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If you asked Dazai, he’d say that everyone in the world is beautiful in their own right. From crooked teeth to pointy noses, from blemished skin to knobby knees—there’s no such thing as a flaw when it comes to human beings, just traits less socially valued than others, appearances with different charms. To Dazai, there’s no ranking of worth, no hierarchy to beauty; it’s all about perception, the way the world chooses to frame a person. Beauty, to him, has always been in the eye of the beholder, never a fixed thing—always shifting, always open to interpretation. He’s seen it in the peculiar, the unexpected: the way laughter lines deepen around a mouth, the faint scatter of freckles over collarbones, the unpolished grace of a body moving without self-consciousness.
And it’s not that Dazai doesn’t believe that—really, he does—but it’s hard to reconcile that belief when he looks at Chuuya. Because Chuuya, in every way Dazai understands beauty—dazzling, intoxicating, something almost painful to look at—exists as the very definition of it, and no amount of philosophical idealism can rewrite that truth. His presence shatters Dazai’s flimsy, well-meaning convictions. With Chuuya, beauty is no longer relative—it’s undeniable, irrefutable, an absolute.
Girls are gorgeous, in the way the world seems to demand, at least—rounded edges and soft curves that Dazai likes to hold, warmth radiating beneath his hands, the dip of a waist fitting so perfectly into his palm. There’s a sweetness to them, a lightness, like warm honey in his mouth. Adorably high voices in his ears, hands smaller than his own clutching at his shoulders, plush lips pressed to his neck. Dazai runs on the afterglow of women for days. He leaves their beds in a haze of satisfaction, basking in the awe of their bodies; slim, thick, curvy—it makes no difference. He’s had, tasted, and adored them all.
But Chuuya… Chuuya is so far beyond them that Dazai’s haze can only last an hour at most before his thoughts pull him back to the image of curly red hair slipping through his fingers and sharp, blue eyes leveling him with a glare. It’s maddening, the way Chuuya lingers in his mind—like a taste Dazai can’t wash from his mouth.
He’s positively breathtaking, in a way that always stuns Dazai into stillness. Lean, sculpted like something an artist carved from marble. There’s no excess, no softness. All sharp lines and toned muscle. His collarbones jut out just enough to cast faint shadows; his jawline so finely cut that Dazai finds himself fantasizing what it may feel like beneath his fingers. He isn’t warm—he’s all glass edges and iron restraint, beautiful in a way that feels like an affront, like a personal challenge to Dazai’s entire view of the world and how things work.
And if you were to ask Dazai how that feels, he’d say it’s downright offensive.
He’d say God made a mistake, putting someone like Chuuya in the world—someone so far beyond everyone else that the word beautiful is no longer applicable to anyone but him. It’s like Chuuya exists to make the rest of the world look unfinished—half-formed and poorly made by comparison.
Some days, Dazai’s convinced Chuuya’s beauty is some sort of cosmic punishment for something he did in a past life. How cruel he must have been to deserve this—to see something so perfect and know it will always be out of his reach. To know that anyone else he finds will just be second best. It makes Dazai feel like he’s been let in on some divine secret, only to be told he can never have it.
All this to say, Dazai is left absolutely dumbfounded when Chuuya turns to him, early morning light seeping through the bedroom curtains and bathing his face in golden hues, and asks, "Do you think I'm ugly?"
For a moment, Dazai thinks he's misheard. His brain stutters over the words and tries to make sense of them. He stares at Chuuya, waiting for some kind of smirk or playful glint in his eyes to tell him that he's joking. But there's nothing. Just Chuuya, dead serious, gazing into Dazai's full-length mirror with a flat, dispassionate expression. His face is cast in soft amber light, making his skin look almost too smooth, too flawless– like porcelain that will crack if handled too carelessly. The morning sun clings to him, makes the red in his hair glow at the edges. He looks ethereal. He looks unreal. He looks like something divine that slipped into the wrong realm. And he's asking if he's ugly.
Dazai blinks, then half laughs at the absurdity of it. “Is Chuuya being serious?”
Chuuya doesn't smile, doesn't turn to face him, doesn't even look away from Dazai's full-length standing mirror. "Of course I'm bein’ serious, Bastard.”
"I don't know whether Chuuya’s out of his mind or just trying to test me." He says hesitantly, aims for levity but knows he falls flat.
"Just answer the question." Chuuya tells him. His fingers linger on the collar of his shirt, motionless, as he stares.
