#bsd x reader

"You're not gonna ask for a reason?"

"Reason for what?"

"For why I'm scared."

He sucks in a breath as if he's about to deliver a lecture to one of his subordinates, but then he stops himself, a soft sigh escaping instead, his usually brazen voice now gentle as an evening breeze. "What other reason do you need? You're scared. You don't wanna do it. That's enough for me." His hands wrap over yours protectively. "It's your body, sweetheart. I'd sure as hell hate if someone told me what to do with mine."

All you can do is stare back wordlessly as his bare thumbs stroke your knuckles. "We want a kid. You don't want to get pregnant. So what? Plenty of kids already run around in this city, plenty of 'em need a home. We don't need to add another one just cuz we made it. You do still want a kid, right?"

You nod once.

"So what difference does it make?" A soft kiss presses to the back of your hand. "I don't care how we do it— if the child comes from birth or adoption or falling out of the sky. Only thing that matters is keeping you happy and healthy. Biological or not, this kid will be ours."

Tears sting the corners of your eyes, because why does this surprise you again? Even after all this time why does it still shock you to receive Chuuya's unconditional love in full force.

Now a warm smile tugs his lips. "That's it, then. We're having a kid."

For the next few days, weeks even, you and Chuuya mull over the idea, settling into it before deciding with a firm nod that, yes, this is the way to go. And you'd never bring it up, but oftentimes you'd catch him staring out the window in the morning rush hour or walking slower around playgrounds, daycares or grocery stores where the sound of children's laughter drifts in the air.

2) For a man who usually has strong opinions about everything down to the shine of the aglets on his shoes, he now sits utterly clueless as the orphanage administrator drills him with questions he had no answers to.

"Age..." Chuuya ponders into the telephone on the dining table as you stir a pot of lavender tea across from him. His eyes flit to you but you merely give him a shrug. "Nope, no preferences... Nah, gender don't matter either."

Being in the mafia gives him plenty of chances to run into stray kids, he says, but more than that, the people who know where to find them. He listens to one such administrator drone on, but his brows furrow with every passing sentence.

Suddenly he clicks his tongue as if someone just spat in his face. "Hah?? Why does it matter if they know their birth parents or not? No— we don't care what hair colour, they could be purple-headed for all we care. What's next? You gonna ask if I wanna know how many freckles they got on their face?"

One hand massages his temple. "Look, Takashi-san, all that matters is that the kid likes us. So just help us arrange a meeting, alright?"

You manage to catch the last thing the orphanage administrator says before the call ends: "Actually, I’ve got a kid the two of you might be interested in meeting."

Then the line closes with a click, a heavy sigh dragging out of a drained Chuuya.

A steaming cup slides over to him as you take a sip from your own. "You're surprisingly complacent about all this. I thought you'd have more... opinions."

Chuuya warms his hands around the ceramic, staring lazily over its edge. "Yeah well, this is as much the kid's decision as it is ours. It don't matter how many toes they got on their feet if they don't wanna step into our home."

And that's how he walks into the meeting knowing absolutely nothing about the potential child or what to expect.

3) Chuuya Nakahara has never been a nervous man. But when the day comes to meet the child, he is positively sweating through his shirt.

The closest you'd ever seen him nervous beforehand was a bead of sweat on the day he met your parents. Even then, he was able to charm them into accepting him as one of their own almost instantaneously.

A child, however, would prove a little harder to impress.

Now, Chuuya sits straight-backed on the wooden chair in one of the orphanage's waiting rooms, a restless hand tugging at his collar while the other grips his knee. "Do these people not know about air conditioning? It's like a fucking furnace in here."

"Chuuya, what if they don't let us take him because of your language?" you respond coolly.

"Shit, you're right— I mean, argh." With a groan, his head hits the table in defeat. "What if I'm not cut out to be a dad?"

Your hand rubs his back in reassurance. "Lucky for you, there's a lot more to fatherhood than not swearing."

"No I mean—" His head turns towards you, eyes half-glazed in a distant memory. "What if I don't know how to make 'em happy? It'd be pretty shitty taking in a kid only to give them a miserable childhood."

