Archive of Our Own ^beta

For the most part, Chuuya liked being a part of the Mafia. 

He liked getting to work in a large building with lots of windows. He liked getting to order people around. He liked the adrenaline rush of a powerful opponent he knew he could crush with his bare hands. He really liked the paychecks. 

What Chuuya did not like, however, was having to shop for groceries at three o’clock in the morning. 

Technically speaking, it’s not like being in broad daylight would kill him. But he only shopped at one specific grocery store (since he obviously couldn’t get delivery to his apartment), and the neighborhood was crawling with enforcement. He could crush them all to a pulp, but that would cause a scene and Chuuya wasn’t keen on killing innocent people, despite what people might assume. 

All this to say, he had a perfectly valid reason for being out and about at such an hour. The same couldn't be said for everyone. 

Chuuya was looking at the prices of some of the seafood when he heard someone humming nearby. Who else would be shopping for their groceries at three in the morning? Chuuya thought, which was perfectly reasonable, so he turned to see who it was. 

As fate would have it, the person was Dazai fucking Osamu. 

Chuuya turned around immediately. He didn’t have the energy to deal with this—maybe Dazai would just walk the other way and he could avoid the headache? It had been a long day and the universe owed it to him, right? 

That was foolish thinking, though, because the universe was a bitch and they both knew it.  

“Slug?” 

Chuuya huffed a deep sigh, pushed a loose curl or two out of his face, and turned around. “Mackerel.” 

Dazai looked genuinely surprised—an expression he didn’t wear often. “I didn’t expect to see you here,” he said, running his eyes up and down Chuuya’s frame. It had been a while since Dazai had seen him in anything but his work clothes, Chuuya quickly realized. The same could be said for the both of them, though. Like Chuuya, Dazai was wearing a pair of plain sweatpants and a plain shirt, but his was long-sleeved and slightly baggier than Chuuya’s ripped band tee. 

“Well, if I’d known you’d be here, I would’ve stayed in bed,” Chuuya huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. 

Dazai chuckled. “Such a foul mouth. Lacking your beauty rest lately?” 

“You’ve got no room to talk. You’re out here at three in the morning shopping for canned crab,” Chuuya shot back, gesturing to the basket Dazai was carrying. 

He shrugged. “I could say the same thing.” 

“You’re not a wanted criminal.” 

 Dazai’s smile was sharp. “Of course not.” 

They both paused for a moment after that, analyzing each other. Dazai looked thin as ever, bandages just barely exposed by the droopy neckline of his shirt. There were purple bruises under his eyes—not the most severe Chuuya had ever seen them, but considerable. He still had the same porcelain skin, the same dark curls, the same mocking smile. 

Dazai really was beautiful. Chuuya wondered if he’d ever told him that. 

After the fall of the Decay of Angels, the Agency and Port Mafia cut all contact. What use was an alliance without anyone to ally against? Dazai and Chuuya fell back on opposite sides of the city just like they were supposed to, and Chuuya was mostly sure this was the first time they’d spoken more than a few words to each other in… half a year? Probably more. 

“Whatever,” Chuuya muttered, shaking his head. He really didn’t have the energy for this. He grabbed what he was looking for, adjusted his basket, and made to walk past Dazai without another word. They brushed arms as he passed, and Dazai didn’t say anything as he walked away. 

Then, the strangest thing happened. 

The moment they made contact, pain seared through Chuuya’s arm, causing him to stumble forward. “What the fuck?” he gasped, clutching his arm. It burned, spreading from his elbow down to his fingers and up to his shoulder, and then through the rest of his body in an instant. It went up to his head, down to his feet, and then… 

It faded away. Gone, just like that. 

Chuuya whipped around to ask Dazai what the fuck that was, but he paused when he saw Dazai’s expression. He looked caught off guard, but there was something else. Chuuya narrowed his eyes. Dread? 

He dropped his basket and strode toward Dazai without a second thought. Before he could reply, Chuuya gripped his collar and pressed him into the shelves, bringing their faces close enough that their noses almost touched. 

“Alright bastard,” he hissed. “Talk.” 

Dazai was clearly rattled—Chuuya could feel his chest rise and fall unevenly, and his pupils looked slightly dilated—but he didn’t care. If this was a ploy to get at the Port Mafia (his family, twisted though it was), he would get answers. 

“Now, now. That’s no way to treat your master.”

Chuuya slammed him against the shelves again. “I’m not in the fucking mood,” he snapped, but Dazai’s expression didn’t change. It was still unreadable, still not giving an inch. “Tell me what you know.” 

“I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I still have a few—“

Chuuya clenched his jaw. Without thinking, he slapped Dazai across the face—hard. “What,” he whispered, “the fuck was that?” 

Dazai’s eyes widened. Just barely, enough that the average person would miss it, but Chuuya wasn’t the average person and he knew almost as much about Dazai as Dazai did. 

He saw it, only for a moment before it disappeared. Fear. 