Dazai feels so lost. "No, silly slug. You're not ugly." It feels too simple of an answer, too dismissive and casual for how serious Chuuya seems about it, but he's not particularly keen to letting on how feels towards Chuuya any time soon, not strong enough for that kind of blow to his ego.
His words seem enough to satiate Chuuya however, who's resumed getting ready like nothing happened, but the whole interaction leaves a bitter taste in Dazai's mouth that he can't shake for the rest of the day.
The thing about Chuuya is that approaching him about anything head-on will only make things worse. He’s too stubborn, too proud to let on that he feels anything beyond anger or detachment most days. Press him, and he’ll bare his teeth. Push him, and he’ll snap his jaw shut around whatever’s trembling at the edges, holding it between his teeth until it bleeds out. He’d rather bite down on it than let anyone see it slip free.
But what Dazai learns over time is that Nakahara Chuuya hates compliments.
Not in the easy way some people do, with bashful deflections or embarrassed smiles. No—Chuuya rejects them like they’re something personally offensive, something sharp and pointy that could cut him if he isn’t careful. He grimaces when they’re offered too casually, scowls when they come too close to sincerity. He spits them out like they taste bad, like they’ve been soured on his tongue.
And it’s not false modesty, either—not some performative self-effacement. It’s genuine discomfort. The first time Dazai notices it, he almost mistakes it for irritation, the way Chuuya’s eyes darken, how his mouth twists ever so slightly. Like he’s bracing himself for a hit that doesn’t come.
It’s such a peculiar thing, Dazai thinks. To see someone who carries beauty so easily—like it was stitched into the fabric of him—reject the very notion of it. It fascinates him. Makes him want to say it more, just to watch the way Chuuya flinches under the weight of it. Makes him wonder how many times it must have been thrown at him like a weapon to make him hate it this much.
It’s a discovery made slowly, one piece at a time, until it forms a clear enough picture that Dazai wonders how he ever missed it. With the confidence in which he carries himself, you’d probably never guess. Striding through Port Mafia halls and parading around battlefields with obviously practiced grace, as if he’s God’s greatest gift to the city—flicking messy red curls over his shoulders and smiling coyly at his ogling subordinates—Chuuya moves like a man who knows his worth. There’s a fluidity to it, a natural elegance so seamless it seems innate, like something he was born with rather than learned (or rather, taught under the thumb of Kouyou). His presence demands attention, and he welcomes it, smirking knowingly as wandering eyes follow him.
But Dazai knows performance when he sees it. He knows a man can wield his own beauty like a weapon, can turn it sharp and dangerous and let it serve as armor. And while he wouldn’t call it a lie, he knows it isn’t the whole truth. Because if someone were to bravely muster the courage to tell Chuuya to his face that he is gorgeous—undeniably, breath-stealingly, ruinously beautiful—Chuuya’s expression would scrunch up with disdain, eyes narrowing with a flash of irritation as he waved them off with a flick of his wrist and a jaded scoff. As if the very notion were insulting. As if beauty were something vulgar.
And it isn’t just the lovesick underlings who try. Dazai has given it his best go too, only ever to be met with that same curt dismissal. He’s experimented with countless variations over the years—refined his phrasing, tested different tones, delivered each compliment with a unique brand of charm or sincerity—but it never matters. Chuuya always deflects, brushing him off with bored indifference or flashing a scowl sharp enough to cut. And if Dazai were an honest man, he’d admit that only second to Chuuya’s rare, unguarded smiles, that scowl—the one reserved solely for him—is one of the most beautiful faces Chuuya makes. Brows drawn into a furrow, lips parted ever so slightly in a pout that makes him look far too pretty for someone so furious. That fleeting flush of color in his cheeks.
But words alone will never reach Chuuya—Dazai knows that by now. So he’s found other ways. Gentle touches, steady and unsuspecting to someone on the outskirts, slipping in beneath the armor. A hand against the curve of Chuuya’s jaw, fingertips featherlight as they trace the line of his cheekbone. He holds him like something fragile, something sacred, and hopes his eyes can say the words Chuuya won’t let him: You’re beautiful. His thumb grazes over the slope of Chuuya’s cheek, and he thinks it with such ferocity he hopes Chuuya can feel it through his skin. You’re so beautiful it makes me lightheaded. It makes me short of breath. I feel winded at the sight of you on my weaker days.
And Chuuya allows that. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t bristle. He goes still under Dazai’s touch, and for once, there is no fight, no frown. His eyes soften slightly, and though he doesn’t say a word, the faint flush blooming over the bridge of his nose tells Dazai enough.
