Chapter Text
- DON’T DIE ON MY COUCH
“You owe me three favors, a bottle of wine, and the rest of your miserable life.”
Chuuya stormed through the halls of the Port Mafia headquarters like he owned the place—which, in his defense, he kind of did. Dazai, on the other hand, shuffled beside him like a ghost who hadn’t slept in eight years and was now trying to haunt someone into giving him coffee.
“I saved your hat, Chuuya,” Dazai said, stretching a yawn so wide it could’ve dislocated his jaw. “You should be thanking me.”
“You knocked it off my head, dumbass.”
“Yes, and then I caught it in midair, heroically.”
Chuuya’s eye twitched. “Heroically? You’re the reason it flew into traffic!”
“I’m the reason it didn’t get run over by a cement truck.”
“I was in that traffic, Dazai!”
“I know. I watched. Very dramatic. A lesser man would’ve died.”
Chuuya opened his mouth to yell and then gave up, muttering curses under his breath like a chain-smoking sailor.
They reached Mori’s office just in time for a five-minute debrief full of vague nods, veiled threats, and Mori’s ever-pleasant “if you die, make it look useful” energy. Chuuya filed out with a permanent scowl. Dazai left with a permanent slouch.
“You going to your office?” Dazai asked as they reached the hallway intersection.
“I’m going to get tea before I commit homicide,” Chuuya replied cheerfully.
“See, that’s the Chibi I know and tolerate-not.”
“You want me to bash your head in now or after tea?”
Dazai smirked. “Surprise me.”
—
The tea room Kouyou favored was quiet, dimly lit, and so full of incense it felt like the room itself was meditating. Chuuya practically collapsed into the seat across from her.
She gave him a knowing glance over her porcelain teacup. “You look like you’ve walked through hell.”
“I work with Dazai,” Chuuya grunted. “Same thing.”
She smiled and refilled his cup. “You always complain, but you never turn him down.”
“That’s because I’m contractually obligated,” Chuuya muttered, slumped over the table like a sad gremlin. “And someone has to keep him from blowing himself up.”
“Mm,” Kouyou said, sipping delicately. “It’s nice to see how much you care.”
“I don’t care. I just…” he trailed off. “...it’s a mafia resource thing.”
“Of course.”
“He’s like a feral cat someone left outside. You can’t just let him die.”
Kouyou raised a perfectly shaped brow. “You gave him your jacket last time.”
“It was raining! And he looked like a drowned chicken! I have gravity manipulation! It wouldn’t touch me!”
“Chuuya.”
“I panicked, okay!?”
She laughed, quiet and graceful, while Chuuya contemplated drowning himself in the tea kettle.
—
When he finally got back to his office, it was with a fresh tea burn on his tongue, an aching back, and an emotional tolerance level of approximately zero.
What he did not expect—what he absolutely did not have the bandwidth for—was finding Dazai Osamu, his six-foot-tall personal hell, asleep on his couch.
Like a cat.
Like he lived there.
“...You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Dazai was sprawled across the cushions like some kind of ragdoll prince. One leg was dangling off the side. His arms were folded lazily behind his head. A thick novel—something pretentious, probably in French from Chuuya’s belongings—was draped across his face like a blanket.
Chuuya stared.
Then he stomped in and slammed the door hard enough to rattle the desk. “OI! What the fuck are you doing in my office?”
Nothing.
Silence.
He stormed over and hovered next to the couch like an angry storm cloud. “This is not your naptime nest, you lanky piece of—”
Still nothing.
He poked the book.
No reaction.
“…Hah. Very funny.” He folded his arms. “You’re faking, aren’t you?”
Dazai remained an unmoving, smug lump.
Chuuya crouched beside the couch and stared. Intensely.
Waited.
Waited…
He twitched.
But not Dazai.
“…You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Chuuya muttered again, more to himself than anything. He plopped into the armchair beside the couch and let out a long, slow exhale.
That’s when the cold hit him.
“...Shit.” He rubbed his arms, scowling. “Why is it always freezing in here?”
He glanced at Dazai.
The bastard looked like death. His coat had fallen half open, shirt untucked, belt loose. His skin looked cold to the touch. And honestly, when was the last time he’d eaten something that wasn’t coffee or sarcasm?
“…He’s gonna get hypothermia.”
Chuuya looked around. Then, louder—just in case the bastard was faking and needed to be shamed for it—he said, “Ughhhh! It’s so hot in here!”
