Chapter Text
It was two in the morning. The bar was mostly empty, with a few stragglers here and there. The bartender wiped down the tables in swift circular motions before stacking the chairs on top of them. A redhead by the bar flagged him down. His glass was empty.
It was three in the morning. The bar was almost completely vacant and had he not been careful, the bartender would've locked up shop with one more customer still inside. The redhead was so small, slumped over on the bar, that he almost missed him.
"Chuuya-kun, we're closing."
He shook his shoulder. The smaller man mumbled something about a stupid mackerel.
"Chuuya-kun, please wake up," he said softly, shaking his shoulder again. Chuuya stirred, but didn't give any indication of getting up.
The bartender sighed. This was a common occurrence, but usually, Chuuya came drinking with others and one of them would always take him home. In all honestly, Chuuya was constantly causing problems in his bar. When he wasn't slumped over drunk off a single glass of wine, he was picking fights and screaming a certain name over and over. The only reason the bartender allowed him in was that Chuuya tipped well and he was frankly, very cute.
He shook him a few more times until Chuuya mumbled, "I'm up, I'm up, shitty Dazai."
"Do you need me to call a cab, Chuuya-kun?" He asked worriedly.
Chuuya waved him off, scoffing in disbelief. He was a Port Mafia Executive—he could get home by himself. He wasn't even that drunk anyways. The redhead grabbed a couple bills from his pockets and slapped them down on the bar.
"No, 'm fineee..." He slurred, securing his hat with one gloveless hand. He didn't know what happened to it; it was special. He pouted. That made him sad.
A certain bandage-wasting device had given the pair of gloves to him on his eighteenth birthday.
Immediately, he cut off his thought, shaking his head as if it could clear the words filling his mind. No, he told himself. No thinking. Thinking is bad.
With that, he waved bye to the bartender and swayed unsteadily to the door. Determined to make it home, he threw it open and stepped outside into the cold winter air. If he wasn't so wasted, maybe he would've shivered.
He paused for a moment, gazing down the empty road, the streetlights blinking hazily in his vision. Where was he again?
I remember how to get back...
Right?
"Double suicide, wow it's so fuu~un," a voice sang from an alleyway.
"Double suicide, would you be the one?"
Dazai Osamu happily skipped along the street, his bandaged hands waving in the air.
He was currently meeting up with a drug dealer. Not that he usually did that. No, this was a special occasion, recommended by The Complete Guide to Suicide. Xanax and alcohol. A great way to go.
"'A wonderfully potent mixture of death that will have you feeling numb from your toes to the dark depths of your soul,'" he recited, giddy with happiness.
Finally, he thought.
Dazai sighed dreamily as he continued dancing in the middle of the street. It was very late so his odds of getting run over were pretty slim.
Not that he'd want to get run over.
Dazai would like to die in a way that wouldn't affect others and committing vehicular manslaughter kinda stays with a person.
Anyways, he thought, humming along. Drugs and alcohol definitely mix to a beautiful nirvana of death. Poison to your body! Like Romeo and Juliet! He clasped his hands together, smiling in bliss. How beautiful.
The only problem was, he didn't have a pretty girl to kill himself with.
Alas, he sighed. Double suicides were a hard thing to do. Killing yourself was easy, but trying to get someone else to do it with was downright difficult.
Maybe he could convince one of the café girls?
The brunette continued singing along and skipping.
"'S the right waay..?" Another voice cut through the air, halting the second verse of his suicide song.
Dazai stopped skipping midair.
Oh no.
"Naaahh...?" The voice slurred again, sounding more confused this time, "Où es-tuuu?"
*Where are you
His gaze met a familiar midget stumbling down the road. Dazai's breath hitched in his throat as he saw his red-haired partner.
Ex-partner, he reminded himself. His smile instantly faded from his face.
He was far away enough that the redheaded chibi hadn't noticed him yet. Plus, it looked like Chuuya would be too drunk to notice Dazai, even if he was right next to him. He could easily sneak down the next alley and avoid confrontation altogether.
Walk away, Dazai. Go buy your drugs, focus on the double suicide.
Dazai turned to go.
But then stupid Chuuya had to go and trip on thin air and fall down and start drunk crying like a baby in the middle of the road. His idiotic hat slid off his head.
Before he realized what he was doing, Dazai was by the chibi's side, kneeling down at his eye-level.
"Chuuya."
Teary blue eyes gazed up at him. Ah, he loved Chuuya's eyes. They reminded him of the sky. Not that he'd ever tell him that. He picked up the discarded hat from the ground, and when Chuuya's little hand reached for it, he pulled it back with a smirk.
"Fuck yoo, Dazai," Chuuya mumbled, wiping away his tears with the back of his hands. Dazai caught his left wrist. It was bare.
"What happened to your glove?" He murmured. He surprised himself with how gentle his voice was, like a quiet river soothing the broken earth.
Those cerulean eyes started watering again as Chuuya bit his lip, leaving a deep mark. He took a shuddering breath and then—
"I laawwwsstt it," he bawled, "Je suis un imbécile! Even though shitty Dazai...present...lost." He dissolved into incomprehensible hiccups.
Dazai smiled softly at him. He was so pretty when he cried. One of his favorite hobbies was making Chuuya cry. There was something sadistically beautiful about the way those blue eyes welled up, the way his cheeks always flamed red before the tears streamed down his face.
It was very rare though and usually, Chuuya was an angry drunk—not a sad drunk. Dazai wondered what made him so upset.
He dragged his bandaged thumb underneath his eyes, drying the tears that clung to his eyelashes. Before he could help himself, his thumb traced over Chuuya's plump lips.
Bright turquoise orbs stared at him in hazy confusion. He opened his mouth slightly, tilting his head in an adorably perplexed way.
Dazai breathed sharply. Chuuya was too pretty for his own good. He pulled his hand away quickly.
At least he'd stopped crying.
"Chuuya, can you walk?"
Said man pouted on the ground, crossing his arms and shaking his head while muttering curses in multiple languages. Dazai fought to keep a grin from crawling on his face; that would only antagonize the volatile French man even more.
Dazai scooped the petite man in his arms, cradling him carefully to his chest. He frowned; Chuuya had gotten thinner, even though he was already so small. It was like carrying nothing.
Chuuya whined in protest but did nothing to escape. Dazai chuckled darkly.
Carrying the redhead in his arms, Dazai began walking home, drugs and thoughts of double suicide gone from his mind.
He could only focus on the petite mafia in his arms. The pungent odor of alcohol wafted from Chuuya's breath. Inwardly, he wondered how much the chibi had drank but then reminded himself that he didn't care. He adjusted him in his arms, although Chuuya was too tired to do much besides roll his head back. Soon enough, he was fast asleep, curled up against Dazai's chest in an effort to keep warm. His gloveless hand clutched the lapels of the detective's tan jacket tightly.
Dazai peered down at him, at his pale skin, his tear-stained cheeks, his long lashes.
"Why were you crying, Chuuya?" He wondered aloud. He didn't expect a response.
The smaller man nestled deeper into his chest, his nose pressed against his bandages.
To his surprise, Chuuya mumbled so softly Dazai was sure he heard wrong.
"'Cause today's the day...Dazai left."