Alright alright alright!

Part Three here we goooooo https://twitter.com/sushib0mb/status/1264405625229971457

/Time flies./

There is something about those two words, thrown out so unassumingly, that positively fractures Chuuya's heart. They make the warm tea in his hands suddenly feel cold as ice, the temperature dropping along with the temperature of the room.

"...yeah, it really does," Chuuya utters around a sudden deep and sharp inhale as he tosses the cup into the garbage bin. He hopes with everything he has that neither Dazai nor Yosano notices the sudden glassiness in his eyes, shimmering with tears that are threatening to spill.

Fuck.

He thought he was stronger than this. But even after seven years... well, Chuuya supposes this isn't a wound that even time could ever properly heal.

He's trying. Really, he is. And for the most part, he's...managing.

But today, his emotions are running high⁠, his

mind flooding with memories, both good and bad again, and...

Chuuya sighs, quickly swiping at a stray tear that falls. At the moment, he is just praying that he can get through this consultation without breaking down. At the moment, Chuuya is begging the gods for a distraction.

And thankfully, someone up there is listening.

"It's nice you see again, Chuuda!"

—listening a little too fuckin' well, apparently. And they have a sense of an obnoxious humor, too, it seems, because even though he's never been so grateful to someone for getting his name wrong

the goofy, airheaded way Dazai seems to ~sing it out~ instead of just⁠ saying it⁠ suddenly fills Chuuya with an indescribable urge to smack the taller man right in the face.

Welp, at least the sadness is gone.

He'd rather be slightly homicidal than depressed.

Nevertheless,

"Oi, it's Chuu/ya/. Not Chuuda," he corrects him with a low growl of annoyance.

Dazai lets out an easy laugh, holding his hands up in front of him in defense sheepishly.

"Sorry, sorry," he quickly apologizes, hazarding a few steps closer, "I'm bad with names."

When he's sure Chuuya isn't going to take a swing at him, Dazai closes the rest of the distance between them, taking Chuuya's hand in both of his, gripping them in a warm handshake.

"Glad you made it out in this weather."

"It actually just started right before I came in."

"You poor thing," Dazai coos, still clutching his hand tightly, "no wonder your hand is so cold!"

Chuuya gives him a look. "They were cold /before/ that, actually. I tend to run cold. Oh—um, by the way," Chuuya gently wrenches his hand free of Dazai's grip and points to the

coat rack, "My hoodie was soaked so I hung it up there. Hope that's okay."

"Totally fine," Yosano chimes in without looking up from her magazine.

"Yes, of course," Dazai agrees as well before switching gears and gesturing to a back entrance, at the opposite end of the small

lobby, leading away from the workroom⁠—and away from the rambunctious noise coming from it.

"You're only in for a consult today, if I'm remembering correctly?" Dazai asks, voice soft as he ushers Chuuya through the entrance. It turns into a short, narrow hall lined with the

same black glittery tiling as the lobby floor⁠—the wall itself is decorated in abstract art and exotic looking sculptures, along with an expansion of the picture collection from out in the lobby and the workroom.

As Dazai guides him along, Chuuya idly takes them in, in awe.

Some are of finished pieces, others seem to be progress shots. Some are the pieces alone, and some are candid shots, featuring the artist doing work on their patrons.

Some are in color, and some, black and white.

There's not one that Chuuya sees that he doesn't like or admire.

One thing is for sure: everyone here is at the top of their game—clearly enough so that they trust each other with their own personal visions and designs, as well.

Before the hall opens up into a small, intimately lit room, one of the last photos Chuuya catches sight of all but

blows his mind—after all, he had just been staring awestruck at the finished design not five minutes ago.

It's a candid shot; one of Yosano, looking exhausted but pleasant while lying on her side, sleepily toying with her undone bikini string. From the way her lips are moving,

she had clearly been in the middle of talking when the picture was taken.

But what really grabs Chuuya's attention is /who/ she is talking to.

With his tattoo gun pressed to skin and his tongue poked out on one side in concentration is Dazai, and he's hunched in a rather

awkward-looking position over her bare, then only half-colored thigh, painstakingly shading in the main part of the design.

Chuuya stops cold. This is one he wants to really get a good look at.

"Wow," he whispers aloud, "I didn't see this one online... it's amazing."

