Archive of Our Own

When Dazai finally reaches the graveyard, the rain is already coming down in sheets. His umbrella, black and frail and feeble against the downpour, strains beneath the weight of heavy droplets. It’s all Dazai can hear: the heavy pitter-patter, pitter-patter as he walks. Mud clings to his shoes, and the once-solid path is now slippery with puddles. Dazai keeps his eyes downcast, careful not to lose his footing, and wonders if this is even worth the effort, if he will be shunned the moment he reaches the end of the sidewalk and told to leave. For the simple sake of not having to walk all the way back to the long black car parked at the cemetery's gate until the rain lessons, he hopes he won't be. 

The sun has already begun to set, casting a dim downward glow that does little to help Dazai see more than a few feet in front of him; his vision is reduced to a hazy blur amidst the curtain of water that shrouds him. The moss clinging to a couple of the tombstones falls away, washed off and revealing the barely readable names and dates of those who rest beneath them; the chisel and stone long worn with age and crumbling beneath the elements. Dazai thinks he might appreciate the aesthetics of it all more if he were here under different circumstances and of his own volition, rather than out of an obligation.

He reaches the end of the pathway, stopping in his tracks when he's met with a painfully familiar sight; Chuuya, knees pulled to his chest and head lulled to the side, sitting beneath a tall, withering oak tree that's long lost its leaves in the depths of winter. He’s sitting parallel to five tombstones, the only ones in the whole graveyard that seem untouched by time. There's no cracks, no broken edges, no overgrown plants and nothing covering the names etched into each stone. 

There's a bouquet of flowers placed at the base of each of them, all a different range in color and type. Dazai doesn't smile, but he comes close. Sentimentally is a hard thing to cling to in this way of life; always left coping with the loss of colleagues and friends, surrounded by bloodshed and carnage. It's easy to let yourself be numb to it all and Dazai, personally, much prefers it. It's the easier of two paths. But Chuuya has always somehow held onto that sensitivity, managed to step away from the everyday anger and fight or flight for the sake of making sure he remembers all his friends favorite flowers. 

Dazai thinks he will always stay torn between envy and judgment. 

He clears his throat, watching Chuuya jump and lift his head so fast he bangs it into the bark behind him. He winces and groans, looking up to meet Dazai’s eyes with a bitter glare. “Oh. It's just you.” His is nearly inaudible amidst the rain. 

“Don’t sound so excited.” Dazai says, crouching down so that hes eye level with the redhead. Chuuya doesn't respond. Doesn't move or blink or even try to swat Dazai away when Dazai moves to shield him from the rain with his umbrella, leaving his own back unprotected from the downpour. The rear of his suit is soaked in a matter of seconds. 

“Why are you here?” Chuuya grumbles, pulling his knees back into his chest and digging the tips of his fingernails into the fabric of his slacks like it will somehow stop the tremors that are wracking his body. He looks like a child, Dazai thinks, a scared, lonely child who only knows how to grieve and suffer in his own company. 

Dazai shrugs. “You giving yourself a cold by sitting out in the rain is inconvenient for me. I'd rather not have to deal with a wet mutt complaining about being sick for the rest of the week.”

Chuuya scoffs, letting his head drop to the crease of his elbow. “Not a dog.” He says into his arm, and then, “Why’re you actually here?”

Dazai hesitates, mulling over the multiple answers he could give in his head before he settles on, “Mori called.” Chuuya’s head snaps back up, his eyes wide and worried. “He wanted me to come get you for a mission. A mission that is now being handled by the black lizard.”

Chuuya scowls, looking Dazai up and down like he’ll find the answer to every question he has in the creases of Dazai’s expression and the lines of his posture. Chuuya often looks at him like this, like he can take Dazai apart with a single glance and understand every intricacy of his motives and thoughts with it. Dazai thinks it might not be as far-fetched as it feels– that Chuuya really is the first person who can truly read him, despite the walls Dazai has put up to deter him. It's both exilerting and terrifying to be on the other end of that scrutiny for a change.

