Chapter Text
Osamu Dazai is a naturally head-turning man.
Luscious, chestnut brown hair. Eyes that radiate light despite possessing none. A scent of white lilies, roses, and a dap of sea salt (most likely from river-diving, although it settles quite well with his general banshee-like vibe), he's the picture perfect model of an omega.
Well, at least in looks.
Because that those radiant eyes are always wrapped in bandages. That gorgeous, floral scent is draped in blood stained mafia black.
Osamu Dazai is a mafioso. His life is painted black with sin. In a world where omegas are shunned, shamed and forced into domestic roles, in some cases Dazai seems to have more reputation than the highest ranking Alpha you could dig out.
He leaves a trail of blood in his path. If you weren't dead after meeting him, you'd wish you were.
Osamu Dazai is a sinner.
However, even sinners have one or two people they seek refuge within.
Dazai leans his head against Chūya's torso. The two sit atop of the Port Mafia building after hours of signing meaningless paperwork and negotiating meaningless contracts.
"Thought you were going down to Lupin?"
The ginger alpha queries, his eyes firmly remaining on the golden sunset as the Brunette rested his forehead against his chest.
Chūya is an Alpha. Naturally territorial, ever since meeting the Sheep. Which, to his displeasure, accidentally projected itself onto Dazai once they left. He's gruff and brawny, but that doesn't mean he doesn't have his fair share of sharp wits and soft moments. It's just hard to show it when your partner is an upstanding genius.
Chūya smells of daises, of spring fields, of howling winds and teenage summers. Of everything that shouldn't mix with Dazai, but does.
"Aren't I allowed to change my mind on the occasion to hang out with my honey pug?" Dazai huffed with fake disheartenedness. "Besides, Oda's out locating some stupid float-away corpse and Ango's doing dumb business work. I have no interest in either. Chuu's the next best thing."
Despite his pointed remarks, Dazai rubs his head gently against Chūya's chest. He wants to drown in this scent, to crystallise this moment and keep it in his heart like ethanol.
Unfortunately, he accepts this moment is fleeting, and instead focuses on the beating of his mate's heart. Every skip, every steady beat and hop.
Chūya Nakahara is the one for him. He does not deserve him, but he needs him. In the same way one needs but does not deserve the oxygen in which they breathe. Chūya Nakahara is his oxygen. This is what Dazai thinks to himself as he gazes into the sun line, the scent of home filling his nose.
Oda Sakunosuke lays on the ground.
The metallic reek of blood rises from somewhere underneath his clothing. Dazai desperately grasps at the redhead 's clothing. Where is the wound? How do I stop it now? Why couldn't I've stopped it then?
Oda keeps talking. His hands on Dazai's hair is tight. Warm, comforting, even--if not for the ever present reek of blood.
"If both sides are the same to you then become a good man."
Then his grip loosens, his mouth stops moving and his skin begins to cool, and Dazai knows that the beta male is gone.
And his next course of action is shockingly clear.
Dazai packs his things solemnly slow.
The charcoal black trench coat Mori had given him hangs next to the fireplac. So does the bandages that previously covered his left eye. Occasionally, the fire riles up, and wrinkles and chars the pale white gauze and the dark, midnight grey coat.
What he's about to do sits on his shoulders like a pile of weights.
Ditching his shitty cinnamon scented apartment. Ditching his position. Ditching his Alpha.
Ditching his Alpha. How will Chūya take this? Will he miss him? Will he even care?
Just as he leaves his apartment--for which will certainly be the last time--he bumps into a painfully, achingly familiar alpha with a knee-weakingly familiar smell of springfields and teenage summers.
"You were just going to leave me here?" Chūya hisses at him as he blocks the brunette's exit. "Not even a note, not even a text—you were seriously going to leave me without saying anything about it!"
Chūya can tell something is up, so he lowers his tone slightly. His mate is more subdued than usual, and there's no cheeky retort to imply that this was just another short lasting run around. His omega genuinely intended to disappear from his life. Gentle as he wanted to be, he just can't let his Brunette leave him.
"Jesus, Osamu..if I didn't come here today, you would've. . .Look, it doesn't matter. You better've packed a bag for both of us, you little shit."
Dazai blinks comically slowly at this. "Hah?"
"Fuck do you mean, Hah?'" Chūya mocks, already shoving back into Dazai's room to find the clothes he'd left over in case of emergencies. "Now that I know you're going, I'd be damned if you're leaving without me."
After a good 10 or so minutes, the pair slip out of the apartment complex under the cover of darkness.
As they walk away, Chūya's hat—his own personal sign of loyalty and devotion to Mori—slips off his head.
He makes no effort to recollect it.