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1.
Nakahara Chuuya disliked a wide variety of things. Cold weather. People commenting on his height. Stubborn mud stains that refused to come off his favourite shoes no matter how hard he scrubbed. Coming back from one mission just to be sent off to another one, with no time for sleep or food. But right now the thing, or rather person, he disliked most in the world was Dazai goddamn Osamu. Chuuya was glad that very few members of the Port Mafia were telepaths, and therefore capable of intercepting the stream of swear words and insults he was mentally hurling at his disaster of a partner. Though Osamu had fully earned such treatment, at least in his young red-haired colleague’s eyes.
What did I do to deserve this, thought Chuuya-kun for the seventeenth time in as many minutes as yet another snowball, big and cold and rolled into a perfect sphere, smacked wetly across the window pane, sticking in place and obscuring what little light leaked in from outside. The sound of snow making contact with glass was quickly followed by the sound of a light and seemingly cheerful voice, calling out from the frozen over back yard.
“Chuuya, Chuuya, let down your hair, for the handsome prince has come to save you from the evil witch!” Dazai sang, in a tone that anyone else would have mistaken for merry. Anyone but the unwilling gravity manipulating Rapunzel who had just about had enough.
“Handsome prince? Ever tried looking in a mirror, you dirty roll of bandages?” Rapunzel yelled, leaning out of the snow-covered window, which had just been thrown open with quite a bit more force than necessary.
“Why did I even think of rescuing such a disagreeable princess?” mused the noble prince, rubbing his chin with one hand. “Guess she will have to learn some manners before she can earn her freedom.” And with that, Dazai hurled another snowball directly into Chuuya's face.
Unfortunately for Dazai, Chuuya's reputation as the best martial artist in the Port Mafia was well earned. Not only did the young redhead dodge the snowball as though it had it had been no more than an ill-timed kick from an enemy goon, he also managed to squeeze his small body through the open window, jump off the windowsill only to land elegantly on both feet and blow a forceful punch to Dazai's chin, all in a few action-filled angry seconds. The latter just managed to kick Chuuya's shin as he toppled, back first, onto the cold ground.
Then something weird happened. Chuuya was lying in the snow, cursing himself for losing his balance to a simple kick, let alone a kick from that disgusting bandage-covered mackerel of a man. That's when he heard it. Laughter, from no source Chuuya could identify at first identify. It seemed the one laughing was Dazai, but it couldn't have been. Dazai's laugh came into two forms – the fake, condescending laugh he used to trick people into surrendering their hearts, secrets, and money, and the cold, scary laugh of victory, which very few enemies of the Port Mafia had heard and lived to tell the tale. This laugh was neither. It was pure and joyful, the laugh of a teenager who was perfectly happy just lying around in the snow with his friend. The strange sound shifted something in Chuuya. For a second he thought he had somehow lost control of his ability, because his chest felt very heavy yet his stomach felt very light, and there was also something tugging at the corners at his mouth, some foreign force tugging at the corners of Chuuya's mouth. Chuuya didn't have any reason to smile, he told himself. He was cold and wet, he had been kicked to the ground and humiliated, it was all Dazai's fault, and he really, really hated Dazai right now… but still, Chuuya laughed too. Quietly at first, but then louder, as somehow the snow falling on his face felt good, being knocked to the ground felt good albeit slightly painful, and strangely, just being next to a laughing Dazai felt best of all.
2.
It took Chuuya about half a second to realise that something was wrong. The giveaway was not the sound of tortured screams coming from his closet, as the apartment was quiet. Nor was it the pool of fresh blood seeping its way into his carpet, for the carpet was perfectly clean. No, Chuuya had noticed something far, far more sinister than blood and screams when he set foot in his flat that day. Two things, to be exact. The first was the spicy smell, wafting in from the kitchen. But Chuuya had not left any food on the cooker that morning, and had bought no spices save for pepper in the last three months. The second was the empty wine bottle, lying on its side next to the half-closed kitchen door. But Chuuya had had little occasion to down an entire bottle in one go – not that he needed an occasion, of course, but the bottle was Egon Muller-Scharzhof Scharzhofberger Riesling Trockenbeerenauslese, not cheap and definitely not something to consume hastily and without good cause.