And it would be enough, if Dazai were a less selfish man. He would accept this weird sort of truce, would content himself with the unspoken, with the softness that only his hands are allowed to find. He would respect the boundary Chuuya has drawn so clearly, the one outlined in bared teeth and bristling rejection. He would convince himself that Chuuya simply needs actions over words—visible proof, tangible devotion.
But Dazai is a selfish man. And no matter how many times Chuuya pushes him away, no matter how many walls he raises or how violently he defends them, Dazai knows he’ll always keep coming back. Again and again, hands outstretched and voice steady, prepared to try one more time. Because Chuuya may hate compliments, but Dazai will always be desperate to give them.
He wants to see Chuuya falter beneath the weight of them, to watch his resolve crack ever so slightly, to catch that fleeting moment when Chuuya’s sharp edges soften under the praise. He wants to watch his eyes waver, to see the brief, startled part of his lips—the one that says he wants to believe it before he remembers he’s not supposed to. Dazai wants to make him crumble with it. To let the words press against him, surround him, strip him of whatever armor he thinks he needs, until he’s forced to face the truth in Dazai’s voice—that he means it. Every goddamn word. He’s insatiable. He wants more. He wants the words to sink in—to linger, to haunt Chuuya the way the image of him haunts Dazai. And no matter how much Chuuya fights it, no matter how many times he scoffs or glares or shoves Dazai away, he’ll keep saying it. Again and again.
Now that Dazai has noticed, it’s impossible to miss the other things—the smaller things. How Chuuya, so willing to wear half-length shirts and skin-tight jeans, still hides beneath the brim of his hat and meticulously placed stray strands of hair. How he tilts his head just enough to obscure his face when people look for too long, or how his gloved fingers twitch and fidget when lustful eyes wander anywhere neck up. And how, when Dazai finally, finally coaxes Chuuya into falling into bed with him, Chuuya refuses any position that could possibly put them face to face.
And while Dazai can never complain about the view of Chuuya from behind—laid bare with his hips raised and on full, lewd display—it was never what he imagined fucking him to be. He’d wanted Chuuya on his back, writhing beneath him, where Dazai could see every fleeting expression flicker across his face, watch the pleasure pull at his features with unguarded abandon. He’d wanted to hold Chuuya’s hands above his head, intertwine their fingers, and watch his eyes darken with want, see his flushed cheeks and parted lips, feel his trembling breath against his skin. He’d wanted to see all of him, laid bare in the ways that mattered.
But instead, Dazai gets the arch of his spine, the way the red curls stick damply to the back of his neck, the shuddering gasp when Dazai fists his hands into the flesh of his hips. And it’s not enough. Not because it isn’t good—it is. It’s better than good. It makes Dazai dizzy and desperate and shamelessly addicted to the shape of Chuuya in his hands. But it’s still not enough.
He’s long past the stage of denial—he knows what he imagined was far more romantic than what, realistically, reluctant friends who occasionally fuck each other would (or should) want. But he still aches for it. For something that feels less like fleeting indulgence and more like claiming. And Dazai has never once been soft with Chuuya, never made fucking him feel like lovemaking, never pushed for more. He’s kept his hands greedy, his voice filthy, his mouth too busy marking skin to say anything too honest. And he tells himself that’s enough. That he can be satisfied with just this.
But he isn’t. Not when, of all things, he feels robbed of Chuuya’s face. Because if he can’t have him in full, if he can’t make him his in all the ways he wants, the very least he should be allowed is to watch him break apart. To see the man who consumes his every waking and sleeping thought undone beneath him, and know—in the twist of his lips, the trembling of his lashes, the way his eyes turn glassy and distant—that Chuuya wants him. That he’s real. That Dazai has him, even if only for a moment. It doesn't feel like an egregious ask.
He says as much as Chuuya is slipping out of bed, a large button down shirt being the only thing that shields his body from the morning sun and Dazai's wandering eyes. “How come you only let me fuck you face down?”
Chuuya stiffens, whether he's startled by the topic or Dazai's bluntness and crudity, Dazai isn't sure yet. “You complainin, Bastard?”
Dazai shrugs, rolling onto his side as he watches Chuuya dress. His hair catches in the light, auburn curls falling over his shoulder and framing his freckled face.
