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Atsushi Nakajima is known for making stupid decisions, though he might have fucked-up so exponentially this time that even the best stroke of luck could get him out of it.
This time, he wakes up in a bed with the softest mattress he’s ever been on and sheets with a thread count higher than he can count, half-delirious with sleep, curling into the feeling of heat around him, a comfortable pillow that shakes just slightly under his head.
And then, of course, he comes to his senses and realizes his pillow is a person.
Perhaps that should make him jump up, but it doesn’t. He blearily glances up, his lashes and blurred vision obscuring most of the image, soft red hair basked in lamplight rather than sunlight, black-out curtains pulled along floor-to-ceiling windows that Atsushi vaguely remembers being pushed up against last night.
Going out drinking with Dazai is never a good idea when Atsushi certainly isn’t known for his alcohol tolerance.
The last clear memory he has, of course, is Dazai - towering over Atsushi with his hands in the pockets of his ridiculous coats, grinning, murmuring something cryptic about unpaid debts and the consequences of his actions finally out to get him.
Beyond that, it’s blurry - until now.
(He thanks God, or really Byakko, that his healing capabilities extend to the hangover he’d certainly have otherwise.)
“Time to get up, I see,” he hears the person mumble, and part of Atsushi freezes, but the other part wants to stay in this bed with its plush blankets and soft mattress for the rest of his life.
Soft red hair.
Atsushi sits up, slowly, still getting his bearings, and part of him is shocked that there’s a Port Mafia Executively lying half-awake next to him, his shirt gone but choker still in place, marks and bruises up his neck and collarbone and what seems to be a bite mark adorning pale skin, but another part of him feels only the utmost satisfaction.
(How did he pull a Port Mafia Executive while he was drunk? He can’t even pull a date when he’s sober! This has to be a joke, right?)
Chuuya Nakahara smiles, a soft sight even like this, his head against the pillow; there’s something sly in his expression, as though he knows how incredulous Atsushi feels and how lucky Atsushi must be to have slept with him.
Well, it’s lucky Atsushi slept with anyone at all given how socially awkward he is, though he has little doubt that the wine now sitting on Chuuya’s bedside had something to do with that.
When Chuuya speaks, his voice is rough with sleep and, for a second time, Atsushi almost forgets about his incredulity to lie down and stay there. “Stay for breakfast?” Chuuya asks, half-lidded, red lashes practically touching his cheeks.
So pretty.
“I - I think I’m late for work,” Atsushi stammers, his face flushing at the admission and offer from the mafioso, something he certainly shouldn’t be affected by.
“How late?” Chuuya asks, curious, brow-furrowed. It takes him a minute to reach that conclusion, though, like the man’s face has forgotten how to be harsh in the midst of this ridiculously large bed.
“Uh…” Atsushi hasn’t the slightest clue what time it is, as there’s no clock in the room and the sun is hidden behind the curtains. “Definitely late,” is what he settles on, laughing awkwardly as he pulls the blankets off him.
He’s never been the type to be too aware of what he’s wearing, but he’s certainly aware right now, if only because this button-down is far too silky to be his - and it’s a black button-down, which he doesn’t own - and the boxers he’s wearing are a size too small at best.
“Then staying for breakfast shouldn’t be too much of a hassle,” Chuuya murmurs, and his eyes practically blow blue in the soft light.
Er - actually.
Atsushi takes a closer look, leaning forward to do so with a squint, and he finds that, no, Chuuya’s eyes are not blue.
One is blue, a pretty, deep blue that jumps out, intense like a hurricane; the other is a smooth, rich brown, half-hidden by the pillow, melting into his face, though in the way that the color only accentuates it.
He doesn’t ask, but he wants to reach out and touch.
“I think I’ll take you up on that,” he says hesitantly, praying to every deity out there that Kunikida isn’t blowing up his phone, and that he isn’t actually that late.
The kitchen has a clock on the oven, and he’s so late it’s laughable, but they’ve been picking up pieces of Atsushi’s clothing here and there, but haven’t found his phone yet.
(It makes him wonder if Junichirou did him a favor and took it from him before the night ended, precisely for this reason: because if Atsushi didn’t have his phone, then Junichirou could be a good wingman and say that no, no, Atsushi wouldn’t know you’re calling, Kunikida-san, his phone is right here!)
Three hours. He’s three hours late, and here he is, sitting on Chuuya’s counter with his bare legs swinging over the side, the chill in the penthouse to the point that he wants a blanket to cover up with.
“Why is it so cold?” Atsushi asks curiously, keeping any annoyance out of his tone. He doesn’t know Chuuya well enough to know if getting annoyed or frustrated would get him dead, though he finds it hard to view the mafioso as intimidating when he’s cooking breakfast for his one-night stand.
