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i.
Chuuya scrapes the toe of his shoe against the ground below him and squints up at the overcast sky, regretting his choice of clothing.
He’s cold under his hoodie and t-shirt, his legs even starting to prickle with goosebumps under his jeans. He hasn’t dressed like this in a few months, but the latest mission he has been sent on required a more casual look than the clothes he’s been more interested in lately.
Someone next to him sighs, and Chuuya resists the urge to flinch when a pointy elbow digs into his side.
“Ya, Chuuya. Do something to entertain me, hm?”
For whatever reason he’s been teamed up with Dazai. Again. Chuuya is starting to get the idea that maybe Boss has bigger plans for them, an unfortunate consequence of their team up against Rimbaud those few months ago. Chuuya shrugs him off.
“We’re supposed to be focusing, bastard. Get off me.”
A cold hand has twisted into the pocket of Chuuya’s hoodie, likely in search of the brand new smart phone he has in there. Chuuya smacks Dazai’s arm and ignores the pout sent his way.
The younger boy sniffs at him. “Fine.” He says, before standing from the bench they’ve commandeered for the afternoon.
“Ya, Dazai! We have work to do here, you know!” Chuuya calls after him, frustration brewing as he watches his lanky figure walk off into the crowds of the afternoon market. Chuuya tsks and takes the moments away from Dazai’s scrutinising gaze to pull his hands into his hoodie and rub at his arms. He hopes the friction will warm him up for a few moments.
There’s a slight breeze that is very unwelcome on his arms. Chuuya flicks his eyes over to the building. They’re supposed to be watching in case any person of interest has decided to step out for the afternoon. He starts to get a little antsy when Dazai still hasn’t returned after ten minutes, worried he’s ditched him - or worse - when his now-familiar mess of black hair starts to distinguish itself from the rest of the market crowd.
There’s an amused smile on Dazai’s face which makes Chuuya’s stomach drop, and he’s already expecting some type of bullshit when Dazai flops back down on the bench next to him with a sigh.
“If the wind changes, Chuuya will have that ugly frown on his face for the rest of his life, you know.” Dazai pokes at Chuuya’s face and Chuuya pulls his head away, but does make an effort to smooth out any frown lines on his forehead.
Dazai fumbles around in the pocket of his raincoat. He looks odd; an attempt has been made to look ‘more like a teenager’, as was required by their mission brief, but he’s still covered in bandages and his own pair of jeans are baggy around his ankles and waist.
Chuuya tries not to think too much about Dazai outside of work where he can help it, but he is far too skinny for his height. Dazai makes a satisfied hum when he finally drags his hand out of his pocket - clutched rather gently between his middle and pointer finger is a small packet of some sort.
Chuuya flicks Dazai a look. “What is that?”
“Something to cure my boredom, if only for two minutes. Hold your hand out.”
Chuuya pulls his hands into fists, yelping when Dazai rolls his eyes and pulls one of them onto his lap. Chuuya gets a read of the packet in Dazai’s other hand; Fortune Teller Miracle Fish, whatever those are, and hisses when Dazai’s nail accidentally scratches against his wrist.
“So sensitive.” Dazai murmurs, which Chuuya chooses to ignore. “Will you please just behave? Hold your palm out for me.”
Chuuya decides sometimes it’s better just to relent to Dazai in order to avoid a headache later on. Dazai rips open the packet with his teeth and pulls open a small, paper looking fish.
He places it very gently on Chuuya’s palm. Chuuya isn’t sure what he’s meant to do, but Dazai’s grip is like a vice around his wrist, so he keeps his hand still, knuckles brushing against a denim covered thigh. The sides of the fish begin to curl in on themselves, and Dazai hums.
“Ah, I knew it.” The grip around Chuuya’s wrist drops, and Dazai sends him a smile. There’s a glint in his eye that leaves Chuuya feeling a little on edge, and Chuuya clears his throat as he lifts his palm, the fish still slightly curled where it sits against his lifeline.
“Knew what?” He asks, unable to cope with the feeling of being left out of a joke.
