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The generous glass of cheap whisky Dazai pours to herself has already frost forming around the rims, cracking into tiny patterns she wouldn’t have noticed if today was just any other day. She pours one for Oda too, placing it on top of the snow-covered gravestone.
“Sorry Odasaku,” Dazai says solemnly. “You’ll have to do with the cheapest bottle I could find.”
There’s vapor forming before her in the air after each exhale, and her frostbitten hands are pale blue with slightly blushed knuckles. She raises her glass in a toast with her late friend - a clink then the graveyard is eerily silent again.
The frozen grass beneath her crackles when Dazai sits down, curling her arms around her legs, and even though her coat remains as a layer between her and the cold ground, it still feels like her ass is about to freeze off. She only tortures herself for a few minutes before bouncing back up on her feet.
“Aren’t you freezing too, Odasaku?” she says. “You’ll get a cold if you stay like that… Remember when you used to hassle me about always dressing warmly in the winter?”
The dry and sardonic laugh Dazai lets out feels like a taunt - at herself, at Oda, at the fact, their positions aren't switched the way they should have been. Dazai tilts back her glass and swallows the liquor in one go. She frowns, it’s a pity she couldn’t bring something that tasted at least decent to Oda.
She lifts her gaze, reading the name and day written on the stone for what must be the hundredth time. Holding up her drink, she gives a vague gesture, “You’re not gonna drink, huh? Not even a sip, for me? It’s Christmas, Odasaku, you always insist on giving me a small present. Won’t you humor me, just for tonight?”
There aren't any replies, there haven’t been any for many months now. She must look stupid, standing alone in a desolated graveyard on Christmas, talking to a stone and the dirt beneath. The remains are buried six feet below, of bones or ashes. Dazai doesn’t know, she didn’t go to the burial and she didn’t want any details from Mori regarding any of it.
“I have to get going soon, Odasaku,” Dazai begins. She looks over the graveyard, towards the horizon. It’s long since dark, and tiny flakes of snow beginning to sizzle down the sky. One lands on her eyelash, and she lets it stay there to melt or freeze—both options feel indifferent.
“Of course, I’m in no hurry, there is no one expecting me for any celebrations. But freezing to death isn’t the method I had imagined myself choosing to die from. You understand, don’t you?”
No answer again but Dazai pretends.
“Don’t worry, Odasaku. I will be home, doing what I always do. Not even I am so soulless I’ll let some poor guy find my corpse in this merry time of joy.”
Dazai takes a last look at the stone, at her late friend’s carved name. “Merry Christmas, Odasaku,” she says, then she walks away without looking back.
She skips forward on the boardwalk next to the Yokohama river, leaving imprints of her shoes on the freshly fallen snow. The whistling of the wind circles the melody she whistles, an ode for two. A stupid, redheaded and short person pops into her head involuntarily. Not those two as in me and her , Dazai thinks to herself before raising the bottle of whisky to her mouth and drinks.
All houses she passes are lit up with decorations and lights in the windows, she has an idea of how it probably looks inside, too. A group of people, a family, gathered to celebrate. Food on the table and heat from the fireplace. Old traditions are in the same place each and every year.
Dazai looks up at the Port Mafia headquarters in the distance, standing tall in the middle of the city—taller than any surrounding buildings. She gives a mocking salute and raises the bottle again. “Happy Holidays, Boss, the Port Mafia,” she says into the silent night, and then she bows theatrically, swaying a little on her feet.
It takes a while for Dazai to return to the container that belongs to her - the pathetic excuse of a home she was so generously granted. They all look more or less the same in the dark, similar enough for a wasted person, at least. The lock have gathered a thin layer of ice while she’s been gone, making her fingers slip as she with shuddering hands unlocks it.
The door creaks when she pulls it open and she lets in a slim line of light and the light gust of air—it's somewhere below zero, perhaps minus five, perhaps minus fifteen. Once it gets below a certain degree and you lose the feeling in your toes the difference is no longer as obvious. Cold is cold.
“Home sweet home,” Dazai slurs and stumbles inside, the door falling shut behind her. Instantly she gets enveloped in the dark and she navigates through the darkness until she finds the little lamp beside her futon and flicks it on. Then she topples down on the thin cushion with a huff, coat, and shoes left on.
She’s still freezing. It feels like she’s been freezing for a while now like she can no longer remember when she last felt something other than cold as a corpse. Tossing off her coat and shoes would only mean that cold would be able to drape its arms tighter around her body, reaching under her skin—towards her bones.
