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Chuuya sniffs, rubbing his nose. The lights in his apartment are dim. The only lighting coming from the music playing in the dimmed television screen. Chuuya's long past recognition of what music is playing though - he’s long past even knowing that it’s well past midnight. All he knows is that the line of coke he did an hour ago is wearing off, and Dazai has the baggy.
Ever since they’d gotten older, the infamous Double Black duo had found that they could not only count on each other in missions, but for coping as well.
To the two, coping could mean anything from random hookups, to getting drunk, to wrapping Dazai's bandages after he’d had a bad night, to this: days long drug benders.
Normally they’d occur in Chuuyas apartment. Actually, they’d always occur in Chuuyas apartment because he was not about to be doing any sort of substance in Dazai’s filthy, disgusting house.
Tonight was the start of a long ‘coping session’, as the boys liked to call them, which involved enough cocaine for the both of them to die twice over if they so wished, and a ton of weed.
In the kitchen, there’s two bongs. Home made, and shitty - like they’d been made in a rush - Chuuya kept finding himself holding it, packing it again and again. His hands are shaking and his vision isn’t exactly focusing, but he’s still managing to press the substance into the cone pieces, press the opening of the iced-coffee bottle to his lips, cover the carb and light the lighter.
Once the redhead has cleared his lungs of smoke, he waddles his way over to the open living room and takes a moment to look at his surroundings. The ceiling lights are off, but the lamp in the corner is on. The TV is on, but the settings have been messed with so the screen isn’t bright; there's music playing from it, a song chuuya doesn’t recognise. The rug in the centre of the room has been slightly kicked up, and the leather sofa has been moved to cover the entry to the balcony. Then there is Dazai. He’s sitting on the sofa as if he himself is a part of the furniture, completely zoned out.
It takes Chuuya a moment before he walks over - he’s just swaying in the spot he’s standing, half admiring Dazai, half squinting at him. It appears that the brunette has taken off his bandages - in hindsight it’s probably because the entire apartment was almost uncomfortably warm.
Chuuya doesn’t say anything as he stumbles over to Dazai, tripping over the upturned rug. He swings one leg on the other's lap, sitting on skinny thighs, shifting about to get comfortable.
Normally they wouldn’t act like this, especially not sober, but there’s only so much children can take. Besides, in Chuuyas mind, if Dazai wasn’t here getting higher than the empire state with him, then he’d be off somewhere doing whatever god awful things he does. At least he’s safe with Chuuya.
On the other hand though, Chuuya isn’t sure he’d trust anybody else enough to get high with them. Before Dazai, he didn't have much experience with using, but as the two had gotten older and smoking Osamu’s cigarettes to calm down after a mission turned into planning a week off to do continuous lines of cocaine, Chuuya began to realise that the only person he’d probably ever truly feel safe with was his partner. He thinks it started with the fact that if Arahabiki used Chuuya’s drug weakened mind to escape, Dazai would be there to stop him with one touch: nobody else could do that.
After a moment of sitting and staring at his partner, Chuuya hummed, leaning forward and pressing his lips to Dazais. He tilted his head, hands raising to cup Dazai’s face as he pressed in. It took a moment for Dazai to snap out of his own mind, but eventually he was kissing Chuuya back, his own hands resting on the smallers waist, pulling him closer.
Their lips worked in time - in harmony - as Chuuya’s lips and mouth moved against Dazai’s. It was needy, almost pathetic. It was Dazai and Chuuya.
Eventually, after Chuuya had started nipping at the brunette's lips - Dazai responding with a needy whine this time - the redhead pulled back, his hands slowly moving down to trace the outline of Dazais figure. He’s thin, and tall, and as his hands move, so does Chuuya, shuffling back and off the sofa ever so slowly until he finds himself nestled in the floor in between Dazai’s thigh.
The contrast of Dazai’s cold skin on his own makes Chuuya shiver as he peers up at Dazai through long, strawberry lashes. Words don’t need to be said, they both know.
Chuuyas' warm hands run up the others thighs, but don’t dip under his shorts, instead reaching into his pocket and pulling out the baggy. He’s about to turn around to go and set the powder up on the couch cushion, until he catches sight of a particular thin, pale lime on Dazai’s thigh.
Chuuya hums as he glances up at Dazai, his fingers tracing over the many lines littering his partner's legs. Scars both old and new, some raised, others sitting flush against his skin, all of it is there for Chuuya to look at if he so wished.
In the future, Chuuya would be sober - Dazai as well - and would kiss each and every scar, silent reassurances that life would be okay. That was not this time though; even in the intoxicated state they were in, they both knew it would be an outright lie.
Instead, Chuuya opened the baggy, looking up at Dazai.
“Hold still, okay Mackerel?”
Chuuya doesn’t need a response to know Dazai heard him.
He gets right to it, tipping the baggy enough for a small amount of the powder to fall out, watching as it tumbled onto pale skin. Chuuya pulled an old card out of his pocket, and started to gently scrape the powder into a thin line, using Dazai’s scars as a guide.
When he’s done and satisfied with his handy work he tucks a strand of hair behind his ear and leans down, his cheek resting on Osamus thigh as presses one nostril closed and quickly breathes in the cocaine with the other. It’s over in a matter of seconds - it’s almost disappointing.
Chuuya quickly sets up one more line on another scar, repeating the same action again before resting back on his heels, rubbing his nose and eyes as he sighed, taking a moment.
“Chuuya’s on the floor like the good dog he is,” Dazai’s the first to break the silence, grinning down from his place on the couch.
Chuuya just rolls his eyes, resting his head back on Dazai’s thigh.
“Shut the fuck up beanpole.”
They fall back into silence, just for a little bit, because after some time, Chuuya begins to kiss the inside of Dazai’s thighs, getting ready to spend the next hour or so fucking until they need another hit; even if they’re taking their own fun cocktail of substances, at the end of the day they still prefered to spend their time tangled up in each others bodies.