Work Text:
The smell of bleach is nauseating to Chuuya, but Dazai can’t seem to get enough of it as he takes another deep breath, bottomless eyes peering up at Chuuya without his bangs in the way. Right now, they’re holed up in the bathroom of Chuuya’s apartment, bleach saturating the ends of Dazai’s hair and burning their eyes, because, like a pair of idiots, they decided closing the door and locking the toxic fumes in with them was a good idea.
Dazai is sitting on the lip of the tub, watching Chuuya work carefully, uncharacteristically quiet as he hasn’t spoken in the last ten minutes to tell his partner what a shitty job he’s doing. One of Chuuya’s dye shirts, easily distinguished by the obvious blotches of color from constant use, is draped over his frame, and the stretched-out collar hangs low to reveal more bandages.
They finished a relatively easy mission a few hours ago, around 1 AM, and Dazai followed Chuuya home, whining the whole way about how Chuuya should be a good dog and carry him, which Chuuya refused to do. This was the usual routine they’ve fallen into since becoming partners in the mafia as well as partners in another sense too—Dazai spending most nights of the week at Chuuya’s place, and Chuuya pretending he doesn’t look forward to it every time.
Tonight is a little different, though, because when they got back to the apartment, Dazai didn’t follow Chuuya into the bedroom to change out of their disgusting work clothes. He stalled until Chuuya went to do it without him, and when Chuuya emerged, he found Dazai on his knees in the bathroom holding two bottles of hair dye, purple and blue in each hand. Now Chuuya isn’t dumb, he’s seen the way Dazai’s frequent staring has increased drastically since Chuuya started dyeing the tips of his hair a few months ago, a question pooling in his mouth but never leaving. He knows Dazai thinks it looks cool, fingers constantly fiddling with Chuuya’s hair in bed as he offers compliments disguised as barbs.
“Do you want me to do your hair?” Chuuya had asked, leaning against the doorframe.
“Like I would ever wanna match a mangy mutt like Chuuya,” Dazai had replied with his normal amount of theatricality, but the end product was always going to be the same.
Given that Chuuya’s ends are already a faded dark blue, he decided Dazai would look good with the purple, but bleaching had to come first with the darkness of his hair. Thinking of Dazai with orangey-yellow ends brings an amused smile to Chuuya’s face because, for a little while, he won’t look like his typical emo self.
“Why is Chuuya grinning like that?” Dazai asks as Chuuya finishes coating the last piece of the other’s hair.
“You’re gonna look so stupid,” Chuuya laughs, pulling off the late gloves he’s wearing before rinsing the bleach bowl in the sink.
“Chuuya is so mean to me!” Dazai whines, pitchy and annoying, legs flailing violently enough to wack Chuuya behind the knees and almost knock him over.
“Jesus, you’re such a child.” Chuuya reaches around to pinch the back of Dazai’s neck, and the other boy goes limp like a newborn kitten, pouting the entire time. “Now that needs to sit for like twenty, twenty-five minutes.”
Dazai doesn’t say anything else, so Chuuya releases his hold on the other boy before finally opening the door. The fresh air circulating throughout the room feels divine after spending so long without it, and Chuuya can feel Dazai watching him still as he continues to clean up.
“Yes?” Chuuya hums.
“I do like your hair,” Dazai whispers, unmoving from his spot.
Glancing to the side, Chuuya almost snorts at Dazai wearing such a serious expression even with his hair pushed out of his face, ends already turning a warm amber, and if Chuuya hadn’t seen Dazai hold someone at gunpoint earlier tonight, he’d think Dazai actually looks like a sixteen-year-old. Neither of them can have a normal adolescence, but that can provide moments like this for one another, and it’s already more than Chuuya ever thought he’d have.
“Thank you,” Chuuya whispers in return just as softly before finishing his task of cleaning up.
They spend the following twenty-five minutes eating ice cream on the floor in the kitchen straight from the tub, thighs pressed together, skin to gauze. Chuuya tries not to think about how he bought strawberry—Dazai’s favorite—on his last grocery run instead of chocolate. When he started buying groceries for both of them instead of just himself, Chuuya isn’t sure, but it feels good to bask in domesticity with another person like this.
“Shit, I ran out of gloves,” Chuuya groans while rummaging under the sink only to find the empty box and cleaning supplies, he must have been so focused earlier that he didn’t notice.
Dazai is standing behind him, freshly rinsed and blow-dried with crazy frizz, swaying on his feet. “That’s fine, I’ll just use my hands.”
Looking up, Chuuya catches the precise moment Dazai grabs the bottle, squirts purple dye straight onto his bare hands, and spreads it on his hair. Well, at least it’s not his hands, Chuuya muses as he stands from his crouching position in front of the cabinet below the sink and watches Dazai meticulously coat each blonde strand liberally through the mirror. He looks focused, bottom lip jutting out in an almost pout, and Chuuya can’t tell if he wants to pull on it or kiss it. Probably both. Maybe they can consider this a date, Dazai has been complaining too much recently that they’ve only gone out once, so they can’t possibly be boyfriends. They are. Dazai is just an asshole.
“Am I doing this right?” Dazai asks as he attempts to start on the back, contorting his body to try and see it in the mirror.
“Yeah, you’re doing great,” Chuuya chuckles, the sound fond even to him, but thankfully Dazai doesn’t call him out on it.
Without any further communication, Dazai finishes his hair without any help, and another timer is set before they return to their half-eaten ice cream. They share a few kisses that taste like melted strawberries between finishing the dessert and Chuuya apologizing for practically waterboarding Dazai when they attempt to wash out the color. The late-night hour aids in the soft atmosphere enveloping them, the need to hold each other far outweighing the need to skirt around it in the privacy of this apartment.
When Dazai is once again rinsed, conditioned, and blow-dried, they end up taking what they call “cringey couples photos” with their matching hair. Both are doing a poor job of hiding how much they’re enjoying this, and Chuuya is trying not to think about what photo is going to find a home in his wallet.