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Chuuya thinks he may have just met someone who is not only the most interesting person he's ever met in his life but also, most likely, the most interesting person he will ever meet. He's tall and willowy and gorgeous, with dark hair and big brown doe eyes that keep blinking at him through long lashes, and Chuuya can't tear his attention away from him.
He's also absolutely plastered, and Chuuya is more than a small bit concerned for his safety. It makes him feel irrationally protective.
The man before him had brazenly approached Chuuya while he was outside smoking, insulted his height, and then immediately invaded Chuuya's space so he could shove his hands into his jacket and steal a cigarette from the pack in one of the pockets in the lining. The part of Chuuya that wasn't absolutely pissed off by his audacity had been kind of impressed by it. That same part of him had also been unsettled by the question of how long the man had been watching him in order to know where he kept his smokes, because he was almost down to the filter when he was approached. That, or he did that all the time. Maybe Chuuya kept his cigarettes in a particularly predictable place, or something.
The man, Dazai, had taken the initiative to start a conversation between them - if it could even be called that as a rather one-sided exchange - and that was when Chuuya had noticed how inebriated he appeared to be, the slur to his voice and the lax lack of coordination of his limbs.
Chuuya wonders, absently, if he's just as rude when he's sober, or if that's just an unfortunate side effect of his drunken state. Something about the flippant ease with which he'd acted makes Chuuya inclined to believe that it's the former more than the latter.
And, yet, he's beautiful regardless. It was selfishness more than it was kindheartedness, that Chuuya hadn't told him to fuck off and be on his way even as the man had tailed him back inside, as if they'd spent the entirety of their time at the party before then with one another.
Now, an hour or two later and standing under the shitty fluorescent lights in someone's kitchen, Chuuya says, "C'mere, drink some water."
His newfound drunken acquaintance obediently crosses the few steps of space that exist between them to take the offered glass with long fingers. His pretty dark brown hair flops into his eyes as he tilts his head back to take a sip, and Chuuya watches as water dribbles down his chin.
It's as endearing as it is pathetic. Chuuya can't take his eyes off him, reaching out to brush a thumb gently over his skin and swipe the water free from below his bottom lip.
He's rewarded with the sight of Dazai's eyelashes fluttering as he tilts his head to lean into the touch.
"Good boy," Chuuya murmurs. "Thank you. Drink some more."
Dazai brings the glass back to his lips to take another, longer drink, this time with what looks like increased enthusiasm, and Chuuya allows his fingers to linger on the slope of his chin for one more moment before he pulls away.
"Do you call everyone that?" Dazai slurs.
Chuuya blinks. It takes him a moment to process it, what Dazai is asking him.
"What, 'good boy'?" he asks, biting his lip to tamper down the smile that wants to bloom to life across his face.
Dazai dips his head in a nod. He's paused with the glass held close to his mouth, watching Chuuya intently. It's so, so horribly endearing. Chuuya realizes suddenly that he is so fucked.
"Save it for me," Dazai tells him before he can answer, and Chuuya laughs.
"Drink some more, then," he instructs, gently tapping his fingers against the cold water in Dazai's hand. When Dazai is quick to obey, Chuuya repeats, "Good boy," and watches as a proud smile stretches across Dazai's lips around the glass pressed to his mouth.
He's beautiful. Something spreads hot like an infection through Chuuya's chest, warm and wondrous and irrationally possessive, that such a creature is here before him, eager for his attention and praise. Chuuya wants to wrap the man before him up into his arms and never let anyone else have him ever again.
He's also incredibly drunk, though, Chuuya has to remind himself. Chuuya has no idea if he's even coherent enough to know what he's saying. Chuuya doesn't know him. Such behavior might not mean anything at all.
It's that reminder that prompts him to say, for what is far from the first time tonight, "You really need to go home."
For what is also far from the first time tonight, Dazai's smile stretches into a grin and he responds, "So take me home, then."
Chuuya's heart pounds in his chest with how much he wants to. It's a desire that he can't act upon and so, instead, he sighs.
"You don't know me-"
Unbothered and flippant, Dazai says, "That doesn't matter. Take me home."
The ease with which he speaks such a thing is worrisome.
Chuuya takes a sip from his own water, somewhat wishing that he was more dehydrated from alcohol and needed it more. He'd decided not to drink very much tonight, but this recurring conversation is making him feel like that might have been a mistake.
"How many strangers know where you live?"
Maybe he's just being paranoid, but- regardless of the number, Chuuya is sure that it's too high, if this is how Dazai goes around acting.
For his part, Dazai waves a hand.
"If someone kills me, that's fine."
Chuuya blinks. He barely knows this man, and, yet, something about the nonchalance with which he says such a thing makes Chuuya feel a little sick. Something tells him that he isn't entirely joking, and he has no idea what he's supposed to do with such knowledge. He doesn't know Dazai, so how could he know the proper response?
