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It is a crisp, bright moon that has ventured out from behind a roll of cloud this night, its paper-thin edges pressed against the canvas of the dark purple sky, and under that starless drape Dazai Osamu is climbing into a small wooden boat moored on the edge of a lake, wobbling slightly as the boat rocks with the water.
“Careful you don’t fall in,” Nakahara Chuuya grunts from where he’s crouched on the wooden boards of the dock, observing Dazai with a hung-back watchfulness that betrays his seeming indifference.
Dazai laughs softly, though his eyes remain starless as the sky.
“Me? Fall in? Only if I wanted to commit double suicide with a beautiful lady, Chuuya.”
“Oh?” Chuuya scowls. “Then I’ll just have to find a beautiful lady willing to do that the next time. But for now, you’re stuck with me. Got it?”
“Okay, okay,” Dazai soothes with the same placid smile as he sits, his legs awkwardly long; Chuuya hops in with a practiced grace after him, taking up the oars and untying the boat from the dock. Under the glare of the moon the waves of the lake come in gentle, regular ripples, lapping at the body of the boat with soft sighs.
Chuuya pushes off, the powerful strokes of his arms putting the shore behind them within the minute. Soon they’ve joined the few other boats on the lake, trailing distorted moonlight in their wake. Chuuya is careful to keep them a casual distance apart from the other crafts: while their meeting might appear innocently casual, he’s willing to bet that any number of enemy organisations would pay dearly just to listen in on even a minute of their conversation. This deceptively simple boating trip is far more significant than a regular chat between two people on a moonlit night; it’s one of several meetings that will more or less determine the tectonic movements of the entire Yokohama Underground. With another meeting between the two leaders of their respective organisations a logistical impossibility, the task of communication and various liaisons during the ceasefire has fallen to their direct subordinates, who are now sitting together in a boat, on a lake, rowing amidst the young couples for which the lake is popular among as a dating spot.
When they’re far enough out such that it would be difficult to bug their conversation from the shore, or even another boat, Dazai speaks, his voice low and serious in contrast to the smooth, relaxed angle of his limbs.
“What’s the news on the current situation, Chuuya?”
“Not much change yet,” Chuuya replies softly, timing his words to match the gentle splashing of the oars through the water so that even in the minute off-chance that there was indeed an unwanted listener, they’d have considerable difficulty in picking up what was being said.
“The number of new organisations coming into the City has stabilised somewhat, but they’re still pretty tough to deal with in numbers. We’ll need some backup in the northwestern districts—they’re pouring in through there and our barricades aren’t holding up strongly enough. I think at least fifty from the Special Department should be good, and any Ability users the Agency can spare.”
Though the moon is bright on his exposed forearms, the carefully-chosen cant of his hat on his head casts his features in shadow so it’s impossible for an outsider to read his lips.
He’s gotten good at this, Dazai thinks to himself, gratified. Half in curiosity, half in cheek, he reaches out behind Chuuya to tip the brim of the hat up so it falls forwards and into Dazai’s hands; he whisks it just out of reach as Chuuya drops the oars with a heavy splash, swearing and rocking the boat in his frantic snatch at the pilfered hat.
“Fuck you, give that back!”
Quite a few of the couples turn their heads to stare for a moment, startled, then slowly resume their business like wild birds, their attention gravitating back towards each other. Dazai scans them to see if anyone’s still staring for longer than is necessary. Satisfied that indeed, the other couples are just that—couples—he turns back to the conversation.
The lake, disturbed by the sudden movement, has contracted its distorted ripples in disapproval, and the wind swoops down to placate Chuuya with a series of whispered hushings in his ear. Conquered by them, he abandons his attempts to retrieve his hat; crosses his arms and sulks because Dazai is taller than him and it's unfair.
“Don’t be like that, Chuuya,” Dazai chuckles, tipping Chuuya’s chin up to meet his placid, yet provoking gaze. “You know, you should get rid of that stupid hat already—you look so much prettier without it,” he breathes softly, and it is indeed true: the moon gilds Chuuya’s curls with edges of glossy light, and when he lifts his head to scowl at Dazai, his eyes glitter with the intense blue of a hummingbird’s wings, his cheeks faintly reddened with patches of blush.
“Shut up, Dazai, don’t say embarrassing things like that all of a sudden!”
“You know it’s true, though,” Dazai teases gently, setting the hat on his own head as he pats Chuuya’s hair adoringly. “Now keep rowing, my faithful sheepdog.”
