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It was a messy ordeal, but Dazai had a promise to keep, and if he was going to remain alive, he might as well honor the last wish of a dead man. Somehow, in the midst of scrambling to figure out how he was going to leave behind the life he’d built for himself the past four years, he found time to think about someone else— the only other (live) person in the Port Mafia he had any semblance of attachment to. So with a huff, he sat himself down for a few minutes and scrawled out a note.
Chuuya,
By the time you find this, I’ll have already left the Port Mafia. I know, it’s a tragedy! Oh, how you’ll miss me teasing you for your height and tacky hats. Alas, I have made a promise I absolutely cannot break, so I must bid you farewell. Perhaps you'll even gain my position! That is, if you can reach my level of intellect.
I know dogs are quite attached to their owners, but as your owner, I give you one last command: do not search for me. We both know that I am the brains of the operation, and so attempting to sniff me out will be a fruitless endeavor. It’d be better if you simply forgot I ever existed, which really shouldn’t be too difficult a task given your tiny brain in your tiny skull.
Behind me I leave quite a few regrets, and despite the fact that you never fail to irritate me to no end, you are not one of those regrets. It goes beyond our effectiveness as partners, I think. I don’t quite understand it, but similar to the way that I considered Odasaku a friend, I consider you one, too. Don’t get me wrong, you’re still a pain in my ass and the bane of my existence, but part of me is also apprehensive about leaving Chuuya behind. You’re capable, though. I know my partner, and I know you’ll be perfectly fine without me. Who knows, maybe our paths will cross again in the future? Hopefully you’ll have grown in both size and skill by that time, though I seriously doubt it.
Don’t miss me too much!
Osamu Dazai
In the end, though, the note was not left in the intended recipient’s apartment. Dazai deduced that it was ultimately safer for him to leave nothing behind at all, carrying all his regrets and this note, too, with him into his new life.
-✽-
Climbing through the window of an apartment belonging to one Dazai Osamu was just about the last thing that Chuuya wanted to be doing at the moment, yet there he was, sliding it open because of course the idiot hadn’t thought to lock it. He distinctly remembered having told Dazai once when they were teenagers that for all his wit he was quite dumb, and it appeared that the statement still rang true. Setting foot into the messy apartment felt extremely odd, especially in broad daylight. He was no stranger to being an intruder given his line of work, but occupying a space so uniquely “Dazai” without being invited made his skin crawl. He felt like the man was going to appear at any moment.
He also found himself in the messiest bedroom he had ever set foot in, to put it lightly. The sheets and blanket hung off the bed, more on the floor than the mattress itself, and the bedside table was stained with rings of condensation from many a cup of water. Laundry was strewn about the space randomly, the chair that sat beneath a dusty lamp hardly recognizable under a pile of shirts and slacks— and he couldn’t help but notice one such shirt was flecked with blood.
He hazarded a glance into the bathroom, which was still lit despite the man not being home. The mirror was so grimy Chuuya wondered if Dazai could even see himself in it, and there were enough bandages littered around the sink to last a lifetime (and a long lifetime at that— it appeared as if he wasn’t planning to off himself anytime soon). Still, there was a comb, toothpaste, and a toothbrush sitting on the sink, as well, meaning that he had some semblance of personal hygiene, contrary to popular belief.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he hissed to himself, gaze shifting over to the desk, his main target. He approached the chaos that awaited him with an exasperated sigh, although he really shouldn’t have been surprised by the state of things. Chuuya was reminded once again of how desperately he did not want to be here as he rifled through Dazai’s disorganized mess for a singular fucking file.
“You can’t just get the info from the agency directly?” he had inquired upon receiving the assignment. Usually he wouldn’t make such a comment, but given this particular task directly involved his former partner, he couldn’t help but say something about it.
“You know just as well as I that having a truce with the agency does not mean we’re working together, Chuuya-kun. We’re simply choosing not to engage with one another for the time being,” Mori replied easily, and with a casual coldness that sent a shiver down Chuuya’s spine, though he had trained himself not to let it show. “Your task is simple. Enter Dazai-kun’s apartment and obtain the file. Surely that can’t be too difficult for an executive.” Chuuya resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the head of the mafia.
“If it’s so easy, why even send an executive in the first place?” he challenged, folding his arms petulantly. If Dazai were there he might have made some joke about his behavior, relating his stature and short temper to that of a child.
“Even if the task is easy, Dazai-kun is a dangerous man. You know him best, so you’re the obvious choice for the job,” Mori explained, and though his tone was even, Chuuya knew the man was starting to lose his patience. His next words only confirmed this suspicion: “I order you to obtain that file.”