He stepped quietly towards the kitchen, ready to confront whatever threat to his wine cellar was concealed behind the door. The door softly creaked open under his gloved hand, allowing Chuuya to see none other then Dazai, calmly stirring something in a large saucepan on the stove.
“What.” Chuuya strode towards Dazai, doing his best to maintain an appearance of calm and serenity. “Do. You. Think. You're. Doing.”
Dazai spun round as if he had only now noticed his partner walk in. A wide smile was plastered across his features. “Chuuya-kun! So good to see you! I stopped by to see how you were doing, and you know, your house is just so cold and unwelcoming. I feel so sad!”
“I don't remember inviting you round, mackerel. No wonder your sorry excuse for an ass feels unwelcome.”
“But anyway!” Dazai had decided to let the insult slide. “It is my duty as an executive to ensure all members of the Mafia remain in good spirits over the winter holidays- “
“I would have been in excellent spirits if you had not bothered to show up.”
“And as a sign of my respect to Chuuya-kun this year, I have decided to prepare some mulled wine for him.”
“Eh? What did you do with the wine again?” Chuuya moved towards the stove, taking care to keep as much distance as possible between himself and Dazai, and gazed tentatively at the contents of the saucepan. “Dazai, why... why is there an orange floating in my wine?”
“That's all according to the traditional recipe!” Dazai beamed. “Here, I have already poured some out for us to enjoy together!”
Chuuya reluctantly accepted the sweet-smelling glass from the executive's hand and sniffed it carefully. He couldn't immediately sense any almonds, so maybe Dazai had taken pity on him this time and opted for cinnamon over cyanide. Very slowly, Chuuya lifted the glass to his lips, took a small sip and waited for some form of poison to kick in. No side effects followed, which was remarkable in itself given that the drink had been a product of Dazai's own cooking. He took another sip, and found that, surprisingly, the liquid actually tasted quite pleasant. Not as good as the wine that had been sacrificed in its making, of course, and Dazai had overdone it slightly with the spices, and maybe he could have warmed it a bit more thoroughly, but hey, it was his first try.
“Thanks, Dazai.” Chuuya muttered, and immediately had to grab Dazai by the arm to stop the bandaged idiot from overturning the saucepan in his excitement. Maybe he really had done this for him out of the goodness of his heart, Chuuya thought. Maybe he wasn't that bad of a partner after all. But then again, you never knew with Dazai Osamu.
3.
Chuuya was in a spot of bother. And by a spot of bother, he meant a lot of pain. Apparently, whatever medications the Port Mafia's doctors had to offer were not sufficient to combat the effects of using Corruption after receiving a stab wound to the stomach and breaking one's leg in several places. To add insult to quite literal and very unpleasant injury, Chuuya was stuck in the Mafia’s very own hospital, with no access to his wine stash, or any drinkable alcohol at all for that matter. He wanted to scream or at least swear with pain, but Dazai, the selfish idiot who was the cause of Chuuya's current situation, was seated comfortably right in front of the redhead's bed, and no way in hell was that useless roll of bandages was getting the satisfaction of hearing even a whimper from his ill-fated partner.
“Good morning, Chuuya-kun!” Dazai proclaimed, noticing that Chuuya had just about managed to open one blue eye in order to stare at him. “Mori says you'll be up and about by the end of the week, just in time for the New Year's gift exchange.”
“What great news,” Chuuya forced out with what little strength he had. “Hey, Dazai. You wouldn't happen to have anything to drink on you? I could really do with something stronger than water right now.”
Dazai shook his head solemnly. “Sorry, partner. Mori-san said you should put your alcoholic tendencies on hold while you're on the mend, if you don’t want your painkillers to kill you as well as the pain.”
“I do not have alcoholic tendencies, and I wouldn’t be asking you for something drinkable if my painkillers actually worked!” Chuuya coughed, and gritted his teeth as the ache in his abdomen got stronger. “What's the point of having you here then?”
“Ah, Chuuya-kun,” Dazai looked as if he had been taken slightly aback by the redhead's hostility. “Mori-san did also say that a bit of abstinence from wine could improve your temper.”
“Yeah, and abstinence from talking about suicide and pretty girls could improve your productivity.”