It's not often you see Chuuya second guess himself. But when he does, it only reminds you he's human too.

"You make me happy. I'm sure you can do the same for a child." Your hand continues making slow circles on his back. "Kids are supposed to be happy, Chuuya."

What he says next comes out in a murmur so soft you almost miss it. "Not the mafia's children."

That's when the door creaks open, and the face of a young boy pops through.

4) The first meeting can be best described as a train wreck. The equivalent of a punctured ship sinking in the Pacific. If not for one consolation.

Before you two went in, the orphanage administrator had this to say about the child: "So the boy you're about to meet is on the older side, about eleven years old—"

"Great so we skipped the diaper stage."

"—And he's been fostered a couple of times but never lasted long. He has a rather... complicated history."

"Don't we all," Chuuya muttered, already bored.

The poor man could only give an awkward, polite smile back. "I'm just informing you because prospective parents tend to want to know—"

"Do we look like other prospective parents?"

"...I suppose not. If you insist, Nakahara-san."

But now that you're sitting across from the child, all you could think is how badly you wanted to squish his cheeks. Even if said child is staring daggers into Chuuya's eyes. To which Chuuya obliges by staring straight back.

Not a word passes after the boy takes his seat. Currently, he’s kicking his little feet against Chuuya's shins under the table. And Chuuya, who suddenly mustered the patience of a saint, simply takes it with firmly pressed lips.

Finally, the boy blurts out, "Why's your hair orange? Never seen anyone with that color." He reaches a tiny hand towards it but Chuuya draws back instinctively. "Is it fake? Are you bald? You're bald, aren't you? So that means you've got a wig."

"A wig? You think I need a wig you little—" Chuuya's hand flies to his face. "Sorry, let me start over." Deep breath. "My name is Chuuya Nakahara and this is Y/n. You wanna tell us a bit about yourself, kid?"

The boy gives him a disgusted scowl. "What a lame name. Takashi, you can send the next ones in now," he calls over his shoulder at the door.

"OI, YOU HAVEN’T EVEN GIVEN US A CHANCE YET." Chuuya stands up so abruptly the chair flies back with a loud scrape.

"Don't need to." The boy sticks his tongue out.

A vein blossoms on Chuuya's forehead. "Not so fast. We've got thirty minutes with you. You ain't kickin' us out after two." Luckily, you'd already moved his chair back so when he plops back down, he doesn't make an even bigger fool of himself.

Chuuya crosses his arms and positions one ankle over the other knee, making it very clear he's not going anywhere. You have a feeling that's not something this child is used to, judging by the way his eyes went wide.

What was that you said about "all that matters is the kid likes us," Chuuya?

“Hey miss.” The boy turns to you. “Did’ya ever check if your husband’s bald? He could be lying to you. He looks like a big stinking liar.” Alongside the skeptical slant of his little mouth, there’s undeniable mischief glinting in his eyes. 

“YOU JUST MET ME HOW CAN YOU SAY THINGS LIKE THAT?” 

“See miss, you’re laughing. That means I’m right, don’t it?”

The next half hour passes with the boy hurling every insult he could conceive to an increasingly incredulous Chuuya. Chuuya would then either shut it down or get so offended his face turns red, leaving him choking as his brain frantically searches for any words devoid of profanity. All the while, the boy would have the time of his life cackling at his every reaction.

But they're talking at least. And somehow you feel like Chuuya is right at home.

When time is up, the door opens and the boy is taken by the hand and led out the room. However, before he leaves, he throws one last glance at Chuuya, who's still huffing as his face returns to his natural colour, and offers a final remark. "Oh, your hat's pretty cool, I guess."

And then he's gone.

When Chuuya turns back to you, all you can give him is a look equal parts of awe and amusement. But when you two walk out, Chuuya completely collapses into your arms, head in his hands.

"I ruined it... He hates me."

"Oh, somehow I wouldn't be so sure of that," you muse before you’re interrupted with a tap on your shoulder. The orphanage administrator.

He clears his throat before saying, "Well, Mr and Mrs. Nakahara, I'll be damned. I think he likes you."

