Work Text:
That should have crown'd Penelope with joy,
Could overcome in me the zeal I had
To' explore the world, and search the ways of life,
Man's evil and his virtue. Forth I sail'd
Into the deep illimitable main,
With but one bark, and the small faithful band
That yet cleav'd to me.
-The Divine Comedy; Inferno 26
By Dante Alighieri
It all started because Dazai was bored.
Tossing and turning on his unmade bed, Dazai was disgustingly, awfully fed up with everything that life had to offer to him. From the cleaning he was supposed to be doing but wasn’t, to the texts he was arrogantly ignoring, a statement to reaffirm his pathetic state of being. It was a state of boredom so intense it felt like a physical veneer of a sticky, lukewarm material against his skin. Kind of disgusting, to be honest.
Twenty years old, dropped out of college after a single semester. Worked at the bookshop three blocks north of his house, and waltzed with his suicidal tendencies in his free time– that was Dazai Osamu for you. Nothing new, nothing special. His life was built with plain old, gray boredom that had filled his every vein like cement since the tragic event that had been birth, twenty years earlier. Eighteen if you don’t count those blissful two years in which he had floated around without self-awareness. Kindergarten had come around, sadly, and utter boredom had become an axiom to the complex formula of his life.
And since he was that bored, and somehow managed to complete the whole Candy Crush game, he had done the most obvious thing a promising (lie) young man (truth) could do: Download dating apps and mess around.
Nothing too serious, he hadn’t been looking for that. Never had he caught the hook of romance, too irrational for him to wrap the logical wiring of his brain around it. But messing with people was fun, got him free drinks if he was lucky and, most of all, bailed him out of the drowning emptiness of his days for at least a few hours.
So, dating apps it was.
Name: Dazai Osamu (truth)
Age: 20 (truth, as of now; but he’s been twenty for a while, online.)
Height: 5’7 (lie. He’s 5’9, 5’10 with shoes, but messing around with men who claim to be 6’0 and very much aren’t is a kind of entertainment he doesn’t plan on abandoning yet)
Occupation: student (lie. No explanation needed.)
And so on. On his profile, a picture his best friend took of him at the library, leafing through a seemingly ancient tome (very popular with the ladies; he doesn’t specify the book he was pretending to be reading is a collection of obscene Latin poetry- hail Catullus), and a picture of him playing basketball (very popular with the dudes, even though he always tries to avoid the sport topic. He accidentally hit himself in the face with the ball exactly five seconds after the picture had been taken).
On top of that, he wrote stupid stuff in the questions about his personality.
What did he want to do this year? Learn how to cook (read: successfully manage to kill himself by food poisoning. )
A shower thought he recently had? Do crabs think fishes are flying? (his recent shower thoughts are mostly about how there was this one dude in ancient Greece who died of laughter. How is that possible, he doesn’t know. He kinda envies him, to be honest.)
Together we could… Go to couples therapy and see how long it takes the therapist to realize we don’t know each other. (Not his first choice. He wanted to offer double suicide. However, the last time he gave it a try, he got banned. Bold of the app to preach honesty and self-expression! He considered suing them for false advertisement)
He didn’t think too much of the last one. A fun idea surely, but he doubted anyone would take it too seriously. On dating apps, people tiptoed around the word commitment like aerial acrobats. A shame. It was surely a proposition drenched in wasted potential.
So he let it sit there, luring uninteresting people in like moths to a flame.
Or at least, that had been up until now. He stares at the kickstarter message of the chat with one of his most recent matches, eyes open wide. The sender is a redhead, with his profile picture set to a picture of him standing next to his red bike ( that, damn, does low-key look expensive, Dazai thinks) and holding his helmet under his arm. It’s a pretty casual picture, probably taken without his knowledge as it’s slightly out of focus and he’s not looking at the camera, smiling at someone else who's not visible.
Dazai, who graduated top of the class in his master's degree in not minding his own business, comes to three different conclusions in the mere span of two seconds.
