Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The body is such an ugly, decrepit thing. Full of flaws, imperfections, and incorrect features. What a horrid thought, to be a creature of skin, flesh, muscle and bone. A writhing, nasty being, born of sin and cruelty. It makes Dazai want to scratch, want to pick and pull at his skin. He’s done it before, stood in front of a mirror and clutched at the fat of his thighs and hips, dug his nails into the swell of his chest. 

It’s wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong.

He’s not supposed to have breasts and curves, he is not meant to be soft and smooth and supple. It’s all wrong. Dazai is a creature, not a woman, not quite a man. He is meant to be sharp, defined, imperceptible. 

He doesn't like to shave his body, society deems that a feminine thing. Dazai is not a woman, but he can’t stand the growth of stubble across his legs or underarms. It feels unclean, disgusting; scratching against the gauze he usually secures over his pale limbs. 

He wears boxers, but they don’t make him a man. They hold fast to the plump curve of his hips. Men do not have hips like that, his head tells him. Is the voice his, or is it Mori’s? Dazai can’t quite distinguish it. It frightens him a little, and he presses a shaky hand to the— the.. sink? 

For the first time since he’s stumbled into his room, Dazai opens his eyes. Ah, he must’ve drug himself to the bathroom, but he doesn’t remember when. He glances down at his arms, just as a precaution. To his confusion, they’re absent of their usual stark white protection. Thin, pink scars run along the expanse of the area, from his wrist to his elbow. He decides it’s a good time to look away.

When he lifts his gaze, he’s startled by the sight of himself in the mirror. Dazai blinks at the reflection that stares back at him, wondering why the stranger looks so much like him. He sways a little and the stranger copies the movement. The stranger has dripping wet hair, and red rimmed eyes. Dazai raises his hand, running it through his own hair. His hand comes back soaked, and a few droplets make him shiver as they drip down his shoulders.

Though he’s feeling a little shaky on his legs, he turns around, scanning the bathroom. There’s still a small puddle of water at the bottom of the tub, collecting around the drain. The faucet leaks a few stray drops which plummet down to join the rest that’s collected below. 

Oh, that’s right. 

It comes back to Dazai in pieces. A dreadfully slow day at the office, Kunikida’s incessant whining for him to finish that stupid report that glares at him from his desk. A woman comes in, demanding for help in finding her missing— her missing son . Except, she’d called the boy her daughter. Kept insisting upon the fact, calling him by a name that Dazai’s pretty sure the son doesn’t use or prefer. She goes on and on like that, spouting about his phase and his ridiculous behavior.

He remembers Atsushi politely trying to tell her that it’s likely her son had just left of his own violation. Even Ranpo agreed it was true, his voice muffled as he popped another chip into his already stuffed face. The lady refuses to accept that as an answer though, demanding of the detectives to find her “daughter”, to bring “her” home. 

“It’s unfair that she’s become such an abomination!” She’d shouted, gesturing aimlessly with wrinkled hands. “Have I not raised her well? Given her everything she could ask for? Then— then she tells me she wants to use a different name ? Tells me she’s my son ? I know the girl I birthed, the girl I raised!” 

Dazai’s memory is foggy past that. He remembers grabbing hold of her boney arm, dragging her forcefully in his stead. He remembers shoving her through the door, not uttering a word. What had happened after that..? He closes his eyes again, tries to recall it. Fukuzawa had pulled him aside, a surprisingly soft note in the stern man’s voice. He tells Dazai to go home, to rest and take the day off. He hadn’t argued past that, just left, body on autopilot. 

Past that point, Dazai doesn’t remember anything else. His mind is sluggish, but it whirs to life sufficiently enough to clue him in. Judging by his state of undress and his tub, he must’ve taken a bath. His fingers are still pruned and his lips have a faint bluish tint to them, so he figures he probably remained submerged long enough for the water to run cold. Dazai’s sure he must’ve been dissociating since he’d left, considering the many holes and missing moments in the timeline of his memory. 