Lips flattening into a line, Chuuya gave the only response he could ever muster to this request: “You got it, boss.”
Which is how he ended up taking literally all the papers from inside Dazai’s mess of a desk. He’d rifled through the stacks on top with no luck, and paranoid that the other man would appear any minute and catch him red-handed, he decided that the file he was after must be inside the desk, and took them all rather than trying to sort through the clutter.
Would Dazai notice? Yes, absolutely. But Chuuya had come to terms with the fact that his former partner would know his apartment had been broken into the moment he entered his bedroom, so what was the harm in taking more than he needed? He would much rather grab too much than have to deal with confronting the bandage-wasting menace in his own home.
Chuuya returned to his own office without much fanfare, sighing as he went through each paper, one-by-one, in an attempt to find the file he was looking for. He did obtain it eventually, though the damn thing was near the bottom of the stack he’d swiped from the desk drawer. Setting it aside with a huff, he decided to finish going through the pile in case there was something useful he missed.
That was when he found an envelope with his own name sloppily scrawled on the front in handwriting that was distinctly Dazai’s (why he still recognized the man’s handwriting, didn’t quite know). Chuuya told himself that it was completely reasonable to open the letter, given it was obviously intended for himself— he quickly realized his blunder in assuming so, though, as he scanned the note.
He had half-expected the message to be intended for a present Chuuya, a callout for trying to break into his apartment and steal important files, because it was characteristic of Dazai to think ahead like that. This was not the case, though. No, what Chuuya was reading was far more personal, and it almost felt like an invasion of his ex-partner’s privacy even though the message was literally addressed to him. Reading Dazai’s thoughts moments before leaving the mafia was so incredibly bizarre, the lighthearted tone of his words almost uncomfortable given the serious context.
“The fuck?” he mumbled to himself as he read of an eighteen year old Dazai’s thoughts on their relationship— that he had considered them friends. It made Chuuya’s blood boil in a way he didn’t let happen back then, convinced that Chuuya had misconstrued their playful banter for genuine camaraderie. He had figured if they had a genuine connection Dazai might have left something behind or dropped a hint, but there was nothing. Zip, zilch, nada. At eighteen, Chuuya had accepted this, it was an explanation that allowed him to let go of his partner more easily. At twenty-two, he seethed at finding out Dazai had considered being genuine with him for once before dropping off the face of the earth and had decided against it.
Chuuya found himself sneaking back into the apartment that evening, equally as pissed off about having to do so as earlier, but with a different objective in mind.
“The fuck is this about, you bastard?” he shouted emerging (aggressively) from Dazai’s bedroom into the combined living room and kitchen area. The bastard in question was lounging on the couch nursing a whiskey, a glass of red wine waiting on the coffee table for his ex-partner. He didn’t even flinch when the ginger burst into the room, smiling easily at the other in his trademark teasing manner. Chuuya huffed, he should have known he was expecting him, but anger had clouded his judgment.
“Have you come to return my things?” he teased, tilting his head slightly, putting on his most innocent-looking expression.
“Shut up, asshole, and explain what the fuck this is,” Chuuya spat, making his way over to Dazai and thrusting the note towards him.
“Do you want me to shut up, or to speak? You’re sending me mixed signals, chibi,” he replied, pushing the other’s arm down gently so the paper wasn’t shoved in his face.
“I am not the one giving mixed signals here— and don’t use that damn nickname!” He was beginning to question what part of him thought that trying to have an honest, one-on-one conversation with fucking Osamu Dazai was a good idea.
“Sit,” he requested, dropping his playful act just a little bit. Chuuya obeyed (and he was shocked Dazai didn’t make some dog joke), eyeing the glass of wine for a moment before just taking it.
“Since when do you drink wine?” he asked, not without some bite.
“I don’t, I picked that up after I realized my home had been invaded,” Dazai replied easily, “though I doubt it’s expensive enough for your tastes.” Chuuya sipped the wine and… well, it wasn’t awful, which likely meant it was relatively pricey.
“Passable,” he admitted, electing to stare into his drink rather than the similarly colored eyes staring at the side of his head. “Alright, are we gonna fucking talk about this, ” he raised the note still in his grasp, “or are you gonna keep watching me like a creep?”
“Ironic you call me that when you’re the one who broke into my apartment and stole the note in the first place.” His tone was a bit more even and low, the dry humor of the former executive shining through.
“That wasn’t my goal, but yeah, whatever, I broke in. I’m in the fucking Port Mafia, this shouldn’t be a surprise to you,” he shot back, taking another gulp of wine. It ran warm down his throat, though it didn’t do much to ease his tension.