“It’s an ability,” Dazai told him, still tense all over. “From a rogue user Kunikida and I were tracking down. It works remotely, so I couldn't nullify it.”

Chuuya searched his expression. No trace of humor, no mockery. He stepped back and released Dazai’s collar, frowning. 

“It activates on contact,” he continued as Chuuya watched him warily. It was unlike Dazai to give up information simply through brute force. Didn’t stop him from trying, obviously, but still. “I was hit during a mission this morning. It won’t affect anyone but the two of us, and it will probably wear off in a few days—a week at most. The ability user said two days, but I don’t believe that.” 

Chuuya narrowed his eyes. “Are you gonna tell me what it does?”

“I’d much rather not,” was the predictable answer. 

Chuuya scowled. “Fine, keep it to yourself. But this better not get in my way or I’m chucking you into the sun, understand?” 

Dazai chuckled at that, but Chuuya thought it sounded forced. “Of course.” 

He looked him up and down one more time. “Good.” Then, because this was already confusing and irritating enough, he retrieved his discarded basket and proceeded to the checkout counter, sparing Dazai not one glance as he left. 

Jesus fuck, he thought, running a hand through his hair. I need a nap. 

***

Chuuya would have liked to say his life went back to normal after that encounter. And, to be fair, it started that way. He woke up feeling perfectly rested and got dressed without having to search his apartment for a missing sock. He made it to work on time and Higuchi gave him a stack of reports two days early, which meant he could get ahead of his workload. Everything was perfectly fine. 

Then, he was summoned by the Boss. 

This wasn’t out of the ordinary, of course, so Chuuya wasn’t worried walking in. Mori was sitting at his desk when he arrived, so he stood near the chairs on the other side and took off his hat. 

“Boss,” he said, bowing his head. 

“Chuuya,” Mori replied, smiling. The sight would always be a bit unsettling, no matter how many times he’d seen it. “I wanted to check in on your latest mission reports; the infiltration of the Setting Sun?” 

Chuuya nodded. “I have one more page to review and then they’ll be finished.” 

Mori smiled again. “Wonderful. And I’m going to request that you take a small break after this, yes? You’ve been on back-to-back missions for three weeks now, and we wouldn’t want it to inhibit your performance.” 

“I’m in top shape, boss,” Chuuya cut in too quickly. Sure, he hadn’t been getting as much rest lately as he usually did, but so what? This was the mafia, and he wasn’t even a real human being. He was fine. 

“It was not a question, Chuuya.” Mori’s eyes glittered in the low lighting. “You will be off next week from Monday to Wednesday. You’ve earned it, anyway, and I believe your subordinates could also use a reprieve. They’ve become sloppy recently; surely you’ve noticed, yes?” 

“I have,” Chuuya answered and immediately frowned. He didn’t mean to say that—he didn’t mean to respond at all, and the words forced themselves out of him anyway. What the hell? Was he really more worn out than he thought? Or…

Mori didn’t look surprised in the least, though, and only waved a hand. “Thank you, Chuuya, that will be all.” 

Chuuya bowed his head again and replaced his hat before leaving Mori’s office. He ran into Higuchi on his way out of the building, who was carrying a concerningly large stack of papers. “Sir,” she said, stopping in front of him as she tried to catch her breath. “Sir, these reports have to be filed for—“

“Sorry, Higuchi,” Chuuya cut in, offering her an apologetic smile. “I have somewhere I need to be. Here.” He tapped the stack and levitated it from her grasp, setting it down in a nearby crate. “I’ll get to it when I get back. Don’t stress yourself out, yeah?” He patted her shoulder before sidestepping her, exiting the building with a clenched jaw. 

The Armed Detective Agency, unlike the Mori Corp building, was very nondescript. If Chuuya hadn’t visited a few times for meetings while they were dealing with the Decay of Angels, he would have missed it completely. 

He didn’t, though, and it only took him a moment to get in because he could fly and doors were for suckers. 

Once Chuuya landed in the office, all eyes were on him. He recognized most of them; Yosano was still a favorite drinking buddy of his, and Kenji was tossing some suspicious human-shaped bags out the window. There was the genius detective too, sucking on a lollipop while he talked to someone on the phone—“No, Poe, there’s no such thing as too much sugar”—and the weretiger perched at his desk next to the blond man, Dazai’s new partner. 

He scowled. No sign of Dazai, though. 

“Nakahara.” The voice snapped Chuuya from his musings and he looked to find Kunikida standing just a few feet away, hand on the notebook in his pocket. “Why are you here?” 

Chuuya didn’t want to reply to that thinly veiled threat, but suddenly, his mouth was working on his own accord and he couldn’t swallow the words, couldn’t clamp his lips shut or catch anything between his teeth. “I’m looking for Dazai. Something’s wrong and I don’t know what it is, but he definitely does.” 

Chuuya clenched his fists to keep from shouting—in frustration, in confusion, in I-hate-Dazai-so-fucking-much feeling. 

