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gently.
/You like it?/
/Yeah, thank you./
They’ve never needed words to communicate anyway. Dazai keeps a hand on Chuuya’s ankle, alternating between squeezing and thumbing, and he hears a soft sigh from the other end of the couch.
Yeah. Maybe Dazai could get used to this.
/You like it?/
/Yeah, thank you./
They’ve never needed words to communicate anyway. Dazai keeps a hand on Chuuya’s ankle, alternating between squeezing and thumbing, and he hears a soft sigh from the other end of the couch.
Yeah. Maybe Dazai could get used to this.
The next few weeks pass like that. Dazai goes to work with Chuuya in his convertible and back, lies on the couch while Chuuya cooks, talks over the din of the TV until the stars come out, and falls asleep with Chuuya on the other side of the couch.
Dazai never thought he could grow so /comfortable/ with the boy he thought to be an annoyance of a partner but.
Odasaku always told him that if he gave Chuuya a chance, they could be great friends. Odasaku has never been wrong.
Dazai gave Chuuya a chance and they’ve blossomed
Odasaku always told him that if he gave Chuuya a chance, they could be great friends. Odasaku has never been wrong.
Dazai gave Chuuya a chance and they’ve blossomed
And now, /now/, Dazai can’t help but wonder if this—whatever this was—could be a little more.
He’s seen Chuuya in his undergarments before, from the various several day missions involving shared rooms. He hadn’t cared then.
He /wants/ to say he still doesn’t care now.
He’s seen Chuuya in his undergarments before, from the various several day missions involving shared rooms. He hadn’t cared then.
He /wants/ to say he still doesn’t care now.
But if he did, it would be a fucking /lie./
Because Dazai’s eyes are drawn to Chuuya like a moth to flame, especially when his shirt rides up and his pants hang low.
Is it perverted to stare at every sliver of skin that Chuuya exposes? Maybe.
Does Dazai care? Absolutely not.
Because Dazai’s eyes are drawn to Chuuya like a moth to flame, especially when his shirt rides up and his pants hang low.
Is it perverted to stare at every sliver of skin that Chuuya exposes? Maybe.
Does Dazai care? Absolutely not.
His skin looks so /soft/ and it’s so /pale/, and Dazai wants to touch, touch, /touch./
He wonders if Chuuya would ever let him, one day.
He /seems/ to be warming up to Dazai too—as evidenced by the breakfast every morning, how their two blankets on their couch turned into one
He wonders if Chuuya would ever let him, one day.
He /seems/ to be warming up to Dazai too—as evidenced by the breakfast every morning, how their two blankets on their couch turned into one
how he tells Dazai about himself, his friends, his fears, his worst missions, the way he so easily leans into Dazai’s touch, almost like he’s been doing it for years.
Once strangers, now something along the lines of friends, and /just maybe/, on the precipice of something more.
Once strangers, now something along the lines of friends, and /just maybe/, on the precipice of something more.
With Oda and Ango, Dazai had felt more than just the empty bite of numbness, more like a human, more /alive./
With Chuuya, Dazai feels more /himself/, knows more about himself, and learning how to be more than just a hush of a person in an empty apartment.
With Chuuya, Dazai feels more /himself/, knows more about himself, and learning how to be more than just a hush of a person in an empty apartment.
Here, in their shared space and the air they breathe and the couch that’s not just his or Chuuya’s but /theirs/, Dazai finds hope.
Here, in the space across from Chuuya, with their legs tangled beneath the blanket, Dazai can think about tomorrow.
Here, in the space across from Chuuya, with their legs tangled beneath the blanket, Dazai can think about tomorrow.
He wonders if he could stay in these moments forever: the ones where he and Chuuya throw food at each other, where he and Chuuya laugh at 3am until their bellies ache, where he and Chuuya kick each other from underneath the blanket, where he and Chuuya are simply /there./
It’s with time and patience and long talks and days off with canned crab that Dazai comes to realize it.
He’s sitting on Chuuya’s marble countertop, legs kicking the cabinet, and singing along with Chuuya at the top of their lungs to a shitty American pop song on the radio.