One, he’s probably filthy rich- thus the fucking Rolex on his wrist. It’s not a flashy model, so he’s not flaunting it. Which, as Dazai knows, means he has money . Big money. And rich bastards are the funniest genre of people to mess with. He screams fun. And he screams a nice free dinner.
Two, he’s short. The bike is not a massive one, as he can easily tell by comparing it to the bench peeking from the corner of the picture, but he clearly isn’t taller than 5 ’2. 5 '3, if Dazai graces him with a margin of error (and takes into consideration the overuse of height soles). He’s short, and along with the questionable haircut he sports- Dazai wonders if it’s something rich people enjoy, looking pretentious by acting like they don’t have enough money for a decent haircut and style their manes like they cut it drunkenly at 3 am, in front of the bathroom sink (speaking from experience)- he’s not his type.
Not that he has a type. but if he had one, it sure as hell wouldn’t be him . The clashing of his dark, wavy copper hair and questionable height irks him to the point of unreasonability. He could probably prop his chin on the top of his head. Ew.
Three, he is the first one who ever accepted his stupid proposal. As his first text of their convo, which usually would be an awkward “hi :) “ is instead the screen of a- you won’t believe this, he texts Odasaku- a receipt of a booked couple therapy session. One week from today’s date, a few miles from his house, not too far from the library he works at.
Dazai is speechless. But he’s thrilled . Which is pretty new, actually.
He quickly texts back. A question.
Dazai Osamu: married couple or high school sweethearts?
Nakahara Chuuya: First of all, “Thank you kind stranger for spending money on the worst first date you’ll have in a while!”. Second, you’re welcome! Third, high school sweethearts, of course. You don’t look a day older than 20. Distance and pursuing careers are the most common issues at our age. Plus, gay marriage is illegal here, you know.
Dazai Osamu: I’ll offer you a ‘thank you’ only if you manage not to bore me to death after five minutes
Dazai Osamu: Which you’ve already done, btw
Dazai Osamu: Also you’re awfully picky… I meant ‘married’ in the sense of living together with five cats or shit like that
Nakahara Chuuya: I’m not “picky”, you’re just incapable of wording your sentences correctly. See you in a week. Don’t make me regret this.
He stared at the texts for a few seconds, their impeccable punctuation and all. Dazai was already kind of regretting this (lie).
Immancably, a week later he’s standing a few buildings away from the counseling office. It’s autumn, it’s cold, and the terribly itchy brown cardigan he’s wearing makes him look too much like a divorced middle-aged woman and not enough like someone who’s not freezing to death. Staring at the time on his phone, he’s already getting pissed.
Because he’s late. Dazai showed up five minutes early to their designated meeting spot but the redhead, who was ‘constantly late’ in his list of red-flags he looks for in other people, was nowhere to be found. You’d expect an advance, from someone so adamant about respecting time stamps.
Guess he was wrong since he's already been waiting for four minutes.
Infuriating.
In the week building up to the ‘date’, they haven’t talked much. Almost not at all. Dazai had texted him, in a fit of boredom, asking him “Should we say we created a shared small business where we sell dick-shaped ceramic plates and argued over who should get more profit?”
Nakahara Chuuya: Only if you make one to bring to the session and cradle it like a baby all the time.
Dazai had laughed. Genuinely, too.Which was a pretty unusual thing on its own. Then he had decided that taking up a pottery hobby was too much work and sent the witty redhead a picture of his middle finger raised.
Dazai Osamu: Boooring. You’d look like a hot ceramist. Or painter, whatever fits your cup.
Nakahara Chuuya: Interesting way of saying you’d like to see my fingers at work. If you’re taking lessons on correct wording, I can already see the improvement.
Dazai Osamu: EW.
Dazai Osamu: Not. What. I. Meant.
Dazai Osamu: Pervert.
Dazai Osamu: I’m not the one bad at wording, you lack basic reading comprehension.
He attempts to scroll down, but the conversation ends there. Chuuya hadn't answered. Not even a warning that he’d be this late.