What a chore. 

The brunet heaves a sigh, supporting his weight on the counter because he doesn’t quite trust his balance yet, and tugging at the towel which hangs on the back of the door. Embarrassingly, it takes him a few tries to get it off the hook, but it comes free soon enough. It’s a relief to have it draped around his body, hiding it from view and letting some warmth seep back into his skin. 

Atsushi had bought it for him forever ago, a late housewarming gift, he’d called it. Dazai’s pretty sure it’s intended to be a beach towel given its length, but he’s not complaining, seeing as it actually fits him pretty decently with his height. It’s also fluffy and soft, which is an added bonus.

It gives Dazai enough confidence to look back into the mirror, but what is shown back to him still makes him cringe. He has the towel wrapped around him like some makeshift cape, but he can still see the swell of his chest that’s revealed against the fabric. Thankfully, it’s not much. Dazai had at least been fortunate enough to have a flatter chest, but it’s not enough . A man does not have breasts, there should not be the proportion of fat there like he has. 

He misses the warmth of the towel when he drops it away from his body, a mounting nausea festering in his stomach as he rips open the medicine cabinet behind the mirror. His fingertips are trembling a little as they skim over various pill bottles before finally finding purchase, snatching the roll of bandages from their hiding spot. Though Dazai fumbles with them for at least a good minute, he pries them out of the packaging and hastily starts to unravel them. 

He starts with his chest first, wrapping the gauze firmly around the flaw until it disappears from sight entirely, until it makes it a little hard to breathe against the restraint. Dazai doesn’t let that bother him though, he’s done this for years, after all. Like clockwork, he moves to wrap his arms, then his thighs and calves, ending with his neck. 

By the time he’s done, Dazai finds that he can actually relax again. Every imperfection is hidden from view now, his skin is smooth against the bandages, and he can finally let himself feel calm. 

He retrieves the towel from the floor, shaking it off and returning it to its spot on the door. Dazai doesn’t bother with shutting the medicine cabinet, not with how often he gets in there anyhow. It’s not like he gets any visitors for him to hide anything away, either. 

Dazai lugs himself back into his room, his limbs feeling heavy with exhaustion as he lazily pulls his closet door open. He must’ve used up the rest of his energy rewrapping himself, but he refuses to go to sleep nude. The feeling of the futon against his bare skin makes him uncomfortable. So, he forces his drooping eyes to stay open long enough to pick him out a baggy T-shirt, clean boxers, and a pair of joggers. As he’s rummaging through his drawer for the boxers though, he finds himself pausing as he comes across his binder.

Well, old binder.

It’s worn out beyond belief now, a few of the seams fraying and the once taut fabric having become loose. It’s understandable though, considering he’s had it since he was sixteen. It’s virtually unwearable, considering it functions more like a cropped tank top as opposed to a proper binder, but Dazai can’t bring himself to part with it. He still wears it some days too, when the dysphoria isn't too severe and he can get away with just something covering him. 

Plus… It came from Chuuya . 

It makes Dazai smile as he brushes over the aged fabric while he reminisces. He’d picked the lock of the redhead’s dorm, invited himself in and plucked a bag of chips from Chuuya’s pantry. He had decided to stake claim to the shorty’s bed as opposed to his sofa like he usually did — it was much more comfortable, especially with the silk sheets and all. 

Chuuya had made the funniest face when he saw him lounging there, a red flush splattered over his cheeks while he barked unseemly threats on Dazai’s life. Even despite all that though, not even ten minutes later, he had joined Dazai on the mattress, sprawled out at his side. It wasn’t until they’d been getting ready for bed that night and Chuuya had offered him a hoodie of his to change into instead of his usual white button-up — ah, remember when they’d actually been the same size? — that things changed.