Nothing.
He yanked off his coat. “I’m sweating! I need to—huff—cool down!”
Still nothing.
Chuuya squinted.
Then, very gingerly, he reached over and laid his coat over Dazai’s chest. The man didn’t stir. Not even a twitch. It rested over him like a blanket made of designer threats.
Chuuya sighed.
Loudly.
“Don’t make me regret that, asshole,” he muttered.
He sat there for a second longer, watching the rise and fall of Dazai’s chest under the coat. It looked weirdly… peaceful.
Which was disturbing.
“…Don’t die on my couch,” Chuuya added under his breath, voice softer this time. “It’s expensive.”
He stood up, grabbed the cold tea from his desk, and walked out without another word.
Behind him, Dazai didn’t move.
Well.
Except for the smallest twitch of a smile.
- The–Horrifying–Incident That Made an Executive Cry.
It started with a scream.
“WHO TOUCHED MY HAT?!”
Dazai blinked up from his couch perch in the Mafia lounge, legs thrown over one armrest, a book upside down in his lap. The voice—scratchy, furious, and absolutely unhinged—could only belong to one very small, very angry man with great fashion sense and a low tolerance for bullshit.
“Uh oh,” Dazai mumbled.
Seconds later, Chuuya stormed in like a hurricane in heels, blue eyes blazing.
“My. Hat. Is. Gone.” He stabbed a finger toward Dazai. “What did you do?!”
“Why do you assume I—” Dazai tried to feign innocence, but Chuuya cut him off with a glare that could’ve melted concrete. “…Okay, fair. But I didn’t touch your dumb hat. Maybe it finally grew legs and ran away.”
Chuuya froze. His eyes looked devastated. His bottom lip wobbled just a little. Then he said “It’s not dumb.” In the smallest voice he heard ever.
And that—that—right there, was the moment something in Dazai snapped.
Which led to this,
THE FIVE STAGES OF DAZAI’S HAT RECOVERY MISSION
Or: How to Panic Gracefully in Five Easy Steps
Stage 1: Denial
“It’ll turn up,” Dazai said. “It’s just a hat. Hats go missing. Hats come back.”
Chuuya didn't reply. He stood by the window of the lounge, looking small without his hat, hair ruffled in a way Dazai refused to admit was adorable. His voice came out quiet. Too quiet.
“…It’s not just a hat.”
Dazai smacked himself in the head.
Stage 2: Investigation
Dazai went full Sherlock Holmes, if Holmes had a caffeine addiction, severe depression, and no moral compass (and unresolved feelings, maybe. Don’t tell anyone.)
He interrogated every junior Mafia member in the building.
Higuchi caught him with a murder board made entirely of red string, pushpins, and blurry hat sightings.
He made a PowerPoint presentation titled “The Hat Heist: A Crime Against Fashion and Small Chibis.”
Nobody confessed. The hat remained at large.
Stage 3: Despair
“I failed him,” Dazai whispered into his hands. “He’s never going to wear his cute little hat again. He’ll get sunstroke. Or pneumonia. Or worse—bad hair days.”
Kouyou, sipping tea nearby, raised an unimpressed brow. Too unbothered by the lack of deny. “He cried in the garden today.”
“WHAT?! ”
“He pretended he wasn’t. But he was holding a flower and mumbling about ‘how it would’ve looked better if the hat was here.’”
Dazai stood. Dramatically. Like a man with purpose.
“That’s it. I’m burning the city down.”
Stage 4: The Heroic Recovery
It took three bribes, two threats, and one secret handshake with a terrified trainee who finally cracked.
“I-I just wanted to try it on! I didn’t think he’d notice—”
Dazai’s eyes darkened.
“Oh,” he said softly, smile eerily gentle. “So you touched it.”
The intern nodded—once. Big mistake.
Something shifted in Dazai’s face. Gone was the lazy lounging idiot. In his place stood Dazai Osamu: Port Mafia executive, demon prodigy, reigning champion of psychological warfare.
He took a single step forward.
The intern backed into a wall.
“Let me paint you a picture,” Dazai said, voice low. “Imagine waking up. But instead of your limbs, you find regret. Your teeth are in a cup beside you. And all you feel is sorrow. That’s the best-case scenario if he cries again.”
“HE WHAT?!”
“Cried,” Dazai said coldly. “In the garden. Hugging a flower.”