"That isn't fine-"
"It is. I want to die."
The sickened feeling grows in its intensity, and Chuuya doesn't know what to say. Even what he gets out, the first thing that comes to his mind, doesn't feel quite fitting - a dubious and only barely, possibly teasing, "By being murdered?"
At that, Dazai pauses for a moment, as though he's giving the question serious thought.
"Ah," he starts finally, and it's with a kind of earnest sheepishness that Chuuya finds gets to him, cracking through the barricade of discomforted concern. "I suppose I would prefer something a little less painful…"
Chuuya can't help the shocked laugh that that pulls from him, nor can he hold back the playful smile that quirks his lips upward. Though he's only just met Dazai, he feels somehow like he should have expected such a response. It's enough to ease the tightness in his chest, if only a little.
"Maybe don't tell more strangers where you live, then," he says. "Including me."
Dazai pouts at that.
"Chuuya would kill me?" he asks, and Chuuya's smile grows wider.
"Who knows? I might."
They migrate back outside. Chuuya finds himself sitting on the steps with Dazai's long and lanky form at his side, his knees and elbows bent to fit himself into the space. There's something almost uncomfortable about the way that he holds himself, like he's larger than he wants to be, like he doesn't fit quite right into his skin. It sparks something to life in Chuuya, something protective and eager to soothe, and he finds himself scooting closer, until their arms are pressed together.
"Tell me more about yourself," Dazai says. He's brought his glass of water outside with them and he takes a sip from it after he speaks, eyeing Chuuya like he's waiting to be praised for his good behavior.
"Good boy," Chuuya croons. It feels automatic, instinctive, like the natural response, and that feeling is only amplified by the way that Dazai preens. Then, "Like what?"
"Hmm… your job."
Chuuya snorts. His job. He hates his job. It's probably one of the least interesting things about him.
"Barista," he says, and watches as Dazai makes a point of scrunching his nose up.
Chuuya wonders if he's always so transparent with his actions, or if he's giving himself away on purpose. He wonders if he even knows that he's doing it at all.
"How unbecoming," Dazai tells him, and Chuuya rolls his eyes.
"Fuck off, dickhead. I'm in school. What do you do?"
"School," Dazai echoes, and his lips crack into a grin in the face of Chuuya's unimpressed stare. "I'm a doctoral student."
Of course Dazai is a doctoral student. Of course he's smart.
"Just school?" Dazai dips his head in a nod, and Chuuya sneers at him. "Yeah, well, some of us also have bills."
Dazai just watches him, appearing entirely unfazed by the retort, before he says, "See?"
Chuuya blinks at him. "What?"
"Chuuya isn't a stranger now," Dazai trills. "Chuuya is just a poor little coffee shop boy. Chuuya can take me home."
"A poor little-"
It's- it's infuriating. It's endearing. Chuuya has to swallow down his disbelieving laugh.
"You need to learn how to talk to people," he says.
And, yet, Dazai's charm - or lack thereof - is working on him.
"How about I call you a ride?"
Dazai's expression does something complicated. His eyes go a little dark, hollowed out, a flicker of something that somehow feels more sincere than anything Chuuya has seen from him yet. It feels like a glimpse of vulnerability.
Or, maybe, it's just an act. It isn't like Chuuya knows this guy. Anything that he thinks about him is an assumption at best.
Either way, the sight of such a look on Dazai's face makes a fist that wraps tight around his heart and squeezes.
Chuuya can't just leave him alone like this.
God damn it.
"Or- … do you want.."
The earnest fragility is gone, just like that, and Dazai's face settles quickly back into an increasingly familiar impression of cheeriness.
Dazai grins.
"Chuuya can't resist me, hmm?" he trills.
"Where do you live?"
"Chuuya is going to take care of me?"
He shouldn't. He really shouldn't.
"Fuck off, asshole. I'll take you home."
And that's how Chuuya ends up curling his fingers around the back of Dazai's neck and pulling him down so he can shove his own helmet down onto Dazai's head, while Dazai stares at his motorcycle with a visible level of apprehension that feels not unfitting for a scared puppy.
The helmet isn't a perfect fit, but it will do. Chuuya will be damned if he lets him ride without one.
"You okay?"
Dazai nods. His eyes are hard to make out through the darkness of the visor, but Chuuya thinks he can see them crinkle like he's returning the crooked grin that Chuuya gives him.
"It's okay," Chuuya promises. "Trust me, yeah? I'll keep you safe."
He means it. He might not be the safest driver in general, but he will be with Dazai on the back of his bike. Ideally, he'll be granted the opportunity to do this again.
Dazai, who leans forward into him, languid and relaxed, like he does trust him. Chuuya's heart races, warm, warm, warm.
