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“Before anything else, I just want to make this clear,” he bypasses the greetings in hopes of eliminating any sources of awkwardness from the get-go, “I’m only here because Kunikida-kun has been nagging at me non-stop to branch out and write other types of characters.”
As if it isn’t enough to have all five of his books turn out to be bestsellers. One is currently in the middle of movie adaptation negotiations, while another has already started filming its television drama. He writes and he writes well, but there’s certainly some truth in the adage of “write what you know”. It just so happens that there are many things that he knows, it’s just that it’s easier to finish writing a certain type of story.
Amongst the things that he knows: Chuuya is a chibi redhead slug who has an unpleasant addiction to collecting tacky hats, enamored hangers-on who flock around him like flies, as well as bottles of wine that he’d cradle to sleep if only he isn’t so worried that he’d end up breaking them when he rolls over. He also knows that Chuuya is a passionate lover, the type who’d do his best to pour all of his emotions, whether they be due to fondness or due to affection souring past expiration date.
He knows that Chuuya has gone on to own a small café on the outskirts of Yamaguchi, the southern city adding a glaze of tan over his skin. Summers are damp and blistering, to the point that not even the café’s airconditioning could cool the sweat that forms at the back of his neck at the sight of the other man.
Four years, since they’ve last seen each other, since that argument that has spelled their separation. In fact, breaking up has already been lettered into the very beginning of their relationship, since they’ve never managed to get along peacefully. Their dates were sprinkled with bickering and arguing, and they’d nag at each other even in the middle of sex. Thinking of that volatile time period now, it really is a wonder how they’d even managed to survive without murdering each other.
Right now, Chuuya looks like he’s about to murder him. “Stop posing, damn it! Close the fucking door already, it’s so damn hot and you’re letting the hot air go in!”
Seeing that the slug hasn’t bothered dispensing cordial greetings, the tension on his shoulders loosens up. Even if they haven’t had the most peaceful relationship—with or without dating in the equation—they’ve always had a type of connection that couldn’t be dispelled by anything.
In just these few seconds of interaction, he knows that Chuuya doesn’t hold a grudge over their break-up.
“Is that how you should treat your customers?” He raises his eyebrows as he steps into the threshold, making his way to the counter manned by a slug who hasn’t grown in the slightest since their last meeting.
Chuuya’s not wearing his favorite tacky hat, so the fact that his hair is lopsidedly braided with some flowers and neon pink ribbons is displayed in front of his eyes. It should look ridiculous, but it doesn’t detract from his flame-like hair, his bright blue eyes, his face that has stunned so many people more effectively than he’s ever stunned them with the force of his kicks. His waist is cinched by an apron bearing childish drawings in colorful crayons, the homely look contrasting with the ascetic coldness of how his long-sleeved shirt is buttoned all the way up, as if begrudging anyone of the view of his bare skin.
“You’ve never paid for anything in the unfortunate years I’ve known you,” Chuuya says, airing out this grievance to the café empty save for the rustic chairs and tables and the two of them. “I didn’t have any hopes of you actually being here as a paying customer.”
“Being so focused on money isn’t a good look on you,” he teases, even though he knows that this shorty comes from old money and would generously pay for everything if given the chance. “Don’t you know that stingy people shrink each day?”
A heavy eyeroll. “If only it’s true that lightning could strike down liars.”
“Well, if you want to know the truth, I want you to become my muse.” He never lies in important negotiations with Chuuya, if only because it’s more fun seeing the other man rack his brain to think of how he could twist his words. “Kunikida-kun wants me to write a book with a more… hm, brainless lead, and since I know of a slug, I figured I could use you as inspiration.”
Another eyeroll. “Your editor’s sick of you writing gloomy bastards, huh.”
“You’ve been following my works?” By the time they’ve broken up, his first book hasn’t landed on the shelves yet, still in the process of being printed and distributed. Then again, he hasn’t used a pseudonym when publishing, and with his unique surname and subsequent popularity, it’s more impossible for Chuuya to not have heard of his success.
“Not really,” is said with a shrug. “But I do know that you’re addicted to pretentious bullshit, so it’s not difficult to guess that you’d be writing those kinds of gloomy, overthinking geniuses who are emotionally constipated.”
The words are barbed, but they’re not particularly painful. That’s how his interactions with Chuuya goes—harsh words and kicks that don’t even leave the faintest bruising, because this hatrack is soft beyond belief.
“With such honeyed words, it’s a wonder that you haven’t scared all the customers away.”
He looks around at the café, glancing at the wooden walls and floors, giving off a homey cabin feel. There are various knickknacks displayed on each table, none of them following any uniform. Even the pots for the small plants inside are different, but one wouldn’t be able to call the place disharmonious. The roasting of coffee beans gives off a dazzling aroma, along with the tartness of blueberries and apples; Chuuya must have baked some for today’s batch.
“I make coffee and pastries, they pay me. It’s a simple exchange.” A rude gesture that shoos him away from the counter. “I’m opening the café soon so if you don’t want me to kick your ass, zip your mouth and wait for me to close up.”