The intern sobbed. “I didn’t mean to! I just wanted to see if it made me look cool—”
“It didn’t,” Dazai snapped, snatching the hat back. “It only looks good on little Chibis like Chuuya.”
“Don’t tell him that, or else.” He added, before he slammed the door. Leaving the sobbing newbie on the floor. (Fair to say the subordinate did not sleep that night.)
He cleaned it. Gently. Like it was made of silk and emotions.
Then he broke into Chuuya’s office like a thief in the night, left the hat on the desk, and ran away with a level of stealth he reserved for assassinations and avoiding Mori’s paperwork.
He didn’t stay to watch.
…Okay, yes he did. He absolutely crouched outside the window behind a door, hiding behind a potted plant.
HQ
Stage 5: Aftermath
Chuuya returned hours later, tired and dragging his feet.
He froze.
There, sitting perfectly centered on his desk—was his hat.
He didn’t touch it at first. Just stared.
Then he stepped closer. Gently ran a finger along the brim. His breath caught. Then, he carefully brought it to his chest and hugged it. And—god—he smiled. Not a smug one. Not a victorious one. But a tiny, pure little thing. Like the world made sense again. Even his little cheeks reddened and pulled up.
“…I love my hat,” he whispered, giggling softly.
Then he put it on his head and walked out the door.
From the cracked door—where Dazai had absolutely not been waiting for 45 minutes—came a choked noise.
Dazai slapped a hand over his mouth. (Bit his fist, in horror)
Too cute I’m gonna die . He staggered back, clutching his chest like he’d been shot.
He didn’t die. But he did skip a heartbeat.
Fair to say, Ane-san informed Chuuya the next day of the chaos Dazai made to find his hat, and to please not lose it again. It was horrifying.
- I Fucking Despise Him. But, I’m The Only One Allowed To Talk Shit About Him.
A small cluster of lower-ranked mafia execs is hanging around the coffee machine, sipping terrible vending machine brew, voices too smug for their pay grade.
“All I’m saying is,” says the loudest one—a guy with a slicked-back mullet and an ego the size of Kamui's bounty—“Dazai’s overrated. Even his ability is useless. ”
The others chuckle. One pipes up:
“I mean, when was the last time he actually followed orders? He always acts like he’s above us.”
Another adds, “I bet he bribes Boss with blackmail just to stay in the Port Mafia. No way anyone that lazy gets that high up unless they’ve got dirt.”
“Maybe, he’s entertaining..him?”
“Shhhh. You’ll get us killed.”
Cue a dramatic sip. And That one Who wouldn’t know his limits and shut up.
“Honestly, Dazai’s just a washed-up has-been. If he disappeared tomorrow, I wouldn’t even notice.”
They laugh.
From the hallway, a shadow stops moving.
(Enter: Nakahara Chuuya, coat swishing, hands in pockets, jaw twitching.)
He hears all of it.
He was just trying to grab a file.
“he’s practically a liability—”
That’s as far as he gets before Chuuya stops mid-step, head tilting just slightly, boots clicking as he slowly turns around.
His arms are crossed. His eyebrow twitches. His eyes gleam like murder.
“You got somethin’ to say about Dazai, punk?”
The newbie stammers, “Nakahara-san! I—I just meant, uh—”
“Listen here, you no-rank discount background extra.” Chuuya steps in, cracking his knuckles. “I might despise that bastard from the very bottom of my soul. I might fantasize about kicking him into the bay every single morning and again before I sleep.”
One lets out a little surprised “Wow, every night?”
The others shush him.
He steps closer. The hallway somehow grows colder.
“But that ‘liability’, which is Dazai- San , to you. Has saved your sorry ass more times than your mama hugged you. He’s a pain in the ass, a nightmare, a suicidal troll good at nothing—but he’s also the smartest, most ruthless, calculating son of a bitch in this building.”
Chuuya’s voice lowers to a growl, sharp as a dagger dipped in wine:
“So next time you feel like talkin’ trash about him, try doin’ it where I can’t hear it. Or better yet—don’t.”
The hallway goes silent.
The group scatters.
Chuuya clicks his tongue and storms off, muttering under his breath:
“Stupid fucking Dazai. Stupid Fucking Asshole. What am I his fucking bodyguard? Hah! He better eat shit.”
Meanwhile, Akutagawa, who has been watching from a nearby corner, exchanges a dry look with Tachihara.