“Where is he?” he asked instead, shoving his hands into his pockets. Hopefully, the perfect portrait of nonchalance. 

“We can’t just tell you things like that,” was Kunikida’s careful reply. “There’s no alliance justifying us giving away his whereabouts.” 

Chuuya tried his very, very best not to bring the entire building to the ground. “You tell me where he is or I level the building to search for him myself,” he said, giving Kunikida his best death glare (which was pretty damn scary if he might say so). 

Apparently, Kunikida could hear the sincerity in that threat. His frown deepened and his brow furrowed further, but he let go of his notebook and took a few steps back to his desk. “Dazai didn’t come in for work today,” he said. “If I were to guess, he’s either in his dorm or floating down a river somewhere.” 

Chuuya scowled, pressing two fingers to his temple. Of course the bastard wasn’t here. More proof there was more going on here than he had let on, Chuuya supposed. 

He didn’t wish the Agency well, but he did see the genius detective’s knowing smirk and he didn’t like it. 

Without another word, Chuuya spun on his heel and left the way he came, bound for the agency dorms with a taut jaw and a sinking feeling in his gut. 

***

Doors were for suckers, so Chuuya kicked Dazai’s down. 

He didn’t look surprised to see him, of course. In fact, his lips quirked upward into an amused smirk. “I didn’t expect to get a visit from my favorite pipsqueak in black so soon,” he crooned. “To what do I owe such a pleasure, I wonder.” 

Chuuya didn’t take the bait. He stormed toward the stove where Dazai looked to be boiling water for his cup ramen and stopped just a few inches shy of his front, barely restraining himself from socking Dazai right in the nose despite his droopy-looking eyes. 

“Spill,” he demanded, crossing his arms over his chest. 

Dazai’s smile didn’t falter. “You want to know why you can’t lie.” 

Chuuya scowled. “Of fucking course I do. This ability should only be affecting you, so talk.” 

Dazai studied him for a moment, attention flicking between one eye and the other before he let out a short sigh. “The ability connects two people at random and forbids them from lying to anyone for, according to the ability user, only a few days,” he explained. “That’s how you became a part of this.” 

Chuuya crossed his arms over his chest. So this goes both ways? He can’t lie to anyone, but neither can Dazai. 

He cocked his chin up. “Are you lying?”

“Yes.” 

Dazai looked like he was in pain, but his answer didn’t stop there. 

“The ability identifies the target’s soulmate and affects them both. It’s hardly random.” 

Chuuya nearly choked. The target’s soulmate. 

For a few moments, the only sound to be heard was the boiling water on the stove. Dazai turned away to deal with the boiling water and Chuuya watched him wordlessly, frozen. 

That couldn’t be true. Something kept him from asking Dazai directly, though, so he said nothing instead. 

Dazai carried on with his ramen, stirring it around in the cup before turning back to Chuuya. “You can sit,” he said mildly, gesturing to the counter and acting as if he didn’t just turn Chuuya’s world on its axis. 

That wasn’t true. Dazai was a lot of terrible things, but he was a fantastic liar. There was no such thing as soulmates, and if there were, they would never look like the two of them. 

“No,” Chuuya muttered, frowning again. “No, I need to… no.” 

Dazai watched him from the counter, but he didn’t say anything else. 

Chuuya blinked several times, and then he made his way back toward the doorway. He contemplated bidding Dazai farewell, but he bit his tongue and stepped over the door without another word. 

***

“I can’t come into work today. Coming down with something, I think.” Just for good measure, Chuuya forced a cough up his throat. 

“That doesn’t sound good, Chuuya. Please take all the time you need to recover. We can’t our best martial artist in anything but tip-top shape,” Mori tutted with his not-quite-a-threat-not-quite-not. 

“Thanks, Boss. I’ll try to be in tomorrow.” 

“I wish you a quick recovery, Chuuya,” was the last thing he said before the line went dead. Chuuya let out a long breath, leaning back in his chair and pinching the bridge of his nose. He was never a good liar to begin with, but he definitely couldn’t sacrifice it altogether and still get his work done. He had four missions he still needed to get done this week and now they might be left to Kaji. 

He was just about to go pour himself a ten o’clock glass of wine when his phone began ringing. 

Chuuya frowned. The caller was unknown, but this was his personal phone and he didn’t give that number out to just anyone. 

He picked up. “What?” 

“Nakahara? This is Kunikida Doppo from the Agency. Dazai has been incapacitated and the rest of us are dealing with—“

Chuuya blinked. Was that gunfire? 

“We’re occupied. I’ve sent you his location; we’ll be in your debt if you can—“ 

“Shut up, Glasses,” Chuuya cut in, forehead propped up in his palm. Of course. “I’ll be there. Don’t go spouting nonsense about debts.” 

He hung up without a moment to waste and grabbed his overcoat on the way out, throwing it over his shoulders with far less care than usual. 

The address Kunikida sent wasn’t familiar, but Chuuya found it in no time. A nondescript warehouse out near the ports, windows barred shut and doors locked. 