There was a time when the morning after was practically a nonexistent concept for Dazai– hurriedly leaving the beds of whichever stranger he'd seduced for the night and walking himself home before dawn. But with Chuuya, watching him shuffle around the room with sleep still clouding his features and the sun bathing him in golden hues, Dazai thinks he might enjoy this part just as much as the sex itself. Really, how someone can have a face that outshines the very sun that lights it, and won't let it be admired, is a damn shame.
“Just curious is all.” He says.
Chuuya huffs, pulling his jeans up and buckling his belt. Dazais’s eyes never leave him. “It's never that innocent with you.”
“Chuuya caught me.” He says, voice heavy with faux sadness. He sits up and leans back against the headboard of Chuuya’s obnoxiously lavish bed, the satin sheets wrinkling beneath his fingers. “Why can’t I flip you over? Look at your face while you're whining my name.”
Chuuya stills. He looks back at Dazai with an all too familiar glare. It's the one that tells Dazai he's either about to get chewed out and cursed at for an hour or suffocated with a pillow. Maybe both, depending on how far he pushes. What a wonderful way to start his morning. “I do not whine.”
“Really? Then who was it I heard all night, “Ah, Ah, Dazai–”” He mimicks, pitching his voice as high as possible and watching Chuuya’s face flush bright red with anger.
“Shut up!”
“”Oh, Dazai, more!””
“Shut the fuck up, you Bastard!” As predictable as ever, Dazai doesn't even get the chance to open his mouth again before Chuuya yanks a pillow out from behind his back and socks him in the face with it. The momentum of it is enough to send his head flying backwards and into the headboard. Hard.
“Ow!” He shouts, cradling where it hurts and wincing at his own touch. Goddamn. he always forgets how hard Chuuya hits. “Cmon, Hatrack!”
“No!” Chuuya bristles, turning away.
“Why not?”
“Because the only way I get through fucking you is by not having to look at your stupid goddamn face the whole time!”
Dazai frowns. “Close your eyes then. I don't care if you look at me or not.”
“No.” Is Chuuya’s curt reply given through gritted teeth before he’s walking off into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him while Dazai flops back onto the mattress with a huff. Nothing can ever just be easy with Chuuya; so steadfast and stubborn in his ways, no matter how flawed or silly they may be.
If Dazai were a little more deluded, he would say he must have the patience of a saint. But in truth, he’s just equally as stubborn, too meddling and nosey to leave things be, especially in regards to Chuuya— even more especially in regards to not getting what he wants out of Chuuya.
He drags himself out of bed, the sheets untangling around his limbs, and shuffles to the bathroom. Inside, he finds Chuuya, dutifully applying concealer to his under eyes and adjusting the buttons of his vest to look a little less wrinkled from where Dazai had thrown it in haste the night before.
Dazai notices, for what must be the unpteenth time in the past few months, that Chuuya is not looking in the mirror. Even while applying makeup and doing his hair, Chuuya’s eyes stay firmly glued to the floor. It’s as odd as everything with Chuuya is, and Dazai would be silly for making more note of it than he already has. It’s a quirk, perhaps one brought about by living on the streets for so long with no access to mirrors. A habit. Dazai pushes regardless, despite some of his better judgment.
He snakes his arms around Chuuya from behind, letting his fingers trail up and down the sides of his waist, feeling the warmth of his body through the fabric.
“Dazai.” Chuuya warns, barely pausing his ministrations.
“You’re always so warm,” Dazai says into the crook of his neck, nuzzling slightly. “Like my walking furnace.”
“And you’re a fucking popsicle, Goddamn. Get off.” Chuuya tries to shrug, but Dazai stays firm in his hold. Chuuya has compared him to an octopus in moments like these before, and while Dazai hasn’t justified those comments with anything more than a whine, he agrees that it’s probably a fitting insult. The redhead groans. “Dazai. I have to work.”
“Mori can wait.” Dazai says, nipping at the pale skin of Chuuya’s neck and reveling in the resulting shudder, the way Chuuya’s abdomen twitches beneath his fingertips. Chuuya’s reactivity to even the slightest of touches always leaves Dazai reeling, left struggling to keep his own composure and hold control over the situation. Dazai’s sure that Chuuya is the only person capable of subduing him like this. It’s equally as exhilarating as it is uncomfortable.
Whether subconsciously or not, Chuuya leans back into him and cranes his neck to give Dazai more room. Dazai hurriedly complies, kissing and sucking down Chuuya’s throat and purposely avoiding where his choker sits. He’ll get shit for it later, he’s sure, but staking a claim on Chuuya where everyone can see is always worth the scolding.
