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2026-03-11
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The First Night

Summary:

“You asked me, Dazai,” he whispers, “and it was like you didn’t expect me to say yes.”

After running away from the Port Mafia, Dazai and Chuuya find themselves hiding in a small apartment far from Yokohama.

On the first night, Chuuya wakes to an empty bed and an open balcony door.

(or: Dazai scares the shit out of Chuuya, and can’t come to terms with the fact that Chuuya chose this.)

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Work Text:

A thin stream of cold air cuts across Chuuya’s arm, brushing his skin like soft fingerprints. He stirs, groaning into the pillow, his arm moves lazily out of the wind to drag across his eyes. His body shifts in the bed, turning to face the opposite side of the small mattress.

Chuuya’s hand moves automatically. His fingers drift across the other side of the sheets, searching for warmth, weight, for the familiar shape beside him. Nothing but mildly crumpled sheets and an icy patch where someone once lay skim his hands.

Chuuya opens his eyes. The room greets him. It’s particularly unimpressive, beige walls covered in layers of dust, devoid of most furniture save for a bed. His gaze moves to follow the direction of his outstretched arm. The crumpled sheets beside him were tousled and messy. Vacant.

Chuuya drags his eyes away from the sheets to scan the room, looking for the person who was supposed to be beside him, his eyes catching in the source of the wind. The open balcony door. Curtains floating in the wind, almost in slow motion.

For one long second, Chuuya's brain refuses to process what he's seeing: the open door, the missing warmth beside him, the cold air pouring inside from the night. His stomach drops violently.

“Dazai-“

Chuuya throws the covers off in a single motion; his breathing quickens as he moves automatically, crossing the small inn room in fast strides while his thin shirt does little to shield him from the cold air.

But there, on the balcony barely illuminated by the soft glow of the crescent moon, was Dazai.

Chuuya can only see the darkened outline of his back, shoulders lifted slightly, kissed by the winds of France. The white of his bandages dances in the wind, loosened, untidy, barely clinging to him as they unravel slowly. Relief pours over Chuuya as he cautiously walks forward.

He knows this silhouette, this stance, spine not slouched but sinking, as if gravity presses heavier for Dazai alone. Cold air rolls over his bare legs as he steps onto the balcony. The tile is icy under his feet, and he winces as it bites into his skin.

The air is quiet at this hour, distant cars, drunk laughter somewhere far below, the low hum of the city that refuses to sleep. But Chuuya isn't focused on the gentle hum of the city below; his eyes remain fixed on the figure of his partner, not even two steps ahead.

Dazai is holding himself still, so still that you might mistake him for a photograph if not for the soft sway of his brown hair in the breeze. It’s that stillness, that unnatural stillness, that tells Chuuya something is seriously wrong more than anything else. Dazai is never still.

He fidgets, shifts, sways, taps his fingers. Even on the edge of death, the bastard is always animated by some impossible energy. But this time, not even the wind sways his tall frame. Chuuya swallows something thick in his throat.

“You idiot,” Chuuya says, the words rough with leftover adrenaline.

“You scared the hell out of me.”

His voice is carried away on the wind, hoping it will reach the person who stands only feet away. But Dazai doesn’t turn, doesn't react, doesn't answer with some witty comeback.

Chuuya’s voice comes out quieter than he expects.

“…What are you doing?”

The silence that answers him is thick enough to choke on.

He tries again louder, moving a little closer.

“Dazai.”

Still nothing.

Chuuya’s chest tightens. He takes another step, joining Dazai’s side until he’s close enough to see the tremor in his fingers as they rest softly against the railing. Chuuya is close enough to touch him, but he doesn't.

Dazai's eyes are fixated on the wide view of the city below, glossy and unfocused. From where Chuuya stands, he can see the soft bridge of his nose and the sharp edge of his jaw clenched tight.

Chuuya calls out for the final time

“…Osamu.”

Tension snaps tight through Dazai’s frame so suddenly that Chuuya almost reaches for him on instinct. A shaky breath of air leaves Dazai’s mouth. His hand slowly curls away from the railing like he’s reluctant to let it go.

Chuuya steps closer, hand outstretched, intending to pull him back farther from the edge—But Dazai’s words stop him halfway.

“I can’t.”

The words are so soft the wind nearly steals them. Chuuya freezes.

“…Can’t what?”

“I can’t do it.”