"HUH?" Chuuya exclaims so loud he jumps out of your hold.

"I know, I was surprised too. But just between you and me, that was the first time the boy's lasted the full thirty minutes. Not to mention..."

"Not to mention what? Spit it out, old man."

"That's the first time he's laughed in one of these meetings."

5) So it goes, more meetings, more verbal combat, but most importantly, more laughter. Eventually, one more pair of shoes rests by the front door of your home.

"Is that all you got?" Chuuya eyes the tied-up cloth bundle in the boy's hands.

"Yup," the boy just says, kicking off his shoes haphazardly.

"Oh no, you're not doing that in this house." Chuuya drags him back by the collar before he can run off inside. "You're old enough to know how to tidy up after yourself. Don't leave your sh— stuff lying around for other people to clean."

"But they're by the door," the kid whines.

Chuuya shakes his head while you can only laugh. "Not good enough. See one of them's upside down. Put 'em next to ours by the wall."

The boy reluctantly bends down, then places his shoes beside the wall. With like a half-meter of distance away from Chuuya's.

Chuuya tilts his head at this but only sighs. "That'll do for now."

But before he heads inside, he grabs his boots and repositions them so the boy's sit between yours and Chuuya's.

The boy stands in the doorway and glances up at you behind him, where you offer up a gentle smile. "We'll get you your own shoe cubby soon."

Before he can respond, Chuuya's voice returns from the kitchen. "When you're done admiring the doorway, you're free to join us for lunch."

And yeah, he might take another 10 minutes lingering in the threshold before making his way to the dining table, he might pick at his food for a little bit before eventually letting hunger win, and he might occasionally kick Chuuya's legs under the table and pass it off as an accident. But at the end of the day, the boy is now in your home and eating the food Chuuya insisted he'd make for the first time you welcomed him in.

"Food's good, isn't it?" you say in the awkward silence.

The boy has a grain of rice stuck to his cheek that you have to fight the urge to clean off, but he's nodding. "Thank you for the food, Mrs Nakahara," he mumbles between small bites.

"Actually," you say, eyes sliding to your husband beside you, "Chuuya cooked this one."

“Oh,” the boy replies without missing a beat, “then it’s just alright.”

Chuuya's chopsticks slam onto the table. "You just said it was good."

"It's mid."

"MID?"

"At best."

And now Chuuya's launched into his first ever lecture, but not about the boy's behaviour, no. He's delivering a monologue about how hard it was to get the cooking temperature right for the meat, the doneness of the vegetables appropriate for an eleven-year-old, and even how "he had to stop himself from adding alcohol at least four times."

And the boy is giving him the most bemused look of bewilderment as if to say he didn't realize that much thought went into cooking... went into something made for him.

When Chuuya's done, you pass him a glass of water because he's clearly out of breath.

The boy mutters after a pause, “...Vegetables could be saltier.”

Chuuya blinks back in disbelief then scoffs. "Noted."

A soft laugh escapes from across the table, and Chuuya's one-man audience awards him a slow clap.

"My bad. Thanks for cooking, Mr Hat Guy."

"Hey, why does she get Mrs Nakahara and I get Hat Guy? You realize that's also my name, right?"

The boy merely shrugs.

What he doesn't get is that from now on, it's his too.

6) Just like he did with you, Chuuya begins to spoil the boy without his ever asking.

It happens a few weeks after your son moved in. Chuuya walks past his room when he notices the boy sitting on the tatami mat with his knees tucked to his chest, staring out the open window.

Chuuya scans the room once, the wardrobe doors are open but the shelves and rack are bare. The boy's little bundle of belongings still sits tied up in one corner of the room. Only a single chipped toy train rests on the table beside him.

"Hey, kid," Chuuya calls, knuckles rapping on the door. He's still not used to how big the little boy's eyes are when he turns to him. So wide yet full of wonder forced to retreat to make way for reality. "Get up. We're going shopping."

"Shopping," the boy tastes the word on his tongue like candy, "...what for?"