“Tch.” Chuuya works the oars with a greater vigour, the heat simmering in his cheeks. “So, how about it? Think your government dogs can manage?”
“I’m sure we’ll figure something out,” Dazai hums, and judging by his tone, Chuuya’s pretty sure that the Mafia’ll get good, solid backup within three days. God damn Dazai and his graceful efficiency and his traitorous nature.
“I have a favour to ask as well,” Dazai says smoothly, moving his lips as little as possible under the obscuring shadow of Chuuya’s hat. “Bring your own hat next time, bastard,” Chuuya grumbles, and then, grudgingly, “Go on; I’m listening.”
“It’s about surveillance on the Port side,” Dazai continues. “The Department’s lacking information about the new maritime illegal entry points, and they want the figures not just for the members of the new organisations, but also for the regular illegal immigrants, too.”
At least fifteen per cent of the Mafia’s annual revenue derives in some way from illegal immigration, or the work of the immigrants themselves. “Bastards,” Chuuya hisses, “Taking advantage of the truce like that. I’m having none of it; when you get back there, you can tell them to burn in hell!”
“Calm down; I already predicted that you wouldn’t agree to something like this that easily,” Dazai laughs, “So I decided to put a little something in it for the Mafia. How about it? ” Now the water is black, still, and deep—draped in darkness—and the moon looms overhead, silent watcher to their conversation. Chuuya considers. Knowing Dazai, it’ll be an offer that Chuuya won’t be able to resist, for the sake of the Mafia, and yet Chuuya feels somehow that Dazai always manages to get the upper hand, no matter how lucrative the terms are on Chuuya’s end. It’s been this way ever since they were children together. Chuuya can see it now; he’s teasing, egging Chuuya on: this is Dazai’s challenge, a one-sided game of Chicken that will end only with Chuuya’s crash and burn.
Chuuya sighs deeply, resigned to his fate. “Go on, out with it.”
“I’m willing to convince the Department that they can do without the figures for now, for a small fee.” Dazai’s lips curve wickedly, and Chuuya’s internal Dazai alarms, perfected through the suffering of many years, are clanging like there’s no tomorrow. Still, Chuuya wades forward into the trap, doggedly. “Oh, go on. What’s the monthly rent for that crappy little apartment of yours?”
“Oh, it’s not something as expensive as that,” Dazai chortles, looking like a cat that’s just cornered a sparrow. “It’s far simpler. I’d be happy to offer my services… for a kiss.”
This is quite another ball-game. Chuuya chokes on air, vivid images broaching the seawall of his consciousness: sitting side by side under Chuuya’s new futon; the smell of spilt sake; the warmth of Dazai’s skin; the intoxication on Dazai’s face as he’d kissed Chuuya till Chuuya’s heart was on fire.
“Wh—what?” Chuuya manages to sputter. He searches Dazai’s face for any hint that he’s joking, because he’s got to be—but finds none. “Oi, you run a fever or something?” he demands, dropping the oars and pressing the cool back of his hand up to Dazai’s forehead. Nothing there, either. Dazai reaches up, lifts Chuuya’s fingers from his skin, and presses them to his lips, dangerously possessive. Chuuya feels a shiver run up his arm and down his spine from the contact.
“Hey, what the hell—”
“It’s just a kiss,” Dazai wheedles, eyes mesmerizingly dark and voice like a heap of sugar. “You won’t miss it, and it won’t hurt you, will it?”
“Well—no,” Chuuya admits, “—But still—it’s a lake—we’re in public—someone could see!”
“I can’t find a problem with that,” Dazai retorts, indifferent to Chuuya’s paralysing mortification. “It’s a popular dating spot, Chuuya. If we didn’t do something couple-like, wouldn’t it be weird? We’d stand out! And anyway,” he murmurs, reaching out to brush the edge of his thumbnail across Chuuya’s lower lip, “Why do you think I chose this lake to begin with, of all places?”
Chuuya shivers, despite himself, something twisting in his gut. Dazai didn’t usually offer any deals to anyone without bleeding them out thoroughly, which meant that this particular deal was well worth it compared to most other things Dazai could offer, which meant that Dazai had a soft spot for Chuuya and was offering it out of his deep desire for a simple kiss, which he’d equated with three days of gruelling persuasion. Logically, it would be crazy not to accept it. Then Chuuya would have to accept it, but then by accepting it, he’d be giving Dazai what he wanted, and wasn't what Dazai wanted purely more emotional blackmail over Chuuya, in addition to what had happened the last time - and as if Chuuya wasn’t attached enough to Dazai already! Though the man was a lying traitor, Chuuya wouldn’t be able to hate him now, because if he did, he'd be betraying himself with this kiss, and on top of that, he’d be souring everything that had been their past, including their latest rendezvous.