Dazai’s words are monotone and heavy, barely a whisper, and Chuuya catches the way his fingertips finally slide from the railing.

“Good. Don’t,” he says firmly, grabbing his arm and pulling him back.

Dazai follows the movement, mechanically turning toward him.

Chuuya’s gut twists.

He remembers nights where he’d find Dazai perched on window ledges or rooftops, staring into some invisible abyss, always somewhere far behind his own eyes. It took a long time, too many times for Dazai to let Chuuya hold him back, even if it was just by his presence alone.

Dazai’s eyes drift past him instead of meeting his gaze, not avoiding him, just looking through him, and for a moment, Chuuya wonders if Dazai even sees him at all.

“…Why’re you up?”

A thin pause. Chuuya can see Dazai’s eyes register his voice. Good.

“…Shouldn’t I be asking you the same shrimp?” Dazai’s voice catches slightly, like he isn’t used to speaking just yet. “Dogs need their beauty sleep, you know.” The attempt at mockery was limp, shapeless. Just a line spoken because some part of him remembered that’s what he was supposed to say.

“Well, I was asleep until someone decided to turn the room into the fucking Arctic,” Chuuya scoffs, rubbing his arms.

Dazai shifts, letting a quiet hum instead of a reply, his gaze distant again. Chuuya narrows his eyes.

“Seriously, Dazai… what’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

Chuuya scoffs. “Stop bullshitting, you’re a terrible liar when you don’t even try.”

“I’m not lying.”

“Yea, sure.”

“I know you,” Chuuya continues, voice grounded. “Better than you think. Better than you want. I know when you’re not okay.”

Dazai lets out a weak breath that might have been a laugh. “Don’t be dramatic,” he murmurs weakly.

“You’re the one on a damn balcony,” Chuuya fires back.

A silence hangs, tense, almost fragile, before Dazai’s voice drops lower.

“I just… needed some air.”

“Needed some air,” Chuuya repeats, stepping closer. “You’re lying to me,” he states.

“Since when did you become so good at seeing through lies?” Dazai scoffs faintly.

“Since I met you.”

Dazai lets out a soft puff of air.

Neither of them speaks for a while. The wind moves between them, tugging at Dazai’s loose shirt and Chuuya’s hair. Somewhere down in the street, a car door slams. Dazai's head turns towards the sound as he watches the ground three stories beneath them. His fingers curl slightly on the railing again. Chuuya watches his movements with precision.

A quiet stretch of silence passes.

“…Why did you say yes?”

The question is quieter than a breath. Chuuya answers before he can stop himself. “Because you asked.”

Dazai’s jaw tightens like the answer physically hurts. His eyes shift downwards as if he suddenly enjoys looking at the balcony floor.

“That’s not very logical,” he says.

Chuuya snorts softly. “Good thing I didn’t use logic.”

Finally, Dazai looks at him. His shoulders tense a tiny, involuntary jerk when their eyes meet. He looks present—barely—just enough for the city lights to catch the reflection of his pupils. “You make it sound easy. It isn’t.”

A long, heavy pause expands between them. Chuuya watches his face; the small twitch at the corner of Dazai’s mouth as if he regretted the honesty, the way his shoulders draw inwards, the flicker of panic that crossed his eyes like he wanted to take the words back.

“I thought leaving would make me feel less like—”

He pauses, mouth closing. But Dazai keeps going, the words fraying raw at the edges. “Odasaku …” He swallows hard, throat bobbing. He looks like the words are burning him from the inside out.

“I’m not the type of person who can achieve what he wanted. It’s impossible.”

Chuuya feels his eyes widen in response.

“Daza-“ But Dazai cuts him off.

“I don’t know how to be a good person, Chuuya. How can I be a better person when I’m not even…” The rest crumbles in his throat.

Chuuya lifts a hand, slowly, deliberately, giving him time to pull away. Dazai doesn’t.

“Look at me, Osamu.” Chuuya cups his jaw gently, forcing him to meet his eyes. And Dazai trembles visibly, his eyes shining in the city lights. Chuuya’s own breath catches, but he doesn’t let his hand fall.

“Me neither.” He breathes out softly.

“…I’ve done plenty of shit that won’t exactly land me in heaven. Good thing I’m not trying to get there.”

Dazai’s lips part, a silent breath hitching on the edge of a word he doesn’t manage to speak. His head dips forward abruptly, dark bangs falling over his eyes like a curtain, the weight of it dragging down. Chuuya’s hand slides under Dazai’s chin, gently tilting him back up. Their eyes lock, and something in the space between them shifts, heavy and warm and unbearably real.

