Archive of Our Own

To say that Chuuya struggled with the adjustment would be an understatement. 

Dazai had caught him brooding over a stack of paperwork, stuck on the same page for about an hour now. Though it's clear his mind wasn’t actually attuned to the scrawlings on the papers, rather somewhere else, far from the innards of the brick building he now found himself spending his days in. Sunlight pooled lazily across the desk, along with the passing of much softer shadows from the surrounding buildings. No longer did he sit at the top of an untouchable hierarchy where he pushed names across a desk like pawns on a board. 

Here, his pen held weight with each name scribbled into a report, the responsibility of their innocence heavy in his hands. 

The transition from the Port Mafia to the Detective Agency was hardly a smooth ride, no more linear than a rollercoaster designed to give a nasty case of whiplash. Dazai could tell the man wasn’t entirely present just by the fact that his shoulders failed to tense when he began to hover over him. For a solid five minutes, too. Just watching as absolutely nothing in the scene changed. Dazai clicked his tongue thrice.

“I didn’t think you’d forgotten how to read during our time apart.” 

Yeah, now that familiar tension returned to his shoulders. A triumphant smirk tugged at Dazai’s lips.

“What?” Chuuya was trying his best to refrain from being so snippy with him in his first few days, but try as he might, his partner would never allow such a fallacy of his character to become the norm. Whether he did it for the sake of being approachable or just for first impressions, in Dazai’s eyes, his attitude wasn’t a flaw to correct. Chuuya was overly critical of himself.

“You’re practically burning holes in that paper.” Dazai reached down and placed his finger over the print, giving it a couple taps of emphasis.

Chuuya blinked, as if the paper had only just appeared there in some trick of the eye. “I’m just thinking.”

“Well, don’t hurt yourself,” he chuckled, retracting his hand. Not without flicking the brim of Chuuya’s hat on the way.

“Can you go bug someone else? I’m not in the mood for you today.” His hat was readjusted in a fluster.

Dazai leaned against his desk, basically asserting that he had no plan of leaving. “Kunikida is on a mission and took Atsushi with him,” And he wouldn’t dare bother Yosano while she was studying with the door shut. 

Chuuya didn’t dignify him with a response, finding a renewed incentive to continue working, now that this idiot was buzzing around him. The black coat he usually wore remained draped over the back of his chair, the sight of it nagging at the back of Dazai’s mind. It had been for a while now, but he’d tried and failed to accept that as fleeting white noise. It stuck out. A sore reminder of Chuuya’s sinister reputation, shrouded in fabric that sat on his shoulders a size too big. It was on purpose, of course. He was small, but the exaggerated shoulder padding, paired with the way the garment hung from him like a cloak, gave the illusion of a broader frame. He was designed to intimidate.

Again, all an illusion.

That wouldn’t do. 

Friday nights were when Yosano was strung out enough to insist on buying everyone drinks to decompress at some sleazy bar, which had become a tradition at this point. Tonight, Dazai passed it up for a much more important matter that he had overlooked.

Chuuya’s uniform.

The Port Mafia had a tradition of passing down a personal belonging to signify the transfer of responsibility. It was difficult to deny that it was a respectable and efficient method of unification—one that Dazai had chosen to adopt. He didn’t show up for work today, which wasn’t unusual, but Chuuya would certainly give him an earful about it later. This time, he had a good excuse, which in and of itself was enough to make up for his absence, given the rarity of such an occasion. 

Chuuya fumbled with the lock on Dazai’s apartment, muffled curses swallowed by the thin door. It was partially broken, definitely in need of being changed—but Chuuya’s daily struggles had made Dazai grow fond of its charm. Once he managed to get the door open, he wasted no time bombarding the other man with a plethora of complaints.

“If you don’t get that damn thing changed, I’m gonna start busting the door down.”

“Property damage? But you’re off the clock,” Dazai chided playfully.

“Yeah, and you were never on it. Where the hell were you?” 

Dazai sat up from where he was lying on his futon, dog-earring his book and tossing it aside. “I was busy,”

“Bull,”

“Aw, did you miss me?”

Chuuya scrunched his nose, dismissing the absurd question with an eyeroll. “It was annoying dealing with the questions of whether you’d show up for drinks tonight or not.”

“Don’t feel like it,” Dazai said simply, “And you? Not going?”

The man answered with silence as he shrugged off his coat and slung it over a shelf—the only pathetic excuse for furniture Dazai had. 

“You didn’t want to go without me, huh?” Dazai smirked. It was a little endearing.

“What? Fuck off, I just didn’t feel like going when I don’t even know these people yet.” 

“Mhm, and what better way would there be to get to know them?”

Chuuya always had trouble expanding his social circle very far, but he was his own obstacle in that matter. The topic always had a lingering bitterness to it. Though, to give him credit, it was a rather intimidating environment to just proudly waltz into without feeling intrusive. Did any amount of change truly eliminate the monstrosities his hands were so capable of?

“Don’t feel like it,” he echoed Dazai’s previous excuse.

“Well,” Dazai hopped up to his feet with an exaggerated stretch of his arms. “Hope you feel like joining me at a reservation instead.”

“Huh?” Chuuya raised a brow.

“For dinner? A reservation? I reserved for us?” he slowed his words, drawing them out just enough to poke at the shorter man's patience, all while he hooked his fingers under the harness that crossed Chuuya's chest, giving a slight tug to pull him closer.

He'd never admit it, but the gesture made his stomach flip. “I’m close to saying no,” Blue eyes met his, sharp with a warning—which made Dazai quickly backpedal.

“We’re celebrating your first week. Come onnnn.” Dazai whined, tilting his head closer, bangs tickling over Chuuya's scrunched nose. Eventually, he always ends up caving from insistence alone. Anything to shut his beloved detective up.

“Fine,” he conceded, blowing the brown curls from his face. “What time is the reservation?” 

