"You know, Chuuya. I wouldn't love you even if you were a slug."
It was an ordinary morning. Sunlight was making its way through the curtains that hadn't been fully drawn, while cars honked far below the windows and the city went on with its usual life. Chuuya stood at the sink, washing the dishes after breakfast. Dazai, as always, was getting underfoot. He was wearing nothing but his underwear, his hair tousled from sleep, and the bandages that had come loose and sprawled in different directions across his body during the night. One end hung from his shoulder, while another nearly dragged along the floor. Completely useless.
He wasn't doing anything.
"Idiot." Chuuya smiled, continuing to scrub the plate with a sponge. "You're actually supposed to say, 'I'd love you even if you were a slug.'"
Chuuya hadn't expected any grand declarations from him. In their relationship, the absence of a morning attempt to drive him completely insane could already be considered an expression of affection. Especially since Osamu had barely slept for the past three days. On purpose. And now, finally, he looked like he'd actually given in sometime during the night. His plan to commit suicide through chronic sleep deprivation had officially failed.
Chuuya placed the clean plate on the edge of the sink and reached for the next one. The only response was a quiet chuckle. That was exactly what Dazai had been waiting for. He stepped closer. Warm hands settled around Chuuya's waist, and then his chin came to rest on his shoulder. Chuuya felt his breath against his neck and leaned back slightly, letting Osamu press closer. His hands slipped beneath the hem of Chuuya's shirt. Chuuya almost rolled his eyes, as if to say that he was actually busy. But at that moment, the soapy plate slipped from his fingers and hit the bottom of the sink with a plaintive clatter.
In one movement, Osamu scooped him up by the thighs and sat him on the countertop. The edge of the sink was dangerously close â just a little more and Chuuya could have fallen straight into the dirty water still left inside. But right now, he couldn't care less. Dazai kissed him the only way he knew how: long, insistent, and completely unhurried. His lips were slightly chapped after the sleepless nights, but still soft. Just yesterday, Chuuya had genuinely been afraid that Dazai would simply collapse from exhaustion one day. And now he was standing in front of him. Alive, warm, and completely convinced that kissing him in the middle of a pile of unwashed dishes was the best possible way to start the morning.
"I said it correctly," Osamu concluded smugly, pulling away.
Chuuya snorted. He still hated him. He had so many reasons for it that he couldn't even choose one in particular. Although⌠There was nothing stopping him from loving him and hating him at the same time.
"If it weren't for that bet, DazaiâŚ"
"There was no bet, Chuuya."
Dazai cut him off. The smile was still on his face.
"I made the whole thing up."
It felt as though Chuuya had been doused with boiling water. He stared straight at Dazai, unable to make sense of what he'd just heard. As if he'd said it in another language.
What did he mean, there was no bet?
The kitchen suddenly became painfully quiet. Even though the city was still making noise outside. Water trickled from the faucet in a thin stream, and occasional drops fell into the sink with an almost mockingly precise sound.
Chuuya remembered that week. Almost every morning, every evening. Their agreement. Their bet. Their last chance.
But now Dazai was looking at him with that same innocent expression that absolutely did not mean he'd done something completely unbearable.
"There was no bet, Chuuya."
"You're no good for me. You're poison. But I still come back to you every time. I love you more than anything in the world and I can't live without you. I know you feel the same way. So why can't you love me without hurting me?"
Chuuya spoke the last words almost in a whisper.
He was sitting right on the floor beside a low chabudai, leaning his elbows against the tabletop. One hand was still wrapped around the neck of a bottle. A little more pressure and something inside him would shatter along with the glass. But it was far from the first bottle. Several empty ones lay nearby, while another had rolled against the leg of the sofa. The last thin stream of wine slowly leaked from it, soaking into the light-colored carpet and spreading across it in a dark red stain.
Chuuya looked at him through clouded eyes.
Whenever he was hurting, he got angry. Anger settled in his chest and made him say things he would have preferred to keep to himself while sober. He could scream, accuse, and throw whatever happened to be within reach. Then the storm would pass. And emptiness would come â a very deep emptiness that left nothing behind except exhaustion and the desire never to wake up again.
Chuuya wiped his face with the back of his hand. Pathetic. Pathetic was the person who could destroy an entire building with a single movement. A man whom people in the Mafia feared and respected. And who couldn't handle one single person in his personal life.
