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Why did Dazai’s day have to go like this?
He barely even nabbed enough time for himself, away from Mori, away from the back-to-back missions, from all the demands and all the gunfire. And his day had been going so well, too! Better than it should have, by Mori’s standards.
He was in a good mood, having finally gotten a time to roam the city during the day, without having to be all eyes for a target or a messenger. He got to prance the city’s stores, window shopping to his own delight, nothing had been out of place.
Maybe that’s why it happened, why his day had to be ruined like this. Dazai Osamu wasn’t meant to have good days, good moments he so selfishly seeked. He wasn’t supposed to be out and about, God wouldn’t let him feel like this without consequence.
And that consequence came in the form of the most beautiful dress he’d ever seen.
It stopped him dead in his tracks, he seemed to lose all comprehension of the world around him as he stared into the window, that dress of comfortable-looking satin displayed for all greedy eyes to see.
It was black, a beautiful sweetheart neck-line where lace was placed to so gracefully accent the collarbone, its patterns one to die for, even running up along the beautiful corset-esque bodice. The dress, if worn on him, was at least ankle-length, sleek and straight, but with an almost sinfully placed slit up to the mid-thigh, a beautiful choice in placement, really. Just in front of the dress, off to the left a little, probably to show off the leg as one’s best asset.
And the sleeves. Pure black lace with excellent cufflinks, a pretty ruby on each cuff. It even worked like a little glove, the middle and ring finger being the only two with glove fingers, the rest stayed bare. The sleeves were so dark, actually, that he was sure if he wore it without his bandages, it’d still be able to cover those nasty, deplorable scars of his.
And Dazai? Oh he loved it, pressed his hands to the window just to bask in its glory. Such a beautiful dress it was, how he’d love to know what it feels like against his skin…
And then it struck him.
He can’t wear things like that. He couldn’t.
He wasn’t a woman, for God’s sake. He shouldn’t want such feminine wear. And how unfair is that, huh? How could men be so content with their boring, plain and almost constantly generic fits, and women got to adorn beauties like this? How unfair, so dreadfully unfair.
But dresses and skirts weren’t meant for men, not at all. That doesn’t make a man masculine, that makes them look terrible, and feminine, does it not? So why must that wretched feminine urge in him desire to at least try on this fit? It wasn’t natural, he wasn’t natural, it shouldn’t make him feel floaty when the idea falls in his hands, it should make him cringe in disgust, tear through the thought like human flesh in a shredder, because he wasn’t supposed to feel like this.
His binder felt more constricted that day, when he pried himself from the dress in the window.
…
“So, that’s what got you in such a bad mood, Dazai?”
He played up the whine that escaped his lips, hoping it sounded more playful than it was pitiful. His cheek was placed against the cool surface of the bar counter, glass in hand but with no incentive to drink the alcohol inside. Just let it sit there and slowly warm in the room’s temperature.
Perhaps if he warmed and cooled this repeatedly, he’d get a nice alcohol-poisoned death? Ah, but that wouldn’t be fun, he’d be vomiting and have this horrible stomach bug that certainly was not to die for. Unlike that black beauty…
God, fucking end him.
“Odasakuuuu!” Dazai whined, yet didn’t know what exactly he wanted to say. Oda seemed to mull it over hard, but Dazai already knew what his best friend would say.
That he didn’t really understand.
That he wanted to help, but couldn’t.
That he wants Dazai to feel comfortable, but doesn’t know how to do it.
His predictions were always almost as good as Flawless, after all.
And he listened to Oda probe around his predicted ideas with excellent accuracy. He listened to every line, and understood that as much as Oda wanted to help, he couldn’t. He couldn’t understand the full extent of emotions that came with being the gender you’re not, and desiring to wear the clothes of the gender you wish never to be.
Ango drank from his glass silently. He didn’t have any input to make, and Dazai was oddly okay with it. He wouldn’t understand, so he doesn’t pry. He respects the man for that, but wouldn’t dare say it aloud.
“Ugh! This is the woooorst! Why can’t I just have a normal gender depression??” Dazai hurled out, rocking from side to side in his stool as he held up his glass of still full whiskey. “One glass of bleach instead please, Bartender~!”
“No can do,” Came the weirdly soothing voice of the bartender. “It doesn’t sell here.” Dazai hummed pathetically, placing his glass down with an audible clink. “Like Jesus turning water to fine wine, an impossibility through any and every logic other than stupid fiction…”
He continued to spin his woes to vent, going through the motions with practiced ease.