He’s sitting on Chuuya’s marble countertop, legs kicking the cabinet, and singing along with Chuuya at the top of their lungs to a shitty American pop song on the radio.
Chuuya has a five meal crab course cooking on the stove as he dances around the kitchen, singing into his wooden spatula, with his feet /tap-tap-tapping/ against the tiled flooring.
He offers a hand out to Dazai, blissful and /so damn happy/, and Dazai’s heart skips a beat.
He offers a hand out to Dazai, blissful and /so damn happy/, and Dazai’s heart skips a beat.
The revelation hits him like a crashing asteroid as Chuuya skips around the counter to check on their dinner.
“Mm, I haven’t burned your celebration dinner, thank god,” Chuuya hums. His back is to Dazai as he stirs the pot. “Can’t believe you managed to go two months sober.”
“Mm, I haven’t burned your celebration dinner, thank god,” Chuuya hums. His back is to Dazai as he stirs the pot. “Can’t believe you managed to go two months sober.”
“Me too.” It’s been almost half a year since Oda died, and despite his smoldering grief, he’s...
“I’m proud of you, Dazai,” Chuuya looks over his shoulder with a smile. His eyes /shine/, like the sky in midsummer, like the ocean in Yokohama Bay. “I’m glad you’re here with me.”
“I’m proud of you, Dazai,” Chuuya looks over his shoulder with a smile. His eyes /shine/, like the sky in midsummer, like the ocean in Yokohama Bay. “I’m glad you’re here with me.”
He’s /here/, he’s /alive/, he’s learning how to /live/ again, how to /feel/ again.
He’s here, he’s alive, and he’s hopeful for today, tomorrow, and every day after that.
He’s here, he’s living for once, and he’s undeniably, fearlessly, wonderfully in love with Chuuya.
He’s here, he’s alive, and he’s hopeful for today, tomorrow, and every day after that.
He’s here, he’s living for once, and he’s undeniably, fearlessly, wonderfully in love with Chuuya.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m glad I’m here too.”
They sit on the couch for dinner that night, just as they’ve done every night. Chuuya laughs and laughs and his feet knock against Dazai’s knee and his eyes shine as he stutters a joke through his laughter
Dazai loves him.
They sit on the couch for dinner that night, just as they’ve done every night. Chuuya laughs and laughs and his feet knock against Dazai’s knee and his eyes shine as he stutters a joke through his laughter
Dazai loves him.
They fall asleep underneath a shared blanket on their opposite ends. Dazai wakes up first, and he’s greeted with Chuuya in the hazy morning—his hair the color of the sunset, curling over his flushed rosy cheeks, and his dark lashes fluttering like a butterfly’s as he slumbers on.
He’s beautiful. He’s so damn beautiful, and Dazai doesn’t know how or why he didn’t notice it before. Maybe it’s the rose-tinted lenses of being reborn in new love, but...
Dazai does look forward to getting to know Chuuya and all of his beautiful, stunning self, bit by bit.
Dazai does look forward to getting to know Chuuya and all of his beautiful, stunning self, bit by bit.
He feels the words on his tongue: heavy as stone and longing be spoken.
/I love you. I love you. I love you./
But he doesn’t, /won’t/, say it. Not today.
Chuuya awakens soon after, yawning and stretching like a cat and Dazai unabashedly stares like he’s a vintage painting.
/I love you. I love you. I love you./
But he doesn’t, /won’t/, say it. Not today.
Chuuya awakens soon after, yawning and stretching like a cat and Dazai unabashedly stares like he’s a vintage painting.
“You’re up early,” Chuuya says through a yawn. “What gives?”
Dazai shrugs. “Just couldn’t get back to sleep. Besides, it’s almost time anyway.”
“Mm yeah.” Chuuya rises and drags himself to the hallway. “Be right back.”
Dazai watches him go, watches his steps like it’s a dance.
Dazai shrugs. “Just couldn’t get back to sleep. Besides, it’s almost time anyway.”
“Mm yeah.” Chuuya rises and drags himself to the hallway. “Be right back.”
Dazai watches him go, watches his steps like it’s a dance.
And when Chuuya comes back, Dazai can’t help but stare as he makes coffee and starts the stove to make them breakfast, all the while humming an old American pop song.