Dazai’s smile grows wider. “Chuuya is just as fickle as he was when we first met! Nothing to be done about it, I suppose.”
The fish crumples in Chuuya’s fist, and he pushes Dazai off the bench.
ii.
The summer after the fight with Verlaine is hot and relenting. Chuuya feels like he’s hit with a wet rag every time he leaves the air conditioned comfort of his office in the Mori Corporation building, sweat immediately building across his hairline under his hat. The days are too hot to be bearable in his three piece suit.
He finds himself by the river one free afternoon, watching as the children splash in the shallows as parents call after them to not ruin their clothes or go too far from where they can see them. Chuuya’s scored himself a cherry flavoured ice cream to eat and a shaded area under a tree to sit, content to let the surroundings wash over him before he has to set off for some work in the evening.
“Tsk. This is annoying.” A voice says behind him, and Chuuya sags.
“Vagabond. Here I was hoping you’d suffocated under your bandages from the heat and finally died.”
Long legs stretch out next to him under the tree. As usual, Dazai is far too close for comfort. Chuuya can make out the flush on his uncovered cheek, and some of the bandages around his neck are rucked up, as if they’ve been pulled at and tugged on recently.
Dazai blows hair out of his face and scowls at the river in front of them.
“I hate summer.” He says. It’s hardly a surprising admission, Dazai doesn’t seem like the type to enjoy the kind of weather often the cause of joy and frivolity. The act of him actually telling Chuuya something about himself that hasn’t been extracted like a dentist pulling teeth, however, has Chuuya pausing where he bites around the ice block. He hums noncommittally as he sucks up a bit of the melted juice, then considers it.
Tentatively, he offers it to Dazai.
Dazai does something weird with his face then, lips quirking up almost into a genuine smile, before he plucks the lolly out of Chuuya’s hand and takes a big bite out of it. “My dog does care about me.” Dazai says, though he’s muffled by his mouthful, and Chuuya rolls his eyes as he snatches his ice block back from the other boy.
“I don’t know why I bother.” He mutters, just loud enough for Dazai to hear it. Chuuya has grudgingly accepted that putting up with the stack of bandages is just a part of life, these days.
The two of them go silent, happy for the sounds of the other river goers to wash over them. Dazai starts to shuffle where he’s sat after a minute or two. Chuuya has learnt over the last year or so that Dazai struggles with staying still unless they’re working, and Chuuya pays him no mind until he sees Dazai in his peripherals.
“What do you want?”
He finishes the ice block, then licks the stick clean and places it on the grass next to him so he won’t forget to pick it up when he leaves. Dazai pulls out a familiar red and white packet, and Chuuya raises one brow.
“You kept that junk?”
Dazai shrugs.
“It’s always handy having little toys for your mutt when you’re alone together.” Dazai says, but something about the jab falls flat. Chuuya nods.
“Sure.”
“Hand?” Dazai holds out his own as he asks, as if expecting Chuuya to place his palm in his.
He isn’t wearing gloves today. The leather makes his palms sweaty in the heat. Chuuya squirms a bit at the thought of having to touch Dazai’s skin with his own, hesitating, before worrying that Dazai will insult him about being a coward or something equally as annoying.
He gives him his hand.
Dazai pulls out a fresh fish and places it in Chuuya’s palm. Nothing happens for a while; Chuuya is about to make a comment about the sun frying the fish along with the rest of them, when suddenly it flips over in his hand.
“Hm.” Chuuya says, at the same time that Dazai lets out an “Oh!”. Chuuya shakes his hand away and the fish slowly floats to the ground.
“What? What does that mean?” Chuuya asks, perplexed at Dazai’s reaction. The mackerel mimes zipping his lips.
“I have to go, actually. Mori is sending me to Tokyo for the weekend. Goodbye, Chuuya!”
“Hey, asshole.” Chuuya reaches out and gets his fingers around Dazai’s shin, the taller boy staring down at him with an unreadable look. “What does that mean? Why did you say ‘oh’ all surprised like that?”
