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Chuuya was always an emotional person. A heart often called ‘too big’ that he wore proudly on his sleeve. He didn’t enjoy being dishonest and his body didn’t either: most—if not all—of his emotions were given away by his facial expressions or nervous tics. While some were endeared by this quality, many wouldn’t hesitate to call it naive, foolish, or even weak. At times, Chuuya agreed. A big heart was an even bigger target, after all, and a lot more surface area to scar. It hurt more, bled more. Other times, Chuuya considered it a gift. His heart was one with a massive capacity for kindness, for empathy. It healed quicker than it fell apart. It could shatter into thousands of tiny, jagged pieces, and still glue itself back together.
It often dared to hope. To hold onto hope, once it had it. Perhaps a bit too much for Chuuya’s own good. Unfortunately, this also meant that it was no stranger to disappointment. Especially with relationships. Especially with dating.
Chuuya wasn’t particularly fond of the dating scene. He never considered romantic love to be something he needed, nor did he actively seek it out. His heart, though, often opened up to people like a revolving door, never truly closing. It got him in situations he’d rather not have been in, but he couldn’t say that he regretted his choices in their aftermaths.
In the moments, however, he’d felt like death washed over him. Every single time.
Case in point: the heavy weight of disappointment settling over his shoulders, stemming from where his gaze is locked on the chair across from him. A quaint, round table separates Chuuya from it, a small rose in a thin vase in the centre. Chuuya’s own coffee sits nestled between his palms. He had wanted to wait to order until he wasn’t alone, maybe try something new, but gave in and ordered his usual around the half hour mark. Its heat has long since dulled, now barely noticeable through the shiny porcelain. The latte art on top is still visible.
There’s nothing on the opposite side of the table.
The cafe around him is bustling with activity, certainly busier than usual. People’s idle chatter, whispers, laughter—it all blends into one quiet, humming noise in his ears. It’s almost getting stuffy, with how packed the establishment is becoming. There’s a queue forming at the entrance. Passersby on the street turn to stare. Everything—everyone—is moving.
Chuuya’s surrounded by people, by humans, by life: he’s far from alone. Yet, he feels lonely. Horribly lonely.
Perhaps, the vacant seat’s telling silence is the reason for it.
He should’ve left ages ago, really. With how busy it is, he has no doubt that there are people who are more deserving of the two-person table that he’s occupying. If anything, he’s being an absolute asshole. Still, he can’t will himself to move. He feels glued to the chair, his legs heavier than usual. His heart keeps him chained down, rooted in place, the lock engraved with a disgusting hope. As far as he’s concerned, no key exists.
His hands move mechanically to lift the cup of coffee to his lips. He sips, and swallows, the familiar flavour on his tongue. It tastes bitter. A bad, sour kind of bitter. His coffee isn’t usually this bitter. Nonetheless, he takes another sip. Then another, another, and another. If he finishes the drink, he won’t have an excuse to loiter anymore. Once he finishes, he can finally leave.
“Are you waiting for someone?”
Chuuya’s cup detaches from his lips. He looks up. A man stands in front of him, smiling politely. His dark eyes dart between Chuuya and the empty seat. His head is tilted slightly in a way that reminds Chuuya of a curious dog and his short, shaggy brown hair consequently falls to the side. Despite the forward question, he has an energy to it that’s almost…awkward.
He’s pretty, is Chuuya’s first thought. Pretty cute.
It’s only once the polite smile begins to turn strained that Chuuya notices he’s staring.
“No,” he replies, saving the poor man’s lips. He gestures to the empty seat. “You can sit.”
The man’s smile melts into something softer. Grateful. He slides into the chair. His movements are cat-like, smooth and quiet. Maybe that’s why Chuuya hadn’t heard him walk up. He places his elbow on the table, head propped up on his hand. “Thanks,” he says, “it’s really busy.”
Chuuya snorts, glancing around. “Yeah, first time I’ve seen it this packed.” He looks back at the man, considering. “Here alone, too, then?”