“I was supposed to start helping people, at least that’s what he wanted...” Dazai murmurs. “But instead, I forced you here with me.”

Chuuya breathes out slowly. He speaks tentatively, choosing his next words carefully.

You asked me, Dazai,” he whispers, “and it was like you didn’t expect me to say yes.”

Dazai’s eyes widen in response.

“Hell,” Chuuya continues, voice softening around the edges, “you finally asked me for something real.”

A beat passes between them. “My only mistake would’ve been saying no.”

Dazai’s breath stutters. His mouth opens, then shuts, then opens again. “Why?” he asks hoarsely. “Why leave everything for me?“

Chuuya holds Dazai’s gaze, unwavering. “You think I’d cross a damn continent for anyone else?”

Chuuya watches as Dazai’s brows raise slightly in shock.

“Do you seriously think that I’m that shallow? That I’d choose power over you?”

“We’re partners.”

“… Partners?” Dazai echoes. The words sound foreign in his mouth.

For a moment, he just stares. Not the distant, unfocused gaze from before. This time, his eyes move over Chuuya’s face slowly, searching, like he’s trying to find the lie hidden somewhere in the lines of his expression.

Chuuya lifts Dazai’s face a little more, thumb moving to brush warm and steady along his cheek.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “You idiot.”

Something shifts in Dazai’s expression. The emptiness in his eyes falters for a moment. Without the usual smug grin pulling at his mouth, Dazai looks almost unguarded beneath the city lights. Chuuya hates how beautiful he looks.

Dazai’s eyes drift down to Chuuya’s mouth without realizing it. Uncertain and almost fearful. His breath catches. Chuuya notices—warmth creeping up the back of his neck.

“…You’re staring,” he mutters; half-teasing, half-unsure. Dazai blinks slowly, like he's just waking up. He hums softly in response, barely audible over the sounds of the city. Then, almost unconsciously, he leans forward a fraction of an inch. Chuuya exhales sharply, feeling the pull of gravity between them.

“Unbelievable,” he murmurs.

His other hand moves to grasp Dazai’s shirt collar, pulling him closer.

His voice, when Dazai finally speaks, is barely louder than the wind.

“…You shouldn’t.”

Chuuya frowns faintly as the warm puff of Dazai’s breath brushes his lips.

“Shouldn’t what?”

Dazai doesn't answer, just looks at him. A deep gaze that feels hesitant, but intent, as if he's concentrating on memorizing something before it disappears.

Then he moves, slowly, so impossibly close that Chuuya feels the brush of his slightly chapped lips against his own. It’s uncertain. Not confident. Chuuya feels the tension in Dazai’s face under his grip, like he's only just realized what he's doing. For a fraction of a second, Dazai pulls back, breath hitching, hand loosening on the front of Chuuya’s shirt like he’s about to step away.

—Chuuya doesn’t let him.

His grip tightens in Dazai’s collar, stopping him.

“…Coward,” Chuuya breathes.

He pulls Dazai forward, catching his lips properly this time.

Dazai’s mouth is warm against his, softer than Chuuya expected.

Chuuya’s whole world narrows when he feels the familiar hum of Dazai’s ability spread across his lips, seeping down his neck and through every tense line in his body like water. The constant pressure of his own ability flickers and disappears where their mouths meet.

The sensation makes Chuuya dizzy, like he's needed this contact his entire life.

Chuuya feels No Longer Human so often he’s lost count. He knows what it feels like to hold Dazai, to feel his ability disperse through his body, But never like this before. It's intoxicating.

It seeps through him, dulling the restless pull of his ability until everything feels strangely still. He lets out a breath against Dazai’s lips, letting the sweet taste and warmth sink deep into his bones.

Something desperate twists in Chuuya’s chest. His hand tightens instinctually in Dazai’s collar, the other one gently caressing the soft skin of Dazai’s cheek. He tilts his head carefully, guiding Dazai’s lips, catching them fully, deepening the kiss with gentle pressure. Their lips slide together more easily now, warm and slow, Dazai’s breath hitching softly against his.

Dazai makes a quiet sound against his mouth when Chuuya presses closer, the vibration of it sending a strange warmth through Chuuya’s chest. For a moment, he still kisses like he’s afraid to, hesitant — Then his grip tightens in Chuuya’s shirt. Chuuya feels the shift immediately. The way Dazai presses back now is more forcefully instead of uncertain.