Not that it mattered. 

“Alright fuckers, start running!” Chuuya knocked the doors down with one kick, hands still in his pockets as he waltzed into the warehouse. There was one weak lightbulb flickering in the middle, illuminating a group of four or five men and one tied to a chair, trench coat discarded on the ground nearby. 

Dazai.  

Upon hearing the doors crash down, all heads turn his way. Chuuya couldn’t help but smirk, approaching them with the kind of confidence cultivated simply by years of being the best. Adrenaline began to spread through him like honey, sticky and sweet and consuming, and he stared them down with a toothy grin. 

“Bring it on.” 

Immediately, three of them tried to storm him with two knives each while the others shot at him from behind. It didn’t matter. Chuuya stopped the bullets and sent them all back to their firers before wiping the floor with the other three in seconds. They struggled on the ground, whimpering and wriggling around like fish out of water, and Chuuya savored the sight before he sliced all three of their jugulars and watched the blood leak onto the dirty concrete. 

Then, without missing a beat, Chuuya went to kneel in front of Dazai. He looked pretty bad, head lolled to the side and eyes shut. There was a bruise on his left eye and one near his jaw—probably more in other places, too. His wrists and ankles would be red and raw, judging by the rope the bastards used to tie him up. 

The knives though, Chuuya remembered, had been bloody before he shoved them into the kidnappers’ necks. They probably sliced Dazai at least a few times before Chuuya got here. 

He unbuttoned part of Dazai’s shirt and rolled up his sleeves. Shit. A gash across his stomach and two more, one by his shoulder and the other just below his ribs. A few little cuts peppered his arms, but nothing that wouldn’t heal good as new. 

“Oh.” Dazai’s voice was scratchy and quiet, but it nearly had Chuuya jumping out of his skin. “The slug decided to come and save me. How romantic.” 

Chuuya rolled his eyes and ignored the heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach as he began to untie the restraints. “There’s nothing romantic about it, asshole,” he murmured, hauling one of Dazai’s arms around his shoulder before they began walking toward the doors. It was painfully nostalgic, carrying a half-conscious Dazai out of an abandoned building after some band of idiots nearly sliced him to pieces. This was what their partnership was like when they were kids. 

Chuuya swallowed the lump in his throat. “You’re not in great shape,” he said quietly. “Must’ve had a reason to get caught but you didn’t need to let them fuck you up this bad.” 

“Chibi sounds worried.” 

“You’re just delusional.” 

Dazai hummed noncommittally. “Yes.” 

Chuuya’s steps faltered for just a moment. That was an odd thing to say. 

It only took one phone call to get a car outside the warehouse. Chuuya made sure to be careful with Dazai’s wounds as he propped him up in the backseat, slipping in soundlessly next to him. The driver knew where to go, and Chuuya didn’t need to remind him that he would sooner shoot himself in the head than speak a word about this to anyone. 

The drive back to Chuuya’s apartment was silent. Dazai’s lashes would flutter every now and again, but he didn’t speak again and stayed unconscious for the entire ride. He was worse off than Chuuya expected—why hadn’t he been able to get out of there? The thugs weren’t ability users as far as he could tell, and Dazai shouldn’t have had a problem taking care of a few knives. 

Eventually, the car rolled up to Chuuya’s apartment complex and he stepped out, propping a mostly-limp Dazai up on his shoulders. No one said anything when he entered the building, nor did they ask any questions. The building was mafia-owned, so blood hardly fazed anyone anymore. 

Chuuya kept quiet as they took the elevator up to the top floor. Dazai would mumble something here and there under his breath, but it was either too quiet or too garbled for even Chuuya to process. 

Eventually, he was able to get into his apartment and immediately dragged Dazai with him to the bathroom, propping his partner up on the closed toilet seat as he started a bath. 

“I’m gonna clean out those cuts,” Chuuya muttered, and Dazai only gave him a lazy nod in reply. He wasn’t even sure if he heard him. 

While the water was warming up, Chuuya got to work cleaning the wounds. The first to deal with was the large gash across his stomach; it was still bleeding slowly. He started with the alcohol, fully prepared for the hiss Dazai let out when it came into contact with the raw skin. 

“Sorry,” he murmured. “I know that hurts.” 

“So cruel,” Dazai whispered, but he sat completely still after that despite the pain he was surely in. That was how he’d always been, even when they were teenagers. They would be in the same place they were now, one of them crouching on the ground and the other on the toilet seat with some life-threatening wound or another. Chuuya tended to curse when things got painful, but Dazai would just lock up like he was now. 

Chuuya couldn’t help the bitter chuckle that bubbled from his lips. It was far too easy to fall into those old habits. 

Dazai was quiet as he wrapped the wound in clean gauze and got started on the others. He was careful, efficient, and it only took a few more minutes before almost all of Dazai ’s upper half was wrapped up good as new. 

“I’m gonna take off the rest of your clothes now,” Chuuya murmured. “That okay?” He only realized that he’d just asked Dazai a deliberate question a second too late. 