“This is cold?” Chuuya asks, glancing over his shoulder curiously; he’d taken a quick shower and his damp hair sits in a messy bun, some strands falling out and framing his face. He has coffee brewing, a smell so intense it has to be a dark roast, and he’s in more appropriate attire: sweatpants that cost more than Atsushi’s yearly groceries and a loose t-shirt that has a band name on the front that’s entirely illegible from time. “Maybe you’re just a wimp, weretiger.”
“I find it odd that you call me weretiger after you fucked me,” Atsushi says bluntly, accidentally hitting his heel too hard into the cabinet and hissing.
Once he realizes what he said, though, he tries to backtrack - “Well, no, that’s not what I - sorry, I don’t mean to - you know, I -”
To his surprise, Chuuya only laughs, spatula in hand. His laugh is an odd, beautiful thing, Atsushi thinks; it doesn’t fit a Mafia Executive. “No, no, it’s alright. I guess it is odd. So, can I call you Atsushi?”
“Only if I can call you Chuuya,” Atsushi says slyly, with a wink brought on by a bout of confidence he wouldn’t have had hours ago. Waking up with someone and being invited over for breakfast is doing something to him, it seems; he’ll see if that’s a good thing or not.
“You may,” Chuuya answers, a small smile on his face as he dipped down in a mock bow.
(Part of Atsushi, or most of him, wants to grab Chuuya’s waist; it just seems so small.)
A bashful blush appears on Atsushi’s face, as much as he’d like to push it down, watching (and not interfering) as Chuuya goes back to their breakfast. It’s just eggs, which is easy on the stomach. (Atsushi needs it.)
“Do you make a habit of asking all your hook-ups to stay for breakfast?” Atsushi asks, with the same bold curiosity that’s done him well so far; he hasn’t been reprimanded for his words yet, and as such, he’ll continue them as he sees fit.
That’s how he’s been going about life lately, and it seems to be working out just fine. Especially when he factors in how he pulled a Port Mafia Executive when he was drunk, which is still astonishing.
“No,” Chuuya says, his response so quick that Atsushi doesn’t doubt its honesty. “I don’t take most of them back to my place, either. You’re ever the lucky one, aren’t you?”
“Cocky, aren’t you?”
“Shouldn’t I be?” Chuuya asks, raising a brow. The fact that he’s able to flip their eggs, two in a pan, without breaking the yoke makes Atsushi feel either unbridled rage or jealousy; he hasn’t decided yet. “I mean, you haven’t turned me down yet, have you?”
Before Atsushi can come up with a witty response or a response at all, there’s a knock on the door.
A knock on the door that is so expected, in fact, that Chuuya sighs as he sets the pan on the back burner, one that isn’t on. “I’ll finish these in a minute. You stay here, yeah?”
It’s rather obvious that Chuuya’s expecting company of the mafioso variety and sheer embarrassment keeps Atsushi right where he is, flushed at the mere thought of being seen in this state by someone he knows, or someone who might know someone who knows him.
In a Port Mafia Executive’s ill-buttoned shirt and boxers - no, there’s no way that ends well for him, though he doesn’t mind the way Chuuya’s clothes fit on him. They’re loose around the waist, albeit tight around the shoulders, and a bit short on him. He wonders if Chuuya gets his clothes tailored.
Atsushi’s enhanced hearing allows him to hear the specifics of Chuuya’s conversation; the way he’s silent as he walks over to the door, the way heels clack against the wooden floors in the hall, and the way no one walks in.
“Chuuya,” greets a voice that sort of makes Atsushi want to curl up and die, because if Kouyou Ozaki sees him, he might end up six feet under anyway; and if he doesn’t, then he’ll certainly have to listen to a threatening thirty-minute lecture as to the many, many reasons he’s unfit to be Kyouka’s brother and caretaker.
(Atsushi thinks it might have gotten lost in translation that he is not Kyouka’s caretaker, as he already didn’t know how to use the microwave in the breakroom until Junichirou pitied him and showed him how it worked properly.)
“Ane-san,” Chuuya hums, welcoming, and Atsushi doesn’t dare breathe on his spot on the counter, as though she can sense his presence.
She probably can, as Kouyou has a knack for sniffing out things she hates, and he’s always been at the top of her list.
Whatever it is that tips her off, Atsushi can’t see, but he can hear the defeat in her voice and the way it loses its flowery, polite quality for a mere second before returning to usual; he thinks he can almost hear how Chuuya winces. “Chuuya. I see you went out again last night.”
“Yeah, I… did. I’m a grown adult, you know, Ane-san.”
“The fact that you feel the need to reiterate that to me time and time again alludes to you not being as mature as one, however.”
“I am a grown adult and I can go out on my days off,” Chuuya, ironically, reiterates, as though he’s talking to a child and not another mafia Executive, and one he seems to look up to, at that.
Kouyou doesn’t seem to take that well, and now Atsushi can hear the sound of heels being pushed to the side, as she invites herself in with Chuuya’s permission not required. “Yes, you certainly can. I don’t mind that. I do mind, however, when your reputation takes a hit for it because you can’t seem to understand that you need to stay away from cameras.”