Tachihara, arching an eyebrow: "How long do you think before Dazai-san uses that speech against him? My bet's on 24 hours."
Akutagawa, his tone flat: "I'm surprised Chuuya-san doesn't already have it engraved on a plaque."
Tachihara: "Knowing Chuuya? He probably thinks it’s some sort of awkward fever dream. That way, he can pretend it didn’t happen."
They both glance at Dazai who’s apparently frozen, jaw unhinged. His tea is halfway to his lips, forgotten. His eyes are wide.
His cheeks.. Red?
Dazai is blushing.
Dazai-san is blushing.
Dazai–
Akutagawa, standing in his spot with a report in hand, watches in absolute horror as his usually composed, terrifying, mafia-legend mentor sits there with pink-tinted cheeks like a pathetic fool.
Akutagawa blinks. Once. Twice.
Then his eyes roll back.
Thump.
"AKUTAGAWA?!"
- I’m Not Jealous! I Just Hate His Face.
The mission was simple: gather intel, charm a few foreign investors, and leave with all their secrets—and maybe a few free drinks.
Which is why Chuuya Nakahara, mafia executive and certified walking magnet for attention, had somehow ended up laughing with some smooth-talking diplomat near the bar. He was his usual charming self—cool, confident, and too damn good-looking for Dazai's taste.
Dazai, sitting across the room, glared with narrowed eyes, swirling his drink.
‘What the hell is he smiling for? Why is he laughing? Why is that guy leaning so close? Get away from him, you overcooked linguini-looking bastard—’
Dazai took a long sip of his drink, trying to keep his cool, but there was a tightness in his chest.
It’s not jealousy. I don’t get jealous. I just hate his face.
The Next Day
Chuuya walked into the office, tossing his coat over a chair and stretching, completely oblivious to the fact that Dazai had been watching him for the past fifteen minutes with a furrowed brow, and murder intent.
“Oi, Dazai,” Chuuya called, leaning on the desk. “That guy from last night? The one from Lyon?”
Dazai didn’t look up from his paperwork. “Mm?”
“Yeah, well, he suddenly canceled our follow-up meeting today. Said something came up. Weird, right?”
“So weird,” Dazai said with the most casual smile, not looking at Chuuya. “What a shame. Guess he realized he has terrible taste.”
Chuuya frowned, but Dazai was already pretending to write down something. He wasn’t sure why, but Chuuya felt a weird lump in his throat, as if Dazai’s words had touched a nerve.
“Whatever,” Chuuya muttered, walking to his desk. “I’m sure he had his reasons.”
The Day After That
Chuuya stormed into the office, his expression frustrated.
“Okay, now it’s weird.”
Dazai glanced up from his coffee. “Now?”
“That guy from two missions ago? The one who gave me his number?” Chuuya slapped the paper on the desk. “Guess what?”
“He died?” Dazai asked, a hint of mock sympathy in his voice.
“No!!” Chuuya groaned. “He emailed HQ saying he’s transferring divisions. Because of ‘a sudden irreconcilable work culture clash.’ What the hell does that even mean?”
Dazai barely suppressed a smirk. “Maybe he saw your temper.”
“Or maybe,” Chuuya leaned forward, “someone threatened him.”
Dazai raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence. “Me? Threaten someone? Chuuya, I’m a pacifist.”
“You threw someone off a pier last week.”
“They bounced. Dramatically. It was almost art.”
Three Days Later
Chuuya stared at the bulletin board in the common area. Then back at Dazai.
Then back at the board.
“Okay. This—” he jabbed a finger at the reassignment list—“is your fault.”
Dazai looked up from his book with an exaggerated yawn. “Moi?”
“Don’t you ‘moi’ me, you slippery bastard! That’s the fourth guy I’ve talked to who got reassigned to Kyushu!”
“Oh no. Not Kyushu. The horror.” Dazai sat back, smiling sweetly. “Maybe it’s a coincidence.”
“Coincidence my ass!” Chuuya exploded. “You’ve been playing mafia matchmaker—evil version—and now everyone thinks I’m cursed!”
“Hey, I didn’t say that,” Dazai smirked, eyes twinkling with mischief. “But if the shoe fits…”
Chuuya threw a stapler at him.
Later That Night
Dazai wandered the rooftop, hands in his pockets, gazing out at the city, contemplating the cluster of emotions that had been bubbling up inside him since the mission. His eyes flickered over to Chuuya’s silhouette in the distance.
