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Chuuya is all fire and magnetism, explosions to counter the death of a star, a black hole compressed into a person. Chuuya could destroy the world with the snap of a finger—a god pretending to be mortal, Chuuya could level the city, the country, the planet, and not even Dazai would be able to escape the weight of Chuuya’s wrath.
Chuuya is something more than human.
Which is why, when Chuuya tells Dazai, I’m not a boy. Don’t call me that, Dazai accepts it without question.
Of course someone like Chuuya, an ethereal being who walks a step above everyone else, would not feel comfortable shoved into the binary boxes of human genders.
These thoughts, however, are not something Dazai will ever let escape from his mind. These thoughts are securely locked away, stored in the back corner of his mind, only to be opened and examined when he is sure he is entirely, completely, alone.
So all he says to Chuuya is, “Okay. Sorry.”
Chuuya blinks at him. “What did you just say to me?”
Dazai scoffs. He turns his nose up and crosses his arms. “I’m not repeating myself. You heard me.”
“Well, what I thought I heard was an egotistical, self-righteous, jackass actually apologizing for the first time ever, when I didn’t even think he knew what the word ‘sorry’ meant.”
Dazai purses his lips. He looks at his feet.
“It was my mistake,” he admits, though it’s bitter on his tongue. To have to make such an admission to Chuuya of all people. Dazai does not apologize, even when he is in the wrong. He has a reputation to maintain.
But this is— different.
“No jokes?” Chuuya questions.
Dazai shakes his head. “No jokes. If you’re not a boy, you’re not a boy. I’m not that heartless.”
Chuuya just stares at him for a moment, then barks out a laugh. “Bastard. I will never understand you,” they say.
A smile slips onto Dazai’s face, because he knows a lie when he hears one.
— —
“Boys!” Kouyou snaps.
Both Dazai and Chuuya fall silent, and Chuuya flinches along with it. Dazai opens his mouth to retaliate against Kouyou—to let her know that they are not both boys, and as an executive, she should be respectful of how her subordinates identify—and then he realizes two things:
Chuuya may not have told her yet, and they get to decide who they tell and when they do so.
Since when does Dazai care about whether or not people respect Chuuya?
“Sorry, Ane-san,” Chuuya mumbles.
Dazai watches them, frozen in place, unsure how to proceed. Because he doesn’t care if people respect Chuuya, but…it’s never exactly been a problem before. Something about Chuuya commands respect in every room they walk into. This is why Dazai is sure to always usurp that—to go against the grain and remind Chuuya that they are just as human as everyone else and they’re not above being treated as such just because they have a cheat code for presenting themself as the most important figure in any room.
Pleased by their silence, Kouyou continues with whatever it is she was saying before Dazai and Chuuya fell into one of their typical arguments. Dazai doesn’t bother listening, because he’s too busy watching the way Chuuya shifts uncomfortably.
Kouyou must notice too, because she interrupts herself to ask, “Is something wrong, Chuuya-kun?”
Their eyes widen and they look at Dazai for help. Dazai shrugs. This isn’t his confession to make, and Chuuya should know that. If they want their identity to be respected, they have to tell those around them that they are not, in fact, a boy. And if that respect doesn’t come easily, it’s their job to take it by force.
They had no issue telling Dazai.
Then again, they would have had no issue using whatever force necessary against Dazai in order to make him listen to them. The circumstances are different here.
Chuuya swallows, then turns his gaze back towards Kouyou. “I’m— not a boy. Please don’t call me that.”
“Oh,” Kouyou says, her tone as pleasant as always, though Dazai wonders if she’s just playing along to humor Chuuya. “Well, alright then. I’ll do my best to keep that in mind.”
Chuuya smiles awkwardly.
Dazai’s hands clench into fists at his sides.
— —
Dazai flips through the file, skimming the details as Mori goes on and on about things that are entirely unrelated. Undercover mission, he and Chuuya will be pairing up, their goal is to eliminate the target without causing a scene, they’ll be going to—
Dazai’s frown deepens.
This isn’t going to work.