“Hm,” Dazai tapped his index finger to the leather in his grasp thoughtfully, lips pursed. “Maybeeee in like, twenty minutes.”

“Seriously?! Couldn’t you have given any more notice? How far away is it?” 

“Relax, it’s a short walk. No dress code.” 

Naturally, Chuuya would abide by his own dress code, which was already much more formal than most people's for a casual evening. For all his complaints, he cleaned up nicely, no matter how much of a time crunch they were on. He looked a little more comfortable, and god, he smelled so good. A subtle cloud of black musk and bourbon, pleasantly sweetened with a warm note of cacao. An admirable outfit that consisted of a crimson turtleneck crept up to his choker, a coat just a few shades darker hanging elegantly off his shoulders—one more than the other—cinched in place by a thick belt around his waist. His pants were simple black trousers, not quite fitted but not too loose, cut just above his ankle. 

Together, every detail made for a delightful distraction from all the grief that Chuuya had taken upon himself to fill their walk time with. 

“Anything even interesting happen today, or are you just chewing my head off for the sake of it?” Dazai’s tone was filled with exasperation, quite disinterested in the work of today, to be honest.

Chuuya stayed silent, arms folded with no real idea of where else to put them. “No. Some bigwig came in hysterical over how his wife was after his life insurance, and he was sure she was using some kind of brainwashing ability on him. Dude was a real idiot, I'm sure he's just covering some stupid shit up, wasting everyone's time. Then it was just training for me... and Yosano's checkup.” 

Oh. 

The response settled heavily in Dazai’s chest, and suddenly, he felt a little guilty for missing out. After spending years together, he’d become familiar with the detriment of a medical setting when it came to his partner’s mental state. Even if he didn’t really remember his time as a lab rat, his body sure did. Sometimes it was safer to leave it behind than to remain trapped in it. Though Chuuya was never one to request accommodations for such things. He had yet to understand that there was no reason to grit his teeth through suffering anymore. Not when it could be helped, at least.

“Picture of health, I’m sure. Did she sing your praises?”

“Shut up.” The man fidgeted with his hat in the reflection of the storefronts they passed. He didn’t really care to talk about it. In fact, he immediately regretted bringing it up at all, feeling far too small all of a sudden. The smell of sterile rooms, rubbing alcohol, latex, disinfectants… somehow the meticulousness of the cleanliness made him feel tainted to his bones, beyond the simplicity of filth that dirt and grime could penetrate. He’d seen his own bones, watched them betray him as a puppet, only to carry on with the burden of thought—was that all he was? A bag of bones on a string? Concealed beneath the facade of heat? Was his brain a gift of sanity to keep him malleable and controlled? Was his heart the echo of what his bones can only remember?  “Where are we even going?” 

“Somewhere,” Dazai didn’t miss the contrition that ate away at Chuuya; it’d become so much more prominent now. The Agency was busy, sure. But it wasn’t the Port Mafia Executive kind of busy. He had too much time to ruminate without any real outlet. It’s not like his insomnia had improved either; nights now filled with rest periods that left him pacing their tiny dorm like a caged animal. 

He was borderline loathing this date, and a part of Dazai wondered if it was all out of a sense of persecution—anticipating that the moment he let himself open up more freely, his partner would let him stumble into a pitfall of mockery. Even Dazai knew where the line was when it came to teasing, but it was casual enough of a possibility to evade the idea that it required just as much trust as their more severe joint operations. 

He needed something to loosen up a bit, before their… reservation. And Dazai came prepared.

The detective threw his arm out in front of Chuuya to stop him, turning on his heel with a big grin. His other hand produced two shooters from his coat, glass clanking together with a melodious song of temptation.

"Pre-game?" One was offered to Chuuya, who gave him a skeptical once-over.

"What? For a restaurant?"

"What restaurant?" Dazai tilted his head innocently, his smile never wavering.

"Are you…?" Disappointment immediately shadowed his expression. "Of course, I should've known, you broke bastard." 

Such a pretty face, now twisted with a scowl. And on date night? "Easy," Dazai extended the bottle. “Don’t be so crabby, the night hasn’t even started.”

"So there's no reservation?"

"Well," A sharp breath was drawn in through gritted teeth. "not technically. I just needed some incentive since you were in a mood."

And why the hell did he think he was so moody to begin with?

Chuuya shook his head with a scoff of disbelief. "So what the hell are we doing then?"

Dazai groaned, waving the bottles impatiently. "Pre-gaming."

That answer was far from satisfying, only grating on his already frayed nerves.

Fuck it, they were already this far.

The shorter man snatched a bottle, twisting the cap off and throwing the liquid back without question of what it even was. The mystery was short-lived anyway, biting dryness on his tongue souring his features. Of course, it was whiskey. 

Dazai clanked his bottle to the bottom of Chuuya's, not far behind him.

Bottle now emptied, Chuuya smacked his lips a few times, trying and failing to eliminate the heat dragging down his throat. Without a chaser, it might as well be the nastiest cough syrup to exist, a wonder why the hell Dazai favored it.

It shouldn't take long for the lightweight to ease up a bit, then the real fun would start. For now, his expression was just tense, with a silent, expectant "well?"

Which Dazai was already one step ahead of, giving his sleeve a tug of encouragement, dragging him around the corner down a line of more storefronts—but one in particular in mind. Bright, neon lights danced along welcoming letters, flashing enthusiastically in the window. The bustle of chimes and triumph, alerts, and bubbly sound effects—rounded out by the laughter of patrons inside, spilled into the street from an enticing crack in the door.

When was the last time he truly saw Chuuya let go of responsibility and throw himself into the most embarrassing and immature version of himself?

The arcade. 

Chuuya stared, lip curling incredulously. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Perfect, right?” Dazai beamed, his grip on his sleeve adamantly—or rather annoyingly—tight. 

