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"Chuuya. Chuuya, look."
"I'm looking, I'm looking—what."
On the little screen propped against Chuuya's knees, his mii and Dazai's mii are standing in the middle of the island plaza, hearts floating up between them in a lazy pink spiral, little chibi versions of their own faces blushing at each other like idiots.
"They're in love," Dazai announces, delighted, as if he personally engineered this outcome and not the game's baffling relationship algorithm. "Look at them. Look how happy they are."
"That's a glitch."
"It's destiny, Chuuya."
"It's a nintendo game where you fed my mii curry until he confessed to your mii out of sheer confusion. There's no destiny involved."
"I refuse to hear slander against our children." Dazai reaches over and pokes the screen affectionately, right on his mii's stupidly wide grin. "They're getting married. I've decided."
"You've decided," Chuuya repeats, unimpressed, and doesn't push the controller away when Dazai leans further into his space to admire his handiwork, warm and solid against his side. He's sprawled sideways across Chuuya's bed, half his weight against the headboard and the rest of him just draped, like laundry someone forgot to hang up, one leg thrown over Chuuya's for no reason Chuuya can name except that Dazai does this, has always done this, treats Chuuya's personal space like public property.
The game's tinny theme song keeps looping cheerfully in the background. For a while neither of them says anything. Then Dazai goes quiet in a different way; careful rather than lazy this time, staring up at the ceiling with an expression Chuuya doesn't like, too still, almost like he's holding something behind his teeth.
He looks so soft like this, is the thing. Chuuya would never say it out loud, would rather die, but it's true— the lamp light catching the dark lashes fanned against Dazai's cheekbones when he blinks slow, the little constellation of moles scattered along his jaw and throat that Chuuya has definitely not spent time counting, definitely not. Dazai in the daylight is all sharp angles and sharper jokes, knives hidden in every smile, but Dazai at ten pm. sprawled across a bed with his guard half-down looks almost breakable. Chuuya hates how much he likes it.
"Oi." Chuuya pokes him in the ribs, hard, right where he knows it makes Dazai flinch. "Spit it out before you sprain something thinking that hard."
Dazai swats his hand away without looking at him, though his lips twitch, not quite a smile, but close, that small private curve that pushes a dimple into his left cheek Chuuya's not supposed to notice either. "Rude. I could be having a profound personal revelation."
"You could be constipated, same face," he says.
"Chuuya." Dazai's voice does something, drops half a register, loses the singsong. Chuuya's stomach does an ugly little flip he refuses to examine. "Have you kissed anyone?"
The controller nearly slides off Chuuya's chest. "The hell kind of question is that."
"A question-shaped question. Have you."
"...Yeah. Couple times." Not that it's any of Dazai's business, and not that Chuuya's proud of any of the specifics— some girl from a rival gang's territory once, on a dare, and once Shirase from the Sheep days that Chuuya doesn't like to think too hard about, because thinking about it always somehow loops back around to Dazai's stupid face for reasons Chuuya has decided not to interrogate. "Why."
Dazai goes quiet. The Tomodachi Life theme song loops cheerfully in the background, oblivious. When Dazai finally speaks again his voice has gone flat, performing boredom badly.
"I haven't."
Chuuya turns his head fully now. Dazai's still looking at the ceiling, jaw tight, and there's a flush creeping up from his collar that has nothing to do with the room temperature. It's such a small, stupid thing to be embarrassed about— Dazai, who guts men twice his size without blinking, who talks about his own death like it's a scheduling conflict— going red over never having kissed anybody.
Chuuya feels something in his chest go soft and wants immediately to punch it back into shape.
"So?" he says, aiming for careless and missing by a mile.
"So nothing. Forget I said anything." Dazai laughs, short and unconvincing. "It's not important."
"You brought it up."
"I regret it already," he says, regretfully.