“Cut the crap,” Chuuya starts, letting his gaze fall away from Dazai and back down to the ground beneath him. “You just wanted to get out of havin' to work.”

“Chuuya knows me so well.” Dazai smiles, breathing in the scent of dirt and stone. “I have a car waiting for us if you're ready to stop moping.”

“I'm fine here.”

“You're shivering.” Dazai points out, to which Chuuya turns his body away like he’s trying to create a physical barrier between them. Dazai wonders where someone as strong and capable as Chuuya learned such a submissive and passive way of coping; making himself small in a feeble attempt to avoid confrontation. 

“I'm fine.” He grits out, his voice a little too raw to make his words feel believable. “Leave me your goddamn umbrella if you're that broken up about it.”

“And walk back without it? No thanks.” Chuuya doesn’t respond and Dazai makes no more effort to keep the conversation flowing. Instead, he opts to lean his shoulder against the tree, careful to make sure the umbrella never leaves its purchase above Chuuya’s head. 

The ambient noise fills their silence. The raindrops tap-tap-tap against Dazai’s umbrella, a metronome marking the passage of time as Chuuya stares ahead, eyes blank and lifeless and as Dazai stares at him, worried and bitter about it. Somewhere in the distance, he can hear the sound of birds chirping and car engines whirring by. It’s all background noise, fading into the furthest corner of his mind in favor of solely focusing on the sound of Chuuya’s breath; quiet and slow, like he’s purposefully controlling the rise and fall of his chest. Another way to hide himself. 

Enough time passes that his legs start going sore and his arm begins to get tired from holding up the umbrella. The rain has lessened into a steady drizzle and when Dazai finally speaks again, his voice isn’t quite as drowned out by the downpour as it had been before. “Chuuya can't sit here forever.”

“Wasn't plannin’ on it.” He still doesn’t pull his eyes away from the gravestones though, and there is something about seeing someone like Chuuya, usually so full of life and thrumming with energy, with such a faraway, dazed look about him that's so utterly unnerving. The Chuuya Dazai knows is loud, brash, demanding the attention of all those around him. This Chuuya, the one sitting in front of him, curled up with his hair wet and sticking to his face, is anything but. 

He had known today would be hard. It was every year when this specific anniversary rolled around; always sending Chuuya back to the emotional trenches of watching his friends be taken from him so gruesomely. 

The first year that followed the flags passing had gone relatively smooth, all things considered. In the weeks immediately afterward, Chuuya was somber in his demeanor but threw himself headfirst into his work, never allowing himself a chance to feel the heavy weight of what he had lost. It wasn't until the next year, the first anniversary, when Dazai found Chuuya in his apartment— drunk enough to need his stomach pumped and wholly unresponsive— that Dazai started to actually understand the kind of grief Chuuya was carrying on his shoulders every day. 

The second year was less eventful. Though Dazai suspected it wasn't because Chuuya didn't want to drown in his sorrows yet again, but rather because he didn’t want to have to answer to his actions. After his overdose, Dazai, Kouyou, Mori, and all the doctors alike had pestered him relentlessly about the reasons behind his excessive drinking and questioned whether it all had truly been an accident, as Chuuya adamantly claimed it was, or if it was something more. Something intentional– something that Dazai’s chest aches at the very thought of. 

Chuuya has never liked people fussing over him, and Dazai is sure that little complex probably tems somewhere from his time with the Sheep, where being seen as anything other than the strongest just simply wasn't an option for him. So now, he suffers and grieves his losses silently, trying to never let on to those around him when he's hurting. Dazai still hears him some days, though, through the thin walls of his apartment when he sleeps over– soft sniffles and hushed cries that prove the front Chuuya likes to put up for the sake of others can come down, even if it's only within the comfort of his own company.

“You can't blame yourself forever either.” Dazai adds quietly, watching Chuuya’s shoulders tense up to his ears. “It wasn't your fault.”

