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Snow tapped softly against the tall arched windows of the ballroom, each flake melting into quiet trails against the glass. Outside, Yokohama lay buried beneath winter’s snowfall; inside, the Port Mafia’s grand hall glowed with warmth and excess. Crystal chandeliers poured golden light over marble floors, catching on champagne flutes and polished shoes, while deep crimson drapes framed the room.
Music drifted through the air, smooth strings and low piano notes weaving together in a waltz—It slid between pockets of laughter and the steady clink of crystal as champagne flutes met in quiet toasts. Snow gathered silently on the balcony rails outside, while inside the underworld’s most dangerous underdogs celebrated Christmas Eve as if blood had never stained their hands.
It was Christmas Eve, after all—and Mori had spared no expense in reminding everyone that even criminals were allowed to celebrate.
But this was Chuuya’s first true Christmas celebration within the organization, after all.
Christmas had never been a luxury he’d been allowed to afford. The holiday, for him, had always meant frozen streets and hollow stomachs, torn coats and sleepless nights. While others gathered beneath warm lights and shared meals heavy with their families, Chuuya had been out in the cold, fists bloodied and heart burning, protecting the Sheep’s younger kids from the winter winds with his own body. He had given them his gloves, his scarf, his last scraps of food.
Christmas, back then, was more of a sacrifice instead of celebration.
There had only been one year when he’d truly celebrated—one brief, foolishly hopeful night with the Flags. Laughter had been loud that time. Bottles passed too freely. Albatross had even dragged in crooked decorations, strands of cheap tinsel hung in defiance of the world they lived in. For a few hours, they’d pretended tomorrow didn’t exist. For a few hours, Chuuya had allowed himself to believe in something as simple as joy.
And then they all died.
After that, Christmas became something he refused to touch. A date on the calendar he ignored. A season he worked through without pause. Celebrating felt like betrayal, like laughing over a grave that never stopped growing. So year after year, he buried himself in missions, in alcohol, in anything that kept him too busy to remember.
Until now.
Now, standing beneath towering chandeliers and drifting snowlight, wrapped in fine fabric instead of threadbare cloth, the warmth of the ballroom felt unreal. The music, the laughter, it all belonged to a world he had once watched from a distance, never imagining he’d be standing at its center one day.
And yet here he was.
A glass of untouched champagne rested in his hand, forgotten as his mismatched eyes lifted to the glittering ceiling, to the slow fall of snow beyond the windows. For once, the feeling of guilt wasn’t something he had to worry about.
That, more than anything, unsettled him.
Chuuya exhaled quietly and turned away from the crowd before the thought could settle too deeply. He shrugged into his coat, fingers catching his scarf from the back of a chair as he slipped through the side doors leading out to the balcony.
Cold air struck him immediately, sharp and honest. Snow dusted the railings and the stone beneath his boots, crunching faintly as he stepped forward. The city stretched out below in a constellation of lights, he leaned against the rail, fished a cigarette from his pocket, and sparked it to life. The first drag burned clean through his lungs, grounding him far more effectively than champagne ever could.
Only then did the thought snag.
He hadn’t seen Dazai all night.
Which was weird, because Dazai normally ate this kind of thing up—holidays most of all. Not that Chuuya had noticed or anything. He hadn’t. Absolutely fucking not.
He took another drag from his cigarette, exhaling sharply as smoke curled into the falling snow. The cold should’ve helped clear his head. It didn’t. Instead, irritation settled in his chest, heavy and sharp, gnawing at him with every second Dazai failed to appear.
Bastard.
His mismatched eyes narrowed as he flicked the cigarette over the railing, watching the ember die somewhere far below. The thought that Dazai had just ditched the party—ditched him—sat wrong. Dazai disappearing was never a good sign.
With a sharp click of his tongue, Chuuya straightened, tugging his scarf tighter as he pushed away from the balcony. Snow clung briefly to his coat before melting as he slipped back inside, the warmth of the ballroom hitting him like a wave. The music swelled again, laughter brushing past him as he cut through the crowd with purpose, shoulders squared and jaw set.
He didn’t bother pretending to enjoy the festivities anymore. Whoever got in his way quickly learned to move.