He’s about to spam-message him with insults when, followed by a thundering roar, the red bike from the picture parks itself a few meters from him. And of course, astride, comes the short redhead. He hops off, sets the stand, removes his helmet, and puts it under his arm. He approaches Dazai quickly, fixing his hair with his free hand.
Dazai doesn’t miss a beat.
“You’re both a pervert and late. I knew I shouldn’t have come.” He exclaims and damn, the guy in front of him is even shorter than he imagined. 5’3 at best.
Chuuya comically raises an eyebrow and checks his watch- Dazai gladly notices it’s still the Rolex from the picture. Not a fake, not a scam.
“We agreed to meet up at four p.m. and as of now, it’s four p.m. and fifty-two seconds. I got here with my bike at exactly four o’clock.” Chuuya says. His voice is awfully… okay, no. Dazai can’t even say anything bad about it. It sounds nice, too nice. Not too deep, not too high pitched, kinda raspy. ‘Off-duty-voice-actor’ kind of nice.
Is he really twenty as stated on his profile? If so, it’s unfair . Dazai’s barely two months younger and is still stuck with voice cracks. Meanwhile, this dude could sell clips of his voice reading the Bible on sketchy sites and make a bag out of it. Maybe he does and that’s where the money for the Rolex comes from.
Anyway.
He scoffs. “Well, unlike you, I’m a real gentleman and I showed up five minutes earlier! but of course, I had to wait! Do you know how cold I am now?” He whines, rolling his eyes to the sky and faking a shiver.
“Oh, poor princess ! You’re definitely going to die of hypothermia out here!” The guy mocks him, lips molding from a pout to a smirk.
Dazai’s not so sure the insult was meant to have the effect it did. He freezes to a halt for a split second.
Well.
Umh.
Damage control.
“Wouldn’t be, if a certain pervert got here in time!” he replies with a shrug of his shoulder and diverts his gaze to the nearest, yellowing tree. What a nice tree, really. A shame it doesn’t seem intended to fall and crash him to death soon.
“It was a joke, you moron.”
“You could’ve said so, then!
“And argue with you for the rest of the evening? Hell no. I’m saving that for the session.”
Fair point. Still…
“You’re coming dressed like that ?” Dazai asks, pointing at his helmet and biker, leather jacket with his chin. It doesn’t look bad- maybe a bit tacky, with the leather so polished and the red details- but it doesn’t fit the picture Dazai already planned.
This time, Chuuya looks sincerely confused. He tucks his chin in and looks down at his clothes, eyebrows raised, then looks back at him, big gray eyes filled with question marks. “Yes, why?” He asks.
“Well, it’ll look like we didn’t arrive together.”
“We’re supposedly in a bad place with our relationship, aren’t we?”
“But we’re attending a couple’s therapy session you booked! So you allegedly still love me very, very much and are trying to sort things out! That’s why you came and picked me up! By car, and not by bike, because that’s too intimate and it reminds you of the time you asked me out!” Dazai counters.
Chuuya seems to think about it for a few seconds. Then shrugs.
“You’re… not wrong. Surprisingly. But where am I supposed to leave this?” He lifts his helmet. “I can’t just leave it in the middle of the street.”
Dazai has an idea. The stupidest one he’s had in a while, too.
Five minutes later they’re standing in front of the bookshop Dazai works at, and he’s fiddling with the keys.
Bad, bad idea. Giving a total stranger the exact location where he works. While this dude is most likely not a pervert, as Dazai’s well aware the text he’s made such a fuss over was nothing but some teasing, he knows this thing might fire back in awful ways.
He’s dealt with a couple of stalkers before. He had to bring out his secret weapons- his best friend and coworker Odasaku with a baseball bat and Oda’s boyfriend, a lawyer- to be finally left alone. He’d love to not have to go through all that again, honestly.
“What’s this place?” Chuuya asks, walking behind him as he inspects his surroundings.
