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Something that he’s learned over the years of his life is that some fateful things happen out of the blue, blasting into his consciousness without preamble or warning as to how badly it could screw him up.
Case in point: that fateful day was supposed to be an easy bullying of a hapless mafia member into spilling the beans about why they’ve been sniffing about Arahabaki. It ended up with him gaining a massive mackerel-shaped headache that he’s never been able to fully shake off for years.
Not because of all the trials and tribulations he’s had to experience, because those are just part of a human’s life. However, it’s that first meeting and subsequent entanglement with Dazai that is making him suspect that he’s been utterly, utterly cursed.
One would think that he could breathe easier the moment that the mackerel swims away from the mafia. He’s made the mistake of thinking so, even celebrating the other’s defection with a round of karaoke and a bottle of Petrus.
However, as with all curses that he’s read about in various books, Dazai’s annoyingness seems to be exponentially related to the length of time they’ve known each other.
As such, the Dazai in front of him is looking very punchable indeed.
“Fufufu, you should be moved to tears, Chuuya!” An announcement done with a flourish, complete with clapping and sparkling. He’s convinced that Dazai has actually bathed in glitter before showing up in front of him, with how sparkly he is. “I’m such a good owner that I’ve taken pity in pitiful, tiny dogs who’d never receive any Valentines presents, so I’m here to give you one!”
There are many things he could say as a reply. He has a list of threats and an even longer list of promises of how he could break the other’s bones. But, he’s a creature of instinct. So he frowns, tilts his head, and asks, “What the fuck are you talking about?”
He’s heard about Valentines. He’s not deaf. And even if he is, he’d probably still find it difficult to not be aware of such an existence, given how there’s so much flyers advertising it. His usual bakery has even changed their layout to cater to the event, setting aside an entire section for pink and heart-shaped pastries.
It’s a glorious day reserved for cute desserts and chocolates, or so Elise has kindly explained to him. There’s so much chocolate, in fact, that even Ane-san bequeaths him with some of hers.
Unfortunately, he’s currently saddled with a man whose idea of sweetness swings between ‘a cheerful suicide’ and ‘eating five spoonfuls of white sugar in one mouthful’. Utterly disgusting.
Dazai gives him a look full of disgust, as if to echo his thoughts. “Ah, I should have known that slugs are too stupid to understand the occasion.”
“Of course, I understand it!” And even if he doesn’t, he’d rather stab his own tongue than admit such a thing to this bastard!
“Oho? How many presents have you received this year, Chuuya?” It’s an innocuous question, but Dazai asks it with the same aura that he’s used when interrogating prisoners before.
With an eyeroll, “Ane-san said that she’d give me one tomorrow. Elise too.”
For some reason, that reply wipes away the thunderous expression on Dazai’s face. It suddenly brightens, like a dazzling rainbow after the rain. “Ah, that’s what I expected.”
Another eyeroll. Somehow the thought that Dazai’s that free to make predictions about the amount of chocolates he’d receive isn’t so surprising. “You do like wasting your time with useless things.”
That said, there’s nothing more wasteful than continuing to converse with a mackerel. On a normal day, he’d wave a careless hand as a perfunctory goodbye. But he’s on a rare half-day today, allowing him some free time. Things are good at work, so he’s in a cheerful mood, one that could withstand a fishy presence.
…It’s totally not because he’s mildly intrigued by Dazai’s declaration of him having a gift for him.
He’s had the misfortune of receiving the other’s presents before, and they’ve never brought him any joy. Well, there was the occasional wine, but the joy is short-lived, because he’d always discover that upon opening the package, there’d be either explosives or vinegar instead.
This gift is probably on the same vein as the others before.
……Well, if it’s really another explosive, he could always kick Dazai’s ass in the aftermath.
“One such wasteful thing is giving a gift to a disobedient dog,” is said with a puff of the other’s cheeks. “But I’m still a good owner, so you should be floored, slug!”
Earnestly, “I’d rather bury you to the floor.”
“Fufufu, before that, you should take a look at my gift first!” In contrast to the usual gloomy atmosphere that he once exuded as the demon prodigy, the current Dazai bounces on his heels like a hyperactive bunny, surely a sign of an incoming apocalypse. “Come closer so you could see it, chibikko~”
With a bright smile and flushed cheeks, Dazai looks like a giddy schoolgirl about to share the hottest gossip. His hands are clasped together, raised in front of his chest, like’s trapping something precious in his palms.
It’s almost bewitching, to the point that Chuuya actually finds himself stepping closer as the other wishes. Thankfully, Dazai has accosted him several blocks away from the headquarters; the sight of soukoku being relatively civil while within punching distance might cause several mafioso to be petrified from fright.