Chuuya scoffs, his face turned away so that Dazai can’t see the expression he's making. “I don't need your fucking pity.” 

"I don't pity you," Dazai murmurs, reaching his free hand out to gently grip Chuuya’s chin and guide his head to face back towards him. Chuuya’s expression is blank with practiced indifference, and Dazai is pleasantly surprised when he doesn't immediately try to jerk out of his hold. Instead, he sits his chin pliantly in Dazai’s palm. Subconsciously and without much forethought, Dazai brushes the backs of his knuckles across his redend cheek, pushing back the stray hairs behind his ear. "I don't like you enough to pity you. Just wanted to make sure you remembered."

He allows his hand to fall back to his side and, after only a moment's contemplation, shifts from his admittedly uncomfortable squatting position to sit cross-legged beside Chuuya. With his back pressed against the tree, the bark digs into his spine, and the ground feels soggy beneath him. 

Chuuya looks him up and down from the corner of his eye, brows furrowed. “You don't have to–”

“I know.” Dazai cuts him off, readjusting his grip on the umbrella and holding it more securely above both their heads. “But what kind of owner would I be if I let my dog sit out here all by himself?”

The redhead's expression is a mix of suspicion and hesitant thanks that goes unspoken. Despite how closed off and jaded Chuuya tends to be about his vulnerabilities, Dazai knows firsthand how much it helps to share someone's company, to not be alone with your thoughts and guilt– that the presence of another human can at least provide the illusion of comfort. 

“I'm already soaked.” Chuuya huffs. 

“Well, you chose to sit here all melancholy and dramatic even after the rain started. That's not my fault.” Dazai shrugs. They’re face to face now and from this close, Dazai can see the rain drops that have caught in Chuuya's eyelashes. The way his skin is sheening and his hair, normally flat ironed and perfectly styled, frames his face with untamed curls. His eyes are red and puffy, the bags and dark circles beneath them more prominent now than he’s ever seen them before. Dazai wonders how it's possible for someone to look so simultaneously otherworldly in their beauty while retaining such human imperfections. 

“You look like a drowned puppy.” 

“Eat shit and die.”

“So vulgar.” He giggles, content to fall back into the easy, familiar rhythm of their bickering. 

They sit like that for what feels like hours, occasionally Dazai will break the silence with some snide remark and Chuuya will respond as he usually does with a halfhearted insult or jab, though they lack the usual fire behind them. But for the most part, they sit quietly beside each other, both content to soak in what little comfort each other's company offers. 

The rain eventually comes to a complete stop and the sky begins to clear, dark blue hues and white moonlight peeking out from behind the sea of gray. Dazai’s eyes are growing heavier and heavier as each minute passes, his overactive mind being steadily lulled into sleep by the rhythmic sound of Chuuya’s breathing. Just before he thinks he might actually start to be drifting off, he hears a loud sigh at his side. 

He recognizes the que and quickly props himself a little, not realizing he'd even slumped over as much as he had, and rubs at the corner of his eyes. “You ready?”

Chuuya shrugs, lips downturned and eyes still so, so far away. “Guess so.”

The walk back to Chuuya’s apartment isn't long, but Chuuya drags nearly the whole way there. Dazai can almost physically feel the weight Chuuya is carrying in every step in his own feet. 

Crossing through the doors threshold feels like a bigger relief than it should, like Dazai can finally breathe without the heavy burden of someone else's grief sitting on his chest and constricting his every move. Distantly he wonders if Chuuya has ever felt that kind of relief– if he has ever been allowed to come home at the end of long, tireless days and relax his clenched fists without the worry that his vulnerability will be taken advantage of.

The redhead walks to the kitchen the moment the door shuts behind them, dragging his feet across the hardwood floors and leaving a trail of dripping water. Dazai follows closely behind him, watching as Chuuya searches the fridge and pantry.

“What do you want?” He asks, head already buried in the next cabinet as he continues his search. 

“Hm?”

“You're gonna pester me to make you food sooner or later and I don't think I can handle you whining at me right now so what do you want?”