“I’m not doing this.” Chuuya pulled his arm back in protest, and surprisingly, was met with no resistance. His sleeve fell loose from Dazai’s hand, who stood there with a shit-eating grin, unaffected by his partner’s resistance.

“Then don’t,”

Simple. Curt. Permission. But he didn’t need Dazai’s permission to leave. 

The lights inside flickered over their features, and in the haze of the setting sun and juvenile playfulness, Dazai almost looked younger. A version of him that he hadn’t known since they shared hot afternoons seeking refuge in the cool, childish atmosphere of the arcade. Boyish blues sculpting around his cheeks, bleeding into vibrant purples that brightened with the dancing electricity of hot pink. Contagious radiance.

Goddammit. The urge to kiss every inch of his face, to feel the light on his lips, to breathe it in like air and live inside the bubble that was just them... It was too much. Nostalgia was a nasty trick.

After a moment of silent deliberation, Chuuya caved. Only because Dazai was making it awkward, and he really wasn’t in the mood to go home to silence yet. That’s what he told himself.

“I’m not paying for anything.”

“Of course.” No argument? No complaints? 

Surely Dazai did something to warrant such a distracting evening. Chuuya narrowed his eyes slightly, walking past Dazai to push through the door. Both of them were greeted by an enthusiastic bell announcing their arrival. The place hadn’t changed at all. Dimly lit, patterns reflecting off buzzing machinery and flashing LEDs from the borders of games signaling victory, all clustered into a dizzying visual. Just as obnoxious as he remembered it.

Too overstimulating to think.

A small kid shoved past Chuuya, knocking him from his daze—a familiar hand steadying him at the waist in no time. He could bet money that Dazai would’ve gone as far as to plan such a minuscule scheme just to cop a feel.

“Sooo what first?” Dazai’s gaze swept over the room, keeping Chuuya tucked at his side, drumming his fingers over the belt around his waist. 

His partner sighed, scanning the various machines. Some old, some brand new, with games he didn’t recognize. He had a preference for the classics. “They still have most of the old shit?” 

“Mhm! You used to get so worked up over those.” Dazai pointed to a row of screens displaying the start menu for a fighting game. 

Chuuya scoffed. “It had shitty combat mechanics!”

“You? Or the machine?”

His eye twitched, elbowing Dazai off of him as he marched up to the machine.

“Sit your ass down.”

There he is.

Dazai’s lips curled in smug amusement, striding over and seating himself on the opposing side, tossing over a coin. He slotted a coin into his own machine, sparked to life by green lights dancing around the border of the screen with a rhythmic jingle.

Chuuya was quick to select his old preference—a big, burly brawler. He only liked him for his heavy-hitting; the dodging aspect was still annoying as ever. 

Dazai picked a cutesy, small mage. Mostly for the irony, but also because her long-distance, evasive fighting style always got his partner extra worked up.

Another chime rang from the machine, signifying the start of their duel, along with the addition of intense background music to really sell the immersion. Chuuya’s hand adjusted around the handle of the control, fingers hovering antsy over the buttons. He was definitely gonna be rusty as hell.

It didn’t help that Dazai had come by a few days in advance of this plan just to brush up on his skills. Chuuya didn’t need to know that, though. 

One round turned into two, which would inevitably bleed into a third—for a tiebreaker.

Maybe even four, for good measure.

Five. Last round, for sure.

“Suck it!” Chuuya exclaimed, jumping from his seat with the excited pump of his fist. Embarrassingly loud, drawing the attention of the younger crowds... and their parents. Neither of them really cared.

They were tied. At six rounds. Which, in Chuuya’s book—when it came to Dazai—was a win of sorts. This was much more pressing than public image.

Dazai sighed in exasperation, ruffling his messy curls. “Still a tie,”

“Don’t care, give me another coin.” Chuuya reached over the gap between the machines with an open palm, a determined fire in his eyes. Dazai reached into his coat pocket, feeling around to take a mental inventory of his cash.

Which was… dwindling. Chuuya wasn’t wrong about him being broke. 

But if this was the price for that look on his face? Dazai would gladly throw his life savings into these stupid machines as if they were his personal wishing well. Eating scraps with only the glow of his lover’s glee to warm him was more than enough, and the most human form of survival that money could never amount to. The only real misfortune here was that it was so rare, did Chuuya even understand? He didn’t need a heart when he existed with the passion of a drum and intensity to match. He was a beating heart squeezed in a fist that refused to let it quit, even if it had no tether to a body or brain—creation existing in defiance of its creator.

“Fine, one more round. For sure.”

It was actually two more rounds, leaving Dazai indisputably victorious. Then some shooting game and a motorcycle game, which Chuuya complained about the inaccuracy of, because how could he not possibly beat the top score? 

Rigged, obviously.

Albatross would’ve endlessly hung that over his head.  

The door swung shut behind them, chilly night air greeting them with a bittersweet kiss on their warm cheeks. Chuuya was giggling. And shit, the sound was addictive. One that echoed, reverberating off the concrete buildings until it was caught by Dazai’s bones, where it nestled into the confines of his chest, swathed around his lazy heart. Though it was quick to fade, Chuuya’s expression relaxed as he glanced around the street, now cocooned in the beginnings of the nightlife. As enticing as a night of partying might’ve been, Dazai had other plans in mind. Slower. Softer. A celebration of Chuuya breaching the surface and taking his first breath of clean air. 

A fresh start.

Chuuya turned his head towards a direction that wafted a cloud of sugary fried foods, permeating through the streets. “You said dinner…” he mumbled.

“Mhm,” Dazai confirmed with a slight hum. Sniffer dog.