They had had so many last chances that they could have paved a road from Yokohama all the way to hell with them. And yet he kept coming back. Because hating Dazai and putting up with having him around had always been much easier than living without him.
The lock in the hallway clicked quietly. Dazai stood in the doorway, holding a small bouquet in one hand. Absurdly tender and completely out of place among the bottles on the carpet. Osamu stepped inside. Technically, he should have apologized. That stunt with the nonexistent affair had been too much even for him. Now even he didn't understand what had made him come up with such a disgusting way to make Chuuya jealous, but at least he'd come with flowers. He hadn't chosen them himself, of course. Atsushi had helped. But it seemed that even a beautiful bouquet wouldn't make this situation easy to fixâŚ
Osamu stepped closer and crouched beside him.
"Yeah, yeah. You can yell at me tomorrow," he interrupted calmly. "Come on."
Chuuya struggled to lift his head. He wanted to ask why he'd even come. And then send him away anyway. Forever. Because he didn't have the strength to put up with this anymore. But he couldn't even manage to mumble anything in response. The 2005 Banyuls he'd drunk had finally gotten the better of him.
Dazai gently touched his shoulder.
"Come on. You need to rest."
Osamu dropped the bouquet onto the floor, stood up first, and held out his hand. Chuuya stared at the familiar fingers and the bandages peeking out from beneath his sleeve for a long time. He would definitely regret this⌠Again. But he still slowly placed his hand into Dazai's open palm. And let Dazai pull him up from the floor.
The next morning, Chuuya woke up with the feeling that nails had been hammered into his temples. His head was splitting, and his mouth was so dry it felt like he'd eaten a mouthful of sand. Every movement made Chuuya groan quietly and squeeze his eyes shut. He had to lie still for a couple of minutes, hoping that if he didn't move, he might feel better.
He didn't. That's the thing about hangoversâŚ
Chuuya raised a hand to rub his eyes. And immediately felt something cold. Metal unpleasantly bumped against his eyebrow. Startled, he pulled away from his own wrist.
With a long, thin chain disappearing somewhere to the side.
Chuuya followed it with his eyes. It stretched across the rumpled sheets toward the neighboring pillow.
Toward someone else's hand.
And then Nakahara shot upright so abruptly that his head immediately responded with another burst of pain.
He shoved him in the shoulder. Dazai mumbled something incoherent and turned toward the wall.
"Why are you yelling⌠It's our day offâŚ"
"Our day off?! What the hell is this?!"
Dazai lazily opened his eyes and looked down at their connected hands.
And Chuuya almost believed him right away.
"You don't remember?" Dazai turned toward him and propped himself up on one elbow. "You said we needed one last chance. And we agreed on a bet: we'd spend a week together under the same roof."
"You want to move in with me too?!" Chuuya's irritation had already reached its limit. Suddenly, he straightened up, held out his hand, and said in an even, icy voice, "Give me the key."
"Then it'll be easier for me to bite your hand off. Better give it to me nicely."
Dazai chuckled quietly. He hadn't expected Chuuya to take it lying down. Like a wild fox caught in a trap: first it growls, and if nothing else works, it bites off its own leg just to escape. Nakahara felt pretty much the same way right now. He yanked the chain toward himself. The metal clinked, but Dazai didn't even move.
"Come on, Chuuya, it's only a week! Lots of couples dream of being able to spend this much time together!"
"But we're not a couple."
"Maybe it's just a matter of time."
How exactly was spending a week with his insufferable ex-partner and suicidal maniac supposed to help them get back together? The personalities of people whose frontal lobes were practically fully developed didn't just change. They simplyâŚ
Didn't belong together. That was their diagnosis.
Chuuya looked at his wrist. He could break the handcuffs with his ability. Force the key out of Dazai's hands. Or simply snap the chain. It would take a few seconds.
But if Dazai had really done thisâŚ
If he'd come to him last night, listened to everything Chuuya had rambled about while drunk, and then decided to give this stupid last chance a tryâŚ
Maybe there was still something left between them after all?
Some idiotic, sentimental part of Chuuya desperately wanted to believe it.
"I can't believe I agreed to such a stupid bet," Chuuya muttered, letting his hand fall onto the bed. "We're not sixteen anymore."
"Are we? Because judging by your height, you're still sixteen."