Chuuya hadn’t looked intentionally because for all of Dazai’s teasing, he was shockingly respectful aside from all the profanities he yelled. It had been Dazai’s own mistake, his decision to change in front of Chuuya unannounced. They’d been in the middle of bickering over some movie and Dazai’s guard had been down so much that he hadn’t even considered that Chuuya would see his body. It had just been a mere turn of his partner’s head, a glance with the worst possible timing.

He’d caught sight of the bandages wound tight around Dazai’s chest, and it was too late for Dazai to deny it. 

Chuuya initially asked him if he’d been injured, to which Dazai had whispered ‘no’. As much as Dazai would tease Chuuya on his intelligence, he was no idiot. He had a keen eye and he knew how to read the brunet, even if they’d only been partners for one year at the time. Nothing more had been said between them that night, but when Dazai woke up in the morning, Chuuya had presented him with a vacuum sealed package, the outside being black as opposed to transparent so you couldn’t see what was inside. 

Dazai quickly realized that was meant to preserve the privacy of the product it contained. He’d pulled out a binder, somehow sized perfectly to his body. Chuuya hadn’t even said anything snarky about it, just rubbed at his neck and grumbled that using bandages to bind was stupid and unsafe. That was the first time Dazai had ever hugged and clung to another person like that in his life. 

It’s for that very reason that, despite its unusable state, Dazai kept it buried in his drawer. Even as he shuts it and moves to get dressed for bed, he finds that he can’t stop thinking about it. About Chuuya, especially. They haven’t spoken much since everything with the damn Rats, and Dazai finds himself acutely hung up on that fact. 

He makes himself comfortable on his futon, pulling the blanket over him and gazing blankly at the ceiling. Oddly enough, whenever Chuuya was around, Dazai never seemed to mind his body as much. Maybe it was because he knew Chuuya had already seen all the ugly parts of him, had traced them with his hands and his tongue and ultimately still decided to stick around. Even after all Dazai had put him through, Chuuya was there, always there. 

If he was younger, perhaps he’d jest about Chuuya being like a dog in that sense, but with age and time, Dazai realizes he’s had it backwards. He’s the dog, always running away from his owner, but always coming back. Growling and snarling when he’s threatened, but never ever daring to bite. 

Before he even realizes what he’s doing, he’s reaching over to grab his phone from where it lays beside him. The light from the screen causes him to wince, but he scrolls through his contacts anyway. Dazai’s got a few missed calls and unread texts, but he ignores them in favor of selecting ‘Slug’. He can always deal with them later. This, he doesn’t feel like waiting for. 

You:

‘My place. Come over?’

One.

Two.

Three.

Fou—

Read 6:57 PM.

Chapter Text

Read 6:57 PM.

Slug:

‘Yeah. Better not be some dumb shit.’

Dazai’s smile is bright and wide as he reads it. 

It doesn’t surprise him that Chuuya would still indulge in his sporadic whims, he wouldn’t expect anything less from his partner. That’s the sweet thing about him, that he’d still be willing to come over despite the lack of context as for what exactly Dazai wants. For all Chuuya knows, he could be sporting a gaping wound in the side, or simply want to pester the redhead into competing with him in a mobile game. 

He supposes he should start being more clear, maybe it’ll save his chibi from a few gray hairs in the future, but… Ah, it’s already been two whole minutes since he sent the text! That’s so much time already, and so much delayed effort.

Dazai tosses his phone aside. 

As his focus is directed toward his plain ceiling again, he heaves a sigh. Maybe… maybe this had been a mistake. He drags his hands down his face, they’re cold against his cheeks. What was he even inviting him over for? He had no goal in mind, not really. Actually, having Chuuya over might just prove to be a mistake. If he sees the state Dazai’s in, which he will undoubtedly, he’ll probably bark on and on with a lecture. 

How Dazai hasn’t been eating right, all the food in his fridge is spoiled or already past its expiration. His trash hasn’t been taken out in... he doesn’t even know how long, piling up black trash bags by his door. There’s dirtied dishes gathered in the sink, sitting on top of each other precariously. The only reason he worked up the energy to shower probably originated from his dissociation.