“I’m an Executive of the Mafia, not a celebrity,” Chuuya huffs, annoyance dripping with every syllable; he never does try to argue Kouyou’s point, though. That perhaps he’s been careless about the cameras that surround him.
It’s true that the government lays off the Port Mafia because of their agreement, but journalists and mafia spies don’t; it’s true that Chuuya Nakahara being one of the most powerful men in the nation is an open secret, much like how Mori Corporations is not the organization it pretends to be.
“It would be in your favor not to be seen with a different boy hanging off you every week, lad,” Kouyou says, the distaste clear in her tone. “I’d advise you to bring someone… suitable to the gala next week. Perhaps keep that ruse for a month or so, until the water of your reputation clears.”
“Are you telling me to find a fake date?” Chuuya says, though he doesn’t sound annoyed at the prospect of fake dating someone due to his reputation or whatever. Maybe Atsushi doesn’t understand the politics of the mafia, but that does sound more like behavior for a celebrity. Right?
“I am,” Kouyou says. “In fact, I imagine your… company that’s already here will make a suitable date.”
“You have far higher expectations for my standards than I do,” Chuuya snickers, and Atsushi momentarily feels self-conscious, but it isn’t as though he can escape the kitchen without having to wander into Kouyou’s line of sight.
Still, the distaste is clear in her tone. “No, I’m well aware of who you have over. In fact, I would appreciate if he stopped hiding in the kitchen like a startled housecat.”
And like a startled housecat, Atsushi freezes.
How did she know?
Did she actually sniff out the things she hates, that thing being him?
Atsushi can almost hear Chuuya’s scowl. “What gave it away?”
“The suspenders on your living room floor and the phone case labeled NAKAJIMA, mostly.”
“Mostly,” Chuuya echoes, amused, and Atsushi momentarily thinks, oh, that’s where my phone is, Kunikida’s gonna kill me, how did my suspenders end up in the living room when my shirt was in the kitchen?
It’s best not to try understanding what happens when he drinks too much, though.
“Fine,” Chuuya says, coincidentally at the same time as Atsushi hops off the counter and ambles into the living room, his legs cold enough to make him shiver.
His imaginary vision of Kouyou’s distaste was, apparently, not that far off from reality, her red-painted lip curled into distaste at the very presence of Atsushi. “Perhaps your company should be better dressed.”
“He looks fine in my clothes,” Chuuya says off-handedly, like that was the most insane thing Kouyou’s said through the entire conversation that Atsushi eavesdropped on.
And then, like Chuuya’s finally realized that Atsushi hasn’t been consulted about this in the slightest. “Oi, Atsushi. There’s a gala next week. Are you able to go with me?”
Atsushi blinks, perhaps still acting like a startled housecat that isn’t used to being called upon, his shoulders subconsciously hunching in on himself to make himself smaller under Chuuya’s curious, and Kouyou’s assessing gaze. “Um… What day is it? I still have work next week.”
What stupid wording. He isn’t used to speaking under pressure, only acting under pressure.
“The Armed Detective Agency has an open invitation to the gala as well.”
Oh. That certainly throws a wrench in things; if Atsushi goes with Chuuya to a gala that the Agency is also going to, he’d have to pretend to them, too, that he’s dating Chuuya.
Then again… What better way to get better at Dazai for pushing all of his paperwork onto Atsushi than by being out of the office more to spend time - or fake date - his ex-partner?
“I would love to go with you,” Atsushi smiles brightly.
Because of their apparent status as a couple, Atsushi ends up spending more time at Chuuya’s place than he’d intended.
That’s why Atsushi stands in Chuuya’s living room, on the coffee table, in his boxers - his, actually his, this time - because he made the mistake of mentioning that he had his work uniform and no formal attire for the gala, now in three days.
“I really don’t need anything special,” Atsushi says, his face flushed as Chuuya brings one of those odd, fabric tape measures to the length of his arm, staring at the seam of his shoulder. “I - I really don’t, everyone else is going in their work uniforms.”
“It’s no problem,” Chuuya promises, his touch a hissing cold against Atsushi’s skin; it’s so odd, his penthouse is so cold, and yet he’s heard Chuuya complain about the heat often enough in the few times they’ve met. “If this was a true date - which we’re saying it is - then I would never let you walk around in something so cheap.”
“Are you calling me cheap?” Atsushi asks with a laugh, and that’s the thing, with Chuuya - he makes Atsushi laugh more than he’d expected; he’d expected the intimidating, aggressive mafioso he’s heard so much about, but Chuuya’s superseded all of his expectations.
“No,” Chuuya says with the guilt of a man lying on the witness stand, shameless in his words and shameless in his touch as his hands wrap around Atsushi’s waist, presumably to take the measurement there, after scribbling down whatever measurement he’d gotten from Atsushi’s arm. “But I’m not walking around with a boyfriend in a shirt you can get at the department store down the street.”