Chuuya's fist almost immediately flew toward his shoulder. Dazai dodged with a laugh, and the chain between them clinked again.
"Shut up!" Nakahara snapped. "What's the point of me dragging you around all week like an idiot?"
The point is that if nothing changes, I'll let you go, Dazai thought.
But he didn't say it out loud.
"You'll find out after breakfast," he smiled again and, pulling himself closer, unexpectedly kissed Chuuya on the cheek. Right where the imprint of his rumpled pillow was still visible from sleep. "Will you make Eggs Benedict the way you do?"
Chuuya didn't even slap him. And that was strange.
After jokes about his height, his fist usually flew toward Dazai's face faster than he could finish the joke. But right now, he was stunned. God, this bastard loved making Chuuya look stupid. But a week⌠Just seven damn days.
"As you wish, Your Majesty," Chuuya muttered venomously and threw the blanket off himself. "Get up, then. I'm not going to wait on you while you just lie there."
He gave the chain a hard yank.
This week was going to be the worst week of his life.
By breakfast on the first day, it became clear that the handcuff idea, while admittedly sexy, had been idiotic. The chain kept catching on furniture, clinking with every step, and, worst of all, made it difficult for Chuuya to move around his own apartment properly. The final straw was the shower. Chuuya wanted at least ten minutes to himself. Dazai, naturally, decided it was the perfect opportunity to keep him company. Nakahara promptly declared that if he didn't take the damn thing off immediately, the chain would soon be wrapped around his neck instead.
When the metal links finally hit the floor, leaving a red mark around Nakahara's wrist like a thin bracelet, he kicked the chain under the cabinet just in case.
After that, the week went much more peacefully.
On the evening of the second day, Dazai decided to welcome Chuuya home from work in style. That in itself was so suspicious that Chuuya stopped the moment he stepped through the door. Dazai was standing in the kitchen⌠Wearing an apron.
Chuuya slowly took off his hat.
"Okay, what are you up to?"
The kitchen smelled like something was burning. Chuuya glanced at the ceiling. The smoke detector was silent. So there was still some time before the fire. Encouraging.
Chuuya stepped closer and peeked into the oven. Then he looked at Dazai.
"You ordered this? Again, with my money?!"
"No, I cooked it myself."
"You stole it from a restaurant?"
"No, I cooked it myself!"
"You asked Atsushi to cooâ"
"Chuuya, you're killing any desire I have to become a good person."
Dazai huffed indignantly, getting tangled in the apron strings as he tried to take it off. When he left the kitchen, Nakahara suspiciously picked up a fork and took a bite. The meat was overcooked, and one part was downright burnt. Well, that much had been obvious from the smell. And the sauce tasted like something that was probably better left unidentified. But it meant one thingâ Dazai had actually cooked it himself.
Chuuya silently sat down at the table. Maybe he'd gone too far today. So, as an apology, he'd eat all of it. Even if he had to force himself.
On the third day, they had another argument. Dazai had taken his wine without asking. At some point, because of an answer from Dazai that was irritating enough to be unforgivable, the conversation turned into their usual bickering.
Chuuya crossed his arms over his chest. Dazai stood opposite him. Usually, one of them would turn around and slam a door. If it was Osamu, the front door. If it was Chuuya, the balcony door, so he could smoke. But this time, Dazai only let out a tired sigh.
"I don't want this to end the way it usually does."
Chuuya looked at him in surprise. That was something he hadn't expected at all. He was still angry and wanted to be alone. But that damn bet⌠They were supposed to get through this week together.
Instead of leaving, Chuuya walked over to the refrigerator, took out a second bottle of wine, and put it on the table.
"This one's mine. Take it without asking again and I'll kill you."
"For a bottle of wine? Seriously?"
"Wine doesn't get on my nerves the way you do."
At least this time, they both stayed home. Neither of them left.
The next day, Dazai took him to the roof for some reason. There was no romance involved. They simply sat on the cold concrete with their legs dangling over the edge, watching the city. Watching the cars slowly move along the streets, the first lights coming on in the windows of the buildings, and somewhere far away, the sunset fading into the sky, painting it in murky shades of pink.
"It's cold here," Chuuya complained, rubbing his hands together.
"Couldn't you have found a better place to take me on a date, if that's what this is?" he thought. Dazai didn't answer. He simply kept looking ahead, thinking about something of his own, as though he didn't even notice what Chuuya was saying.
