Archive of Our Own

Chuuya opens the door, almost startled at the sight he sees on the other side. It’s certainly not what he had expected. He raises an eyebrow as he stares down the drenched figure on his doorstep.

There are a multitude of things he could say—mostly insults—but he looks behind at the streets becoming a flood hazard and then looks back at his rainy intruder. Chuuya crosses his arms and leans on the doorway, giving away nothing save for an unimpressed stare. A draft threatens to take refuge, and—although very soft—his singular layer of a black-turtleneck won’t cut it for long.

“Chibi,” Dazai croaks, pulling the soaked coat covering him tighter. It presumably does nothing for the cold given that it’s saturated with rainwater, but it does make him look slightly more pathetic. Dazai smiles quietly despite himself, eyes twinkling just the slightest.

“Mackerel.” Chuuya responds, tilting his head. “Aren’t stinky fish like you meant to stay in the water?”

“Ha-ha,” Dazai grits out, teeth chattering in the process.

As much as he'd love to flirt banter with Chuuya, if doesn't make it inside he fears he'll kick the bucket soon, this time for real. Chuuya has yet to budge though, content with watching Dazai get rained on. How cruel.

Dazai decides that it's time to bring out the big guns after a thirty-second long staring contest has ended in a stalemate. He sighs, and then unwraps the tan coat from his head, revealing curled locks of dark wet hair that cling to his face. 

Water continues to pelter him, but it helps to sell it. Chuuya, for some reason, has these nurturing instincts to save miserable little creatures that appeal to his favor. Dazai intends to take full advantage of that, so he summons his saddest, most woeful pleading stare.

It's incredible how pathetic Dazai manages to make himself look, standing at nearly six feet tall and yet appearing as though he were nothing more than a lost child. Although a very convincing act, it's the blueness of Dazai's lips that finally convinces Chuuya to let him in. 

“Tsk.” Chuuya purses his lips, then opens the door wider, gesturing for him to come inside. Dazai bends his head at the entryway while a wave of relief washes over him. Chuuya slides behind him to close out the freezing storm. 

Before Dazai can get more than four steps in, Chuuya places a finger to stop him. “Stay here.” Dazai swallows thickly, eyes following the hand as it retracts with the rest of the man's body and disappears around the corner.

Dazai is no dog—that's Chuuya's job.

But he stays put.

✧✧✧

(17, 17)

“Hatrack!” Dazai calls out, settling on the couch.

It's terribly tacky and a horrible color, but Chuuya refuses to get rid of it—just like he refuses to get rid of the horrendous matching rug. The amount of times Dazai has kindly made subtle suggestions of its unsightliness (gagging as he walks by it, coughing loudly, mime-barfing while pointing to it) seem to have made seldom a dent in persuading him.

“I’m starting the movie without you!” 

“Don’t you dare!” a voice shouts from the other end of the hallway. 

While peeling at the cracks of the ugly leather couch (he’s doing it a favor, really), Chuuya finally comes waltzing down the hallway, taking his sweet time delaying their movie night. He tosses a box of candy in Dazai’s direction, which, to Chuuya's disappointment, narrowly misses his head. One of Dazai's shit-eating grins spreads across his face when he sees that it’s a favorite of his.

Chuuya narrows his eyes. “I just had them lying around. I didn’t buy it for you or anything.”

“Oh really?” he raises an eyebrow with a sly smile, “you just happened to have my favorite candy lying around?”

“Yes.” Chuuya tries—he makes a valiant effort—but his face easily betrays him as his cheeks flush with red. 

“That’s so strange, I almost thought a fairy dropped it off,” Dazai says with faux confusion, tapping his chin and looking around the room as if Chuuya isn’t a foot away from him. 

“I’ll kill you, you piece of crap.” Chuuya growls, rolling his eyes. “Now move over! You always hog the entire couch.”

“But Chuuya—” Dazai whines, fighting back against Chuuya trying to shove him over, “it’s not my fault you’re the size of an ant!” 

“I’ll squash you like an ant if you don’t move your ass soon.”

“Brute! Brute!” Dazai cries out, “Don’t you know I’m delicate?” 

Chuuya ignores him, throwing his long legs off the couch to grab the blanket, which Dazai wrestles him back for. They fight for another fifteen minutes over the popcorn, and it predictably ends up spilling in a huge mess. Neither of them claim responsibility. 

✧✧✧

(22, 22)

Chuuya comes back with a pile of towels in his arms and has little to say other than expressing his surprise that Dazai actually did stay put the entire time. Carefully, he removes the soaking wet coat and tosses it in the laundry basket, to be washed later. Then, he takes one of the towels he brought—they’re baby blue, with dog patterns on them—and starts to towel dry Dazai’s hair. 

It’s surprising how pliant he is, leaning into the touch softly—almost reminiscent of drying a dog after it’s decided to run through a puddle with no care in sight. Dazai continues to stay silent, but brown orbs follow Chuuya’s movements, and if he were a better man, they would land only on his face. But he’s not, so they go almost everywhere but. Chuuya doesn’t seem to notice—or care. 

Soggy shoes are left in the foyer. They look laughably large compared to all the other pairs. 

Chuuya’s new house is a recent development, one that Dazai has yet to become acquainted with for all his meddling ways. He used to live on the top floor of the penthouse with an egregiously nice view of the skyline, but this place is quiet. Relatively small, and not particularly lavish considering Chuuya’s tastes in recent years.

Dazai would say it reminds him most of his apartment when they were seventeen. There’s a lived-in quality that he remarks to himself on as he’s led through the living room, kitchen, and into a bathroom with a tub on the side. Chuuya avoids looking directly at him, and instead drops a pile of clean towels and attempts to make an escape. 

He’s unsuccessful. Dazai, to his great chagrin, reaches out his arm and grabs Chuuya’s wrist. He doesn’t say anything, neither of them do. Despite being the one to make such a bold move, Dazai turns his head away while his hair and clothes continue to drip stormwater onto Chuuya’s nice bathroom mats. Also dog-patterned, by the way. 

A mop of dark hair obscures his eyes, but Chuuya can see the slightest quiver of Dazai’s lip that gives him away. He huffs, “And you call me the dog?” Nevertheless, he eventually caves. “Fine. Undress, or we’ll be here all night.”

That sparks a twinkle of mischief in Dazai’s eyes, the obvious treadings of a lewd joke laid out for him. But he doesn’t bite. Instead, he begins unbuttoning the vest and shirt that have started sticking to his skin uncomfortably. The fabric falls to the side of where he sits on the edge of the tub, and Chuuya picks it up to toss it with the rest of the dirty laundry. 

Save for his bandages and boxers, Dazai is naked. And it’s interesting, how once upon a time, that would have seared heat in Chuuya’s core at the mere suggestion. When they were clumsily throwing themselves onto each other, because perhaps the world would end tomorrow or so. It wouldn’t, but they sure as hell acted like it. 

Now, it’s more of a quiet simmer that seeing Dazai always includes. A warmth that rises and falls, but remains nonetheless. 

Chuuya starts the water in the tub, and Dazai slowly unwraps his bandages. Chuuya doesn’t look in his direction, instead, he fills the tub with a soft citrus-scented soap that proliferates with bubbles. Dazai steps in while Chuuya’s preoccupied and he settles into a compact position since he can’t fully stretch out his legs. 

Dazai looks up at Chuuya like he’s got the whole world in his hands, and Chuuya’s heart aches. The man has seldom said else but a plea since arriving at his doorstep. Big, brown, soft eyes tug on Chuuya’s heartstrings unfairly while his mop of dark hair becomes drenched again as Chuuya turns the spray on him. 