With such a promise to keep, he gave a nod in the direction Chuuya was drawn toward, handing him the lead. Chuuya’s pace was slow as he took his time looking over the stores that were still open, along with vendors that popped up every few doors. This was far from the scene that he had imagined when he heard the word reservation, but perhaps the charm of their relationship was how easily Dazai could trip him up and still manage to catch him in a web threaded with something sickeningly sweet. Far too sticky to allow any protest, all his bitter grievances were wrapped up and neatly put to rest. 

Now he was craving something just as sweet, mouth watering at the smell of ube, a rich shade of lavender swirled smoothly along milky soft serve, stuffed inside taiyaki. His piqued interest didn’t escape Dazai’s attention, following it to the truck responsible. He already knew his order, striding to the serving window. Admittedly, Chuuya was a bit surprised by that. Pleasantly.

He returned shortly after with the prize, along with a strawberry custard taiyaki for himself. Of course, he had to take a bite out of the pocky poking out of Chuuya’s before handing it to him, earning an irritated huff. With no bite, though. Letting that slide was as close to a display of gratitude as Dazai would get right now. 

The texture melted with ease on Chuuya’s tongue, sugary cold enveloped by warm dough. 

“Well?” Dazai licked along his own treat, waiting for his input.

“A little too sweet, but not bad.”

High praise from Chuuya.



"You picked dessert and complain that it's too sweet?" Not surprising, considering Dazai was the one who usually picked sickeningly sweet treats at every chance he got, while Chuuya preferred savory more often than not. At one point in their relationship, that was the biggest problem they'd encountered, long before their realities split. Bickering over where to get a snack after missions back when they were fifteen, until they inevitably flipped a coin to decide. Then bickering over the result, naturally. Whenever Dazai got to pick, it was practically double the reward, seeing as Chuuya never really finished his desserts.



"Well, if someone hadn't bullshitted me about a reservation, I'd have more options," he grumbled, lapping at the cream.



"You didn't ask for details."



Chuuya shot him a sidelong glare. "Okay, fine, I'm just gonna start asking for an entire itinerary for date night, then. Since you wanna be a jackass about it." 



"Aw, are you disappointed in the date?" Dazai placed his hand over his chest, feigning hurt with an exaggerated frown. Chuuya ignored him, much more into the ice cream than the conversation. "It's not over, I still have something at home for you." 



"Is it gonna piss me off?"



"Well, I hope not. But now I'm second-guessing myself."



"Osamu," Chuuya warned, met with a giggle and a pat to the head as Dazai licked at his ice cream, playfully deceptive.

Softening currents of people funneled through the small park, Dazai and Chuuya seeking refuge around the edges as their conversation rounded out into the shared solititude of their silence. They’d come out just after sunset, so the view was already rather dark, but just as relaxing. The faint glow of the city grasped at the sky with hopes to emerge as a star, engines harmonizing lowly with the quiet voices of passersby. A charming white noise.

“Do you like it so far?” Dazai’s gaze flickered to Chuuya, who was just licking a few drips of ube that had trickled down his hand, forehead creased with concentration. The last bites were always messy. 

Chuuya contemplated carefully. He could pretend the question was about the ice cream, but that wouldn’t make it go away. The truth was, not even he knew. The Agency hadn’t been what he expected, that’s for sure. Distressingly neutral across the board, leaving a gaping hole of intensity that was once a funnel for all his anger and its oppressive consumption. “It’s different.” 

“You’re used to that, though. Tell me what’s new.”

Blue eyes fixed on the ground, toeing the grass. “I dunno,” He shrugged, tilting his head back with a pass of breath from his nose. “Getting my coffee from a cafe rather than an assistant is new. So is sharing my desk.” A pause. “Listening to needy people gripe about mundane things for a living.”

“Mundane.” Dazai echoed. 

“Yeah.”

“Did a part of you ever want that?” 

The question was much denser than he had anticipated, weighing heavily on his shoulders. Yes, but not for this life. Retirement was a luxury for a mind that was still capable of finding peace in the confines of boredom, rather than the pieces of themselves they spent their life running from. Was the sky always so clear this time of night? Hardly even a chill stirred the serenity. “It’s quieter.” 

Dazai watched silently for a drawn-out moment, nodding in acknowledgment until his head naturally stilled. “You hate quiet,”

Another dismissive shrug. Yeah.

“You get used to it.” Dazai gave his side a nudge with his elbow. “It would help to indulge them, you know. The Agency.” 

Chuuya clicked his tongue at the suggestion, still trying to reject his own potential.

“Nothing is quiet when they’re all in a room together.” 

“Sounds like a headache.” To be fair, the Port Mafia wasn’t any less of a headache. Never was. Maybe people in general were just the headache, and together, a migraine. 

“Since when were you antisocial?”

“I’m not—” Chuuya shook his head, balling up the napkin from his dessert and tossing it into a bin nearby. He swiped his hands together to clear any crumbs, stalling his response by the millisecond. “It’s only my first week.”

“Exactly,” Dazai snapped his fingers. “Which means it won’t be like this forever.”

“I hate you when you’re a glass-half-full bastard,” Chuuya grumbled under his breath. 

“You just hate when I’m right,” he corrected, “Humor me.”

The man sighed, recognizing when Dazai dug his heels into a conversation. “It’s nothing to do with the damn Agency.” He subconsciously reached for the pack of cigarettes in his pocket, met with fingertips curling around his wrist, sliding down to the base of his palm. Wordless redirection.

“Then…?” Dazai prodded.

It was hard to verbalize exactly what was going through his head. Of course, the adjustment was difficult; he went from calculated brutality to borderline heroism overnight. It had to have qualified as some sort of stolen valor. There was something sinister about the prospect of once committing atrocities to being a model civilian… in some sense, that is. Not perfect, but still, there was an example to be set, but the shoes seemed too big for what little he had to offer. 

Was it not deceitful? Did he even have a right to a clean slate?

“I never know how to answer people’s questions,” Chuuya confessed. It really didn’t stop at the Agency. The world he was acclimating to was far more vast than that, a whole new reality. Lighter… normal… structured. “Everyone comes from somewhere, something… At least in the Mafia, nobody really asked questions.”