This is familiar. This is a distressed Chuuya that Dazai knows how to help; Frantic for something to take his mind off things and give him back the power he feels he has lost in one way or another. Cooking has always been a part of Chuuya’s post corruption routine for this very reason– it's an easy way for Dazai to inadvertently help the redhead feel better and more in control, more human, without ever having to directly confront anything head on. 

He suspects this particular coping mechanism likely also has something to do with Chuuya feeling like he needs to make up for his supposed weakness and inadequacy by caring for and providing something to others. And Dazai were a better, less selfish man, he might feel bad for joyously reaping the benefits of Chuuya’s stress cooking each and every time regardless. 

“Crab melts, since you're offering.”

Chuuya rolls his eyes. “Predictable.”

“Does Chuuya have an issue with my tastes?” 

“I have an issue with you as a whole.” Chuuya huffs, pulling out the ingredients and dishes he needs. “Go dry off and change. You're dripping all over my floor.” 

Dazai doesn't point out that of the two of them, Chuuya is the one that's soaked to the bone and dripping all over the kitchen floor. Instead, he smiles, wide and toothy at the grumbling redhead before he slips off into the bedroom to go and change. 

The room is messy, a state of disarray that Chuuya would normally never let his home be in. Dazai treads carefully around the clothes strewn about on the floor. Any other time, he'd love to leave a muddy boot print on one of Chuuya’s pristine white shirts and see the resulting anger. Now, he'd rather not make Chuuya’s admittedly shakey emotional state any worse. Chuuya would call it being coddled, Dazai calls it being gentle with the only person he thinks could ever deserve his delicacy. 

He rummages through the drawer of his clothes that Chuuya has, begrudgingly, let him monopolize and finds a pair of gray sweatpants and a black sweater. Both are worn and a little frayed at the edges but work fine enough. 

When Dazai walks back into the living room, sufficiently dried and changed, Chuuya is standing in front of the stove. Now, however, he wears the same faraway, blank expression that he’d bore back at the graveyard that had, at least for a moment, gone away in the mists of their bickering. His hand around the spatula is loose and he’s let the tip of it sit resting against the burning edges of the pan, his mind clearly elsewhere and not registering the smell of burning plastic. 

“Hey,” Chuuya startles, whipping around to face the brunette. “You're gonna burn my food.”

“Sorry." Chuuya says, eyes avoiding Dazai's. He takes a deliberate step back from the stove, lifting the spatula away from the pans searing edges before placing it on the counter with shaky hands. 

The apology hangs in the room, a rarity coming from someone usually so unapologetic in his way of life. It's an unfamiliar scenario for Dazai, witnessing Chuuya act so uncharacteristically open with his guilt, especially over something so trivial. He wonders if he is truly the intended recipient of Chuuya's apology, if there's another layer hidden behind the redheads dissociation, like he's apologizing to the only person he physically can in place of the people he lost the chance to.

“Your turn.” Dazai says softly, urging Chuuya away from the stove and picking up the spatula. “I can handle this.” 

Chuuya, even out of it and exhausted, raises a disbelieving brow.

Dazai waves him off. “Ye of little faith, Slug. They're almost done anyways.” 

“Don't go through my cabinets or light any of my shit on fire.” Is what Chuuya leaves him with, his voice tired and empty. 

Dazai, to his credit, doesn’t burn the food or even singe the edges. He’s never been the best cook, sure, but it's always more so because he doesn’t have the energy to cook an entire meal for himself most days, not because he is incapable of it. He’s sure Chuuya would call bullshit, which isn't totally unfair given that Dazai does tend to play up his lack of skill just for an excuse to irritate the redhead and see how pink his face can turn once he realizes that Dazai has messed his food up. 

A few minutes pass by and Chuuya comes shuffling back into the kitchen just as Dazai takes the pan off the stove. He is leaning against the wall, watching Dazai with no real interest, hair still dripping wet, tangled and surely soaking his new clothes he's wearing. 

