♡︎✩OwlBee✩︎︎♡︎

Extrassksnsmd

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Dazai sat in bed, it was 3 in the morning and all he could do was stare up at the ceiling fan to keep himself awake.

He fiddled with the length of string between his now unbandaged fingers.

He was sure that chuuya had already fallen asleep beside him. In fact he was sure of this an hour ago as well. But he needed to be certain that Chuuya was fully asleep.

Finally, he turned away from the ceiling. Just hardly able to make out chuuyas features, his only light being the dull old porch lights from outside their bedroom window. Even in the dim lighting, Chuuya was and always would be breathtaking to Dazai.

Despite the poor lighting, dazai could see the faintest trace of the freckles that dusted his cheeks. He could see the messy waves of red that so perfectly framed his face. He could see the long lashes that in just the right lighting, looked like glowing embers surrounding Chuuya’s azurite eyes.

Even since they were teenagers, Dazai had always adored the way Chuuya looked when he fell asleep. He was just so… tranquil? calm? untroubled?

He never could find the proper word to describe it.

What he could say, however, is that chuuya looked absolutely, unequivocally, beautiful. Butterflies rushed through him at the sight, a feeling still foreign to the man even after all these years.

Nervousness was a very rare experience for Osamu Dazai, but never an unwelcome one. Because his nervousness had only ever been caused by Chuuya.

He reached for chuuyas hand, pulling it close to himself and running his slender fingers over chuuyas scarred knuckles.

‘How beautiful…’

Dazai loved everything about the man in front of him. Every little scar, every freckle, every out of place hair, anything that made chuuya, chuuya.

He pressed a gentle kiss to his boyfriend's hand.

As anxious as he felt, he was confident that Chuuya wouldn’t wake up. That man could sleep through a hurricane.

He took one more deep breath, bringing the string to chuuyas finger and remembering what Kunikida had told him.

“If you want to get his ring size just tie some string around his finger and give it to the jeweler, they should be able to measure it for you.”

It’s just tying a string, easy as that. As long as chuuya didn’t move in his sleep. Or worse… wake up. Dazai had always been clever with his hands though, so it’s nothing to worry about! right?”

He wrapped the string around chuuyas finger. Double knotting it just to be safe.

He let out the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. ‘Yes! I got it! Worlds best boyfriend award goes to the one and only Dazai Osa- oh shit…’

He tugged on the string, trying to pull it off of Chuuya’s finger.

‘Well… that’s less than ideal.’

He tried rolling the string off instead but it didn’t budge. And as clever as dazai was with his hands, even he couldn’t untie a knot so small.

The man’s hands flew to cover his face. How the hell had he managed to completely fuck up a task so simple?!

Dazai spent a few more minutes trying to get the floss off before finally resigning to his fate. He gently shook chuuya awake, struggling not to stare in awe at chuuyas mild annoyance.

“Why the hell did you wake me up?” Chuuyas voice sounded gravelly, almost distracting enough for dazai to completely forget about his current objective.

“Uh… I need your help.”

Chuuya clearly grew concerned, though the changes in his face and tone were so subtle nobody but dazai would have picked them up.

“What with?”

“Uh… there’s a string stuck to your hand, I can’t get it off…”

Chuuya stared at dazai in silence for a moment. Finally looking down to see the string on his finger. His eyes flickered back and fourth, between dazai and the string. Eventually settling on dazai again.

“Why… did you tie a string to me?”

“Uhm…. It’s uh… it’s a prank! Obviously! You got pranked so hard! Heh….”

Dazais lie was pitiful, but chuuyas half awake brain seemed to accept it.

“That’s… such a stupid prank.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever! Just help me get it off!”

Chuuya let out a long sigh, dropping his head back onto his pillow. “Just go get me some scissors, I’ll cut it off.”

“No!”

Chuuyas head shot back up to look at dazai “huh?”

“Uh… we can’t cut it off.”

“And why not.”

‘Because I still need your ring size.’

“Because it’s um… it’s a really special string! We can’t cut it!”

“Why would you use special string for a prank?!”