He turns to Dazai, who flutters his hand while giggling, looking somewhat bashful at Chuuya's honest and⁠— this time⁠— contemptless praise.

"Aw, thanks," he murmurs, his other hand hugging his cheek. "That one was a doozy... I think we were all here until three in the morning

for that session."

Chuuya curses quietly, awed. Dazai laughs. "Yeah, everyone kept threatening me to stay awake and finish it... pretty sure I ended up passing out right on Yosano's leg an hour after that picture."

"Nice."

"...yeah... I can think of worse places to pass out."

With a snort, Chuuya allows himself to be steered away from the wall of pictures and into another extremely luxe-looking sofa.

"So I take it you all do work on each other often, then?" He asks as he all but curls into the cushion, letting out a tiny noise of pleasure when he

sinks down into it once again, like he did in the lobby before. But he doesn't realize just /how/ loud the noise actually was⁠—not until his eyes flutter back open and he sees Dazai staring at him from the opposite end of the small couch, wide-eyed and wider smiled.

"⁠—what?" Chuuya huffs, cheeks growing hot under that suddenly teasing, way too perceptive stare.

"It's a real nice couch, huh?" Dazai croons.

"Yeah, it's..." Chuuya pauses to settle in further, "...swanky."

With a chuckle, Dazai strokes along the top, moving the velvet

against his palms in the opposite direction than the rest of the couch.

"Yup, pretty sure this couch added a star to our rating," he jokes, brushing it back to normal, "it's easier to get the juices flowing when you're comfortable, ya know?"

Chuuya stares at him, grimacing.

There is no way in Hell that this guy doesn't realize just how—how /dirty/that sounded.

But apparently he /does/, because after a beat, Dazai's eyes pop wide open and he gurgles, stunned.

"The /creative/ juices, I mean—" he continues quickly, letting out a dorky chuckle.

"—we're not /that/ kind of establishment."

Chuuya snorts as he sets his bag down the floor next to him. "Right...wouldn't want anyone to get the wrong idea, what with the horny lighting and the cushy sex-club furniture."

"Exactly," Dazai agrees with him wholeheartedly.

"Oh, and to answer your previous question⁠—yeah, we do. That was her birthday present from me last year," Dazai pauses to turn, so Chuuya can get a look at the dreamy sketchwork calico cat adorning his bare right shoulder. "Ranpo, another artist here, did this one for me."

Then he holds up his hands.

Intricate, painstaking ink work coats the top of both of his hands, from his wrists right down to his fingertips. It's not all one piece; but several pieces comprising an amazing gallery of artistry.

The most notable piece, however, stretches across both of his hands. The words, "Live Well," on his left hand, and "Live Beautiful," on his right, hug his knuckles, embellished in a breathtaking array of red, pink, and violet watercolors. "And these, Yosano did for /me/."

"Wow."

Chuuya had always admired the dreamy innocence of watercolor... and now, looking at the work of a veritable master of the technique, Chuuya finds himself itching to get a whole other piece done.

"God, you guys are all top tier here, huh?" he can't help but marvel aloud.

Dropping his hands back down onto his thighs, Dazai gives him an earnest smile. "I like to think so."

With that, Dazai extends his hand out. "Can I see?"

Chuuya goes blank for a moment, puzzled. "Huh? See what?"

Much like the other day, Dazai gingerly reaches for his wrist.

"Your wrist, love," Dazai responds smoothly. "I want to see how it's healing. Is it feeling okay, so far?"

"Oh, um, yeah. As well as can be expected, I guess," Chuuya replies as he watches Dazai run his thumb over wrist, inspecting the tattoo. "I mean it itches a little, but..."

“Oh, that’s alright,” Dazai says, once he’s satisfied, “a little itching is perfectly normal.” He pauses to smile. “Overall, looks like it’s healing nicely.”

Chuuya nods, taking his hand back once Dazai relinquishes his hold on it. “I’ve gotten a lot of compliments on it, too.”

“Glad to hear it. It’s a lovely piece, given its simplicity...” Dazai reclines back against the arm of the couch, his smile growing inviting. “And I’m certain you have something even more lovely in mind, hm?”

Chuuya shrugs. “Well, I don’t know if ‘lovely’ is the right word...”

He worries his lips in his teeth, picking his words carefully. “...but it is...important. To me.”