“True, but why would I want to abstain from that?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Chuuya pretended to think. “Maybe then you could concentrate on the mission instead of the target's beautiful face for a change, so your co-worker doesn’t end up getting stabbed trying to save your distracted ass!”
“I have come to thank you for that, actually.” Dazai fumbled in the pocket of his trenchcoat for a few seconds and produced a small leather bound volume.
“If you’re planning to sing Christmas carols to me as a token of gratitude, please just leave right now.”
“Of course not, Chuuya-kun! I was just planning to read aloud to you. It’s The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe. Thought you might like it.”
“As long as it isn’t The Art Of Double Suicide, I’ll listen,” Chuuya murmured, lying back on his pillow.
It was surprising how calming Dazai’s voice sounded when the latter wasn’t humming, flirting or insulting Chuuya’s fashion sense. Somehow it just no longer jarred Nakahara's ears the way it usually did, and slowly Chuuya started losing focus on how bad his leg itched and how ugly the ceiling was. If the voice hadn’t belonged to Dazai, Chuuya would have even called it beautiful. Dazai also tried to provide some voice acting, with Edmund sounding a bit like Akutagawa and Lucy sounding very much like Elise-chan. Chuuya started nodding off a few sentences after Mr Tumnus was introduced, and managed to fall asleep two chapters later. When he woke up the following morning, there were no flowers by his bedside or get well cards on his pillow, but the book was there, waiting to be read further on, and the sight of it, just for a second, made Chuuya smile.
4.
Chuuya sat slumped at his desk, an empty bottle in his left hand, his head supported by his right. There was no one else in the room, and right now Chuuya preferred it that way. A year ago on this day he had been helping Akutagawa decorate the Christmas tree. The boy proved extremely skilled at wrapping garlands round the branches in intricate patterns, but his sense of style was quite disastrous and Chuuya has spent the entire evening explaining why gold baubles should not under any circumstances be hung next to white and red candy canes. This year, however, the Christmas tree aesthetics had been left up to Hirotsu as Chuuya had discovered that for some reason Dazai’s absence had managed to suck the festivity out of his soul completely. This was nonsense, Chuuya tried to tell himself. Whenever it came to celebration time, Dazai had been nothing but a nuisance, even more so than usual. You should be relieved, Chuuya repeated under his breath, time and time again. No-one is knocking over the tree, or arranging demon summoning circles out of the decorations, or trying to discreetly add significant amounts of extra hot chilli pepper to Chuuya’s portion of fried chicken. And yet, he did not feel relieved in the least. If anything, he felt abandoned. Not that he would ever admit it, of course.
There was a knock on the door, and then a quiet shuffling. Chuuya ignored both.
“Nakahara-saaaaan,” a high-pitched voice called from the corridor. “There’s a postcard for you, Nakahara-san!”
“I’m... not really in the mood for postcards right now, Elise-chan. But thank you.”
“Oh no.” Elise sounded genuinely saddened. At least someone in this godforsaken organisation still cared about him. “I’ll leave it under your door then. Maybe you'll like to take a look at it later! Oh, and,” The girl paused for a moment. “Could you please do my hair again for today’s dinner? It looked so pretty last time, even Rintarou liked it.”
“Okay,” Chuuya chuckled to himself. “I promise I will stop by later.”
Hearing the pitter-patter of Elise's feet disappear in the distance, Chuuya stood up to pick up the postcard where it had been pushed into the space between his door and the floor. It was by no means of an elaborate design, a simple maroon background with “Merry Christmas” in gold lettering. The message inside was curt, written in a messy, childish handwriting with inkstains in the bottom right hand corner.
“To the petit mafia.
Congratulations, Chuuya-kun, for enduring another year in this harsh and unforgiving world, yet failing to grow a single inch. Best of luck in the upcoming year. I trust you will be able to carry on with your service to the Mafia in the absence of yours unfaithfully without surrendering to alcoholism or destroying the entirety of Yokohama. I sincerely hope that we will have little occasion to interact in the coming twelve months.
Worst wishes,
Dazai Osamu.”
“Well,” thought Chuuya as he shoved the postcard into the fireplace, “What a considerate ex-partner I have.”
5.