“Something like that,” the stranger says, gaze shifting over Chuuya’s shoulder. It snaps back to Chuuya’s face in a heartbeat, not giving an opportunity to react. “You looked deep in thought, when I came over. Something on your mind…?” he prompts, trailing off.
“Nakahara Chuuya. And nah, I just spaced out.”
“Nakahara Chuuya,” the man repeats, stretching the word out, elongating every vowel. After a moment, he hums, eyes crinkling. “It suits you.”
“Thanks,” Chuuya says drily. Whatever that means. He assumes it’s a compliment. “And you are…?”
“Ah, how rude of me!” The man straightens up, no longer leaning on his hand. He looks like he’s been caught sleeping in class, eyes wide. “Dazai Osamu.”
“Dazai,” Chuuya lets the name roll off his tongue. Tastes it, examines it. It’s a nice enough name. Feeling a bit cheeky, he raises an eyebrow. “It suits you.”
Dazai chuckles. “Stealing my jokes, are we?”
Chuuya shrugs, unapologetic. His gaze shifts downwards. It first catches on Dazai’s necklace, a gold chain with a blue opal gem hanging from it. The white buttoned shirt behind it is much less flashy. Its sleeves are rolled up to Dazai’s elbows, revealing forearms covered in gauze of a shade not unlike the porcelain cup. Then something else snags Chuuya’s attention: the other side of the table—Dazai’s side—is still empty. Dazai has no drink, nor does he look to be in a hurry to get one. Chuuya lets his eyes slide back up, shooting Dazai a questioning look. “Are ya gonna get somethin’?”
Dazai looks baffled for a short moment before sobering. “I should, shouldn’t I?”
Chuuya huffs. “It’s a café, isn’t it?”
“Yes, well—” Dazai starts, just before his gaze is once again caught by something over Chuuya’s shoulder. The beginning of a smirk plays on his lips briefly, then his focus returns to Chuuya and those same lips stretch into a diffident-looking smile. “Do you think they have decaf?”
Chuuya just about refrains from snapping his head around himself as he indifferently answers, “Probably.” Then his nose scrunches at the implication of the question. “Eugh. Who comes to a coffee shop and buys decaf?”
Dazai doesn’t look bothered. He shrugs. “Normal coffee is far too bitter for me.”
“Then buy a different drink?” Chuuya offers, absentmindedly drumming his fingers against his cup. “A milkshake, or something?”
“No, I like sweet coffee,” Dazai says.
Chuuya makes a face. “So, what? You’re a ‘latte with fifty-million syrups’ kinda guy?”
The thought itself makes Chuuya want to retch. Coffee is a taste meant to be savoured, not watered down by copious amounts of milk and sweeteners. His worst fears are confirmed when Dazai is suddenly very interested in what’s outside the window.
“No,” Chuuya gasps, “you are! I should’ve never let you sit here, oh my fuckin’ god.”
“Hey!” Dazai exclaims, frowning as he turns back to Chuuya. “You asked!”
“And I regret it.” Chuuya groans. He can’t believe this. He gives Dazai a long, repulsed look before sighing. “Alright, fess up. What’s your usual coffee order?”
“Are you the barista?” Dazai jabs, distinctly miffed. “I don’t have to tell you anything.”
“You don’t,” Chuuya agrees. He smirks. “But as disgusting as it is, now you’ve got my attention. What concoction do ya drink?”
“What are you drinking?” Dazai asks.
Chuuya blinks at the blurted words. He glances down at his coffee. “It’s a macchiato,” he tells Dazai, grabbing the cup’s handle and swirling the aromatic liquid around. He lips its porcelain rim to his lips and takes a sip, pointedly staring at Dazai over the cup. After he swallows, he adds, “Actual coffee.”
Dazai coughs into his fist, muffling a word that Chuuya doesn’t quite catch: but it sounds suspiciously like snob. For his own peace of mind and Dazai’s safety, Chuuya chooses to ignore that.
As if sensing Chuuya’s slightly murderous intentions, Dazai clears his throat. “So,” he says, “is there a reason you were sitting alone?”
It has the opposite of Dazai’s intended effect. Chuuya’s expression hardens and he leans away slightly, his grip tightening on the cup. His gaze slides down, past Dazai entirely, locking onto the vase in the centre of the quaint table. The rose stands proud, not wilting under his withering glare.