“You can not get a suit tailored in three days, and I think it’s a labor violation if you try,” Atsushi points out, trying his damnedest to stay still. That fails when he shivers at Chuuya’s cold touch against the small of his back, but he tries.
“We need things for missions on short notice all the time,” Chuuya hums, his breath hot on Atsushi’s shoulder, his forehead pressed to Atsushi’s shoulder as he writes down the measurement of his waist. “There’s a whole team for it, so don’t you worry about labor laws or violations that the mafia might be getting up to.”
“That makes me worry more, actually.”
“Wait until I tell you about my work hours,” Chuuya snickers, and then gently pushes Atsushi’s arm. “Put your arms up, I need to take a few more.”
“Isn’t the actual tailor supposed to do this?”
Chuuya considers this, then he laughs, that light, affectionate laugh that makes Atsushi melt more than it should for a one-night-stand-turned-fake-boyfriend. “If I was dating you, I wouldn’t let anyone’s hands near you, you know.”
“You sound possessive.”
“I am possessive.” Shown, really, by the way Chuuya lightly bites down on Atsushi’s shoulder, his placement a mirror of the mark that had been there days ago, when they’d slept together. Chuuya really was a biter. “After all, why wouldn’t I be?”
Atsushi laughs once again, though he’d like to say it’s because he’s nervous rather than because Chuuya’s possessiveness makes sense; with the kind of place he has, and the things he has, Chuuya seems to be a very material person.
That, in turn, would extend to a partner, right? Is that why Dazai has all those really soft and nice clothes that don’t fit him anymore - are they just remnants from when Soukoku was a full partnership and not the shattered, broken silhouette that remains today?
“I guess that makes sense,” Atsushi hums, allowing Chuuya to poke and prod at him as much as he’d like; after all, Chuuya is going out of his way to get Atsushi a suit tailored, and he doesn’t bother asking how much it’s going to cost because it’ll make him feel bad if he does.
(Hell, he can’t even afford a few better clothes, let alone a custom-tailored suit that he’s going to wear once. He really cannot fathom just how much the mafia pays - he almost wants to ask Chuuya what he thinks of capitalism and the like. Capitalism is good for the rich, right? Atsushi thinks he remembers Kunikida saying something like that once.)
“What do you mean that makes sense?” Chuuya says, one end of the tape measure in his mouth and the other in his hand, and he has really nice hands, which is something Atsushi probably shouldn’t notice but notices regardless.
Chuuya’s hands are boney, and scarred, and callused; Atsushi knows this for certain, given what they’ve done in the little time they’ve spent together. Chuuya’s hands are typically covered with gloves, too, which means Atsushi feels better about staring.
What? They’re nice.
“Like something you see, weretiger?” Chuuya asks, running his nail along Atsushi’s shoulder blade in a way that makes him make a sound and jump, his arms flailing back to his sides in a way that certainly should make him self-conscious.
“I thought we already talked about you calling me Atsushi?” Atsushi says, as though he was going to come back from the embarrassing mewl he’d just made.
Chuuya doesn’t comment on that, at least, though he does smile to himself, a private smile that perhaps Atsushi wasn’t meant to see. “It’s funny when I call you weretiger, though.”
“I think you should use my name more. We are dating, after all, right?”
(The point of dating is to get to know someone, right? Or is that just the point of dates? Atsushi doesn’t really understand the difference or how other people define them, but he thinks that’s what it means. He likes spending time around Chuuya, and it certainly helps that the sex must’ve been good to leave him sore after, even if neither of them has acknowledged the simple fact that they could, theoretically, do that again, fake dating or not.)
Chuuys shakes his head, with the unfortunate side effect of removing his hands from Atsushi’s skin to scribble down his fancy measurements. “No, if we were dating, I’d call you a pet name or something.”
“Yeah? Come up with one for me, then.”
Chuuya takes one scrutinizing look at him, from head to toe, far too intense to be considered casual. Finally, he settles, his syllables heavy and words slow. “Supernova.”
“Supernova?” Atsushi echoes, head tilting to the side; it sounds nice on Chuuya’s tongue, but he can’t see the connection.
Much like everything else he does, Chuuya makes something in Atsushi’s chest ache when he reaches up, his fingers brushing Atsushi’s jaw, cold, with the potential to bruise but the gentleness of a flower. He tilts Atsushi’s head down, to meet his gaze. “Your eyes,” Chuuya says simply like it doesn’t make something in his stomach burn to hear those words. “They’re like a supernova, and I hear you’re a bit of a firecracker yourself, you know?”
Atsushi’s throat is dry when he finds it in himself to answer, wide-eyed, staring back at Chuuya; both of his eyes are blue, but one is ever-so-slightly off, and Atsushi realizes he’s wearing a blue contact. “I suppose you’ll just have to find out, won’t you?”