“So just lie,” Dazai proposed simply. “Where did you come from? Why does it matter? You were a distant cousin of a famous actor with ties to the Mafia, so you were recruited young or something.” 

Chuuya raised his eyebrows, taken aback by that response. While it was far from the most outlandish thing he’d ever said, and in fact, very on brand, it never really struck him as an option. “Of course, is that what you do then, huh?” 

“Eh, something like it. When it doesn’t matter.” 

“When does it matter, then?”

“With the Agency,” His thumb rubbed at Chuuya’s wrist idly. “They’re detectives—they find things out too easily, then they get this whole idea that you’re a no-good liar.” Dazai leaned against the rail behind them. “People like them are only a headache because they actually care about your authenticity. Anyone worth lying to isn’t someone who would go an extra mile to find the truth themselves.”

“So they’re just nosy?”

“No, they don’t ask questions like that. It just comes up naturally, or they find out and might ask about it.” 

“And if I don’t want to answer them?”

“Then don’t.” Dazai tilted his head, meeting Chuuya’s eye. “You don’t really need me to tell you that, right?”

Chuuya furrowed his brows. “Shut up, you’re oversimplifying it. You know what I mean.”

“Uh-huh, and you’re overcomplicating it.” His worst habit, really. Nothing was ever simple to him. “You have a choice now. They respect that.”

A choice. Ha. 

His gaze fell to the hand on his wrist—the idle circles Dazai’s thumb drew. He was itching for a cigarette.

The Mafia’s oath had tangled itself around his limbs and tightened with every shadow of doubt his mind may have generated in the corner of his eye. Was that it? Was he just… Paranoid? Or was the prospect of untangling himself from the protective layer he’d woven around his identity just too incomprehensibly immense a task? Forcing himself to separate from the title of executive and slipping into a position that othered him amongst the rest of his colleagues. Reducing him to their level, or maybe, reducing them to his level. Did the chain of command when it came to morality have the same rules? It’s only as strong as its weakest link. 

Chuuya wasn’t weak on any scale that could possibly exist, but he wished he was at times. Surely that made it easier to crumble.

“Trust me.” Dazai gave a couple of taps to his hand, drawing his attention back to the moment. Here. Now. Where the world was smaller, and the biggest issue at present was how sticky Chuuya’s hand still was from the dripping ice cream.

“I’m choosing to change subjects,” Chuuya mumbled, slipping his hand free from Dazai’s hold, shoving it into his pocket as he began to walk away. 

Dazai sighed silently, following along with a frown troubling his face. There were few things he hated more than when Chuuya got distant, but it was his own fault for prying, really. 

The apartment they returned to was just as cold as they had left it; a walk of shame back from a date that had ended up a disappointing bust. Ruined by an attempt at sentimentality. Chuuya wasn’t ready to confront the past that kept him from a benign life, but to work through it and move on into the future, it was necessary to live it all over again. Maybe Dazai didn’t quite understand how much easier that was said than done for someone like Chuuya. So much of his past, if not all of it, blossomed from tragedy—everything he could hold with pride, from his hat to his name. 

One day, Dazai would change at least one of those.

But, there was still one more chance to recover the evening, waiting in a box inside their small closet, wrapped in pink ribbons, because he told the Agency that was Chuuya's favorite color.

Dazai kicked off his shoes, leaving them for Chuuya to line neatly against the wall with a mumbled string of curses. He’ll forgive him eventually. Maybe after he opened his welcome gift, presented to him enthusiastically. Dazai’s features donned a proud grin and a flicker of excitement in his big brown eyes. Chuuya could never really let himself deny the sight of them.

“What is it?” 

“Your new uniform!”

“Why should I trust your tastes? I’ve seen you wear your damn bandages until the color of ‘em matched your coat.” Chuuya complained, shoulders shrugged up with tension. 

That was when he was younger; how unfair it was to bring that up now! Dazai was new to the prospect of being accompanied by someone who carried memories of him long before he was sculpted by tenderness. Someone who had dug his fingers into the soft clay of his underbelly and felt how empty it once was. Someone whose body had been molded around the memory of the shape his own body took when they were pressed together.

“Well, it wasn't all me! Just wear something new for your first few weeks. Something less intimidating, preferably. You have this edgy look to you that makes you unapproachable. We’ve got a whole thing about reputation, you know.” As always, obnoxious insistence undercut by empty insults.

Chuuya was exhausted, not really wanting to argue as he grabbed the box. “That’s bullshit, you’re a walking HR complaint.”

“Psh,” Dazai waved off the jab, pushing the rim of Chuuya’s hat down into his face. 

The man grumbled something under his breath, floundering to push it back up while holding onto the box. Bastard. “Don’t piss me off.”

Dazai beamed at the warning, already three steps into his plan of pissing him off. “How about a green tartan pea coat?” 

One final glare was shot in his direction, then Chuuya began unraveling the neatly tied off ribbon, allowing it to billow to the floor. Inside, some clothes were folded up neatly with a pink welcome card, decorated with rabbit stickers and a small blue bow stuck to the corner of it. Inside, a plethora of “welcome” messages were scrawled into its pigment, varying in color, size, handwriting, length… Then at the bottom, “From: The Agency :)”. 

It looked like a kid made it, and really, that could’ve very well been the case. At this point, he had nothing to really hide from these people; they were fully aware of his roots in the Port Mafia, it’s not like much of him would be a surprise following that fact. And still, this is how they treat him. 

“You made them sign this? Really?” 

“No, it was Kyouka and Kenji’s idea.”

Chuuya’s eyes softened, still captivated by the card and its contents, embarrassment blooming on the tips of his ears. Dazai’s grin only widened. He was really cute sometimes.