“Ah,” Dazai breathes and Chuuya watches him wring his hands. “Touchy subject?”
Chuuya scoffs. “Nah, it’s fine,” he says, shaking his head. He’s been let down before, he has enough experience to know that dwelling in his own sadness leads nowhere. He lets himself look at Dazai again and tries for a nonchalant smile. “Got stood up, y’know how it is.”
“I don’t, actually,” Dazai jokes. He chuckles nervously when Chuuya narrows his eyes at him and is quick to keep speaking. “That must suck, though. Some people really are scum of the Earth.”
“I wouldn’t say scum of the Earth.” Chuuya snorts. “But yeah, he’s a bit of an asshole for that.”
“Oh?” Dazai prompts, “he?”
Chuuya’s heart skips an anxious beat. Dazai’s tone sounds more innocently curious than anything, yet the question itself is enough to make Chuuya feel oddly defensive of his preferences. “Yeah. Got a problem?”
Dazai’s eyes widen. “No, no,” he says, lifting his hands in a placating gesture of goodwill. “Of course, not. That’d make me a hypocrite.” He grins.
“Oh.” Chuuya’s heckles drop and he chuckles quietly. He gives Dazai a teasing once-over. “Hmm. I see it, actually.”
Dazai gapes. “Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?”
Chuuya smirks. “Nothin’.”
Dazai frowns childishly. “I don’t like the way you said that.”
Chuuya sticks his tongue out, just as childishly. “Tough shit.”
“Anyone ever tell you that your mouth is filthy?”
“Oh, plenty. What, are your ears sensitive?”
Dazai sniffs. “No. It’s just unnecessarily crude.”
“Don’t care.” Chuuya feigns yawning. “Shove it and go sit elsewhere if you don’t like it.”
They both know there’s no other free space in the café. The playfully challenging eye contact stays intact. Dazai doesn’t budge from his seat. Chuuya thinks he’s won the verbal spar when—
“Ah, but who would keep you company, then?”
Cheeky bastard. “I didn’t ask you to keep me company. You invited yourself.”
“But you agreed.”
Chuuya’s teeth click as his jaw clamps shut. Checkmate, Dazai’s smug expression says. Chuuya’s never wanted to flip off a stranger more.
“Yeah, well,” Chuuya says through gritted teeth, “It would’ve been rude of me to turn you away, when I was occupying a two-person table, right?”
Dazai grins and Chuuya’s stomach turns in annoyance. “Right.”
Dazai’s gaze slips over Chuuya’s shoulder again. This time, Chuuya observes the movement more diligently, doesn’t let it slide. Only hesitating for a moment, he turns his head around and looks in the same direction. He hears Dazai’s sharp intake of breath and ignores it. He looks around for anything out of place, scanning the populated café. There’s people laughing and chatting in booths, some waiters bustling back and forth, paintings lining the yellow walls. Nothing looks peculiar. Nothing stands out. Nothing catches his eye. Slightly disappointed, he turns back to Dazai, who stares at him curiously.
Chuuya eyes him critically. “What?”
Dazai’s lip twitches. “What were you looking for?”
“Whatever the hell you’ve been lookin’ at, this entire time.” Chuuya frowns. “A fan of art, or something?”
“Not quite,” Dazai answers his gaze darting away, again. This time, Chuuya doesn’t turn. He just watches brown eyes widen, pupils slightly dilating before coming back to Chuuya. Dazai traps his bottom lip between his teeth, searching Chuuya’s face. After an anticipatory pause, he sighs. “Fine, I guess I owe you an answer. It’s the reason I didn’t get a drink.”
Chuuya’s eye raises, intrigued despite everything. He nods, urging Dazai to continue.
Dazai does. “A friend of mine is in one of the booths over there.” He nods pointedly in the booths’ direction. Chuuya doesn’t turn but hums in agreement. “He doesn’t know I’m here, nor does he know I know that he’s here.”
Chuuya can’t help but smirk. “So, you’re spyin’ on your friend? Creep.”