His hair seems to have gotten lighter since he left—like the rest of his outfit—but as it becomes wet, it darkens all the more sweetly. Like a rich chocolate with a bitterness that doesn’t suit everyone's palette, but has a delectable taste for those who choose to indulge. 

A strange feeling ignites in Chuuya’s chest, something similar to the one he gets when he volunteers at the dog shelter. 

✧✧✧

(16, 16)

Dazai grumbles under his breath while Chuuya scrubs at his hair, seemingly willing all the oil and dirt to come out of it with sheer force. The bathtub is barely big enough to fit the two of them, so Dazai has to irritatingly crunch his legs up to the side while Chuuya continues his mission. 

Dazai, on the other hand, has far more important business to attend to. Like making a bubble beard from the accumulated soap, and then turning around to show Chuuya, who immediately loses his focused expression and bursts out laughing. He turns around, and the next moment he’s sporting his own bubble beard—with a matching monocle to go along with it.

“Listen, you really should start paying attention in meetings… blah blah blah…” Chuuya’s Hirotsu impression is absolutely terrible, and it’s the best Dazai’s ever seen. His eyes sparkle, and then he smirks antagonistically. 

“That doesn’t even sound like Hirotsu you know,” he points out haughtily. Tut-tut-ing Chuuya’s efforts while stroking his fake bubble beard. “You’re completely missing his cadence, by like, a landslide.

“Oh yeah? Like you could do any better,” Chuuya gives him the middle finger. 

“Bet I could.”

“Bet you couldn’t.”

They lock eyes in an impromptu staring contest, before Dazai takes an underhanded move and shoves soapy water directly into Chuuya’s eyes. Predictably, he shrieks. All’s fair in war and war, or however the saying goes, but Dazai is still laughing his ass off when a retaliation strike returns the favor and his mouth is suddenly filled with the unpleasant taste of suds. 

✧✧✧

(22, 22)

Dazai holds his legs against his chest in the bathtub while Chuuya scrubs at his hair. It’s far from the violence such hands are accustomed to, but they slip into soothing, familiar rhythms. Dazai takes a cursory peek through his hair and sees Chuuya’s face, etched with concentration. He’s sticking the tip of his tongue out, and the sight is so endearing that Dazai looks away quickly—like it’s a secret he must take with him to the grave. 

He allows himself a small, indulgent smile as he runs the picture they make in his head. Port Mafia executive, Chuuya Nakahara, carefully cleaning the stray that showed up on his doorstep on an odd, rainy Tuesday. It leaves him with a feeling that he isn’t yet prepared to address, so instead he gazes at Chuuya as if he’s about to begin carving him into marble. And indeed, he might just. 

✧✧✧

(19)

Chuuya wipes blood off his face with nothing more than a damp paper towel, and man, it’s doing a bad job. He whistles as he takes a look at what meets him in the mirror. Cold, unflinching blue eyes stare at him. Red smears across his cheek, and it crosses his lips when he tries to wipe it away again with his leather gloves. It does little but make a mess. He worries his bottom lip, and then sighs.

There isn’t any amount of soap that could wash away the blood from his hands. 

He strips himself of his vest, button-up, and harness, wincing at the open wound hidden beneath the layers of clothing. Gunshot. He miscalculated again, and this is where it landed him. 

Gritting his teeth, he takes a set of clean cotton swabs and begins sterilizing the wound. It’s painful to do this on himself, but no one else is going to be there to clean up the messes. 

Not anymore.

✧✧✧

(22, 22)

When Chuuya is finally satisfied with Dazai’s state of cleanliness, he allows him to exit the tub. As Dazai stands up, a towel is tossed his way to ensure the most important part of him is secured—his modesty! 

Dazai holds back on snickering too much, but his eyes are in fact making fun of Chuuya. They gleam with mischief. 

It’s a half-second too late for Chuuya to stop Dazai before he stands up and starts shaking out his hair like a damn dog. It sprays water everywhere, including all over Chuuya. “Asshole!” He shouts, arms flying up to cover his face. 

Dazai, ever the menace, only sticks out his tongue at him. Chuuya glares at him and then flicks him straight in the forehead, prompting a slew of incoherent complaints. He rolls his eyes, then slips out the door while Dazai dries himself.

Left on the sink is a set of oversized sweats and rolls of bandages—the exact ones that Dazai always uses. His heart skips a small beat. 

In the other room, Chuuya is pouring tea. He doesn’t look up when Dazai comes out of the bathroom, continuing to stir his brew lightly and blowing steam off the top. Instead of another cup of tea to accompany his, there’s a mug of hot chocolate on the kitchen counter, waiting. Marshmallows included. 

Dazai stands in the doorway like he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. Glancing around reveals more of Chuuya’s tacky taste in decor, something he (clearly) never grew out of. Chuuya finally looks up from where he’s leaning against the counter, but says nothing. 

It’s strange how a pair of eyes can feel like home.

Chuuya blows on the cup of tea again before taking a sip. He sets the cup down and picks up the one with hot chocolate, walking over to where the couch is. It’s massive, built in a comfortable L-shape and fit with enormous and soft pillows to go along with it. Dazai follows him like a lost puppy, only sitting down where Chuuya pats his hand.

After that, Dazai’s eyes continue to follow him, curiously observing the other man as he walks up the stairs. He disappears shortly, but a plethora of colorful sounds spring from the direction he went in. 

A shiver goes down Dazai’s spine. 

It isn’t long before it appears.

Like a nefarious beast ready to ruin his day, it sprints down the stairs at breakneck speeds and immediately sniffs out Dazai’s presence with repulsive accuracy. It tries to jump onto him—to no avail, because it is dumb—and instead simply ends up scratching wildly at his legs.

Dazai does not cower in fear. Dazai is not a man who cowers at ugly mutts with soft fur and big eyes. Chuuya appears not a moment too late to (hopefully) rescue Dazai from the beast that has invaded his personal space, but all he does is laugh.

“Chuuya.” Dazai starts, voice nearly (but decidedly not ) cracking. 

“Dazai,” the evil munchkin smiles. 

“You have this… this,” he expresses with disdain, “thing, in your house—I don’t know if you’ve noticed.” 

“You know, I think I have.” Chuuya says, leaning down to scratch behind the evil creature’s ears. “It showed up earlier with no explanation, and then I had to go through the ordeal of cleaning it. Now I’ve got to feed it as well. Can you believe that?” He sighs dramatically as he switches to giving belly rubs. 

Dazai pouts at that. 

He kicks Chuuya’s leg. 

✧✧✧

(16, 17)

Chuuya swears to god that this is the last time that he will ever—EVER—let Dazai-fucking-Osamu in his apartment. He wakes to the smell of something burning, probably his new kitchen, and has the urge to strangle someone. Namely, a stupid brunette with stupid bandages and a stupid shit-eating grin. 

He sprints out of his bedroom inhumanly quickly and is surprised to find that his kitchen has not, in fact, gone up in flames. Copious amounts of smoke are rising from a frying pan though, and the pan itself looks like it has a chunk of black coal sitting in the middle.

Dazai turns around with a bright grin, “Good morning Chibi!”

“Why are you. Burning down. My apartment,” Chuuya grits out as he yanks the frying pan from Dazai’s hands. He looks like he’s getting ready to thwack him with it. 

“Making breakfast for my lovely partner?” Dazai shrugs his shoulders and provides nothing more than a sheepish grin. 

“I’ll kill you.” Chuuya bites out. 

He gives in to his desires and smacks the back of Dazai’s head. Hard. 

