Chapter Text
The morning was still and quiet, the October sun filtering softly through the muslin curtains, creating swirling patterns of light on the bedroom ceiling as they fluttered in the early breeze.
Dazai Osamu was awake – not that that was much of a surprise. He rarely slept any more. (Not since he’d escaped Meursault and the nightmares had started up again.)
Instead, he lay in bed, watching as the light waxed and waned on the tall, white ceiling of his new apartment, the movement of the curtains sending golden shapes dancing peacefully down its length.
Monaco was nothing like Yokohama – nothing like Japan at all. It was hard to believe he’d been there for two months already. It was hard to believe he’d made it another two months at all.
What Dazai found almost hardest of all to believe was that he actually felt homesick. Moving to Europe by itself shouldn’t be a big deal for someone like him – lord knows he'd lived all over the place during the two years he spent underground – but this time felt different because there was no guarantee that he’d ever get to go back, to visit Oda or Lupin again, to set things straight. This didn’t feel like reassignment, it felt like exile.
But still, there’d been no other choice. He had to leave. The escape from Meursault had left the bones in his right leg smashed to pieces, rendering the limb practically useless and ruling him out from any future field work, making him a weak spot for the agency. Not a real weak spot mind – as an executive in the mafia Dazai had obviously received the best torture training Mori could think of, so it wasn’t like he was about to go blabbing any agency secrets to anyone who managed to capture him – but, as Fukuzawa pointed out when Dazai brought that up, it would be hard for him to get much work done if he was constantly being targeted by anyone with a grudge against the ADA.
That and the mildly more pressing fact that there was just no way Dazai could stay in Yokohama after everything that had happened without seriously killing himself. And while he had no problem with that particular turn of events, his colleagues at the agency didn’t exactly share the sentiment.
So he was here.
8000 miles away.
In Monaco.
Dazai let a soft sigh flutter past his lips as he rolled onto his side, coming face to face with the body sleeping next to his.
Chuuya Nakahara was an incredibly deep sleeper. Always had been. Back when they’d first started working together in the mafia, he’d often stumble into meetings an hour late after sleeping through all six of his morning alarms. (Okay, maybe Dazai had broken into his apartment and turned a few of them off while the redhead was sleeping, but that was on Chuuya for not waking up to stop him!)
Eventually though, Mori caught on, and Dazai was banned from tampering with the redhead's alarm clock. How boring.
Still, he looked peaceful when he slept. 130 pounds of soft, still skin, unencumbered by Arahabaki or the memories of his past. Dazai was jealous of Chuuya in that respect – he’d give anything not to dream.
In all honesty, Dazai was still a little shocked that Chuuya had agreed to go with him so easily, reassigned to a branch of stolen goods that could be easily overseen from abroad.
Of course, it was just as much a strategic decision as an emotional one – probably more so, what with Corruption’s safety net being sent half way across the globe with no known return date and Dazai practically incapable of physically defending himself short of his ability and a forty caliber hand gun – but the thought was still there. Probably.
Chuuya was probably regretting it now though - babysitting a suicidal agoraphobic twenty two year old who never left the house wasn’t exactly anyone’s dream job. But at least he'd found another, real one in town now, and a reason to get out of the house.
Dazai sighed again and tried to will himself out of thinking, shifting to get a better look at the clock above Chuuya’s head.
06.43
Chuuya got up at 7 for work; the least Dazai could do was make him breakfast.
He carefully peeled back the covers, taking care not to disturb the sleeping redhead, and swung one heavy leg over the side of the bed and then the other. He forced himself to his feet, burying them in the soft carpet as he picked a shirt off the ground and threw it on, buttoning it up as he slipped out the door.
The kitchen was downstairs and lovely, just like every other part of the house, with sleek white countertops and tasteful landscape windows that overlooked the city’s vibrant streets. It was big too, but compared to an empty shipping container without separate rooms most things seemed that way.
Dazai drifted over to the fridge, pulling out a carton of eggs and some milk before moving onto the cupboard and taking out a frying pan.
He’d been practising cooking a little over the last few weeks, having nothing else to do at home by himself all day, and he could just about make some scrambled eggs now without burning the entire kitchen down.