Dazai clicks his tongue in displeasure and his eyebrows pinch together. “Nonsense. It’s a necessary evil.”
“Uh-huh.” Chuuya’s smiling so wide it can definitely be heard in his voice. He’s becoming quite the fan of picking Dazai’s charming persona apart. “You can’t get up because he’ll see you, is that it? And you chose this seat not just because it was the only one free. It gave you a view.”
“Wow, don’t sell your thinking skills short,” Dazai says, sarcasm lacing his tone. “But yes, congratulations. You’ve figured me out.” His eyes dart around Chuuya for a moment, then return. “Any other observations?”
“Just one,” Chuuya tells him, “you’re way too far to be hearing what your friend is talking about: hell, it’s too loud in here. You’re reading his lips?”
“Actions, more, he’s very expressive,” Dazai answers, waving a hand as he straightens to peek over Chuuya’s head. His nose scrunches. “I can read lips, not so much in this case.”
Chuuya hums. “So, what’s he up to?”
“I already know what he’s up to. I knew before I even came here.” Dazai squints. “What I want to know is when it’s happening and what he’s doing.”
“You said you already know what he’s doing.”
Dazai shakes his head. “I know what he’s up to. Not what he’s doing.”
“That’s the same thing.”
“No.”
Chuuya snorts. “Okay, weirdo. I’ll humour ya. What’s he doing?”
Dazai blinks, focusing back on Chuuya. He looks briefly tentative, wringing his hands and licking his lips. Chuuya waits, taking a sip of his coffee. He lets the sounds of the busy café swell amidst their silence. He lets Dazai scan him, comb through the pages of his soul until he finds whatever he’s looking for.
“It’s my birthday,” Dazai admits. He doesn’t look particularly happy about the words. In fact, he looks almost ashamed, a rosy tint on his cheeks. “Atsushi—the friend—is planning a surprise party. I know he is.” He pauses, his hands stopping their nervous ministrations. He stills them entirely by placing his palms flat on the table. “But I don’t know what he’s doing for the party. Nor when.”
Chuuya can’t believe what he’s hearing. “You’re tryin’ to ruin your own surprise party?”
Dazai swallows, staring down at his hands. “I don’t like surprises.”
“Oh.” Chuuya’s face scrunches up in sympathy. He supposes he can understand that, at least. Then he frowns, sticking a thumb up to point behind him, at where Atsushi is supposedly sitting. “Does he know that?”
“No,” Dazai says, “Atsushi would never do it if he knew. He’s too sweet.”
Chuuya shoots him a questioning look. He doesn’t quite understand Dazai’s problem. If he just told his friend that he’s not a fan of surprises, then there would be nothing to stress over. His friend sounds like he would easily be able to organise a normal party instead of a surprise one.
“Atsushi seemed really excited about it,” Dazai continues, cutting Chuuya’s judgement short. “When I overheard him talking about it to our other friends. He sounded so…happy. To be doing this.” Chuuya’s eyes follow Dazai’s jawline as it twitches. Clench, unclench. Dazai sighs. “I don’t want to ruin it for him. I’ll tell him for next year, but…he’s spent so much time on this, already…”
“You don’t want to wreck it all last second,” Chuuya finishes for him, understanding. “I can respect that.”
Dazai gives him a small smile. “Yeah. So, I’m spying on him. Just to know. Without him knowing that I know.” He chuckles quietly. “It’s ridiculous, I admit. Laugh all you want.”
Chuuya hums. “I don’t think it’s that ridiculous. You’re doing something nice for your friend, even if it’s a bit unconventional.” His eyes crinkle, giving Dazai a pointed once-over. “Y’know, you’re less of an asshole than I thought.”
Dazai frowns, taken aback. “What’s that supposed to mean? You thought I was an asshole?”
“Maybe. A bit.” He grins cheekily. “Hey, want a drink? If you can’t move, I can get ya one. I need another one anyway.” He tilts his cup slightly to show Dazai the porcelain base of it.
Dazai’s eyebrow quirks. “Are you offering?”
“To pay?” Chuuya clarifies. When Dazai nods, he shrugs. “I can, if you need me to.”