Exuding the same willful temperament as its owner, this café doesn’t have a set closing hours. It will close once all the coffee and all the pastries have been consumed, whether that’s ten in the morning or two in the afternoon. It has a modest popularity, even accounting for the fact that it doesn’t even have an official website, nor does it exist in a high-traffic area.
Most of its customers are regulars who reside in the nearby community. A great many of them are here to drink coffee while eating with their eyes, unabashedly staring at Chuuya’s face and figure.
If nothing else, Dazai could understand that fascination. He’s never been interested in men, but Chuuya’s beauty transcends gender boxes. He’s undoubtedly masculine, he’s very much a dog. Undeniable beauty, even when he’s shedding tears over idiotic movies about children growing up with dogs.
Watching Chuuya man the counter and commandeer the café’s attention is enough to get his creative juices flowing. Accompanied by a glass of water—because Chuuya’s stingy enough to not even give him a cup of coffee for free—his pen sketches out several pages’ worth of plots and character design.
If the ‘character’ ends up being 99.99% similar to the slug, then it’s just because it’s a draft and it serves as a placeholder.
“Write what you know” is how that adage goes, but it seems that even though he has no personal experience with being a character full of vigor and passion and the desire to stick his nose into others’ affairs, he’s able to iron out a lot of details in one go.
He’s deep in the zone of working on his new novel, that it takes him a moment to realize that Chuuya has approached his table, one hand on his shoulder, and another setting a steaming cup of coffee on his table.
“I don’t act that sanctimonious, oi,” comes the unsolicited critique. “I wouldn’t say those pretentious lines! That’s more in-line with your personality, not mine!”
“Not everything is about you,” he answers automatically, even though the character he’s currently detailing is the one who’s basically this dog’s clone. “Plus, why are you peeking at my work? This is off-limits even to Kunikida-kun, you know?”
“You wouldn’t even let your editor read your drafts?”
He waves it off, “It’s a very personal thing.”
“Sure, whatever,” is equally flippant. Chuuya parks his ass on the table, close to sitting over several papers. “Isn’t it more because you keep on procrastinating so you don’t actually have drafts until you’re like two weeks away from your deadline?”
“Two weeks before my deadline? How cute.” He raises his eyes so he can meet those blues. The scent of coffee is tinged with hazelnut; this close to Chuuya, he could practically taste his cologne and the coffee beans on his fingertips. “I make it a policy to always go over my deadline just to keep Kunikida-kun’s blood pressure pumping.”
A long sigh. “It’s been four years, but you haven’t changed at all.”
“Those should be my words, Chuuya. Four years and you’ve grown not even an inch.”
At the remark about his pitiful height, this shorty taps his fingertips against the cup of coffee. “Careful there with your words, you wouldn’t want me to accidentally spill this coffee all over your face, would you?”
“Sounds painful, so I’ll have to pass.” He mimics the other’s long sigh from earlier. “Can you not resort to violent threats immediately? You always sound so barbaric, as expected of a dog.”
“Can you have words aside from insulting my height or calling me a dog? Aren’t you supposed to be some hotshot wordsmith now?”
“So you are following my works and my career,” he concludes. Four years of no contact after their break-up, but it’s gratifying to know that Chuuya couldn’t help himself and has continued to follow him somehow.
Of course, this slug has never done anything pleasant to his eyes even while they’re dating, and the same happens now. With an unimpressed scoff, “Isn’t it just because your PR team wastes so much money plastering your ugly face all over the internet? I see ads promoting your works regardless if I want to or not.”
A glance around them shows that the café has become empty once again, the customers emptying today’s stocks while he’s busy working hard. “Those advertisements are a natural result from my beauty and skill.”
“Sure, whatever,” is once again flippant. Then, realizing that he’s been distracted by the flow of their conversation, fingernails drag a blunt line across several pages that he’s written down. “I ain’t the type of person who’d confess in such a syrupy tone, oi.”
“Mm, you’re the type who wouldn’t confess at all,” he agrees. “But that’s not romantic at all, so I’d have to embellish it for your character instead.”
Chuuya hums, then, “So you actually do have an idea on what’s acceptably romantic? I never would have thought.”
They pause, then sneer at each other.
Getting together must have been the result of insanity. He must have been too bored with his life then, agreeing to date a violent slug. He must have been poisoned, or had his head knocked around too many times.
Logically speaking, the result of breaking up was obvious from the beginning. They couldn’t even agree on who sleeps on what side of the bed, as well as whether it’s disgusting to have the other’s face as a phone wallpaper or not. The answer is of course it’s very disgusting, but they even fight as to who says that first.
In retrospect, it’s already a miracle that they managed to date for three years without too much bloodshed.
It’s already a miracle that their break-up is actually because they’ve fought about spending less time together. Considering their hatred, they should have been ecstatic about seeing each other less, but it has actually led to their break-up.
Then again, Chuuya is his dog so why is he busy with others, coming back to their apartment later and later? He even reeks of bleach when he returns, like he has undergone a romp with someone, and has had no choice but to do a quick laundry so that he wouldn’t come home reeking of another person.