“A strip club.” Dazai says flatly. He opens the shop’s backdoor and moves aside to let Chuuya in. The redhead bypasses him and steps into the darkness.
“Ah ah.” He says as he does so. Dazai follows right behind, he turns the lights on. They flicker for a few seconds before they fully shine over the thousands of dusty books the shop contains.
“You can leave your helmet on that pile of books,” he points at the pile of ancient Rome-related tomes, “you’ll come and get it afterward. You can keep the jacket tho, I’ll just make sure to mention how awfully tacky your sense of style is.”
“I don’t think the cardigan granny gets to have a say on fashion.”
“Talks the divorced father of two with a nicotine addiction! Really, that jacket makes you look fucking stupid!”
For the first time this evening, Chuuya seems to lose his composure, “What? It doesn’t!” He exclaims.
Dazai’s so glad to hear how pitchy his voice gets as he says that. His eyebrows all scrunched up and the frown that shatters his previously unbothered features has Dazai looking forward to the one-hour-long arguing session they’re about to have.
“Save that energy for later, tiger. Now hurry, or with those small legs of yours,, we’ll be late. Not a good look for someone who is trying to win my heart back~”
The deluge of insults the redhead throws at him- and the kick he nimbly dodges- make him regret ever agreeing to this (lie.)
“You know what, I should’ve never agreed to come here!” He is uttering twenty minutes later, as he dramatically, shamelessly sobs into the umpteenth paper tissue given to him by the therapist, a man with squared glasses and the most disgusted look Dazai’s ever seen on someone’s face.
How long have you been together? He had asked just five minutes earlier after they had walked into the office and roosted onto the polished leather chairs.
Chuuya had said a date, somewhere in the middle of March and Dazai had leaped onto the occasion and started accusing him. Because of course, the motherfucker had said the wrong date!
“We didn’t get together in March, you idiot! That’s your and your ex’s anniversary, not ours! We started dating on the 29th of April! You were the one who asked me out, how could you forget?!” he had cried out, dramatically, cracking his voice in the middle of the sentences.
“That’s bullshit and you know it!” Chuuya had said. “The 29th is my birthday, not our anniversary! You accuse me of messing up dates, but you’re the one with a terrible memory!” When Dazai looked at Chuuya’s hand, he had his pointer finger up- which meant, he wasn’t lying . Just a quick sign language they had come up with on their way there, to avoid stuff going too far or getting too personal.
(one finger up, truth; two fingers up, lie. Fingers spread open, keep going, fingers closed in a fist, change the topic.)
He had then countered, twisting and turning the narrative as much as humanly possible, convincing the therapist that Chuuya was a manipulative liar and that they had indeed gotten together on his birthday- but of course, he had forgotten because he had been too drunk.
So now, he is pretending to sob, trying not to laugh at Chuuya’s response to the sentence “you passed out drunk on your birthday night”- which had been, an index finger up.
So, truth. Not surprising. The redhead looks just like someone who gets drunk with red wine in his leisure time.
“Well, if you don’t want to come here you should’ve told me earlier, before making me spend a hundred bucks on this fucking appointment!” Chuuya counters, as he discards yet another drenched paper tissue.
The therapist clears his voice and calls the attention back to himself for the first time since the session began. Finally, Dazai thinks. His main goal is messing with people, and paying someone just to be a spectator is useless. For that, they could’ve just gone arguing in the middle of the park at school closing hours.
“I’m going to need you to please calm down and answer a few of my questions.” He says, as he squirms awkwardly in his seat. “I usually start by asking what made a couple seek professional help, but I’d rather start off with some more… positive questions, to help the better side of things come out easier.” The man says. Paraphrased, it should sound something like "Let's see if there's still something worth saving". Dazai is happy to notice he looks already terrified, “So, tell me. Why did you originally fall in love? I want you two to both think about the best part of your partner.”
Chuuya shoots him a glance that reads as a smirk, by the way, his eyes narrow ever so slightly. Dazai notices, against his will, that they're pretty. A sky-before-a-storm kind of gray he’s rarely seen on other people. Unfair, really.