He gathered some other things – a spatula, oil, some pepper – and turned on the gas.
There was something so sickeningly domestic about cooking for another person, especially given the fact Dazai barely even cooked for himself, though to be fair, this whole arrangement was ridiculously domestic.
Dazai had never actually lived with another person. Ever. The closest he’d gotten before this were missions where there’d only been one room or the nights he’d crashed on Oda’s couch after a few too many at Lupin. Still, living with Chuuya wasn’t necessarily bad, just different, like a fever dream he couldn’t wake up from.
It was nice in a way, not that he’d ever admit that to the redhead.
Weird, but nice.
“Eggs for breakfast again?” A voice suddenly called from the bottom of the stairs, gravelly and thick with sleep as it cut through Dazai’s thoughts and broke through the smooth silence of the morning.
Chuuya’s voice.
Huh, that was strange. Dazai hadn’t heard him come down. Either Chuuya had finally learned the art of stealth or suburban life was turning the brunette seriously rusty.
Chuuya’s bare feet patted clumsily against the tiled hallway floor as he stumbled into the kitchen and grabbed himself a glass from the cabinet.
(Probably the latter then.)
Dazai looked up from the countertop and turned to face the other man. Chuuya’s pale eyes were still half closed with sleep, orange curls slightly ruffled. He, like Dazai, had also just thrown on the closest available shirt before coming down, but his was unbuttoned, the fabric hanging loosely off his broad shoulders to showcase his pale ivory skin and perfect eight pack abs.
Damn. Now there was a sight that never got old.
Dazai cleared his throat and looked back at the eggs.
“Yep. I would’ve served a four course meal but I forgot to marinate the steak last night.”
“Ah, sarcasm. The perfect entrée.”
Dazai huffed and raked a fork through the pan half-heartedly while Chuuya grabbed some orange juice from the fridge.
“I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“Nah. You’re good.” Chuuya said easily, free strands of auburn falling about his face as he gently shook his head. “It was that damn sun. We really need to get some better curtains for that room.”
The brunette hummed absently, continuing to swirl his fork through the eggs.
It was going to be hot today, he could tell. The air breezing through the windows was already warm and the sun was large and blazing, even as it crested the horizon.
Huh, maybe things weren’t so different here after all…
“Hey, bastard.” Chuuya called, snapping his fingers in front of the taller man’s face to catch his attention. “Did you even hear a word I just said?”
“Yeah, yeah.” Dazai mumbled, batting his hand away. “New curtains, I got it.”
“Good. Those eggs look done.”
“They’re not done yet.” The brunette replied absently. Then he looked down. “Shit!”
He flipped off the gas, cursing under his breath. Chuuya was right – for the first time in his life – the edges of the eggs had started to turn a dark golden colour, another 20 or so seconds and they would’ve been black. Dazai grit his teeth behind his lips and took the pan off the stove for good measure. Fucking eggs.
That was another thing – since moving to Monaco he’d been getting caught up in his own head a lot more than usual, and his mind felt slow, like a knife that’s edge had been dulled (which, given his track record, was probably for the best).
“Hey.” Chuuya cleared his throat awkwardly, pushing two plates towards Dazai, who took them from him wordlessly. “Are you going to be okay today? ‘Cos I can take the day off if you need me to.”
Dazai set the plates down on the marble countertop, still not speaking, and moved to start spooning (or, well, forking) the scrambled eggs onto each one, when Chuuya grabbed his arm to stop him.
Heat bloomed in the spots where Chuuya’s skin met his, the familiar clash of their juxtaposing abilities shooting down his arm like nerves coming alive for the first time.
Chuuya dropped his hand.
“Look, if this is about tomorrow, you know you don’t have to come with me?”
Oh, Dazai knew that.
In fact, he’d already resolutely made up his mind that he wasn’t going, but it was nice that Chuuya thought to ask. Pointless, but nice.
“It’s not that.” Dazai managed at last, breaking eye contact to fix his focus back on serving breakfast.
“So, there is something?” Chuuya pushed.
