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Not the heavy, oppressive kind of silence that follows him back from Port Mafia headquarters—no, this one is soft. Familiar. The low hum of the heater buzzes gently through the walls, and the faint scent of laundry detergent and tea lingers in the air like a promise.
He exhales without realizing he’d been holding his breath.
Chuuya steps inside and closes the door behind him with a careful click, rolling his shoulders as the weight of the night begins to peel away. His coat is still dusted with cold from outside, and his jacket feels heavier than usual, soaked with hours of tension, orders, and violence he’d rather not carry into this space.
Home is different.
He shrugs off his jacket first, hanging it neatly on the rack by the door, followed by his coat. The familiar motion steadies him—muscle memory built from countless nights returning to the same place, the same person. He toes off his shoes and straightens them automatically, glancing toward the hallway.
Right on cue, footsteps shuffle from the bedroom.
“Chuuya!”
Dazai appears in the doorway, hair tousled like he’s just rolled out of bed despite the hour. He’s wearing one of Chuuya’s old shirts—too big on him, sleeves hanging past his wrists—and soft pajama pants that clash horribly with it. His eyes light up the moment they land on Chuuya, bright and warm in a way that still makes Chuuya’s chest tighten.
“You’re back,” Dazai says, smiling like it’s the best news he’s heard all day.
Chuuya snorts softly, tugging his gloves off. “Obviously. You sound surprised.”
“Well, you were late,” Dazai hums, stepping closer. “I was starting to think you’d abandoned me to die of boredom.”
“Drama queen,” Chuuya mutters, but there’s no heat in it. He reaches out and flicks Dazai’s forehead lightly, earning an exaggerated gasp.
“I missed you,” Dazai says, quieter now.
That does it.
Chuuya’s expression softens, something unguarded slipping through before he can stop it. “Yeah,” he replies, low. “Missed you too.”
He doesn’t linger—he knows himself well enough to recognize when the grime of work still clings to him. Instead, he heads for the bathroom, loosening his tie as he walks.
“I’m gonna shower,” Chuuya calls over his shoulder. “Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.”
Dazai grins. “Define stupid.”
“Dazai.”
“I’ll behave!” he sing-songs, already flopping backward onto the bed.
The shower water is hot, almost scalding, just the way Chuuya likes it. Steam fills the bathroom as he leans forward, resting his forehead against the cool tile while the heat works through sore muscles. The night washes away slowly—blood, sweat, anger—until all that’s left is the ache of exhaustion and the steady thought of waiting arms.
When he finally steps out, hair damp and skin warm, he changes into something comfortable before heading back to the bedroom.
Dazai is exactly where Chuuya left him.
He’s sprawled across the bed, half buried in blankets, remote in hand as he scrolls aimlessly through shows. The lamp on the nightstand casts a soft glow over the room, catching on the messy lines of Dazai’s hair and the faint smile tugging at his lips when he looks up.
“There you are,” Dazai says. “I was getting lonely.”
Chuuya doesn’t respond with words. Instead, he climbs onto the bed and pulls Dazai against him, wrapping an arm securely around his waist. Dazai makes a pleased sound and immediately curls into Chuuya’s chest, like he belongs there—like he always has.
Chuuya presses his chin lightly to the top of Dazai’s head, breathing him in. Clean laundry, soap, warmth. Safe.
“Too warm?” Chuuya murmurs.
Dazai shakes his head, nuzzling closer. “Never.”
They settle in comfortably, legs tangled, Dazai’s back flush against Chuuya’s chest. Chuuya reaches for the remote and picks a series they’ve been watching together—something mindless and familiar, perfect background noise for a quiet night in.
The show plays, but Chuuya barely registers it.
Dazai fidgets slightly, then stills when Chuuya tightens his hold just a bit, fingers absentmindedly tracing circles against his side. The tension in Chuuya’s body finally ebbs, replaced by the steady rhythm of Dazai’s breathing.
“This is my favorite part of the day,” Dazai says suddenly.
Chuuya huffs. “The show?”
“No,” Dazai replies softly. “You coming home.”
Chuuya doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he presses a gentle kiss into Dazai’s hair, holding him a little closer as the screen flickers quietly in front of them.
Outside, the city keeps moving.
Inside, wrapped in blankets and warmth, nothing else matters.