing. Simply resting on his head, content with the knowledge that Dazai is there.
Chuuya gives a sleepy grumble, patting the side of his head lightly. “Mornin’,” he slurs. “Lemme up.”
Dazai makes a disgruntled sound, tightening his hold on the other and rubbing his cheek against the skin of his collarbone.
“Up,” Chuuya insists, though he makes no attempt to move. It’s with that that Dazai knows he holds the power here, and he’s willing to wield it for as long as possible.
Chuuya wriggles slightly, but Dazai slings a leg over his hip, pinning him in place as he presses a light kiss to his jaw. Chuuya groans, going still, and Dazai knows he’s won.
“If I’m late to work, then I’m sleeping at the office.”
…Or not.
Dazai sighs dramatically, rolling off of Chuuya just enough so that he can slowly slide off of the bed. Chuuya brushes his sleep-ruffled hair out of his face as he sits up, yawning, before he slides his feet into his slippers and shuffles out of bed towards the adjoining bathroom.
The morning makes Chuuya much more indulgent than usual, so he doesn’t fight when, in the midst of brushing his teeth, Dazai drapes his lanky body over his back, wrapping his arms around the shorter man’s shoulders. He doesn’t push Dazai off when he stays like that, following Chuuya’s sock-clad footsteps out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. He pauses only to deposit his human cape on a stool by the kitchen counter before beginning to brew a pot of coffee.
Chuuya leaves the room while the coffee machine grinds to life, and Dazai slumps down against the marble countertop, resting his forehead against the cool surface. He drowns out the sounds around him, focusing solely on the sounds of Chuuya down the hall getting ready for the day.
The machine clicks when the water runs out, and Dazai pulls himself up to make his way over. He grabs two mugs–matching, with two arrows pointing at each other and the words “idiot” and “asshole” printed on them respectively–and goes about filling them. There’s enough for two in the pot, which is how Dazai knows that Chuuya expects him to drink some. He isn’t particularly thirsty for it. The caffeine won’t do much for him, and even if it did, he plans to go back to sleep as soon as his partner is headed out the door. But he fills his mug halfway nonetheless, adding a dash of sugar and enough milk that the coffee turns a pale, sun kissed color.
He leaves Chuuya’s black, sliding it to the side just in time for the redhead to return to the kitchen. He’s dressed for the day, all sleek black slacks and fresh-pressed gray vest, hat seated victoriously on his head. Dazai had taken it late last night and hidden it away in one of the fancy vases in the living room. He must have found it. Damn.
Chuuya hums appreciatively, swiping the mug up with one gloved hand. His cropped jacket is half on, and he switches the mug from hand to hand as he slides his arms through the article of clothing.
Dazai waits until Chuuya lifts the mug to his lips, taking a long, indulgent sip, lashes fluttering with a pleased hum. He takes in the sight for a moment before he follows suit.
The sight of Chuuya, dressed but not yet put together, hip leaning against the counter while he centers himself, preparing for the day–it tastes like his coffee. Sweet, almost too sweet. Dazai savors both, unsure if, how, or when the flavor will fade.
Years ago, after they decided they couldn’t keep their hands off each other regardless of where their loyalties lay, before they admitted that there was a reason for that, Chuuya once asked, do you think there’s a universe where we’re happy?
Casually. Like the answer was inconsequential.
And Dazai isn’t sure how to answer that, but there’s a tiny, selfish part of him that doesn’t really care. There’s only one universe that he can change. Only one universe, one world, one Chuuya that this Dazai can reach.
And in that universe, he’s watching his fiancé enjoy a cup of coffee on a Sunday morning.
Chuuya checks his watch and balks, quickly tipping his mug down to swallow the last large mouthful of still-hot coffee. He winces at the burn, and Dazai grimaces dramatically, earning himself a roll of the eyes.
“Gross.”
Chuuya snorts. “You’re just weak shit.”
Despite his crude language, Chuuya reaches past him to place his mug carefully in the sink. He doesn’t step back, but crowds Dazai against the counter and leans up onto his toes to bump their noses together. Dazai meets him the rest of the way, dragging Chuuya closer by the waist so that he can tilt him back just slightly for a long, indulgent kiss. There’s the temptation to make it heated, to swipe his tongue over his redhead’s lips and untuck his shirt, sneaking his hands underneath to find skin.
But he doesn’t. Chuuya doesn’t press for more either. It’s slow, lazy like the morning, and full of unfiltered affection that Dazai is still getting used to, even after all of this time. He can feel Chuuya’s smile against his mouth, and Dazai feels a surge of victory for having caused it.
Chuuya is the one to pull away first, because Dazai would never if he had the chance.
“Dead fish,” Chuuya murmurs with a grin.
“Tiny fairy.”
The boy pinches his side, but he steps out of Dazai’s space and unplugs the coffee machine. He grabs his wallet and his key from the ceramic dish by the door, before stepping out into the hall. Dazai trails after him leisurely, watching as the mafioso pulls his signature black coat off of the coat rack, slinging it elegantly over his shoulders.
He dusts himself off, tugs his hat down firmly over his head, and throws a final glance at Dazai over his shoulder as he waves.
“See you.”
A pause. And then, with a smug quirk of his lips, like he knows what he’s about to do.
“Love you.”
Dazai freezes from where he had begun lowering himself onto the couch, head snapping up. However, when his eyes find the front door, it’s already slamming closed, and he can hear the steady, retreating steps of Chuuya making his way down the hall towards the elevators.
He stares at the closed, locked door for a while. Longer than he bothers to keep track of.
Eventually, his knees start to hurt from where he’s awkwardly hunched, mid-descent over the couch, and he falls the rest of the way down. Further, actually, as he slowly lowers himself onto his side, head resting against the couch cushion while he stares at the coffee table in front of him.
After a few moments, he rolls onto his back to face the ceiling.
He listens to the quiet of the apartment.
He’s used to the quiet. It used to haunt him.
Sometimes, it still does, but here, that’s all it is. Not hollow, not pressing, not thick with apprehension and the looming presence of the world outside, the world that is waiting for him, that needs something from him.
Here, it’s quiet. Just quiet.
“Love you,” he murmurs into the air, letting it hang there. He expects it to dissipate, to fade away with time, but it doesn’t. It stays there, expanding and filling the room, winding into every room of the apartment like it belongs there. Like it’s stored here, in this space, so that everything is draped in it, so that it can never feel empty. And it’s never alone, either, echoing and twining around Chuuya’s declaration that he hadn’t even noticed was still there.
He closes his eyes, deciding that this is as good a place to continue his morning nap as any. Suddenly, he doesn’t want to move from this. Not quite yet.
“Love you.”