"No. No, I’m not jealous. I can’t be. That’s stupid."
He froze for a moment, staring at his hands, suddenly self-conscious.
“Shit. Am I really jealous over him?”
His mind raced with thoughts he wasn’t ready to confront, but it was too late now. He knew the truth. He had been lying to himself all along.
But Chuuya?
The thought was enough to make him smile grimly at the ground.
“This is bad.”
The Next Morning
Chuuya’s desk had a coffee on it. His favorite blend, still warm.
No note. Just a napkin with a doodle of a snail wearing a hat punching a.. Sad mackerel? That’s wearing a cloth that makes it a ghost?
He frowned, suspicious.
Dazai, meanwhile, was peeking around the corner, watching Chuuya curiously.
Chuuya picked up the coffee and took a long sip. “Weird. But…” He frowned again, but then a small smile tugged at his lips. “Nice. Acceptable.”
Dazai’s heart did an inexplicable flip.
He turned, leaning against the wall, his hand reaching up to rub his forehead.
“What’s happening to me?”
- I Think It’s Stupid To Tell Myself I Don’t. But I Rather Suffer.
They were eighteen now. The world hadn’t broken them properly yet.
It had been one of those days.
The rare kind. The kind that slipped in unnoticed like soft wind through cracked windows—warm, lazy, unremarkable in every way except that it was perfect.
Chuuya had tied his hair that morning.
Nothing elaborate—just a simple black hair tie looping back loose waves into a low ponytail. And yet, for some reason Dazai couldn’t name, it stunned him silent.
He looked like something drawn by the sun.
Firelight hair, sea-blue eyes, freckled skin kissed by the breeze. The ponytail swayed gently when he walked, a few stray strands dancing stubbornly around his face, catching the light like threads of gold.
Dazai didn't comment. He didn’t tease.
He just stared for a second too long, until Chuuya shoved a can of soda into his gut and muttered, “Quit starin’, freak.”
They spent the day in a weather-worn beach shack they’d found after a mission—the kind of place with peeling paint and windows fogged by salt. The sea was loud outside, waves crashing with rhythm, but inside was warmth. And laughter. And something neither of them could quite name.
There was yelling.
A burned pan. Rice that stuck. Dazai flicking grains at Chuuya just to watch him snap. Chuuya throwing a towel at his face, swearing, “I swear to god, if you touch my cooking again I’m gonna feed you to the ocean.”
There was peace.
A crumbling couch they flopped onto after eating, too tired to fight anymore. Chuuya’s head thrown back, eyes closed, legs across Dazai’s lap without thinking. Dazai resting his chin on his hand, watching the flicker of sun spots on the wall.
There was softness.
A moment stolen in stillness, the kind that lives in your chest forever and only aches when it’s gone.
Chuuya dozed off eventually, shoulder to Dazai’s side, warm breath against his ribs. The TV crackled in the background, playing something no one was watching. Rain started tapping against the windows.
Dazai turned slowly. And his breath caught.
Chuuya, like this—sleep-tousled and flushed from the leftover heat, mouth parted in a soft exhale—looked like a dream. Too real to be real. The ponytail had slipped to one side, revealing his neck, delicate and freckled, a lock of hair curled behind his ear.
Dazai reached out with one hand, carefully.
He pinched the edge of the hair tie and slid it free. Chuuya’s hair tumbled like silk over his shoulders, spilling against Dazai’s lap, brushing his wrist.
And then the scent hit him.
Something warm. Like cedar, and something sharper underneath—like wind in a city alley, something alive.
He stared at the hair tie in his fingers.
Black. Slightly stretched. Still warm.
He slipped it around his wrist.
Sleep came to him softly.
Two Weeks Later
Dazai left the Port Mafia.
He didn't want to think if Chuuya would care about his deflection at all. He didn't care. (He did). It doesn' matter. (It does). But that's the greedy part of him speaking.
The other part truly wanted Chuuya not to bat an eye and hate him and forget about him. (Too bad no one knows how much Chuuya cried).
At least, he had Chuuya's hair tie now. Right?
____________________________________________________________________________
+1. Finale: They Were Enemies (And Also In Love).
Age: 22
Yokohama burns in the distance.
Someone’s crying. Someone’s laughing. Somewhere, the Agency HQ and Port Mafia warehouse simultaneously exploded in a very coordinated accident. (Neither organization has claimed responsibility. Both know exactly who did it.)
