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Dazai’s birthday passed the same way it always did—quiet, uneventful, and willfully ignored.
Which is exactly why Chuuya didn’t say a word all day.
No text. No smug comment. Not even a jab about Dazai getting older. It was painful—excruciating, really—but Chuuya endured it like he did most things involving Dazai: with a sigh and a bottle of wine.
But tonight wasn’t going to be like the rest of the day. Tonight, Chuuya had plans.
Dazai returned to his apartment that evening with a tired sigh, one hand lazily tugging off his jacket. It had been a long day at the Agency, and no one had so much as mentioned the date. He wasn’t surprised, but some part of him—some dusty, locked-away part—still hoped.
The scent hit him first.
Garlic. Rosemary. Something rich and simmering low.
He froze at the door.
His lights were on.
He was sure he’d turned them off.
"Dazai," came a voice from inside—cool, low, and just a touch nervous. "If you’re planning to run, at least do it after you taste this. I didn’t suffer through hell’s own grocery queue for you to be dramatic."
Chuuya.
Dazai blinked.
He stepped inside slowly, cautiously, like this might be a dream he’d shatter if he breathed too loud. The familiar scent of his apartment—books, old wood, and something faintly medicinal—was overpowered by the warm, rich aroma of garlic, rosemary, and butter. His usually dim and sparsely lived-in space had transformed into something almost intimate. Soft amber light from a pair of corner lamps blended with the delicate flicker of candles arranged carefully around the kitchen island and windowsill, their glow casting long, gentle shadows that danced along the floor. The cluttered coffee table was gone—pushed aside to make room for a small, low dining setup in the center of the living room. Two thick, deep-red floor cushions sat opposite each other, framing a short table draped in a navy-blue cloth so dark and vivid it made Dazai think, absurdly, of Chuuya’s eyes. A pair of polished wine glasses waited near the edge, already half-filled, catching the candlelight like little pools of rubies. The whole scene felt delicate, deliberate—like someone had thought about every detail with him in mind.
Chuuya stood at the stove, sleeves rolled up, a wine bottle already open on the counter and two glasses half-filled. He turned to glance at Dazai, then turned away quickly, pretending to check the sauce.
"You’re late."
"I…" Dazai stared at him, utterly lost for words. " You’re in my apartment."
"Brilliant observation." Chuuya ladled sauce over the pasta and turned off the burner. "Now come sit before this goes cold, idiot."
Dazai moved without thinking, his body pulled forward like he was stepping into a memory he didn’t remember making. He lowered himself onto one of the cushions, the fabric soft beneath his fingers, the low table making the world feel smaller, quieter—private. Across from him, Chuuya moved with focused ease, his sleeves still rolled up and a faint flush on his cheeks from the heat of the kitchen. He plated the food slowly, deliberately, as if every scoop of sauce and twist of pasta needed to be perfect. There was a reverence in the way he handled it, like he wasn’t just serving dinner, but offering something deeper—something he couldn’t say aloud. Dazai watched in stunned silence, hands resting loosely in his lap, chest too tight with something he couldn’t name. When Chuuya finally sat down across from him, their knees nearly touching beneath the table, it felt like the whole room exhaled. The candlelight shimmered between them, fragile and warm. Dazai didn’t speak. He couldn’t. He just stared—like Chuuya was something rare and fleeting, and he didn’t dare look away.
“...Why?” he asked at last, voice quieter than he intended. “Why all this?”
Chuuya sighed, picked up his wine glass, and swirled it lazily. “Because I know how you are. You pretend you don’t care. You act like no one remembering your birthday doesn’t bother you.”
Dazai didn’t respond. He stared at the candlelight playing off the rim of his glass.
Chuuya continued, more gently now, “But you’re human, Dazai. Of course , it bothers you.”
He reached across the table, almost hesitant, and laid his hand over Dazai’s. “So I remembered. Even if you didn’t want me to.”
A long pause stretched between them.