“Yes,” was Dazai's quiet reply, accompanied by a small, lazy smile. ”Chuuya can take off my clothes any time he likes.” 

Chuuya cleared his throat and ignored that. The water had been hot for a long time, now, so he stripped Dazai of the rest of his layers before helping him into the bath. It probably wasn’t the best idea to have him bathing right after Chuuya had wrapped all those cuts up, but he wouldn’t tolerate the smell of blood and dust in his house, not even for the sake of his idiot ex-partner. 

Chuuya lathered his hands in shampoo and got to work on Dazai’s hair first, running his hands through the dark curls as gently as possible.

“Hey, Chuuya?” Dazai’s voice was low a throaty—Chuuya should probably go get him a glass of water at some point. 

“Hm?”

“Thank you.” 

Chuuya’s hands stuttered for just a moment. “It’s nothing,” he replied quietly, grateful that he was seated behind Dazai instead of in front. His gaze had a way of making Chuuya feel like he was being dissected, peeled apart layer-by-layer to reveal all the writhing feelings behind his ribs. 

“I didn’t think you’d come.” 

“Someone had to.” 

“It could have been Kunikida.” 

“Kunikida called me.” 

“And you—“

“Is it so hard to believe?” Chuuya cut in, not gentle and not cold. 

“Yes,” Dazai answered immediately. 

Chuuya let out a short sigh at that, pinching his lips together. There he went, asking more questions. As much as he wanted to interrogate Dazai, the thought of doing it now made him feel slightly sick. 

“I thought I lost you.” 

Chuuya’s hands paused in Dazai’s hair. The bathwater was still warm, giving off steam that rose into the air and caressed Chuuya’s bloodstained cheeks. It was silent. 

“No,” Chuuya murmured after a few suffocating moments, so quietly he wasn’t sure if Dazai heard it. “No, you didn’t.” Not really. Not even when he turned eighteen and Dazai shattered everything. Not even four years later when they met again in that disgusting dungeon and Chuuya beat him bloody. Not even in the year after that, after Fyodor and the Decay of Angels, when they didn’t say more than two words to each other. 

Dazai’s words echoed in the back of his head. “The ability identifies the target’s soulmate and affects them both. It’s hardly random.” Soulmate, soulmate, soulmate. 

He heard Dazai swallow. “Okay.” 

***

After they finished, Chuuya lent Dazai a set of clothes—items Chuuya has found in his apartment over the years, stuffed in the back of his closet or tucked behind a shelf somewhere. 

He set up the couch with enough pillows and blankets to suffocate someone and told Dazai not to die in his sleep. 

When he woke up the next morning, the apartment was empty. 

***

It was exactly sixteen days since Chuuya first came into contact with the ability, and he still couldn’t lie. 

Eventually, he had to stop calling in sick and get over it. He didn’t deal with diplomacy very often anyway, and Mori would start to get suspicious if he didn’t recover quickly enough. 

Speaking of which, Mori definitely knew something was wrong. 

“Chuuya, good morning.” Mori stood in the lobby with Elise, turning to glance at Chuuya just as he walked into the building one morning. 

He blinked. “Oh. Good morning, Boss.” 

“Feeling better?” he asked with a saccharine smile, eyes glinting in the early golden glow like obsidian. “I hope it wasn’t something too troublesome. Glossitis can be especially nasty, you know.”

Chuuya did his best to appear unruffled, squaring his shoulders and giving a friendly smile of his own. “I’m feeling much better now. Thank you, Boss.” 

He was pacing his apartment later that night, trying to brainstorm ways to discreetly track down the ability user and get some answers out of them, when his phone started ringing from its place on the kitchen counter. 

He scowled. That ringtone (loud, annoying, obnoxious) was only reserved for one person. 

“You better have some fucking answers, bastard,” Chuuya snapped before Dazai could utter a single word. 

“Goodness, not even a hello. I cannot believe you treat me so coldly, slug,” Dazai huffed on the other end of the line, but Chuuya only rolled his eyes. The sun had been down for hours now and he was sick of trying to navigate this on top of his regular workload. At this rate, he’d have to give up sleep altogether. 

“Just start talking. I know you’ve got at least one theory spinning around, bastard.” 

Dazai hummed. “But I don’t see why I should tell you. You’ll have to make a very convincing case.” 

“You called me. Spit it out before I shatter your windows and beat it out of you myself.”

Dazai sighed at that, sounding like his usual dramatic self, and Chuuya waited as patiently as he possibly could while he moved to his bedroom, plopping down on the mattress with an enviable lack of grace. 

“Well, if you must know, I believe the ability has a remote-trigger stop instead of a time constraint.” 

“Figured as much. What else?” 

“Because the ability is central around lying, I believe the way to stop it lies in the truth.” 

“Stop it with your damn riddles.” 

Dazai’s chuckle was quiet over the line. “So impatient. Solving things like this can be fun, you know.” 

