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“Oh, it’s rare that you’re actually early for a meeting with me.”
This voice comes from behind him, sounding out of nowhere even though he’s in the middle of a large private ballroom with only one table. A mix of a declaration of privacy and opulence. The lights are dimmed, like a lone fireplace during a harsh blizzard. There’s a set-up for high tea on the table, various scones and biscuits piled up like jewels. Steaming black coffee in dainty cups, but the scent doesn’t manage to completely cover the fishiness that heralds the other’s arrival.
“I’ve never been late to a meeting with you,” he retorts with a scoff. He doesn’t bother turning around or leaving his seat to acknowledge Dazai’s presence. “You, on the other hand…”
“Isn’t there a saying that arriving on the dot is already considered late?”
“Why the fuck would I ever want to waste time more than necessary when it comes to you?”
A twinkling laugh that seems to reverberate across the chandelier above. “Oh, your temper really hasn’t changed.” With soundless footsteps, Dazai appears on his line of sight. A white suit that would make him look quite dashing, if one’s able to forgive his personality and his everything else. “Your height too.”
He frowns. “I’m beginning to think that this is a waste of time.”
“Now, now, don’t be too hasty.” An arm stretches out, showing off a bandaged wrist. An uncorked vial, its contents split in half between the two cups of coffee. It smells like crème, cinnamon and crisp alcohol. “Let’s have a nice discussion, Chuuya.”
He rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t turn down the invitation to drink. They clink cups like they’re celebrating something, but he knows that he’s trying his best to dissuade himself from splashing the hot liquid towards the other’s smirk. After a few sips, “Good of you to know that you can’t be tolerated while sober.”
“What can I say? I do know you quite well.” A waggle of eyebrows. “Especially since you haven’t changed much.”
Primly, “I’m not the same as before.”
“Are you not?” Fake shock, but it’s done so perfectly that it would probably garner awards. “You’re still the same shorty who likes rock music, crying at dogs and being too much of a softy.”
“And you’re still the same meddling bastard.” While it’s true that it’s him who’s in a pinch, it’s not as if he’s actually sent out an invitation to Dazai in order to meet up. It’s quite vexing to know that their tacit understanding still holds true even after four years of no contact.
“Aren’t you counting on the fact that I’d meddle here?”
Equally challenging, “Aren’t you meddling because you want me to owe you one?”
They lock gazes, both not backing down.
It would make several paparazzi set for life, if they’re able to catch a whiff of this meeting.
On the surface, they’re both men at the apex of their respective careers. Him, with four platinum albums, two sold-out world tours, three Grammy wins, several under accolades under his belt. Dazai… well, he’s not sure about the list of the bastard’s trophies, but he’s won at least two Oscars. Despite both being Japanese celebrities that have achieved international success, they’ve made sure to not have their paths cross.
“Well, owing me just ‘one’ would be insufficient payment.” A flippant gesture, as if to wave off his incoming protests. “They’ve threatened you first and you probably simply scoffed at them. But they’ve gone ahead and involved others, so you’re oh-so-kindly making sure that they don’t get implicated.”
They’ve made sure to not have their paths cross—for a good reason.
He should have known that having peace for four years is something that wouldn’t last long. With a sigh, “Since you already know the situation, then stop wasting my time.”
“Is that the right attitude of someone asking me for help?” Just the right amount of curious wonder in his tone, like he’s truly awaiting a proper answer.
A heavy eyeroll. “As if you’d actually help someone who’d politely grovel in front of you.”
“If it’s you, I might just consider it, partner.” Syrupy voice, gentle expression. It’s the type of princely performance that has swept the world by storm.
Chuuya simply shudders in disgust at this act. He wants to retort something about how ‘partner’ isn’t the right word to describe their relationship. About how a pair who haven’t contacted each other for four years can’t be called such a thing.
Instead, he turns his head to the side, breaking their staredown. “You’re disgusting.”
“Thank you for the compliment,” is the easy response. “Do you still like lime custard?”
He answers by swiping a biscuit topped with that flavor from the offerings in their table. “I’ll send you the information I’ve gathered about them.”
Dazai gives him a look. “Do you already have a lead as to who’s behind this?”
“If you’re asking me if I know who I’ve offended, the list is probably both short and long.” He knows that his straightforward personality can be abrasive to some. He can be considered refreshing, in this world where subtleties and proper phrasing reign supreme, in avoiding to step on anyone’s toes.
…Of course, ‘refreshing’ is just a polite term for someone who goes against the norm. His meteoric rise has probably ruined plans of some companies who wish to debut their own stars.
“Well, you’ve always been the sort to topple the chessboard entirely just by your very existence.” Manicured fingers tap into the tablecloth.
Before they’ve gone their separate ways four years ago, he still faintly remembers bitten fingernails, crusted with blood. He remembers clicking his tongue and wrapping bandages over these fingers, getting tricked out of wearing gloves he’s scavenged from some dumpster just so Dazai can watch him do things barehanded.
The fishy smell of blood, the sweet smell of rot, the astringent petrichor as they wait for a heavy rainstorm so that the land becomes easier to dig.
A deep breath to center himself, instead of being swayed by the memories. “Ane-san did say that if something is so easily destroyed by kicking it, then it doesn’t deserve my presence.”
“Mm, Kouyou-san, ne? I’ve heard plenty of good things about her.”
“Keep your slimy tentacles away from my manager.” It’s a light scolding—he doesn’t think that Dazai, even at his best flirtation, would be able to sway Ane-san. Still, outrageous things have happened before.