They pause for a beat. Dazai’s jaw works like he’s about to say something, but the moment is broken by one of the kids down at the riverside letting out a shriek of laughter. Shaking Chuuya’s grip off of him, Chuuya watches him retreat over to the streetside.
Perplexed, he leaves himself ten minutes later, the ice block stick and paper fish shoved in his pocket instead of thrown in the nearby bin.
iii.
Dazai is skinny and Chuuya could deadlift his body wet, but he is panting by the time he gets to his front door. He’s got the unconscious mackerel slung over his side like a bad accessory.
Chuuya fumbles with the keys, swears when the lock jams, then huffs as he finally kicks the door closed behind them both.
Dazai’s going to get blood all over his apartment. Chuuya is going to kill him if he makes it through the night.
He hesitates for a moment and stills when he feels Dazai stir against him. Deciding not to scrutinise any of the decisions he makes for the next few hours, Chuuya pulls him into his room and places Dazai onto the bed spread.
It’s luckily one of the linen sets he isn’t overly fond of, so he doesn’t mind burning the smell of antiseptic and blood off them later. Dazai groans again, and Chuuya ignores him to pull up his shirt and examine his wound.
It’s shallow, but has been bleeding a lot. Chuuya ignores the urge to inspect the yellowing bruises across the other boy’s ribs and stands again, making his way to his ensuite and pulling the first aid kit out of its place in the cupboard under the sink.
He’s shaking when he brings a wet towel to Dazai’s side, adrenaline and anger finally fizzling out of his bloodstream and being replaced with a recently all-too-familiar fatigue. He wants to shake Dazai awake by his shoulders and demand answers about his carelessness during the gunfight, but knows that even if Dazai did wake up, the most he will get is a smirk and some bullshit answer he’ll run circles around trying to decipher.
So he focuses on playing nurse. Cleans the wound as well as he can with the wet towel and antiseptic wipes. Holds a dry bandage against the tender flesh before covering it with a thick piece of gauze, taping it to pale skin and being far more gentle than his bastard patient deserves.
He pulls off his gloves when he’s done and wipes a hand through his hair, pausing when he notices brown eyes fluttering up at him.
“Oi, Dazai. I know you’ve been awake this whole time, asshole.”
Dazai makes no moves, but his chest does shake a little as he exhales. Chuuya sits himself on the edge of the bed and makes use of Dazai’s mood – pats down his pant legs in search of any hidden knives, then pulls through pockets so that when he finally wrestles Dazai’s clothes off him nothing will pose a threat to his washing machine.
His endeavours come up mostly empty. Dazai’s knife sheath is empty and his pockets mainly hold lint, except for the one at his breast. Chuuya immediately recognises the red and white packaging, eyes flicking to Dazai’s and back again.
“You’re a real weirdo, Osamu, do you know that?”
The use of Dazai’s name doesn’t usually roll off Chuuya’s tongue so easily, but it seems fitting for the moment. Dazai just grunts where he’s still laid on Chuuya’s bed, and Chuuya takes his time to finally read the instructions on the damn thing.
He can’t remember the last few things Dazai had asked him, but does remember what his fish had done when placed in his palm. Dazai’s outstretched arm is facing palm up, and Chuuya sucks air between his teeth before carefully pulling one of the paper fish out and placing it on clammy skin.
Dazai tenses but makes no effort to move. The fish's head and tail start to move, and Chuuya fails to hide a smirk.
“You… Look ugly… When you smirk like that… Slug.” Dazai pants out, mouth dry. Chuuya flicks him on his ribcage, just above the bruises and the wound, and Dazai whines.
“Mean! So mean! You’re the worst nurse ever!”
Chuuya rolls his eyes and swipes his thumb over the same area he flicked, eyes still watching the fish as it finally sags into the creases of Dazai’s palm. Reading the back of the packet again, he sighs.
The apartment is quiet. In his rush to get them both inside, Chuuya didn’t even think to turn any of the main lights on. Below him, Chuuya hears a gurgling sound.
“...Chuuya. I’m starving.”
He has tinned crab in his cupboard, and hates that Dazai will probably know that
iv.
Chuuya aches.