“Not when it prevents me from doing my job, asshole.” 

“Fine, fine. You cannot simply go out and kill the ability user to stop the ability’s effects like a brute,” he said matter-of-factly, to which Chuuya scowled. What was the point, then? “We have to resolve the ability ourselves. Like I said, I think it has something to do with the truth.” 

“Then we’ll be stuck like this forever,” Chuuya grumbled, turning on the TV and flipping to some French baking competition. 

“Chuuya, I’m hurt!” Dazai exclaimed, melodramatic as ever. “You cannot truly think so little of me.” 

“‘Course I do. Seeing you convince an entire room of government officials that you grew up on a farm and worked as a newspaper boy since you were seven has ruined any faith I ever had in you.” 

“I’ll have you know that that was a very impressive performance and you should be grateful that I saved you from having to break out of prison all by yourself.” 

Chuuya snorted. “Sure.” 

He wasn’t sure how it happened, but they continued to talk. They talked about being younger; fifteen and scared, sixteen and stupid, seventeen and on top of the underworld. They talked about that time they went to karaoke and got kicked out because the owner said his ears would start bleeding if they stayed. 

They didn’t talk about those late nights when their minds were too loud and their hearts were too sore and they found a worthy distraction in one another’s sheets. They talked about how much cloudier the sky was then. 

Chuuya had long since stopped hearing the TV, but Dazai’s laughter was loud over the phone. It had been quite ridiculous, dressing up like foreign Englishwomen to hijack a high-speed train and re-steal crates of illegal drugs.

Silence crept in after that, a natural reprieve. Chuuya was lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling, and maybe it was because he was feeling reminiscent, or maybe the late hour loosened his tongue, but the question slipped out before he could think.

“Could you ever love me?” 

“Yes.” Dazai made a pained noise then, half-choked. “That wasn’t fair.” 

“I know.” 

It was silent again. Chuuya continued to stare up at the ceiling. He knew the answer—he wasn’t blind. He saw the way Dazai used to look at him sometimes, the way his pupils dilated and his cheeks would turn pink. He heard all the unspoken words passed between the gaps in their bickering, even when they were children. 

He knew the answer, but hearing it out loud made him feel impossibly breathless anyway. 

“Why would you ask me that?” Dazai asked, voice throaty and raw. 

Chuuya was speaking before he could think. “Because I know you’d never say it out loud and I needed to know if you would say yes. I wanted you to.” 

Having words trapped deep in his mind come flooding to the surface against their will made Chuuya feel just a bit sick. 

Dazai was quiet on the other end of the line as Chuuya’s show droned on. He had no idea what time it was, but it was surely far too late to be asking these kinds of questions to one’s greatest enemy and also one of the most important people in one’s life. Right? 

Dazai continued to stay silent and eventually, Chuuya’s eyelids began to droop. The moonlight filtering in through the window cast the room in a soft silver and eased all the hard shadows. His bedroom began to blur together, and the more it did, the more the sick feeling in his stomach faded. 

In the back of his mind, just before he nodded off, Chuuya wondered what he might’ve said to Dazai were they not so suffocated by all the things between them. I’m glad? I knew it? I could love you too?

***

When Chuuya woke up the next morning, he heard someone’s breathing. 

He blinked, bleary-eyed, and looked around the bedroom. If that mackerel… 

But the apartment was empty. Chuuya reached for his phone, grappling blindly in the sheets for a few moments before he found it. There was the breathing again. 

The call was still going. 

It was very faint, but a very steady rhythm. Dazai wasn’t awake yet. 

Chuuya stared at the screen for a moment more, and then he hung up. 

***

It had been nine days since Chuuya had last spoken to Dazai, and he was still no closer to resolving the ability. 

Eventually, he had to come clean to Mori about the situation. The reaction had been as expected; Mori knew everything and asked him to deal with the matter as quickly as possible. He forbid Chuuya from going on any stealth or diplomatic missions in the meantime—he wasn’t suited for that anyway, so it didn’t matter. 

Other than that, he’d been going about work as normal. Not being able to lie was annoying, but he could still be the best damn Executive the mafia had and no one would know the difference. 

Besides, no one had the guts to be asking Executive Nakahara Chuuya any questions anyway. 

“So, this is an ability that affected you by proxy?” Kouyou asked, teacup in hand. 

“Yep. Dazai got hit on a mission and now it’s my business too,” Chuuya sighed. 

“And… you don’t know how to get rid of it.” 

“Nope.” 

“You have no information on this ability user except the effects you experienced first-hand.” 

“Nope.” 

“You have nothing to get out of this situation.” 

“Nope.” 

Kouyou shook her head, taking a sip of her tea and eyeing Chuuya over the rim. “I thought I raised you better than this, Chuuya.” 

At that, he couldn’t help but chuckle. Raised was a bit of a stretch. Kouyou had always been like an older sister, though—she taught him how to survive in the mafia, and he wouldn’t be where he was now without that. 

“Apparently not.” 

