Work Text:
“Chuuya, I think that you should avoid associating with Dazai. He… doesn’t look quite right.”
A good person would avoid being in this situation: eavesdropping on a private conversation by tucking himself behind a wall so he could carefully observe the proceedings. He stays there, staring hard and wondering if his scathing gaze could melt Tachihara entirely; because of the other man’s height, he’s blocking his view of Chuuya’s face.
How would Chuuya’s face look right now?
Would he have that faint disgust that’s always painted on his face whenever Dazai does something that annoys him? Would he have disbelief etched onto his brows, because he’s so straightforward that the idea of talking badly behind someone’s back doesn’t sit right with him? Would he be ecstatic at someone joining him in his tirades full of numbered lists of Dazai’s so-called inadequacies? Would he have realization finally dawning over him, clues slotting in so he could connect all of the behavior that he’s found suspicious over the years?
He takes a deep breath and balls his hands into fists, nails digging to the meat of his palm.
He wants to know. He really wants to know. He knows so many things, and Chuuya’s so predictable, but he’s also the most unpredictable person he’s ever met in his life. Chuuya’s the only one who has made him want to confirm his predictions using his own two eyes. He really wants to know.
Tachihara should disappear so he can have a direct view of Chuuya’s face.
Without seeing Chuuya’s face, the next best thing he could do is hear Chuuya’s voice.
“That mackerel is so troublesome,” is a seeming agreement. He doesn’t sound like he’s suffused with horror or suspicion. He doesn’t sound like he’s actually thinking back to all the times that Dazai has stayed back too late or talked sweetly to anyone who wants to stand a little too close to Chuuya whenever they go out. “I appreciate your concern, Tachihara, but whatever’s happening between us is between us only.”
It’s not a denial of the other’s claims. It’s not an acceptance either.
His nails dig deeper into his palms.
Chuuya’s extremely bad at lying. His face flushes pink, all the way down to his neck and collarbones. His voice stutters, like his tongue is unable to form the proper syllables if they’re not fully based on truths. His gaze shifts like prey skittering over a hot pavement, reluctant to let their feet make too-long of a contact against a sizzling ground.
It’s impossible for him to lie, at least to the point that it wouldn’t be obvious.
He’s telling the truth now. That he thinks Dazai is troublesome. That he appreciates Tachihara’s concern. That he doesn’t want any meddling in their relationship, no matter how odd it is.
Way back when they were fifteen, Dazai had been locked inside his house by his mother who had been driven to insanity. He could understand, he truly could. It was a severe blow to her psyche, to see the man that she has forsaken her family for, simply throwing her aside in favor of younger, prettier and richer girls. He could also understand his father, he really could. After all, beautiful things are lovely to look at.
But just because he could understand them, that didn’t mean that he’d be fine with them making things difficult for him.
He’s fine with death—it’s actually preferable, compared to the tedium of life—but he doesn’t want it at such inelegant hands. He wants it to be beautiful, to be meaningful, to be cheerful and painless.
Back then, he’d been making plans of how to enact his revenge once his mother had returned to him. It wasn’t out of any belief of her motherhood; he simply knows that she has nowhere else to go and that she’d be driven to the pressure of selling him off for some quick cash.
But instead of his mother returning to be stabbed by her son, it’s to another fifteen-year-old kicking down the front door.
“We’ve been playing baseball and the ball hit your window, so I’m here to take it back.”
Such a mundane set of words.
It has altered his predictions and plans, for the very first time in his life.
Perhaps it’s because Chuuya’s too stupid to hold actual thoughts inside his little head. Perhaps it’s because dogs are truly hard to understand. Whatever the reason is, he has stayed with Chuuya since that moment.
Each time he talks about wanting to find a partner for a romantic double suicide, Chuuya would purse his lips and looks so dissatisfied that it could make him relent and instead cajole the other into cooking crab soup for him. Each time he looks at someone else and thinks that it’d be better if they just disappear in order to make things easier for him, he’d think about how Chuuya wouldn’t have enough money to bail him out if he gets caught.
So he keeps those things and urges inside him.
He thinks that struggling to live isn’t very fun and that he’d be doing a lot of people a favor if he kills them. But he thinks of how his hands would be stained red, and how the metallic smell would disrupt his olfactory nerves from smelling Chuuya and Chuuya only.
“Oh. You’re already here.” Right now, Chuuya appears beside him, no surprise at finding him behind the wall. He also doesn’t show any guilt from the previous conversation, no suspicion about eavesdropping. He’s really stupid and trusting. “Let’s drop by the supermarket first before going home.”
Very casually, Chuuya picks up his left hand and holds it, as if to smooth over the crescents that have formed there out of his trembling self-control just now. “How was your work?”
“Boring,” he says in a rare moment of honesty. “I want crab croquettes to make up for it!”
“Do you know how to cook one?”
“Silly chibi, of course you’re the one cooking for me!”
After all, Chuuya’s hands must be so pure, that they’re able to bring out the best flavors out of his ingredients. It’s a strange superpower—before, he’s only ever eaten in order to show others that he’s a human too, capable of hunger. It’s never been about the taste or the satiety.
But with Chuuya, he could feel an actual appetite, an actual desire to pamper his tongue with so many dazzling flavors. He could understand the need for people to take photos of their food and share it on their social media; he could understand the blissful smiles on their faces as they savor the meal.
“The person who’s not making any contribution to the cooking process doesn’t have the right to demand a menu.” Chuuya rolls his eyes and squeezes his hand. “I’m making a lot of vegetable dishes and some meat. You look like you’re about to get a cold, oi.”