His dog is so naughty, wagging his tail at others, but he has the gall to get mad at him for flirting with beautiful ladies and asking them to a double suicide. He wouldn’t have been asking them if Chuuya just agrees to his proposal to die together!
…In retrospect, it really is a miracle that their break-up has simply been contained to throwing things at each other and shouting at each other, like their usual. No actual bloodshed, and their neighbors are wise enough to keep a deaf ear to their arguments.
“Of course, you wouldn’t have thought that,” he says now. “Because you’re such a tiny slug with a small brain, so you didn’t even think of that.”
Chuuya’s eyebrows are knitted together. “And because you’re an oh-so-smart genius, you always think you’re right even when you’re actually wrong.”
Back then, he’s bored of being in the mafia, which has coincided with him meeting Chuuya. Agreeing to date the slug is supposed to just be part of his cover. Starting to write novels is just because he’s using that as a cover to disappear conveniently in the name of ‘research’. Flirting with all of those ladies is just supposed to be part of his job to gather intel.
But Chuuya has actually grown into him, like a nasty infection. Writing novels became a nice way to pass time, that he’s continued doing it, even when he’s broken up with that slug who has become such a permanent fixture in his life, one that he couldn’t afford as a mafioso.
And now that he has left that life behind, making sure to shine brightly so that the underworld can’t hide him in the shadows anymore—
“I’m always right,” he insists. He writes down a couple of words that would serve as dialogue for the ‘Chuuya’ that he’s writing. “And in my predictions, you’re going to say these words to your love interest.”
A pause.
He chooses to interpret the redness on the other’s face to be due to being so moved by literary merit, instead of being due to rage.
Chuuya slams his hand over the papers, crumpling them. “I’m not going to say those nonsense!”
“Well, the character based on you has a healthy love life, so the difference lies there.”
“Yeah, and you’re so full of shit and lies.” Even with that, he at least doesn’t go through with his initial threat of pouring coffee all over his face.
“I’m also full of magnanimity,” he says, then grabs the other’s hand. “So even if you can’t say those words now, I’ll be nice and take you back.”
“I’m never going to say those things!” With his free hand, Chuuya punches his forehead. But there’s not enough force in it, more akin to a kitten batting his paw at his face. “And don’t make it sound like I’m begging for you to get back together! I actually have a nice, peaceful life here, damn it!”
“Sure, whatever,” he copies the other’s flippant response from earlier. “If you’re too stupid to know how to reconcile properly, I’d write it out first so you can use it as reference.”
“I keep on saying, I’m never going to say all those stupid confessions!”
“I can live life without you, but it’s a life with less flavor in it,” he says, staring back without blinking. As he lets those words sink into Chuuya, his lips curve up. “Even just that line is fine.”
Chuuya’s hands are always kept in gloves, but that flimsy cloth can’t disguise the way he trembles at those words. He generously decides to attribute that to being so moved that he wants to swoon, rather than out of vexation. Still, Chuuya doesn’t actually bash his head with the coffee cup, so it’s great progress. Especially since he scoffs, but doesn’t pull away when he says, “The only flavor you bring is that of a fishy mackerel’s, stop sounding so smug about it.”
He squeezes that hand, adopting a very consoling expression. “Not very romantic, but you can redo it once I finish writing the book that you can read back to me.”
“You want me to redo what?! Are you fucking shitting me! Get the hell away from me, bastard!”
All the pages of his current draft have become sacrifices to their first fight after four years, but that’s fine. He’d just have to miss the deadline once again for this novel. More importantly, for the next chapter in their lives, they can just directly use their own hands to write it fully.
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After successfully chasing away the shitty mackerel that has caused trouble in his café, Chuuya locks the door with a sigh. He knows that Dazai would come pester him tomorrow, and no lock would be able to stop him.
That said—
He unbuttons the top part of his shirt, revealing the choker on his neck. Dazai’s already insufferable even without seeing that he’s still wearing it, he can just feel the headache forming in advance once the other man realizes that he’s actually kept it instead of burning it.
He moves back to the counter, and grabs a phone from under the cashbox. A burner phone that has a record of transactions towards a certain publishing house. Getting them to urge Dazai to write something aside from those annoyingly angsty books with gloomy protagonists who only think about suicide this and suicide that—it didn’t cost him too much.
Getting Dazai to come find him again… Making all sorts of complicated plans isn’t his forte, but Dazai is surprisingly predictable when it comes to these matters.
Agreeing to date Dazai even when he was so fucking annoying was supposed to just part of the cover, so he could have something ‘in the light’ while he’s working for the mafia. But he has surprisingly gotten too used to having that bastard as a mooch, that it’s strange to not have him spit out nonsense 24/7. But being a mafioso means living a dangerous life, and he’s pretty sure that Dazai would have gotten himself kidnapped just to annoy him.
So, breaking up back then is only right.
Now that he’s retired, though—
[I can live life without you, but it’s a life with less flavor in it.]
—well, they should have a long life together ahead of them, so he can someday find a chance to say something like that aloud.
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end