“I didn’t say it was a well thought out prank!”

Chuuya finally sat up in bed, letting out a yawn. “Alright fine, how about oil, we can slip it off with that right?”

Dazai smiled, leaning forward to give Chuuya a quick kiss. “You’re a genius!”

Chuuya smiled back at the man, his adoration for dazai just hardly outweighing his annoyance. “Yeah, yeah. Just shut up and get this thing off me.”

Dazai grabbed chuuyas hand, dragging him along to the kitchen and drenching his hand in oil. It took a few minutes, but dazai finally managed to slip the string off of chuuyas finger.

“Ugh… now my hands are all oily.”

Dazai smirked “mine too! We match~” he cooed.

“You’re an idiot.”

“And you love it!”

The men washed the remaining oil off of their hands and dazai set the string on his bedside table contently.

‘Mission achieved! Sorta!’

Dazai wrapped his arms around chuuya, peppering feather light kisses across the freckles on his cheeks. “I love you and your stupid tacky hats.”

Chuuya chuckled, despite the less-than-rare nature of dazais affection, It always brought a smile to his face. He brushed his hand across dazais cheek, returning the gesture with a kiss to the tip of dazais nose. “I love you too, moron.”

Dazai finally found himself feeling calm again, letting himself relax in chuuyas grasp.

“Oh, and Osamu?”

“Yeah Chuuuuya~?”

“You know you could have just asked for my ring size?”

Dazai found himself speechless. The calm he’d felt only moments ago rushing away once again, replaced by the familiar feeling of butterflies.

Nervousness was a very rare experience for Osamu Dazai, but Chuuya Nakahara was an expert at breaking his composure.

“You knew?”

Chuuya gave dazai a small smile, gazing at him with a soft look only dazai would ever get to see.

“Love, you tied a string around my finger in the middle of the night. That would be a stupid prank even for you.”

Dazais brow furrowed and he pulled away from chuuya. “Chuuyas so mean~ I won’t propose if he keeps talking like this.”

“Oh don’t get all pouty on me.” Chuuya chuckled gently holding dazais hand again.

“You’ll just have to propose to me if you want to get married. Chuuya, meet the consequences of your actions.” Dazai tried and failed to hold a straight face while he talked.

“Well, If I have to.” Chuuya rolled over to reach into his nightstand, pulling out a small box.

“Y’know I was hoping to do this after a romantic date but if you’re gonna be dramatic about it…” Chuuya opened the box to show a ruby engagement ring, metallic accents that almost looked like his corruption.

“You’re… you… how?!”

“I’m much sneakier than you, idiot.” Chuuya teased, slipping the ring onto his finger.

“I didn’t even say yes, you’re getting presumptuous chuuya~” dazai smiled, admiring the ring on his hand.

“Yeah, believe it or not I’ve got a bit of a hunch that you wanted to marry me.”

“What gave it away? I thought I was playing hard to get.”

Chuuya chuckled, giving dazais hand a slight squeeze. “Now will you accept my proposal so we can sleep?”

“Huh?! No!”

“What?”

“I mean yes! To the proposal. But no we can’t go to sleep! We need champagne! We just got engaged we have to celebrate!”

Dazai tried to get out of bed but was immediately pulled back down, chuuyas arms wrapping around him. “It’s 3 in the morning, how about we sleep now, and invite people over tomorrow to celebrate?” Chuuya pressed a kiss to dazais temple, running his thumb over dazais ring.

As much as dazai would love to protest, he couldn’t help but melt in chuuyas arms. “Yeah fine, I’m still getting you a ring by the way, you don’t get to win the engagment.”

In his many years of writing, fyodor found that he got the best work done in the quaint cafe down the street from his apartment. The place was small and rather quiet, and unlike his own apartment, there were no loud neighbors to distract him from his work.

It held the constant scent of fresh baked pastries and coffee, and the only distraction to be seen was the oddly dressed barista who always seemed ecstatic that fyodor had come back once again.

The man had long white hair, tied into a braid behind him. With some shorter pieces in the front to frame his face.