Admittedly, Chuuya can’t cook very well either, so they end up eating cup-noodle ramen on the couch together. Dazai slurps as loud as possible and Chuuya elbows him in the side. They talk about everything and also nothing at all, and it’s the most at ease Chuuya has felt in weeks. 

Last night, they had a lengthy mission which left them both beat tired. Dazai stayed over because it’s the logical thing to do—nevermind the fact that he stays over even when it isn’t. They don’t mention that part though.

Conversations flow easily between them, because no matter how many dumb questions Dazai poses, Chuuya always responds. 

“Do you think that Mori dyes his hair black so he doesn’t look old?” Dazai quips, picking out a piece of corn and tossing it at Chuuya.

He grumbles and tosses a pea the other way, then raises an eyebrow, “What, like someone’s grandma who doesn’t want to admit she’s not young anymore?” 

“Yes, exactly! There’s no way that his hair is still fully dark at his age. I mean, just look at Hirotsu.” 

Chuuya tilts his head thoughtfully, “That is true…”

“Maybe he’s wearing a wig. Just like a slug is.”

“Hey! I spend a lot of time taking care of my hair,” he huffs, indignant pride leaking into his expression.

“There’s no way it can really be that silky though,” Dazai mumbles under his breath.

“What are you muttering about, bastard?”

“Nothing, I just said that there’s no way you can be that ugly!” 

Chuuya groans and throws a pillow in his face. “Forget I asked!”

✧✧✧

(22, 22)

The two of them settle on the couch with the dog in Chuuya’s lap, who soaks up all of his attention. And Chuuya lets it! He coos and croons and indulges that thing. Dazai snuggles up in the warm blanket (that Chuuya provided him) and turns his head the other way bitterly to avoid looking at the odious scene.

Chuuya pays him no mind, and they sit in silence, save for the laborious breathing and yelps of joy from a certain creature.

“She’s leaving next week,” Chuuya’s voice rings out abruptly. He doesn’t look Dazai’s way. Dazai is tempted to turn his head, but he’s better than that. “I’m only taking care of her as a foster, then she’ll be given to her forever home,” he continues, sighing forlornly.

Dazai does turn his head this time, and sees that Chuuya is looking at him. A slight tilt to his head. He doesn’t say more though. 

The storm outside rages on. Rain, and perhaps hale at this point, crashes against the window and the roof. They’ll be here for a while. 

“Does it have a name?” the sound of his own voice startles Dazai. 

“Hana.” 

Dazai clears his throat before taking a sip of his hot chocolate. “Ugly name for an ugly creature.”

Chuuya snorts, only continuing to scratch behind the creature’s ears. Dazai has an horrid feeling in his chest, one that’s green and festering as he stares down the dog’s empty eyes. He swallows it down, turning his eyes at Chuuya. Chuuya, who has a soft smile bleeding out, who has freckles running across his face like shooting stars, whose blue eyes have more warmth than seems possible.

“Chuuya should quit picking up strays off the street,” Dazai says quietly, averting his gaze. “One day, you’ll let one in and it’ll never leave.” 

“Is that so?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Personally, I think Chuuya can keep making decisions for himself.”

Dazai sighs overdramatically, “Garden gnomes have never been known to be smart.” 

Chuuya clicks his tongue, moving in closer to smack Dazai upside the head. Dazai doesn’t move to dodge, but he doesn’t hold back on the whining when it happens. He laughs softly, “they’re so violent, too.” 

Chuuya chuckles in response. “Only to the rat bastards that deserve it.”

✧✧✧

(16, 16)

The bright red words “LOSE” flash across Dazai’s screen, and his jaw drops open in shock. There’s no way. Absolutely no way that such an unskilled, brutish, dumb slug with no strategy actually beat him. He turns over to look at Chuuya, who basks in the “WIN” screen like he’s about to walk up on stage and collect an award.

“So, Mackerel,” he smirks, “how does it finally feel to lose?”

Dazai turns up his nose at him and flares his nostrils. “You must have cheated. There’s no way that someone with such an empty head like you could’ve won.”

Chuuya’s gloating quickly turns to anger at that, and a slow smile snakes its way onto Dazai’s face at successfully riling him up. “I won! Fair and square,” Chuuya huffs, “face it, you lost your 257-or-whatever win streak, and now it’s the start of my win streak.”

“259 actually. And your win streak ? It’s ending at one.” Dazai blows out his tongue. He turns his head away, as if the conversation isn’t even worth his time. He checks out his nails while Chuuya crosses his arms and fumes. 

“You better not be counting two weeks ago when my controller conveniently unplugged, are you?”

“Of course I did,” Dazai says a-matter-of-factly, "I still won those, didn’t I?”

Chuuya growls, “those didn’t count! Obviously!” 

“Says who?”

“Says, I don’t know, everyone? Logic? Common sense?” he throws his hands up. 

“Hmm, I dunno. I don’t think so!” Dazai covers his ears, childishly blocking out the rest of Chuuya’s words.

“Tch. You’re nothing but a cheat, a scam, and a liar.” 

“Why, you flatter me too much,” Dazai smirks. He opens his mouth to grab a bite of his cookie, but suddenly, it’s snatched right from his hands. He gasps and lunges at Chuuya, who’s now the one about to take a bite of his cookie. Chuuya knocks him aside with his superior strength and fiendishly chomps down.

“Give me back my cookie you monster!”

“Hmm, I don’t think so!” Chuuya parrots his words back to him with crumbs splattering his face and victory on his tongue.

“You look stupid! Idiot! Bad dog!”

“Your face looks stupid!”

Chuuya finishes off the last bite, and then has the audacity to burp in Dazai’s face. Dazai grabs a handful of french fries (from Chuuya’s meal, not his) and throws them at Chuuya. 

✧✧✧

(22, 22)

“Rat bastards that deserve it, huh?” Dazai tests the words on his mouth; they’re heavy on his tongue. “A shame. I’ve never done anything wrong in my whole life, so, ah, I shouldn’t have to deal with your physical abuse.” 

Chuuya gives him a dead stare, ignoring his bullshit. But then, he surges closer. For a second, Dazai thinks that he’s about to smack him again, but instead Chuuya’s fingers lightly graze his cheek. Dazai’s heart beats twice as fast as the smaller man leans in. What is he doing? 

In a moment, it’s over. Chuuya holds up an eyelash between his fingers. He does nothing but smile sweetly before getting up, and Dazai has to resist the urge to beg and whine for him to come back down. To stop flying away from him. 

“I’m going to start on dinner.” 

And then he disappears into the kitchen. Dazai is left on the couch by himself. Lonely, woeful, and abandoned.

Bark! 

Well he supposes he’s not completely alone. Tch.  

The little beast did not, unfortunately, follow Chuuya into the other room, but has instead taken to splaying out all over the couch and getting its dog germs all over. Dazai makes a mental note to not go anywhere where it's touched, who knows the last time it’s been cleaned? Where has that thing been?

He continues to side eye it as he hears the stove fan turn on. The clatter of pots and pans is audible, and he, like a good dog owner, worries for his own pet. You see, Chuuya is actually very clumsy, so it would be no surprise if he ends up dropping a hot pan on himself. And they couldn’t have that, now could they? 

This is why he decides to get up and follow Chuuya to the kitchen after only a few minutes of being left to his own devices. Certainly not for any trivial reason, such as that he missed him. That would be absurd. 