“You didn't even dry your hair.” Dazai says dejectedly. 

Chuuya shrugs. “So?”

“I knew you were incompetent but come on, even you should be able to manage this.” Dazai sighs, putting the food into a container, then into the fridge and resigning himself to the conclusion that he will have to eat later. He makes a mental note to complain about it once Chuuya is less mopey.

“Come here.” He gestures for Chuuya to sit in one of the dining room chairs, pulling it away from the table and listening to Chuuya’s grumbling as he walks down the hall to grab a towel and a brush from the bathroom. 

“Sit.” He demands again. 

“No–”

“If you fall asleep on wet hair you'll complain to me all day tomorrow about it being frizzy. This is a favor to myself, really.” 

Chuuya looks away, mumbles an insult under his breath and reluctantly sits down. “Prick.”

“Slug.” 

“Jack ass.” 

Dazai moves to stand behind the chair, towel in hand as he looks down at orange hair that has been dulled by water. Briefly, he wonders if this is crossing some unspoken boundary. Making sure Chuuya doesn’t sit in the rain all night, pushing back their mission for the sake of his allowing Chuuya time to mourn, and offering comfort with only his presence are all one thing, easily chalked up to Dazai being an attentive work partner on the rare occasions he chooses to be.

But this; standing behind Chuuya, who never turns his back on anyone and never lowers his guard, and holding all his trust and vulnerability in the palm of his hands, feels different. His skin crawls with an innate need to run, to instinctively pull away and make one snide comment or another to keep the walls they’ve both built up around themselves steady. 

Pulling him from his thoughts, is a gruff voice mumbling a quiet, “Get on with it then.”

His hands still twitch as he works to dry Chuuya’s hair, but the assurance that at least Chuuya either doesn’t care, or is to out of it to notice how uncharacteristically docile they’re both being towards each other, is enough to calm the quelling storm of emotions that sit and bubble just beneath the surface of his skin. 

He focuses on the task at hand. Running the towel over long, uneven strands of hair and letting them purposefully catch in his fingers every few strokes. 

“What shampoo do you use now? It smells different.”

Chuuya pauses, “Lipmans,” he says. “He got it for me from the states while he was filming a shoot there.”

Dazai internally winces a little. Way to go, he scolds himself. 

“He has good taste. Far better than yours.” He tries to divert. “I would have liked getting to know him, I think. He seemed less…abrasive than the others.”

Chuuya hums, low and emotionless. “Yeah.” 

“Tell me about him.”

Chuuya's head snaps around to face him. “What?” 

“Tell me about him. Or all of them, if you want to.” Dazai says softly. 

“Why?” He looks up at him suspiciously. 

“To satiate my boredom and curiosity?” Dazai offers. 

Chuuya scowls. “You're not slick. I know what you're doing and I don't need it.” 

“I just wanted some entertainment as compensation for all the trouble you've put me through today. I had to willingly talk to Mori of all people to hand off our mission just so you could sulk. You should be thanking me.” 

Chuuya huffs. “Bastard, don’t pretend that was some selfless act. I know you were dreading that mission. You just used me as an excuse to slack off.” 

“Still got you out of it though, didn't I?”

“Whatever.” Chuuya grumbles, turning back around to face forward with his arms crossed tightly over his chest. Dazai has switched from towel to brush now, combing through the redheads hair in gentle, repetitive motions as he untangles the knots. 

There's a long stretch of silence before either one of them says anything, and when Chuuya finally speaks, it's with a shaky sigh followed by a, “You woulda liked Iceman more than Lipman I think. That Oda guy you hang around all the time sorta reminds me of him.” 

“How so?” Dazai prompts, leading Chuuya into a hesitant rant about the flags that Dazai, trying to mend the pieces he inadvertently helped break, sits quietly and listens to him as he continues to comb through the redheads hair. 