He looks up, interrupts whatever it is Mori has deemed so important to carry on about. “Have you spoken with Chuuya about this?”
Mori’s smile turns sinister, but Dazai holds his ground. “I’m just not sure Chuuya is qualified for this mission.” He hands the file back to Mori, keeping his tone light as he says, “I mean,” he rolls his eyes, “when has For the Tainted Sorrow ever been capable of eliminating someone without drawing attention?” Dazai waves lazily as he turns to leave. “I recommend speaking with Hirotsu-san about enlisting a couple members of the Black Lizard instead.”
“Dazai—”
“Thanks for understanding!”
— —
MISSION FILE
Assignment: Go undercover at a banquet for an all-boys’ private school and eliminate schoolteacher Yokota Haru.
— —
The door slams open, which means only Chuuya could possibly be the one standing on the other side of it. No one else would dare bother an executive without at least knocking first, and no one else commands the pressure of the air around them enough to make Dazai’s ears pop when they’re upset.
The door is slammed shut with just as much force, and Chuuya marches over to Dazai, pulling him up by the collar of his shirt and slamming him back against the wall.
For once, Dazai isn’t actually sure what he’s done to deserve this treatment. Unless—
“Is this about your shampoo?” They shouldn’t have figured that out until tonight, but it isn’t impossible for Chuuya to surprise Dazai, on occasion.
“I don’t need you to f— WHAT DO YOU MEAN MY SHAMPOO?!”
Oh.
“Never mind, then!”
Chuuya narrows their eyes. “We’re talking about the shampoo later.” He throws Dazai aside, causing him to stumble. “This is about you thinking I’m some sort of fucking damsel in distress who can’t handle a simple mission!”
Dazai blinks. “Huh?”
Chuuya shoves a vaguely familiar mission file into his hands, and— Ah. Right. The one he’d turned down, because Mori wanted to send him and Chuuya to an all-boys’ school banquet, when Chuuya had been very clear that they are not a boy. However, Chuuya’s anger does not seem to match this situation.
Dazai pouts. “Shouldn’t Chuuya be thanking me? I was doing them a favor.”
“I didn’t fucking ask you to!” Chuuya shouts.
Dazai’s grip on the file tightens. He still doesn’t understand why Chuuya’s so mad—and this anger is different than usual; this is not amplified annoyance, this is something fiery and raw and violent—but he knows he’s done something wrong. In Chuuya’s eyes, at least.
That’s okay. He can still fix this.
“You told me you aren’t a boy,” he points out. “So this mission wasn’t a good fit for you.”
“It’s not your job to decide that!”
“But I’m your superior?” It isn’t supposed to be a question, but it comes out sounding like one. Is that not Dazai’s job? He’s an executive, and Chuuya is not. Part of his job is to determine which missions are appropriate for which of the mafia’s underlings. Even if Chuuya isn’t directly underneath him—even if they’re Kouyou’s to look after—this decision still falls in the realm of Dazai’s jurisdiction.
And it’s not like Kouyou would have said anything.
“You’re not my— We’re supposed to be partners!”
“But—”
Chuuya slams a fist into the wall, hard enough to leave a hole. They don’t seem perturbed by the damage, but that’s par for the course with someone like Chuuya—someone with an ability so destructive, and so prone to fits of rage that unintentionally call forth their power.
Dazai should step forward, close the distance between them, and nullify Chuuya’s ability before they destroy anything else.
He does not.
“If I didn’t feel comfortable with this mission, I could have told the Boss myself.”
Dazai tilts his head. “No, you wouldn’t have.” Chuuya could hardly come out to Kouyou, and they have no issue speaking up to her if something’s wrong. Chuuya doesn’t turn down Mori’s orders, because they’ve only been part of the Port Mafia for seven months and they’re well aware that going against Mori’s wishes is the quickest way to die, especially for anyone who is new.
Dazai had to be the one to turn down the mission, because Chuuya wouldn’t have, and because Mori wouldn’t have listened to Chuuya even if they’d tried.