✧✧✧

(16, 16)

Chuuya snores loudly. That is a fact that Dazai has found out time and time again, and everytime it fascinates him nonetheless. Sure, Chuuya is plenty loud when he’s awake, but Dazai did not guess that he would be equally, unconsciously, just as loud when he’s asleep. That one appears to have blindsided him. 

They’re in Chuuya’s bedroom, and only one of them has had the pleasure of greeting death’s envoy. Dazai instead has spent the past few hours observing Chuuya, and continuing to categorize all the little details about him that he normally isn’t allowed such close proximity to view in full. 

The book he began reading earlier has been all but forgotten. There are far more interesting things for him to attend to. Like noticing the scar that’s begun developing on the side of his arm. You’d think that that one came from a mission or a fight, but no, it was because of a cooking accident with a potato peeler. And the fact that he has freckles that go down his back—Dazai wonders how long it would take to count every freckle on his body. 

Chuuya smells like citrus, and Dazai assumes the strong fruit scent is due to the curiously long amount of time he spends in the shower. But underneath mixed in is the distinct smell of gunpowder and blood—and something about that is far more comforting to Dazai than any of the fancy scents Chuuya uses to hide it.

He’s spread out like a starfish, taking up more than half of the bed with his small body, but Dazai is content to lean over on his side, thinking over all the fun Chuuya facts he’s collected tonight. But that peace does not last long, because the sleeping beast begins to roll around and toss and turn.

Dazai attempts to edge back (although he’s almost falling off) but he is ensnared. There is suddenly a small, lithe redhead wrapping around him. Chuuya smacks his lips, completely unaware and almost certainly under the belief he’s just holding onto a very large teddy bear. He doesn’t budge, and Dazai is left to deal with the panic that threatens his feeble heart. He’s close enough that he can now smell the hints of vanilla hidden beneath as well, and it’s doing dangerous things to his stomach. He may throw up. 

✧✧✧

(22, 22)

Chuuya is chopping vegetables when lanky arms wrap around him, and he pauses. A chin comes to rest on his shoulder. “Dazai,” he says exasperatedly. “What are you doing?” 

“Checking up on my dog,” is the response, soft and unguarded.

Chuuya sighs, but instead of shoving Dazai off (as he should, since this is a cooking hazard), he continues cutting vegetables. He pours them into the soup on the stove that’s been steadily heating up, and is liberal with the seasoning. 

“Where did Chibi learn to cook like the rat from ratatouille, hm?” Dazai remarks curiously. “Can’t he afford a private chef?” 

Chuuya laughs at that. He could hire one, it would be easy. But cooking for himself has provided an outlet in the past four years that a lot of things haven’t. He’s not the best cook by any means—not going for a Michelin star anytime soon—but he can make a tasty soup. “I like eating home cooked food.”

“Tsk. What a workaholic. Can’t even have someone else make food for him.” 

“You caught me.” Chuuya carefully adds a few more ingredients, then puts the top back on the pot to simmer for a while. He turns around and removes Dazai’s arms from his waist, who thoroughly whines at that. But the next moment Chuuya is looking into his eyes with an easy mirth, and he guides Dazai’s hands to the top of his hair. He pinches Dazai’s fingers around two locks off the top of his head, then lets his arms move in response to Dazai’s movements.

Dazai catches on quickly, and he giggles, toying with the strands of hair while Chuuya’s body moves to his whim. 

“Hey… Wait a minute,” Dazai stops, furrowing his brow and looking down, “Is Chuuya calling me the rat?”

Chuuya keeps a knowing smile hidden and avoids Dazai’s eyes, “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Dazai hands drop and he crosses his arms in indignation, turning the other way. “Conniving little chibi,” he grumbles.

✧✧✧

(17, 17)

Chuuya, despite his small size, is heavy. Dazai swears at least half of his body weight is just pure muscle as he fishes around his pockets for the key to Chuuya’s apartment. Chuuya’s small body threatens to slip off his back, especially given the fact that the both of them are almost completely soaked from the rain. When he gets the door open at last, he immediately drops Chuuya off on the couch and lets out a loud sigh. 

Chuuya mumbles something unintelligible in his sleep, and Dazai has no more energy to understand anymore. He has no more energy at all, and instead of doing as he should and stripping them both of their cold, wet, and blood-stained clothes, he grabs a fleece blanket and snuggles up next to the burgeoning warmth of Chuuya’s body. Dazai shivers, but Chuuya is always warm—always bursting with life.

✧✧✧

(22, 22)

They eat dinner in relative quiet, accompanied by the pounding storm that, instead of relenting in the hours since Dazai’s arrival, has only gotten stronger. The dog barks at the windows like there’s a monster outside which has caused her to lose her evening walk, and Dazai feels vindicated for his own suffering.

The soup is, unsurprisingly, delicious, and it is not lost on him the way Chuuya glances his way throughout the meal to make sure he’s eating. Dazai has a warm feeling in his chest, one not just from sipping on hot broth during a rainstorm. He wants to hold the feeling in his hands in the hopes it will burst into flames and take him down with it. 

They end up back on the couch. Chuuya has changed from his earlier attire to an oversized T-shirt (one that looks strangely familiar) and sweatpants that are about to throw Dazai into a coma. He’s fighting his instincts that say to get on his knees and start begging. It’s a very tough battle. 

Chuuya, on the other hand, does not seem to share his dilemma. Instead of being tormented, he holds the small dog on his lap and coddles it, like it’s a baby. Intermittently, it jumps up to lick his face and neck with reckless abandon.

Chuuya giggles, and it’s the most holy sound Dazai has ever heard. 

“Down girl! Down!” Chuuya says breathlessly, but the creature only wags its tail and continues licking at his face. Chuuya doesn’t seem to mind all that much, given his wide smile and bright eyes. Dazai, however, does mind. 

An urge tugs at his chest—one that he, in the past several years, thought he had successfully suppressed with much effort—but apparently it was sloppy work. He instead finds himself resenting the dog’s free range of Chuuya more with every passing moment. 

Dazai coughs. “You shouldn’t let that thing slobber all over you like that,” he says mumbles, looking the other way. 

Chuuya raises an eyebrow, then finally puts the creature down. It proceeds to run off to who knows where around the house. “I’ve put up with worse,” he shrugs, the ghost of amusement dancing across his face. 

✧✧✧

(16, 16)

Dazai is going to be sick.

There’s a swirling feeling in his stomach that is threatening to spill out, and as it churns he feels the pain reaching his heart as well. He tries controlling it to calm it down, but it beats and thunders and reverberates against his ribcage—his body is betraying him. 

All because of Dazai’s dumb dog. 

As of late, Chuuya has been on a marathon of watching every Lipmann movie he can get his hands on. He stays up staring at the TV screen and Dazai knows the tears that bud but never bloom at the corners of his eyes aren’t just because it was that good of a movie or because he’s a sap. 

But this time is different, because Chuuya is an idiot. He’s always an idiot, but it doesn’t usually result in such disastrous consequences for Dazai. He’s a fool, because he’s fallen asleep on the couch and left himself vulnerable to a free-draw session on his face. He’s left himself open to enemy strikes as well—if Dazai weren’t such a great dog owner, of course.

In spite of his virtuous actions, Dazai is the one who suffers. He suffers when he feels the rise and fall of Chuuya’s chest against his, when he feels the warmth radiating off of his body. When he observes the rouge hues of his hair dimly glow in the light of the TV and how it looks like sparks of fires dancing. This is awful. 

His ugly partner—normally loud, abrasive, and mean—should not be able to make him feel sick like this. It is so unfair. 

✧✧✧

(22, 22)

Chuuya took a short trip to the bathroom to wash off his face, but noticeably, he sits slightly closer on the couch compared to before. Dazai’s stomach flips.