Beneath the note were a few articles of clothing hand-picked by Dazai. First, a coat would be a good start to build his silhouette. Shorter cut without actual sleeves, the bold piece that the rest of the outfit was shaped around. Chuuya had a rather compact and lean body type, but he liked to exaggerate the broadness of his upper body. 

There was no need for that.

Chuuya set the box down on the shelf, shaking open the article of clothing, tilting his head to admire the craft of it. No expensive recognizable brand, but still good quality. A cape blazer, the rich shade of dark mahogany. The cut was perfect, really. Dazai’s goal wasn’t to undermine Chuuya’s choices, but to simply elevate them. Black was harsh, and he seemed to swath himself in it,—but shades of red suited his fire much better. The cut of the blazer maintained his preferred silhouette, but the veil of fabric fell away with ease the moment his arms were outstretched from beyond their confines. So it remained just that. An illusion that cloaked his petite frame.

Dazai squinted as he observed the way Chuuya held the garment against his body in their partially warped, full-body mirror, assessing the fit. A vest wasn’t even necessary—he didn’t need so many layers anymore. Chuuya pulled the wing of the sleeve, expression not quite giving away how he felt. Though the lack of a reaction was rather positive—otherwise, he’d be huffing and puffing about how atrocious it was. "Yosano helped with this one."

“It’s fine,” Chuuya mumbled. “It’s a little seasonal, though.”

“You said you’d try,” Dazai’s grin eased into something gentle and hopeful. Painfully.

Chuuya blinked an eyeroll, draping the blazer over the shelf, then retrieved the shirt next. A black, long-sleeve turtleneck with a row of five grey kissing buttons lining the side of the sleeve’s cuffs. A rather strange choice, considering that only three or four were standard for that style. Pants next, smoky grey with pinstripes running down the legs—slightly fitted at the top, flaring out past the knees upon being unravelled. “Flared?” He seemed almost disapproving.

“More flattering on shorter legs, I had them tailored.” Although the comment held a slight tease, Dazai wasn’t really lying. Besides, Chuuya’s thighs looked amazing when his pants strained around them. Maybe the choice was slightly self-indulgent.

“Shut up.” The garment was set over the last one, and he returned to the box. What remained was a simple black leather belt, a clunky but tasteful chain that would sit elegantly on his chest, and… a dog tag at the end of a thinner chain.

Seriously?

He held up the tag, glowering at Dazai.

“Read it.” Hopefully, that would be enough to spare his neck. 

A simple engraving:

“We’re counting on you.”

Chuuya felt his chest tighten at that, unable to hide the hurt in his expression this time, finally cracking through the shell of it with wide eyes. The mantra Pianoman had preached behind the meaning of the Flags.

Dazai gave Chuuya’s hair a ruffle. “Just so doggy knows where he came from if he ever gets lost.”

He swatted Dazai’s hand away blindly, never ripping his gaze from the tag. “Fuck you,” Is all Chuuya could muster as a response, trying to keep himself together at the shock those words sent through his being, ripping open the crude stitching he’d tried so desperately to hold his soul together with. Being known was painful, a raw wound caressed by the sting of a gentle palm.

The other let a breath of amusement pass from his lips. “Try it on!” The look Dazai received was about as displeased as it got, watching while Chuuya bundled the outfit up in his arms. Not to mention the attitude he carried himself with all the way to the bathroom. What a tease. “Not even a show after dinner?”

“Freak.” Punctuated by the slam of the door. Rustling and the occasional smack of metal against the door filled the gaps of silence as Dazai leaned against the wall, slouched with a bored frown. Chuuya took forever, especially when he was sulking.

Dazai bit his lip with an approving nod, gaze sweeping over his lover’s figure as he turned, taking in the outfit in the mirror. It looked good, but he was primarily fixated on how tight it was around the ass. A little office eye candy was a brilliant incentive for a hungry mind. Chuuya fussed with himself—straightening his choker, brushing the sleeves of the blazer, turning his arm to look at the buttons… Overly critical, once again. His brows furrowed as he struggled to piece together what was missing from the outfit. Maybe an accessory? Was the belt too simple? Or perhaps grey was just a strikingly soft adjustment. Dazai’s reflection approached behind him, tilting his head as he, too, searched for the imbalance.

Ah, easy to spot.

His partner was just too short to see.

“The hat,” Dazai hooked his finger around the hatband that sat above the brim. “I can find a hatband that matches the blazer.”

Chuuya pursed his lips, silently agreeing to the suggestion wth a hum of approval. 

“How do you feel now?” 

Well, nothing strongly. He fiddled with the tag that sat on his chest, catching the grimy light that hung above them in a wink. “I like it.” He did. It was simple but sophisticated. Just something that would take time to get used to… forfeiting his old uniform was difficult to rush when so much had been woven into the seams of it. 

Still, not a satisfying reaction. Dazai placed a hand over his shoulder, smoothing it over the wrinkles of the fabric, rounding to the front of his chest. Gingerly, he adjusted the way the chain sat, centering it between his collarbones, cheek pressed to the side of his head. “You sure?”

Chuuya swiped his tongue over his lips, a lingering sweetness from the ice cream staining them. “Yeah, I said I like it.” 

“I asked how you feel, not what you said.” 

Dazai was unbearably annoying when he fixated on phrasing and tedious word choices, prompting a huff of annoyance from his partner. “I feel like you’re about to piss me off.”

“Ouch,” he hissed, catching his tongue before a quip could tumble too loosely from it. Dazai’s hand wandered back up, gently holding his lover’s chin, tilting it up to face the mirror head-on. “You’ve barely looked at yourself, you look good.” 

Compliments made Chuuya uncomfortable. From Dazai, at least. When they were uttered so casually, they were actually anything but casual, and held way too much meaning for him to dissect right now. “I just don’t want to.” 