He asks questions when Chuuya pauses for too long, not letting him fall into the train of thoughts that lead them to where they are right now. He teases just enough to make this feel like a normal interaction between the two of them, tries to keep Chuuya from clamming up and retreating back into the nasty habit of staying quiet and letting his emotions consume him, doesn't make fun of Chuuya when his voice breaks, when his shoulders tense and shake, or when his eyes gloss over and adamantly stare anywhere but Dazai. 

“They all sound nice,” He tells him, a soft edge to his voice that sounds foreign even to his own ears. “far too nice to be your friends. I should have traded you in for them.”

Chuuya hums. “Yeah.”

“It's no fun if you agree.” Dazai frowns. Chuuya’s hair is thoroughly brushed and dried by now, but Dazai still continues to comb through it anyways. “They'd be happy knowing you're still here. That's all that should matter to you.”

“Guess so.” 

“You don't think so?” Dazai leans to the side, trying to see Chuuya’s face, only for him to turn further away. 

Chuuya pauses for a long while. “I think it's not fair that they were the ones that died when I was the reason that whole mess started in the first place.” 

“It wasn't your fault.” Dazai sighs. “Chuuya–”

“Yeah, yeah whatever. Are you done? You've been at this for fucking ever.” He cuts Dazai off, finally shrugging the brunette's hand away from his head. 

“Grieving doesn't make you weak, Slug. It just proves that you’re human.” Dazai tries, not missing the way Chuuya’s shoulders raise all the way up to his ears and stubbornly hold their place there. 

Maybe it's the bone tired ache from not having slept in a few nights making him go soft, or maybe it's because somewhere deep down, he's always craving turning what he and Chuuya have into something less volatile and antagonist, something where Chuuya’s reaction to Dazai genuinely trying to help wasn't to brace himself for the inevitable punch line and mockery– or maybe it's that trying to comfort Chuuya mimics the closest thing to real, genuine connection and empathy Dazai has ever felt without wanting to ruin, but by god does he want to make this better. Even if it's only in part for his own selfish desire to weasel his way into Chuuya’s good graces. 

“You deserve to grieve.” 

Chuuya shakes his head, self loathing and blame woven into every crevice of his expression that, now, he's not even bothering hiding. It's uncomfortable to look at. Chuuya; unbreakable, unmovable Chuuya subcoming to his sadness and not bothering to hide it with clenched fists and angry insults to divert the attention away from himself as he usually did. “I’m the reason they're all five feet under in the fucking first place. I don't deserve shit.”

“I think they'd want you to. I think they'd be happy knowing you cared about them enough to mourn and cry.”

Chuuya’s head snaps up, glaring up at Dazai through furrowed brows. “Who's crying?”

“It's okay if you do.” Dazai says gently. 

Chuuya doesn't cry, Dazai almost wonders if after all these years of learning how to keep everything at bay and hidden, Chuuya even knows how to anymore. But he comes close; eyes shiny and glazed, puffy and red like they before when Dazai had found him. 

Chuuya stubbornly turns away again, hiding his face in the side of his own shoulder and sniffling as quietly as possible before grumbling, “Are you fucking done yet?”

“Almost,” Dazai says, pretending to comb through the last of the knots he'd already untangled ages ago, happy to let Chuuya fall back into what's comfortable for now. They've both reached too far out of their comfort zone for Dazai to want to push anything any further. “Your hair really is the worst.” 

He ties Chuuya’s hair up with a rubber band, leaving it in a loose pony tail that falls just beneath freckled shoulders. “Ready for bed, Doggy?”

“I don't wanna sleep.” 

Dazai hums, understanding. “Wanna play mario cart then?”

“We always play mario cart.” 

“I have other games. You just never ask.” Dazai counters, moving from his spot behind Chuuya and making his way to the living room. “Odasaku bought me a whole bunch of new ones for my birthday this year.” 

Chuuya shrugs, following close behind. “Won’t you have to go back to whatever corner of hell you call home to get them though?”

“Of course not. I store all my valuables here for safe keeping. ” Dazai explains, kneeling down in front of the tv, reaching behind it and pulling out a red case of console games. He waves it around proudly. “Tada!”