Whichever option Chuuya chooses, he’ll be walking onto a field of nails. What a fucking brilliant play, and what a fucking idiot Chuuya is for falling in.
As if he had ever had the option of walking away.
“Next time, I get to pick where we meet,” he sighs, and pulls Dazai close.
Dazai is ready for him; Dazai’s foreseen all the processes that have led up to this point, like he’s read Chuuya’s mind, and so his lips fit smugly against Chuuya’s, pressing his glee into Chuuya’s skin. Chuuya bites—a rapturous revenge in its own right—and smears his tongue into the wound, roughly. Dazai winces, sucks on Chuuya’s lower lip, pulls away briefly. “I had no idea you’d be that worked up about it…”
“You don’t know the half of it,” Chuuya growls, tugging him back down by his collar, and letting Dazai fill his mouth with sweet moonlight. The waves sigh in gentle approval, and the moon dips close to watch in amusement, like the ever-present chorus in a dramatic comedy. Its light trickles a stream of silver into Dazai’s brown, burning irises, and makes liquid sapphire out of Chuuya’s eyes, fresh and alight with passion.
The kiss ends too soon, like all kisses inevitably must, but Chuuya pulls Dazai back for a second time, and then another, and now they can feel no different from any other pair of lovers on the lake, Chuuya’s breath coming in slow, pleasurable shivers, and Dazai’s hands slipping desire into Chuuya’s collar, tracing want into the lines of Chuuya’s throat.
Ironically, it’s Dazai who ends the series of kisses that have blended into each other; his fingers now play in the river of silver-tinged fire that is Chuuya’s hair, his gaze adoring. To quell the silence he begins to speak, his voice a lilting song that draws Chuuya into the melody of his words.
“… And so he ended up coming back with a whole cow, can you believe it? Yosano-sensei didn’t have a clue what to do with it afterwards. Our boys are really something, Chuuya: oh, there was also that time Atsushi got sent to Nogeyama Zoo by accident; you won’t believe the paperwork Kunikida-kun made me do just to get him out and explain everything; that he wouldn’t actually eat anyone, that he doesn’t eat anything but chazuke. Jeez, that man’s just like you - a workaholic, and tiring to a fault to deal with! At least you listen to me; he’s forever trying to tell me to do this, and do that, and…”
Chuuya has let his eyelids fall shut under the rocking influence of the waves, grasping onto the strands of Dazai’s voice amidst the cool, clear sound that rushes gently in the background like the rustling of tree leaves by a forest stream. He’s not even intent on keeping the boat in any particular direction now; the simple rhythm of his strokes, back and forth, back and forth, is a therapeutic sway that soothes his soul.
“Chuuya,” Dazai is saying, gently. “Chuuya, wake up.”
Chuuya opens his eyes, slowly.
His cheek is pressed to Dazai’s coat, his body slumped forward and his head nestled into Dazai’s chest. It’s warm and comfortable, and for more than a fleeting moment, he doesn’t want to pull away, to tear himself and the warmth asunder. Dazai tries to move him, and is faintly amused at his inertia.
“Come on, you can’t stay stuck to me forever.” Squeezing his eyes shut, Chuuya lifts himself up and away, his face meeting the cool night air and the broad silver gaze of the harvest moon.
“It’s settled, then?” Dazai murmurs as he leans close to Chuuya with a conspiratorial smile and wink. Chuuya grasps the oars as if in a dream, and nods.
“Then let’s head back to shore, shall we?” Dazai says, setting the hat back on Chuuya’s head and patting it down onto his russet curls. “Here, switch places with me - I’ll row us back.”
Carefully they manoeuvre around each other in a contortionist’s graceful, burning dance, and from his new position, Dazai takes up the oars with a huff of exertion. The water cascades down the wooden stems with every new stroke, and behind him the moon begins to rise again, filling up the sky with a luminous, expanding light. Chuuya feels his heart lifting like a star as he watches Dazai’s swaying motion, his tall frame silhouetted against that white, wide circle of moon.
Slowly, peacefully, their little boat glides back towards the shore through the waters under the crisp moon, the waves lapping in gentle sets, and breezes also joining them.
-fin-