Chuuya loses count of their breaths. He doesn't part; he can't. Dazai’s lips make Chuuya dizzy, and he doesn't want to stop, even to catch his own breath.

He only realizes what’s wrong when he feels warmth on his thumb, slowly falling away. Another tear follows.

Chuuya tries to pull away, but Dazai’s grip on his shirt tightens, holding him there. He doesn’t make a single sound as the tears fall, but Chuuya can feel the faint tremble in his lips.

The kiss doesn’t break apart, but it slows. Dazai’s mouth softens against his, the pressure fading as his breathing turns uneven again. Chuuya pulls back, only slightly, just enough for their lips to separate. He stays close, forehead brushing against Dazai’s as they both draw cold air into their lungs.

When Chuuya’s eyes open, Dazai’s are still closed. More tears slip quietly down his cheeks, catching in the loose strands of hair clinging to his face. He doesn’t try to wipe them away. Doesn’t even seem to notice. Chuuya studies him for a moment, tightness settling in his chest.

“…Hey,” he murmurs softly.

Dazai’s lashes flutter, but he doesn’t open his eyes. Another tear slips free. Chuuya exhales softly through his nose. Carefully, he lifts his other hand and brushes his thumb beneath Dazai’s eyes, wiping away the trail of it.

“You’re crying,” he says quietly.

Dazai lets out a faint breath that almost sounds like a laugh, though it breaks halfway through.

“Am I?” his eyes draw open softly, voice hoarse.

Chuuya huffs. “Yea, you are.”

His hands don't leave Dazai’s face.

For a moment, neither of them speaks. The wind moves softly around them, tugging at the loose bandage hanging from Dazai’s arms. Chuuya observes them, the edges half-unravelled, fluttering lightly in the air.

“…Were you really going to do it?” Chuuya asks after a moment, his hands falling from Dazai’s face to rest softly on his arms.

The vulnerability from before is still there, raw and unguarded in a way that Chuuya has rarely seen.

“…I thought about it,” Dazai admits after a pause. He turns his head slightly, watching the city for a moment before continuing.

“I stood out here for a while,” he says, voice distant, “trying to decide.” His fingers curl faintly in the fabric of Chuuya’s shirt again, like he hasn't noticed he’s still holding on.

“I thought maybe this was the right place for it.” His head tilts slightly towards the railing.

“Far enough away that no one would have to deal with the mess.” Chuuya’s stomach twists painfully. Dazai exhales slowly, eyes moving away, face tilting down slightly, words coming out slowly.

“But then I remembered you were inside.”

The admission lands quietly between them. His eyes flick briefly towards the balcony door behind them. Chuuya doesn’t follow the glance; his eyes lock onto Dazai’s face.

“You were fast asleep… From where I stood, I could hear you breathing.”

“And I kept thinking…” he murmurs, his voice growing quieter. “If I jumped… I’d be leaving you to wake up alone in a place that you’ve never been before.” Dazai finally looks at him again.

“I figured that would be quite a cruel thing to do.”

The corners of Dazai’s mouth twitch faintly, not quite a smile, but Chuuya recognizes it anyway.

“You're such an ass,” Chuuya huffs warmly, none of the usual bite behind his words. “Dragging me here just so you could try jumping off the damn balcony on the first night.”

Chuuya exhales through his nose, the sound halfway between a scoff and a sigh. Slowly, his hands slide down from Dazai’s bandaged arms, thumbs brushing past the rough cloth before falling away. He catches Dazai’s hands in his own, fingers curling around them, immediately noticing the cold of his hands. Dazai lets out a soft, uneven laugh. The last few tears slip from his chin onto the tiled floor.

Chuuya frowns immediately, tightening his grip around Dazai’s hands. They’re freezing. Not just cool from the cold but the kind of ice that sinks straight through the skin into bone. Chuuya turns Dazai’s hands over instinctively, rubbing his thumbs over his knuckles. Only then does he notice the rest of it.

The slight tremor in Dazai’s shoulder. The bandages being the only obstacle between his bare arms and the cold air. The wind tugging at the loose fabric of his t-shirt, bare feet on cold tile. Chuuya mutters a curse under his breath, suddenly very aware of how long they’ve been out here—Dazai for presumably much longer. Chuuya nudges him lightly.