The small plastic bag hidden under the futon feels tempting to reach out for. She has probably already punished herself enough today, and spilled enough blood this morning, though. The thought of unwrapping her bandages feels unpleasant, she’d rather spare herself the energy, so she lets her scars remain the way they are—just for tonight.
Dazai scans the bottles on the floor, and the one in her hand. She’s almost out of alcohol but she figures if she rushes down the last drops she’ll be able to pass out and stay out for a couple of hours at least. It’s not like anything requires her to be awake, she’d rather be unconscious for as long as possible.
It’s a simple plan and she executes it without delay. Her dry mouth is begging for a glass of water but she drowns the begging with the last of the whisky. Then she tosses the bottle, a loud noise echoing when it rolls over the floor before she falls face-first onto the futon and passes out.
She feels half delirious when she’s startled awake by another loud noise—much, much louder than the bottle she tossed before falling asleep. Noise is no stranger to her, though. Multiple times a week she gets woken up when she hears people move around containers outside to load them onto or off ships. But there shouldn’t be any people working on Christmas so she groans into the mattress and then flops around to lie facing the ceiling.
It takes several seconds for her eyes to adjust and squint open to actually look above her. And once her eyes finally do adjust, it feels like someone just has poured a bucket of ice water over her.
“Good, you’re finally awake,” the person above her mutters and steps aside, crossing their arms.
Dazai shoots up from the futon, eyes, and mouth wide open as she tries to say something, anything… What can she even say?
Chuuya clicks her tongue. “Close your mouth you look like a fucking fish, and we’re going so hurry,” she says and turns on her heels, kicking open the door, and walks out.
Dazai is left stumbling after her, slipping on the patches of ice as she tries to straighten her coat. The snow blows into her face, and she angles her hand above her eyes to see where the fuck she’s going. It’s still pitch black outside, so it can't have passed more than a few hours since she passed out.
The sight is bad enough that Dazai doesn't realize she’s walking straight into Chuuya who has stopped. She lets out a hurtful ouch and looks down at the patch of orange below her chin.
“Watch where you’re going,” Chuuya growls.
“How am I supposed to notice I’m stumbling into a gnome in this weather,” Dazai whines . The lingering bitterness from earlier today is still there, but Dazai finds herself almost… It’s a good distraction—bickering with Chuuya always works as a good distraction.
Chuuya digs her heels into Dazai’s foot at the insult, muttering, “Don’t make me regret coming here to pick you up.”
Dazai half frowns. “Pick me… up ?” she questions.
“Yeah?” Chuuya says as if Dazai is a mere buffoon, a nobody, and not her partner and one of the most feared people in Yokohama—if not even in all of Japan. At least for anyone with the slightest insight into abilities and whatnot.
But Dazai still doesn't get Chuuya’s point, though. And that much must be obvious on her face given the scowl Chuuya’s own face morphs into when she looks at her.
The younger girl averts her gaze, looking at anything but Dazai, and sighs . “What do you want me to say?” she hisses, “That I don’t want my useless partner to freeze to death inside a shipping container on Christmas?!”
Chuuya’s tone, to an untrained ear, is cold—colder than the December winter night. But to Dazai’s ears, she sounds… warm, a little warmer than usual. Don’t get her wrong, it’s nothing more than lukewarm, but Chuuya came all the way out here to…
“What are you doing here, Chuuya?” Dazai asks. Probably the most genuine question both of them have heard for a long time.
Chuuya’s eyes draw back and fixate on Dazai’s face. “W-What I’m doing here !?” she barks. “What the hell do you think? It’s sure as hell not b-because because I want to have sightseeing in an abandoned shipping dock at Christmas?!” She huffs as if the question was that ridiculous to her.
Grabbing her wrist, Chuuya tugs Dazai after her. Chuuya's eyes search for something and Dazai half-expects, half-hopes she will find the safety of a big black car standing something further away, waiting for them. But no.
Dazai spots the pink atrocity on two wheels at the same time as Chuuya. Promptly she digs her heels into the ground, she will not get on that thing. Not today, not never. Not when she—
With the ground beneath being covered in fresh snow and a thin layer of ice, Chuuya doesn’t seem to bat an eyelash as her grip around Dazai grows firmer and she tugs both of their body weights.
“I’m not getting on that thing,” Dazai announces, crossing her arms.