“Dazai—”
Dazai takes a step back, stumbling when he collides with his chair. “I don’t know what I did wrong,” he admits, though he doesn’t know why he says it. Admitting you don’t know something is confessing to weakness, and Chuuya shouldn’t see him weak.
“You tried to take this decision away from me!”
Dazai opens his mouth, then snaps it shut.
He still doesn’t get it. Chuuya is just saying the same things over and over, and none of it is answering his questions.
“I didn’t tell Mori-san the real reason why you wouldn’t want this mission,” he tries, because maybe that’s what Chuuya is mad about? “You know I wouldn’t do that. I didn’t do it with Ane-san, so why would I do it with him?”
“You’re—” Chuuya’s voice breaks off into a groan. “You don’t understand, alright?! So stop trying to act like you do!”
And then they stomp out of the room, once again slamming the door.
Dazai is left alone in his office, still unsure what he did wrong.
— —
Dazai decides, he didn’t actually do anything wrong at all. Chuuya is being pissy for no reason, as per usual.
It still doesn’t explain why Chuuya is now refusing to speak to him.
— —
Hirotsu sighs heavily as he removes his coat. “Dazai-san, may I ask why you are in my office?”
Dazai huffs. He draws his knees closer to his chest, still perched in Hirotsu’s chair. His original intention was to occupy himself by snooping around, since he and Chuuya weren’t sent on that mission after all, meaning his schedule for the day is now empty.
But then he’d sat down, and he’d just sort of…stayed there.
“Is something wrong?” Hirotsu tries again.
Dazai purses his lips. What’s wrong is that Chuuya hasn’t spoken to him in approximately three days, two hours, and eighteen minutes, which is basically the longest Chuuya’s gone without bothering him since they joined the Port Mafia. Dazai thought a break from them might be nice, but instead, it’s—
Whatever. It’s not a big deal.
Dazai has other people he can talk to—people he’s actually friends with rather than the slimy slug who has attached themself to Dazai’s side. Dazai is going to make the best of his time without Chuuya pestering him, because he doesn’t need a wannabe sidekick who refuses to actually communicate about what’s bothering them.
“I’m bored,” Dazai informs Hirotsu. He stretches his arms and legs out and leans back, faking a yawn.
Hirotsu raises an eyebrow. “Does this have something to do with Chuuya-kun’s sour mood?”
Dazai pulls his face into a scowl at the mention of Chuuya’s name. “Why would I care about Chuuya?”
Hirotsu purses his lips. He seems to consider his next words carefully, and only after several moments of silence does he speak. “I don’t intend to overstep, but could I offer you some advice from my years of experience?”
Technically, Dazai could say no. Technically, he could turn down the offer and walk right out of this office and continue the search for a cure to his boredom elsewhere.
Instead, he waves his hand vaguely. “Sure. Go ahead.”
“I believe communication is the key to all good partnerships. If you and Chuuya-kun have found yourselves in the midst of an argument, I recommend you talk about it. If not, it will likely impact your ability to complete future missions you may be partnered for.” He clears his throat. “However, if I’ve misread the situation, please feel free to disregard my advice, and I’m certain I can find some work here I could use your help with, so you won’t be bored any longer.”
Dazai does not pout, but it’s a close thing.
Hirotsu is too good at this game.
The only thing Dazai would like less than talking to Chuuya is helping Hirotsu with paperwork. However, if he leaves, it will validate Hirotsu’s assumption that he and Chuuya are fighting. Which they’re not, because Dazai didn’t do anything wrong. It can’t be a fight if Chuuya yelled at him and stormed away for no reason.
But Dazai is absolutely not going to do paperwork right now. So Hirotsu is going to win this one.
“Actually,” he stands, “I just remembered I promised Ane-san I’d run an errand for her this afternoon.”
Hirotsu bows his head. “I wish you the best of luck.”
(Oh, he so knows what he’s doing.)
“Thanks!” Dazai offers him a blinding smile. “Have fun with your work!” He waves as he leaves, and the moment he’s through the door, his expression drops.
He swears under his breath.