It’s so domestic, so homely, and Dazai wants this forever.
He wants /Chuuya/ forever.
It’s so domestic, so homely, and Dazai wants this forever.
He wants /Chuuya/ forever.
Sure, it’s not very cute when Chuuya throws a spatula at Dazai and snaps at him to get ready.
But when Chuuya lets Dazai wrap his arms around his waist in the kitchen, lets Dazai burrow his face into his hair, Dazai prays he can call this small, fierce boy his home forever.
But when Chuuya lets Dazai wrap his arms around his waist in the kitchen, lets Dazai burrow his face into his hair, Dazai prays he can call this small, fierce boy his home forever.
Yes, they’re late to work after Dazai makes Chuuya laugh one too many times over breakfast, and /yes/, Chuuya throws a barrage of pens at him for making him late.
But Dazai floats on a cloud of /happiness/ the whole day. It’s a completely new feeling, being hopelessly in love.
But Dazai floats on a cloud of /happiness/ the whole day. It’s a completely new feeling, being hopelessly in love.
He does his paperwork in a daze, half heartedly doodling dogs and hearts and spatulas in the margins of his reports.
When Mori calls him for a meeting, Dazai all but skips down the hall, like he’s fifteen again, head full of wondering what Chuuya’s going to make for dinner.
When Mori calls him for a meeting, Dazai all but skips down the hall, like he’s fifteen again, head full of wondering what Chuuya’s going to make for dinner.
“You seem chipper today,” Mori remarks dryly, watching as Dazai settles into the seat across from him. “Any particular reason, Dazai-kun?”
“None at all, Mori-san.” Dazai props his head on his hand and gazes out at the city below.
Blue skies (like the color of Chuuya’s eyes),
“None at all, Mori-san.” Dazai props his head on his hand and gazes out at the city below.
Blue skies (like the color of Chuuya’s eyes),
cotton candy clouds (like the softness of Chuuya’s skin), and the bustling city below (like the sounds of home in Chuuya’s apartment).
If he squints, he can spot couples holding hands and going on dates and kissing. He wonders if he can do that with Chuuya too.
If he squints, he can spot couples holding hands and going on dates and kissing. He wonders if he can do that with Chuuya too.
“Dazai-kun.” Mori’s voice is scaldingly cold now, devoid of the playfulness from before. “Have you been listening?”
Dazai rolls his eyes. “Have I ever listened before?”
Mori sighs. “If you’re going to be this distracted, maybe I preferred you to be a daily drunkard.”
Dazai rolls his eyes. “Have I ever listened before?”
Mori sighs. “If you’re going to be this distracted, maybe I preferred you to be a daily drunkard.”
“Would you really though?” Dazai leans forward, smirking tauntingly at Mori. “I can always throw up in your office again.”
“And I can just as easily rid you of your distractions,” Mori responds smoothly. “Perhaps a three month long overseas mission would do?”
“And I can just as easily rid you of your distractions,” Mori responds smoothly. “Perhaps a three month long overseas mission would do?”
“Really, he’d just as well come with me if you send me overseas,” Dazai snorts. “We do come as a combat and strategy pair.”
Mori’s smile is frosty. “Oh, I didn’t mean /you./ The mission would only need Chuuya-kun’s skills, and perhaps...” He twirls a pen between his fingers.
Mori’s smile is frosty. “Oh, I didn’t mean /you./ The mission would only need Chuuya-kun’s skills, and perhaps...” He twirls a pen between his fingers.
“Chuuya-kun’s /little secret ability,/ hmm?”
Dazai’s stomach clenches uncomfortably and his hands are suddenly a mix of clammy and cold.
“You’d lose a valuable asset, if you try that.” Dazai keeps himself steady, controlled. If he loses his temper now...
“Mm, you’re right.
Dazai’s stomach clenches uncomfortably and his hands are suddenly a mix of clammy and cold.
“You’d lose a valuable asset, if you try that.” Dazai keeps himself steady, controlled. If he loses his temper now...
“Mm, you’re right.