“And that’s all that matters. It only has to have meaning to you,” Dazai says, “no one else.”

“Yeah...”

“So?” Dazai presses gently, “you have me for an hour. What sort of work—

are you interested in getting?”

Chuuya takes a deep breath, swallowing the swelling lump of emotion in his throat, and digs into his pocket, fishing out the folded, slightly crumpled photo inside.

“Well, when I first went through your portfolio, I was of course drawn in by—

—your raw talent, and the way you’ve mastered and blended different styles and techniques. But what really blew me away, and what ultimately lead me here... were your portraits, and your realism pieces.

With a shaky exhale, Chuuya hands Dazai the photo, so he can see it.

Delicately, mindful of the torn and frayed edges, Dazai unfolds the picture and spreads it out on his thigh.

Chuuya doesn’t know why he suddenly feels so tense, so /anxious/as he waits for Dazai’s reaction, but the instant Dazai’s expression softens, Chuuya instantly feels his

own body relax again, somewhat, exhaling the breath he hadn’t even realized he had been holding up until then.

“His, uh—“ Chuuya stops to clear his throat, “—his name is Rimbaud. Arthur Rimbaud.”

“Who is he?”

Chuuya steels himself, already feeling the familiar—and painful

—tightness start to burn in his chest. “He was my father—my uh, my adoptive father.”

Dazai’s soft expression dims a bit as he studies the picture further, tracing over the faded surface with his finger. After a moment he exhales deeply and turns to Chuuya, his smile forlorn.

“I take it, from the worn state of this picture...that he’s no longer with us?”

Oh god. His throat is so tight now, it hurts.

N-no,” Chuuya chokes out, barely above a whisper and painfully aware of the growing tremor in his voice—fuck, maybe it’s still too soon after all.

But if seven years is too soon for him, then when the hell is he ever going to be ready?

Inhaling sharply, Chuuya squares his shoulders and looks Dazai in the eye.

“No,” he says again, willing his voice to remain steady, “He isn’t—he died, um, back when I was fifteen.”

I’m sorry,” Dazai says quietly, frowning as he turns his attention back down to the photograph. “My god, he was so young... was he ill? If you don’t mind my asking?”

/No. He wasn’t./

“Yeah,” Chuuya lies quickly, wiping at a wayward tear streaking down his cheek.

“He had some kind of autoimmune disorder... I dunno, I can’t really remember the name of it now.”

Dazai shakes his head, shaggy hair moving with the action. “That’s terrible.”

“Yeah.”

The room grows uncomfortably silent for a moment, save for the sound of Chuuya sniffling.

“Well, for what it’s worth, this seemed to have been a beautiful day,” Dazai says, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

It was. It’s a day that Chuuya remembers quite fondly, in fact—his first winter in Paris, all those years ago, sitting with his adoptive father

at his favorite cafe, drinking his very first espresso—and absolute /hating it/. He remembers watching Rimbaud with childish fascination as he wove his long, dark hair into a loose, messy braid to keep it from blowing around when the wind picked up, and rested it on his shoulder

he remembers listening to him recite old French poetry as they sat—back then, Chuuya could barely understand it, but that certain didn’t make it any less beautiful or emotional. His father just had that natural eloquence about him; the kind that could take hold of the senses...

...and he remembers taking that picture of his newfound father, staring into the distance and admiring the light dusting of snow that had just fallen, all the while sipping his hot chocolate—completely unaware that Chuuya had taken the photograph on his little wind-up camera.

The memory of the day brings a fresh wave of tears into Chuuya’s eyes. Though this time, they’re tears of nostalgia.

“Was this here in Japan?” Dazai asks as he flips the picture over, looking for the date.

“No, um,” Chuuya viciously dabs at his now damp cheeks. “It was Paris.”

“Huh.” Dazai looks confused, but also amused. “Would I sound incredibly stupid if I said I /didn’t/know it snowed in France?”

Chuuya laughs. “No, because honestly, I didn’t know either until that day. So don’t feel too bad about yourself.”

To his credit, Dazai’s soft, easy laugh is exactly what Chuuya needed to hear right now. At the sound of his boyish, whimsical chuckle, the heavy atmosphere in the room seems to lift almost instantly —for which Chuuya is grateful.

It makes it a little easier to collect himself.