Work Text:
One of Chuuya’s favourite parts of the day is the drive home from work. Driving home like an average citizen is a nice change from the rather hostile environment his workplace is. Plus, he doesn’t mind the soft hum of the radio. Chuuya does like his job, which he acknowledges is an abnormally casual statement to make about being a mafia executive. But no matter how exhausted his line of work leaves him, he has a community to serve. He has people to come back to. Service would be nothing without a purpose.
The front door opens smoothly in one fluid motion and the smell of candles greets him. Chuuya closes his eyes for a moment in exhaustion before hanging up his hat. He rakes a hand through his hair and carefully drapes his jacket on the coat rack, replacing his shoes with sandals before stepping out of the entrance. The sandals make a soft thudding noise against the wooden flooring, the kind of noise that barely stands out but feels important to remember.
He finds Dazai standing in the study, pouring himself a glass of whisky.
“I’ll never understand how you drink that,” Chuuya says, announcing his presence.
Dazai scoffs, turning to face him and holding the glass to his lips before answering.
“At least I didn’t spend half my paycheck on one bottle of alcohol last month,” the brunet retorts, smirking lazily like he’d already won the argument.
Chuuya sat down at his desk and rifles through his things, pulling out a short stack of paperwork Mori had assigned him.
“It was some good fucking wine, admit it,” the redhead said, a smile biting at the corners of his mouth.
“I suppose it was decent,” Dazai mutters, rolling his eyes with amusement.
“That’s what I fuckin’ thought,” Chuuya grins.
“How was work?” Dazai asks, closing his eyes and setting the glass down.
Chuuya sighs, earning a soft laugh from the brunet.
“The usual. Tachihara is allergic to following instructions, Akutagawa got in trouble for mauling a potential future business partner,” Chuuya recounts, feeling the ghost of a headache just thinking about it.
“Sounds rather productive,” Dazai hums along, swirling his finger along the rim of his glass.
“What about that damn case you mentioned, did you figure it out yet?” Chuuya asks.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Dazai watching him with an unreadable expression. His brown eyes tracking Chuuya’s hands as they fill out the paperwork.
“I mean, sure, I solved it. But we don’t know what to do with the kid,” Dazai complains, leaning on the desk dramatically.
Chuuya raises an eyebrow, “Kid?”
“He’s got no relatives, no place of residence and not a cent to his name. The murder was some kind of psychotic episode,” Dazai continues, a more serious edge in his voice.
Chuuya nods slowly, his pen halted in his hand for a moment.
It reminded him of Dazai, the whole case did actually. And not just because Dazai was the one investigating it. Because once upon a time, Dazai was the kid who should have looked after, he was the fifteen year old who needed something other than a life of crime and he was not offered such mercy. Maybe Dazai saw it too, or maybe his sense of justice had developed past obligation. Either way, Chuuya wasn’t a detective. If it were up to him he’d drop the kid off in some kind of orphanage after erasing his records.
“What do you want to do with the kid?” the shorter man asks.
The brunet stands still for a moment, his eyes flicking to the window before focusing again.
“Put him in a psych ward, have the agency take legal responsibility of him while he’s there,” Dazai answers, like he’d already thought it out.
Chuuya smiles softly, and in his expression there is approval and pride and something sadder all at the same time.
“Is there a reason you’re looking at me like that? Or can you just not resist my beauty?” Dazai smirks, tilting his head and looking directly into the redhead’s eyes. Chuuya meets his gaze and instantly looks away, turning his head back to his work.
“You have way too much confidence for someone who looks the way you do,” Chuuya says, glaring at the words on his paper.
“Was that a compliment?” Dazai smiles, feigning innocence.
Truth be told, Chuuya missed Dazai. After the brunet left the mafia, Chuuya thought Dazai had killed himself. Not an unpredictable end for someone like him. Chuuya doesn’t think he ever fully believed it though, he never grieved during those years. He was left with the thought that Dazai was gone but not dead, he only ever missed him as if they’d see each other again. He missed nights like these the most. When Dazai would just be there and they’d talk like there was nothing in the world but stars and each other.
The redhead sighs, putting his pen down gently and stacking the paperwork in a neat pile. He stands up and joins Dazai in front of the window. For a moment neither of them say anything and they stand there in silence, staring out at the night.
“Dazai,” Chuuya says.
Dazai turns towards him, brown eyes focusing on his features in a way that makes even Chuuya feel slightly flustered.
Chuuya reaches for Dazai, fingers catching lightly around the fabric of the brunet's coat. He pulls him closer, slowly enough that Dazai has every opportunity to move away. And for a moment, Chuuya thinks that he might. He thinks that Dazai has left before and will continue to do so, and there will always be a part of him that aches for his partner yet can’t have him.
Dazai doesn’t step away, he leans into Chuuya like it is the most natural thing he could do.