He didn’t notice a spark of something in the eyes of one old man.
…
“Eh? Who’s that?”
He didn’t really know what to expect, the next time they met, but it certainly wasn’t this.
There was a boy at the counter, somewhere close to his own age, at that. Curly auburn hair, eyes a familiar color he can’t put his finger on, with a particularly soft jawline for a boy. He wore something similar to the bar uniform, except with high-waisted pants (or he assumed they were, from what he could see) in the striking color of dioxazine.
“Ah, that’s the grandson of our bartender.” Oda hummed, taking a seat so nonchalantly. The boy noticed them, waving with a smile. And he could see it, they oddly had similarly colored eyes, which was why it seemed so familiar to him.
But he let it go, because the boy being there would most likely be temporary, so there was no point dwelling over it.
“Two whiskey on the rocks, if you will.” Oda ordered as Dazai sat down, and the boy got to it almost instantly, with a slight hum of acknowledgement. Dazai watched him with a subtle hawk’s eye as the boy went through the motions just the same as the Bartender always would. It seemed trusting enough, but he couldn’t be sure-
“Here you go, enjoy your drinks.” Huh, that was an oddly high voice for a man. Sure, Dazai wouldn’t judge, he had no right to. Besides, it wasn’t that high, just enough for him to notice something off about it. It still sounded and felt very masculine, but there was something strangely familiar about that pitch…
He didn’t want to think too much of it.
“Why thank you, deary~!” Dazai hummed flirtatiously, and the boy smiled at him. A neutral smile, really, not flustered and not disgusted. Perhaps he was on the fence.
Their routine went on after, even with a different bartender there to hear their conversations. It went on like usual, with the talks of a lot and not much at all. Sad that Ango couldn’t make it, work really always seemed to be kicking his ass.
The conversations were fine, the boy never made any naive comments or attempts to insert himself into said conversations, so Dazai at least respects him for that.
However, he did notice his ears perk up when Dazai touched back down on a certain topic.
“I mean, I just can’t understand Odasaku!” Dazai complained, leaning back in his seat for a moment. Complaints about that same, lovely dress, just as the day before. It’s stuck in his mind, that beautiful shade of black, it’s silky-look satin, that slit and that neckline, it all remained in the back of his mind, taunting him with something he shouldn’t have.
Oda, for all it’s worth, tried to seem like he wasn’t bothered by the prospect of not understanding, but the teen could see it in the twitch of an eyebrow and the sombreness of his eyes. He doesn’t blame him. However…
“You certainly seem like you want to make a statement, tender jr.!” The boy behind the counter jumped a little, and made a half-n-half gesture with his hand. “Ah, sorry. It’s just that I noticed you’re in the same boat as I am, is all.” It took approximately two seconds for the statement to click into place, Dazai raised a brow when it did.
“You’re trans too?” The boy nodded, going back to drying the glass in his hand. But it made sense, really. Why that oddly-pitched voice was familiar, and why his jawline looked so soft. It reminded him of himself, when he wasn’t constantly deepening his voice, or using makeup to make his jaw look a little sharper.
Huh. What a pleasant surprise, he supposed.
“Well isn’t that a happy coincidence~!” Dazai sang with semi-faux cheer, and the boy like him shrugged and went on about his job. Oda gave a questioning glance, but let it go all the same. Dazai wasn’t too sure himself, but he didn’t dwell on his own behavior either.
So the conversation continued, and Dazai whined for a couple more minutes (it wasn’t his fault society had to be so unfair! Cut him some slack), but ultimately changed topics. Perhaps he just won’t bring it up again, suffering in silence as they say. It’s not like he could really do anything about the situation.
But it seemed he really was clueless of what would happen in the next few minutes.
It had started off so normally, the boy-who Dazai has yet to make a nickname of-had stuttered in his work, taking a moment to stand there to himself before muttering dejectedly about forgetting where the trash can was supposed to be.
Oda, looking up at the boy, had turned to Dazai and asked, “Could you take him to the outside trash bin, Dazai?” And of course, Dazai complained in the beginning, because why couldn’t Odasaku do it? He just wanted to sit and wallow in whatever crippling depression clung to him first.
But Oda was watching him, hoping he’d do something good- him? A Mafia man, doing something good?-and, well…he couldn’t exactly say no. This was his friend asking.
So reluctantly, Dazai asked the boy if he wanted him to reveal where the ‘illustrious trash bin of Bar Lupin’ was displayed.