“And Dazai doesn’t have any solutions?” 

“He told me that it likely had something to do with the truth, but that’s all.” 

She hummed. “Then perhaps you should work a bit harder.” 

By that, she most certainly meant hosting an interrogation. 

“Maybe I should,” Chuuya replied quietly, but he wouldn’t. Kouyou probably knew that. 

She sat up, setting her empty teacup down on the table in front of them, and gave him a small smile. “I need to get going. Chuuya, I believe you can get this figured out, hm? Don’t let yourself get swept away by what’s easy.” She watched him for a moment more with those sharp eyes of hers. 

Chuuya could only nod. “Okay.” 

She smiled again, and then she made her way out of the room without another word. 

***

He had just returned to his apartment after another long day of paperwork and beating people up when he immediately noticed something was wrong. 

The door was unlocked. 

A few years ago, this wouldn’t have been unusual, but now? It had been far too long since anyone had the gall to break into his apartment, and even longer since they didn’t even bother trying to cover it up. 

Chuuya opened the door and shucked off his overcoat, letting out a long sigh. He didn’t have the energy for this. 

After ridding himself of his layers, he ran a hand through his hair and made his way into the living room. As expected, there was an oversized mackerel lounging on his sofa, looking right at home with his cup ramen and a blanket draped over his legs. 

Upon seeing him, Dazai’s lips spread into a smile. “You look awful,” he said cheerfully. 

“Fuck you too,” Chuuya grumbled, plopping down next to him. Maybe Dazai would get bored of him being tired and unresponsive, and maybe he’d leave of his own accord. 

“Long day?”

“Mm.” Chuuya lolled his head back and ran a hand through his hair, letting his eyes close. He was sweaty and tired and probably smelled like gunpowder, but he didn’t even have the energy for a shower right now. He definitely didn’t have the energy to deal with idiots who break into his apartment. 

“You aren’t going to ask why I’m here?” 

“Too tired.” 

Dazai chuckled quietly at that. 

Then, Chuuya heard rustling, and he felt Dazai sit up next to him and move from the couch. He didn’t open his eyes, though, until he felt fingers running through his hair. 

Chuuya started, but Dazai tugged gently on his hair to keep him from sitting up. 

“Stay still,” he murmured, and Chuuya really didn’t have a choice when he was so tired and Dazai knew just what felt best, so he stayed still. 

Dazai resumed running his fingers through Chuuya’s hair, massaging his scalp and scratching gently at the base of his neck. Chuuya let out an audible groan, closing his eyes again and cursing Dazai for turning him into putty in his hands. It was cruel, really, how wonderful it felt. 

“Chuuya?’” 

He made a strange throaty noise in reply. 

“What am I to you?” 

Chuuya choked. 

Dazai’s chuckle echoed through the hollow space, filling it up enough to suffocate him, stealing air from his lungs that wasn’t there to begin with. Dazai’s hands never stopped, running through his curls as gently as ever. 

Once Chuuya finally caught his breath, the words were wrenched from his throat. “You’re the worst person in my life,” he croaked, “and probably the only one I’ll ever love.” 

The fingers in his hair stalled. 

Well, shit. Guess he couldn’t have expected to keep that locked up forever, now could he? 

“I don’t have the energy for this,” Chuuya muttered, leaning forward and pinching the bridge of his nose. He didn’t want to talk about this tonight. He didn’t want to talk about this ever, but it was in the open now and that was that. He sighed and shook his head. It wasn’t like Dazai didn’t know, though. 

Dazai was silent for a moment, and then he said: “Me too.” 

Chuuya spun around to look at him, but Dazai’s gaze was glued to something to his right. He sounded so nonchalant, like the confession was just another checkbox on his to-do list. Eyes trained ahead, hands in his pockets, features schooled into neutrality. It was the perfect picture of indifference. 

Before Chuuya could say anything, though, he felt a strange sensation in his fingertips. It was cool, like standing in a midnight rain shower, and it began to spread. It crawled up his arms, and then through his chest and torso, and then up to his head and down to his feet. 

The feeling only lasted a moment, and then it drained away like it had never been there at all. Chuuya stared down at his ungloved hands—he flexed his fingers, rolled his wrists, shook them once or twice. 

He looked up to ask Dazai what he’d just done, but his head was ducked and he was already halfway to the door. 

“Hey—what—where the fuck do you think you’re going?” Chuuya snapped, standing. 

Dazai didn’t turn around. “I don’t see how that concerns you.” 

Chuuya blinked. A deflection. A not-answer, like he always used. 

The ability was gone. 

He could let Dazai go, he realized. He could let him walk out of this apartment and they probably wouldn’t speak to each other for another year after that. Dazai would go back to the agency, him to the mafia, and they would keep to opposite sides of the city like they’d been doing for five years. It would be easy, falling back into what had become their norm. 

Don’t let yourself get swept away by what’s easy.

Kouyou’s words echoed in the back of his head, accompanied by that knowing smile. Chuuya half-wanted to laugh—she’d always known him just a bit better than he knew himself. 