If he cared a little more, Dazai could almost find it embarrassing. He’s a twenty-two year old man, yet he can’t even take care of himself? No, he’s more like a child . A pathetic, whining child, who cannot bathe themself. Cannot cook, cannot clean, cannot claw their way out of bed. Dazai grimaces, feeling his mind begin to whir itself back to life. Maybe dissociating wasn’t such a bad idea in the first place.

He’s not even granted the mercy of overthinking for longer than five minutes, hearing a sharp knock at the door. His eyes widen as he turns 180 degrees to face the source of the noise, blinking as he tries to wrap his head around how Chuuya managed to arrive so fast . It hadn’t even been a half hour, and it’s not like they live near each other. He also knows it’s Chuuya without a doubt, because no one else would dare disturb him from the Agency after that performance. Except maybe Atsushi, but his knocking is always softer, an imitation of his usual timidness.

“..There’s a spare key under the doormat,” Dazai calls out.

“What the fuck? You’re gonna invite me over, then not even get your lazy ass up to answer the door?” He can’t help but smile at the all-too-familiar gruff voice which responds to him.

“Don’t feel like it! Besides, the dog is supposed to come to its master, not the other way around.”

“Remind me which one of us is which, bastard…” 

Dazai actually laughs at that, even though it’s a hoarse, rough sound. It’s something , he tells himself. Leave it to his partner to coax it out of him, despite everything today. Well, ex-partner, he supposes. Scratch that. They’re still partners , Dazai decides stubbornly. Even if they no longer work together, they will always be together. They always have been. He occasionally wonders if there’s some invisible string keeping their lives inevitably tied together. 

He startles when he hears the door swing open, revealing the Slug in all his glory. He must’ve ridden his bike here, his hair is tousled and a mess, but not in the unattractive manner like Dazai’s. It’s more like those models you see in a shampoo commercial, their hair blown elegantly by the breeze, yet somehow flawless. He can almost imagine Chuuya in such an ad, and the thought makes him chuckle.

Unfortunately, Chuuya doesn’t reciprocate his amusement.

In fact, the second he sees Dazai, his typical moodiness crumbles away and it’s replaced by the one expression Dazai hates seeing almost more than his own body.

Concern .

Most people admire or search for that in those they care about, but Dazai doesn’t. Concern implies there’s something wrong, concern forces him to confront what he prefers to turn a blind eye to. Concern prompts Chuuya to stay and ask questions his little dog brain shouldn’t be asking.

With a sigh, Dazai is forced to face the fact that he’s made a rare error of judgment in calling Chuuya over. 

“Oi, you look like shit.”

How eloquent.

“Always such a way with words, Chuuya,” Dazai drawls, doing his best to keep his tone light. Alas, despite even his best of acting, Chuuya sees through him like his body has been replaced with glass.

He watches as Chuuya quietly shuts the door behind him, doing a survey of Dazai’s living quarters. He chews at his lip, watching the redhead’s scrutinizing gaze as he undoubtedly draws the obvious conclusion. Dazai’s mental health has been tanking, it got worse before it got better, and he’d impulsively reached out to Chuuya about it. It’s a bad habit that’s seemingly stuck with him, the childish desire to seek help, even despite his own adamant refusal of it. It’s an utter contradiction, one even his genius mind cannot unravel.

“What’s up with you..?” Dazai hears Chuuya ask, and he flinches back in surprise when he realizes how close he’d suddenly gotten. When had he crossed the room and kneeled at his side? 

“Would you like a list?” It’s a weak attempt at a joke, bait that Chuuya doesn’t even take.

“No, Dazai. I’d like you to tell me before it gets this bad,” the executive chides, but even then, his voice is soft. Soft does not suit someone like Chuuya, he is not soft . He is all rough edges, sharp tongue and furrowed brows. Someone must have taken his spot, swapped him out for some fake. Dazai’s heard of ability users with the power to take on the appearances of people by touch, this must be the case here.