He chuckled with a roll of his eyes, but accepted nonetheless. He grabbed whatever bag of trash he had to take out, and made his way around the counter and-
And Dazai’s mind screeched to a halt.
The high-waisted pants he was wearing. They weren’t pants.
It was a fucking skirt.
The boy seemed to notice his fixed gaze, but Dazai couldn’t help it. He was wearing a skirt, for fuck’s sake-of course Dazai was going to stare! Didn’t he feel uncomfortable? Didn’t it make him want to tear his bits to shreds, knowing he never even fucking wanted them?
Most of all, why did he look good in it? Why did he look comfortable in something that would make people perceive him as a female? It was knee-length, but still fit so well on androgynously shaped legs. (Why is it that he’s living out what Dazai dreads with such comfortability?)
“You coming?” The boy questioned with a tilt of his head, and Dazai glanced back up at him, rendered…speechless for once. He slid off the bar stool, and walked past him in silence, the boy-Skirt Boy, he would now be dubbed-followed diligently.
The short walk was a quiet one, and Dazai’s mind was at war with itself all the while. How could he wear a skirt so boldly? Wasn’t he afraid people would see him as a woman? He wasn’t a woman, so what gives him the right to wear something so dysphoria inducing? Why, why, why, why-
Skirt Boy tossed the bag into the trash before Dazai even registered they had gotten there, dusting his hands as he muttered about washing them to himself. And Dazai stared at him, at his skirt, shamelessly in conflict.
And then he grabbed his skirt.
Skirt Boy stopped, and turned to him, glancing between a glazed over eye and a curious hand on his skirt, wondering what he was thinking most likely. He gave a confused smile after a moment, speaking up. “Do you..like it?”
Dazai stared for a little more, rubbing fabric between lanky fingers as he for once stumbled to find an answer, before flipping back on his mask and saying, “Why of course! I mean, I would say it, but-”
“ Yoooou just flipped a mask on me, didn’t you?”
Jesus Christ, what the hell?
“I’m a psychologist, I can see your head turning.”
His smile cracked, and he quietly wondered to himself if he’d somehow lost his touch, because there was no reason for his mask to be cracking enough for someone of a psychologist’s level to be able to see through him, right? (Or perhaps this boy knows what it’s like, to mask emotions like this, to fake what isn’t there, and is trying to help the same people find emotions they need. Like happiness…) “Heh, guess I just need a reality check. You do know this is for women right?”
“Of course I do, I used to be a woman, remember?” Skirt Boy chuckled. “But, I guess I can see your confusion. You think I shouldn’t wear this because I’m not a woman, right?” Ah jeez, maybe it was a bad idea to lead this kid to the trash bin, if this was the kind of conversation they’d have. He did not need a therapy session right now.
But…but he was curious. What is it that makes him so confident in wearing something so feminine?
“I don’t see it as feminine, really.”
Crap, he said that aloud-Nope, no, just go with it. That’s exactly what he meant to let come out his mouth!
But the boy smiled, taking his hand from off his skirt, but not letting go of it. “I don’t really consider wearing any clothes to be a certain gender or anything like that. They’re just clothes to me. It’s just fabric.”
Dazai stared off, a little dazed by whatever it was this boy was spewing out. How could that make sense? They gendered clothes for a reason! Hello?? They gendered them for…for…
For what?
“Huh…” He was in the same boat as Dazai before, no? That sentence shed a lot more light on the situation, thinking about it now. But why go through with it? Why?
“Even if it’s just fabric,” Dazai began, looking at the boy in a skirt. “Why do you wear it? Aren’t you afraid of dysphoria?” Said boy tilted his head, and gave a sheepish smile. “Well, of course I am. I wouldn’t want to deal with it either way.”
“But, there are good days and there are bad days. On good days I can wear things like these, because I know I won’t be seen in the way people want to see me. On my bad days, I don’t wear them, because I know I’ll make it worse. You kinda just have to find a balance, you get what I mean?”
Yeah, he did, really. He understood. Dazai had days where he’d laugh in the faces of those who’d see his body and assume, whether accidentally or intentionally, that he wouldn’t really care. He felt like a man.
But there are days when every little implication sent his mind spiraling, deeper and deeper into his own head, because what if he still looked like a woman? What if everyone could tell what an imposter he is, and they’d force him to be the ‘woman’ his body was assigned to. He felt like an imposter.
So he knew, he really did. But that's still…does it still? No it shouldn’t…
“How come you can feel so comfortable, mister Skirt Boy?” He tried to add a little humor. It fell flat. Skirt Boy didn’t mind. “Well, I guess you can take some advice from me on this, but…” The boy leaned in close as if he were to share a secret only Dazai, in this lonely, lonely back alley, was permitted to hear.