Chuuya sighs, body becoming more lax and pliant underneath Dazai’s attention. Dazai doesn’t let him revel in that peace long, trailing his hands up, up, up Chuuya’s body until he reaches his chest. He cups both pecs in his hand and brushes his nails over pink and perky nipples. Chuuya’s body goes taut as a string. Bingo. Dazai smiles. Chuuya’s always been too easy to coax into these sorts of things.
“Bed.” Chuuya shudders. “Now.” He demands as Dazai continues to rake his nails over sensitive skin.
Dazai shakes his head, hot breath fanning over Chuuya’s nape. “Wanna fuck you here. Watch you in the mirror when you cum.”
The moment the words leave his mouth, Chuuya goes still, spine straightening and his shoulders stiffening. Before Dazai even has the chance to backtrack or formulate a different approach, Chuuya is elbowing him in the stomach and shoving him away.
“Off.” He demands, forcefully pushing Dazai back into the wall behind them. He stalks off almost immediately, feet stomping and jaw locked. Dazai stays rooted in place, wincing a bit at the sound of the front door slamming shut.
It’s the straw that breaks the camel’s back. Dazai is so, so tired of dancing around Chuuya’s insecurities. He wants more. He wants the piece of Chuuya that’s being withheld from him. He wants to hold Chuuya’s face in the palm of his hands and stare at him until he finds the imperfections that Chuuya seems to see—wants to pick him apart piece by piece He wants to pull him closer, close enough to feel every breath, every twitch of his lips, and understand, once and for all, what makes Chuuya tick. He wants and wants and wants and wants. What a mess Chuuya has made of him.
He shakes himself out of his stupor and tries to busy himself till dusk; reading, eating, thinking. (Not cleaning, never cleaning), while he wallows like a teenage boy who’s been rejected by his crush. He hates being kept out of the loop, hates being shunned even more so, but there’s something so inherently normal, so simple, about this sort of sadness. It feels… human. And Dazai can’t remember the last time he let himself feel something so damn ordinary.
There’s no blood to clean, no wounds to stitch, no sleepless night lying at Chuuya’s bedside and hoping to make it to morning. No frantic moments of desperation, no guilt or sorrow gnawing at his insides. Instead, there's just a dull ache that festers in his chest. He wonders if this is the sort of thing other people his age normally worry about. Does he like me back? Do I get to see him tonight? Is he angry with me? Why won’t he let me look at him?
How the mighty have fallen. He cringes to think about what people would say if they found out that the Demon prodigy spends his evenings sitting alone in his room, brooding over pretty boys like some lovesick fool.
It's nearly one in the morning by the time Chuuya gets back, staggering the front door on tired feet and with what looks to be soot and ash on his face. He looks tired, worn. The worry lines on his forehead never cease and even as he locks the door and takes off his shoes, an empty looking frown never leaves him.
“Rough day?” Dazai says from his spot on the couch, setting down his book on the side table and sitting up from his previously lounged position.
Chuuya glances up at him, exasperated. “You're still here?”
“Mhm.” Dazai hums, watching Chuuya shrug off his coat and roll out his shoulders. “You look miserable.”
“Yeah, well some of us actually do our job and don't laze around their partners apartment all damn day.”
“I wasn't lazing. I was thinking.”
"That's even worse," Chuuya grumbles, stalking toward the wine cabinet, crouching, and sifting through his selection. It's not unusual for him to drink after missions, but the tension in his movements and the cold, clipped tone he’s using with Dazai are clear indicators to just how wound up he is, desperate for a release. A pent-up Chuuya is dangerous territory for Dazai— the redhead being all too likely to throw Dazai through the nearest wall at even the slightest taunt. But a pent-up Chuuya is also a vulnerable one, and Dazai wants to try his hand.
“Did Chuuya know that one of his eyes is more gray than the other.” He starts. Chuuya pauses, his hand around the neck of a wine bottle as he looks back towards Dazai questioningly. “You have little specks of green in the other one, too. It’s faint, but it's right near your pupil. You can see it a lot more when the light hits it head on. Central heterochromia, I think it's called. Because blue wasn't enough for you, I suppose. You're such an overachiever.”
“What are you doing?” Chuuya asks skeptically, rising to his full height.
“There’s variation in your hair too. It’s not just red. There’s strands of auburn and fawn. It contrasts your skin. Especially when it's wet and you look like a shaggy mutt, it turns dull and looks more orange than anything else. It matches your freckles.”