He silently opens up the blanket wrapped around himself to share. The question of whether or not he would do this with any of his other companions—or if Chuuya is the exception—is not one that he wants to address at the moment. 

Chuuya glances at him for just a moment, but he accepts it immediately. Like it wasn’t even a question, just an autopilot move. A habit. And Dazai feels that urge well up in his chest again. Chuuya picks up the TV remote from the side table and scrolls through channels with a focused expression—one shared by Dazai, but instead of looking at the TV, his gaze is turned to the man sitting next to him.

“Have any preferences?” Chuuya asks. 

“Anything that you don’t like.”

“Asshole,” he responds, but Dazai can see the corners of his mouth tug up. 

“What? It’s not my fault you have bad taste,” Dazai shrugs. 

He scoffs, but ends up picking a movie familiar to both of them—an old Lippman one. Dazai remembers with absolute clarity the exact day they watched it. His brain replays it for him, taunting him, and a wave of embarrassment runs through his body. 

“We’ve already seen this movie before, hatrack.” 

“Have we? Don’t remember that.” 

Dazai laughs, about to make a snide remark about how slugs have such bad memory, but then his own betrays him when it conjures up what happened later, after the movie ended. The wind is punched from him and he makes a choked noise. 

“You good?”

“Just peachy.” Dazai forces an obnoxious smile, and Chuuya rolls his eyes. 

✧✧✧

(16, 16)

Chuuya wakes up slowly. 

Grogginess taints his vision, and he rubs the sleep from his eyes. He squints his eyes as he tilts his head and is only able to make out the dark TV screen. Slumping back into the warmth behind him, he realizes that it’s actually a person and not a particularly warm pillow, and then looks up and sees a familiar face. The simple thought crosses his mind that Oh, Dazai is here. 

The feeling of danger evaporates and he reaches his hand up toward Dazai’s face—His pupils are dilated and his lips are open and chapped, fixed in a state of uncharacteristic openness. Chuuya is barely lucid as he asks, “Did the movie end already?” with disappointment leaking into his voice. Dazai doesn’t answer at first, he just stares at him with those big, dark and void-like eyes.

He begins to lean down and Chuuya’s sleep-fogged mind begins thinking he’s about to do something very different than what he actually does, so he closes his eyes and waits. Why he waits, voluntarily, is an answer that evades him, but it’s unexpected when he does not feel Dazai’s lips by his face but instead lodged in his hair, his nose nestling into the messy waves at the side of Chuuya’s head.

“Yes, Chibi. The movie ended already,” are the words spoken directly into his ear, sending a shiver down his spine. “So rest already, you moron.” Chuuya vaguely registers those last words, but he doesn’t process it.

The automated response that slips out is, “Shut it, bastard,” but it trails off without any real fire behind it. Chuuya becomes dimly aware of the hand resting on his waist, but it feels so right that he makes no acknowledgement of it. The tiredness in his soul catches up with him, and the next thing he remembers is darkness. But it’s a warm darkness, not like the one he usually falls asleep to. It cradles him, holds him tenderly, softly. 

✧✧✧

(22, 22)

The movie begins, and Dazai can’t bring himself to focus on it at all. Not when Chuuya leans back further and Dazai can feel his body heat radiating off of him. Chuuya has always run warm. Dazai, slowly and carefully, scoots over until their shoulders are touching, and feels relief when Chuuya doesn’t even seem to notice. 

Dazai can’t help staring at Chuuya’s face when he can see it from up close like this. Even in the dim light of the living room, he thinks he could make out Chuuya’s face if they were sitting in complete darkness. The curve of his jaw, the slant of his nose—the way his eyelashes flutter when he blinks. If he ever wanted to begin carving marble statues, there’s a substantial chance that everything he ends up making will just be Chuuya’s face, over and over again. It would be a nightmare.

He partially devotes some attention to whatever’s going on in the movie—can grasp a vague plot—but it eludes him as to what’s actually going on at any given point. He’s too busy looking at Chuuya. 

Near the end of the runtime, Chuuya does a hilariously small action, but it drives Dazai insane. 

The oblivious fool doesn’t even realize it: he runs his fingers through his hair—it’s gotten long—and tilts his head away. Leaving his neck exposed. That's all. The leather choker taunts Dazai, egging him on to do something he probably shouldn’t. Evokes a primal urge he thought he'd been good at suppressing.

Dazai is a man with a lot of self control; he is a man with a lot of patience—a man with a lot of restraint. 

But Dazai is still only a man. 

Involuntarily, he finds himself leaning over. The flesh of Chuuya’s neck suddenly appears under his mouth. He is a weak man, never claiming anything to the contrary, and he is no longer able to resist the urge to give in. To surrender. 

For a moment, he senses Chuuya tense beneath him, but it quickly eases away. His body becomes pliant, arms coming up to wrap around Dazai. A quiet groan escapes his lips. 

Dazai lavishes open-mouthed kisses all over Chuuya’s neck, and surrendering to his urges has never felt more gratifying. He could stay there forever, feeling Chuuya twitch under him when he finds a sensitive spot, could stay there and listen to the quiet gasps that slip out. He begins licking at Chuuya’s neck, and it feels more satisfying than any gold trophy when Chuuya’s full body shudders.

Dazai brings his hand up to the other side of Chuuya, stabilizing himself with a hand on Chuuya's head. It comes into contact with the soft hair that haunts him with its addicting smell and he runs his fingers through it. 

His tongue maps a trail all the way up to Chuuya’s ear, which he briefly nips at, and then runs back down where it meets his choker. He bites at it before mouthing at the sensitive skin underneath. The high when he hears the half-whine that spills from Chuuya’s mouth is unmatched. Dazai is a weak man. And he is also a greedy man. 

He takes, and takes, and takes, using his tongue like it’s a practiced weapon created to explicitly break Chuuya apart. He draws gasps and whimpers and moans from the man, toying with the jealousy in his mind at the thought of anyone else seeing his Chuuya like this. It only stokes the desire to pleasure him—to please him—further. 

Then Chuuya suddenly freezes. 

His body goes rigid—eyes snapping open. 

He looks at Dazai with wide eyes, as if he only just became conscious of what was occurring. 

Placing his hand up against Dazai’s mouth, he holds him there. His hair sticks up from where Dazai's hand had been running through it and a red flush creeps all the way from his cheeks, to his ears, down through his neck. 

Dazai blinks slowly. He presses his lips to Chuuya’s palm, and near imperceptibly Chuuya’s blush deepens as he grabs his hand back like it’s been burned. Dazai gazes at him with hungry eyes. Chuuya attempts to find words, but they remain stuck in his throat. He keeps Dazai at bay by extending his palm to the offender’s chest—avoiding that dangerous mouth—but it does nothing for the heat already pooled in his core. 

“Dazai,” he rasps, voice slightly off-kilter. 

“Chuuya,” it sounds lewd, the way he lengthens every syllable.

“You—you…licked me!” 

Dazai stays silent, not a wisp of remorse, perhaps even smugness. Something in his eyes replies And you were enjoying it. 

“Shit, you were licking me!” Chuuya groans, seemingly more mad at himself than anything else. And it felt good goes unspoken. 

“You were perfectly fine letting that dog slobber all over you,” Dazai pouts, trying to lean forward again, but Chuuya pushes back. 

✧✧✧

(18, 18)

Dazai is not drunk, but that assertion proves faulty when he tries standing up and can barely walk. He looks over to his side and sees Chuuya no better off, which brings a tipsy smile to his face. He slides behind the seat Chuuya is in and leans up against him, his arms wrapping around from behind.