“Yes, you are,” Chuuya answers and offhandedly tosses a second helmet toward Dazai’s direction.
Despite Dazai’s claim to not wanting anything to do with Chuuya’s motorcycle—which she should have planned to get rid of sooner if she knew she would have to be near it—caught the helmet out of mere reflex. Chuuya takes more notice of Dazai’s actions rather than her words since she gives her a glance over her shoulder as if saying Dazai doesn’t have a choice in this.
They have a silent standoff for several drawn-out seconds. Chuuya doesn’t seem the slightest bothered by the cold air despite saying her ass will freeze off. Dazai on the other hand, she’s pretty sure her ass and more limbs will freeze off soon if she continues just standing here outside.
Dazai huffs out the most dramatic sigh one could muster up and drops the helmet over her head—refusing to look at Chuuya once clicking the safety under her chin. She feels ridiculous as she steps close to the motorcycle and throws one leg over the saddle, ridiculous as she slides into place behind Chuuya, ridiculous when Chuuya tells her she better hold on to her waist because she, in her own words, “Won’t stand in the middle of the highway on Christmas scooping up Dazai’s intestines.”
The air was already cold as a bitch while just standing still outside. When racing past god knows how many speed limits through the city, it feels like getting smacked in the face with a truck of ice. Dazai tries, really tries , to solve that problem by hiding behind Chuuya. But not even Dazai can bend the laws of physics to the point she can fit behind someone half the size of her. (She knows half the size is an exaggeration, but you get the sentiment.)
Dazai knows, not only because she can actually see it, but also feel when they move closer and closer to one of the rich apartment complexes the Port Mafia owns—the one Chuuya got to move into after… well after it stood empty, after tragedy after tragedy hit Chuuya head on. It was even hard for Dazai to make jokes about Chuuya’s home, her motorcycle, her hat - heck, almost everything. Chuuya had surrounded herself with mementos of everyone that had been important to her, everyone who didn’t exist in this world anymore.
She shakes those thoughts out of her head. Maybe even she falters under the holiday pressure - loses against the weight of the solemnity of Christmas. The thought makes her uncomfortable, and for a moment she wishes she still laid drunk off her ass and passed out inside the cold little shipping container. Where it’s easy to be the kind of Dazai she’s always been.
Dazai stretches her arms and legs once the motorcycle comes to a stop inside the garage and she’s allowed to step off. She groans, complaining, “I don’t think that vehicle of yours is made for full-grown adults,” as her knee makes a small pop sound.
“Not my problem, let’s go,” Chuuya says curtly, marching away towards the elevator after locking her motorcycle.
Dazai jogs after her, trying to catch up. It only takes a few steps with her long legs. She pockets her hands into her coat. “You’re taking me home to your place?” Dazai muses, “Isn’t that a little too forward, Chuuya?～”
Chuuya merely gives her a side glance and continues walking, pushing the button to open the elevator and stepping in. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she mutters, pressing the number that will take them up to her floor.
The brunette whistles as the elevator rise, watching the numbers on the display count upwards, 20, 21, 22… before a small ring and the doors slide open. Dazai’s out of the door on Chuuya’s heels, skipping down the corridor until they reach the door.
Chuuya’s apartment is dark as they step inside, a faint glowing light shining from the door leading to her living room, just beside her kitchen. The shorter girl urges Dazai inside, glancing out the corridor as if to check no one saw her invite Dazai, and then she slams the door shut and locks it.
She still hasn’t told Dazai why she even brought her here, as if Dazai is supposed to figure that out by herself. If it had been anything else, Dazai already would have. But when it comes to Chuuya, there are too many unexpected turns to take into account to make a calculated guess. So Dazai waits instead, watching Chuuya toss off her jacket and shoes before walking further into the apartment and turning on a lamp in the corner.
“Are you just gonna stand there looking like a lost puppy?” she says with a twitch of her eyebrows.
Dazai can’t quite help the way the corners of her lips lift upwards just a fraction. She holds up her hands in front of herself, “My, my, even more, impatient today than usual.” Dazai sheds the outer layer of her clothes and slips out of her shoes so she can follow Chuuya who seems to have her eyes set on the room where the faint light comes from.
She has several retorts from Chuuya’s previous puppy comment on the tip of her tongue because surely Chuuya knows she’s the dog, not Dazai, but they never make it out. They die on Dazai’s tongue when she sees the decor in Chuuya’s living room - the fairy lights, the burning fireplace, the Christmas tree—albeit empty of any decorations.