Really, it’s no surprise that Chuuya kisses him senseless, but it’s certain that they don’t get any measurements done after that.
On the night of the gala, Atsushi can feel his co-worker's gazes on him, trying as he might to ignore them. He’d arrived with Chuuya, to keep up their ruse, as he doesn’t understand the politics of the mafia, but they can clearly see him here in a suit he clearly can’t afford on his own.
It’s a nice suit, at least; it’s black with a red button-down underneath, and he’s wearing his dirty dress shoes but that is one thing that he won’t let Chuuya buy him, and overall, he does think he looks nice. The jacket even tapers at the waist and the pants fit him nicely, which isn’t something he can say for most of his clothes.
Plus, Chuuya gave him this necklace; it’s a thin silver chain with a small heart charm on it, and the small engraving in it reads NAKAHARA.
To claim him, Atsushi presumes, to anyone who walks by and wonders why he’s dressed so nicely; he’s known here, after all, and Kouyou did say that Chuuya needs to clean up his reputation.
As such, he tries to avoid his coworkers as much as possible, but he bumps into Junichirou at the snack table and he isn’t willing to give up the fancy crackers he isn’t paying for to avoid him.
“You look nice,” Junichirou says off-handedly, and even Atsushi, ever unobservant, is able to catch the way Junichirou’s eyes linger on the necklace, sitting above his shirt rather than under it. Chuuya hadn’t tucked it in, and so Atsushi will leave it that way. “Any particular reason why?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” Atsushi asks, in a way that hopefully implies that Junichirou should leave it alone and they can discuss it during their next sleepover, which, as adults, they totally don’t have whenever there’s an off-day for the both of them.
“Well, you look too nice to be with us,” Junichirou snickers, gesturing to his own fraying sweater. That sweater has survived longer than anything Atsushi’s seen at the Agency - including the staff - and the fact that it’s still intact is impressive on its own. “And you have Nakahara’s color scheme going on, so…”
“Wait, Chuuya’s color scheme?”
“Yeah, he’s like, black, white, and red, dude,” Junichirou nods, like this makes total sense. “And I’m orange and white, and Dazai is white and blue - now - and Fukuzawa is silver and green, you know?”
“No, no I don’t know,” Atsushi says honestly, reaching over and taking one of the items on Junichirou’s snack plate as penance. “But yeah, I’m here with Chuuya. As his plus one.”
“As his plus one?”
“As his plus one.”
“Have you told Dazai…?” Junichirou asks, his tone hesitant for Atsushi and his gaze sliding over to Dazai, who’s currently in the middle of taking another shot - why they have alcohol at these things, Atsushi will never know - and trying to kiss Kunikida senseless. Kunikida seems to be trying to get him to drink water, with little success.
They’re five minutes into this thing. Of course Dazai would pregame for a gala. Or maybe he’s sober and just trying to fuck with Kunikida, which is just as funny.
“No. I - I don’t think I will, honestly,” Atsushi laughs, if only because he’s only here as a fake date to placate a barely-stained reputation. He’s not here because Chuuya wanted him to be, he’s here because Chuuya needs to clear his reputation.
“Yeah… I get that. I’m sure Dazai would have plenty of… opinions about it,” Junichirou says, shrugging his shoulders with a self-defeated sigh, as he typically does. “Do you like being with him, though? I haven’t really talked to Nakahara much, so.”
“Um… yeah, I do,” Atsushi smiles, speaking honestly, if only because he and Chuuya hadn’t thought to come up with any lies about their fake dating history; all that needed to happen is Atsushi going with Chuuya for public events for the next month or so, and then they can have a mysterious break-up, and leave it at that. “He’s nice, and he makes me laugh, and he’s - he’s far more gentle than I expected a mafioso to be, really.”
“He must be one hell of a man to make you blush like that.”
In turn, it makes Atsushi flush more, not aware of the heat rising to his face until now. “He’s - he’s definitely something. He’s so - I don’t know how to describe it. He’s different with me than he is when he’s yelling at Dazai.”
“I’d hope, I didn’t know Dazai could push anyone’s buttons like he pushes Kunikida’s,” Junichirou shrugs.
Chuuya gets drunk.
Chuuya’s lightweight no doubt, because he’s three glasses of wine in and he’s entirely shit-faced, and he wanders over to Atsushi like a lost puppy; Atsushi hopes that Chuuya got all the observations he needed in, because Atsushi doesn’t know who’s even throwing this gala beyond the fact that it’s mafia-sponsored and that he has to be here.
“You’re so pretty,” Chuuya says, with a big, dopey smile, leaning on Atsushi’s shoulder like there’s no place he’d rather be, affectionately nuzzling him, much like a housecat. (And Atsushi was the cat between the two of them? Yeah, no.) “You’re so so pretty, did you know that?”