Chuuya should let it go. He knows he should let it go; knows that pushing on Dazai's soft spots usually gets him a knife-sharp joke to the face instead of an actual answer. But Dazai's fingers are picking at a loose thread on the blanket, over and over, the exact tell he gets before missions he doesn't want to go on, and Chuuya can't make himself shut up. Not when Dazai looks like that, bottom lip caught between his teeth, big brown eyes flicking toward Chuuya and away again like he's checking whether it's safe to be looked at.
"Is that what's got you up in your head. Some brat in the mafia givin' you shit about it?"
"No one's giving me shit about it, Chuuya, because no one knows, because it's embarrassing, and I would like it to remain that way." Dazai finally looks at him properly, and there's something almost pleading underneath the irritation. "I'm sixteen. I've killed more people than I've had conversations with. It seemed statistically implausible that kissing would be the thing I never got around to, and yet."
"Okay." Chuuya sits up properly, controller forgotten, blanket rustling. "Okay, so, what, you want tips? I'm not gonna coach you through it like a damn gym class."
"I wasn't asking for—" Dazai stops. Something crosses his face, quick and calculating, gone before Chuuya can name it. "Actually."
"No."
"You didn't even hear the actual—"
"I heard enough. No."
"Chuuya." Dazai sits up too now, mirroring him, knees bumping. This close, Chuuya can see the exact shade his face has gone, can see that he's not even joking, not really, underneath the deflecting tone. Can see, too, up close like this, how obscenely long his lashes actually are, how his mouth is pink and a little chapped at the corner from nervous biting, and Chuuya thinks not now, not now, get it together directly at himself, uselessly. "It would just be practice. You've done it before, you clearly know what you're doing, and I trust you not to make it weird."
"I'm not gonna make it weird, you're gonna make it weird."
"I promise I won't," Dazai lies lyingly.
"You say that like a promise from you means something."
"Chuuya." And there it is: the thing that always gets him, the way Dazai says his name like it costs him something, like it's the one honest word he lets himself use. Quieter this time. "Please."
Chuuya's pretty sure he's going to regret this before he even opens his mouth to agree, which should tell him something, except the thing it's telling him is buried under twelve layers of definitely not, shut up, that's not why.
"Fine," he says. "Fine, whatever, whatever gets you off my back about it. But if you tell literally anyone about this I will drown you in the harbor myself."
Dazai's whole face changes; relief and something else flickering under the surface, gone before Chuuya can catch it and hold it up to the light. "Deal."
"So how's this supposed to work, genius, you just gonna sit there and let me—"
"I don't know! I've never done this!" Dazai's hands flap uselessly. "That's the entire point!"
"Great. Great, so we're both improvising." Chuuya scrubs a hand down his face. The Tomodachi Life music has looped for the fourth time and it's starting to feel like a countdown to something. "Okay. C'mere."
Dazai comes closer, and up close he doesn't look smug or performative or any of the masks he wears out in the world, he just looks young, which he is, which Chuuya sometimes forgets under all the noise Dazai puts between himself and everyone else. His hands are twisted together in his lap, knuckles pale with how hard he's gripping his own fingers. His eyes keep darting to Chuuya's mouth and away again, fast, like he's not supposed to be caught looking, like Chuuya won't notice the way his gaze snags there and lingers half a second too long before skittering guiltily back up.
"Hey." Chuuya's voice comes out softer than he means it to. He reaches up, unthinking, and brushes Dazai's bangs back from his forehead— an excuse to touch him, probably, if Chuuya's being honest, which he is deliberately not being. Dazai's hair is so soft under his fingers, softer than Chuuya expected, and he has to actively stop himself from doing it again just to feel it. "You're allowed to breathe. It's just me."
"Right. Just you." Dazai huffs something that isn't quite a laugh. "No pressure."
"None at all," Chuuya lies.
Dazai's gaze drops to his mouth again, unabashed this time, lingering like he's trying to memorize the shape of it before he loses his nerve, and Chuuya's brain short-circuits somewhere around is he actually gonna and don't read into it and say something before this gets weird all at once, none of which makes it out of his mouth in time to matter. He's uncomfortably aware of his own pulse. He's uncomfortably aware that he's the one who's been wanting this— has wanted it, quietly, for longer than he'd ever admit under torture— and that Dazai asking for "practice" is the closest either of them was ever going to get to saying it out loud, and that Chuuya is apparently about to let that happen without a fight, like the absolute disaster he is about this one specific person.