"You're kidding right? You’re always hovering by the laundry waiting for your favourite shirt to dry. And your other one’s got holes in it.”

"So...?"

Chuuya sighs, but it's entirely absent of all his typical irritation. “You’re gonna need more than two shirts, kid.” His eyes flick to the toy on the desk, the train without tracks, then fishes out his keys. "Might as well stop by the toy store too."

"Oh we're going to the mall?" You pass by the hallway with a pot of lilies in hand. "Great, I've been needing new flower vases."

"R-Really?" the boy squeaks, then cuts his excitement short with a cough. "I mean, what do I even get?"

Chuuya squints at him until he once again spots that damn bundle in the corner. To remain unpacked after weeks of sleeping in this house... maybe he was still expecting all of this to end soon. Chuuya turns down the hall. "Whatever you want. They're your shelves, not mine."

And he'd meant it when he said that. Little did Chuuya know he'd regret it just the teensiest bit when the outfits his son picks out violate every code of fashion conduct Chuuya meticulously built for himself over the years.

You, of course, don't miss Chuuya’s slight twitch as your son runs around the department store all starry-eyed. "He's eleven, Chuuya, let him wear the Thomas the tank engine shirt with crocodile slippers if he wants," you have to remind him as you two trail behind the boy.

"I swear I had better taste when I was his age."

"You're not gonna stop him, though, are you?"

"...'course not."

Soon enough, your son's room starts looking more and more like a mini exhibition, the walls plastered with crooked, overlapping posters and shelves of model toys. The model trains are the new and sleek limited edition, top of the line releases. Nothing less for the Port Mafia Executive's son.

And yet, even Chuuya couldn't find it in himself to dissuade his boy from lining the cheap grocery store toys with the garish paint of his favourite colour right next to the high-end models.

No, far be it from Chuuya to dim the beaming smile on the little boy's face as he takes in his newly furnished room.

7) But despite the best of Chuuya's efforts, it is precisely because that boy is the son of a Port Mafia executive that Chuuya can't give him everything he wants.

The Mafia is home. Mafia are family. At least, that's what Chuuya thought until he met you, someone who moulded home into a haven. Like how a willow tree makes space beneath its shade.

Before, he could go on those week-long work trips overseas and stay relaxed because you'd have friends, coworkers and other hobbies to keep you company in his stead. You understand why he has to leave sometimes, though it may not always ease the ache of absence.

But a child doesn't quite understand the necessity of such an absence.

So when Chuuya's work phone suddenly floods with notifications from you— which he opens in a panic because why the hell would you be spamming him like that at this hour?— he almost falls off his chair when he hears his son’s booming voice through the phone in the form of voice memos.

"Hey Mr Hat Guy when you come back I gotta tell you 'bout the dumbest thing Jun-chan did at school today you won't believe him..."

"My math teacher said I memorized the formulas all nice and perfect so now I hafta tell you too okay are you listening so the one for a triangle is base times height, then the rectangle is width times length unless it's a square then it's just length times length isn't that cool haha you’re still listening right? Then for a circle it’s..."

"DID YOU KNOW THERE'S A BULLET TRAIN IN YOKOHAMA THAT CAN SING IT GOES LIKE THIS—"

With his phone speaker pressed to his ear, Chuuya jumps when a knock arrives on his door.

"Hey Executive Nakahara, got the latest reports..." his subordinate trails off.

Chuuya grunts, "What is it?"

"Sir, are you smiling?"

"What? No I'm not— JUST DROP THOSE REPORTS AND FUCK OFF."

His subordinate doesn't need to be told twice before scramming down the hall.

Chuuya glances at the papers then back at his phone and his remaining dozen unopened voice memos. His heart plummets. These long nights and extra hours never bothered him before. But now, every moment he spends at the office is a moment he could be at home bonding with his son.

His son who he can already see waiting eagerly by the door to show him his new drawing, with the new expensive crayons Chuuya is sure he snapped in half already. 

When he finally reaches home that night, he hears a soft snore drift from the living room but only finds you half-awake in the open kitchen overlooking the boy.

"He was up really late waiting for you," you say before a yawn takes over. "Said he wanted to show you a song or something."