This is all Chuuya’s fault, so it should be Chuuya’s responsibility to apologize. Dazai was trying to help, and Chuuya got mad because that’s how Chuuya is—they’re a storm wearing human skin, rage like lightning and a voice like thunder—and now’s the time when Chuuya returns to him, head down, tail between their legs, and asks for forgiveness.
Dazai will talk to Chuuya, but only if Chuuya comes to him first.
— —
It’s been two weeks.
Chuuya is still not talking to Dazai.
Dazai stares down into his glass—sparkling grape juice, because Oda insists sixteen is still too young for alcohol. It doesn’t do anything that alcohol is supposed to, but it tastes awful enough that Dazai supposes he can at least pretend.
He takes another sip and bites back a grimace as the carbonation dances across his tongue. Oda and Ango are talking about something he does not care to listen in on, the three of them holed up in Oda’s apartment because, once again, A bar is not a place for a sixteen-year-old.
Whatever.
Dazai has been to plenty of bars before, but he knows better than to argue about this with Ango and Oda, because they’ll just refuse to hang out at all. And then Dazai will lose the two people who are actually his friends. Unlike Chuuya, who is a nuisance that Dazai is very happy to be rid of.
“Dazai-kun,” Ango says tiredly, pulling him out of his thoughts. “You don’t have to drink that if you don’t like it.”
Dazai narrows his eyes. He makes a show of taking a large gulp, because it’s not about whether or not he likes it; it’s about the fact that this is the closest he’s allowed to get to alcohol, and he needs to make the most of it.
Ango sighs. “Never mind,” he grumbles. “I am never going to understand you.”
“Be nice,” Oda chides, because he’s supportive like that. There’s a reason he’s Dazai’s best friend, and it’s because he defends Dazai from Ango’s verbal sneak attacks. “The kid’s clearly going through something, and he’ll never open up about it if you insult him.”
Ango scoffs.
Dazai takes back every nice thing he’s said about Oda. The man is nothing but a traitor.
“I’m not ‘going through’ anything!” he argues.
Oda and Ango both stare at him, clearly unconvinced.
Dazai slumps. “Chuuya’s ignoring me,” he admits. He doesn’t say any more, because that truth alone is risky enough. If he continues speaking, he’ll end up admitting how much it hurts that Chuuya won’t talk to him, how he misses Chuuya, how he just wishes he knew what he did wrong. How he hates Chuuya so vehemently it burns his chest, but the fear that Chuuya might hate him in return splinters each of his ribs and sinks a knife into his heart.
Dazai cannot fall victim to a direct attack from Chuuya’s ability, but he imagines this is what it feels like to have his weight pulled downward, crumpling beneath the unseen pressure of For the Tainted Sorrow until it’s stolen all the oxygen from his lungs and finally granted him the sweet release of death he so longs for.
“Ah,” Ango says, and then he drains the rest of his drink. Oda purses his lips.
Dazai traces the rim of his glass with his index finger. The fact that neither of them have offered any advice yet means they’re waiting for him to continue, but Dazai has given as much explanation as he needs. Chuuya won’t talk to him. That’s all there is to it.
“Why is Chuuya ignoring you?” Oda tries.
Dazai shrugs. “Because Chuuya is a stupid slug who thinks the best way to fix a problem is either throwing things at it, or ignoring it until it goes away.”
Oda and Ango exchange a look that Dazai decides he will not interpret the meaning of. Then, they level him with twin unimpressed expressions.
Dazai huffs. “Chuuya got mad at me for something, but I don’t know why.” He pauses before adding, quietly, “I just wanted to help.”
Oda sets his glass down. “Can I…ask what you did?”
Dazai’s expression sours. He can’t really explain the situation without outing Chuuya, and he already promised he wouldn’t do that. Even if he trusts Oda and Ango, Chuuya barely knows them.