But, we can just as easily train others to be as volatile and strong as him, yes?” Mori’s eyes glitter as he leans forward. “Kouyou-kun’s newest ward, Kyouka-chan, perhaps? I hear /she/ has an interesting ability.”
Dazai faintly remembers a small girl, with wide innocent eyes.
Dazai faintly remembers a small girl, with wide innocent eyes.
He remembers Chuuya talking about her, a sweet girl who loved tofu and rabbits and held the phone around her neck like a lifeline.
“No.” Dazai clenches his fists. “Don’t touch her, and do not. Touch. Him.”
“Ho~?” Mori tilts his head. “You have some humanity left, I see.”
“No.” Dazai clenches his fists. “Don’t touch her, and do not. Touch. Him.”
“Ho~?” Mori tilts his head. “You have some humanity left, I see.”
Dazai won't bite Mori's bait. /He won't./ But Mori makes is sickeningly difficult and he wants to, /oh so badly,/ but there's only one way this could go and it was /south./
So he keeps quiet, holds Mori's gaze, until the doctor sighs.
"You never used to be this difficult."
So he keeps quiet, holds Mori's gaze, until the doctor sighs.
"You never used to be this difficult."
"Oh, maybe it's because I had nothing to live for," Dazai quips sardonically. "After all, what's a 14 year old to do under the care of a Port Mafia boss?"
"I imagine you could do a number of things if you chose to, Dazai-kun." Mori stops the pen in his fingers. "What changed?"
"I imagine you could do a number of things if you chose to, Dazai-kun." Mori stops the pen in his fingers. "What changed?"
The responses are on the tip of his tongue. Odasaku's parting words. The way he watched Odasaku's orphans grow and die, by the hands of criminals, and how he never wanted it to happen again.
But most of all: Chuuya. Chuuya's influence, Chuuya's words, Chuuya's kindness.
But most of all: Chuuya. Chuuya's influence, Chuuya's words, Chuuya's kindness.
If he hasn't died by alcohol poisoning, it's because of Chuuya's care. If he hasn't lost the will to live, it's because of Chuuya's ability to listen. If he's still here, still living through sheer determination, it's because he doesn't want to leave Chuuya /alone./
Dazai looses the grip in his hands. "That's for /me/ to know."
"Mm, keep your secrets," Mori dismisses, though his violet gaze is still tinted with curiosity. "Just make sure you clear that mission by the end of the day. Without distractions, of course."
"Mm, keep your secrets," Mori dismisses, though his violet gaze is still tinted with curiosity. "Just make sure you clear that mission by the end of the day. Without distractions, of course."
It's a clear dismissal, and Dazai takes the out. He inclines his head ever so slightly and smiles demurely at Mori. "Of course, Boss."
He saunters out the door, with all the arrogant confidence he can muster, and he holds it until he arrives to the garage, where Hirotsu waits.
He saunters out the door, with all the arrogant confidence he can muster, and he holds it until he arrives to the garage, where Hirotsu waits.
"Are you ready to go, Dazai-san?" Hirotsu bows and Dazai nods stiffly.
The door to a black Mercedes opens at the snap of a finger and Dazai climbs in. Ignoring Hirotsu's penetrating stare, he gazes out the window, watching the garage and the people and the city pass by.
The door to a black Mercedes opens at the snap of a finger and Dazai climbs in. Ignoring Hirotsu's penetrating stare, he gazes out the window, watching the garage and the people and the city pass by.
After his talk with Mori, his head had mostly cleared of the dizzying, lovestruck thoughts. The few nagging ones mix with his logical ones: Dazai is sure that he wants Chuuya. He knows that Chuuya is /it/, that Chuuya will always be the one.
But is there a future for them here?
But is there a future for them here?
Dazai doesn't even need to think about the answer.
Yes, he'll find a chance to be with Chuuya, but could they live peacefully? Could they have that domestic future that Dazai imagines in his head? Could they have the wake-up kisses and fall asleep entangled together?
Yes, he'll find a chance to be with Chuuya, but could they live peacefully? Could they have that domestic future that Dazai imagines in his head? Could they have the wake-up kisses and fall asleep entangled together?
"Dazai-san, we're here." Hirotsu opens the door and Dazai follows him outside. They're at one of the Port Mafia warehouses, on the other end of the city.