Dazai feels dumbstruck. And she sounds like a tactless idiot when she, at last, opens her mouth and the only thing she has to say is, “Eh, doesn’t Chuuya know you’re supposed to decorate those?” and lifts her chin at the tree in the corner.
Chuuya turns to look at her in the way she sometimes does. It’s like her eyes say, “Really? How can a ‘genius’ as you call yourself, not even figure out the most obvious thing in the world?”
Dazai really can’t. At least not this time. She lets out a dramatic whine and places her forearm above her forehead, “I can’t believe you take me out here to show me an empty tree. It’s almost more depressing than my container.”
It seems like Chuuya has something to say for once that isn’t a bark but at the last second, she bites it down. Instead, she turns away and says, “Well, are you gonna fucking help me fix it then, or just stand there complaining?”
The comment leaves Dazai dumbfounded, again. And then what she should have seen coming from a mile away, trickle into her mind. It’s too absurd to entertain. She’d only do herself a disservice if she misunderstood so it remains unvoiced, even in her own head.
Instead, she does what she does best. “Even if you can’t reach the top of the tree you could use your abili— ouch ,” she moans in pain when a golden bell or something hits her head with a cling that sounds degrading given the situation.
Dazai can't exactly keep stalling all evening. It’s just… she has no fucking idea how to decorate a tree. It’s not like she’s ever done it before. And some things don't come naturally to prodigies, like… reading the cues for normal, holiday situations and knowing how to act in those, and all that jazz.
She clasps her hands, trying to not fidget too much. “So… where are…” she makes a vague gesture, hoping Chuuya will finish her sentence.
“ … the what ? Decorations?” Chuuya says.
Dazai nods, “Uh-huh.”
Chuuya squints her eyes, trying to pry an answer out of Dazai’s facial expression whether she’s messing with her or not. And when it seems like she doesn’t find anything suspicious, she inclines her head to a door at the other side of the room. “There, in the storage at the top shelf. Large, white box.”
“You want me to get it for you ?”
Chuuya mumbles something under her breath.
“What was that?” Dazai says.
“It’s for us okay? Not for just me,” she snaps. “Can you just get it?!”
Dazai spins around, heading for the storage just because she decides to be kind and help Chuuya today. Not because she can’t control the stupid little grin threatening to curve her lips. Nope. That’s not why. Not today, not never.
Dazai frowns as she pulls something tangled, long out, and way too tacky with all its glitter, out of the box. She looks at Chuuya, surely this is even below where Chuuya would go. Surely … it is?
She scratches her neck. Chuuya seems unaware of being observed from the side, humming to herself as she packs up multiple packages of dangling decorations in red and gold and well, god knows what else. There are a lot of colors. More than can be seen in Chuuya’s entire apartment.
“Can you at least pretend to make yourself useful,” Chuuya mutters, casting Dazai a quick side-glance.
“But what am I supposed to do with… with this thing ?” Dazai says and holds up the glittery garland.
Putting down what’s been occupying her hands for a moment, Chuuya puts her hands on her hips and turns to face Dazai. Again, she looks at her like Dazai is just supposed to know something. And Dazai would in literally any other situation.
“Have you never decorated a Christmas tree before or what?” Chuuya says, a little irritated but she doesn’t snap this time, at least.
Is Dazai supposed to have done that before? Do even people in the Mafia do that? Suddenly Dazai feels almost a little… naked, shy, and maybe vulnerable? She hates all those words, and she wants nothing to do with them. Ever.
It’s there, that urge to make a spectacle out of herself. To make Chuuya understand that trying to include Dazai in any form of normalcy is a fool’s errand. To make her stop with whatever she is out after. It would be so easy for Dazai to sway into known territory, and do what she does best and what everyone expects of her. Still, something stops her and she remains silent. Choosing to not answer Chuuya’s question at all.
No one has ever looked at Dazai with an ounce of pity before. Not even Oda. Now, Chuuya doesn’t either. But it seems awfully fucking close to it and Dazai needs to get that expression off her partner's face before either of them does something stupid.
She throws the garland over her shoulder and onto the floor, giving it a dismissive swift with her hand. “We can put up anything but that,” Dazai says. And when Chuuya’s eyebrow twitches and her fists tighten a little, Dazai feels like she can stand on solid ground again.