“Chibi-chan,” he slurs out, a wide grin spread across his face. Chuuya takes another sip of his drink and leans back into Dazai, pressing his head into his chest. 

“What do you want, bastard?” He slurs his words as well, half-hiccupping in between, “I’m—hic—I’m tryna enjoy myself here.” Dazai’s smile deepens as he lifts up strands of Chuuya’s hair and twirls them in his fingers with a laugh. 

He pauses to whisper in Chuuya’s ear, thinly concealed arousal coating his voice, “I can think of one way to make this more enjoyable, my petit mafioso.” The words hang in the air for a bit, heavy. A beat passes.

Chuuya narrows his eyes, but it’s too late because Dazai has already noticed the look of desire that ran across his face at those simple words. “We’re in public, idiot, we can’t—” he’s cut off by a strangled groan—it might have been him, he doesn’t know—but his eyelids slip closed and he doesn’t have the inhibitions to fight back. Dazai mouths at the side of neck, occasionally dipping lower as he moves the collar of Chuuya’s shirt out of the way. 

“Don’t, ah, don’t leave any marks, asshole. Subordinates keep giving me weird looks,” Chuuya says half-heartedly, barely able to focus. 

Dazai hums against his skin in acknowledgement, and the action sends reverberating shivers down Chuuya’s spine. He lifts his mouth up from his work to place his lips by Chuuya’s ear. In low tones, a voice whispers, “Good.” 

Chuuya doesn’t register what he’s responding to at first, but when he does, bolts of heat run through his body. If he were in his right mind, Dazai’s blatant possessiveness may have earned him a kick to the stomach, but he’s not right now, and that tiny admission fills him with deep, unfulfilled wanting. 

Chuuya breathes heavily as Dazai’s hand creeps under his shirt to rest on his hip. The panic that should be there presents itself with weak resolve and it easily sinks into the building arousal clouding his mind. Paired with the alcohol impairing his ability to think properly, the concept of Dazai continuing what he’s doing right here and right now seems like an excellent idea. 

Dazai becomes bolder and bolder with his hands as they inch closer to the place that he knows Chuuya’s craving them to be. But he’s a tease, so he never touches it, instead laughing at Chuuya’s obvious frustration with another bruising kiss to his neck. Chuuya almost lets full whine slip through. 

The spell is broken when an employee walks over, and they’re promptly kicked out of the bar for public indecency. 

Dazai grumbles and whines as a light rain drizzles down on them and from the looks of it, it’s only going to get worse. He hasn’t unwrapped his arms from Chuuya since they were inside. The cold air forced them both to sober up a bit, but they’re still far from sensible.

Dazai shivers, but Chuuya offers him no consolation, instead staring off into the street. He looks like a painting—disheveled, wet, and gears ticking in his head. “I can see the smoke coming from your ears, slug. Don’t think too hard.”

Chuuya turns his head with a wild smile spread across his face, “Why don’t we run back to my apartment?” 

✧✧✧

(22, 22)

The redhead stares at himself in the bathroom, and his own reflection taunts him. He picks out the flush on his cheeks that hasn’t disappeared since Dazai’s little stunt, and it only serves to exacerbate his embarrassment. He shouldn’t have let Dazai do that, because there is only one way it can go once it starts. Maybe he doomed them both the moment he let Dazai inside his house. He’s always been better at denial than denying.

They can’t keep doing this forever—waltzing with a familiarity only known to people like them, but never able to define what they were. Or are. Although he’s fully aware that a story such as theirs is one that can only end in tragedy, he also knows that they are people pulled together by each other’s orbit, and that they will keep drawing each other in until it kills them both. 

In spite of this, Chuuya doesn’t want it to end. 

Not in a million years. 

They may break each other down, piece by piece, but he doesn’t want to give up the only place he’s found constancy—comfort in the only one who seems to stay. Whether or not they are cursed to be together, he’s started to rely on it like a lifeline. As greedy as Dazai is, Chuuya is greedier, for the longer he lets it go on he knows Dazai will follow him—he knows Dazai always comes back eventually.  

Chuuya grips the sink counter, swears, then washes his face and brushes his teeth. If he is going to be a fool, then it will be on his own terms. 

✧✧✧

(17, 17)

It’s very cold in Chuuya’s apartment. 

The heating is broken, and Chuuya’s been informed it won’t be fixed until next week. The two of them huddle together under several blankets on his couch but it’s still not enough. Chuuya thinks his nose is about to freeze off at this rate. How funny, he thinks, the feared Double Black of the underworld taken out by a simple rainstorm. 

Dazai has all but abandoned his prideful persona, worming his arms around Chuuya’s torso like it’s the only thing he has to survive. He clings to him, and it’s a bit awkward to position after Dazai shot up 15 centimeters in a growth spurt, but Chuuya wraps his own arms around him in reciprocation. Dazai shivers when Chuuya combs his fingers through messy brunette locks. 

They stay like that for a while, building walls around their pocket of the world. No one is there to witness it, no one but them. No one is there to see the way Chuuya's breath hitches when he feels Dazai's breathing even out and realizes he's fallen asleep. No one to see the way Chuuya holds him carefully, like a fragile porcelain doll, the way he wraps his whole body around to pull the sleeping boy closer. 

An ironic scene, considering the mountains of blood that they’ve both spilled—appearing innocent despite knowing they are anything but.

His soft gaze is a far cry from their usual facade, it betrays him—stabbing his abdomen then running off—but he's content to sink down to the ground and let the blood seep out. The anger, the constant swearing that would normally spill from his mouth with Dazai’s presence, fails to materialize. 

In each other's arms, they find a moment's rest. When there isn't an audience anymore and they can fall apart, the marionette strings loosen and leave their bodies to crumble; they break apart amidst the tidal waves and find each other in the debris. 

Chuuya continues stroking his hair for half an hour—perhaps longer, he doesn't know— but he's still doing it when Dazai finally wakes. Blinking bearily, he looks up at Chuuya like he doesn't even know where he is, like nothing more than a lost puppy.

“Chuuya?” he says softly, barely more than a whisper. He rarely, if ever, uses Chuuya’s actual name, instead insisting upon adorning him a plethora of dumb nicknames that avoid the intimacy in speaking his given one. He says it as if the moment he acknowledges Chuuya’s presence, he’ll be taken away forever, never to be seen again.

The fleeting thought crosses Chuuya’s mind, that he would do a lot of wrong to keep the warmth that blooms in his chest at hearing his name spoken like that, like it’s a prayer. He would do a lot of wrong to keep holding onto Dazai like he’s a life raft, keeping him afloat when the waves become so strong his head is just barely above water. Shamefully, embarrassingly, he would. And it would be without regret. 

“Go back to sleep,” he replies. Tiredness creeps into his voice as he leans into Dazai, and Dazai leans back into him. They fall onto each other seamlessly—they complete one another. The pocket of eternity remains until they swing back into their usual patterns of endless bickering. Until the cold spell passes and there is no need to curl together for warmth.

✧✧✧

(19, 20)

His phone rings out four times in the near empty bar before he gives up. There’s no response, and even if he’s drunk out of his mind he should stop expecting one. He should stop hoping for one, when it’s certain that those days have long passed. Not like that bastard ever picked up before regardless. 

The phone clicks and an automated voicemail message begins playing. Asshole never bothered to record an actual one, even though he clearly loved to mess with Chuuya’s. “Please leave a message after the tone,” the robotic voice says. It beeps, and Chuuya is left figuring what to say—left figuring out why he even called in the first place.