Chuuya comes close enough that the tips of their shoes brush together. The lingering scent of coffee tickles his nose. This close, he could see a smudge of ink on Dazai’s thumb, the callus on the other’s index finger from his callous usage of a gun during his mafia years.
If he listens closely enough, he could probably hear the other’s heartbeat too. If he focuses enough, he’d probably be able to decipher a Morse code drumbeat of an insult towards his height or some other annoying thing.
But his attention is caught by the way Dazai’s lips curve up, a sure sign of an impending calamity for him.
“Ready?” Voice so cottony soft it’s as if he’s tickling the underside of his heart directly. “One, two, three.”
With an incredibly slow motion, he parts his clasped hands, revealing his palms. For a brief moment, Chuuya thinks that he wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a pair of rings there, something that would inject poison to their fingers the moment they become too far from each other.
But what he sees instead is—
“I got it because it reminded me of you,” Dazai continues with that too-soft voice. “How is it? Are you moved to tears, Chuuya?”
Chuuya slaps the other’s hands, incensed. “Asshole! There’s nothing there, damn it!”
Dazai pouts, before rapid-firing in sing-song, “Are you sure~? You have to look really closely, it’s as small as you are~”
Oh, he’s just asking for a beating.
He stops resisting the urge to punch the annoying bastard, who simply titters away, laughing heartily all the while.
“Pfft, you should have seen your face! You looked so confused!” One of Dazai’s arms is wrapped around his stomach, like he needs the physical support so he doesn’t fold from excessive laughter. There are tears on the corners of his eyes, reminiscent of that time that he’s laughed at him for doing that rich-lady impression in that dungeon.
They’re still in a relatively public place, so Chuuya is very discreet when he tries to stab the fish. Dazai continues laughing as they chase each other all over the streets, his voice echoing in the air like sirens declaring war, like bells declaring something special.
Of course, they know each other well enough that serious harm is out of the question when they fight each other like this. Each time he catches Dazai’s clothes, he could only try to shake some sense to him. Each time Dazai tickles him to make him let go, he could only burn from the graze of the other’s fingertips over his cheeks, his neck.
Even if they count those three years of being together in the mafia as one concrete lumpsum, the amount of time they’ve spent apart is still longer in comparison.
Something that he’s learned over the years of his life is that some fateful things happen out of the blue, blasting into his consciousness without preamble or warning as to how badly it could screw him up.
One other thing that he’s learned over the years is that theirs is a relationship so inseparable, that it could function just as well even with the barest of glances, the most fleeting of touches. They repel each other too much, after all, and sticking too-close together for too-long a time is ill-advised.
But before opposing magnets repel each other, there’s always that moment of touch, that briefest connection of when their hearts would be closest.
…How utterly disgusting, really.
Isn’t it just like he’s admitting that he’d never be rid of this fishy stench?
As if directly reading his mind, Dazai makes retching sounds too, before walking beside him, hands surprisingly not tucked inside his coat’s pockets like usual.
Chuuya hums, appeased at seeing the disgust on the other’s face. Theirs is a relationship where they could openly delight on each other’s unpleasantness, after all. Now that they’ve chased each other to a more secluded place, Chuuya hops to the air, floating a bit so he can easily kick Dazai’s neck should he say something too annoying.
It’s an added bonus that he could see the whorl atop the other’s head. Such a beanpole like Dazai really deserves to have his legs broken, urgh.
After a few moments of strolling like this, like they’re a pair who can’t be bothered to stay together, and can’t be bothered to stay apart, Dazai speaks up, the softness of his voice directly attacking between his ribs. “Did you get my gift, Chuuya?”
Theirs is an unfortunate relationship where they could read each other’s thoughts and breathing patterns and motives, even without words.
He huffs. “Do you even have to ask?”
Earlier, there’s nothing in Dazai’s hands but air, the single most necessary thing to living.
“Humans are lucky that our eyes could see rainbows,” is a seeming non-sequitor. Dazai’s looking ahead, refusing to meet his eyes. “Such a beautiful sight being part of the small visible spectrum available to our eyesight…” The almost-wistful vulnerability evaporates immediately, like a short intake of breath. “Oops, sorry, you probably can’t relate, given that you’re a tiny doggy, huh?”
Unfortunately, he knows this bastard well, so he could read between the lines.
Even if people couldn’t see it, the important and beautiful things are still there. Even if people know that it’s there, it’d still be better if they could see it and confirm its existence.
A deep sigh, and he kicks the man’s back, knowing that the touch will cancel his ability and make him crash into the other’s body. “Shut the fuck up, you keep on saying shit,” he says, and buries his face against the other’s chest.
In the process, he slips a key into the other’s pockets, one that would unlock every room in his apartment except for his wine and hat collections.
Perhaps for this year, he could deign to give this kind of sweetness to this shitty mackerel who can’t honestly say what he means.
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end