Chuuya looks positively mortified. “Knock it off, asshole–”
“Have I ever told you your freckles bother me?” Dazai continues, not missing a beat. “I can never see them in the winter time. Another reason for me to hate the cold, I suppose. Even the ones that do stay throughout the colder months aren’t usually visible anyways because your cheeks flush so pink it almost overwhelms the rest of the color in your face. I like you more in the summertime— when your skin tans and I can see all the lines of your face. It’s beautiful.”
“Asshole. Quit it. I'm serious.” Despite his glare and the angry flush of his face, Chuuya's hands are shaking, plain as day. Dazai has half the mind to call Chuuya out on it, to point out how pathetic this all is and how ridiculous he's being. But he tries to settle for something less abrasive. He really doesn't feel like nursing an injury via Chuuya’s anger tonight.
“How someone so willing to flaunt their body can act like such a shy little school girl about their face is baffling.”
Chuuya doesn't respond, and the quiet is nagging and uncomfortable. He drops eye contact and hangs his head low like a child caught in the act of disobedience. Dazai shifts on the cushions, still waiting for the outburst despite it.
“What do you want?”
He doesn't let how thrown off he is by Chuuya’s docility show on his face. “For you to tell me why.”
“The fuck do you mean why?” Chuuya barks. There it is. “Seems like you've got it all figured out. I've already had a long fucking day, Dazai. I don't need your shit right now.”
“I knew you were a brainless mutt, but this is dumb even for you.”
“Hah?!”
Dazai rolls his eyes. “The whole mafia falls all over you. You could bat your eyelashes at any one of them and they'd bend to your every whim.” I have, Dazai thinks bitterly. “How you've managed to convince yourself that your face is an issue is beyond me.”
Chuuya frowns, cheeks hollowed from biting the inside of them. “You don't know what you're talking about.”
“Then enlighten me.” Dazai says. Then, softer, “you never let me look at you.”
“Why is that such a bad thing? Listen, if you drop this now and promise not to bug me about it again, I’ll let you fuck me… however, next time.” He mumbles, crossing his arms over his chest. His eyes flicker away as he says it, barely able to meet Dazai’s gaze, like he’s embarrassed by his own words. He’s guarding himself, Dazai knows. Physically shutting himself off from this conversation and trying to retreat into familiarity; complicity and cooperation. It’s second nature to him, to bend to the wants and needs of the people he cares for, to fawn. Chuuya calls it compromise. Dazai calls it surrender.
Dazai has just never been on the receiving end of this version of Chuuya; insecure and timid, almost. It’s unnerving, and he finds himself a little repulsed. This isn’t the Chuuya he wants. It barely even feels like him. The edge is gone—the part that spits back in Dazai’s face, that shoves him off when he pries too close. This version looks small. Negotiable. And Dazai, to his own surprise, hates it.
“I don’t want that.”
Chuuya scoffs. “Then why are we having this goddamn conversation?”
That’s the question, isn’t it?
“Curiosity,” Dazai says.
And Chuuya’s lip curl. “You just want another thing to hang over my head and taunt me with.” He’s aiming for mean, but he just sounds tired.
Dazai shrugs. “Maybe.”
And Chuuya, in a rare stroke of luck for Dazai, gives up. The fight drains out of him all at once, like someone tugged the plug from a drain. His entire body seems to deflate, and he slumps over to the couch. His movements are slow and sluggish as he drops heavily onto the cushions. Without meeting Dazai’s eyes, he scoots to the farthest cushion, putting as much distance between them as the furniture allows.
And then he turns his back to him.
Dazai watches him fold in on himself, curling his legs up as he faces the back of the couch, making himself smaller. His spine stiffens slightly when he feels Dazai’s eyes on him, but he doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t say anything. His shoulders rise and fall with each breath, but they do so a little too sharply, like he’s trying to keep them steady, like he’s forcing himself to breathe slow.
Dazai leans back in his chair, silent, and stares at the strip of skin exposed between Chuuya’s shirt and waistband as he shifts. It’s pale in the dim light, the color almost washed out. Vulnerable. And Dazai feels that same unwelcome twinge of distaste stir in his chest again, like he’s been left holding something broken and flimsy that he never asked for.
“Every time I look in the mirror, there’s a different face staring back at me,” he starts, his voice low and rough around the edges. His gaze is fixed somewhere far off, like he’s speaking to the room itself and not the man sitting across from him. His eyes are dull with something that Dazai can’t place right away—fatigue, maybe, or resignation. “I don’t think I even know what I actually look like. It’s a shitty goddamn feeling,” he adds, his fingers digging into his knees, pressing white crescents into the fabric, “and not one I wanna think about every time I’m having sex.”