Armed guards surround the warehouse, and the dock is lined with Port Mafia men. They clear the pathway as Dazai and Hirotsu
Armed guards surround the warehouse, and the dock is lined with Port Mafia men. They clear the pathway as Dazai and Hirotsu
stride past. Hirotsu is quietly relaying information to Dazai, but just by the amount of armed guards surrounding the warehouse, Dazai already gets the gist.
There's an ability user, or at least a hazard, Mori wants Dazai to eliminate, lest they damage the Mafia's goods.
There's an ability user, or at least a hazard, Mori wants Dazai to eliminate, lest they damage the Mafia's goods.
The warehouse door is blown in when Dazai steps over the threshold, and he's greeted by the sight of a redheaded woman, pinned and tied down by a group of Mafia men.
Dazai's stomach squeezes. Something is /off/ about this.
"What's the issue here?" he drawls loudly.
Dazai's stomach squeezes. Something is /off/ about this.
"What's the issue here?" he drawls loudly.
One of the men looks up at Dazai. "She was caught as one of the GSS remnants. An ability user. They call it 'The Storm.'"
"Huh." Dazai takes a step closer to the woman, staring her down. She's pale skinned, blue eyed, redhead, and there's a permanent scowl carved into her face.
"Huh." Dazai takes a step closer to the woman, staring her down. She's pale skinned, blue eyed, redhead, and there's a permanent scowl carved into her face.
[TW: mild violence]
"And what does it do, hmm?" Dazai's black shoe rolls over the woman's foot, pressing hard. He thinks he can hear bones cracking. "What are /you/ caught for, little lamb?"
To her credit, she doesn't shudder nor scream when she glares at Dazai.
"And what does it do, hmm?" Dazai's black shoe rolls over the woman's foot, pressing hard. He thinks he can hear bones cracking. "What are /you/ caught for, little lamb?"
To her credit, she doesn't shudder nor scream when she glares at Dazai.
"What's it to you, kid?" she spits. "One of the Port Mafia brats, huh? They must be running low on recruits."
Dazai's shoe moves to her ribcage. He presses down /hard/, and this time, she barely stifles a scream.
"I won't ask again. What're you caught for?"
Dazai's shoe moves to her ribcage. He presses down /hard/, and this time, she barely stifles a scream.
"I won't ask again. What're you caught for?"
"Stealing," she chokes out, as Dazai's heel digs into bone. "S-Stealing weapons for the GSS."
He releases his weight on her, smiling down dryly. "See? That wasn't so hard, was it?"
"Are you letting me go now?"
"On the contrary..." Dazai looks over his shoulder. "Kill her."
He releases his weight on her, smiling down dryly. "See? That wasn't so hard, was it?"
"Are you letting me go now?"
"On the contrary..." Dazai looks over his shoulder. "Kill her."
The woman thrashes as the Port Mafia guards hold her down. But none of them move to slit her throat or shoot her dead.
Instead, Hirotsu comes up to him and presses the gun into his hands.
"Boss gave explicit orders for you to do it."
Instead, Hirotsu comes up to him and presses the gun into his hands.
"Boss gave explicit orders for you to do it."
Dazai stares at the cold metal in his hands, feels the weight of it in his palm. It's nothing he's not used to--killing has been the way of the Port Mafia after all.
So he steps forward, faces the woman, and clicks off the safety.
Defiant blue eyes stare up at him.
So he steps forward, faces the woman, and clicks off the safety.
Defiant blue eyes stare up at him.
/Blue like a midsummer sky, blue like an ocean, fierce like a tiger. Red hair, a silk sunset across the couch cushions. Pale skin, like a cotton cloud, like a fresh sheet of snow./
Dazai's finger sits on the trigger. He doesn't pull it.
Dazai's finger sits on the trigger. He doesn't pull it.
"Dazai-san?" Hirotsu prompts. But Dazai can't /hear/ him, not over the roar of blood in his ears, not over the pound of his heat, not over Oda's voice, echoing in the cavern of his head.
/Be a better man, if light and dark mean nothing to you anyway./
/Be a better man, if light and dark mean nothing to you anyway./