Silence rings out as his mouth opens and closes on words that he swallows down. “You—” he begins, but thinks better of it. A hiccup escapes, and he hangs up. His body feels heavy as he collapses onto the bar, half-losing consciousness. 

A tall figure with dark hair approaches, and Chuuya is struck with a foolish longing that threatens to choke him out. He sees messy bangs, swirling pools of amber you could drown in; he sees a man with bandages that litter his body and a boy that laughs more genuinely with his eyes than he ever did with his mouth—he sees…he, he sees the bartender walking over. Oh .  

He sees that the bangs are floppy, not fluffy, and the eyes are too dark, and that both are uncovered. And he sees that it’s just the bartender tapping him awake on his shoulder. 

“Sorry sir, but we’re closing soon.” 

A sigh escapes Chuuya’s lips. He says nothing, only grabbing the rest of his drink—an expensive deep red wine—and gulping it down. The bartender attempts to help him when he almost falls over standing up, but he shoves him away. He stumbles out of the establishment and the cool night air hits his face. It’s raining. 

To stave off the cold bleeding into his body, he lights a cigarette and feels the smoke fill his lungs. It’s warm; it snakes its way into his chest and the tightness is replaced with a release. Smoking has always been a bad habit. But he’s never been good at breaking those. This time, it’s no different.

On the other side of Yokohama, a cell phone quietly rings out, and careful fingers brush the buttons to play the voice message. He listens to the sound of Chuuya’s silence—it’s almost labored in its emptiness—and if he listens closely he can catch a slight, almost unnoticeable breath or two. 

Dazai yearns to hear the sound of his voice, the roll of his eyes, the softness of his hands; he would give up so many things for one more chance to have all of it within arm’s reach. But he made his choices, and to run back now is off the table. So he prays—he hopes with drunken foolishness—that one of these days Chuuya will give in and say a few words the next time he’s inebriated so Dazai can selfishly listen to it over and over again. 

Hope is nothing more than a sickness-inducing, addictive drug, but Dazai clings to it, craves it, runs for it. It’s all he has left. 

✧✧✧

(22, 22)

They moved upstairs. Chuuya has put the little monster back in her kennel, where she immediately fell asleep as she tired herself out from running around the house. The rain has far from subsided, and Dazai even heard thunder rumbling in the distance.

Chuuya thoroughly berated him for his actions, but the flush on Chuuya’s cheeks when he was doing so didn’t escape Dazai. Far from it. He replays the image in his head over and over again, and everytime it becomes slightly less vivid. That is a problem, one that can be amended if he can replicate the circumstances in which Chuuya turns as red as his hair again. But Chuuya, alas, has banished him to the guest bedroom to spend the night. Dazai is unhappy with this arrangement.

He lies on the plush bed and stews in that unhappiness. The room feels colder than the rest of the house. There’s an emptiness he can’t escape, and it clogs his lungs with fluid. This is clearly Chuuya’s fault. He tosses and turns, laying on soft pillows and a thick comforter, but he can’t find himself falling asleep. 

The sounds from the other room quieted down a while ago. Chuuya must’ve gone to sleep, and he’s probably sleeping spread out, starfish style, in his king-sized bed. Dazai laughs to himself at the image: small, tiny Chuuya barely taking up half the bed. Why, that’s no good. There’s no reason for him to have an entire bed all to his tiny self. 

Dazai promptly slips out of his blanket and cracks open the door, easing through. The sound of his footsteps is nonexistent as he moves down the hallway to Chuuya’s bedroom door. He puts his ear up to it and listens for any sign of movement, and he’s met with a sound he had been intimately familiar with at one point. Chuuya’s snoring. 

It’s almost comforting. That even if they continue to change, even if they become strangers, Chuuya Nakahara will still snore when he sleeps. And he snores loudly. It makes quietly turning the knob and creaking the door open to sneak inside Chuuya’s bedroom easy. 

In spite of his large presence, Chuuya’s small person looks amusingly tiny among the various pillows and blankets. But he’s not spread out as Dazai previously predicted, he’s curled in on himself and holds a pillow to his chest. It makes him look…endearingly soft for such a fearsome mafioso. 

Dazai tiptoes up to sit at the edge of the bed, and he does nothing but stare at Chuuya’s sleeping face. After a moment, he climbs into it and shuffles underneath the covers. There is a longing surging through him that has not died down since he arrived on Chuuya’s doorstep. It makes him want to do stupid things, say stupid words. 

Again, he’s a weak man. So for the second time that night he gives in. He slowly removes the pillow from Chuuya’s arms and replaces it with himself. He tangles their legs together under the covers and they lay face to face. He laughs quietly with the realization that this the only time they will ever be at equal heights. 

Then he does something even dumber, something he distinctly remembers doing during his teen years. He crawls to lay facing Chuuya and whispers into the darkness.

✧✧✧

(17, 17)

“I love you.”

The phrase doesn’t sound right coming out of Dazai’s mouth. It’s foreign, unnatural. It would never be able to reach the light of day, but right now it’s nighttime, so it’s the darkness that encases them. They sleep in the same bed, as if they were two parts to the same set. Dazai, Chuuya. Dazai and Chuuya. 

Their legs intertwine underneath the blankets, and Chuuya’s face is no more than a head away. He’s so close. If he were awake right now, and he was hearing the words that tumble from Dazai’s mouth, the shame would be enough to drown in. Because Dazai and love are foreign concepts. Two parallel lines that will never touch. He is not allowed to love. 

Chuuya is silent, save for his incessant snoring, and Dazai thankfully receives no response for his recklessness. He breathes a sigh of relief and easily falls back into the patterns of watching Chuuya sleep. The rise and fall of his chest is easy to get lost in, the slight twitch of his fingers, the way his mouth hangs open and drool spills out. 

The words, which he decides he will never say to Chuuya directly, lay dormant in the back of his mind. 

✧✧✧

(18, 18)

They’re running. They’re running through the rain. A sticky, uncomfortable wetness coats his entire body. He feels some of the bandages around his head loosen. But he’s never felt more alive in a million years. 

Chuuya’s fingers are intertwined with his own and his hair, far from its usual softness and flame, bounces behind him in soaked strands. The ones around his face bunch up and make him appear truly disheveled, but it goes against the fluttering laughs that fall from his mouth. Dazai is transfixed, barely keeping up pace with Chuuya, but he finds himself beginning to laugh as well. Real, genuine laughs bubble up from his throat as they speed down the sidewalk and get strange looks from passersby. 

Chuuya insists on running straight through every puddle and it splashes even more water on their pants and shoes. He holds onto Dazai’s hand like he’s never going to let go and laughs even more when Dazai trips. The rain did worsen, it’s pelting down on them now, coating the streets, but Dazai doesn’t find himself minding. 

He thinks of the words he spoke to no one a year ago, a love confession that will never reach its intended audience, and thinks he’s never felt more sure of it than before. It rings out in his head, I love you, I love you, I love you—and Chuuya is none the wiser.

They’re both still drunk, and Chuuya has never been good with sticking to actual routes to begin with, so the sprint leads them winding through dark alleyways, behind houses—if he had the ability to use gravity manipulation right now, Dazai is sure Chuuya would be running across rooftops too.

Chuuya’s apartment was not far from the bar to begin with, but rushing down rainy streets and trying to capture every moment Chuuya turned back to face him with that wild smile leaves Dazai with an ache in his body that he feels like he doesn’t know where it came from. His lungs heave to take in the amount of oxygen needed as the high of adrenaline begins wearing off.