One eye was bright green, the other a pale gray, with a scar across it. Fyodor found himself wondering how exactly that scar was created. And his clothing, despite being mostly black and white, had red accents mixed in which fyodor took to be his favorite color.

From time to time, fyodor felt the man’s eyes on him. The place never seemed to have many customers, so he assumed there wasn’t much else to do besides check up on whoever came in.

The interesting thing about the barista, was that he never seemed to mind being caught staring.

Fyodor would occasionally feel those eyes burning into him. He'd look up, expecting to see the man’s mismatched eyes darting away, for him to pretend to be working instead of watching.

Rather, the small, oblivious smile that always seemed to rest on his face just widened and he kept those eyes trained on fyodor.

Most might find this behavior disconcerting, but fyodor found it interesting. He couldn’t help but smile to himself at the eccentricity of the man behind the counter. The Baristas stare was in no way creepy or uncomfortable. It didn’t feel like the gaze of a person undressing another with their eyes.

Rather, it was that of someone who found the actions of the other interesting, it was simply observation in its purest form. And that burning gaze that followed him so often served as a comfort in some sense. Like no matter how much changed in fyodor's own life, he would still have that one constant of those pretty eyes observing his every move.

The barista of course, had his own reasons for this watching.

Nikolai had worked in this coffee shop for quite a while, generally with little to no care about the patrons of the place

It was just a good way to make some money.

That is, until the reserved author he now knew to be named Fyodor began visiting regularly.

The man had a peculiar air about him, which was only partly on account of his appearance. He had shoulder length black hair which fell into his face, clearly often enough he didn’t care much to fix it. His eyes were an enchantingly deep shade of purple, one that Nikolai got quite lost in. And he wore simple clothing, black slacks and a white button down which draped over his thin frame.

He seemed tense simply being around other people, and always made sure to sit in the furthest corner of the cafe. Despite the fact that the cafe had more than enough seating everywhere else, and rarely had other patrons to take them up.

Nikolai figured he chose that seat specifically, because it had the windows, doors, and barista all in sight. And he was sure to never sit in the seat directly against the wall, but one over, as it made getting in and out quicker.

The barista never could help himself when it came to socializing with the unsocial. It was, more than anything, the need to know what it would take to win them over. Unfortunately, fyodor had made this exceptionally difficult for him.

He had no interest in small talk, usually ignoring Nikolai’s feeble attempts to ask about his day. He sat far from Nikolai, and occasionally looked up at him from behind his laptop with those sharp eyes, like he could see right through Nikolai’s schemes, like he could read his thoughts. Maybe he could, maybe that’s why after all this time coming to the cafe, fyodor never once looked at the cup in front of him.

The cup that every day, Nikolai wrote his phone number on. Often along with a small doodle of some sort, Todays was of a small cat, with a Cheshire grin, drawn in a bright pink marker Nikolai bought with only the hope it would draw the others eye.

Yet every day, fyodor would take the coffee from him, sit down across the room, and stare at that laptop of his.

He only ever drank about half of it, seemingly getting too caught up in whatever he was writing to finish it.

Nikolai once tried to ask what he wrote, but the man gave him a sour look and didn’t answer.

In fact, in all this time, the only thing fyodor had ever said to him was “a small black coffee, please and thank you.”

That was it.

Yet Nikolai felt, for the most part, content with this routine of theirs. Fyodor would come in, and order a small black coffee. Nikolai would try his best to start a conversation, or even make a stupid joke in hopes that fyodor would laugh…

He never laughed.

But that was alright, Nikolai didn’t mind.

Then fyodor would take his coffee, sit far away, and spare Nikolai an occasional glance with those heart stopping eyes.

And Nikolai would wait, in hopes that his strange new companion would finally notice what he wrote on the cup.

He never noticed.

This, Nikolai did seem to mind as time went on.

So, he thought up a plan. One that he thought himself a genius for. The next time fyodor came in, he gave him the wrong drink. He figured that fyodor would take a sip, notice the difference, and finally look at the cup.

However, Nikolai miscalculated something in his plan. The slight affection that fyodor had grown to hold for the odd, foolish, barista who always tried to make him laugh, and stared at him like he was the first person he’d seen in years.