I swear to god, he thought, stalking through marble halls and dimmer corridors beyond the ballroom’s glow, if he’s pulling some bullshit on Christmas Eve.
His steps echoed now, sharper, angrier, the sound of boots against stone carrying his mood with them. Wherever Dazai had slunk off to, Chuuya was going to find him. And when he did, he was absolutely going to lose his shit.
Stepping out of one of the Mafia’s lounges, the cold struck Chuuya immediately, sharp and unforgiving as it seeped through the fabric of his coat. He clicked his tongue under his breath and tugged it tighter around himself, breath blooming pale in the winter air. The snow had thickened since earlier, crunching faintly beneath his boots as he paused beneath the building’s overhang.
Where the hell did you go…
His mind ran through the usual places with growing irritation. Dazai’s shipping container was the obvious answer,but even that idiot wasn’t stupid enough to hole up in a glorified freezer on a night like this.
Oda crossed his mind next, instinctively. If Dazai had gone anywhere, it would’ve been to him. But Chuuya already knew that answer. Oda was out on a mission, gone before the party even started. No chance in hell Dazai was tagging along there.
That narrowed things down uncomfortably fast.
His pace quickened as he walked, boots crunching softly against snow-dusted pavement. Streetlights cast long, pale shadows, the city unusually quiet beneath its winter veil. With every step, his thoughts grew sharper, more annoyed, the worry he refused to name bleeding into anger instead.
“Unbelievable…” he muttered, breath fogging in the cold.
There was only one place left that made any sense.
His apartment.
The thought made his jaw tighten. He hadn’t told Dazai to come by. Hell, he hadn’t even invited him. But knowing Dazai, that had never stopped him before. Boots crunching through snow, Chuuya picked up his pace, irritation simmering hot beneath the winter cold as the lights of The mafia's apartment complex came into view.
The Mafia’s apartment complex consisted of several identical high-rise buildings tucked away from the city’s more crowded districts. Mori had commissioned them years ago, gifting apartments to his men for the nights when work ran late and “home” became a luxury rather than a certainty. Safe, guarded, and well-stocked, they were meant to be a convenience.
Chuuya trudged forward, snow crunching beneath his boots as it rose nearly to his calves, breath coming out in short, irritated puffs. He’d accepted the apartment without much complaint.
Dazai, on the other hand, had refused it outright.
Chuuya huffed, adjusting his coat again as a gust of wind cut through the courtyard. He couldn’t really blame him. Living in the same building as Mori, sounded like its own special kind of hell.
Still, it would’ve made things easier. If Dazai had taken one of the apartments, Chuuya wouldn’t be pacing snowy streets right now, irritation simmering under his skin. But no, Dazai had chosen that damned shipping container instead.
Chuuya shook the snow from his shoulders as he stepped into the apartment complex, not bothering to slow as he crossed the lobby. He went straight for the elevator, boots leaving damp tracks behind him, and jabbed his thumb against the button harder than necessary. The light blinked on with a dull ding, and he scowled as the doors slid shut.
“Whatever your reasons are,” he muttered to the empty space, already reaching into his coat, “they’d better be damn good, idiot.”
The elevator hummed as it climbed, numbers ticking upward at a pace that felt deliberately slow. Chuuya pulled his keys free, the familiar weight of metal grounding him as he rolled them once through his fingers.
When the elevator finally came to a stop, the doors parted with a soft chime. Chuuya stepped out without hesitation, boots echoing down the quiet hallway as he headed straight for his apartment. He stopped in front of the door, keys already in hand, breath fogging faintly in the lingering cold clinging to his clothes.
With a sharp twist of his wrist, he unlocked the door and pushed inside—fully prepared to tear into Dazai the second he laid eyes on him.
But instead, he was met with an eerily empty apartment.
The lights were off. No sign that the infuriating bastard had been there at all. Chuuya clicked his tongue in irritation and shut the door behind him, the sound echoing too loudly in the quiet. He shrugged off his coat and tossed it over the back of a chair, the tension in his shoulders refusing to ease.
“Dazai?” he called, already moving deeper into the apartment. No answer.