"I'm glad we're here," he said suddenly. "I'm glad we're still together."
Chuuya tore his gaze away from his hands, which he'd been trying to warm with his breath, and looked at Dazai. Then he felt a hand move beside him. Dazai held out his palm. Their fingers intertwined. Dazai's hand was warm. But not warmer than those words.
He had probably just used up his entire supply of kind words for the next year. But stillâ Chuuya remembered every single one.
Then they had to work together again. A temporary alliance between their organizations. Just one mission. Several years had passed since they'd worked side by side. But the moment the fight began, their bodies remembered everything they needed to know on their own. Dazai covered Chuuya's back. Chuuya acted without a word. They were still partners. Perhaps they always would be.
And then something went wrong. When Dazai finally found him, broken glass and pieces of the collapsed wall were scattered everywhere. Chuuya was trapped beneath them. Blood had soaked through the clothes around his side and arm.
Osamu stopped breathing. He dropped down beside him and grabbed Chuuya by the shoulders. He shook him, calling his name.
Chuuya. Chuuya. Chuuya. Chuuya. Chuuya.
For a moment, it felt like that was it. For the first time in his life, Chuuya looked so⌠Fucking awful. But Dazai had never once allowed himself to imagine what would happen if Chuuya died like this.
What would happen to him?
Would there even be anything left after Chuuya was gone?
He shook him, smearing his hands with the other man's blood.
No, please. No, no, no. Please.
Until Chuuya finally groaned faintly.
"Stop yelling⌠I'm not fucking dying."
Osamu froze and closed his eyes. A wave rushed through his entire body. Chuuya was alive.
"Hah, yeah, well," Dazai exhaled, trying to bring his usual mocking tone back into his voice. "A cockroach like you would be pretty damn hard to kill."
Chuuya tried to smile. And if his arm hadn't hurt so badly, he definitely would have punched him. Not hard. Just enough to keep him in shape. But Dazai smiled back anyway.
The next day, Chuuya woke up in the hospital. A bouquet stood on the bedside table. It wasn't the prettiest bouquet, of course. But for the first time, it looked like Dazai had chosen it without anyone else's help. That alone made it very attractive.
Nakahara carefully pulled a small note from the bouquet.
"I'll be waiting for you at home tonight. The bet isn't over yet đ"
"Idiot," Chuuya smiled to himself. "God, I just hope he doesn't wreck the apartment while I'm gone. Cleaning services are so damn expensiveâŚ"
He let out a heavy sigh and fell back against the pillow.
By the end of the week, everything had stopped feeling like a mission they simply had to survive. They stopped counting the days.
In the mornings, Chuuya made breakfast. Dazai hovered nearby with a cup of coffee. Then Chuuya threatened to strangle Dazai with his own bolo tie, but still stood on his tiptoes to kiss him on the lips.
During the day, they went their separate ways to deal with their own business. In the evening, they met at home again. They had dates at home, drank, argued, and then fell asleep tangled together, arms and legs intertwined. They both got used to it.
The week ended. But they stayed together.
"There was never any bet."
Dazai had played him like a fool. Again. Once again. With their last chance.
Chuuya fell silent, staring at him and trying to figure out what exactly he was supposed to feel right now. Anger? Outrage, definitely. But more than anything, he wanted to askâwhy? Why had Dazai even done this?
He could have simply said it. He could have stopped hiding behind jokes and his eternal habit of pretending that he didn't care. He could have said, "Let's try again." But that wasn't Dazai's style.
Admitting that he didn't want to lose Chuuya would have been almost the same as voluntarily laying down his weapon in front of an enemy. So Osamu had chosen a different path. He made up a bet that had never existed. Made up a promise Chuuya had never made. And simply let him believe that, all this time, he had been the one holding their last chance in his hands.
Chuuya closed his eyes. What an asshole. He hadn't changed one bit.
Well, from Dazai's perspective: if kissing Chuuya in the morning while he washed the dishes could be called happiness⌠Then, perhaps.
But Chuuya was still confused. He hadn't stopped loving Dazai after all of this. Perhaps that was the biggest problem of all. Because now all he had left to figure out was just how drunk he'd been that night.
Was I really so drunk that I don't remember making a bet?
Was I really so drunk that I don't remember not making any bet at all?
Was I really that drunk?..