Fyodor took a sip from the overly sweet coffee he had been given in place of the bitter drink he’d become used to. He scowled slightly at the taste, and his eyes shifted off of his computer screen. Not to the cup, and instead to the barista. He noticed the oblivious smile on the man's face, and looked back down to his computer. And maybe it was just the poor cafe lighting, or the reflection of the screens light on his face.

But Nikolai could have sworn there was a small hint of pink on the pale man’s skin. A trick of the eye, he could only assume.

Fyodor didn’t look at the cup, though he did take another sip. Trying his best not to grimace at the taste. Nikolai watched on in pure confusion. As the man who had so pointedly ignored him for so long, for the first time, finished the drink he clearly disliked.

Fyodor then stood up, offered Nikolai a polite smile, and left without a word.

Nikolai let out a loud sigh as soon as the door closed, leaning against the wall and letting himself sink down onto the ground.

‘Is he oblivious or just stupid?’

Despite his frustration, Nikolai couldn’t help the smile that crossed his lips, nor the heat that burned at his face, when fyodor came to mind. He couldn’t help but wonder if fyodor even bothered to learn his name, and truthfully he didn’t care all that much. Because getting even a tiny smile out of that sheltered new friend of his was an achievement.

Friend… that probably isn’t the right word.

What they had could never be described as a friendship… but there was something there.

Regardless, weeks passed and their routine has returned to normal. Nikolai decided not to change Fyodor's drink again, as fascinating as it was to watch the man drink something he hated.

But once again, Nikolai found himself getting bored of their routine. Wanting quite desperately for Fyodor to just look at the cup. At this point he didn’t care much whether fyodor completely ignored his advances, however he at least wanted some sort of attention from the man. Anything to tell him fyodor knew about the writing on his cup.

So, finally reaching his wits end, Nikolai decided on a less subtle course of action to demand a response. Nikolai walked up to the table, and placed a sticky note right onto the face of Fyodor's laptop. Receiving a confused and rather annoyed look from the man.

“I have written my number on your cup every day since you started coming here. Not once have you even glanced at it.”

Nikolai huffed, letting his frustration get the better of him to a man who he hardly knew. But as strange as this approach was, it finally seemed to all click in fyodor's mind. His eyes finally flickered to his cup, and scanned over the numbers, as well as the small drawing of a mouse which sat next to them.

Then, he looked at the note placed on a laptop which he had previously been too shocked to pay any real attention to. It read “go on a date with me.” In a large font, and chicken scratch handwriting.

Without a word, fyodor pushed his laptop in front of the seat closer to the wall, and moved to the further seat.

For a moment, Nikolai thought this was Fyodor's silent way of rejecting his offer, which in retrospect seemed more like a demand. However fyodor looked back up to the man and with the slight tilt of his head, for the first time, spoke something other than his order.

Jon stared at the screen in front of him, scanning over the many, many, words in the excruciatingly long email Elias had sent him.

Something about a noise complaint from the non archive employees, or maybe a noise complaint about the non archive employees?

Truthfully, he didn’t process a single word of it.

His leg tapped rapidly against the concrete floor, in unison with his hand, clicking the pen that had run out of ink when he was still in college. He kept it around regardless, mostly to click mindlessly, and he had long since tuned out the sound it made.

To put it simply, Jon was far in over his head.

“Take the promotion” He’d thought

“It’ll be fun!” He’d thought

He thought wrong.

It was bad enough that Jane Prentiss decided to make her dramatic reappearance, but of course it had to be in the form of an attack on one of his employees.

Because obviously a new job he was entirely unprepared for wasn’t enough stress! Why not throw a whole pile of worms on top?

Jon had begun to think that this was all just some horribly elaborate hazing ritual for the new archivist. Did Gertrude have to deal with worms too?!

Of course not, Jon had only seen the woman a few times but he was rather sure a gust of wind would be enough to knock her down. She was short and frail, (not that Jon was any different)

and as Tim described her “more cardigan than woman”

Sure, she was stubborn. But there was nothing that could convince Jon that the nutty old bat had ever actually dealt with an entity firsthand!