He checked the living room first but nothing was out of place. The kitchen next, just as untouched. His irritation edged closer to something sharper, something uncomfortably close to worry, when a sudden sound cut through the silence.
A sneeze. Followed by a congested sniffle.
Chuuya froze.
“…You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
He turned toward the bedroom, footsteps slowing as he pushed the door open. And there, curled up on his bed like he’d always belonged there, was Dazai was curled up on the bed, half-buried beneath layers of blankets, a pathetic fortress of tissues scattered around him. His hair was a mess, eyes dull and glassy, nose red as if he’d been sniffling for hours. He looked small like that, folded in on himself, shivering despite the warmth of the room.
Chuuya stared at him for a long moment, disbelief showing on his face.
“…Really?”
Dazai blinked up at him, sniffed once, and offered a weak, crooked smile. "Hi"
“Hi?” Chuuya echoed, incredulous. He exhaled sharply, one hand settling on his hip as he looked down at him. “How the hell did you even get into my apartment?”
His irritation faltered almost immediately. Up close, it was impossible not to notice that Dazai’s skin looked clammy, an unhealthy pallor beneath the faint flush dusting his cheeks. His eyes were glassy, unfocused, lashes heavier than usual, and the way he curled tighter into the blankets. Chuuya’s jaw tightened, anger shifting into something sharper, more uncomfortable.
Dazai sniffed again, dragging a sleeve across his nose before peeking up at him. “Mm… your lock’s easy,” he said casually, voice rougher than normal. “Took, like… five seconds.”
Chuuya stared at him, unimpressed. “I know it’s easy. That’s not the point.” His gaze flicked to the pile of tissues, then back to Dazai’s face. “You look like shit.”
“Wow,” Dazai muttered, nose stuffy, coughing for a moment. “Such a warm welcome.”
Chuuya reached out as he took one of his gloves off, pressing the back of his hand against Dazai’s forehead to see the temperature
Chuuya didn’t bother asking for permission. He tugged one glove off with his teeth and pressed the back of his bare hand to Dazai’s forehead. The heat hit him immediately.
“Christ— you’re burning up,” Chuuya muttered, clicking his tongue sharply. He pulled his hand back and straightened at once, already turning on his heel.
“Stay,” he ordered, not that Dazai looked capable of going anywhere.
Chuuya moved quickly, purposeful, shedding the rest of his gloves as he crossed the apartment. He rummaged through cabinets and drawers, grabbing a thermometer, painkillers, and a bottle of water, then detoured to the bathroom for a damp cloth. The entire time, he could hear Dazai behind him, shifting in the blankets.
“Heyy,” Dazai whined weakly, voice nasally and offended. “You didn’t answer my question. Why’d you leave the party?”
Chuuya snorted as he wrung out the cloth. “You didn’t go, idiot. Kinda hard to ignore that"
He returned to the bedroom and sat down on the edge of the bed, pressing the cool cloth gently to Dazai’s forehead. Dazai hissed at the cold, then leaned into it anyway, eyes fluttering shut.
“…You could’ve stayed,” Dazai mumbled. “I was fine.”
Chuuya shot him a look. “You broke into my apartment with a fever and decided that was fine?”
Dazai cracked one eye open, unfazed even as his nose ran again. “Well… it was warmer than my container”
Chuuya’s jaw clenched. He pressed the cloth more firmly to Dazai’s forehead, not enough to hurt—just enough to make a point. “You could’ve told me”
“Mmm,” Dazai hummed, already half drifting. “You came looking for me though.”
That did it. Chuuya pulled the cloth away and stood, pacing once, then twice, before stopping at the bedside again. “Don’t,” he warned. “Don’t start with that.”
Dazai smiled faintly and lazily. “You always do.”
Chuuya looked at him, really looked this time. The blankets were pulled up to Dazai’s chin, his shoulders tense beneath them, every breath a little heavier than it should’ve been. Whatever sharp retort he’d planned died in his throat. He grabbed the thermometer and held it out. “Open your mouth.”
Dazai groaned. “You’re so bossy when you’re worried.”
“Open. Your. Mouth.”