“I don’t need you to.” Dazai smiles like the Cheshire Cat. It’s uncanny. “I’m asking if you’re offering to.”
“Cheeky bastard,” Chuuya scolds. He can’t force any malice into the words, not when he’s already starting to get infected by that grin. “You’re paying for the next ones, though.”
With that, he walks away from the table, towards one of the self-service kiosks. The queue for them is significantly shorter than the one for the main counter: and it’ll probably help him with making Dazai’s fuck-all-in-one order.
Which…he now realises he never asked for. Not properly. He’s pretty sure he could guess, or at least confidently get something Dazai would drink—but they just met. He’s by no means a master of the other man’s tastes. He looks back over to Dazai, beginning to consider walking back over just to double check. His hair looks darker from further away, when you’re not looking directly at it under the light. It’s an almost-black instead of a chestnut brown, a deceiving tone change. He’s leaning his elbow on the table and his cheek on his palm, looking straight ahead, no doubt watching Atsushi. His other hand is absentmindedly drumming its fingers on the wooden surface. With the sun illuminating him like a blanket, he looks almost like a character from a book. A stereotypical college student with fluffy hair, fair skin and a wistful gaze. He looks…too perfect, when he’s not making faces and teasing with every breath.
He’s just missing a drink, still.
Chuuya blinks away his stupor, realising the kiosk he’d been queuing for is free. Cursing under his breath, he apologises to the person behind him. His cheeks heat up as he begins his order on the machine. His own order is a swift affair: one Cappuccino. As for Dazai’s…
He risks a quick glance over his shoulder, catching sight of Dazai talking with one of the workers. He’s smiling politely at the woman as she takes away Chuuya’s used cup. He can’t read lips himself, but he can infer what Dazai’s saying when he nods and gestures in Chuuya’s general direction.
Swallowing, Chuuya wills himself to look away and focus back on the order. With no more hesitation, he selects a decaf latte, adding some vanilla syrup into it. It’s an extra few yen but nothing he can’t handle. He finishes the order up, tapping his card and getting his number.
He exercises immense restraint as he waits for the drinks by the counter, not looking back at Dazai a single time. It scratches at him, itches the inside of both his skull and ribcage: that urge to turn around, to sneak another glance, to look from a distance. To watch Dazai exist from an outside perspective.
His restraint almost makes him miss his number being called. He catches it, though, and thanks the worker as he picks both drinks up. Finally, he looks back at Dazai, in order to start walking back to him. Only this time, Dazai’s not distracted. He doesn’t look like a character from a book, doesn’t look like an angel in the sunlight. He’s looking directly at Chuuya, watching him approach. There’s a knowing expression on his face: nothing serene, nothing porcelain—just Dazai and that grin.
Chuuya tries not to let the effect it has on him show on his face. He’s not sure if he succeeds because Dazai’s grin doesn’t change, gives nothing away. That wily gaze follows him all the way back to the table, where he places both drinks on their respective sides.
Dazai eyes his latte. “I was wondering what you’d get, given I didn’t specify.”
Chuuya shrugs, sliding back into his seat. “Give it a try and find out, won’t ya?”
Dazai gives the coffee—if it can be called that—a meticulous sniff. He shoots Chuuya a curious look before picking the cup up and raising its rim to his lips. Chuuya watches with thinly veiled anticipation as Dazai drinks. He watches the milky foam disappears, watches Dazai’s throat bob as he swallows. He hates that his body fills with relief when Dazai doesn’t stop sipping, doesn’t look disgusted. In fact, he looks quite satisfied.
“A vanilla latte,” he says, pleased, licking some liquid off his lips. “And decaf. A classic. Thank you, Chuuya.”
Then he smiles and Chuuya might just explode with an odd sense of pride. “Yeah…you’re welcome.” He clears his throat, tearing his gaze away from Dazai to look down at his own drink. He takes a hasty gulp of it, ignoring its high temperature. After a sufficient amount of caffeine enters his bloodstream, he clears his throat. “So…any news on the party?”
“Ah, looks to be in about three hours,” Dazai tells him, “and it’s going to happen at my workplace.”