Chuuya’s hair smelled nice, the detective left his face buried in the slightly disheveled curls—frizzy from wearing his hat all day. “Do you want me to help you get undressed?” whispered against the crown of his head like permission to worship.

“I’m not a child,” Quick to be defensive, but Dazai was patient.

“I know,” he paused for a moment. “Can you tell me what you are?”

He knew what this was. What that question meant. Dazai was testing him—already a step ahead of the root of the issue before even Chuuya could catch onto it. He’d become so accustomed to leaving his own body, he’d forgotten what it felt like when he was in it.

“No,” 

Surrender enveloped by simplicity. That’s how they functioned best. Dazai hummed, lifting his head to catch a glimpse of themselves in the mirror. They didn’t need any further words to reach an understanding. Silently, Dazai slid the coat off Chuuya’s stiff shoulders, setting it on the shelf again. Chuuya gathered his hair up, lifting the love lock and bending his head forward to allow Dazai to unhook the chain next.

Just lifting his arms felt like an overexertion, and he was dreading the seconds leading up to his partner’s prompting. Part of him didn’t want the shirt to go, but the other part of him felt horribly suffocated by the expanse of it, concealing his skin, itchy and compressed. Dazai’s hand slid over his hips, but didn’t linger, bunching up the fabric from under the hem, sliding it up his body until he reached his chest. Met by waning cooperation. 

“Hm?” he hummed, gentler than a question with words. The corner of Chuuya’s mouth twitched with something that would remain unsaid, or too hard to say. He lifted his arms partially, but enough for Dazai to wriggle the fabric over either way. It was a struggle getting the neckhole over Chuuya’s head, leaving his hair far messier than it had been when it went on. He couldn’t resist a fond chuckle at the grimace on the man’s face, blowing the bangs from his vision. 

Dazai looked back up at the mirror to find the belt of his trousers, taking his time to unhook it, all while Chuuya stared off at nothing. Or something distant enough that the other couldn’t quite see. He paused at the button of his trousers, hesitant to expose Chuuya entirely in this state. The fabric was soft enough to keep on for comfort… Sometimes it was best to limit the intensity of these things. Instead, hands settled on his hips, giving a squeeze back to life. “Hey,”

Chuuya met his eye in the reflection.

“Come on, sit.” A slight tug guided him back. There was no real protest as Dazai plopped down onto their futon, hanging off of Chuuya’s waist like a child. A fucking heavy child. The other settled between his legs with a groan of defeat, back facing him, fiery curls cascading over his shoulder. Dazai ran his hands up along Chuuya’s back in soothing rubs that gradually slowed. His thumb caught along each bump of his spine, as if it were a book Dazai was memorizing the words of. “Does the floor feel too hard on your back?”

“No, it’s fine,” Chuuya murmured, staring down at his lap.

“Really? Your spine is telling me otherwise,” he clicked his tongue, tone fluctuating to lighten the mood a little, digits pressing into the tension at his shoulders. The pressure prodded a grunt from the man, muscles rippling in response. Dazai took a moment to work out the knots. “Hm… mhm… It’s telling me the horrors you put it through are endless… not even a second of rest.”

No response, just silence. He may as well just be amusing himself with his theatrics.

As easy as it would be to just respect it and let it linger, Chuuya hated silence.

Nimble fingers crawled along his back in a spider-like motion, down to the curve of his ribs, to the center of his chest. Chuuya squirmed ticklishly, nose scrunching at the touch. “You should listen to your body more; you’re so out of touch.” He murmured with a soft kiss to a bare shoulder. “Do youuuuu know what this is?” Dazai ran his finger tip over the middle of his chest.

Chuuya lazily tilted his head to look in the mirror. “My chest?”

“Your sternum, actually,” he corrected. 

The reflection gave him a suspicious look.

Fingers traced the curve of it to the top, just under his collarbones. “This is your manubrium, the top of the sternum. It’s in the shape of a sword and protects the heart and lungs.” A palm settled warmly over his chest. Chuuya blinked in their reflection, eyes following his hand as it continued. “These, you know these, yeah?” Feather-light touches over his collarbones.

“Collarbone?”

“Calvicles, but yeah,” he traced the dip of them. “They connect your arms to your body so you can move freely while it protects the subclavian vein and artery. Oh, and the brachial plexus, so you can feel them.” 

“Huh,” Chuuya hummed in dwindling interest. 

“Technically, it’s part of the shoulder,” he prodded at the hard ball of his shoulder bone. “Along with the humerus,” hands receded around his back once more, thumbs smoothing over the outline of his shoulder blades. “And these, the scapulae.” 

Chuuya rolled his shoulders in response, goosebumps raising from all the touching. He didn’t entirely shrug his partner off, though. It felt… sort of nice. Each touch lingered on his body in places he didn’t really think about being touched. At least not so attentive and thoroughly. “You do this with everyone you sleep with?” 

Dazai smirked; the slight humor was a good sign. “Just the ones that tolerate me.” His forehead knocked against the back of Chuuya’s head, nestling the slope of his nose comfortably along his skull. “Inhale for me.” 

“What?”

“Please? Or else I’ll tickle you.” 

“I’ll fucking kill you.” Chuuya closed his eyes again and dipped his head down at the weight against it. He didn’t want Dazai to stop, so he took a deep breath.

Fingertips trickled down his back, then up again, the back of his nails gliding over each slope of his ribs, counting the divots. “Perfect,” Dazai hummed.

Perfect. He scoffed at the embarrassing praise, but it made his chest feel a little warmer. Perfect for what? There was no use Dazai had for Chuuya’s bones—nobody cared about that part, just the muscles that wrapped around them and filled out the skin they had been left with. Bones couldn’t even feel or think, but they were the last part to remain. It was unfair.

Dazai could pick apart every piece of him and praise the beauty of its role in the mosaic that was his Chuuya.