A beat. Then Dazai obeyed, glaring weakly around the thermometer. Chuuya crossed his arms, watching the seconds tick by, irritation buzzing just under his skin like a live wire. When he pulled it out and checked the reading, his scowl deepened.
“Idiot,” he muttered. “You should’ve said something”
Dazai shrugged weakly.
Chuuya clicked his tongue, annoyed—at him, at the situation, at himself for not noticing sooner. He twisted the cap off the bottle and pressed it into Dazai’s hands.
Dazai obeyed, taking a few careful sips before lowering it with a small cough. Chuuya took it back immediately, setting it aside before pulling his phone from his pocket. A few quick taps later, he’d ordered warm soup from a place nearby—something bland, filling, and hot enough to actually help.
“You’re staying put,” Chuuya said flatly, slipping the phone away. “Soup’ll be here soon. And don’t even think about wandering off.”
Dazai peeked at him from beneath the blankets, eyes half-lidded but amused. “Wow,” he slurred “Slug is takin' such good care of me.”
The pillow hit him square in the face.
“Don’t call me that,” Chuuya snapped, already grabbing another one as Dazai laughed weakly into the fabric, shoulders shaking before he dissolved into a sniffle instead. Chuuya paused, irritation giving way to concern again, and sighed.
Dazai looked at him then—really looked at him—with an expression Chuuya couldn’t quite read. His lips parted as if he meant to say something, then pressed together again.
After a few long seconds, Dazai shifted, pushing himself upright with slow, careful movements. He scooted closer without a word until their shoulders brushed, his thigh resting against Chuuya’s own, the contact warm.
“You didn’t have to leave, y’know,” Dazai said quietly, the words slipping out. There was something almost disbelieving in his tone, like he genuinely couldn’t wrap his head around the idea of someone choosing to come after him.
Chuuya snorted, leaning back in the chair beside the bed. “Please. The party was boring as hell anyway,” he said dismissively, though his eyes never really left Dazai. “I wasn’t missin’ anything.”
He glanced back at Dazai and frowned. Up close, it was obvious how exhausted he was. His movements had slowed, lashes drooping, the sharpness in his eyes dulled by fever and fatigue. The flush on his cheeks made him look younger somehow, softer—dangerously human.
“You’re gonna pass out,” Chuuya said, more observation than scolding. “Eat the soup when it gets here. I’ll give you some Benadryl after. Knock you out for real.”
Dazai hummed faintly, leaning just a little more into Chuuya’s side, like gravity had decided for him. Chuuya didn’t push him away. Instead, he found himself watching Dazai’s face—softer like this. Vulnerable, even.
His gaze drifted, unbidden, to the bandages covering Dazai’s right eye. The urge to reach out tugged at him—to peel them back, just to see, just to make sure. His fingers twitched where they rested against his own thigh.
But he didn’t move.
He didn’t know how Dazai would react—and somehow, that uncertainty mattered more than his curiosity.
Dazai shifted closer this time, no longer pretending the movement was accidental. He leaned into Chuuya properly, his weight settling against him as if he’d finally decided it was safe to stop holding himself upright. One hand rested hesitantly at Chuuya’s waist, fingers curling lightly into the fabric of his coat, unsure—but hopeful.
“Thank you for… uh—” Dazai started, then faltered, the words catching painfully in his throat. He swallowed, voice dropping to something almost fragile. “For spending your Christmas taking care of me.”
Chuuya didn’t answer right away. Instead, he shifted closer, an arm coming around Dazai’s shoulders, pulling him in without ceremony. It was rougher than it needed to be, clumsy in that very Chuuya way, but undeniably protective. He rested his chin briefly against Dazai’s hair, the familiar scent grounding him.
Dazai let out a small breath, then smiled faintly. “Merry Christmas, Chuuya,”
Chuuya clicked his tongue under his breath, but there was no bite in it. He leaned in and pressed a brief, gentle peck to the top of Dazai’s head, fingers brushing his hair as he pulled back just enough to speak.
“…Merry Christmas, Dazai,” he replied quietly.
Outside, snow continued to fall against the windows, and for once, the night held nothing but warmth.