Dazai tilts his head. “Arahabaki?”
“Nah.” Chuuya says sadly. “Think this one’s just me. Can’t blame him for everything.”
Dazai’s mind is going a hundred miles a minute, admittedly thrown off course. He’d expected some petty, surface-level reason that would be easy to pick apart and make fun of, not whatever Chuuya has just thrown at him.
“How can you not see your own face?”
“Idiot, I can see it. Sometimes I think I look…” He trails off. His voice falters slightly. “Okay, and then the next day I feel like I look like my face is melting off or my whole head is inflated. It just comes and goes. I don’t know why.”
“That’s dumb.”
“Yeah. Tell me about it. It’s pretty grotesque sometimes.”
Ugly, is what Chuuya really means. Dazai hears it in the slight twist of his mouth, in the way he hunches forward just a little, like he’s trying to make himself smaller. And the idea that anyone in the world, even Chuuya himself, could ever look at that face and feel disgust makes something in Dazai’s chest tighten.
He doesn’t understand it. Can’t. He knows every inch of that face—the sharpness of his jaw, the bow of his mouth, the faint scar along his cheekbone that only shows when the light hits it right. He knows the way Chuuya’s eyes flicker low-lidded when he’s tired and the way they flash sharp and bright when he’s angry. Dazai knows that face so well that he can see it even when he closes his eyes. And the thought of it staring back at itself with revulsion—it doesn’t fit. The image short-circuits somewhere in his mind.
“I assume this feeling doesn’t extend towards your body, what with all the flaunting.”
Chuuya hums. “It can on my bad days. But I can fix that. I can work out and skip meals and suck in my stomach all day if I feel like it. I can’t do shit about my face.”
The knot of anger and discomfort that’s been quietly twisting inside him pulls tighter, a slow, ugly coil. He’d known. Of course he’d known. He’s seen it in the way Chuuya pushes food around his plate some weeks. He’s watched the way he throws himself into missions with reckless abandon, draining every last ounce of energy he has left. There are the gym visits too. Hours poured into breaking himself down, into sharpening and hardening and hollowing out. Dazai has seen the faint bruising on Chuuya’s knuckles, the way his hands sometimes shake slightly when he reaches for a cigarette afterward. He’s seen the stiffness in his movements, the too-tight stretch of his shoulders that speaks to a body always running on depletion.
But hearing it said aloud now—laid out so plainly and with such infuriating, casual resignation—leaves something hollow and aching in Dazai’s chest. It feels worse somehow, being spoken into existence. Realer. There’s no edge of humor to dull the sharpness, no bravado to soften the blow and it’s downright revolting.
Chuuya says it like it’s normal. And Dazai hates him for it. Hates him a little for the way he strips the horror from it, makes it sound ordinary, fixable. Something he can shrink and starve and sweat out of existence.
His jaw clenches tightly, his teeth pressing hard against one another as he forces himself to swallow down the swell of emotions threatening to spill over. The frustration. The secondhand sadness. The sheer helplessness that grips him in moments like this—when he is faced with Chuuya’s self-perception and cannot do a damn thing about it. His nails bite into the edge of his palm. He’s already picking at Chuuya’s very carefully crafted walls today, and he knows better than to push too far.
Empathy, he’s learning, is a terribly draining thing. It weighs on him in ways he’s still not used to—makes his hands restless and his throat tight. He’ll have to blame Odasaku for it later. Tell him all about the pain that trying to soften has caused him.
And then, before he can stop himself, the words fall out. Blunt and graceless and utterly stupid.
“I like your face,” Dazai blurts. His cheeks flush the moment his own voice catches up to him, heat spreading unwanted beneath his skin.
Chuuya turns to him, expression flat and unimpressed. “You’re half-blind. Can you even see it?”
“I see enough.”
Chuuya’s fingers twitch faintly against the fabric of his pants—small, restless movements that betray him. His eyes drift somewhere over Dazai’s shoulder, not meeting his gaze. Always looking somewhere else when he feels like this. Always retreating inward.
Quietly, Dazai asks, (because he doesn't know what else he’s supposed to do): “Have you always been…like this?”
Chuuya exhales sharply through his nose, his mouth twitching into something caught between a sneer and a humorless smile. “Started when I was with the Sheep.”
The words are clipped. Terse. And Dazai knows immediately that that should be the end of it. He should leave it alone. He’s been pulling at frayed edges all night, pressing too close to old wounds. He should let this one be. But he doesn’t.