He's neck deep in bath water hot enough to scald a small child, scowling at the bubbles made from bath salts Kouyou had told him were ‘good for pain relief’.
There’s a chance they may actually be out of date. Chuuya hasn’t used them since last unleashing Corruption, and that had been four years ago.
Chuuya aches and wiggles his toes under the surface of the water. The furrow in his brow deepens when someone flings his bathroom door open.
He can somewhat imagine the sight he makes, but it doesn't make Dazai's faux-sympathetic look any more welcome. There’s a moment where they both just… Look at each other. Dazai in his new clothes, Chuuya submerged in a bath big enough for three people. Dazai clears his throat.
"You look awful."
"Get out!" Chuuya snaps, splashing water over the tile and over Dazai's pants to emphasise his point. His ex-partner yelps as the hot water hits his leg.
He's pouting when he looks down at the bath again. "Ya, Chuuya. I'm only in my socks."
Chuuya closes his eyes and plugs his nose and holds his head under the water for a few seconds just so he doesn't have to listen to any more whining. He can’t hear anything under here, the sounds from outside muffled by the water and the ceramic. It’s nice, shutting things out, which is why it of course comes to an abrupt end when he feels long fingers on his cheeks pulling him back up to the surface.
Pulling the unwelcome grip off of him, Chuuya wipes the water out of his eyes and flicks water towards Dazai again.
He’s kneeling next to the tub, dumb brown eyes wide as they level with Chuuya’s. Dazai’s cheeks have filled out in the years he’s gone, and the gaunt stance of his shoulders looks better under beige than they ever did under black.
“Get out of here, oi. Leaving a man for dead in a forest clearing is one thing, but breaking into his bathroom is just utter poor taste.”
Dazai clicks his tongue against his teeth, but doesn’t argue. He brings his hand up to Chuuya’s face again and tucks a wayward curl behind his ear. If it’s ever brought up, he’ll blame his flushed cheeks on the temperature of the water.
"I'll leave in a minute, Kunikida-kun actually needed me to meet him twenty minutes ago." Chuuya rolls his eyes and hopes the other detective will smack Dazai upside the head for his attitude. Dazai clears his throat. "I just needed to ask you something."
Chuuya stills as he watches Dazai start to fumble around in his coat pocket.
There’s a multitude of things Dazai could think to ask him. Chuuya focuses on the damp spot on his sleeve from where he’d dunked his hands below the surface of the water, and feels his scowl reappear when Dazai pulls out what can only be classified as an antique.
Chuuya hears himself muttering against his will. “You’re unbelievable.”
Dazai stills for a second before smoothing his fingertips across the edges of the worn red and white packet.
“Found them a few days ago. Isn’t it funny how terrible things always come in threes?”
“You’re full of shit, mackerel.”
Chuuya knows Dazai would have kept them on him every day for the past four years. Not for any sentimental reason; but because he’s a little neurotic and a lot of a pain in the ass. Chuuya learnt years ago it's better to go along with the plans Dazai crafts for them all because the headache that comes from withholding anything from him is far worse than any outcome he has the foresight for.
Chuuya sinks his head back under water, suddenly disinterested in anything the man in front of him has to say to or ask him. When he breaks through the surface some seconds later, the bathroom is empty.
On the edge of the tile, motionless and somewhat disintegrated, is a sodden paper fish, the red dye dripping into hot bathwater in streams.
v.
Dazai hums into the face of the electric fan, the sound of it distorting and bouncing around the walls of his impossibly small apartment. Chuuya pulls the damp towel off his face and throws it in Dazai’s direction, missing him by a few feet.
“Quit that.” Chuuya tells him, arm immediately coming to drape over his eyes again. Dazai sighs.
“But Chuyya~” He sings into the fan. The words sound almost robotic. “I’m so bored~”
“Didn’t your detective partner ask you to look at the stack of piles he sent you home with?”
Chuuya sits up then, pointing in the general direction of the front door, where a beaten up folder is sitting alongside their shoes that Dazai has yet to open. Dazai finishes singing into the fan face and turns, pouting.
“You’re just as bad as Kunikida-kun.”