It had all just become a bit much, and Jon found it harder and harder to focus.

With Martin living in the archives, Jane lurking around somewhere (and sending the occasional ominous text message from martins phone), parasitic worms infesting the building, and of course to top it all off, Jon had to keep his assistants’ living situation hidden from Elias! Who would almost certainly disapprove of the whole affair. Even Jon wasn’t sure it was the best idea, given it probably broke several institute codes.

Jon leaned back in his chair, finally straightening his god awful posture. He pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a sound that was somewhere between an exasperated sigh and a pained groan.

He turned his attention back to his computer, closing the half-read email.

‘It can wait until tomorrow’ he reasoned. ‘Not like I can focus on it in this state.’

He tried to ignore the weight that seemed to pull his eyes shut, and the almost silent clock on the wall that reminded him of how unreasonably late he had stayed.

That had always been a flaw of Jon’s, there would always be one or two more things left to finish before he went home, and those one or two things split into five or six. And the next thing he knew he was waking up at his desk in the middle of the night, with the imprint of a pen on the side of his face as evidence of his terrible self preservation skills.

He stood from his chair, decidedly ignoring the loud cracks that came of every joint in his body.

‘I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to check on Martin before I leave. Make sure he hasn’t burnt down my archive yet.’

He rolled his eyes at the thought of Martin scrambling to put out a fire, forgetting, in the panic, about the loads of Co2 extinguishers kept in the archive.

Not that it would be completely unreasonable, even Jon found himself forgetting that fire extinguishers can be used for more than killing worms. But he couldn’t help the slight chuckle that left him at the thought of Martin throwing his tea at a fire before thinking to use an extinguisher.

Jon placed a hand on the door to the archive room, but froze when he heard a noise from inside.

A gasp?

Oh god…

Jon’s amusement at the idea of a fire quickly turned to genuine dread. He pushed open the door, already prepared to reprimand Martin for having a flame in his archives. But was met with an… unexpected sight.

Martin was sat in the furthest corner from the door, his knees pulled to his chest and his arms wrapped around them. His face, previously buried in his knees, was now staring up at Jon in a mix of panic and embarrassment. His eyes were red and cheeks tear-stained.

He didn’t say a word, his breathing still ragged and uncontrolled. But that look on his face was enough for Jon to understand the situation, staring up at him like he’d seen a ghost.

Any words that came to mind were lost just as quickly.

“Oh-” Jon froze, staring at his assistant for what felt like far too long. Before slowly, uncomfortably, and without breaking eye contact, backed out of the room. “I um…I’m sorry.” He spoke, his usual bluntness prevalent even now, as he slowly closed the door in front of him.

Jon leaned his head against the now closed door, cringing at his own discomfort.

Martin just stared at the door, unsure what to do after… that.

It wasn’t like panic attacks were completely new to him, but until now he’d managed to keep them outside of work. Away from Jon, who already disliked him at the best of times.

God… of course it had to be Jon who walked in! At least if it had been Tim or Sasha he could have been saved the pure humiliation!

It wasn’t like Martin ever had a chance in hell with Jon anyways, but he would have at least liked to keep a shred of his dignity!

What would Jon think of him after this? Did he consider panic attacks a fireable offense? Of course not! Jon isn’t completely emotionless… right?

Martin found himself spiraling once again. Now due to the thought of what he would say next time he saw Jon, rather than his experience with Jane prentiss.

He bit down on his lower lip, one of the more painful anxious habits he’d picked up in his youth. Images flashed through his mind of any and every potential scenario that could arise when he saw Jon again.

But before he could properly freak out, the door to the archive creaked open again, and Jon stood in the doorway.

This time, however, he walked in. all the way over to Martin in fact, and sat down beside him.

“Jon, I- I um”

“It’s fine.” He cut Martin off “you don’t have to explain yourself, I understand.”

“Alright.”

Martins reply was soft, it made him feel even more pathetic than he already did.

“Here.” Jon placed two items between them.

One was a cup of tea, the other was a bag of… sour candy?