He’s someone who has excellent control over his body. He has learned how to control his heartbeat to the tune of a Morse Code message. He’s also had years of experience with Chuuya’s uncanny intuition—even with his tiny brain and hefty stupidity, he can read Dazai well in certain matters.
As such, he playfully and exaggeratedly sneezes right against Chuuya’s cheek. Rubs his nose against that bouncy skin, before taking a deep breath so he could smell the vitality running through the other’s capillaries. Unable to help himself, he bites that cheek, and then leans further down so he could kiss the breath out of him, regardless of their location.
An aggrieved laugh, but Chuuya lets himself be pulled into the nearest alley, winding one arm over his neck to balance himself. Their bodies are entwined from head to toe. It’s enough for him to ignore the fact that the alley isn’t the cleanest place and that there are security cameras everywhere in such a bustling city. Therefore, some security guard out there would review the tapes and see a beautiful redhead kissed into an open-mouthed panting mess.
“If you hate the idea so much,” is woven between their lips as Chuuya pulls away, “then you should behave yourself and wait until we’re back home.”
He makes a face. “How about we just order takeout tonight?”
Chuuya rolls his eyes again, teasing him, “Are you going to tell me that you’ve earned a bonus, Mr. Salaryman?”
“Work is too boring for me to put in more effort and get a bonus.” In fact, becoming a regular office worker is the worst option if one wants excitement in life. However, it’s the best type of job to have access to a cubicle and have such routine work that he could finish it during the first thirty minutes of the day, and focus the rest of his shift to watching and listening to the surveillance that he has planted over Chuuya’s belongings.
Yet again, he disdains the fact that Chuuya has joined a detective agency for work. It’s not actual police force, which means that the security isn’t as tight, but it’s so busy and noisy and all the other voices end up drowning Chuuya’s breathing whenever he listens in.
Plus, his coworkers are too carefree, knocking around so many things and prone to borrowing things from each other’s desks that he couldn’t find a nice place to plant several cameras.
Matter-of-factly, “Then you’ll have to make do with homecooked meals so that we can save money.”
He bites down the urge to offer to kill several people and steal their money. He could even target those considered as society’s scum and liberate their cash from them. He could make sure to target only those whose deaths would elicit celebrations.
But he knows that Chuuya’s righteous. He wouldn’t like it. He would probably look at him like he’s disappointed and that he’s not willing to associate with him again.
He likes seeing all sorts of emotions on Chuuya’s face, but not if it means a permanent separation.
“Mm, but I’m sad from having such a boring work day.” He makes sure to jut out his lower lips to form a full pout. He thinks about that conversation with one of Chuuya’s coworkers just now. It’s happening more often, people around them warning Chuuya off him. It’s happening more often and each time he worries that it’d be the time that Chuuya would finally realize that he’s truly different from others, that he’s hollow like a moon that could only reflect the light of one sun.
Chuuya rubs his ears, then leans close and bites his chin. “Fine, you big baby,” he concedes with a huff. “I’ll make you crab croquette, so you can stop imitating a teary-eyed dog, damn it.”
“Eh, why are you comparing me to a dog, when you’re the one who’s a Chuuyahua?”
“Fuck you, crab croquettes are off the table until next year!”
“Eh?! How can you be so mean?! I’m going to burn down all of your ugly hats!”
Predictably, that makes Chuuya enraged, causing them to have a strange chase all over the sidewalk, until they reach the supermarket.
Things are fine like this. He could see, smell, hear, touch, taste and feel Chuuya. He could push down the urges to die and to let others die, if it means Chuuya would continue smiling at him, bickering with him, shining at him.
He could do it.
He could continue to live and continue to live without a stain on his record.
As long as it means Chuuya would remain by his side.
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In the middle of the night, Chuuya wakes up from a dream of being suffocated by a huge heated blanket. Reality tells him that it’s just the mackerel being clingy like always, teeth trying to chase his hairline even while asleep. His face is forced against a bandaged chest, and the other’s arms are tighter than a corset. With their legs coiled together, it’d take several minutes to detangle themselves in the case of an emergency.
He peers up at the other’s face.
It’s handsome in the eyes of others, but the sort that makes one vigilant. There’s no hiding the gloominess in the other’s gaze, or the utter hollowness radiating from his bones.
Does he know that Dazai is far from normal?
Of course, he does.
He’s been with him since they were fifteen. Even back then, it’s obvious that Dazai’s blood is full of black. The bloodlust, the apathy towards everyone, the disdainful sneer towards life. Those have been obvious from the get-go, and Chuuya’s not blind enough to miss the blaring red signals.
With Dazai’s disposition, it wouldn’t be surprising if he someday ends up going on a killing spree, becoming a notorious, uncatchable serial killer, due to his genius mind allowing him to play so many tricks.
It’s part of why Chuuya has joined a detective agency. It’d give him some leverage should things reach that point. Dazai would deny it to hell and back, but he’d definitely whine and cry if they’re separated. It’s just him trying to avoid the worst-case scenario.
If he knows that Dazai has so many murderous tendencies, then why does he stay with him?
He raises a hand and rubs the sullen look still settled into the other’s eyebrows. He definitely has overheard Tachihara’s words earlier, which is why he’s clingier than usual.
He’s so obviously unhinged, but because of Chuuya, he’s willing to subdue his true nature, he’s willing to suppress those murderous tendencies, he’s willing to compromise and act harmless.
All because of how much he wants to stay with Chuuya.
“You’re really such a troublesome mackerel,” he whispers, and places a kiss over the other’s throat.
With that kind of love, how can he not want to pamper him and stay by his side?
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end