"Tilt your head for me," Chuuya instructs, and curls his fingers around the strap hanging from underneath the helmet when Dazai obeys. He murmurs another, "Good boy," as he fastens the strap through the double D-ring, pulling until it's tight. He slips a fingertip between the strap and the curve of Dazai's chin to test the fit, only pulling away after he's satisfied that the helmet is secured onto Dazai's head, and he smiles at the faint pleased sound that he hears from underneath the carbon fiber material.
Chuuya swings his leg over his bike and seats himself, pausing to level Dazai with a glare.
"Hold onto me, okay?"
Dazai nods again. "That's easy," he says.
Chuuya doesn't ease up.
"It better be. You're not falling off because you're too fuckin' drunk to ride, got it?"
Dazai just takes it, so easily, sighing like he's the one who's inconvenienced.
"I got it, Chuuya," he retorts, and he has the audacity to sound bothered.
Chuuya is far too infatuated with him.
To Dazai's credit, he does hold on. His movements are a little clumsy as he swings one long leg over the bike to clamber onto the back of it, clearly unused to the motion, but he sidles up against Chuuya once he's on and winds his arms around his waist with no reservations.
The weight against his back is more of a comfort than it probably should be, considering the way that the helmet digs into his shoulder where Dazai must be curled inward to rest his head against the column of Chuuya's spine.
Dazai's apartment building is small and unassuming, with front doors that open directly to the outside. He stumbles as he gets off the bike and Chuuya reaches out to grab him by the arm and steady him while he immediately starts trying to fumble with getting the helmet off.
"Stop that," Chuuya chides as he pulls himself up.
He gently smacks Dazai's hands away so he can undo the straps holding the helmet in place and tries not to stare too obviously when his pretty face is revealed again.
Chuuya opens his mouth to wish Dazai well, to ask for his number, maybe- he isn't entirely sure what his plan is.
And Dazai beats him to the punch.
"Spend the night with me?" he asks, like it's an entirely reasonable request.
Chuuya blinks, caught off guard, and Dazai simply watches him.
"Do you always let strangers stay the night?" Chuuya asks.
"Nope. Chuuya is special."
It's stupid, the way that such a silly statement makes his heart pound in his chest. How much can it possibly mean, when Dazai doesn't even know him? And, yet-
"Yeah, sure. I'll spend the night."
Dazai's apartment is dark and quiet and sparsely decorated. It's messy in a way that feels more indicative of stress than it does relaxation, with empty sake bottles and books strewn about, from the table that sits in the corner to the floor beneath their feet. Chuuya wonders, absently, if this is the average experience of being a doctoral student. He's inclined to believe that Dazai's perspective may be a unique one.
It feels a bit barren, a bit sad.
Most importantly, it's cold. Chuuya wonders if that has anything to do with the way that Dazai throws himself into his space after urging him down onto the unmade futon and clings to him immediately, wrapping long limbs around his body and nosing into his neck, pressing against him like he's trying to leech onto his warmth.
Despite it all, Chuuya finds that he's surprisingly comfortable, throwing an arm around Dazai with a level of familiarity that they shouldn't have and pulling him into his chest.
Something about it feels right.
It feels right until the next morning, at least, when Chuuya blinks hits eyes open to an unfamiliar room and immediately wonders what the actual fuck he had been thinking in agreeing to spend the night. Dazai was absolutely plastered. He isn't going to remember anything. Hell, is he even going to know who Chuuya is and what he's doing at his apartment?
He should have gone home as soon as he made sure that Dazai was okay. He could have left his number, maybe, so Dazai could reach out if he did remember everything, if he wanted to, but- he shouldn't have stayed.
The weight against his chest shifts, and the silence that fills the room is broken by a sigh that Chuuya thinks may be indicative of contentment, even if that doesn't really sound right.
"Chuuya stayed," Dazai trills into his chest, and Chuuya feels the tension that he hadn't even realized was building in his chest ease.
He did stay, and Dazai doesn't sound unhappy about it. Does that mean Dazai doesn't regret making such a request?
Chuuya laughs, curls his fingers into Dazai's messy dark hair and strokes through the tangled strands.
"Yeah," he hums. "You feeling okay?"
Against his chest, Dazai shakes his head.
"Chuuya should stay with me."
Chuuya really shouldn't. It's Sunday. He should be resting, getting ready for the week, leaving this odd stranger to his own devices. It's stupid, he thinks, but-
Fuck it.
"Okay," leaves his mouth without his mind's consent.
It's worth it, to see the way that Dazai's head lifts from his chest and a pair of beautiful dark eyes meet his own. He only gets a moment to admire them, before Dazai is closing the distance between them to press their mouths together.
He tastes like coming home.
It's only months later that Dazai will tell him, with a little grin that Chuuya will have - unfortunately - come to love, "I wasn't that drunk, you know?"
Chuuya isn't sure whether he should believe him or not.