Chuuya didn't know if this was the best or the worst idea he had ever encountered. His first reaction when he heard the news from Mori had been to laugh, and then stutter in surprise when the boss informed him that this was Christmas, not the first of April, and that his attendance as a Port Mafia executive was expected at all costs. Even when the cost was socialising with members of none other than the Armed Detective Agency over punch and party food, in order to celebrate the defeat of the Guild and lay aside their differences for a night.
The party had turned out to be quite tolerable, even by Chuuya's extremely high standards. Rashomon came in handy when Kyouka discovered she couldn't reach the tofu standing on the other end of the table, whereas Doppo Poet, the ability of Dazai's new partner – god, Chuuya felt sorry for the man – turned out to be very useful for conjuring up extra cutlery whenever it was needed. Chuuya found himself bonding with Kunikida pretty fast, and even offered to help keep an eye on slash babysit Dazai throughout the evening. At first Kunikida had tried to decline, insisting that the suicidal genius was his responsibility to handle, but after Dazai had attempted to drown himself in the punch bowl, set his bandages on fire with a lighter stolen from an unsuspecting Tachihara's pocket and tried to hang himself on the chandelier, the offer was quickly accepted with thanks.
The two of them were now standing in the corner furthest away from the rest of the party. The meal was almost over, but a few ability users from both sides had stayed at the table to finish the remaining chocolate mousse. Chuuya had opted instead to monitor Dazai, who was absent-mindendly studying the mistletoe handing from one of the bannisters. There was an uncomfortable silence at first, as neither had even bothered to look in the other's direction while eating.
Dazai was the first to speak.
“So we meet again, Chuuya-kun. Can’t say I missed either you or your ugly hat a lot.”
“Same here. The Mafia’s a much better place without suicidal bandage freaks amongst its executives.”
Silence.
“Thanks for leaving me in the forest, bastard.”
“My pleasure, petit mafia-san.”
Another silence. Chuuya felt strange. The man in front of him was a traitor, an annoyance and, in more ways than one, his ex-partner. The man had left him on his onwn, just disappeared one day with no explanation or apology. Chuuya wanted to hate him more than anything in the world, but he couldn’t. Of course, that did not stop him trying.
“Good to hear the Guild is dealt with. I’d rather burn my hat than work with you again.”
“As if I would ever waste my time on working with someone with such a disastrous fashion sense.”
“Kunikida-san promised to text me if one of your suicide attempts turns out to be successful. I will be looking forward to it.”
“Cold-hearted as always, Chuuya.”
Dammit. Chuuya sincerely wished he could always be cold-hearted with Dazai.
“You leave me with nothing but a blown-up car as an explanation after being my partner for... hell, most of my life, you show up in front of me cool as a cucumber four fucking years later, you just dump me in a meadow just after I decide to trust you for one single second, you expect me to be fine with it all, and suddenly I'm the cold-hearted one?”
Chuuya paused for breath, throwing a quick look at the dinner table, hoping against hope that no-one there had heard his outburst. Seemingly, no-one had.
“Did it ever cross that twisted, bandage-wrapped mind of yours, that maybe, just maybe, I give a shit about you?”
There. He said it. No turning back now.
Dazai maintained an appearance of outward calm, but Chuuya knew him too well to miss the way his pupils widened, ever so slightly.
“You cared about me, Chuuya? How interesting. And here I was thinking the feeling was one-sided.”
Chuuya opened his mouth then shut it again, processing what Dazai had just said. Then it sank in, and for a moment Chuuya thought he was going to have a heart attack.
“Wait, you bastard, you just said you...” Dazai pressed a long index finger to Chuuya’s lips, silencing him.
“We can discuss that later, partner.” A smile spread across Dazai’s features. “Right now, we have things to do.”
“Things to do?” Chuuya had only now noticed that the restaurant was empty. Both Port Mafia and Agency members had left for the privacy of their own homes.
“Why exactly, Chuuya-kun,” Dazai’s smile had widened even further, “do you think we are standing directly underneath the mistletoe?”
In the end, this isn’t the worst way to spend Christmas, Chuuya thought to himself five hours later as he tried to push Dazai’s ridiculously long legs off his own futon as the latter lay sprawled out, flipping TV channel after TV channel in the hopes of finding a detective drama. Maybe he would need to change his mind about never seeing the man. After all, having a partner can be a good thing. Even if they’re not, you know, your work partner.