“Chuuya told me something that…I thought would make a certain mission unfit for us to partner up on. Mori-san gave me the file when Chuuya wasn’t there, and after I looked over it, I turned the mission down so Chuuya wouldn’t have to. Because I knew Mori-san would be more likely to listen to me, and Chuuya wouldn’t want to speak up either way. But then Chuuya got mad that I turned the mission down, and wouldn’t even listen when I explained why I did it!” Dazai throws his hands up in the air. “I asked what I did wrong, and Chuuya just kept saying the same thing over and over, and I don’t understand! I was trying to help!”
Dazai lets his head drop against the table. “Chuuya’s so mean.” It’s a flimsy last-ditch effort to convince Ango and Oda that he truly does not like Chuuya—or, maybe he’s just trying to convince himself that he doesn’t care.
“You spoke on his behalf when he clearly didn’t want you to,” Ango points out.
“But I was—”
“Trying to help,” Oda interrupts. “Yes. But…I’m not sure Chuuya-kun appreciated how you went about it. You probably should have talked to him first.”
“He’s a very capable kid,” Ango adds. “You shouldn’t underestimate him.”
“That’s not—!” Dazai cuts himself off, because he can’t explain he wasn’t actually saying Chuuya wasn’t talented enough for the mission. Chuuya can do anything they set their mind to, and they would have been perfectly capable skill-wise. It wasn’t about skill; it was about Chuuya’s comfort.
Dazai blinks.
Chuuya’s— comfort?
Since when is he worried about Chuuya being comfortable? Especially when it comes to a mission. The Port Mafia very rarely makes exceptions for missions outside of someone’s comfort zone, and Dazai most certainly does not care whether or not Chuuya feels at ease. That isn’t the point of a mission; the point of a mission is to complete whatever task you’re given, no matter the price.
(Except, obviously Dazai does care. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t have turned down the mission in the first place.)
“I feel like we don’t have the full story,” Oda comments.
Ango nods in agreement. “Is there something you aren’t telling us?”
Dazai swallows. He turns back to his grape juice and wraps his hands around the glass.
What isn’t he telling Ango and Oda?
He isn’t telling them that Chuuya isn’t a boy, and he isn’t telling them the mission was going undercover at a banquet only boys would be attending. He isn’t telling them that, because he’s respectful of Chuuya’s right to come out to who he wants when he wants—but Dazai would offer that same consideration to anyone.
Because Dazai knows what it’s like, to be outed to someone without your consent. He knows what it’s like to have Mori standing over you, dark shadows splicing through the memory, eliminating the specifics from your mind. To have him ask if what he’s heard is true, if you kissed your male classmate before you left school, if you liked it, if you would do it again.
Dazai wouldn’t wish that upon even the scourge of the earth that is Chuuya Nakahara.
But…Dazai is hiding other things, too. He isn’t telling Ango and Oda that he misses Chuuya—misses their conversations, misses Chuuya’s insistence to be at his side. He misses being able to seek out Chuuya’s company whenever he’s bored, misses having someone his age to be around.
He misses the way Chuuya makes him feel human.
He misses watching Chuuya in action, watching them channel the power of Arahabaki, watching them control the fabric of reality itself, crumbling it in the palm of their hand like paper. The way Chuuya harnesses the strength of a god, holds it in their body, and returns to earth at the end of each day. The way Chuuya chooses humanity over the chaos that resides within them, reminding Dazai that to be human is to choose to live each day as an inhabitant of earth. To let yourself exist as you are, sink into the skin and bones that have been fused with your soul, and breathe.
He misses being able to breathe.
But he can’t tell Ango and Oda any of that, because Dazai does not like Chuuya. They fight, and they shout, and Chuuya tries to punch him in the face, and Dazai dances out of the way because Chuuya holds back on purpose. Because their fights are performance. Because Dazai has never truly hated Chuuya.
How could he?
He sits up straight in his seat, eyes growing wide.
How could he?
He could never truly hate Chuuya, because—
“Oh.” Slowly, Dazai turns to face Ango and Oda, who still—thankfully—seem confused, completely oblivious to Dazai’s terrible, horrible, awful, realization.
There is a fire that blazes bright in Dazai’s chest whenever Chuuya is near him, but it is not hatred. It is not rage and anger, not comparable to the destruction left in the wake of For the Tainted Sorrow.