“Dazai, I swear to fucking god ,” Chuuya begins and points an accusing finger, “Step on my foot one more time and I’ll throw you out the window. I don’t give a damn if that makes me the fucking Grinch.”
Holding up her hands and blinking innocently, Dazai muses, “I already told you an hour ago. It doesn’t come naturally for normally grown people to watch out for gnomes for every step they take.”
Chuuya heaves in a deep breath and closes her eyes for a brief moment as if to force her bloodlust down. When she opens her eyes again, she speaks with a clenched jaw. “Why don’t you put the star on top?”
It’s not a question as much as it’s an order. Dazai doesn’t hold back the snort escaping her. Chuuya sounds the same way she does at work like Dazai is another foot soldier of the Mafia she gives instructions to. It’s too amusing to not comment.
“Chuuya-sama,” Dazai jokes with a pout, “Not even on Christmas can you ask nicely.” She shakes her head like a disappointed older sister would—the way Dazai knows it presses on Chuuya’s buttons.
Instead of a thought-out vocal response, Chuuya takes a step closer to stomp right on one of Dazai’s feet—just to make a point—and whispers “useless beanpole fucker” under her breath. There is a tiny glint in her eyes when she looks up at Dazai, like Dazai’s whimpering in pain is music in Chuuya’s ears. Of course, they are. That’s why Dazai humors her with the small noises, to begin with.
Anyway, a star. “Where’s the star?” Dazai asks. She might as well go over to the box and simply check for herself, but why should she when she can taunt her partner instead? That, too, is music in Dazai’s ears. So it’s only a fair exchange.
Chuuya glares at her. With a light flick of her wrist, she lifts the now almost empty box from the floor and hurls it in Dazai’s direction. It’s the first time this evening that Chuuya had not bothered to not turn to her ability for convenience, Dazai feels a little honored while ducking from getting hit in the head.
She skips away and lets the box fly into the wall behind her. “That’s no way to treat your special guest for the holidays～”
“As if you know shit about treating guests and holidays,” Chuuya says and flips her off. “Grab the star already. I don’t want to decorate a tree all damn night.”
Dazai huffs but goes to retrieve the star. It’s… a little smaller than she had expected. Not that she has anything to compare to. It’s glittery, too. Albeit not as tacky-looking as half the other things already hanging in the tree.
As she turns the star over in her hand, she briefly catches the reflection of herself. She doesn’t watch herself often. There are no mirrors in her container home, nor does she bother to look for one at the Port Mafia headquarters. It feels like it's the first time in a long while she sees Dazai Like, not the carefully crafted little jester Dazai, and not the holed-up depressed gremlin Dazai, but the thing in between. That middle state she never stays in.
Chuuya clears her throat impatiently, and Dazai quickly plasters her carefree expression back on her face before turning back around. She grins and closes the distance to her partner. “I suppose this goes to the top?” Dazai says, just to piss Chuuya off.
The younger girl doesn’t bother to humor Dazai. She just crosses her arms and waits.
Dazai feels oddly… self-conscious as she takes a couple of steps up the small ladder and stretches her arm to place the star on the top of the tree. Like Chuuya is watching something she shouldn’t see. That no one should see. Ever. But Chuuya has seen many things no one should by now so Dazai figures that ship has already sailed.
She stands back on the floor and slides to stand on Chuuya’s side—within a respectful distance left between them—and looks up to admire the finished project. It’s not too bad. Not as bad as Dazai had expected. It’s odd, though. A little whimsical. But she can understand why some people find it pleasant to have a decorated tree like this in their homes—sort of.
Chuuya’s gaze is still focused on the tree when Dazai turns her head to look at her profile. The frown on her face is gone now. She almost seems tiny, itty bit, happy. It’s weird. Dazai hasn't seen her with an expression close to happiness since The Flags were still alive. Perhaps she’s thinking about them tonight. Perhaps Chuuya felt lonely, too.
“Ehhh, Chuuya can cook?” Dazai says from where she’s draped over the kitchen island, watching her partner without offering to lift as much as a finger to help.
Chuuya’s left eyebrow twitches in anger but she doesn’t glance up at Dazai. “You already know I do. Stop playing dumb, bastard.”
Dazai hums in acknowledgment and lazily kicks her legs in the air. It seems like Chuuya has given up on chasing her away from sitting on top of the kitchen island and just accepted she has a very large, and not-so-hairy cat invading her home for the night. (Although, Dazai has to admit it was a little impressive watching Chuuya chop all the ingredients for their Tonkatsu as she chased Dazai around with a second knife.)