“Dazai.” Chuuya began walking toward him, but Dazai kept moving and didn’t reply. “Dazai.” 

Nothing. 

“Osamu.” 

His steps faltered. 

They stood a few feet from each other, but the distance felt impossibly large to Chuuya. Dazai had always been like that, even in the mafia. Far away. Like there was something in him he couldn’t let anyone else see—why, Chuuya didn’t know. 

Dazai didn’t make an effort to reply, but he also wasn’t trying to leave. Chuuya took a few steps forward, and when there was no reaction, he strode up to stand right in front of him, meeting brown eyes that still wouldn’t look at his. 

“Hey.” He spoke quietly, reaching up with two fingers to grip Dazai’s chin. “Hey, look at me.” 

It took a moment, but Dazai finally met his eyes. He was clearly attempting to look impassive, but the fluttering of his lashes and the pinching of his lips gave him away. To Chuuya, he was an open book. 

“Talk to me.” 

He had a sea of questions flooding his head: why did you come here, why did you ask me that, why is the ability gone, why are you leaving, why, why— 

Dazai let out the smallest huff, eyes flitting over Chuuya’s face for just a moment. “You’re too stubborn,” he said quietly, brow furrowed. Coming up with a plan to distract me, no doubt, Chuuya thought. 

He waited him out, though, and eventually, Dazai took a deep breath and shook his head. 

“Do you remember when I told you the ability likely had to be resolved using the truth?” 

Chuuya nodded. 

“I tracked down the ability user. It turns out that the ability identifies two… soulmates and renders them unable to lie until they confess their deepest truth to one another,” he explained, speaking quietly and looking over Chuuya’s head (or at his hair). 

Deepest truth. Chuuya almost wanted to laugh. Who would have thought that the biggest secret of two of the most dangerous men in the world is that they were in love with each other? 

“So you asked me that…” 

“Because I had a sneaking suspicion I knew what the truth was.” 

Chuuya nodded. “And then you were just gonna leave?” 

Dazai’s chuckle was more self-deprecating than humorous. He didn’t reply. 

“Dazai, I…” Chuuya trailed off, looking down and frowning to himself. He was sick of this. He was sick of them dancing around each other like they didn’t know anything, like they didn’t feel the weight of each other’s absence. 

Leaving would be so easy—it was easy, far easier than staying—but the wound would never close. 

“Are your words failing you, Chuuya?” Dazai asked, teasing. 

Chuuya scowled at that. Of course they are, he wanted to bite back, because words had always been Dazai’s strength and they both knew that. 

So without hesitation, Chuuya reached up, gripped Dazai’s collar, and kissed him. 

He could feel Dazai’s hesitation, the way he froze up and stayed stiff. But it took less than a second for all that to melt away, and then there were hands around his waist and Dazai was pulling him closer, reciprocating with ease. 

Chuuya couldn’t count how many times they’d done this—after a particularly tiring mission, or a biting speech from Mori, or when they felt like they were being eaten alive by the guilt and the rage they both held onto. 

But this was so far from that angry battle. Chuuya tugged on Dazai’s shirt and bit his lip, causing him to gasp, and then he began trailing his lips across Dazai’s jaw, his neck. He’d backed him against the wall and their hands were turning greedier by the minute, Dazai opening Chuuya’s shirt with deft hands while Chuuya shoved his knee between Dazai’s legs. 

It was ferocious, a battle for control like any other, but there was no boyish desire to prove anything. Their kisses were still hard enough to bruise, but they were also kinder. 

It was only when Chuuya began reaching for Dazai’s belt buckle that he stopped him, fingers wrapping around his wrist. 

“Chuuya,” he murmured, and Chuuya pulled back just a bit. Dazai’s lips were red and kiss-swollen, his hair a mess, collar undone and chest rising and falling unevenly. It was a glorious sight. 

Dazai reached up to trace his fingertips along Chuuya’s jawline, brow furrowed just slightly like he was in thought. “We have not been fair to each other. I don’t think we ever have been. But I…” he trailed off, pinching his lips together. 

Chuuya had half a mind to ask him if his words were failing him but decided against it. 

“You consume my every waking moment and I don’t think I can take any more of it,” Dazai muttered, shaking his head, and oh, Chuuya was suddenly feeling much warmer. 

“Oh,” he whispered. What else could he say to something like that?

Dazai looked amused, lips quirking upward into a small, lopsided smile. “I’m painfully, hopelessly in love with you. And I’d like it if you would decide to love me too.” 

Memories of a late night on the phone came crawling back to him, just before he’d fallen asleep.

What a mess.  

Chuuya looked up at Dazai, at his knowing smile and his dark eyes and all the emotion written on his face, clear as day. And then he laughed, shaking his head and looking up at the ceiling to curse whatever god out there for all the trouble it caused them. 

“Bastard,” he chuckled, wrapping his arms around Dazai’s neck and dragging him down again. “As if I ever had a choice.”