“Boss’ orders?”
“Boss’ orders,” the mafioso confirmed, and somehow it also felt like an admission of weakness. Dazai had been able to leave, while Chuuya remained loyal, even when ordered to do things he wasn’t particularly excited about. “Why didn’t you leave the letter?” he finally asked after a full minute of silence told him Dazai wasn’t going to address the elephant in the room.
“It was too risky.” The words were rehearsed, automatic, guarded. “I didn’t want to involve you in my mess.”
“That’s the only reason it was ‘risky’?” Chuuya knew he was pushing it. There was little chance he’d get a fully honest answer out of Dazai, always a man of mystery who kept things under wraps— under layers and layers of bandages. What wounds was he hiding under there? He certainly didn’t wear his heart on his sleeve, but did he cover his arms in the gauze to hide a bloody heart?
Fuck, what was Chuuya thinking?
“What ‘risk’ is Chuuya implying?” Okay, so he was entertaining the topic instead of directly shooting it down. Still, Dazai was ultimately the one in control (as in most situations), forcing Chuuya to say what he meant instead of taking it upon himself to do so. He was forcing the vulnerability onto Chuuya rather than himself.
“The risk of you actually fucking caring about me a little— or, really, I guess, about me finding that out,” he said, and when he hazarded a glance towards Dazai, he was no longer staring at him, his eyes having clouded over with something, focused intently on the wall.
“Have you ever seen me cry, Chuuya?” Dazai asked, and the answer was obvious, but he still entertained him anyway.
“No. As far as I know, you’re pretty emotionless.” His ex-partner let out a light snort at that.
“Mostly,” he admitted, “but I’ve cried only once since joining the mafia, and only ghosts were there to see it.” While Dazai was speaking, it didn’t appear as if he was in the room, hardly even registering Chuuya’s presence next to him. “That was the most emotion I had ever felt, and it was that same night I wrote that letter.”
“Dazai,” he said, and the man blinked a couple of times, taking a moment to come back to reality from wherever he had drifted off to, he turned toward Chuuya. “Do you still consider us friends?”
He pressed his lips together at this, thinking. Then, a small smile crept to his lips.
“No,” Dazai replied, but not with malice, “we’re partners.” Chuuya’s eyes narrowed.
“Partners who didn’t speak to each other for four years and who work for opposing organizations,” he replied with a chuckle of disbelief. Of course Dazai would say something like that— of course he fucking would.
“Exactly! Even your tiny little dog brain can comprehend it!” The man of masks was donning one yet again, and all Chuuya wanted to do was reach up and rip it off his face.
“Oh my god,” Chuuya groaned with all the exasperation of seven years of knowing the headache that was Dazai Osamu, “would you shut the fuck up with the dog bullshit?”
“All I’m hearing is yipping and yapping,” Dazai sang cheerfully, failing to avoid the swift kick to the shins that Chuuya launched at him. “Ow ow ow! So cruel!” he complained dramatically at the attack, shoving his partner’s shoulder in retaliation, almost causing him to spill the glass of wine still in his grasp.
“It’s your fault if I make a mess of your sofa, idiot!” Chuuya growled, sending a foot towards Dazai’s torso. Having nowhere to escape to, the agency member took the blow with an “oof”. Every time Dazai returned his attacks, Chuuya half expected to feel a chill force its way through his body signaling that the other had nullified his ability, but it never came. The mafioso could have obliterated the other man using the Tainted Sorrow if he really wanted to, but apparently the latter trusted him enough not to (and the former had no such plan of doing so).
“I’m still mad at you, you know,” Chuuya informed roughly with one last attempted kick to Dazai’s calf. He missed.
“Whatever for, my dear partner?” he crooned, once again cocking his head with wide puppy-dog eyes. He was trying to shove it onto Chuuya again.
“Take a wild fucking guess, smartass.” He pushed it back to Dazai.
“Oh, but I really have no clue!” And it was back in Chuuya’s hands.
“You might be an idiot, but you’re not stupid— and I’m not stupid, either,” he pointed out, irritation rising. “I know you well enough to recognize just what you’re trying to do right now. So stop deflecting and fucking talk to me like you did in that damn letter!” he exclaimed, his rage boiling over and burning the man sitting across from him. Dazai’s smirk disappeared at the outburst, hands fisting in his lap. “It’s the least I deserve. I wasn’t fucking around when I said you send mixed signals, Osamu.” He cringed as soon as the name left his mouth, and the eyes that had been watching him intently widened.