“Why don’t you go first, darling ? You love telling this story.” Chuuya says, his tone pestered with acted anger, a sly tinge of teasing in the nickname only Dazai can sense. The motherfucker. He dries away a few more crocodile tears, then begins narrating. The therapist starts jotting down notes, relieved to have somehow temporarily fixed the situation. Or so he thinks. Dazai wonders if he should feel bad for him, before deciding he doesn't.
“We met in the second year of high school, when he moved to my same class. He was the most annoying guy ever, you know? Always screaming and annoying the teachers. One day he dragged me into an argument and got me into detention. I was a top student of course, (he raises two fingers, and lies . Chuuya looks at his hands and holds back a laugh, molding into an annoyed grunt) so detention was something that could’ve ruined me and my excellent grades! I guess he felt bad for it and went to the teacher, apologizing and asking to atone for both his and my punishment, as the argument had obviously been his fault. But of course, he’s always been too proud to admit being in the wrong, so he flipped the whole thing and told me he did so just because he wanted me to offer him physics lessons! He sucked at physics (Chuuya shows his two fingers raised, lie. By how quick and determined he is to point that out, it must be something important for him. A STEM major of some sort, perhaps? Dazai’s even more hooked). So I did and now we’re here, I guess.”
The therapist quickly writes it down, struggling to keep up with Dazai’s talking speed. He looks at Chuuya when he’s done.
“Sir, do you agree with what your partner said?” He asks.
Chuuya, of course, shakes his head. “See, I told you you had an awful fucking memory. I did not force you to give me physics lessons! First of all, it was history! I was failing the class and it was your fault, since you stole and burned my book on the third day of school. Stop acting like you were a saint! You got detention as much as I did, you just were the teacher’s bootlicker and always managed to dodge it! (He rolls his eyes when Dazai raises one finger. Truth. ‘ To be expected’ he seems to be saying). And second of all, I did not flip the situation! I went and confessed because you had been bugging me for three days!”
“See? He doesn’t want to admit he did a nice gesture for me! It’s like he’s afraid of showing affection or anything!”
“Might it be a lack of self-acceptance?” Asks the therapist hesitantly, raising an eyebrow and looking at the both of them.
(“Any hard no?” Had asked Chuuya before entering.
“Nah, I’m fine with everything. How about you?”
“No cheating or internalized homophobia type of shit. It’s boring, and if I wanted to be the side hustle of a man in denial, I could’ve simply gone on Grindr.” Chuuya had said.
“Oh, we’ve gotten an experienced veteran I see~”
“Not what I meant! I haven’t done any of that, my friends have!” Chuuya had replied, with a sudden tinge of red splashing his face. Dazai found it kinda hilarious, how the guy that blindly accepted a hundred bucks first date with a stranger suddenly shied away from the possibility of having had any random hook-up.)
Dazai shakes his head, shooing away the option. “I wish it was. He’s just a huge, ingrateful piece of shit.”
“Hey! Watch your mouth!” Chuuya snaps, turning his head towards him, “So says the pathological liar!”
(Dazai raises one finger. Truth. Chuuya shoots him a glance, half a lack of surprise, half a question. Dazai spreads all his fingers against his thigh in response. ‘ Go on, ’ they’re saying.)
“Please maintain an acceptable tone of voice.” The man in front of them asks. Chuuya and Dazai quiet down, straightening on their chairs. The man resumes his talk, “Thank you. From what you both have said, the traits you two seem to despise about the other have been present since the first days of your relationship. This clearly leads me to ask you what circumstances caused the relationship to blossom. What are the positive qualities you first noticed in the other and made you both fall in love? Your relationship has been going on for three years despite the difficulties, so I’m expecting many good qualities.”
