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Dazai Osamu is a man of many, many words.
And yet, Nakahara Chuuya — Dazai’s brash, brutish hound — has the audacity to rip the words from his throat.
Perhaps Chuuya is more powerful than once believed, with the way he seems to crush any semblance of coherent thought in Dazai’s head, too. Is mind-control a side symptom of Chuuya’s reign over gravity? Or perchance he has a secret second ability hidden beneath the weight of Upon the Tainted Sorrow.
That has to be the only reasonable explanation behind Dazai’s sudden inability to look at or communicate with Chuuya.
There certainly isn’t a faint rosy dust adorning his cheeks as he watches Chuuya run a brush through his hair; now a little longer, and fuller.
Chuuya yaps a little about struggling to style it; not that Dazai is acknowledging any of his barking. He can’t stop staring at the way his hair frames the side of his face, how it curls a little at the ends, how is fiery hue is so brilliantly red—
“You should cut it all off.”
The expression on Chuuya’s face is one he has seen a million times before. He tends to furrow his right brow — perhaps he has little control over the left one? Dazai is the same — and scrunch up his nose and mouth like he’s a grumpy little puppy. It’s unsightly, and Dazai loves provoking such a reaction. “Huh?”
Dazai sighs, turning and leaning his side against the sink to his left. “You should cut it all off if it’s bothering you so much.”
“It’s not bothering me,” Chuuya says, accompanied by a typical roll of his eyes, “That’s not what I meant.” He goes back to staring at himself in the mirror, pulling locks of hair this way and that way trying to find the perfect look.
Dazai finds himself staring, too.
“Still, you should cut it off. For my sake,” he says, taking a step closer to Chuuya. He’s so close he could almost reach out and touch it. “It’s ugly. Might as well get rid of all of it, actually.”
“Bastard, you want me bald?”
Chuuya flips around to stare right back at him then, and Dazai flinches, almost like he’s been caught in the act. It’s not like he was doing anything scandalous! He was only… fantasising about Chuuya with none of that ugly hair. Really, a shave would be doing them both a favour!
The redhead only sighs, pinning back one side of his hair with an old silver clip of Kouyou’s. “I give up on this. Guess I should be locking my doors tonight. Don’t wanna wake up to your stinky ass hovering over me with hair clippers.”
Dazai only laughs at him, his eyes floating up to the hair clip. “Silly Chuuya,” he says, “You should know locks won’t stop me!”
And how kind of Chuuya, giving him an idea for a prank! He hadn’t even considered such a thing.
He doesn’t do it, though.
In fact, when he enters the conference room in the morning, all of Chuuya’s hair is still attached to his head; this time, neatly pushed back into the smallest ponytail he’s ever seen in his life, with his bangs remaining long around his face. His right eye is almost covered with hair, and it’s so hideous that Dazai can only wonder; how can he see? How inconvenient.
(Nevermind that Dazai’s right eye is masked, too.)
He pretends not to notice Chuuya staring right back at him as he sits by Kouyou’s side.
- ••
Kouyou stands behind him, running her long fingers through his hair. His isn’t as long as Chuuya’s, but it’s thick and Kouyou has forced him to wash it, so for this one evening it’s rather voluminous. She twists his waves between her index and middle fingers, tugging on them ever so gently.
“I don’t think there’s much I can do with this,” she states, taking a step back and insteading resting her hands on his shoulders. Opposite them is a tall mirror, and she flaunts him to it like she’s showing him off. “A little braid at the side, perhaps. Or pinning one side of it back…”
“Why must you do anything with it at all?”
“You know why, Dazai. Boss’ orders.”
Dazai sighs and finally looks up at himself in the mirror. “I hate these stupid parties. They’re so… grandiose, and for what? So I can spend a night attached to Mori’s hip, pretending that I wouldn’t rather be at the bottom of a well?”
“You are not the only person in the Mafia, Dazai,” she says, repeating his name in a tone that makes her sound far older than she is. “Some of us enjoy having a break from… everything.”
She finally lets him go and he immediately retreats to the velvet chair in the corner of the room, crossing his legs with a petulant pout on his face. The material of the clothes he’s wearing scratch at his skin and he wants nothing more than to rip them off and go sleep in a river somewhere.
Just when he thinks he’s finally free from Kouyou, about to make a run for it as sneakily as he can, she approaches him again, this time with a silver shimmer in her hand. He recognises it as the pin Chuuya usually wears.
He lets her slide it into his hair.