Chuuya shrugs. He’s been called worse things in his life. He stands from his place on the futon, sheets kicked off to the side, and steps over the mess of the living area into the kitchen. The tiles are sticky with damp under his feet and he squirms, quickly pulling open the fridge and picking out a soda before stepping over to the one filled drawer in the place and digging around for a bottle opener.
Dazai had - in Chuuya’s opinion - purposefully bought the glass bottles rather than the canned beverage he preferred, and Chuuya frowns at Dazai as he tries and fails to push his hair off his face with one of his wrists.
He’s sat only in a pair of shorts, the late summer heatwave too much to bear under his bandages. Chuuya finally gets his hand around the old bottle opener but pauses as his eye catches on a familiar red and white packet. The crack of the soda lid being popped off is loud against the thrum of the fan across the room. Chuuya places the bottle opener back in the drawer, swaps it for the thin packet of idiocy, and takes a long swig of his soda as he makes his way back to the futon.
He puts the cold bottle on the back of Dazai’s neck for a moment, because it’s the least he can do in making sure his ex-partner won’t cook like a shrimp, and Dazai shrieks as Chuuya laughs and drops the packet onto his lap.
“Here. Ask me dumb questions again like we’re sixteen. Ain’t that why you bought those in the first place?”
Chuuya stretches across the futon and revels in the way Dazai follows the movement of his torso. The younger man clears his throat.
“Chuuya must think I’m obsessed with him or something…”
“You are obsessed with me, mackerel. Do we need to have the conversation about your pretentious use of the word ‘indelibly’ again?”
Dazai’s eyes go wide and he turns fully then, legs tucked under him as he sends Chuuya a scowl. Chuuya can pick up the bullet scars on his torso and shoulder easier when he’s facing him, and he takes another sip of soda as Dazai shuffles closer to him on his knees.
“It won’t work if your hands are wet, hatrack.” Dazai plucks the soda bottle out of Chuuya’s hand and places it away from him next to the head of the futon. Chuuya wipes his hands on his own shorts and waits for Dazai to go through the motions of his little show. He pulls the last fish out of the packet, eyebrows furrowing as he looks down at Chuuya’s outstretched palm.
“Ah… It seems I don’t have anything else I want to ask my Slug.”
Chuuya scoffs.
“That big head of yours and you can’t think of one measly question? You’re real pathetic, oi.”
Dazai rolls his eyes.
“Yeah, yeah. Here then.”
The fish drops into Chuuya’s palm, the red of it faded from its years in the packet. It must still have some of the active ingredient left in it though, as Chuuya and Dazai both watch as it curls up entirely.
“Ne, Chuuya. You broke it.”
“I broke it? You’re the one who kept it in your drawer for nearly eight goddamn years. I’ve got wines in my collection younger than that.”
Dazai is grinning. Chuuya scolds him all while reaching out with his free hand to curl around the taller man’s wrist and pull him over to him. The fish appears to curl up even more, distorted and small in Chuuya’s palm. He drops it onto the futon as he slides his other hand up Dazai’s back, nosing at the flush spreading across Dazai’s collarbones.
“You’re a brute. I want to go and sit back next to the fan.” Dazai whines, and Chuuya pinches him in the side before kissing him, open-mouthed, on the mouth.
It’s an effective way to get Dazai to shut up, if unconventional. Chuuya lets Dazai kiss him back for a few seconds, hands trailing up a spine until they come to cup Dazai’s face. They pull back and Dazai’s flush has nearly reached his hairline, pupils blown a smidgen wider than normal.
Chuuya does what he usually does when they’re in this position, and pushes Dazai’s bangs back against his skull to kiss him softly on the forehead, right where the final scar lays. Dazai, as usual, makes a sound at the back of his throat and tenses, before Chuuya pulls back and pokes him in the cheek.
“...You're right. You should go sit back by the fan. I don’t need you sweating all over me, it’s disgusting.”
“Oho! Chuuya is the disgusting one.”
Chuuya grins, wolfish, and doesn’t point out the stuck piece of balled up paper on Dazai’s bare thigh.