Chuuya gapes at him. “That was there the whole fucking time?! Why?!”

“Secret.” Dazai giggles. “I have crash team racing, kartrider and a few shooting games if you wanna play those instead of a racing game.” 

Chuuya plops down on the couch with a heavy thud. “Are the shooting ones team games? Cause I don't wanna be paired up with you.” 

“Words hurt, you know.” Dazai frowns, feigning offense. He holds up the case for one of his games, letting Chuuya see the cover.“I think this one's pretty every man for himself since Chuuya’s so insistent on leaning into his little loner persona.”

“Go to hell.” He says dryly. “Put that one in.”

Dazai laughs then complies, opening the case and sliding the disc into the console. He grabs two controls, handing Chuuya the one with budged and shaky joysticks and keeping the newer one for himself. The game loads up after only a few minutes and Dazai watches, amused, as Chuuya’s curser flies around the screen and clicks on random buttons and settings.

“Does the Slug need me to teach him how to play?”

“No!” He shouts. “I’m just figuring out the controls, that's all.”

Eventually, after admitting partial defeat and looking at the control menu, he does. They sit on the menu, picking their avatar and Dazai can’t help the involuntary chuckle that escapes him when Chuuya selects the biggest, tallest and most macho character in the munch. 

“Really? That's the skin you're gonna pick?”

Chuuya frowns. “What's wrong with it?”

“Nothing. You're just so predictable.”

“Says you. You literally always go for the princess ass looking characters.” He rolls his eyes, pointing to the screen where Dazai’s character stood; scrawny and short in stature with blonde curly hair. 

“He doesn't look like a princess!” Dazai defends.

“Yes he does! He’s like the most feminine looking guy on here and you pick those types every goddamn time!” 

Dazai huffs. “Name one other game I do that in.”

“Link in smash bros.” Comes the immediate reply. 

“I barely ever pick him.” 

“You pick him every fucking time!” Chuuya argues. 

Dazai shrugs, pressing play and watching the screen light up with color. “Maybe that's just how I like my men.”

Chuuya's face scrunches up, lips curled. “You’re disgusting.”

“You're disgusting.” Dazai counters, sticking his tongue out. 

“You’re a fucking freak.” 

They go on like for hours, match after match, insult after insult. Dazai’s almost sure Chuuya’s throwing the matches intentionally until he glances over to see him red in the face and fuming, all that rage and lively spark he'd been missing for the past few weeks returning to him. 

“I win again!” Dazai cheers after what feels like their hundredth match, waiting for the familiar stream of curses, shouts and accusations of cheating. When the boy beside him remains silent, Dazai tries again. “That's three losses in a row for you, Chuuya. Are you even trying?” 

Instead of getting the response he wants, he gets a shoulder full of a sleeping Chuuya, mouth open and cheek squished against Dazai’s arm. With a resigned huff, Dazai sets aside his own controller, carefully extracting Chuuya's from his pliant hands. 

“Hey, Slug. My arm's gonna go numb, you know? You're really heavy." Chuuya doesn't stir, his face nestled against Dazai's side. The creases of distress that have been present on his face all day long are finally gone, now replaced by a look of calmness and contentment—a stark contrast. Dazai, reluctantly captivated by the rare sight of Chuuya in such a docile state, doesn't try to move. Instead, he drags a throw blanket off the back of the couch, careful as he does so not to move too suddenly, and throws it over his and Chuuya's lap.

“Guess you earned the right to be a little annoying today.” Dazai concedes with a sigh, watching the steady rise and fall of the redhead's chest. For now at least, Chuuya is protected from his own guilt and sorrow in the depths of a dreamless sleep and, for just this moment, Dazai is here to ensure that it stays that way; that Chuuya will not wake up alone tomorrow to an empty apartment and allow himself to be consumed by his grief. Dazai hopes, maybe fruitlessly, that it’s enough— even just for tonight. 

.