He doesn't know which of them moves first. Maybe neither of them does; maybe it's just gravity, the same stupid gravity that's had them orbiting each other since they were fifteen and Dazai showed up on Chuuya's turf. Their mouths meet, soft and careful and a little off center, and Dazai makes a small, startled sound against him that Chuuya feels more than hears.
It's clumsy. Dazai doesn't know where to put his hands, and settles for gripping the hem of Chuuya's shirt like it's the only stable thing in the room, and his lips are stiff with nerves for the first few seconds before Chuuya pulls back just enough to murmur, "Relax, idiot, you're not defusing a bomb," which gets him a genuine laugh, a little breathless, right before Dazai kisses him again like he means it this time.
The second one is better. Slower. Dazai's learning fast— always does, infuriatingly— matching the tilt of Chuuya's head, easing into it instead of holding himself so rigid. Chuuya's hand finds its way to Dazai's jaw without his permission, thumb brushing his cheekbone, tracing so close to one of those small dark moles that he can feel Dazai shiver under the contact, and Dazai leans into the touch the way he never lets himself lean into anything, and something about that is what finally cracks Chuuya's careful denial straight down the middle.
They break apart, both of them a little dazed, foreheads almost touching. Dazai's eyes are wide and dark and unguarded, pupils blown, and Chuuya thinks he could drown in the way Dazai is looking at him right now if he let himself.
What Chuuya doesn't catch, because he's too busy trying not to stare, is the way Dazai's own gaze keeps dropping helplessly to his mouth in the quiet after— like he still can't quite believe he's allowed to want this, like he's cataloguing every detail to take out and examine later when he's alone and can pretend it didn't mean anything. Dazai has spent years learning to read people, to know exactly what to say to get exactly what he wants out of them, and right now he can't string together a single coherent thought beyond again, please, again and the terrifying realization that he'd let Chuuya do absolutely anything to him right now and call it practice.
"So," Dazai says, voice not quite steady. "How'd I do."
"Terribly," Chuuya says, which is a lie so obvious it should be illegal. "We should probably keep practicing."
Dazai's whole face lights up before he can stop it; something raw and hopeful that he clearly wasn't planning on letting show, and he ducks his chin like he's trying to hide it, which only draws Chuuya's attention more helplessly to the pink flush climbing up his ears. "How many more sessions do you think I'll need?"
"Depends how slow a learner you are."
"I'm told I'm very dedicated."
"Yeah?" Chuuya's fingers are still on his jaw. He doesn't move them. "Prove it."
Dazai does. This time he's the one who leans in first, and it startles Chuuya more than it should, the eagerness of it, the way Dazai's hand comes up hesitantly to rest against his chest like he's asking permission with his palm instead of his words. Chuuya covers Dazai's hand with his own without thinking, presses it flat over his heart, which is traitorously, obviously, hammering.
"You're shaking," Chuuya mutters against his mouth, not unkindly.
"I'm not," Dazai lies, badly, the same way Chuuya's been lying to himself all night.
"Liar."
"Hypocrite," he says.
Chuuya huffs a laugh and kisses him again just to shut him up, which doesn't work, exactly, because Dazai makes this small pleased noise against his lips that undoes something in Chuuya's chest he didn't know was wound so tight. They keep at it— soft and slow, learning each other by increments, Dazai's confidence growing with every pass until he's the one chasing Chuuya's mouth when they break apart instead of waiting to be kissed. His hands have found their way to Chuuya's shoulders, then his collar, fingers curling loosely into the fabric like he needs something to hold onto to stay upright.
