Chapter Text
Sometimes, Dazai will wake up in a bed that isn't his own, a bed belonging to one terrible Chibi. He will silently slip his shirt and coat back on before exiting the red heads apartment, sometimes via window, other times using the door, either way, escaping into the dark, cold, night. Dazai pretends that he doesn't turn back into the warmth of the room, stealing last glances of Chuuyas peacefully sleeping form. Chuuya pretends that when he wakes in the morning, he doesn't feel a wave of disappointment when he reaches out and only feels empty sheets.
Both of them don't talk about it in the morning, the sleepless eyes and empty hearts covered by teasing comments and punches that are just a little to soft, knuckles lingering a second too long before being pulled back.
Its cold in the mafia, in many ways. despite the warmth of the blood that drips onto the floor, the silent looks that demand the blood to be spilled are the ones that are more important, even though they may be less obvious.
Dazai is cold, always cold.
...No, cold is not the best word for it, empty maybe.
He drinks and injects substances into his veins, even though he knows they wont work to fill the void, maybe they will shorten the time he has to keep having to feel the emptiness.
Maybe that's why he first went to Chuuya, his mind in a vulnerable state, all he could see was the warmth of a (short) body, all he could think about was how the arms around him felt when they wrapped around him to steady him.
Maybe he just wanted to feel something.
maybe it even worked. Not that he would ever admit that, he would never admit needing or even wanting somthing from Chuuya, but in the moments when his brain was desperately reaching for reality, as his consciousness slipped away, he had to admit that it felt good to be held, and he knew that the Chibi wouldn't tell Mori, he knew it wasn't emotional or anything, he just needed someone, anyone to hold him, to be there for him, to rewrap his bandages, to clean his cuts without the sterile terror that clung to the port mafias boss.
Somewhere, it that grey void that constantly surrounded him, there was allways a figure, a figure that burned hot like the sun, pushing away the emptyness that threatened to swallow dazai whole. And if dazai, a person who had been freezing his whole life, chose to move closer to the flame for reasons other than to burn himself, so what?