So Dazai humored him, and leaned in close, hands to his knees to emphasize the stark difference of their height (Even though nobody could ever be as small as his chibi partner), tilting his head.
“Take it from me, and every other guy who does this, Dazai-san.” He forgot the boy knew his name, should he ask for his name then? Oh, but what’s the point, it’s not like it-
“Just because you wear women’s clothes, it doesn’t make you any less of a man.”
His mind blanked out.
They boy smiled at him, with a smile so innocent compared to the utter trainwreck that he crashed into Dazai's mind, scrambling to pick up the pieces because really; what the hell? It doesn’t make him any less of a man? How does that work? How does it?
Why does he feel so much from that one sentence?
He blanked, even as the boy dragged him back into the bar, even as Dazai sat back down beside Oda, playing uselessly with the ice in his cup. Oda would look at Skirt Boy with a confused expression, and he’d simply wave it off, saying “He’s just having a revelation.”
Because really? Maybe he is.
…
It was a good day, weirdly enough.
Like, a really good day.
He felt normal in his body, walking aimlessly up and down the streets of Yokohama. He didn’t feel the pins and needles of dread when people would spare him a little glance, he didn’t feel the paranoia when a person would greet him as he walked into stores, never anticipating any of the ‘Miss’ and ‘Ma’am’ one would normally call him by. Better yet, it hasn’t happened yet.
So his feet led the way, walking without care of where exactly he was going, just wandering. His mind felt peacefully blank, and his eyes trailed the sights for a while as well. It wasn’t often he did truly get to stand out in the sun, with the nocturnal nature of the Mafia. Even to this day, he doesn’t remember what the sunrise looks like.
He let that be his excuse when he made a double take in the window.
Cause oh dear lord, that dress was still up there.
It was sitting on its mannequin just like before, stunning in its shiny fabric, glistening in daylight from the window display. He couldn’t help but stare this time, face slowly scrunching up. He shouldn’t think this, how well it would fit his body, how nice it’d look on him, or-
“Just because you wear women’s clothing, it doesn’t make you any less of a man.”
Right. Right. Skirt Boy’s right, weirdly enough.
It’s just fabric, he shouldn’t care what people think, he shouldn’t. But he does. Ugh, why does Skirt Boy make it look so easy?? It’s been at least two weeks as well, the fact that nobody else has picked up the dress just tempts him more.
Because seriously, his nerves are spiking as he forces one leg after another, wandering into the store with careful eyes to avoid all the stares he would get. Ah, why must he torture himself like this? It could only end terribly for him.
And yet he feebly marched on, searching the store top and bottom for that one specific dress that was displayed in the window, hoping to at least try it on before the dysphoria inevitably got to him.
It took at least forty seconds too long before he found what he came for, and the dress looked just as stunning as the window display. Sleek and perfect, shiny like lip gloss. And Daza just had to take a moment and appreciate it, as much as his mind forced away those thoughts.
He wasn’t any less of a man.
Dazai picked up the dress, folding it inconspicuously and rushing a bit too quickly to the fitting rooms. But really, you can’t blame him when the nerves are sinking into his veins. (He shouldn’t even be feeling nervous, it feels too humane for something as disgusting as himself…)
He found his way into a stall, closing the door to lean against for a moment, probably to hype himself up for the disaster that he was about to cause upon him and his conscience.
It took far too long for him to actually get to removing the suit he wore, staring with mixed emotions at the dress that hung up before him, wondering again just how it’d feel on him. He stopped for a minute at his binder, wondering if he should or shouldn’t peel away at it.
However, he wanted to see what it looked like with the binder on first, just to get a feel for it. He stepped over to the dress, staring so hard he might’ve glared holes in it, but he picked up the fabric anyways.
It was just fabric. Just fabric, he didn’t have anything to worry about.
Yup! Totally. Nothing at all.
Except impending doom and dysphoria.
He unzipped the back slowly, familiar movements as he slipped into the dress, turned away from the full length mirror. He pulled up the black silk, slipping his bandages arms carefully through the sleeves, smoothing it out before he zipped it back up again.
He took one long, deep breath in, and another right out, playing with the slit that ran up his leg, and god , that already looked so good. It felt perfect, the silkiness of satin comfortable against the skin that peeked through bandages. He ran his hand up the sleeve, feeling the texture of the lace with a hum.