Chuuya is, distantly, aware that he has completely lost the plot. This was supposed to be a favor. A begrudging one, sure, but a favor— five minutes, some clumsy tips, done. He was not supposed to be sitting here memorizing the exact way Dazai leans into him, the exact sound he makes when Chuuya's fingers catch in his hair, the exact way his breath stutters against Chuuya's mouth like it's the single most important thing that's ever happened to him. He was absolutely not supposed to be thinking, somewhere underneath all of it, I could do this forever and still want more. And yet. And yet, here he is, hopeless, gone, whipped beyond any hope of recovery, and he can't even bring himself to be embarrassed about it.
At some point Chuuya's hand slides from Dazai's jaw into his hair properly, fingers combing slow through the dark strands, and Dazai actually whimpers— holy shit, quiet and involuntary, immediately looking mortified about it.
"Don't," he mumbles, face burning, "don't laugh." Adorable.
"Wasn't gonna." Chuuya's voice comes out rougher than intended. He tips Dazai's chin up with two fingers, and for a second just looks at him the way he doesn't usually let himself. The mole under his left eye. The way his lashes are so long they nearly brush his cheeks when he blinks slow like that, dazed and pliant, waiting. "You're—" Chuuya starts, and doesn't finish it, because the word sitting on his tongue is something dangerously close to beautiful and he is not prepared to say that out loud tonight, possibly ever.
"I'm what?" Dazai breathes.
"Shut it" Chuuya says, and kisses him instead of answering, which is its own kind of answer.
They lose track of how long they stay like that. The room gets warm, quiet except for their breathing and the occasional soft, wet sound of a kiss breaking. Dazai gets braver the longer it goes on— presses closer, sighs against Chuuya's mouth, once even catches Chuuya's bottom lip gently between his teeth and then immediately pulls back looking horrified with himself, like he's overstepped some line that Chuuya, frankly, would happily let him cross again.
"Sorry," Dazai says, "was that—"
"Do it again," Chuuya says, before he can think better of it.
Dazai blinks at him, startled, and then— slow, testing, like he still doesn't quite believe he's allowed— does it again. Chuuya's fingers tighten in his hair.
It's Dazai who breaks first, next time, pulling back so fast Chuuya nearly follows him on instinct before catching himself. Dazai's got a hand pressed flat to his own chest like he's trying to hold something in, eyes wide and a little wild, breathing too quick.
"Sorry, I—" He scoots back an inch on the blanket, putting space between them that Chuuya feels like a physical loss. "This is stupid, I should stop, this isn't— this isn't what practicing is supposed to feel like."
"Hey." Chuuya doesn't reach for him, even though every part of him wants to. "What's it supposed to feel like."
"I don't know! Not—" Dazai gestures vaguely between them, helpless, hair mussed and lips kiss-swollen and looking, for once, entirely out of clever things to say. "Not like…this. Not like my chest is gonna cave in every time you touch my face. That's not— that's not practice, Chuuya, that's—" He cuts himself off, jaw tightening, and looks down at his own hands like they've betrayed him. "Forget it. I'm being ridiculous. We can stop."
"Do you want to stop?"
"That's not the point,"
"It's exactly the point." Chuuya keeps his voice low, careful, the way you'd talk to something skittish that might bolt if you moved too fast. "Dazai. Look at me. Do you want to stop?"
Dazai looks at him, for once, instead of glancing and darting away— and whatever he finds in Chuuya's face seems to cost him something to hold. "No," he admits, barely audible. "I don't. That's the problem."
"That's not a problem."
"It is if it's one-sided." The words come out fast, like he's been sitting on them and finally lost his grip. "It is if I'm sitting here falling apart over you and you're just being nice about it because I asked and you never say no to me when I actually mean it and I hate that, I hate that I don't know if this means anything to you or if I'm just—"
"Dazai." Chuuya reaches over now, closes the distance Dazai put between them, and takes his face in both hands, thumbs brushing along his cheekbones, close enough to feel him trembling. "Close your mouth and let me finish a sentence for once in your life."
His eyes are glassy, wide, and soft in the lamplight, lashes damp at the corners like he's dangerously close to something worse than embarrassment, and Chuuya has to remind himself how to breathe before he can keep talking.
