Work Text:
Everyone likes to joke about Dazai being incompetent as a human, unable to perform basic functions like cooking and cleaning. He laughs along with the jokes, suggests he’s above such mundane human tasks and if it bothers Kunikida so much, he can do it for him.
It enrages Kunikida and distracts everyone from the darkness that flits over Dazai’s eyes. He’s perfectly capable of such chores, was taught to be self-sufficient at a young age, but getting himself to actually do them is a different matter.
A clean space and a healthy diet aren’t exactly necessary when life itself was wasted on him. And so, it was sake and canned crab for dinner and finally throwing things away and cleaning up when he was tripping over them.
But now he's living with Chuuya and Chuuya is just always busy and so life is strangely similar for Dazai after moving into the mafioso’s luxury apartment. Chuuya is always home from work late and exhausted and so he orders takeout and hires someone to come clean his apartment even though Dazai knows Chuuya has always hated not doing those kinds of basic human things himself.
And really, canned food or lazy takeout and a dusty cluttered space are fine for someone like Dazai, but Chuuya deserves more, deserves something normal and comforting. Someone as intensely alive as Chuuya deserves a life worthy of that aliveness.
And so, now that Dazai is in the apartment more than in the dorms and works a reasonable, regular, even light (on days he decides he doesn’t feel like work) schedule, he tries to figure this shit out again. He starts with cleaning, though ends up calling Kunikida after he's stuck with weird streak marks on the stovetop, which simply isn’t good enough.
And so, he sits on the phone going through every cleaning product in the house, all the organised and sorted bottles, separated according to room and function. Kunikida is apparently impressed with the quality and range and begrudgingly, with several hopefully loving insults thrown in, guides Dazai through cleaning the kitchen, putting the linen through the wash, and vacuuming up the living room successfully.
Kunikida insists he will show Dazai how to clean a bathroom at the dorms that weekend. Jokes about sourcing a hazmat suit for the disaster Dazai’s bathroom is likely to be. Dazai only hums noncommittally, already focused on tidying the evidence of his own messy existence in Chuuya’s space before hanging up.
It’s only when Kunikida is cooking that evening that he notes a distinct lack of “if I make it to the weekend” from Dazai. And it’s halfway between the stovetop and the sink that he’s stuck for several moments trying to remember the last time Dazai even suggested suicide. He would never admit to the small smile he directs at his feet before cursing Dazai for disturbing his routine.
Dazai manages the tidying and dusting of the apartment himself and when the lovely cleaning crew come around, he thanks them but tells them to enjoy the break and get lunch together instead.
Next is the cooking.
Now, Dazai and Chuuya were both taught how to cook while in the mafia. Dazai learned about sustenance from Mori; how to feed oneself to survive, even when one desired nothing of the sort. He could prepare rice and eggs and fish well enough to not get sick and stored a terrifying stock of instant noodles in the back of his cupboard, hidden where even Chuuya would never find it and scold him.
Chuuya had been taught to cook by Kouyou, of course. Dazai had watched as Kouyou would steal Chuuya away for cooking or etiquette or tea-making or language lessons and he would stay behind, alone. He would never blame Kouyou, would never begrudge her preference of her own ward.
Her preference of the better half of Double Black.
As a result though, Chuuya’s knowledge was international, his techniques were refined and efficient. He knew Chuuya actually enjoyed cooking, had a menu of meals he could prepare from memory, ranging in expense and complexity. However, when he really thought about it, he didn't know what Chuuya liked to make himself.
The two of them went out to eat if there was time or ordered in if there wasn't. The most he had seen Chuuya make, really, since reuniting was omurice for them both for breakfast or his fancy teas he'd prepare for them both before bed, carefully selected and mixed to help Dazai with his insomnia.
While Dazai searched the kitchen, he tried not to feel inadequate or unworthy.
The pantry is sparse, clearly as accustomed to Chuuya's late nights as the mafioso himself. Dazai's eyes catch on the selection of green tea leaves on the counter and an idea sparks; an image of an orphan who would become a friend inhaling chazuke across the table.
It forces a second memory; an angry looking Chuuya force feeding him lukewarm chazuke he made and carried to Dazai's shipping container quarters from his own apartment when Dazai picked up a cold in winter. Dazai is quick to retrieve the rice and dig through the freezer for some salted salmon.
The rice is not cooperating, half mushy and half still hard. While the salmon looked perfect, he'd used the wrong paper on the baking tray and set off the smoke alarm. Dazai manages to get it to stop screaming and hopes that the windows opened into the night will dispel the smell of smoke. Briefly he contemplates throwing himself after the smoke, but dismisses it quickly with a look at the two bowls and two glasses laid out on the counter.
He tries to separate the best of the rice into bowls while the tea leaves are brewing. Slowly, he manages to assemble what, mostly, looks like the chazuke he remembers from the dimly lit day Chuuya forcibly nursed him back to health, cussing him out but checking his temperature with touches too gentle for the likes of a man like Dazai Osamu.
Chuuya is, surprisingly, on time tonight. Dazai hears the key turning in the door right as he's removing the strainer and turns to start pouring the tea over the rice, has to settle his heart rate as he takes in the soft sounds of Chuuya coming home, coming home to him.
"My slug is on time today, a miracle! I have slaved away at a hot stove for hours to feed him as he clearly does not eat enough since he is still so tiny and-
Chuuya?!"
Dazai drops the bowl of mitsuba he was about to sprinkle atop the dish and launches himself around the counter. He cradles Chuuya's face and uses his thumbs to brush away the tears slowly leaking from the corners of his eyes. Before he can ask further, Chuuya has buried his face in Dazai's chest and his arms are vices around his waist.
Dazai's arms are certain as he returns the hug, but his mind warbles with uncertainty.
"What happened, chibi?" His voice is soft, tentative, ready to back away if Chuuya needs it.
The first mumbling against the fabric of his shirt is inaudible, the words lost to his sternum.
"Hmm?"
Chuuya huffs and turns his face to the side, resting his temple against Dazai instead and mumbles this time toward the empty living room.
"...You cooked for me." Dazai blinks at the crown of fiery hair. Opens his mouth. Closes it. And he smiles.
He tightens the hug and drops his chin onto that crown of fire, closes his eyes.
"Chuuya deserves something nice to come home to."
Chuuya squeezes Dazai tightly again, hands splayed across his back and fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt. He turns his face into his chest again and Dazai can faintly feel the smile.
"This is where Chuuya says that he gets to come home to me being here, which is plenty nice enough."
This time the snort is perfectly audible even into his ribcage and Chuuya shoves away to smirk up at him.
"More like I need something nice to make up for you being here."
Chuuya grins through Dazai's effusive objections and continues grinning through eating their dinner, which thankfully doesn't poison him, and then grins while they wash the dishes together, like normal, human people would after a day at work.
He smiles through the kiss to Dazai’s temple as he hands him his tea to help him sleep and almost giggles, though he will never admit to it, when Dazai litters kisses across his face in response.
“I’m trying to mark your freckles!”
He's still smiling when they fall into bed and hides the curve of his lips in Dazai's hair as they drift to sleep.
"Thanks for dinner, 'Samu. It was great. Though coming home to you was pretty nice too."
Dazai’s matching smile is seen only by the moonlight coming in through the window. Maybe a clean space and a healthy diet is worth it if this is what life feels like as a result.