It is the very breath of life.
Dazai loathes Chuuya with every fiber of his being, except he doesn’t, because he loves Chuuya far beyond what he thought himself capable of experiencing.
This is what he cannot tell Ango and Oda.
“Listen,” Ango starts, but Dazai is too busy reeling from his discovery to register anything else. There’s a ringing in his ears and his heart is thumping too loudly in his chest and he wonders if shock can split your veins open, leaving you to bleed out on the floor of your best friend’s apartment.
He wonders if it would hurt, or if it would be over quick enough that he wouldn’t even feel the pain.
He wonders which is more painful: shock-induced death or love.
— —
Sixteen days, seven hours, and forty-one minutes after Dazai and Chuuya’s argument, Dazai finds them alone in a training room, throwing practice dummies into the concrete wall hard enough to crack it. Upon Dazai’s entrance, they throw a pencil at him, and it pierces the wall next to his head.
It wasn’t supposed to hit him, Dazai realizes. It was a warning shot.
If Chuuya really wanted to hit him, they would not have missed.
“Why the hell are you here?”
Dazai shuts the door quietly behind him, keeping his eyes trained on the ground. He wraps his arms around his stomach, in some sort of effort to physically hold himself together. “Can you explain why you’re mad?”
Chuuya blinks.
This time, they throw a half-empty water bottle.
Dazai lets it smack his shoulder, then drop to the ground.
They stare at each other for several moments too long. Then, Chuuya relents with a groan, throwing their arms in the air. “Because you didn’t ask me! I would have been fine to go on that stupid mission; I know I look like I’m a boy, and I don’t care if I have to pretend to be one. Everyone already assumes that’s what I am.”
They step closer. “And it was because you never even bothered apologizing!”
“I didn’t know I should be sorry.”
Chuuya scoffs. “Just because no one else here has the guts to take you down a peg doesn’t mean you can do no wrong.”
(And here lights the fire in Dazai’s chest, which makes his body buzz with a feeling that is not hatred, but the spark of life.)
“I’m sorry,” Dazai tells them. It’s supposed to come out sharp, like a bullet piercing the air, like a challenge.
Instead, it sounds like a plea.
“What.”
“I’m sorry,” he repeats. “I wanted to help.”
These are the two truest things he knows how to say. He hopes Chuuya can hear everything else stored beneath the surface, everything he can’t yet put into words, everything too dangerous to say aloud. He hopes Chuuya knows that the truth is a gift Dazai does not offer many people.
“I don’t need your help,” Chuuya spits out.
“I know.” Of course Chuuya doesn’t need Dazai’s help, but Chuuya is the only person in this world Dazai even wants to help. He wouldn’t have turned down that mission on the behalf of anyone else; it wouldn’t have been his problem. But Chuuya inadvertently drags Dazai into them, entwining their beings, twisting his brain around until Chuuya’s problems feel like they’re his own.
“Do you?”
Dazai nods. “I know Chuuya is strong. They can handle themself.”
Chuuya stares at him. For a long time. Dazai’s skin crawls under the prolonged scrutiny, but he stays still. He lets Chuuya study him for as long as they desire, hoping they’ll find whatever it is they’re looking for. Hoping that if Dazai holds out a metaphorical hand, Chuuya will take it.
Finally, they ask, “You won’t pull that shit again?”
Still skeptical. That won’t do.
“I won’t,” Dazai promises. “I’ll let you decide if there’s a mission you don’t feel comfortable completing. But if you try to tell Mori-san no, and he doesn’t listen, you have to let me step in.”
Chuuya narrows their eyes.
“I’m supposed to—” Dazai’s words get caught in his throat, and he grimaces at the unfamiliar sensation. He wants to say It’s my job to look out for my dog, but that doesn’t sound right. He wants to say Dogs should let their owners speak on their behalf, but that’s wrong too.
He wants to say, Let me protect you. Let us protect each other, but that’s too honest, and Dazai has spilled all the confessions he can right now.