And somewhere on a rooftop above it all, Chuuya punches Dazai directly in the stomach.
“You arrogant, smug, two-faced—!”
“—Dazzling, brilliant, breathtaking—?”
“SHUT UP, BASTARD!”
They’re breathing hard. Cheeks red. Hair tousled from the fight—or the wind—or the sexual tension. Hard to tell anymore.
Chuuya's still shorter. Dazai’s still infuriating. The skyline flickers behind them like a dying neon sign that says “Congratulations! You Are Now In Love With Your Worst Enemy!”
Earlier that evening...
Chuuya shows up to the meet point in full mafioso elegance, hair tied back, coat fluttering, wine bottle swinging at his side like it’s loaded with holy vengeance.
Dazai, unfortunately, shows up leaning out of a third-story window upside-down, waving.
“Chuuuuchuuu~ Did you miss me, or are you here to commit first-degree murder with my face again?”
“I’m here to commit a felony,” Chuuya deadpans.
“Hot.”
Cue an entire chapter’s worth of dramatic chaos: a botched arms deal, someone’s suit catching fire, and Chuuya roundhouse-kicking a vending machine because it didn’t dispense melon soda.
Then a small pause.
Just long enough for Chuuya to fall asleep on Dazai’s shoulder.
He didn’t mean to.
It was the food. The adrenaline. The unspoken, unhealed wound of a goodbye four years old.
And Dazai didn’t mean to brush the hair away from his cheek so carefully. Didn’t mean to breathe in the scent that still smelled like bitter red wine and summer evenings. Didn’t mean to press a gentle kiss to the top of his head.
Didn’t mean to steal that hair tie.
But he did.
Wore it on his wrist every day. Quiet. Constant. Like a confession no one would hear.
Not even Chuuya.
Back to now.
Chuuya stumbles after the punch, cheeks flushed, hat crooked, chest way too full.
“You suck, Dazai.”
“I know,” Dazai says softly.
Chuuya looks away. “You left.”
“I did.”
“Without saying goodbye.”
“I didn’t think I’d survive.”
Pause.
Chuuya’s hands clench. “You’re an idiot.”
“I’m here now.”
“And what, you expect me to—?”
Then his eyes fall to Dazai’s wrist.
Still bare. Until—
The wind catches something, pulls up Dazai’s sleeve slightly.
A black hair tie. Familiar. Worn. Frayed.
Chuuya’s eyes widen. “...Is that mine?”
Dazai freezes. Looks down. Then up. “...No?”
“Dazai.”
“Okay, yes.”
“Did you—Is that–did you steal that from me when I was asleep?!”
Dazai shrugs, pink creeping up his cheeks. “It’s mine now. Not like you can have it back after four years.” he mumbles.
“You—you absolute creep!”
Chuuya turns the color of a strawberry set on fire. He flails. He sputters. His foot slips on a loose tile and he nearly falls off the roof.
Dazai catches his wrist.
And for a moment—
They both just breathe.
Quiet.
The city fades. The war ends. The old hurts stop screaming.
Just a boy with red cheeks and tangled hair looking at a boy who never stopped loving him.
Chuuya mutters, eyes darting away:
“...That’s really embarrassing, y’know.”
“Which part?”
“That you kept it.”
“You tied your hair back and smiled at me like it was the first sunrise I’d ever seen. You think I was gonna let that go?”
Chuuya makes a choked noise. “Shut up.”
“You’re blushing.”
“I hate you.”
“You’re beautiful.”
“I really hate you.”
“Sure, sweetheart.”
Dazai leans in. Close. Closer.
Chuuya’s breath catches. His heart’s thundering like an old song he’s been trying to forget for ten years.
“Don’t,” he whispers.
“Why not?”
“…Because I’ll kiss you back.”
Beat.
Then—soft. Honest. Trembling.
They meet in the middle.
(They secretly hug for an hour after).
Aftermath:
The Agency blames Port Mafia. The Mafia blames the Agency.
Akutagawa sees Chuuya return glowing and stumbles into a wall.
Atsushi has a PowerPoint titled “Why They Are In Love (And Why We Should Leave Them Alone)”.
The hair tie now lives on Dazai’s nightstand. The real one. Not the decoy.
Chuuya pretends he doesn’t know.
He does.
He smiles about it when Dazai isn’t looking.
Dazai sees. He always does.
And this time—he stays.