The pair sat in silence for a few moments, and really Chuuya couldn’t read his partner’s expression. It was some combination of pensive and hesitant, perhaps? That was his best guess, and either way, it looked unfamiliar on him— uncomfortably so. Dazai was trying to strategize as usual, map out his words and reactions, but he had been caught off guard by Chuuya’s fit of rage somehow, and so he elected to say nothing at all until the other spoke up again.
“You said we’re partners,” Chuuya remarked, “and I don’t deny that. We have a working relationship, sure, but as much as I loathe to admit it, we know each other a bit better than that, yeah?”
“I’d say so,” Dazai conceded calmly, with a nod.
“Right.” A sigh. “So, if you considered us friends back then, is the same not true now? Because…” his jaw clenched, Chuuya had to say it to get his point across, and he had always been better than Dazai at being direct, “because I considered us friends, too. I mean, it was a fucked up friendship, but everything’s kinda fucked up with you’re in the mafia, I guess. The only moment I thought this wasn’t true was when you disappeared without a single word.” Dazai nodded again, mulling over his words, before speaking quietly and calmly.
“See, I considered partnership more valuable than friendship,” he explained, and Chuuya’s brows drew together. “To stand side by side and know each other in a personal manner? I think that’s… more.” The mafioso felt his face flush with heat as a certain idea crossed his mind.
“Are you saying this is a romantic partnership?”
“Not— not necessarily,” Dazai defended quickly, “it’s a bit more complicated than that. I mean, partnership can denote romance, sure, and it can denote something purely professional, as well. But I suppose my definition is something unique to us. It can… be what we want it to be.”
“Fucking god, Dazai,” he scrubbed gloved hands down his face, temporarily gaining an understanding of the other man’s suicidal ideations. “Is this your convoluted way of asking me out or some shit?”
“Do you want it to be?”
“Stop fucking deflecting!” Chuuya shouted, and once again his anger took control, causing him to grab Dazai by the collar and shaking him as if it would somehow help. He was so frustrated, trying to get any semblance of honesty from the enigma that was Dazai was like pulling fucking teeth. Communication had never been easy between the two, all their conversations veiled in taunts and threats or inside jokes only they understood, but this was on another level! Dazai knew just how to push his buttons, just how to enrage him, and he was at the end of his rope. He— he was so irritated he wanted to just fucking kiss him!
Wait, what?
“I tend to avoid my emotions, if I have any at all,” Dazai said in a low voice, and they were so close that his eyes flicked back and forth between Chuuya’s. Then, he removed one of the shorter’s hands from his collar and placed it on his pulse point on his neck. His heart was hammering. “But right now my emotions are telling me that I would not be opposed to you kissing me.”
Wait, what?
Yet, even as Chuuya thought this, his lips crashed into Dazai’s.
It was greedy, this kiss, intense and full of all the emotions the pair of them had worked to suppress the past seven years of their lives. It was aggressive, a playful fight— just like all of their exchanges. At some point Chuuya got pulled into Dazai’s lap, and at some point the mafioso pushed the other’s head against the back of the couch. The whole ordeal was messy and hurried, yet neither seemed particularly bothered by this, and the sounds they made in response were evidence of this. Dazai even let out a slight groan when Chuuya nipped his lip, their teeth clashing slightly as a result, and then tongue was involved. When they finally parted, both panted for a few moments, eyes glazed over with desire.
“I despise you, you’re the bane of my existence— and I missed you,” Dazai murmured, his head finding its place in the crook of his partner’s neck, avoiding eye contact. Chuuya let go of his grip on Dazai’s collar and neck, allowing his arms to be slung over his shoulders instead. He could smell the agency member’s cheap cologne, and their bodies were pushed together so he could feel his slowing breath, as well.
“Partners, eh?” Chuuya mused, one of his hands finding its way to the other’s hair, fingers carding through his soft locks. Dazai hummed pleasantly at the action.
“It’s what we make of it, wouldn’t you agree?” His grip around Chuuya tightened slightly as he buried his head in his shoulder more, letting out a sigh. He recognized that Dazai was likely hiding, perhaps attempting to cover his blushing face or fond expression, but really, he found that he didn’t mind it.
“We’ve never been conventional, I suppose,” the ginger admitted tentatively, “in friendship or in… partnership, as you call it.”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” Dazai mumbled, voice slightly muffled against Chuuya’s clothed shoulder. The latter let out a bemused chuckle, rolling his eyes and flicking the back of his head in retaliation.
“Yeah,” he agreed with a grin hidden in his partner’s hair.