Chuuya— no, fake Chuuya, reaches for him. Dazai slaps his hand away with a sneer, acting like a stray cat who’s been backed into a corner. 

The latter must recognize the behavior, because he tries a different approach. He pulls out the dirtiest trick in the book, settling down so that he’s kneeling beside Dazai’s futon. He leans back, gives him his space, and takes a breath.

“ Osamu ,” Chuuya tries again, “it’s me.”

“..What’s the phrase?”

There’s a code phrase Dazai and Chuuya had decided on when they were sixteen, a word that has somehow stuck with them whenever Dazai goes through one of these.. moods. It was originally used in a mission where their target possessed the ability to create clones of the person whose blood he obtained, but it amazingly seemed to linger whenever times got dark. 

Chuuya’s lips twitch a little at the corners. “ Koi no Yokan .”

And with that, Dazai lets his defenses drop. His shoulders sag as he slumps forward, staring uselessly at his lap. He picks at his cuticles, fingernails already chewed down past the nail bed. He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know where to continue on from this. Dazai has never been good about talking about his feelings, regardless of the person. He’s opened up to Chuuya more than he has with any other person, even Odasaku, but that never manages to make it easier each time he’s required to. Well, he’s not required to do anything, but with Chuuya, it’s hard to hold it in.

“Your hair’s wet, did you take a bath?” Chuuya saves him courtesy of having to break the ice.

Still, Dazai can only manage an affirming nod. Chuuya doesn’t seem to mind, or if he does, he doesn’t show it.

“That’s good, I’m proud of you,” Chuuya praises him, and it’s a struggle for Dazai to keep himself together at those words. 

“Don’t be,” Dazai hisses. “I haven’t done anything to be proud of, it’s a fucking shower. Don’t sweet talk me like I’m some incompetent kid, Chuuya.”

The man in question is clearly taken aback at Dazai’s sudden outburst. He expects him to scoff, to realize this is a waste of his time and leave. He does neither and Dazai isn’t sure whether he’s grateful for that, or annoyed. 

“I’m not being condescending right now, Mackerel. I’m being serious, I’m proud . You’re clearly feeling like shit, but you managed to drag yourself to the tub. That’s something,” Chuuya rephrases, combing his fingers through his hair.

Something. Something is such a dangerous concept, Dazai thinks. To have something gives Dazai something to clutch and cling to, hope that he can burrow inside his ribcage selfishly. Having nothing is much easier, it doesn’t bring about any naive optimism or flimsy fantasies. Only Chuuya has ever been able to give him something solid to grasp onto, he’s taken hold of those fleeting dreams and brought them to reality with the force of his unavoidable gravity.

“..It wasn’t easy,” Dazai settles on, unsure of what else to say.

“I’m sure it wasn’t,” Chuuya answers, accepting and kind in a way that totally wipes out all of Dazai’s steadily built walls. He shifts a little closer and Dazai feels his thigh brush his, catching a glimpse of Chuuya’s arms moving in his peripheral vision. He must’ve spaced out in the meantime, because when he opens his eyes again, he’s laying with his head on Chuuya’s lap and his gaze directed at the ceiling.

While Dazai stares blankly, Chuuya’s hands card through his hair, and he notices that he isn’t wearing his signature gloves. When had he taken those off? Had they even been on when he arrived? Dazai decides it probably doesn’t matter, instead turning his head so he can nuzzle his face against one of Chuuya’s thighs. It’s a little odd of a position, but it’s comfortable and Chuuya doesn’t seem to care, so neither does he.

“Do you wanna talk about what happened?” 

Dazai internally cringes at the inquiry, his brain suddenly kickstarted to try and find at least a thousand ways to dodge the question. Surprisingly, he finds himself stomping each one of them down. There’s no need to lie here , he tells himself. This is safe, he is safe . If he repeats it enough, he’ll gradually start to believe it, so that’s exactly what he does.