That's why it comes as a shock to him—as he’s about to pass out—that Chuuya decides to steal the rest of the air from his lungs, in a wildly different manner. He pushes Dazai against the door without missing a beat and yanks his tie down to seal their lips together in a bruising kiss. The way he licks the seam of Dazai’s mouth grants him easy, embarrassingly easy, access to the interior of it and he takes full advantage, ravaging the inside like a wild animal. Dazai is too lost in pleasure to control the moans and gasps slipping out. 

Chuuya keeps their mouths locked together like he’s trying to suck out Dazai’s soul with a kiss and it leaves Dazai gasping—panting like a dog—when they finally separate. His pupils are blown out so wide they’re almost completely covering the blue of his iris, and Dazai suspects he himself is no better off. 

The lopsided, drunken smile Chuuya flashes him forces the sickness in his stomach to return. The swirling, cumbersome feeling that his insides are turning inside out immediately makes him lean over onto Chuuya, and he realizes that it’s not the Chuuya sickness that has haunted him for years causing this—it’s actually the fact that he’s very much about to throw up. 

He taps on Chuuya’s shoulder frantically before scrambling off and sprinting as fast as he can to the bathroom, and begins the ineloquent process of losing all of his stomach contents. Chuuya is not far behind and Dazai almost misses the distraught worry that crosses his face. He holds Dazai’s hair back and pats his back. 

“This is—urgh,” he hurls again, “—Chibi’s fault, making me run across the city.”

Chuuya snorts, an uncontrolled, tipsy sound, “No, you dumbass, you just drank too much.” 

✧✧✧

(22, 22)

Chuuya wakes up in the middle of the night randomly because the distinct feeling that something is off encapsulates him. It’s an intuitive sense, honed from several years of living on the streets, and he’s never able to rest without complete knowledge of his surroundings. So when he groggily blinks his eyes and sits up, what he does not expect is a heavy body wrapped around his arm. He thinks he must be dreaming, because it’s a familiar sight, one he hasn’t seen in several years.

The body is larger than he remembers, shoulders filling their frames properly and a small layer of muscle on the arms and legs. Dazai sleeps in complete silence, as if he were a corpse. Chuuya doesn’t know what to think, but he, as always, finds himself falling into old habits. Those have never died easily for him. 

He wraps his body around Dazai’s and holds him close, holding him like he won’t let go this time. He strokes his fingers through soft dark hair as if it’s second nature, and the man unconsciously leans into his touch. His hand follows patterns from a far-off past. From a thousand lifetimes ago. 

Soon, Chuuya is also taken back to sleep. The lull of a warm darkness overtakes him. 

✧✧✧

(17, 18)

Dazai lets Chuuya rest in his lap after using corruption. An overhang above protects them from the light drizzle that begins to rain down, but he makes no move to wake Chuuya up. He lets his eyes wander over the body of his partner, taking in the damage and what needs to be bandaged later. His eyes land on the exposed skin of his neck, leaning down to observe further. There’s a cut leaking blood on the edge of Chuuya’s collarbone, staining his shirt red. 

It portrays the vision of a bleeding heart. 

✧✧✧

(22)

“Dazai?” Chuuya whispers unsurely, blinking the sleep from his eyes. He looks to the side of his bed. There’s no one there—not even the warmth of a recent departure. 

He must have dreamed last night. Chuuya does not dream, but maybe this was the first. That’s what he tells himself.

The memory resurfaces that Dazai stayed in the guest room last night, no reason for him to have been in Chuuya’s bed. But the blurry picture he has in the back of his head, of a stray that wandered into his room in the middle of the night, refuses to leave. He remembers it vividly,  could even pick out the smell of Chuuya’s own soap in Dazai’s hair. 

He stretches his arms out above his head and cracks his back, slipping off the bed and walking down the hall.

The image doesn’t go away when he knocks on the door to the guest bedroom and receives no response. He knocks again, knowing it’s futile because Dazai always seems to wake up before him, then opens it up. He is met with nothing but an empty room. The bedsheets are slightly tousled, the pillows slightly out of place, but there’s almost zero sign a person slept there recently. 

He walks downstairs to check the living room and kitchen—and there is still nothing to indicate Dazai was even here in the first place. The bowls and mugs they ate and drank from yesterday have been washed and put away. The blankets on the couch are folded. The storm finally dispersed during the night. Only small pairs of shoes are lined up by the front door.

Dazai is gone. As though he were never here at all. 

✧✧✧

(18, 18)

Dazai leans on the edge of Chuuya’s infirmary bed with his head resting on his arms. He taps his foot in a steady rhythm and stares at Chuuya. Hour by hour, he’s been here, watching silently. Every time Chuuya uses corruption it damages his body to such an extreme degree he’ll often be out for days after because Chuuya is a dumb, one-celled organism that doesn’t know his limits. 

The mafia doctors that enter and exit every so often have come to just see Dazai as part of the room decor, given how he does this every time and how long he stays there. If there’s ever a new staff member that comes in that asks about his presence, he smiles and says “I’m checking up on my dog.” And they don’t question it after that. You don’t get far in the mafia by questioning the words of a strange teenager covered in bandages.

Every time Chuuya gets a new scar, Dazai knows exactly where it came from. He could tell you the specific mission and the reason with ease, given his lengthy catalogue of Chuuya knowledge he’s been collecting for years. He wonders, briefly, if there will ever be a time when he doesn’t know where a scar came from. Where he doesn’t know Chuuya down to a science. 

A doctor walks with a clipboard into the room while Dazai is idly toying with a strand of red hair, “The patient is showing signs of waking up soon.” 

Dazai stares at him blankly. He then smiles—one of those smiles that has nothing notable wrong with it, but is strangely off, almost human adjacent—and claps his hands. “Splendid,” he comments, just the slightest hint of melancholy present.

He uncaps a marker seemingly pulled from thin air and doodles various crude masterpieces on Chuuya’s face before scribbling something intelligible on a sticky note and adhering it to Chuuya's forehead. 

The strange boy, who’d been sitting in the same place for three days straight, wordlessly leaves. 

✧✧✧

(22)

Chuuya takes Hana out of her kennel for her morning walk. He exits the house and on the way out, he catches a flimsy glimpse of a tall man with dark hair and a tan coat. But, by the time he turns around, it’s gone. He swears under his breath. People keep giving him strange looks but he ignores them, chalking it up to the fact he might as well be schizophrenic. 

He gets home. Goes to the bathroom to take a piss. And then looks in the mirror.

Chuuya slams his fist on the countertop—it’s a miracle it doesn’t break—and stares at his reflection covered in stupid, vulgar pen markings. One day, he’ll kill that man. He’s going to strangle him with his bare hands, he decides. And when he goes to his kitchen to make breakfast, he finds that his entire fridge has been rearranged. His eyebrow twitches as he curses Dazai’s name. 

It was presumptuous of him to say that Dazai was gone without a trace. He never leaves without making sure to piss off Chuuya as much as possible. It’s too easy, how they fall into these familiar patterns of a long gone past. Too easy how Dazai can worm his way back into his life by begging on his doorstep, too easy how Chuuya lets him in. A stray dog that keeps coming back because Chuuya keeps feeding it. 

He sighs as he tosses Hana a dog treat. 

Chuuya has a feeling, in the back of his mind, that sooner or later on another rainy day, he’ll open his door again. And he’ll be met with the face of the boy he’s known since he was 15, and the eyes of a man who he can never seem to be rid of. And he’ll keep opening the door, again and again. Because the worst of his bad habits are always the hardest to break. 

He has long surrendered himself to the gravity that pulls them together.