“I’m still an executive,” is what he finally settles on. “I’m allowed to turn down missions on your behalf. If you want me to.”
It doesn’t exactly respond to Chuuya’s hesitation, but it’s the best Dazai can do.
It must be enough, or Chuuya must hear all the words Dazai is refusing to say, because their lips twitch up into a smile, and then they laugh. “You’re impossible.”
Dazai tilts his head, confused.
Chuuya continues laughing, like sunlight, like springtime, like a field of flowers, like all of the beautiful things Dazai has never cared about. Like life itself. They’re beautiful, breathtaking, and Dazai hates them for it.
Except, he doesn’t. Not in the slightest.
Even after Chuuya’s laughter has subsided, their face still glows with an easy grin. “Thanks,” they say. “I appreciate it.”
“You’re…welcome?”
Between the two of them, Dazai is not supposed to be the one who doesn’t understand what’s going on. But Chuuya’s smile boasts knowledge of things Dazai is not yet privy to, and this conversation did not go exactly how Dazai predicted. He’d expected Chuuya to be angry; he’d expected the attempts at violence and the shouting. And he’d expected Chuuya to forgive him, in the end, because that’s how this partnership works.
They rile each other up, pushing each other’s buttons until they explode in tandem. Then, without words, they pick up the shattered remains and piece each other back together.
But Dazai had not expected he would find himself tongue twisted, or that Chuuya would weasel so much honesty out of him without even trying, or that Chuuya’s laugh would make the sun shine in this dingy basement training room.
“C’mon.” Chuuya holds a hand out, palm up.
Dazai takes it.
“Where are we going?” he asks as Chuuya tugs him out of the room.
“Lunch,” they answer, as if Dazai should already know. As if they’ve accounted for his tendency to figure out their next move before even they have decided what it will be.
(And if Dazai had taken a moment to think, he’s sure that, yes, he would have been able to guess Chuuya was taking him to get food. They’re obsessed with forcing him to eat, regardless of whether or not he’s hungry.)
“You’re paying,” Chuuya adds.
Dazai hums absentmindedly. “I don’t have any money on me.”
“You have your card.”
Dazai’s vague smile drops into a frown. “Why should I have to pay for Chuuya’s nasty food?”
“Because you still owe me an apology.”
“I already said—”
Chuuya yanks him into the elevator, then pushes him against the wall as the doors slide shut. They place a gloved finger over Dazai’s lips, and for one horrifying moment, Dazai’s brain is blissfully blank.
It kicks back into gear just in time to hear Chuuya say, “I’m not forgiving you until you’ve paid for lunch.”
“Fine,” Dazai grumbles. Because he knew this would be the outcome, but he had to put up a bit of a fight anyways. Out of principle.
Chuuya smiles, softer than usual. Like the quiet rays of the morning sun, pale blue, breaching the darkness of night. They spare a glance towards the door, then lift themself onto their toes. They fist a hand into the collar of Dazai’s jacket, and Dazai realizes what’s about to happen only half a second before it does.
Chuuya’s lips meet his cheek, quick but confident.
And then they’ve disappeared entirely from Dazai’s personal space just as quickly as they invaded it. The elevator dings, announcing they’ve reached the ground floor. Chuuya re-entwines their hands, pulling Dazai after them.
“Keep up, shitty mackerel,” they call over their shoulder. “You’re always going on about how much longer your legs are than mine.”
But Dazai is still too dazed to respond. His skin tingles where Chuuya’s lips brushed against it, and he wants to experience that again and again and again. He wants to stop Chuuya in their tracks and pull them into a real kiss, right here, right now. He wants to kiss them so hard it bruises, wants to bring the god of destruction to their knees, wants to kiss Chuuya until they’re both out of breath and he knows he has never been anything other than pitifully, painfully, human.
He wants to suffocate in Chuuya’s grip, oxygen pulled from his lungs, the floor falling out from beneath his feet, suspended in space and time with the only person who makes him feel alive.
Instead, he lets Chuuya drag him into the afternoon sun, and he does not let go.