Chuuya wanders over to him before running a gloved hand through his tousled hair. "What's he doing? He's got school tomorrow."

"I tried to return him to bed but he keeps coming down here," you say, the sleep thick in your voice. "Oh also his teacher called, he got an A on his math test today. Suppose that's what he stole my phone to tell you today."

Without another word, Chuuya heaves the sleeping boy up in his arms, a task made easy by gravity manipulation, so that his little head rests on Chuuya’s shoulder. 

As he walks up the stairs, the boy stirs. “S’that you, Hat Guy?”

“Yup.”

“D’you know… the train goes…” and even half-asleep he still manages the little melody, “do-re-mi…fa-sol-la-si…do.”

“I know, kid, you told me.”

“So you saw all my texts? You listened to ‘em?”

“Mhm, every last one.”

When Chuuya finally tucks him into bed, still muttering “do-re-mi” under his breath, he spots one of the trains still clutched in the boy's hand. Chuuya carefully plucks it out and sets it on the bedside table, but not before giving it a forlorn glance. It’s the JR West steam locomotive, and he knows that because—

Ah, there’s the problem. No matter how much he can provide, he realises, no price can replace his presence. But what can he do?

So Chuuya, who has never acquired much of a taste for watches, now wears one that he checks religiously by the hour. Like clockwork, the moment his hours are up, the moment a mission ends, Chuuya makes like a magician and disappears.

"Hey sir, the team's gonna grab a round of drinks tonight if you wanna—"

"Can't. I'm busy."

"But sir, what about the mission briefings we need to prepare for tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow's problem."

With a flap of his coat, his subordinates are left stunned in the hallway wondering whether an imposter has replaced their devoted executive.

But to Chuuya, it all makes perfect sense. When he gets home, he's not only greeted with a hot plate of food but a newly energised kid waiting to talk his ear off about every new thing he's learned today, and whatever new insult he came up with this time.

He never realized he loved the sound of laughter this much until it was snores that greeted him home instead.

8) Before he knows it, Chuuya appears to have acquired a second shadow.

From the moment Chuuya rings the bluebird doorbell, which his son opens with the brightest grin, he follows right behind his heels, circling around whenever Chuuya stops to check his phone or take off his coat or drop the bags of takeout on the table.

Too often, Chuuya would take a step behind him only to realize he almost stepped on him. “Watch where you’re going,” he’d snap.

But the boy is already peering over the dining table and reaching for the plastic with the hands he just used to dig holes in the backyard. “Ooh I thought mom was cooking dinner. Whatcha get this time?”

“Your mom’s gonna be home late. She’s closing up at the flower shop today and doin' other florist-y things.” Chuuya grabs his wrists before he could contaminate dinner. “Not so fast, go wash up. You look like you just crawled out of a construction site.”

His son pouts and begins to head for the hall, but then he looks back at Chuuya expectantly.

“...What?” Chuuya asks, a hand at his hip.

“Wanna watch me blow bubbles in the sink?” 

Then Chuuya sighs, knowing that refusal would only prompt the incessant pleading. “Whatever gets you to wash up,” he resigns, causing the boy to beam and sprint for the powder room. “Just don’t waste too much soap or mom’s gonna yell at you again.”

“Fiiine.”

Brat, he finds himself thinking, can’t even wash his hands without me around.

Chuuya never thought he’d miss when he used to just kick his feet under the dinner table. Now he can’t even cook peacefully without the boy clinging to his legs or trying to steal a taste of whatever he was preparing. 

Not even his possessions are safe. Take one look away, and the neat stack of paperwork he left on the table has now fallen over halfway next to a toy train station, damp fingerprints smearing the ink off the headlines. His boots by the doorway lay crooked and buried under a pair of sneakers that his son kicked off after coming back inside from a playdate. The coffee he brewed that morning will mysteriously be missing a quarter of its contents by the time he comes back from a shower, and he’ll have a suspiciously hyper kid to answer for it.

All of those he can begrudgingly groan at and accept. His hat, however, is a different story.