“Oh, uh thank… you?” Martin was a bit confused, but appreciated Jon’s strange attempt at comfort regardless.

Jon let out a sigh, he kept his eyes trained on the floor, trying to save Martin the embarrassment. Or maybe just to save himself the discomfort…

“sour candy helps with panic attacks. I read this article the other day. it’s quite interesting actually, I’ll send it to you. Sour candy shocks the senses and knocks you out of the fight, flight, or freeze state. Interestingly, mint has a similar effect. I would recommend reading up on it if you have the chance. It would probably be good to keep mints or gum on hand, just in case.”

Jon stopped speaking, realizing now that he was infodumping on his coworker In the middle of a breakdown.

“I uh, I thought they might help.”

Jon finally looked back to martin, who stared at him like a deer in headlights.

It took a moment for martin to process that Jon had finished speaking, but when he did he gave the man a small smile.

“Thank you, Jon. Really, I appreciate this.”

Martin's breathing had returned to normal now, and Jon’s presence had already served to ground him, but he took a candy anyways.

Then, a sip of the tea. The warmth seeped through the cup into his hands, further solidifying the feeling that he was safe here… with Jon.

He smiled fondly at the mug in his hands, he knew Jon probably just grabbed the closest to the front of the cabinet, but the thought of him picking out martin's favorite mug intentionally warmed him more than the drink.

Martin didn’t often go for floral teas, but this was from Jon, so for all he cared it could be oolong and he’d still treasure every sip.

“Lavender?” He mused

“Yes. Lavender helps to regulate the nervous system.”

Martin gave a soft chuckle at Jon’s usual bluntness “no, I know that. I just didn’t realize we had any.”

“Ah, we don’t. I keep some in my office.”

Martin gave a small hum in response, only now considering it a bit odd Jon had sour candy and lavender tea in his office. Or that he just had this knowledge of panic attacks on hand.

“Jon… do you-” he cut himself off, trying to find a way to phrase his question that wouldn’t be overly intrusive.

Jon was still his boss.

Though he had probably broken the boarders of boss/employee decorum when he started living in the workplace.

“Hm?”

“Have you… been having panic attacks?” Martin asked, his tone laced with concern.

Jon sighed softly, something that almost seemed like a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Do you never worry about yourself?”

Martin started to speak, but realized he had no defense against the accusation.

“Alright yes, point taken.”

He should probably drop it, but Martin didn’t like the idea of Jon suffering alone.

“Still though, have you?”

Jon let out a soft nose exhale, the closest thing to a laugh martin had ever heard from Jon. “Yes, from time to time. but that’s nothing you need to worry yourself over.”

“Fine, please take care of yourself though?”

“Only if you can promise the same.”

Jon smiled, it was small, but still there. And more importantly, it actually seemed genuine. And it was one of the most beautiful things Martin had ever seen. He could have sworn his heart skipped a beat, or five.

It wasn’t like the man never smiled, but more often than not it was the forced kind that never reached his eyes, the smile he used for group pictures and conversations with Elias.

But this? This smile was one of fondness, it seemed. But who knows, maybe Martin was just reading too far into things again, he did have that habit when it came to Jon.

He stared at the other man, ever-present infatuation knocking at his heart as he tried his best to memorize the sight, quickly as he could. assuming, rightfully, that Jon wouldn’t let a soft moment last long, because of course he couldn’t.

Jon placed a hand in front of his face and cleared his throat.

“It’s late, I should probably go home. Are you… going to be alright?”

Martin smiled at Jon, his eyes filled with pure adoration. “Of course, I’ll be fine. Get home safe, Jon.”

“Will do. I’ll see you tomorrow Martin.”

Jon stood from his place next to Martin, heading to the door.

“See you tomorrow.”

“Oh- Um… I’ll send you the article, i-it really is interesting, I promise.”

“Looking forward to it. Goodnight, Jon.”

“Goodnight, Martin.”

Martin had heard his name from the other man countless times, but he had never heard it spoken so softly. Like the words might break if said with any more force.

The sound of it was divine, ringing through martins mind like a melody.