“You’ve told me,” Atsushi hums, amusement dripping from every word as he reaches up to mindlessly run his fingers through Chuuya’s hair; perhaps because he’s only spent time with the mafioso in private, where they don’t have prying eyes on them and he’s allowed to do such things. It doesn’t register to him that carding your fingers through someone’s hair is not, in fact, something fake couples do. “How much have you had to drink?”
“Not a lot!”
“Not a lot for other people or not a lot for you?”
“...Not a lot for other people,” Chuuya says, though he sounds dejected and annoyed at once, so Atsushi brings his chin up - to grab Chuuya’s full attention.
“That’s alright. Just tell me when you wanna go home, okay? I’ll drive you.”
While it’s true that Atsushi just got his license, he’d like to think he’s a good driver; perhaps not a good enough driver to justify driving Chuuya’s fancy, vintage car, but good enough that he thinks they’ll make it back without a scratch, so long as Chuuya doesn’t interrupt him while he’s driving.
With a little nod, Chuuya takes his face out of Atsushi’s grasp and ambles off, though Atsushi’s face flames every time he hears what the mafioso is saying.
“Have you seen my date?” Chuuya babbles smugly to a just-as-drunk, irritated Dazai. “He’s so cool! And he’s so, like, nice, and - and you know -”
Chuuya downs two more drinks with Dazai before he wanders over to another woman, hanging off her arm in a way that makes Atsushi hope they’re actually friends. “Have you seen my boyfriend? Isn’t he pretty? He’s so strong. He could probably pick me up with one hand. Can your husband do that? No, because he’s cheating on you, ha!”
At that, Atsushi swoops in, laughing nervously and leading Chuuya away while the lady scoffs, muttering something about that damn mafia should never have allowed that child in here, despite Chuuya being a grown-man, older than even Atsushi himself.
“You aren’t supposed to tell people that,” Atsushi says gently, not resisting when Chuuya decides to rest his whole body weight against him, as though Atsushi’s a living stuffed animal. “And I really don’t think you should tell people that if you know they’re dangerous.”
“Dangerous? To you? Not to me, you know, I could pro’ly drop-kick them and -”
“Okay, let’s get out of here, yeah?” Atsushi says, gently detaching the mafioso from his chest before snagging Chuuya’s keys out of his pocket, prying that he can remember where they parked.
They don’t escape without Chuuya yelling at three more people about how cool and pretty and strong his date is, though, much to Atsushi’s embarrassment.
“Stay,” Chuuya says, but not in the drunken baby voice he was using the entire way home; having downed two water bottles and taken an hour to get to bed might’ve helped with that, his gaze hazed over with sleep and alcohol. He tugs on Atsushi’s sleeve, as though pleading. “Stay with me?”
Atsushi doesn’t tug his sleeve back, but he debates the merits of staying here in the bliss of Chuuya’s penthouse and bedsheets beyond the cold temperature or going back to his dorm and listening to the most intense questioning he’s ever had in his life. “Okay,” he says simply. “Let me get some pajamas on first, yeah?”
Chuuya whines about that, and he whines about how long it takes Atsushi to get the grown-ass mafioso into pajamas, and he whines about Atsushi still being in his suit pants.
“I don’t have any of my sleep clothes here,” Atsushi laughs, not mentioning the fact that he has a single pair of pajama pants in his closet and that’s it; half the time, he falls asleep in his uniform.
All of his clothes combined don’t actually fill up an entire washing machine, actually. It’s a fact that Dazai finds practical and Kunikida simply doesn’t think about it too hard or else he’ll spend two months’ paycheck on Atsushi’s wardrobe.
“Wear mine,” Chuuya insists, tugging on Atsushi’s sleeve. “It’ll be short, just wear mine! Then you’ll be warm and comfy.”
“It won’t be too bad if I sleep in my pants,” Atsushi says, though he doesn’t think he could justify sleeping in pants specifically tailored to him, but Chuuya’s sweatpants would be way too short on him.
“No,” Chuuya pouts, tugging on his sleeve with the strength of a man that can bring down armies, “Wear mine. Please?”
How is Atsushi supposed to say no to that face?
Atsushi sighs, giving in, mumbling, “fine, fine, okay,” and rifling through Chuuya’s wardrobe to find suitable sweatpants; all of them are of the expensive variety.
They don’t rest too high on his ankles, which implies that Chuuya buys his clothes a size too big, but by the time he’s got his suit pants folded and his jacket and vest kicked off, Chuuya’s somehow managed to get his single blue contact back into its case.
How he did that while drunk, Atsushi doesn’t want to know.
“You ready for bed?” Atsushi asks rhetorically because he can see the answer in the pout of Chuuya’s lips and the way he tries to hide a yawn.
“Thank you,” Chuuya murmurs the moment Atsushi crawls into bed with him, curling around him like Atsushi is a stuffed teddy bear, for his to keep.
(With how possessive he is…)
“Of course,” Atsushi laughs, rubbing Chuuya’s back.
With someone like that as company, it’s easy to fall asleep.