“You clean up well,” she says, an almost fond smile embellishing her face.
Later, the party goes exactly as Dazai expects. He spends at least an hour or two as Mori’s dignified pet, perhaps half an hour wandering aimlessly trying to avoid conversation with random grunts he does not care for, and yet another hour slumped on the floor in the bathroom before someone finds him and forces him out.
He scans the main hall when he leaves the bathroom. He notes the absence of a particular redhead, which would be strange had he not recently experienced arguably the most traumatic events of his already depressing life.
The thought almost makes him feel… guilty. Suddenly it feels like Chuuya is limp in his arms again, his skin marred and ripped and bloody from head to toe. He can see the scarlet of the blood as he looks up, like it’s stained on the glass of his eyes, and he wants to hit himself. The Black Wraith of the Port Mafia does not feel unwell at the sight of something as commonplace as blood.
Except, it’s not blood; it’s Chuuya, with his beautifully red hair encasing his head. He must have just arrived.
His hair’s not tied back the way that Dazai has become used to. He lets it flow down, resting just above his shoulders, and Dazai’s pathetic excuse of a heart skips a beat.
Chuuya’s only wearing standard Mafia attire — the new suit he was given after his previous get-up had only reminded him of the days he had spent mourning and fighting until there was nothing left of him — with his hat placed firmly atop his head. And yet, even without embellishments and expensive fabric, Dazai thinks he looks so incredibly charming.
Chuuya notices him.
He suddenly feels the urge to run. Run as far away from here as he can, away from Mori’s prying eyes and Kouyou’s meddling hands and Chuuya’s disgustingly pretty face.
Chuuya sidles up next to him against the wall at the back of the room. Neither of them say anything at all for a long while, just observing as the crowd slowly starts to peter out.
“I wasn’t going to come,” Chuuya mumbles, so uncharacteristically softly that it almost makes Dazai worry. “I just… needed to get out of my apartment for a bit. It’s too quiet now.”
Dazai doesn’t say anything. Instead he gazes at Chuuya, fighting his desire to reach out and tuck a lock of hair behind Chuuya’s ear. When Chuuya eventually returns his stare, he looks so incredibly young. They are young; Dazai has only recently turned sixteen himself.
He gives in to his impulses.
Chuuya doesn’t still or freeze at the contact; after all, Dazai touches him plenty. What he does do surprises Dazai, and that thrills him.
Chuuya’s cheek makes steady contact with Dazai’s shoulder. They’re not quite far enough in height to warrant any tiptoeing, but Dazai leans down a little all the same. Red hair falls onto him, caressing his neck so delicately that he wishes his barrier of bandages would dissolve away.
If he focuses hard enough, he can hear Chuuya’s shallow breathing next to him.
For the first time the entire evening, the room feels tranquil.
- ••
Dazai will never tire of Chuuya’s post-mission glow. There’s something about the sight of him covered in someone else’s blood that ignites something in the deep pits of Dazai’s brain.
They’re both slumped lazily against the sinks in the medical ward bathroom. The tile floor is painted red.
“This shit’s caked in my hair,” Chuuya says, his words slightly slurred as his natural accent slips out. “I’m so tired I can’t even be fucked to wash it.”
Dazai snickers. “It’d probably be easier to shave it. For your sake.”
“Very funny,” Chuuya responds, “So funny.”
Eventually, Chuuya does hop into the shower, if only for ten minutes so he can scrub all the blood off. He doesn’t attempt to dry his hair once he re-dresses himself, instead sliding down to the floor in front of the sink cabinets. Dazai is, conveniently, right behind him, and puts his hands straight into Chuuya’s soaked locks.
“Your hair goes so much darker when it’s wet,” Dazai ponders, “Almost looks like mine.”
“As if I want hair like yours,” he replies, pausing a little like he wants to add a sarcastic nickname to the end, bastard sitting at the tip of his tongue. He doesn’t say it.
Dazai’s fingers move by themselves. He pulls Chuuya’s hair back, gently threading the strands together until the side of Chuuya’s head is decorated with an oddly ornate braid. Before he can complain that he has nothing to tie it in place with, Chuuya hands him a small band.
“How’d you know how to do that?” he asks, sliding his fingers gently over the plait, avoiding accidentally loosening it.
Dazai lazily leans forward, practically bending in half so he can bury his face atop Chuuya’s head. “I had older sisters.”
Chuuya makes a little noise of acknowledgement, but he doesn’t say anything else.
Dazai falls asleep staring at red hair.