Dazai likes- no, loves this question. He turns towards Chuuya once again. It’s a brief look, but Chuuya gets it right away. Dazai decides to put aside -at least for now- the incredible ability the redhead seems to have when it comes to reading him. No one’s ever quite come this close, not even his best friend. Odasaku seems to be immune to them, not even catching up on the fact that Dazai might be trying to tell him something.
Chuuya however can, incredibly well too, and is now telling him to “Go first, Osamu. I’m sure you have a lot to say,” he says, a greenish-tinged smile that doesn’t reach anywhere near his eyes.
His first name leaves him startled for a second. He doesn’t like how it sounds on Chuuya’s tongue. Too soft, almost cheesy, and it tastes rotten . It irks him so much a shiver runs down his spine.
“I think what made me fall for him years ago was his… presence, you know? His way of dressing, of talking… He was charming and I fell for him right away.”
(two fingers up. Lie. He makes sure to flash them up a few times too, to reaffirm the statement. Chuuya nimbly kicks his shin and he has to fight with himself not to let out a screech. Asshole. He’ll make him pay for it later.)
“That’s understandable. Other traits you would consider important in what you love about him? Preferably, ones you noticed as your relationship developed more and more, outside of appearance.”
“Oh, I’d say his loyalty. He’s never been on the smart side, too cool to study and all that stuff, so he's always trusted me to do everything. He defended me from bullies and indulged in everything I’ve ever done! He’s like a little cute loyal dog, you know?”
(Dazai raises one finger up, truth . Not so sure about the loyalty, even if it was listed as one of his strength points on his profile, but he’s very much sure about him looking like a little dog. He does. A tiny angry chihuahua. He probably could bite your arm off despite his size, no doubt, but still a cute dog. And he despises dogs.)
“Stop with that shit! We’ve gone over this a hundred times, don’t call me your dog!” Chuuya snaps, turning around and leaning forward. He points his index finger straight to his sternum and presses.
“Oh but Chuuya, it’s such a cute nickname! Doctor, don’t you think he resembles one of those small, orange Pomeranians that are all the rage between rich old ladies?”
“I… uh… I’m not allowed to give my opinion on certain topics.”
“Which is a yes! See Chuuya, I’m not the only one who thinks that!”
“Shut up! He didn’t say that!”
“But he did. If he considered my statement false or insulting, he’d have answered differently, don’t you think? But he knows that denying would be a lie, so he’s erasing himself from the topic to look impartial.”
“Well, if I look like a dog you look like a human-sized stockfish! With the dumb face of a mackerel too!”
“Watch your tongue! Mackerels are extremely cute actually, and they have omega-3! Which you obviously don’t know, but it’s good for hair growth and it’s one of the ingredients of that smelly, pricey shampoo you bought three weeks ago!”
one finger up from Chuuya. Truth. Did he really buy a fucking omega 3-based shampoo? After a second thought tho, Dazai guesses it makes sense. His hair is shiny, looking like a cascade of pure silk or some fancy material he was too poor to even know the name of. No wonder he actually takes care of it. So unlike Dazai, who’s been living off the same brand of 5 in 1 body wash for the last three years. Honestly, he doesn’t even know what those extra two - shampoo, conditioner, shower gel, and…?- are supposed to be.
He wonders what profanities Chuuya would think of that…
“Well, at least I don’t fucking wash myself with a 5 in 1 man body wash that’s fucking named cold power or something! Sorry for caring about my hygiene!”
…And now he knows.
The arguing goes on for what feels like hours. They’re facing each other now, chairs sideways. The poor therapist had long forgotten and left somewhere behind his desk, a kinda cheap and tacky living embellishment of his studio. Dazai thinks, amidst the chaos, that the man could be a perfect coat hanger. Tall, sickly skinny, face so anonymous you could forget in the blink of an eye. Chuuya, on the other hand, would be a tacky, loud fake painting he’d try to get rid of and miserably fail to.
Because Chuuya wakes up early (one finger up,) and doesn’t like that Dazai takes hours to get out of bed (Dazai wonders what gave it away. Maybe the unironed clothes. One finger up). Because Dazai hates sentimentalism (truth) and Chuuya’s too much the romantic type (lie. Chuuya raises two fingers and shoots him a look. You call this romantic. It says.)