One morning, Chuuya’s running late for work and frantically pocketing his keys when he reaches for the hat he hangs on its usual hook, but his hand closes on empty air. 

He tears through the living room but to no avail, then stomps up the stairs to search his bedroom. But halfway down the hall, Chuuya freezes at the doorway to his son's room, completely unprepared to find the little boy fully engrossed in the mirror.

Now see, Chuuya doesn't have a problem with vanity (if anything it's good to have in moderation if you ask him). What he does take issue with is the fact that his hat is sitting on top of his son's head, absolutely too many sizes too big and falling over his eyes.

His son holds up the brim with a hand as he spins in front of the mirror. And all Chuuya could think is 'So fucking adorable.'

The ticking at his wrist drags him back to the present.

"Oi, what’re ya doin’ with that? It's mine."

His son merely pulls the hat down tighter over his head. The stretched fabric makes Chuuya wince and before he can think better of it, he snatches it back.

His son stomps his feet and crosses his arms. “But I just wanted to try it onnn.”

Chuuya dusts off his hat with a grunt. "No. Don't give me that. You gotta ask before taking other people's stuff, you got that?"

The boy begins to sulk, the frown protruding on his little face makes Chuuya's gut twist with a wretched sense of guilt. But this is one matter he's not willing to compromise on.

“I’m picking you up after school for your dentist appointment. So don’t go wandering away from the school gates,” he says as he turns to the door. 

But before he can cross through, he manages to catch what his son mumbles under his breath, "Just wanted to look badass like you, Dad."

Damn it. Now he can’t even get mad.

All Chuuya does is pause and release the biggest sigh he’s ever sighed. “Plenty of other ways to do it than stealing my things, kid. We’ll talk about this later, alright?”

His son doesn’t answer him, preferring to stare at the floor instead.

“Hey, look at me.”

He does.

“I’ll come back and we’ll get ice cream so you can tell me about your feelings or whatever after. Sounds like a deal?”

Now the boy’s lips are twitching into a smile. “Okay.”

Chuuya turns around again when he just remembered something that makes him scoff. “‘Badass,’ huh? Where’d you learn to use that kinda language anyway?”

"I can hear you talk on the phone, ya know. Even when you close the door," his son answers as if it’s the most obvious thing ever.

"You're one nosy brat, ain’t ya?"

The kid only shows off the proudest smile he’s ever seen.

Halfway down the stairs, a realization dawns on Chuuya that nearly makes his knees give out under him: the brat just called him Dad for the very first time. Fortunately for Chuuya, there’s no one to call him out for the smile plastered on his face the whole drive to work.

9) But no amount of ice cream can fix how difficult home life is to balance at times.

On the nights of Chuuya's late missions and midnight stakeouts, you would take care bath and bed time. On the mornings when you have to leave for the flower shop, Chuuya would dress him and cook breakfast. You have an arrangement, or as close to one as possible given your circumstances.

One particularly early morning, you rush by the doorway, dumping all your necessities into a handbag before stuffing your gardening gloves into your pocket. "I already told you, Chuuya, I can't get him ready today. The granny needs my help opening up shop."

Chuuya runs a hand through his hair, still blinking the sleep away from his eyes. "I know but I've got a meeting in an hour and—"

All you do is give him a single stare. "It's wedding season. Do you want to talk a herd of bridezillas into pushing their plans?"

"...I'll move the meeting."

One of your eyebrows raises expectantly as you balance a pot of daffodils against your hips.

"And get the kid ready for school."

"Perfect, love you!" You press a quick kiss to his cheek before disappearing out the door in a floral wake.

Unfortunately for Chuuya, his son is a very heavy sleeper. So more often than not, he’d have to rush him the best he can, and whip up breakfast with one hand while the other combs his stubborn hair, only to realize it’s too late to have him walk to school. 

And the boy would never admit it (because he values his life), but on those mornings, he just might be dragging his feet a little slower through the house on purpose. And just maybe, those few extra minutes with Dad in the car make all the scolding worth it.