“Not really, it’s nothing that important,” he sighs. As soon as the words leave his mouth, Dazai knows Chuuya doesn’t buy them for one second. Still, to his credit, the mafioso only arches a brow in silence. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t pressure Dazai to answer like most do. Rather, Chuuya is giving him an unspoken choice. 

If you want me to listen, I will , that quiet gaze tells him. But if you don’t, we’ll leave it here .

Dazai has to consider it, in depth and carefully, because he’s not so sure himself. For as long as he can remember, he's always been told that venting helps, that it’s better to get it off your chest. Dazai calls utter bullshit on that. He has poured his mind out until it left his throat raw and worn. He’s sobbed until his eyes were reddened and dry. Perhaps it’s just another testament of his lack of humanity, but Dazai has never felt any more relieved. He’s only felt heavier .

“There was- there was a woman at the Agency this morning,” Dazai begins, swallowing around the forming lump in his throat. “She filed a missing person’s report for her son, which we usually don’t handle, but apparently the police had turned her away and she was desperate.”

Chuuya nods, still stroking Dazai’s hair as he urges him to continue with a faint hum.

“It just seemed like.. any other stupid case, and it was , but… The woman, the stupid bitch ,” Dazai’s voice trembles despite himself. “I guess her son was trans, you know? Female to male. She kept on preaching about how he was her daughter , the girl she raised, on and on with her bullshit.”

For the first time since he’s begun to talk, Chuuya’s hand stops in his ministrations. Dazai opens his eyes — when had he closed them? — and tilts his head to catch a glimpse of Chuuya’s face. He can see the muscles in his jaw work as he clenches it, obviously trying to prevent himself from interrupting Dazai’s explanation with any outbursts. Judging by the not-so-subtle anger practically radiating from his being, Dazai is sure he’s already connected the remainder of the dots.

Still, he continues, if just for the sake of finishing the retelling. “I even tried to correct her, but she wouldn’t listen. Ranpo-San had more balls than most of us, outright told her that her son had just taken off himself, which isn’t surprising at all considering he had a mother like that . I don’t… I mean, I do know why it set me off like that, but usually I’m so much more composed. I’ve heard plenty of similar things from Mori, you remember that, even. But something about the way she spoke just… It set me off, Chuuya. I basically threw her out the door, and then the President sent me home.”

With his account of events concluded, Dazai lets out a long, drawn out exhale. Again, his chest feels no lighter than before, but least for once, it’s not heavier either.

“What a dumb cunt,” Chuuya all but growls, shaking his head. “I really don’t fucking get how it can be so hard for people to just be decent human beings.”

Dazai cracks a small smile. “That is kinda rich, coming from someone who makes a living killing people.”

“Whatever, I might be a murderer, but even I have some fuckin’ morals,” Chuuya huffs. 

That only makes Dazai’s smile grow, and a brief laugh accompanies it. Really, it will always be a mystery how Chuuya is able to get such reactions from him when he’s like this. When it feels like even breathing is a chore.

Chuuya turns his attention back to him instead of scowling at the floor, likely pretending it was that old woman’s face. Still, some of his secondhand rage dies down a bit when he catches sight of the slight, but present brightness in Dazai’s eyes. It earns him a grin from the other in return, and that makes his chest feel oddly fuzzy.

“I appreciate you telling me, you know.”

Chuuya’s voice is barely above a whisper, like this is some secret information that could only be passed between the two of them. Even though no one else is around. “Except, based on how crappy your place looks, it seems like your head has been bitching even before that?”

At that observation, Dazai turns a little sheepish. “That’s because of… Ah, it’s that time of the month …” 

It’s almost embarrassing to admit out loud, even if logically, Dazai knows there is nothing embarrassing about it. Hell, Yosano has no issue announcing that she’s on the rag and bitchy, just as a warning for no one to mess with her, but Dazai’s scenario is different. Except for said doctor (and probably Ranpo), no one knows he’s trans. That’s another reason that he especially hates his period, it’s a monthly slap in the face that he’s biologically a woman , as if his body isn’t enough of a reminder on its own.