Dazai doesn’t know whether to feel creeped out or thrilled when he’s faced with a total stranger (is he, tho?) who somehow guesses without missing a beat his awful habit of drinking too much whiskey, his tendency to lose stuff around, his soft spot for cats.
When he discards a question about their intimacy with “I’m not too fond of that,” he raises a tentative finger. Visually nonchalant, he waits for Chuuya’s reaction to the one detail that has been ricocheting potential partners off him like a bulletproof vest.
But Chuuya doesn’t budge, piercing through him with no visible sign of struggle. When the doctor asks him his thoughts on the topic he counters quickly, like he’s answering a basic math question. “There’s plenty of valid reasons I want to smash his head against a wall, but that’s never been one of them.” His tone is angry, not dropping their facade, but he almost shily puts one finger up.Dazai takes that in and settles, permanent ink on paper, it’s thrilling.
The banter is finally put to a stop not too long after the appointment reaches the thirty-minute check mark. After arguing about Chuuya’s brother’s terrible attitude towards Dazai (Chuuya puts a finger up at that. Dazai guesses his brother disapproved of the concept of their first date and really, he can’t blame him) and about Chuuya’s job (turns out, he’s the son of a CEO. Which, well, Dazai can’t complain much about. He smiles to himself a little as he makes shit up about how his job is so time-consuming like he minds). They’re discussing Dazai’s terrible decision of dropping out of college (and he’ll have to ask the redhead how the fuck did he manage to guess that), when the living coat hanger seems to come to life once again, taking a loud breath and making its presence noticeable for the first time in fifteen or so minutes. He slams his hands on the desk and nervously gets up.
“Alright, that's it! I can't take it anymore! I have seen plenty of couples that appeared hopeless, but you two take the cake! It's clear to me that the two of you are not good for each other. I strongly believe that breaking up might be the only solution for both of your sakes!” The man stutters out, as he aims at the door and opens it like he’s running away from a fire.
The lack of professionalism from the man that looks like the textbook definition of a therapist takes both men aback, as they turn to face him. He stands still in his ironed, tailored checkered beige suit that clams his whole fidgeting body, waiting for them to get up.
Chuuya is the first one to speak. He turns around with a motion similar to a driver's, keeping his body pointed towards Dazai but his hands on the chair’s backrest, as he’s looking in the rear window before backing out of a parking lot. “I’m sorry,” he starts, eyebrows scrunched, “what?”
“Your dynamic is fundamentally broken. I’m a therapist, not a fairy who is here to offer you a magical solution! I'll do you a favor and refund your money, but please, for my own sake, leave!”
No more than ten minutes later, Chuuya is staring wide-eyed at the notification on his phone, informing him that the refund has been successfully effectuated and the money will shortly be available again. Dazai plays with the hem of his cardigan with a sigh. Chuuya puts his phone away and grabs his helmet from the pile of old books, in the back of the bookshop.
“Honestly, they should stop giving degrees to clearly unqualified people. I was expecting, I don’t know, to walk out of there as a remade man!” Chuuya walks out of the shop and he closes the backdoor. With a bored hop, he jumps off the steps. “Now I’m bored. If I had known earlier, I could’ve avoided clearing my whole schedule for something that lasted what, thirty minutes?”
“Well, at least he didn’t drop out of college. Unlike someone else here.” Chuuya side-eyes him with a smirk.
“Hey! You don’t shame people for their academic struggles!” He nudges him, but Chuuya quickly dodges.
When they get to Chuuya’s bike, he’s thoroughly bothered by how quickly the redhead slips on his ugly helmet, not even bothering to raise the visor to greet him with those arrogant gray eyes of his. What an ill-mannered gentleman. He watches him fiddle with the keys.