Chuuya raises an eyebrow. “Your workplace? Where d’ya work?”
Dazai’s eyes sparkle over the cup as he takes a sip. “I’m a detective. The Agency isn’t far, just a ten-minute walk or so. Atsushi is a friend but also a co-worker.”
A detective. Chuuya rolls the occupation around in his mind, tries to adorn Dazai with it. It fits him astonishingly well, perfectly tailored. It explains the cleverness behind his gaze, his wit, his ability to understand someone’s conversation from across a bustling café. It even fits the character-like image Chuuya conjured earlier, a detective in a white shirt and with a charm worth millions. It fits.
“And you?” Dazai prompts, raising an eyebrow himself. “Where do you work, Chuuya?”
Chuuya opens his mouth to answer but decides better of it, an idea suddenly coming to him. He gives Dazai a challenging look. “Well, detective? I’m an open book, y’know. Figure me out.”
Dazai looks bewildered for a brief moment. His composure swiftly returns, joined by a brand new look of excitement. Chuuya giggles quietly as Dazai examines him in his entirety, from his facial expressions to his movements to his clothes. Dazai reaches a hand out in Chuuya’s direction slowly and when Chuuya nods permission, he traces Chuuya’s exposed forearm. Chuuya tries not to shiver under the touch.
“A snake tattoo,” Dazai notes, finger sliding along the permanent ink. “How old are you?”
Chuuya blinks, attempting to follow the train of thought. “Twenty-two,” he answers dutifully.
Dazai hums. “And this tattoo is at least five years old.” He looks up at Chuuya with a grin. “You know many people who would willingly give a tattoo this big to a seventeen-year-old?”
Before Chuuya can answer, Dazai moves his hand to Chuuya’s other arm. Higher, this time, near his bicep. He carefully touches the plastic film that sticks out from under Chuuya’s t-shirt sleeve. “And this…a new tattoo? And, ah…” His hand wanders up, hovering near Chuuya’s ear. He doesn’t touch it, but Chuuya can feel the warmth from his palm. “Piercings. Many. Now, you could simply be particularly eccentric, but…”
He leans back, letting Chuuya breathe properly once more. With his knowing smile, Dazai says, “A tattoo and piercing parlour. The one nearby? Arahabaki’s?”
To say Chuuya is impressed would be an understatement. “Wow. No kidding, detective.”
“I aim to please. So, am I right?”
“Of course, you’re right.” Chuuya bites back a grin, taking a sip of his coffee to conceal it better. “I told ya, I’m an open book.”
“That you are,” Dazai agrees, sounding almost fond. “You work nearby. Do you live nearby, too?”
“Yeah,” Chuuya shrugs. “Don’t even have to use my bike to get here, ‘s quicker to walk.”
“A bike?”
“Motorbike,” Chuuya clarifies and instantly regrets it as watches Dazai light up with mirth.
“Wow,” Dazai drawls, “you really are a stereotype.”
“Says you.”
“Do I look like Sherlock Holmes, to you?” Dazai asks, gesturing to himself.
Chuuya squints, tilting his head to either side in feigned thought. “If you had a pipe…”
Dazai’s jaw straight-up drops, a scene so comical it resembles one from a cartoon. Chuuya can’t fight the laughter that bubbles out of him, his shoulders shaking with it. A few beats later, Dazai joins in, leaving them both laughing at the table, oblivious to any onlookers. It’s the hardest Chuuya’s laughed in months, the most alive he’s felt in years, probably. He could get drunk on the feeling, it’s so good.
“You’re ridiculous,” Dazai tells him, his chuckling quietening. “A pipe?”
Chuuya shrugs, taking in lungfuls of air to stop his own laughter. “It’s—it’s what Sherlock Holmes smokes—fuck.” Another bout of giggling comes over him, Dazai’s sudden deadpan expression not helping anything. “What you—you enjoy cigarettes more?”
Dazai’s nose scrunches. “No, I don’t smoke. Not…anymore.”
“Your loss, then.”
“Not really.”
Chuuya hums in acknowledgement. Not really, indeed. “Yeah, sorry. Congrats on quitting.”