It’s not the first, second, or even the tenth time Chuuya cooks a warm meal for the two of them. Dazai has, for the most part, gotten over that initial urge to self-destruct and flee when that happens. She wouldn’t go as far as saying she’s grateful, neither she nor Chuuya would appreciate the gratitude shown at one another, but it’s not awful —Dazai thinks.
Maybe if Dazai were affected by eating a warm, cooked meal more than a handful of times a year, she’d hold onto those sparse but significant moments, but she doesn’t. Not really. It’s been too long, longer than she can remember, that she ate like a normal functioning being. She doesn’t eat because she’s hungry or wants to, but because starving to death isn’t a suicide method on her to-try-list.
But Chuuya isn’t bothered. The things she and Chuuya do for each other are never spoken about. They don’t exchange “thank you’s” and they never will. Dazai wants it to stay that way. And she knows Chuuya feels the same, so when Chuuya places a plate of steaming hot Tonkatsu in front of Dazai, she does it with a scoff and simply tells her to eat or get her ass kicked.
Drinking in Chuuya’s presence is different from doing it in the solitude of her shipping container of a home. For one, Chuuya has alcohol that isn’t so cheap it could be passed off as hand sanitizer. Secondly, bothering Chuuya when she’s drunk is one of the few things that can bring a genuine laugh out of Dazai. Even if she’ll take that silent admission with her to the grave.
Dazai knows how pissy Chuuya gets when she complains about wine is the drink of choice at her place. To be honest, Dazai doesn’t give a shit about what kind of alcohol she’s served, as long as it gets her drunk. That doesn’t stop her from going on a slurred tirade about how dry and almost repulsing the bottle of expensive red wine Chuuya opened for the two of them tastes like.
Chuuya’s speech is slurred too when she speaks. She holds her glass of wine up as if it will strengthen her point, gesturing with her free hand like Dazai is to an entire audience, and says, “Of course, someone who would consider tube feeding a luxury doesn’t know shit about appreciating a good wine.”
She points at Dazai’s half-full glass, “You should know, that little splash in your glass is worth more than your container home.” The words are, objectively, harsh. It makes Dazai’s heart skip in her chest.
Reaching out with her hand, Dazai begins pushing her glass closer and closer to the edge of the coffee table, holding eye contact with Chuuya. Her smirk grows the more Chuuya’s scowl drops on her face. That, too, makes her heart skip a little in her chest.
“Spill it and I’ll have you lick every drop off the floor,” Chuuya threatens.
“Did Chuuya-kun intentionally forget about her ability again just to see me work?” Dazai shoots back.
Chuuya glares at her for a moment but then drops it and flicks Dazai off. “Thought you wanted to get drunk,” she says instead before she turns to face the fireplace and takes a sip from her glass.
Do I ever not want to get drunk , Dazai thinks to herself. She glances at the side of Chuuya’s face, lit up by the warm, flickering glow from the fire. Her expression seems a little more solemn all of a sudden. Or perhaps Dazai hasn’t been paying enough attention until now, but she likes to think she pays a great deal of attention to her partner at all times.
The small coffee table between them annoys Dazai, for undisclosed reasons. Don’t get Dazai wrong, she fucking hates physical affection of any kind, but she does like being able to nudge and poke at Chuuya to her heart's contents whenever they are around each other.
“Do I have something on my face or what ?” Chuuya snaps after a while—because Dazai’s piercing gaze at her profile hardly went unnoticed. And since Chuuya never turned to actually look at Dazai, the latter allows herself to smile in secret. Not her tell-tale shit-eating smile, but a small one, barely visible, but as genuine as Dazai could ever hope to muster up.
“You do,” Dazai answers at last, and that’s when her partner turns her head to face her. It’s still a meter or two of a distance between them, so Dazai makes a quick decision to lessen that a considerable amount.
Two steps with her long legs and then she drops down on the floor beside Chuuya, shoulder to shoulder. Her partner looks at her dumbfounded, that look Dazai receives from her when she does something small that for any other person would seem normal, but for her, is not. Like, willingly getting closer to another living human, for example.
Dazai flicks a finger at Chuuya’s forehead, saying, “Right… there,” with an intentionally obnoxious tone of voice. And if that is an attempt to play off that she just moved closer, to distract Chuuya and seem like her normal, “bastard” self, then neither of the two points that out.