“Oh, shit, I’m sorry,” Chuuya stammers out an apology, but Dazai doesn’t even know what he’s apologizing for . “You should have called me up sooner, dumbass. I could’ve helped you clean up, or brought you take out, at least.”

“There’s no need, it’s not like I need a babysitter, Chibi,” Dazai waves his hand to dismiss the offer altogether, but his voice is no longer as antagonizing as it was when he lashed out earlier. He doesn’t have the energy for it, and Chuuya doesn’t deserve it. Not that either have ever stopped him before, but… he's trying .

“Uh huh, tell that to your teenage self who used to constantly make me bring him shit.”

“Ne, Chuuya, you’ll never grow tall if you stay so wrapped up in the past~”

“Quit it with that shit! That’s not even scientifically accurate!”

“How would you know? It’s not like you went to school.” Dazai juts his chin out in a challenge.

“Neither did you, jackass,” Chuuya fires right back.

“Ah, ah, I was privately tutored, though!”

“That’s not technically school , shitty Dazai.”

Dazai rolls his eyes, but is internally delighted to find himself feeling a little less like shit. Playful bickering with Chuuya has always managed to do that, somehow. In fact, there’s a lot that he doesn’t understand when it comes to how Chuuya manages to draw him out of his gloom and doom. Perhaps he ought to be a little more concerned over it, but the detective truly doesn’t care that much. It works, so why bother?

He goes to turn over, his back starting to ache a little from his current position, but that proves to be his second major mistake of the day. The second he shifts, Dazai winces and inhales sharply, the bandages which are wrapped tight around his chest causing a stabbing pain which doesn’t go unnoticed by his unfortunately observant partner.

“Dazai?” He hears the skepticism in his voice, plain as day. 

Fuck. Fuck .

“Sorry, just cramps,” Dazai lies through his teeth, his attempt at honesty be damned.

“..You’re sure it’s that and not you binding with bandages again?” 

Dazai freezes like someone has drained him of blood, injected ice into his veins, and thrown him into an ice bath. How? There shouldn’t be anyway for him to tell, Dazai had made sure—

“I had my suspicions when you first laid down on my lap. Your shirt had ridden up and I thought I caught a glimpse, but it was only confirmed just now,” Chuuya admits, but to his credit, he doesn’t sound pissed. 

Dazai still melts under the shame anyway. “Spare me the lecture, I know it’s not safe, but I—”

“Fuck, Dazai, why didn’t you just tell me?” Chuuya mumbles, cupping Dazai’s face in his hands. “I bought you your first one, I really wouldn’t mind again. I would’ve thought you bought more after that.”

“The binders aren’t enough , Chuuya,” Dazai whispers, voice cracking as he says it. Pathetic, he’s so pathetic. He can see how Chuuya falters and already, his throat itches and burns with the desire to cram those words back down it. He already wants to take it back, knows it’s pointless to whine about something that can’t be changed anyway. He needs to just swallow it and get over it, bitching and moaning never solves anything, save for making you seem more pathetic. 

Maybe he should cut his tongue out. Maybe that would help.

Rough knuckles brush over Dazai’s cheek and make him jump initially, but he melts into it in record time. “What about surgery?”

That makes Dazai scoff. “You’re kidding me, right? Top surgery, on a budget like mine? Hell, Chuuya, I can just afford rent and weekly groceries.”

“You still have a fuck ton of money saved in secret accounts though, don’t you? Why not just use that shit? You have to have over thousands in some of those,” Chuuya tilts his head. He looks like a confused puppy, but that doesn’t taper down Dazai’s mood.

“That’s for an emergency .”

“And of course, you’d never think of yourself as an emergency, right?”