Chuuya hardly even hears anything other than the quiet, soft breathing of Dazai. Even his blood feels still in his body, he doesn't blink either. Like if he does time will turn against him and the moment will pass like nothing more than a fever.
Dazai stays completely still, eyes softened under his gaze.
They kiss softly at first, but soon enough Chuuya’s pulling him even closer and Dazai’s running his hands through the redhead's hair. He’s pretty sure this is the most desperate he’s ever been in his twenty-two years of life. Dazai hums in approval before separating them to catch his breath. Yet even then, they are mere inches apart.
“Chuuya. There’s something you need to know,” Dazai whispers, enunciating each syllable sharply, in the way he knows draws Chuuya’s attention.
Not that Dazai didn’t already have his attention.
“Dazai Osamu. If this is something stupid, I will actually murder you,” Chuuya warns, and he swears he sees dazai bite the inside of his mouth, stifling laughter.
“We can’t be together,” Dazai exhales, just loudly enough that Chuuya hears him.
“Don’t you think it’s a bit too late for that?” Chuuya exhales with amusement, motioning to the wedding band resting on his ring finger.
“I’m divorcing you,” Dazai says, more firmly this time. Like he’s genuinely breaking terrible news to Chuuya and not just messing with him for the hell of it.
“You’re not divorcing me,” Chuuya scoffs and rolls his eyes, like he’s already decided himself that Dazai will not be divorcing him. Which, honestly, Dazai finds a bit offensive, but whatever.
“No really, I am,” the brunet reinstated, idly twirling a lock of Chuuya’s hair between his fingers.
“Mhm, okay then. Why are you divorcing me?” the redhead says, in a mockingly sad tone that he knew would entertain Dazai.
“I’ve decided that I can’t be married to someone so vertically challenged,” the brunet sighs dramatically, like it was a serious issue.
“I am overwhelmed with hatred for you, Dazai.”
“You’re overwhelmed with love for me? Thank you, Chuuya. I love you too,” Dazai smiles, ignoring the very prominent glare he was receiving.
“Just shut up and let me kiss you,” Chuuya sighs, still holding onto dazai’s coat.
There is a very certain way that he clutches the fabric and Dazai recognizes it as someone who doesn’t want to let go. The kind of person who has lost too much to lose any more.
“How very forward of you, Chuuya,” Dazai laughs, making no attempt to free himself from his husband’s grasp.
“Wanna see how forward I can be, Osamu?” Chuuya says, a teasing smile gracing his features. Dazai stares at him blankly, like he completely forgot that Chuuya knew how to flirt.
For perhaps the first time that evening Dazai is rendered completely speechless. He then lets out an amused exhale that slowly escalates into laughter.
“You’re terrible at flirting,” Dazai muses, still laughing softly.
Chuuya takes that very personally, because he literally just kissed Dazai senseless and now he has the audacity to say he’s bad at flirting?
“Well you seemed pretty taken a minute ago,” Chuuya argues lightheartedly.
“I wasn’t taken, I was in awe with how horrible–” Dazai starts, but Chuuya cuts him off by pulling him closer again and kissing him. Dazai shuts up instantly, which makes Chuuya think that maybe he should do this more often just for the sake of not hearing Dazai’s voice.
“I like you better when you’re not talking,” Chuuya mutters.
“Well that’s just rude,” Dazai says, voice dropping in a comically sad impression.
“I hate you,” Chuuya replies, adding fuel to the remains of Dazai’s happiness and lighting it all on fire.
Dazai raises an eyebrow, obviously trying to hide his amusement, “Did you just admit to hating your husband?”
“Fuck yeah I did,” Chuuya says, smirking victoriously.
“Well now my feelings are hurt,” the burnet whines, fixing his coat that Chuuya had somehow managed to take off his shoulders earlier.
Chuuya watched him for a moment, studying the way his hands methodically shrug the coat up so that it rests properly on his shoulders. He says nothing,
“You don’t have to memorize me, Chuuya. I’m not going anywhere,” Dazai says.
Because it's been hard to ignore how Chuuya seems to think that every time will be the last. How every gaze lingers for a second longer than it should.
“You can’t promise something like that,” the redhead responds.
Dazai says nothing in return, because Chuuya’s right. Someone who cuts their skin open can’t promise they won’t bleed to death.
“You can wear a smile as much as you want Dazai, it won’t erase all those scars,” Chuuya says, tugging on the bandages covering Dazai’s wrists. Dazai looks at him blankly, and God, Chuuya hates that damn look. His eyes look far empty, like there is disease in his mind that is taking the life from his heart.
“I’m trying,” the brunet finally speaks, his voice quiet yet speaking volumes to his mind.
Something in Chuuya’s chest aches and he feels a smile tug at his lips.
“Good.”