The moment Atsushi realizes this is a bad idea, he’s standing on Chuuya’s balcony after another gala, one the mafia apparently has far too often.
Chuuya himself is sitting on the railing, one leg crossed over the other and coat fluttering in the wind, cigarette on his lips.
See, Chuuya isn’t afraid of heights; the dull red glow around him whenever he stumbles is proof of why.
His gloves are off tonight, too, though only once they reached the safety of Chuuya’s penthouse, sitting on the kitchen counter, far too distant now for Chuuya to reach for them. Atsushi wants to put Chuuya’s fingers in his mouth, could find religion in tracing the veins of the mafioso’s hand, from his wrist to his shoulder to his heart.
He doesn’t have his contact in, either, one eye glowing azure, inhuman and bright in the dark, the brightest star in the sky from the light pollution, and the other eye glows soft and welcoming, his gaze sliding over to Atsushi like he’s the only thing worth seeing.
Chuuya’s smoking habit is something Atsushi hasn’t commented on, if only because he doesn’t know what he would say; nicotine isn’t good for the lungs, for a normal person.
But normal people didn’t have hickies that fade in less than two days and debilitating injuries healed in less than a week as Chuuya does; Atsushi’s never asked about that, either, about how Chuuya holds more power in his pinky than most people in their entire bodies.
Chuuya is a man that holds enough power to bring down a nation, and he chooses, instead, to sit on his balcony with a cigarette between his lips, and something about that makes Atsushi dizzy with the need to feel that Chuuya’s real.
“Tonight was nice,” Atsushi says, leaning against the railing himself, the small of his back digging into the ornate metal, trying to keep his distance because if he doesn’t, he might end up doing something he regrets.
“Something like that,” Chuuya shrugs, as though he’s self-aware, as though he knows how he makes Atsushi’s heart race.
“Something like that?” Atsushi echoes.
When Chuuya turns his head to exhale his smoke, pushing it away from Atsushi because he knows that it bothers Atsushi’s nose and, in turn, earns Byakko’s irritation, Atsushi knows, he knows, he knows he’s in too deep, and he wants, wants, wants, wants to hate the fact that they are fake dating, but he can’t.
It’s fake, but it means that he gets to spend more time with Chuuya, and that’s something he’s found himself craving more and more, to the point where he probably stays here more often than he’s been staying at his own place.
He knows he has because Kyouka pointed it out.
“Yeah,” Chuuya shrugs, filtering away the little remaining smoke from where it might have reached Atsushi. “I can’t say I like spending any time with those irritating government officials, but there are sacrifices I have to make, here and there.”
“Hey, at least I was with you,” Atsushi jokes, and of course it’s a joke because he doesn’t think he can ever be as important to someone as Chuuya has quickly become to Atsushi.
He’s been told time and time again that he trusts too easily and gets attached too quickly, but if he didn’t, Kyouka would be on death row. If he didn’t, then there are so many other people who would be dead and their death would be on his hands, so he trusts his heart over his head, every time.
(Besides, as his partner, Akutagawa is the one required to think with his head over his heart, and the man is rather good at it so long as it doesn’t involve talking to Dazai; it’s something that Atsushi appreciates immensely.)
“I’m glad you were,” Chuuya smiles, soft and gentle and a private smile, and maybe Atsushi shouldn’t be calling it a private smile when he sees it so often, but perhaps he cannot conflate the mafioso he’s heard about and the man on his balcony smoking a cigarette, a habit he won’t kick. “Makes it so much more bearable, you know?”
“Guess maybe Kouyou was right about this fake dating thing, huh? Maybe you just needed a plus one to keep you from blowing your brains out from boredom.”
“Oh, I usually just shit-talk to the people I’m meant to be shit-talking about, it’s not my smartest decision.”
“Then I’m glad I’m there to keep you in check,” Atsushi snickers because he knows he could never keep the mafioso in check if he tried.
“Me too.”
Atsushi stays the night again, and Chuuya continues to keep the smoke away from him whenever they speak out to the balcony.
“I can’t do this,” Atsushi says, with the confidence of a man about to reach his breaking point, slamming the suit jacket far too expensive for him onto Chuuya’s kitchen counter, his lip quivering with the weight of his words and the force he had to put into them, just to push them past the juncture of his throat.
Chuuya glances up, confusion causing his brows to furrow and for him to set down his fountain pen. Why he’s doing paperwork at the counter, Atsushi doesn’t want to know, but the half-empty cup of coffee gives him an idea. “Can’t do what?”
Atsushi takes a second to get his words right, to make sure he doesn’t spit something far harsher than his intentions; instead, each syllable sticks to his throat like poison. “I can’t do this with you anymore. The - the galas and the dinners and stuff, and I know you need a fake date and all, but I - I don’t think I can do this anymore. So… I’m sorry, Chuuya, but I’m breaking up with you. Fake. Er, fake breaking up with you? You know what I mean.”