“Come inside,” he mutters. “It's fucking freezing out here.”

Chuuya steps towards the door, then turns and offers him his outstretched hand. Dazai stares into Chuuya's eyes with a silent warmth that makes Chuuya draw a sharp breath in. He quickly looks away, unable to hold his gaze any longer. Dazai slowly reaches out and takes his hand, immediately feeling the difference between Chuuya’s warmth and the chill in his own fingers. He lets himself be pulled inside.

It's warmer, though the air still carries a faint chill. Once the cold tile beneath their feet gives way to unpolished wood, Chuuya reaches back with his free hand and slides the glass door shut behind them. It closes with a faint click.

He glances once at the railing behind the closed glass. Three stories down, the pavement glows under the streetlight. His grip on Dazai’s hand tightens.

When Chuuya turns to face Dazai, he’s standing with his side facing Chuuya, staring down at his own hand. His gaze settles on the loose bandages hanging from it. Chuuya gestures towards them.

“Need help putting those back on?”

Dazai’s head turns as he blinks at Chuuya like he’s been pulled out of his own head.

“Oh,” he says vaguely, glancing down at them. “I guess they came loose.” He doesn’t move to fix them. Instead, he just stands there like he’s thinking about something else entirely. Chuuya rolls his eyes and steps closer, reaching out to gently take hold of one of Dazai’s arms. He ignores the faint surprise that flickers across Dazai’s face at the contact.

“Stop overthinking it,” he mutters.

Dazai glances back up at him, something uncertain flickering behind his expression.

“…You’re unusually accommodating tonight.”

“Don't start,” Chuuya says flatly.

A quiet silence settles between them as he focuses on the bandages. They’re cold beneath his fingers. Slightly discoloured too. They probably haven't been changed since they left—Dazai’s mind was probably too occupied to care. Chuuya notices the faint redness along Dazai’s wrist where the cloth must have rubbed. He holds back a curse.

There is no way he's wrapping these back up again.

“…Can I take them off?”

The question leaves his mouth before he has time to reconsider. Chuuya looks up quickly and catches the emotion that flashes across Dazai’s face.

Dazai studies his face for a moment. Chuuya doesn’t break eye contact once.

Then he nods. Once, slowly.

Chuuya steps closer, guiding him toward the edge of the small bed they share. Dazai sits, and Chuuya climbs onto the bed next to him, swinging one bent leg onto the mattress so he can get a better angle. Chuuya’s fingers pause at the hem of Dazai’s short sleeve. Gently, he pushes the loose fabric up past his shoulder. The weight of his fingers drags up past the bandage until they come into contact with Dazai’s bare shoulder. He trails his fingers down Dazai’s arm before catching the loose end hanging near his wrist. The bandage brushes across Chuuya’s fingers, scratchy and cold as he begins to unwind it. The cloth whispers with every turn, sliding gently over uneven skin.

Dazai’s arm trembles faintly as the pressure loosens. Chuuya steadies it without thinking, one hand braced lightly around his wrist while the other continues the careful rhythm of unwrapping.

This isn't the first time Chuuya has done this, and it certainly won't be the last. But every time, it feels just as important as the last. Chuuya knows he's the only one Dazai will willingly let do this, and it's not something he takes for granted. Whether it was putting them on or taking them off, it’s always Chuuya.

Each turn of the fabric reveals more pale skin beneath. Thin lines and faded scars spread across Dazai’s arm. Some are white and nearly invisible in the low light, some are marred and red; some fresh, some lost to time.  Chuuya eyes the difference in straight and jagged lines as he continues to gently unwrap.

He doesn’t comment on them, just slows his movements slightly. The bandage finally slides free, pooling in his hand before he drops it onto the bed beside them.

He glances up, their eyes meeting briefly. Dazai watches him in silence, expression unreadable. Chuuya falters slightly, breaking eye contact as he moves to the next one.

Dazai shifts slightly, turning his body toward him to make it easier. The movement brings them closer than before. Chuuya’s knee presses against Dazai’s thigh as he catches the end of the next bandage—warmth between them hanging in the air.

The room remains quiet except for the soft rhythm of their breathing and the faint whisper of cloth unwinding. When the final strip finally falls away, Dazai shivers against the air. Even though his job is done, Chuuya’s fingers don’t pull away. Instead, he trails slowly from Dazai’s shoulder down his forearm, his gaze following the path of his own touch as if committing it to memory.