It felt nice, it looked nice. It really did live up to feeling good against the body. Dazai hadn’t even noticed he was smiling so softly to himself, breathing in and out slowly, trying to psyche himself up for the mirror. He could at least attempt this, and if all didn’t go well then, he can just switch back, and never wear this gorgeous thing again! Simple, right?
But oh god, when he turned around-
He couldn’t stop the tiny gasp that hitched at his throat, stunned by this man in the mirror. His shaggy hair actually worked to compliment the dress, and his binder seemed almost unnoticeable under the bodice of the dress.
And that slit worked wonders with his leg, that he even took a step forward to watch it fall away, framing it beautifully. Framing him beautifully. And the sleeves really did seem to be able to hide the scars, if he remembered where they were correctly. A translucent black against white bandages, almost giving the illusion of actual skin.
Oh it looked gorgeous, he felt so….so…
So fucking invincible.
He couldn’t help the little, strangled laugh that tittered from his mouth, moving his body so he could look at the back, letting out an almost selfishly dreamy sigh at the elegant pattern-work, for even the back wasn’t plain, and held up its own beauty.
He indulged himself in a little twirl, and oddly didn't feel the least bit feminine, watching that beautiful thing curve above the ground as he spun, an almost addicting swish to it.
He found himself staying a few minutes longer than necessary in the changing room, feeling the comfortable fabric, strutting around in the little confined space, a personal fashion show for himself.
He’d probably drop dead before he let anyone familiar see him acting like this.
But for now, he’s going to indulge in himself. Just a little bit.
…
He came out of that shop forty minutes later.
With a growing ego, a beautiful dress, and the self confidence of a fucking stripper.
And he was about to make it everyone’s problem.
Specifically one red head, though.
You see, because Dazai came out feeling like a million bucks, he might as well bruise his beloved partner’s ego by showing him how much better he looks in any outfit than him! That slug doesn’t know what’s coming for him, he’s surely to die of cardiac arrest just by the sight of Dazai.
(And unsurprisingly enough, Dazai knew for certain the chibi didn’t care about social norms-he didn’t even know half of them, with the way he lived.)
So here he was, standing right outside Chuuya’s office, giving himself a little once over of his dress again, just to give himself a little more of that confidence-juice. Damn though, he felt gorgeous , like not a single man or woman in the world could ever have him in this killer fit.
“Oh Chibi~!” he finally chimed, smiling to himself when he heard the telltale groan of his partner, giving himself a second or two before he pushed open the door to the office, strutting inside like the inner fashion model in him begged to.
It took a moment for Chuuya to look up from his paperwork, courtesy of Dazai, and no he will not regret getting away with jampacking his partner with stupid paperwork. He didn’t want to do it, so his partner would suffer being the one to!
But Chuuya didn’t react the way he predicted him to; he didn’t get all blushy and flustered, he didn’t even yell out the normal obscenities, as if wondering just what had gotten into Dazai’s head to do something so outstanding.
No…he just stared.
Bright blue eyes stared with an interest so intense Dazai had the mind to feel just a sliver of embarrassment, some of that ‘stripper confidence ’ seeping away at the full attention of his shorter companion. Dazai’s bare feet shuffled slightly against the plush rug, and his smile cracked as the hatrack let his head drop down.
“Chu…Chuuya?” Dazai stumbled out his words, walking over with curiosity. Had he killed the other? Perhaps he was far too bedazzled by the beauty that was Dazai Osamu, and he short-circuited as a result? Now, that’d be a wonderful thing to never let him live down-
Chuuya raised his head when Dazai stopped at the foot of the desk.
Oh that face-
All scrunched up in the nose, piercing eyes glaring half-heartedly as he frowned so deeply. Those hundreds of freckles that counted at one hundred and fifty became much more prominent under the rosy blush that enveloped half of the boy’s face, which he seemed to partially hide behind his arm.
“Oi, w-what the hell, Mackerel?” Chuuya growled out, and Dazai would have retorted with a horny dog joke or something if he weren’t so distracted by the look on Chuuya’s face, knowing he was the one to make that happen, to make him so flustered just by his very appearance.
“You’re handsome, I know . Stop shoving it in my damn face, man. F uuuuck… ” And then he had to pull that gem out of nowhere, burying his face in his arms as he practically steamed with smoking embarrassment, but Dazai couldn’t even see it for himself with the way his hands covered his equally red face, crumbling to the ground with a pathetic whine of “Chuuuuyaaaa…!”
Well. . .
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