Then Dazai laughed softly, almost breathlessly, and covered his eyes with one hand. “God, you’re unbelievable.”
Chuuya huffed and took another sip of wine. “Yeah, well. I had help.”
Dazai peeked at him through his fingers. “Help?”
“From your people,” Chuuya said, setting the glass down gently. “The Agency didn’t forget your birthday, Dazai. They just—played along when I asked them to. The glasses ass looked like he was gonna burst a vein keeping quiet, and you're weretiger felt guilty all day, but they went along with it because I wanted this to be a surprise.”
Dazai blinked. “They… remembered?”
“Every single one of them. They even got you gifts.” Chuuya’s lips twitched into a lopsided smile. “They’re all piled up in your bedroom right now, under that sad little bookshelf you never dust.”
For a second, Dazai just sat there, unmoving, lips slightly parted.
“And before you ask,” Chuuya went on, tone softening, “yes— Mafia , too. I had to beg Hirotsu not to send a string quartet to your damn office. Kouyou nearly insisted on planning the dinner herself. Hell, even Tachihara tried to slip me a bottle of aged scotch for you.”
Dazai blinked again. His eyes were shining now, just faintly, like the light might be playing tricks—but Chuuya knew better.
“They all helped,” Chuuya said, voice quiet now. “Because they care about you. Even if you’re a pain in the ass.”
Dazai didn’t respond right away. He reached for his wine glass with a hand that trembled just slightly and held it between both palms, like it was something to anchor him.
“And you,” he murmured, not looking up. “You brought them together. Agency and Mafia. For me .”
Chuuya looked at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he shrugged, like it was nothing. “You deserve to be celebrated, even if you won’t admit it.”
Dazai swallowed, and his smile broke—fragile, lopsided, aching at the edges. “Chuuya… if you keep being this disgustingly sweet, I might cry.”
Chuuya leaned forward with a smirk and bumped his foot lightly against Dazai’s under the table. “Then cry into the tiramisu I bought, dumbass. It’s in the fridge.”
Dazai laughed—watery and light. The kind of laugh that came from someone who didn’t know what to do with the warmth suddenly blooming in their chest.
“Still romantic and squashy as ever,” Chuuya snorted. “Now eat.”
They fell into an easy rhythm—clinking glasses, sharing stories from the week, and passing a second bottle of wine back and forth until the world softened at the edges. Dazai looked more alive than he had in days, maybe weeks. His shoulders loosened. He smiled—not that distant, mocking thing he wore for the Agency, but a real, crooked smile that pulled at Chuuya’s chest more than he liked to admit.
When the plates were cleared and the wine nearly gone, Chuuya leaned back on his palms, gaze flicking to the window.
“The moon’s out,” he murmured. “Big and bright tonight.”
Dazai followed his gaze. “Mm. Romantic.”
Chuuya looked at him, and for once, didn’t try to hide it. “That was the point.”
Dazai met his eyes—and didn’t look away.
“Chuuya…”
“Yeah?”
“...You didn’t have to do this.” His voice cracked around the edges, just enough for Chuuya to hear the truth behind it.
“I wanted to,” he said simply . “For you .”
Dazai stared at him for a long moment, then shifted forward, wine-sweet breath brushing against Chuuya’s cheek as he leaned in closer.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
And Chuuya smiled—because Dazai never said thank you unless he meant it.
He lifted a hand and tucked a strand of Dazai’s hair behind his ear. “Happy birthday, you idiot.”
Dazai kissed him.
It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t desperate.
It was slow. Gentle. Steady. Like something they both already knew how to do, like they’d just been waiting for the right time.
And when they pulled apart, their foreheads pressed together and the candlelight flickering between them, Dazai breathed, “This might be the best birthday I’ve ever had.”
Chuuya chuckled softly. “You mean it’s the only one you’ve ever had.”
Dazai grinned. “Details.”
"I love you, Osamu ,"
"I love you too, Nakahara ,"
They sat there a while longer in the glow of candles and moonlight, warm and full and—just for tonight—undeniably loved.