For a moment, neither of them speaks.

Across from him, Dazai watches as Chuuya studies his arms, eyes fluttering open and closed. His breath catches when Chuuya’s fingers drift over and stop on a particularly large bruise, shaped unmistakably like a hand.

“….Chuuya,” he whispers breathlessly.

Chuuya responds by gently squeezing Dazai’s hand with his free one, unable to say anything in return. He then reaches forward and presses his palm lightly against Dazai’s chest, just over the rapid beat of his heart. He pushes gently until Dazai’s own weight causes him to fall back onto the mattress. The bed dips under his weight as he shifts fully onto it, drawing his legs up from the floor.

Chuuya follows a moment later, leaning over him before settling down beside him and pulling the blankets up over both of them. They end up facing each other.

Dazai’s head lies flat against the pillow while Chuuya props himself slightly above him on one elbow, close enough to one another that their knees brush beneath the blankets. They’ve been this close countless times before: after tense missions, during stakeouts, collapsing side-by-side in safehouses—too tired to care. But somehow this feels different. It feels new, no longer a moment where they could ignore the blurring of the lines between partnership and something else.

“Do you think they’ll come after us, eventually figure out where we are?” Chuuya whispers into the quiet room, his eyes intently searching Dazai’s.

Dazai huffs out a small laugh.

“Probably,”

“It’s not like Mori would ever let any of his pets slip through his fingers.” “If we were anyone else, we’d probably already be dead.”

Chuuya scoffs softly.

“Like they’d be able to kill us.”

Dazai’s mouth tilts faintly.

“I wish we could be sure. Unfortunately, I know what lengths Mori will stoop to when he wants something.”

Chuuya’s eyes instinctively dart to the hand-shaped discoloration on Dazai’s arm. For a moment, Dazai says nothing. He notices the pause, following the direction of Chuuya’s gaze, before lifting his eyes back to his face. Chuuya catches him looking. Dazai’s mouth curls in response.

“You’re sure you’re finally done playing the Mafia’s lapdog?”

Chuuya lightly smacks Dazai’s hand, rolling his eyes, but he doesn’t answer right away.

“…Somethings… weren’t worth it,” he mutters. “Not for either of us.”

Dazai hums in response.

“Huh… well, I guess we’ll be missed,” he says sarcastically. “Mori might even struggle without his two favourite executives.”

”I’d love to see the look on his face,” Dazai adds, the bitterness in his voice unmistakable.

Chuuya’s jaw tightens. He shifts closer, lying down fully, sliding an arm around Dazai and pulling him against his chest.

“…Don’t talk about him,” he mutters quietly, letting the blankets settle around them.

Dazai lets out a soft, light laugh, shaking his head. “…Alright, alright, I’ll stop,” he says, grinning faintly.

His head finds the space in between Chuuya’s neck and shoulder. Chuuya just pulls him closer. He can feel the tickle of Dazai’s breath in his neck. One of Chuuya’s arms stays wrapped securely around his waist while his other hand drifts to Dazai’s hair, fingers threading gently through the soft waves.

“You should sleep,” Chuuya murmurs, trailing his hand down the arch of Dazai’s waist. He tries to smooth the tension in Dazai’s body with slow, steady movements, feeling the faint tremor that runs through him now and then. Dazai doesn't answer, just lies there, head resting against Chuuya’s shoulder, taking in the soft sensations. His fingers are still curled loosely in the fabric of Chuuya’s shirt, like he forgot to let go.

Chuuya glances down at him. Dazai's eyes are half-closed now, lashes still faintly damp from earlier. Chuuya’s repetitive motions are clearly making it hard for him to stay awake.

In the dim light, Chuuya can see the dark circles beneath his eyes and wonders when the last time Dazai actually slept was. Chuuya’s hand slows where it rests on Dazai’s waist. Dazai exhales, slow at first, then his breath tightens again. His body shifts restlessly, fingers clenching into Chuuya’s shirt, eyes flutter open again. His eyelids heavy but stubbornly refusing to close. Chuuya just hums softly, gently scratching at Dazai’s scalp.

“You’re tired, Osamu. Just relax.”

Dazai lets out a small, humourless laugh that dies halfway.

“… can’t,” he mumbles. His jaw clenches, one hand fidgeting along the sheets like he’s trying to occupy his mind with something else.

Chuuya brushes a thumb against Dazai’s temple.