“No, that’s not—” Dazai sighed and brought a hand up to his forehead. He could feel the beginnings of a headache starting to pulse at his temples. “That’s not what I meant. There’s nothing wrong. I’m just tired.”
Wrong answer. Chuuya’s face softened with worry anyway. (God, people really took all the fun out of lying these days.) “Are you not sleeping again?”
Yes.
“No. I already told you, everything’s fine.”
“You know, when people say that they’re fine, it usually means that they’re not actually fine.”
“Oh, God.” Dazai groaned. “What grossly over self-indulgent self-help book did you pick that out of? Look, I’m up, I’m walking, I’m making breakfast. I talk to people on the phone. I read. I’m great. I’m better than great, actually. Is that answer good enough for you?”
Chuuya rolled his eyes as his shoulders sagged with exhaustion, clearly already tired of arguing.
“Just shut up and hand me my plate, asshole. The food’s getting cold.”
A tiny flicker of guilt swelled at the pit of Dazai’s stomach. Exhausted at 7 o’clock in the morning. Like he hadn’t made Chuuya miserable enough already.
He didn’t understand why the redhead didn’t just leave.
Well, he did, but—
God, this was all so difficult.
If Chuuya had just let him die – if Chuuya had just shot him properly in the first place – then he could be back in Yokohama with his friends, not stuck here playing pretend with a man who’d rather not be playing anything at all.
Dazai mentally groaned. He was probably being ungrateful, but really, who was actually benefitting from him being alive?
Not Chuuya, and certainly not the agency, who hadn’t only lost one of their members but actually paid out of pocket to get him settled here in Monaco. The Port Mafia too. Not that he had any sympathy for them, but he didn’t even work for them anymore, and him being decommissioned from the ADA led to them losing an executive from the field and one of their biggest assets. Which brought him back to: why was Chuuya here?
Dazai swiped his own plate off the counter and took his place at the western style dinner table.
“Why are you here Chuuya?” He asked, despondent.
His stomach was roiling now, his appetite having vapourised the second their earlier argument had finished, but Dazai couldn’t bring himself to look at Chuuya, so he stared resolutely into his plate of eggs – which obviously did so much to abate his feeling of nausea.
Why had he even learned to make them in the first place? He hated eggs.
Oh yeah, because Chuuya liked them.
The same Chuuya who was talking right now but Dazai wasn’t listening.
Oops.
“Dazai, are you even listening to me?”
Nope.
“Yes.”
Chuuya sighed.
“I asked if you were okay. You haven’t even touched your food.”
“I’m not hungry. I’ve never really been a big breakfast person.” That at least wasn’t an outright lie.
The redhead gave him a small smile. “I know. Okay. Look, I gotta get dressed for work, so if you’re gonna be okay—”
“I am.”
Chuuya gave him a look.
“If you’re gonna be okay then I guess I’ll get going. I’ll be back around four but you have my number if you need anything.”
“Bye Chuuya.”
“Bye.”
The redhead stood up awkwardly and carried his plate back into the kitchen. He’d probably wash it up too, even though he had other things to do and all Dazai’s plans for the day included was not killing himself with the one sharp knife Chuuya had let him have in the kitchen under the pretence of ‘learning to cook’.
Dazai was surprised he even let him have that one considering what he’d done a few months ago. (Namely stealing the butcher’s style knife from the agency kitchen the second he’d been deemed okay to be unsupervised and using it to butcher something that couldn’t exactly be classified as an animal product. Oops.)
He did feel bad about that one actually. They’d probably had to throw the knife out after they’d found it laying in a pool of his blood, yet another example of the burden he put on the entire organisation.
What was he thinking about again?
Oh yeah, his plans for the day.
Maybe he’d try to do something productive like read one of the poetry books Chuuya had brought with him (yawn) or actually learn how to cook something other than the basics. Maybe.
More likely he’d spend the whole day sitting around doing nothing, or lying in bed too afraid to actually sleep.
What a fun life he was now living.
Dazai sighed to himself for the umpteenth time as he pushed his cold breakfast plate away and rested his tired head in his hands.
Today was going to be a long one, he could tell.