Chuuya taps his fingers against the counter one, two, three times, and Atsushi keeps his gaze steady on Chuuya’s face and not his body language. That doesn’t prove to be any better, though, because he might be imagining the flash of hurt that wells up in Chuuya’s heterochromatic eyes. “I… I see,” he says slowly, contemplating, Atsushi’s nerves wearing off on them both. “Is there any particular reason why?”
Because I think I'm in love with you. Because I want this to be real. Because you’re so gentle that I think I’ll lose all my sharp edges if we hang out anymore. Because I can’t warm your bed when I know it isn’t the same for you. Because I can’t be good enough. Because you don’t want what I want.
Still, none of those are the reasons Atsushi actually provides, a defeated shrug to his shoulders and one hand still bunched up in the suit jacket, like he can’t bear to physically part with the words that had left his mouth in a confident declaration not five minutes ago. He was a braver man five minutes ago, marching up here.
Now, his throat is dry and he can’t look Chuuya in the eye.
“I don’t think I can do that to myself,” he murmurs, the closest he’s gotten to the truth in this sham of a relationship they have, and oh, oh, something in Atsushi breaks when Chuuya reaches forward.
Chuuya’s touch never reaches him, the mafioso’s hand not an inch away from Atsushi’s jaw but he waits for permission; he gets his permission in the form of Atsushi leaning into the touch. Maybe Chuuya can hear how fast his heart is beating, or maybe Chuuya can feel the way he shakes, but the slow back-and-forth of Chuuya’s thumb across his jaw helps more than he’s willing to admit.
“Why?” Chuuya asks quietly, and Atsushi doesn’t even care that his back is screaming at him for the awkward angle. “Did I do something to upset you? If you noticed, and I made you uncomfortable - please, just tell me.”
“Noticed what?” Atsushi asks, though he never does pull away from that heavenly touch.
(Others like to say that Chuuya is a god because destruction is all he knows; Atsushi likes to think that Chuuya is a god because nothing beyond Chuuya has ever brought him close to peace.)
“I’m not…” Chuuya starts, taking his hand away, much to Atsushi’s distaste. He taps his finger against the counter again, one, two, three, and his gloves are off today, too, and he still touched Atsushi’s jaw, and -
It makes him dizzy. With what, he doesn’t know, doesn’t know if he wants to figure it out or not.
“I’m not good at faking things,” Chuuya finally settles on, his gaze firmly on Atsushi, heavy and waiting and expectant in a way that has Atsushi feeling seen, like someone is finally seeing all there is to him and instead of judging his soul, is offering a guiding hand. “I wear my heart on my sleeve, or so Ane-san likes to say.”
Atsushi tilts his head, mirroring Chuuya’s expression from earlier. “I’m not following. What does this have to do with me breaking up with you?”
“I’m saying that if I made you uncomfortable because of my… affections, then I understand, but otherwise, please let me know.”
“Affections?” That’s such an odd way to phrase adoration, Atsushi thinks; Chuuya’s affections sounds like something to be earned, a prize to be fought for in the same way nations wage war over crowns and beauty.
(Atsushi would certainly go to war if someone insulted his Chuuya, after all, even if fake was the string it came along with finding someone who understands him.)
“Does that make you uncomfortable?”
In a stark contrast from the way he’d barged into Chuuya’s place, Atsushi finally, finally releases the suit jacket, not wrinkled and likely half of its original value, and grabs Chuuya’s jaw.
He ignores the little sound Chuuya makes for his own sanity.
“Do you want to go on a date with me?” Atsushi asks, confident and loud and shaking so badly that Chuuya has to reach up and steady the hand currently holding him still, his hand easily wrapped around Atsushi’s wrist, though not pulling him off.
Perhaps there’s desperation in his eyes, the need for Chuuya to want him the same way Atsushi wants him, but whatever it is, it makes Chuuya laugh.
“I suppose we’ve never been the traditional type,” Chuuya murmurs, tracing his nail along the veins in Atsushi’s wrist, never making eye contact. “Yes. I’d love to go on a date with you. After you broke up with me.”
“Maybe those mean girls in sitcoms were onto something,” Atsushi laughs, and here’s the thing: the absolute, most pivotal part of being around Chuuya:
It’s so easy.
It’s easy to be around him, and he makes Atsushi laugh, and sometimes Chuuya gets snappy but that’s alright because Atsushi does too, and they whittle away at the tension until it’s gone and it’s easy, easy, easy.
It’s easy to be around Chuuya and it’s hard to define precisely what that means, but Atsushi’s beaming grin in response makes Chuuya abandon his paperwork entirely, offering to let Atsushi stay the night once again on the condition that they have a proper first date in the living room, every cushion and throw pillow rounded up to make a pillow fort.
“Best post-break-up I’ve ever had,” Chuuya laughs, and Atsushi tackles him in a hug that leaves them both breathless.