“Yes, you can. You will.” His voice is firm, but calm.

A long pause follows. Dazai’s chest rises and falls in shallow bursts. His eyes drift shut, then snap open again. Over and over. He mutters something incoherent under his breath before clamping his mouth closed.

“You can fight it all you want, idiot,” Chuuya murmurs.

“But you are going to have to sleep eventually.”

Minutes pass in near silence.

Every tiny movement Dazai makes tells Chuuya he’s still fighting sleep. Finally, after what feels like forever, Dazai exhales one last shallow breath against Chuuya's neck. His grip on Chuuya’s shirt loosens entirely; the fight drains out of him all at once. Chuuya stills, his hand paused in Dazai’s hair as he listens to the steady rhythm of his breathing. Slow and even, his heartbeat steady against Chuuya’s chest.

Chuuya exhales quietly, letting the tension drain from his own shoulders. His fingers lightly trace along the curve of Dazai’s skull. He examines Dazai's sleeping expression, unguarded and so very human. His face is relaxed, as if the weight of eighteen years had slipped away in an instant. He looks whole and completely himself.

Chuuya feels a sharp, almost painful need to keep him here. He’s spent years chasing Dazai. Saving his ass from just about every possible situation, bickering with him about stupid things till they eventually get too tired to continue, and constantly quietly observing him until Chuuya could tell his true mood just by looking in his eyes.

Chuuya brushes a hand along his temple, down his jaw, softly tucking a stray lock of hair behind his ear. He lets his thumb linger, tracing the line of Dazai’s face, committing it to memory. He shifts slightly, resting his forehead against Dazai's head, feeling the soft hair brush against his nose. The contact is firm and grounding.

Minutes pass. Dazai shifts in his sleep, instinctively curling closer. His hand slides lazily across Chuuya’s chest as if searching for him even in sleep.

Chuuya stares at the ceiling for a long time.

Dazai’s weight against him is warm now and very real. A few hours ago, Chuuya had woken to an empty bed and an open balcony door. The thought still makes something ugly twist in his chest. Without thinking, he tightens his arm around Dazai’s waist.

His thoughts drift. He thinks of the missions, the fights, and the countless moments when it had only ever been the two of them watching each other’s backs. Always Dazai and always him. Like how Dazai never hesitated to rely on Chuuya in the middle of combat. Never questioned whether Chuuya could handle it. Just “Chuuya, now.” And Chuuya always knew exactly what he meant.

Or the night after one of their first big missions together. They’d both been wrecked. Bruised ribs, blood everywhere, barely able to stand. Chuuya had woken up hours later on the floor of a safehouse with a jacket thrown over him. Dazai had been sitting against the wall nearby, half-asleep himself, like he’d stayed awake just long enough to make sure Chuuya didn’t stop breathing.

Or the time Dazai got his first paycheck, he used it to buy a game console, breaking into Chuuya’s apartment to set it up on his tiny TV. Despite Chuuya kicking him out, the console never left his apartment, almost like Dazai bought it for him. And despite Chuuya’s best efforts, he rarely ever won.

Chuuya used to think it was just a part of being partners. That this was simply what happened when two people fought side by side long enough.

You move the same way, think the same. Know what the other is about to do before they do it. But the more he turns those memories over in his head, the less it feels like something that happened by accident.

Like it was always going to end up this way.

Chuuya glances down at Dazai, watching the slow rise and fall of his shoulders.

He’s seen this idiot half-dead more times than he can count. Dragged him out of rivers, off rooftops, out of fights that should’ve killed him. And every single time, Dazai had looked at him like it was obvious Chuuya would be there.

Like there had never been another possibility.

Chuuya exhales slowly through his nose. The realization settles in his chest, simple and warm.

Of course, he does. It was probably inevitable from the moment they met.

Chuuya lets his hand drift slowly through Dazai’s hair one last time before it comes to rest at the back of his head, holding him there. The room is quiet now. No wind rattles the balcony door. No restless shifting beside him. Just the steady flow of Dazai’s breathing against his chest. Chuuya hadn’t realized how tired he was until now.

The tension that had been sitting in his shoulders all night finally loosens, his body sinking deeper into the mattress. His eyes finally close, lulled by the rhythm of Dazai’s pulse.

Notes:

Hi :)

Thanks to my roommate for helping me brainstorm, edit and write this fanfic <3
I hope you like it!
Thanks for reading :P

- Luna