Dazai doesn’t have anything to say to that. He glares, his nostrils flaring with a childish huff. That money he has stored away was from his time in the Mafia, and he doesn’t care for touching it unless he absolutely has to. It feels wrong otherwise, like running back to his horrid past for an easy way out. Oda wouldn’t be proud of that.

“..What do you think about letting me pay for your surgery?” 

He blinks. Once, twice, thrice. There’s no way he heard that right, it can’t be. Has his mental state finally deteriorated to the point of auditory hallucinations?

“Dazai, I’m being serious,” Chuuya sighs.

“There’s— there’s no way . I can’t ask you to do that, I can’t be indebted -” Dazai starts, already starting to frantically shake his head in petulant refusal.

Chuuya just claps a hand over the brunet’s mouth, effectively shutting him up. If only temporary. “Clam it up, Mackerel. You know damn well I wouldn’t do something like that just to have you ‘indebted’ to me or some bullshit. We’re not teenagers anymore.”

When Dazai doesn’t say anything — can’t find the words to use — Chuuya decides to continue.

“You and I both know it would hardly be a dent in my wallet and this way, it could be even more discreet. It also keeps you from having to just use binders, or bandages, which cause damage , dumbass,” Chuuya concludes, waving his hand as he delivers his explanation.

It… makes sense, which is surprising to hear from the Slug, but Dazai still feels hesitant. It’s ironic, isn’t it? He’s practically dreamed about having top surgery for years , so he could have his proper body, without those… imperfections. But it’s still a calculated risk. 

“I’d need to take disability leave from work, though. How would I explain it?” Dazai picks at his lips, tugging at dead skin until it makes him wince. Chuuya swats his hand away.

“Leave that to me. We’ll just say it’s your appendix, or some shit.” That makes Dazai laugh, a fragile and light sound.

“That’s so you . Such a dumb excuse, Chibikko.”

“Fuck off, it doesn’t need to be some elaborate lie like you always try to pull off. If someone’s got a problem with it, they can get my shoe up their ass.”

“So brutish,” Dazai whispers. He doesn’t know when Chuuya’s face got so close to his, or why his eyes are already fluttering shut, but he doesn’t bother to complain.

Chuuya kisses him like he’s some sacred treasure, deserving of being savored and indulged in. Dazai can’t complain, honestly. He tangles his fingers in Chuuya’s hair, keeping a faint pressure on his head so he doesn’t dare pull back until Dazai has had his fill. He’s always been greedy like that, but maybe Chuuya is too. He feels a hand run along his side, descending lower and lower until it’s palming Dazai’s ass. It makes him gasp, and he realizes a second too late that that was exactly what Chuuya was looking for. He feels him smirk against his lips.

Dazai stays there like that with him, letting the clock tick aimlessly in the background as they get lost in each other. Chuuya is the first to pull back, but Dazai chases his lips and manages to earn one final peck from him before they settle for catching their breaths. It gives Dazai an ample opportunity to stare dumbly up at Chuuya, to drink him in in all of his entirety. 

His lips are swollen and shiny, and Dazai is sure his own look the same. Strands of silken fire are mussed this way and that from where Dazai was tugging them, and Chuuya’s eyes are a little hazy. All in all, Dazai thinks it’s a sight he could never tire of seeing.

“So… Do I have to kiss your stupid ass again, or are you actually going to take me up on my offer?”

“..If you make another offer, I may consider.”

Chuuya rolls his eyes, looking a little too expectant. “And what might that be, shithead?”

“Stay the night? And… maybe the next two nights? And all of the nights leading up to my surgery?” Dazai flutters his lashes, hopes his puppy dog eyes haven’t grown rusty over the years.

“Clingy, aren’t you? Why don’t you just stay at my place until then? You can stay there while you heal up, too. That way we don’t have to worry about any of your nosy fuckin’ colleagues seeking you out.”

And maybe, maybe that’s something Dazai can live with.