“Wait.” Dazai jolts. He grabs him by his arm before he takes off, alongside his flashy bike and the last drop of adrenaline Dazai will know for a while.
“How did you know I was a dropout?” He asks. Chuuya has been lowkey quiet since they left the studio, a relief for his ears, truly! But also, a clear indicator he probably didn’t enjoy the “date” much. This is the only thing he has left to figure out from the session, and he might as well ask it now, not to be a bother later, messaging him when he probably doesn’t want him to, or when he’s too busy putting all the data he’s acquired on his in a database to haunt him for the rest of his life. really, Dazai’s just making sure he isn’t a stalker. If he didn’t have this atrocious doubt threatening his safety, he would already be walking home, away from this annoying redhead.
Chuuya stares at him- Dazai guesses he is. He can’t see his eyes behind the black visor, but there’s this itchy burning sensation on his cheeks he can’t quite chase away…
“Oh, can’t guess it yourself?” he counters. Great. Exactly what a stalker would say. Dazai sighs, leaving his hold on his arm.
"Alriiiight, I’ll get going if you want to play hard to get-”
“But… there’s this place I know, few blocks from here,” his voice is clouded by the helmet, but Dazai can’t miss the sketchy tone laced with every word. And be an elegant man like he is damned, missing such fine detail. “One of my friends proposed to his girlfriend there, and when he got rejected, the staff put the check on the house’s name…”
Brake, clutch. Dazai doesn’t know how to drive, but he hears his brain turning up. He kinda imagines it like a car. A race one, maybe. He visualizes all the lights turning on in an instant.
“So, since my flight back home is tomorrow morning, and I’ve already cleared my schedule…”
The first gear is kicked in, and the handbrake is released. He doesn’t like where this is going, not even a little bit (lie).
“I was thinking that, if you managed to get both of us free dinner, if you get what I mean, I might reveal to you how I know you’re not only a liar about your height, but also a dropout.”
Exactly what a stalker would say.
Metaphorically speaking, he feels his race-car brain crash head-first into a wall when Chuuya opens the bike’s trunk bag and hands him another helmet. Like, full crash and all. He swears he hears the clatter of the metallic pieces clang against themselves and all.
“What?” He asks, and wonders if he looks as much as a gaping mackerel as he feels. He probably sounds like one too.
“Not interested?” Chuuya kicks up his visor and looks at him long enough to make him shiver. No, really. He should get a pair of dark brown contact lenses. It can’t be legal to walk around looking like that; derogatory, of course (lie).
“Honestly, I admire your boldness. Thinking I’d ever trust you enough to get on that bike with you as a driver.”
He might drive him to an abandoned house and murder him in cold blood, then send his body parts to the cult he’s formed on the dark web. He has the face of a killer. Creepy eyes, well-defined nose and chin, charming features-
“Well, then I’ll have to hit up my second option. I’m sure she won’t turn me do-”
Dazai snatches the offered helmet from the redhead. “It wasn’t a no!”
Curiosity killed the cat. Well, he guesses he’ll get a dope tombstone. Maybe a quote about his incredible wit leading him to a cruel, devastating death that wretched the hearts of dozens of lovely ladies. But can you blame a man trying to preserve his safety?
His hand brushes against a newly gloved one and a curious tingle sprouts in his fingers. He can feel Chuuya grin under the helmet as he gets on the bike.
“Scared?” Chuuya asks. He gets on the backseat of the bike and gets himself ready to hang onto the trunk bag, but Chuuya seems to disagree. He grabs his arms and forces him to wrap them around his torso.
What a show-off. Clearly trying to impress him with his ridiculously well-defined muscles.
“Of you driving? Absolutely terrified .”
He makes sure Chuuya feels, pressed against his shirt as he starts the engine, the two raised fingers of his left hand.
There’s this bubbling feeling of hilarity growing in his chest that's almost suffocating, as the motorcycle starts and Chuuya gives gas, speeding through the streets. He wonders, as they pass car after car (of fucking course, he's breaking the speeding limit) if he could die because of it.