A nod of agreement. “There are some beauties that are better appreciated from afar.” Like a magic trick, he produces a USB stick—shaped like a fish, enough to snatch a short laugh from his throat—and tosses it towards him. “A list of suspects.”
He raises his eyebrows. He doesn’t bother plugging it into his phone. After all, the mackerel is many things, but a harbinger of incomplete and incorrect information isn’t one of them. “You’ve actually done your homework ahead of time?”
“Compiling a list of people who have reason to despise a chibikko is quite the refreshing endeavor.”
That is par for the course for their antagonistic relationship, so he lets that go. “Then, what’s your suggested next course of action?”
The answer comes in the form of a collaboration. A new blockbuster movie in the works, one that’s estimated to top the budget and ensuing box office revenue by all predictive factors. No official announcement has been made yet, but Dazai has slipped him intel that he’s to become the top biller as the film’s main actor. With the help of some strings, Dazai gets him onboard as the lead singer for both the ending theme and one of the insert songs, along with a cameo during a major action scene.
It’s certainly a move to raise eyebrows, especially since he hasn’t done any acting roles. He’d become the industry’s pariah if he dares to say that the PVs for his albums can be counted as part of his filmography.
“Not that I wish to dissuade you from being proactive in making connections,” Ane-san tells him after they finish meeting up with the Boss of their agency, “but this is rather a hefty pie that has fallen from the sky, lad.”
“Don’t worry, Ane-san.” They use a private elevator to avoid reporters waiting for them at the front lobby. The film’s director is notorious for eschewing those with under five years of acting experience. There’s definitely talk of him climbing someone’s bed to get such a prominent role. “I didn’t pay someone or sell my body or whatever in order to get this job.”
When the doors slide open, it’s to a sight that makes his eyes and head hurt. The private underground parking has such tight security that there’s never been a paparazzi who has successfully snuck in over the company’s history. And yet there’s Dazai, smiling brightly at him while dirtying the hood of his car by plonking his suit-covered ass there.
Ane-san’s voice is full of reproach. “This looks like it’s more troublesome than all other scandals, existing and in the future, combined.”
“There you are, Chuuya,” is like the first day of spring, heralding warmth and blooms of flowers. “You’re so small that I almost didn’t see you. Especially when standing beside such a gorgeous beauty.”
“I’m going to break your legs if you continue dirtying the hood of my car with your stupid ass,” he says while reaching out to pull the other’s tie to get him off his car.
“Ah, are you jealous? Your beauty is on a different level in my eyes.”
Ane-san gasps, probably out of shock at the thickness of the other’s face. Because he already knows just how much of a shithead Dazai is, he simply waits it out.
As expected, after several moments, Dazai’s mouth twists into a smirk. “All the way down to my ankles. You’re really quite short, chibikko.”
Because he expects it, he digs his elbow to the other’s ribs before he could even complete his insult. “Shut up. Why the hell are you here?”
“I thought that you’d be hounded by reporters,” is accompanied by what could only be described as a soulful smile. Too bad that he knows just how stinky the other’s soul is.
Flatly, “You know that I’d be hounded by reporters, so you want to make matters worse by showing up here.”
“The tabloids are full of speculations about you climbing Shibusawa-kun’s bed in order to land your newest gig.” Dazai claps his hands and reveals that he’s wearing a watch that perfectly matches Chuuya’s—one of his endorsements, that have recently started talking about terminating his contract early. “I’m not so unconscionable a person that I’d allow such a lie to spread.”
“You, having a good bone in your body?”
“Uh-huh. How can they ever think that you’re tall enough to reach someone’s bed?”
“Ha-fucking-ha.” At this point, he remembers that his agent is still nearby, watching their long rally of volleyed insults. “Ane-san, I’ll take it from here.”
Seasoned gold-level managers like her don’t usually hand over her business card to artists directly. She gives her card to Dazai, a peace offering and a bridge towards someone that the company can’t afford to clash with unscrupulously. To him, she says, “Will I be seeing more headlines featuring you later on, lad?”
“I’ll behave,” he promises, then swipes a kick towards Dazai so he’d agree.
He feels a bit bad that he’s dragging all sorts of people into his recent troubles. Someone spreading nasty rumors can be easily suppressed, but this one seems to have an entire army of anonymous posters at their helm. Plus, this isn’t just any rumor. This actually has a huge basis on reality, so he has to figure out what kind of evidence they’re holding unto.
“…Your habit of showing off your tiny fists also hasn’t changed,” Dazai tells him softly, shifting their positions so that he’s crowding him against his car’s door. One hand over his shaking fist. An arm outstretched to form a flimsy barrier, an improvised version of a kabedon with his car acting as the ‘wall’.
He raises his chin, unperturbed at the sudden closeness. Between the two of them, it’s always been him who’s solved problems with straightforward strength. Dazai’s methods rely on smarmy tactics and slipping away like the fish that he is. Attempting to intimidate him into backing down from being nose-to-nose is just part of the usual.
“No paparazzi can sneak in here, so let’s help them out a little bit,” is whispered to the miniscule space between their mouths. A mockery of a kiss, for a camera that Dazai has planted beforehand. Once the photo is leaked, his name would be involved in a landslide wave of scandals.
But, being rumored to be kissing Dazai Osamu in an underground parking lot is a lot better compared to the scandal that has started this off. An accusation of murder from years ago—and as they breathe in each other’s smirks, he remembers that rainy night once again.
Of the heavy misty rain, of the scent of petrichor, of Dazai’s nails crusted red with blood, and the dreamy whisper of, “You killed him, Chuuya. Do you want me to help you bury the evidence?”
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end (?)