Chuuya scowls again and brings a hand to her forehead as if to feel whether something is there or not. Maybe it’s Chuuya falling for such an obvious and tiny lie, or maybe it’s the fact Chuuya hasn’t thrown her across the room to regain the distance between them, that a barely audible laugh escapes Dazai.
The sound of it surprises Chuuya as much as it surprises Dazai herself, and they both look at each other for a brief second, a little caught off guard. But Chuuya is quick to brush that, whatever it was, under the rug.
“Are you messing with me?” she says—evidently drunk since she’s still rubbing her forehead. Maybe Dazai should take Chuuya’s trust in her, even with something small like this, as a compliment. And maybe Chuuya should take it as an insult. But that too gets brushed under the invisible rug that is more than half of the things left unsaid every time they’re around one another.
Dazai gives her partner a crooked smile, letting her answer the question by herself. This entire day is messing with her rational way of thinking, so she turns to stare into the fire before she can say or do something stupid.
Chuuya stays silent too. Dazai has a pretty good guess as to why probably the same reason as herself. They’re both thinking of their late friends, the closest things to older siblings they could get in the mafia.
Oda’s death messed up Dazai in ways she isn’t quite sure how to even begin to untangle. And that was one person, Chuuya lost five. An entire family, for the third time in her life. But they don’t talk about it. Because Dazai can’t and Chuuya doesn’t want to. Not with each other, not with anyone. It’s enough that they know—enough to sit in silence in each other’s company. They don’t need more than that.
The only thing fragile about their partnership is the chosen silence. Not insults, not life or death, no nothing but the sea of topics neither of them could dare to dip their toes into in hope of talking about them.
Dazai doesn’t know it then, no one does, but maybe that was the final drop that led them to end up where they are, years later, no longer a pair but two seperate people. Even if habits die hard, bad or good ones, they’re no longer partners outside the security of their shared soul. But that is in the future, and it won't be here yet.
“I got you something,” Chuuya says later that night. They’re both drunk now, and Dazai snorts out of instinct.
“You… got… me… something,” she says slowly, allowing Chuuya to take her words back if she happens to want to. But she doesn’t.
Chuuya shrugs, looking into the fire as she speaks. “I’ll kill you if you ever bring it up after tonight.”
“I figured as much,” Dazai says. Their knees are bumping into each other, as are their shoulders.
“I’ll give it to you,”—Chuuya hiccups—“if you swear to never bring it up.”
Dazai smiles and theatrically lays a palm of her hand over her heart. “I, Osamu Dazai, swear on our partnership to never tell a soul that you, Nakahara Chuuya, bought me a Christmas present.”
Chuuya shoots her an unamused look, but she seems to take Dazai’s word. She reaches into the pocket of her jacket that is tossed aside on the rug, pulling out a small, wrapped package.
Dazai lets Chuuya place it in her hands, and she stares wide-eyed at the wrapping and red bow. It’s… It’s not often Dazai comes up short on what to say. Most of the time blurting out whatever annoying things comes to mind is as easy as breathing. But not now.
She swallows, and the floor she sits on feels a little unsteady compared to just a moment earlier. “I didn’t… get you anything in return.”
“I didn’t expect you to,” Chuuya deadpans.
Her partner has a point so Dazai takes it as her cue to begin unwrapping the present. Doing things gently doesn’t come naturally to Dazai, but subconsciously she unties the bow and gingerly peels off the tape to unfold the red, patterned paper.
It doesn’t take long before Chuuya loses patience. “You’re not detonating a bomb, what the hell is taking so long?”
“That’s what someone who’s planted a bomb would say,” Dazai singsongs—the witty comment ready in her defense because she doesn’t have a real answer to Chuuya’s question. At least not one that doesn’t make her nauseous.
But then Dazai is back feeling at a loss for words, just a quick moment later. She peels off the final layer of paper on the present, watching with wide eyes at the little box unraveling. Beside her, Dazai can sense how Chuuya has gone still. Tense, maybe a little nervous, Dazai mentally notes. They’re in the same boat then, which is a relief.
Dazai didn’t know what she expected to find inside the box, it’s hard to build expectations regarding something unknown, and you only do yourself a disservice in the end. But if she had made a guess, it wouldn’t have been the familiar-shaped key, presented inside a small box like a fine piece of jewelry.