He lightly dragged his nails along the other’s arms, fascinated by the twitch of his muscles. “Your humerus is the long bone up here, then it connects to the ulna and radius.” Fingers wrapped around Chuuya’s thin wrists, giving them twists of demonstration. “They cross over each other for mobility, it’s kinda freaky. Interesting, though… Have you ever thought about how strange it is for nature to come up with such complex designs?”

“Not really, have you seen what its designs are capable of creating?”

“Touché.” The apple doesn’t fall very far from the tree, but it does roll away rather far from its shadow, unfortunately. “Down here are your carpals,” Dazai squished along the base of his palm where it met his wrist. “And up are the metacarpals, all your muscles, ligaments, and tendons run along them.” his fingers laced into Chuuya’s, bending them into a fist.

“Hm,” Chuuya hummed languidly.

Dazai squeezed his hands before opening them both up, his own fingertips brushing over Chuuya’s, straightening them out. “Then your intermediate phalanges, topped off with the distal phalanges.” Fingertips settled over fingertips, then slipped away reluctantly. “Now turn to face me,” 

Chuuya felt him scoot back to make room, but he didn’t want to rush the sensations he left behind as they buried themselves into the crevices of his being. Every pore breathed Dazai’s touch in like oxygen. A small tap to his side, and he finally indulged him. Hands pressed onto the cushion of the futon, lifting himself just enough to turn, legs slotted on either side of Dazai’s hips.

Now he could really get a look at Chuuya—the soft pout that his lips naturally curved into, a pleasant harmony when paired with the heaviness of his pretty eyes. The beauty of melancholy that Dazai tamed in his palms, giving his cheeks a soft squish. Malleable mochi—and just as sweet when he managed to mold them into a smile. Chuuya blinked at him absently, coppery lashes fluttering like they were tangled in webs, collecting the light they were spun so gracefully with. 

Fuck, he was too pretty for his own good. Dazai’s stomach fluttered in elation. This was really the man he called his lover?

“Here,” Dazai’s thumbs soothed along his cheekbones. “The zygomatic bone. I think it’s the cutest looking bone by itself.”

That made the top of Chuuya’s face scrunch with a hint of disturbance at the comment. “Why the hell would you think that?”

Dazai shrugged, sliding his thumb back along the sides of his face. “Well, it’s a cheekbone. The cheek of the bone. Cheeks are cute, aren’t they?”

Chuuya’s brows let up, but his nose remained crinkled, not exactly seeing the endearment of it. He seemed amused by the explanation regardless. “I guess?”

Dazai ignored the lack of shared enthusiasm. “It’s part of the eye socket and extends to the zygomatic arch, over here.” Warmth pulled away from Chuuya’s cheeks, exchanged with a poke to his nose. “And your nasal bone, but it’s way in there.” He pinched the man’s nose, giving it a teasing wiggle.

“Dude!” Chuuya planted his palm to Dazai’s chest in a shove, shaking him off with a grunt of frustration. “What’s wrong with you?” 

“Don’t be like that, Chibi.” Dazai’s voice was unfairly sweet and inviting, leaning in with a smirk, reaching out to hold his jaw. Chuuya rubbed his nose—annoyed—but allowed him to continue. 

His index finger drifted toward Chuuya’s eye, and for a second, he had the impulse to flinch. Until it paused, refraining from getting any closer. Oh, so now he was being gentle? Chuuya stared at him with a warning for a moment before permitting his resumption, lowering his gaze. 

“Your lacrimal bone,” A dainty touch this time, pressed just under the inner corner of his eye. Chuuya closed that one eye as it accepted the sensation, while the other fixed on Dazai. The detective’s own eyes were focused entirely on his task, cautious. “One of the smallest and most fragile bones in the body. The name is Latin for tear, and it’s just about as small as a fingernail.”

“How poetic,” Tone laced with sarcasm, but engaged. That’s all that mattered.

“Mhm, wait until you hear this one.” Dazai cupped his hand over Chuuya’s face, slicking back his bangs while delivering a poke to his forehead, just above a small freckle. “They call this the boss bone.”

A snort escaped Chuuya—intentional or not, it made Dazai’s heart swell a lighter shade of pride. “Boss bone? You’re fucking with me.”

“Nuh-uh, I’m serious!”

“That’s stupid.”

“I dunno, I kinda like it. One bone was named so thoughtfully, neighboring another, that they just called the boss because it’s big and loud compared to the rest.”

“You resonate with the boss bone then?” Chuuya teased.

Dazai feigned a pout, pressing his forehead against Chuuya’s with a small bump. His lips then curled into a sly grin. “Actually, I prefer the small one.” Even if it’s tucked away so far that he can’t see it—only feel it. 

“Whatever, smartass. I think they’re both weird, and I think it’s weird you know so much that you can point out each bone in my body. 

“Well, I got awfully bored in Mori’s office a lot. Besides, studying human anatomy is useful!” A hand returned to Chuuya’s jaw, slotting over it—holding it as if it were precious. “It’s a nice reminder, y’know? How carefully the human body was designed to protect the softest parts of itself, so much so that it’s difficult for even us to reach ourselves.”

Chuuya sat with the thought in the quiet peace of their shared breaths, vision still darkened by the back of his lids. All he could process was the phantom sensation of fingertips, painting a map of meaning across the most vulnerable and vital parts of him. But they didn’t hurt. Not even under his eye, where even the muscles themselves would reject any touch that close. Dazai managed to combat an instinct to anticipate pain that wasn’t going to come. Because of course he did. It was so stupid. 

“This is your mandible, by the way.” Dazai tapped his thumb over his jaw. “The strongest bone in the face. Only one that can move, too, which makes it my least favorite. Sometimes you move it way too much…” Cradling Chuuya’s face, Dazai nuzzled his nose to his freckled cheek. “But it’s nice to hold,” he murmured like the end of a prayer, sealed with a tender kiss on the plush of Chuuya’s lips.