Work Text:
It’d been four years since Osamu Dazai left the mafia. Four years since he had been presumed dead. Four years since his partner, his other half, had begun doing missions solo.
After so much time, the solitude became something routine. The voice that could pivot between sharp irritation and begrudging sincerity… it was no longer there. His partner didn't find him.
That was good.
It meant Chuuya mourned him. It meant Chuuya moved on. It meant he was a free man, in theory. It didn't mean he wanted to live.
Even after almost half a decade away from that man with a short height and shorter temper, Dazai had been somewhat successful in shaking the temptations of returning. He’d filled the hole with drinking, suicides, and women… but he’d joined Yokohama’s Armed Detective Agency. He’d tried to be what Odasaku deemed to be ‘good’.
It all came crashing down when they reunited.
Ever since then, it felt like a curtain had dropped, and his life once more became full of Chuuya. Passionate nights contrasted with familiar bickering that mingled with darker, miserable truths they rarely lingered on.
For almost a month, it was the only bliss he knew. That contentment soured quickly. The sleepless nights that plagued him since childhood gave his already quick mind all too much time to mull over his life.
He still wanted to die.
Tonight, he couldn't stand the torment that insomnia brought. He slipped out of his Agency-provided room, careful not to disturb Kunikida, and wandered the streets. It was a unique sight, encapsulated by the ephemeral nature of one am.
It was raining. He didn't care. He didn't even think he owned an umbrella.
All too soon, his coat was soaked through. It didn't matter. Not really. His gaze was bleary from sleep deprivation he never wanted to admit to. He slumped onto a bench, letting the suffocating feeling in his chest slowly creep up.
The muted click of heels against slick pavement didn't register until the figure was only a pace away.
“Oi, Dazai.”
Even as he recognized the voice, he was reluctant to meet the gaze of his ex-partner. When at last he did, the first thing he noticed was that not a drop had dampened him at all. Perks of gravity manipulation.
He didn't say anything in reply. There was no energy for ragebaiting when he was in a mood such as this.
The moment their eyes met, Chuuya knew.
“Can’t sleep?” That was only half of it. He didn't wait for an answer. “Idiot…” he muttered. In two swift strides, he was there—expensive cologne and faint remnants of blood. He had just returned from a mission, then.
The instant Chuuya’s arms wrapped around the other’s back, nullification canceled out gravity, and both were exposed to the downpour. Neither cared. Chuuya knew from a microexpression that Dazai’s thoughts were a dangerous place to be tonight.
That was evidenced in the way he didn't protest the embrace, and even leaned into it, his forehead resting against Chuuya’s collarbone.
For several minutes, they remained like that.
“C'mon, mackerel. Let’s go home.” The words were blunt, yes, but unbearably soft — at least, for the usually proud mafioso.
Dazai nodded slightly, but made no move to stand. Not yet.
Another minute passed.
Eventually, with some further coaxing, Chuuya convinced him to walk. His apartment wasn't far, but he knew he had to occupy the space between them anyway. He spent about ten minutes recounting that evening’s objective; screw company secrets, Dazai had already experienced it. The words meant nothing but to fill the air and give Dazai something to focus on other than the misery infesting his desires.
The guards on the first floor of the building gave them strange looks, but allowed the executive’s strange companion inside after a sharp glare from the ginger. Chuuya resumed speaking during the elevator ride, complaining about mundane things that he wasn't actually all that bothered by.
Then they shrugged off articles of clothing that stubbornly stuck to skin. To them, no amount of nudity was embarrassing anymore.
Dazai, now in borrowed clothes, was curled up on the side of the bed he had always taken, even seven years ago. Chuuya occupied the opposite, but soon the divide became irrelevant, as their bodies found each other again under the sheets.
Nose buried in the crook of his partner’s neck, Dazai let himself slowly let down the last of his reservations. It was just Chuuya. Chuuya, who rubbed his back in lazy circles until his eyelids fluttered shut.
“If you can't sleep still after an hour... wake me up, got that?” were his last mutterings before succumbing to slumber. The day’s work had been long, no doubt, and yet he’d picked up Dazai like a stray dog regardless.
Minutes ticked by. An hour soon followed.
Dazai didn't sleep, just listened to the steady heartbeat against his ear. The sound hadn’t changed much at all from when they were both teenagers, from when they were still Double Black.
Of all the things Dazai could have focused on — the rain against the windows, the darkness, his own thoughts — he focused on Chuuya.
His hair was fiery, bright against a sea of Japanese browns and blacks. It spoke to his brash personality, his strong will, his life, which was so much more passionate than Dazai could muster. It had been muted by the rain, but after drying, wild coils framed his face. He always brushed them out. A shame.
His full lips were gently parted, breaths slow and even. The strong arc of his nose was one of his more prominent features. Iconic, even. Dazai once mused that it was an insecurity. It was one of many.
Chuuya didn't talk about weakness. On the rare chance it slipped, Dazai would file it away. He could tease him about how short he was, because it didn't actually bother him that much. And then there was… well, Chuuya was strong, and maintained a robust figure. Anyone with eyes could see that. Yet sometimes, Dazai caught him glaring daggers at the number on the scale. Neither brought it up.
Tracing a light finger, he traveled from the gentle slope of his stomach up to his broad chest, the column of his neck, and the defined jawline that so often held a scowl, but was now slack with unconsciousness. His thumb brushed over a smattering of freckles.
In risk of waking him, Dazai let his arm drop, instead resting it across the other man’s torso.
It was safe. It was home. It was Chuuya.
And that was the last thing he remembered before drifting into a dreamless rest.