“They said something to you.”
Chuuya’s eyes narrow. “Don’t. They were kids. Kids make shitty, insensitive jokes sometimes. This isn’t on them.”
His tone leaves no space for pity or protest. Of course he would defend them, Dazai thinks bitterly. The same way he’s always defended people who don’t deserve it—the way he brushes off cruelty with a casual shrug, makes excuses for it like he owes the world more patience than it’s ever shown him.
He tilts his head slightly, voice lowering with a feigned casualness he doesn’t feel. “Do you wanna know what I see?”
Chuuya scoffs “Not really, but when has that ever stopped you.”
“You clench your jaw a lot, and it shows in how tightly you grit your teeth. It’s how I always know when you’re truly relaxed. When the tension leaves your face, it’s one of the few times I see your expression soften. You have a scar on your chin that I know you’ve used cream on to try to make it fade. It’s faint now, almost invisible, but it’s still there if you really look. You hate it, I think, even though you never say it. There’s another smaller scar, just above your forehead, near your hairline. I’ve never seen you touch it. Maybe you don’t even know it’s there, or maybe it just doesn’t bother you as much as the one on your chin.
Your smile is lopsided and toothy, and your right eye always wrinkles a little more when you laugh. Your teeth are perfect, straight and white, but your canines are sharp and stand out when you talk really fast. Sometimes I wonder if that’s why your lips are always torn and chapped, like you bite them without realizing. When you’re nervous or frustrated, you worry at the corner of your mouth with your teeth—just barely, but enough that it bleeds sometimes.
I know you straighten your hair, that you think it looks more professional that way, but I love your curls. They’re wild and soft and frame your face in a way that makes you look different. Softer, maybe. More you, as odd as it sounds considering you’re such a brute. When your hair is straight, it’s like you’re trying to hide something, to be something you’re not. Your curls suit you better. When you’ve just showered and your hair is still damp, they cling to your face in loose ringlets. You always push them back like they’re a nuisance, but I think they make you look—”he cuts off, blinking once before finishing, ”—just…more like yourself.”
“I really did mean what I said about your eyes, by the way. They’re different colors. I think your eyes are my favorite part about you. When you’re tired, your left one droops a little more, just enough to be noticeable. When you’re angry, your pupils blow out, and they look darker—almost black. And when you’re thinking about something you don’t want to say out loud, your gaze shifts just a fraction to the left. You–”
“Enough! Enough! I get it!” Chuuya interjects, face and ears glowing bright red. “How did you even notice all of that?”
“I’ve been looking at Chuuya for years.” Dazai says simply. “You’re the most beautiful person i've ever seen”
Chuuya runs a hand down his face and mumbles, “The pathological liar says.”
”Don’t be self pitying, Slug. It doesn’t suit you. Besides, you know I never lie about these sorts of things.”
Chuuya snorts and crosses his arms. “Damn. Now I kinda feel bad about callin’ you ugly this morning.”
”I believe the exact words were, “I dont wanna look at your stupid fucking face,” actually.”
“Smug Bastard.” He smiles for the first time tonight, stepping closer to Dazai and not protesting when Dazai wraps his arms around his waist and pulls him into his chest. “You ain’t getting a speech.”
”That’s alright. I know Chuuya’s bad with words. You slobbering all over me any chance you get is enough reassurance for me.”
”Kill yourself.”
Dazai hums. ”Later, maybe.”
Chuuya throws his arms over Dazai’s neck and intertwines his fingers with Dazai’s curls. “Y'know, this is hella overkill. Getting all sappy and shit on me just to try and fuck me in a different position? New low. Even for you.”
Dazai rolls his eyes. “Chuuya's so dense. Isn’t it you that says I always have an ulterior motive?”
His brows furrow. “What's that supposed to mean?”
“I'll explain it when you're older.”
“Pompous prick.” Chuuya grumbles, pulling the brunette down and meeting him halfway. The kiss is chaste and sweet, and it takes Dazai a moment to realize that this is the first time they've ever done this without sexual intentions. They break apart after only a moment, and Dazai gazes down at Chuuya–would be embarrassed about how openly fond he's becoming, then realizes he's already dug himself a grave with how smitten he’s allowed himself to be tonight. Chuuya will surely hang this over his head another time.
“Stop it.” Chuuya tells him. “You've done enough staring for one day.”
“Nah.” Dazai smiles.“You're gorgeous.”, and Chuuya, at the very least, stifles himself from shying away this time.