“Thank you,” Dazai says, his next smile reaching his eyes. It’s possibly the most beautiful thing Chuuya’s seen. And Chuuya’s seen a lot of gorgeous art pieces in the parlour. “You know—”
Dazai’s cut off by his eyes locking in over Chuuya’s shoulder. His gaze sharpens in focus. It takes everything in Chuuya not to spin around, too. He distracts himself with examining Dazai’s impressive poker face.
“Atsushi’s leaving,” Dazai informs him, eyes tracking his friend. “Most likely to start preparations, go shopping…”
“Planning to follow him?” Chuuya asks. His voice is quiet, in a way he didn’t intend it to be. He isn’t quite pleased with the idea of Dazai getting up and leaving. Not when they were having so much fun, not when they were just getting to properly know each other.
It consoles him that Dazai doesn’t look particularly happy about his next words, either. “Maybe,” he says, eyes darting between Chuuya and Atsushi. “I don’t…but…”
Chuuya’s heart squeezes in his chest, Dazai’s expression melting into something genuinely conflicted. Then, like a light bulb gaining power, he gets an idea. He shuffles around, pulling a napkin from under his coffee cup. He looks up at Dazai, who has started observing him curiously. “Got a pen?”
Dazai frowns a little but does reach into the pockets of his pants and pulls out a pen. Chuuya doesn’t fight the fond scoff that leaves his lips. “Of fucking course, you do. And you call me the stereotype.” He doesn’t let Dazai answer before he swipes the pen and starts writing on the napkin. It blurs a bit and it’s messy, but the numbers are legible. And that’s all Chuuya needs.
With a smile, he passes the napkin and pen back to Dazai, who takes them with gentle hands. Upon reading the napkin’s contents, his face lights up and his head snaps back up. Chuuya meets his gaze, hoping that it doesn’t betray the amount of nerves lighting up his spine, right now. Dazai looks wholeheartedly speechless, so Chuuya takes the opening.
“Let me know how the party goes?” he offers. An olive branch. The start of something, maybe. If he doesn’t fuck it up again.
Dazai shakes his head, then, and Chuuya feels his heart sink. Of course. Of course. He should’ve known he was moving too fast, that it was too much of a risk. He should’ve known that he couldn’t possibly be this lucky, to have someone so perfect save his depression-fest and get to keep him.
“No,” Dazai says. More like breathes, really, with how quiet the sound is. Chuuya focuses again, watching as Dazai’s eyes move between Chuuya’s own, looking at one, then the other. “No, Chuuya…come?”
Chuuya blue-screens. “Sorry?”
“To the party,” Dazai hastily adds, words spilling out of him. “Unless you’re busy. Of course. But if you’re not…I can text you the address of the Agency. You can come.” It’s the first time in their hour of knowing each other that Chuuya sees Dazai look desperate. Unfortunately, he still looks unfairly good. Even more unfortunately, Chuuya falls for it.
“I don’t have a gift,” Chuuya protests weakly. Though he’s not sure why he bothers, with the way Dazai smiles at him, an expression so relieved and knowing.
“I don’t need one,” Dazai assures indulgently. “You’re enough of one. Come. Please?”
“Such a sweet-talker,” Chuuya accuses. Only he’s grinning from ear-to-ear and he has no doubt his cheeks are entirely red.
Dazai grins back at him. “Naturally. So, you’ll come?”
“Yeah,” Chuuya says, relishing in the way Dazai brightens. “I’ll come.”
“Great!” Dazai stands up, looking ready to bolt. He looks down at the napkin still in his hand and slowly moves to place it in his pocket. He keeps eye-contact with Chuuya intact as he does so, even ending the action with a wink. “Oh, and…” He gestures to the table. “Our next date is on me. Goodbye!”
Chuuya grabs his wrist before he can run off after Atsushi. Dazai obediently stops, staring at Chuuya curiously. Chuuya swallows before tugging him down and pressing a kiss to his cheek. He smiles at the blush he caused, gently patting the same cheek before letting Dazai go.
“Happy birthday, Dazai.”