"It's not one-sided," Chuuya says, low, and then falters, because the rest of the sentence— the part where he actually says what it is— sticks somewhere behind his teeth the same way Dazai's confessions have all night. "It's not. Believe me or don't, but it's not, and I'm not gonna say it twice, so."
Dazai searches his face for a long moment, like he's checking for the lie and can't find one. Whatever he sees seems to be enough, for now; his shoulders drop half an inch, some of the tension bleeding out of him, and when he leans back in this time it isn't tentative at all.
Eventually they slow, not because either of them wants to but because Dazai's breathing has gone shaky in a way that isn't only nerves anymore, and Chuuya pulls back just far enough to actually see his face. Dazai looks wrecked in the softest possible way— lips swollen and pink, cheeks flushed all the way to his ears, eyes half-lidded and glassy, staring at Chuuya like he's something worth memorizing. It is, Chuuya thinks distantly, the single most dangerous expression he has ever seen on this idiot's face, and he has seen Dazai smile in the middle of a knife fight.
"Okay," Chuuya says, voice not quite steady either. "Okay, I think— I think that's plenty of practice for one night."
Something flickers across Dazai's face, quick; disappointment, maybe fear, the old familiar retreat starting behind his eyes, the mask trying to slide back into place. "Right. Of course. Thank you for indulging me, I'm sure it was terribly—"
"Dazai."
"—unpleasant for you, truly heroic of you to—"
"Dazai." Chuuya grabs his hand before he can pull all the way back into himself, laces their fingers together on the blanket between them, deliberate. "Shut up for a second."
Dazai shuts up. He looks down at their joined hands like he's not sure they're real.
"That wasn't practice," Chuuya says, because apparently tonight is the night he loses every ounce of self-preservation he's ever had. "Not for me, anyway. Been wantin' to do that for a while now, if I'm bein' honest, which I hate doing, so don't make me repeat myself."
Dazai stares at him. For once— for once in his entire insufferable life— he doesn't have anything clever to say. His mouth opens, closes, opens again, and what comes out is small in a way Chuuya's never heard from him before. "...Really?"
"Really." Chuuya squeezes his hand. "You're an idiot if you thought I'd let just anybody get their hands in my hair like that."
That gets a laugh out of him, surprised, and then Dazai is surging forward to kiss him again, less careful this time, more sure, one hand cupping Chuuya's face like he's something he's allowed to hold onto now. Chuuya lets himself fall back against the headboard and pulls Dazai down with him, and somewhere in the tangle of it Dazai ends up half in his lap, forehead resting against Chuuya's collarbone, both of them breathless and grinning like idiots— which they are.
It's only then that Chuuya notices Dazai's hands are still trembling where they're braced against his chest, something small and real that Dazai is clearly trying to will away and failing. Chuuya catches both of them in his own before Dazai can hide it, holds them still, thumbs smoothing slow circles over his knuckles.
"Hey. You okay?"
"I'm fine," Dazai says automatically, and then, at the look Chuuya gives him, deflates a little. "I'm— a lot happened tonight. Good things. I just don't really know what to do with my hands when they're not being useful for something."
"They're being plenty useful," Chuuya says, and laces their fingers together properly, pressing their joined hands flat over his own heartbeat, which hasn't slowed down either. "See. Not shaking so bad now."
Dazai looks down at their hands, cataloguing the moment to keep somewhere safe. "...No. Not so bad." His voice comes out smaller than Chuuya's ever heard it, stripped of every layer of performance he usually hides behind. "Thank you. For— all of it."
"Don't get sappy on me."
"Too late."
Chuuya presses a kiss to the top of his head instead of answering, keeping their hands linked, and Dazai lets him.
"For the record," Dazai mumbles into his shoulder, voice muffled and warm, "I don't think I need any more lessons. I'm a very quick study."
"Yeah, yeah." Chuuya presses a kiss into his hair, easy now, like they've been doing this for years instead of minutes. "C'mere, quick study."
On the floor, forgotten, two miis wait patiently on a paused island for a game neither of them is going to finish tonight.