“This…” Dazai says but then falls silent. She hovers her fingers above the key as if is some sort of mirage that will disappear as soon as she tries to touch it. But it isn’t, the metal is solid against her skin, and the weight of the key is there, in the palm of her hand. “Why?” she whispers at last.
Chuuya huffs beside her and clears her throat before speaking. “I- I don’t want to keep switching out all the windows and doors you ruin when you break in.”
It’s an excuse. Dazai rarely breaks things while getting into Chuuya’s apartment, she doesn't need to, and when she does, it’s intentionally to get under Chuuya’s skin. They need the excuse, it makes it less scary. More okay for people like them .
Dazai closes her fingers above the key, clasping it safely in her hand. She lets the fast beating in her chest slow down, taking a minute to gain back her composure. Making sure her voice won’t wobble. “If Chuuya is so lonely that no one wants to hang out with her she can just ask me～”
Her partner smacks the back of her head, “you’re so fucking shitty,” she says. And Dazai has never felt happier to hear those words.
The clock on Chuuya’s wall is ticking away, Dazai is painfully aware because it feels the clock personally glares at her. Their glasses and wine bottles are empty too, standing on the small coffee table and neither of them has suggested opening another bottle.
Chuuya’s eyes have begun to drop a little, the way they do when she’s fighting off sleep because she doesn’t want to be unconscious around Dazai—or so she claims, at least. It was true at one point in time, and then it no longer was. The feeling is mutual.
Dazai stretches her arms in the air and groans . “Ne, Chuuya?” she says cheerfully.
“Mh,” Chuuya says.
“Do you think Hirotsu will be up to give me a ride at this hour? Or do you think he’s out playing Santa with some snotty kids?”
Her partner grunts in response. “How the hell should I know?” she says, and then a little wary, “Why?”
With a smack with her hands on her thighs, Dazai stands up and paces to the window. She sighs to herself when she sees the snow still falling outside. “Well, the devil may care but I’m not getting on your pink monstrosity a second time tonight and I rather not catch hypothermia trying to walk back to my place.”
Chuuya doesn’t respond this time but Dazai brushes it off. She turns on her heels and walks back to her partner, “Lend me your phone. I’m sure Hirotsu will give in if I blackmail him to come to pick me up.”
No response this time either. Dazai puts her hand on her hips, “Why are you so stingy all of a sudden? she complains. “Just hand me your phone.”
There isn’t per se silence from Chuuya, but she mutters something so hushed Dazai can’t possibly hear what. “Chuuya, did the cat get your tongue? Are you giving me the silent treatment?” she cries and flops onto the floor to sprawl her lanky body over her partner. Chuuya hates when Dazai does that, so it’s a foolproof plan to make her yield.
“Chuuyaaa,” Dazai complains again and shakes Chuuya’s thigh, which seems to successfully run the last of her patience dry.
“Why do you even need to go home?!” she snaps.
Dazai wrinkles her forehead, “ Ehh, am I supposed to sleep on the street? How cruel of y—”
“Why can’t you just- just fucking stay here tonight?!”
“Wh- … what?” Dazai croaks and sits up. She stares slightly dumbfounded at Chuuya, with widened eyes.
“I’m not saying it again.”
Wielding her mouth open, Dazai tries to speak. Which, she surprisingly finds it hard to do when she realizes she has no fucking idea what she’s supposed to say. So she just looks at her partner with her mouth ajar. Expecting her to take the offer back. Tell her it’s a joke.
“ What ? Cat got your tongue?” Chuuya taunts. She tilts her head and gives Dazai a shit-eating grin - the very same Dazai usually gives her. But her sarcastic tone doesn’t indicate she was joking when she asked Dazai to stay for the night.
Sure, Dazai could have, perhaps, possibly, puzzled those pieces together herself, since Chuuya gave her a copy of her apartment key just a little while ago and all that, but… Fat chance when Dazai feels like her IQ has nose-dived to room temperature.
When Chuuya tries to give another smart comment, Dazai clasps her hand over her mouth. There are mumbling and glaring eyes, and Chuuya’s hands trying to tear her away. And then there is nothing but the silent night when Dazai, before she has time to chicken out, lunges in to kiss the backside of her hand—the one between her and Chuuya’s mouth.
Her face feels like a thousand degrees, and Chuuya’s face looks the way, but Dazai just got back the upper hand, so, all is good and well in the world again.