Other times though are a little more difficult to manage, especially those late afternoons while work still has you both trapped. Those days, you would entrust your son with a spare key so he can let himself home. This, of course, doesn’t come without a safety lecture from Chuuya.

“And what did I tell you to do if a strange man offers you a ride in his car?”

“I kick ‘em in the balls, scream, and say 'My dad's car is way cooler than yours."

"And?"

"And then I run as fast as I can into the nearest store."

Chuuya gives him an evaluative look before turning to you. “You sure we can’t give him a knife?”

“Chuuya.” You put both hands on his shoulders with a serious stare. “If you want to explain to his teachers why our son is carrying a blade to school, be my guest. But really, I think he’ll be alright.”

“Not even a pocket knife?”

Frighteningly, the kid is positively bouncing on his heels at the idea of carrying a weapon like his father.

“He’ll be fine. Just make sure you don’t forget the keys alright?” You peck the top of the boy’s head before pushing through the door.

“Yes, mom.”

“I was talking to your father.” You give Chuuya a pointed look. “Your keys are still on the dining table. Quit worrying so much about him and worry more about how much your fretting is making you forget things.”

“Damn it.”

“Language.”

“...Dang it.”

You wave a hand at the waiting boy as you unlock your car. “Be careful, baby. I’ll call Mrs Yamamoto to check on you when you get back okay?”

Mrs Yamamoto is your next-door neighbour, a cynical old lady whose only joy in life is having three times as many cats as people in the house. But when Chuuya calls her later that day and receives a report that was too good to be true, he has a few choice words to say to his son when he eventually gets home.

“So I hear Mrs Yamamoto found you "an absolute delight” earlier today. Said you even offered to clean up her front yard,” Chuuya brings up over dinner.

“Yup, sure did,” says the boy without a care in the world.

“You hate cleaning. Hell, your damn train tracks are all over the living room floor and I still find random building blocks in my shoes.” Chuuya squints his eyes at him. “What's your game?”

His son freezes, his chopsticks hovering in the air. “Alright fine, I wanna go to the railway museum with Jun-chan this weekend.”

Chuuya scoffs. “Could’ve just said that.”

The boy looks at him like spring onions started sprouting on top of his hat. “What, really? You mean I don’t have to work for it?”

“I mean you still gotta clean up, kid. But whaddya mean ‘work for it’?”

He just shrugs. “The orphanage made us do a bunch of chores before we got anything we wanted.”

“Cleaning up is something you do cuz you live here, dumbass. Doesn’t mean you gotta butter us up, or anyone else for that matter, before asking for anything.”

“Mom~ Dad just swore at me.”

“No no, he has a point,” you defend, giggling as you take your next bite. “It’s a pretty dumbass thought to have.”

And sure, your son might grumble about hating cleanup while Chuuya complains about how he almost broke his neck on a train track. But at the end of the day, the boy will still get his playdate with his friend, and he won’t have to concoct schemes for how to ask for every little thing he wants from you for the rest of his adolescent years.

10) Three is a crowd, or so they say. The old proverb might be right if not for the fact that Chuuya’s definition of peace has been changed forever.

Thumping footsteps, building blocks crashing over each other, his stolen vinyl jazz records, that same damn train whistle for the twenty-eighth time, the obnoxious cackling. Those are the sounds Chuuya is used to hearing coming from upstairs.

So one could see how absolute silence is terrifying to him. 

For twenty minutes, he can believe his son is taking a nap— thirty minutes even. But when an hour passes and there’s still nothing, Chuuya can’t stop himself from rushing upstairs and slamming his bedroom door open.

“KID, ARE YOU OKAY?” he yells into the room.

Meanwhile, his son looks up at him all confused, an open book in hand while you stand on the balcony giving Chuuya the same look.

“He’s just fine, honey. What’s got you all worked up?” you ask, pausing from tending to the overflowing pots of petunias and morning glories— your son’s favourites— over the railing.

“Nothing.” Chuuya’s shoulders loosen as he takes in the sight. “...What are you guys up to?”

The boy holds up his book with a smile. “Mom showed me a book. She said I should try to keep quiet when you’re working downstairs.”

“Oh, well.” Chuuya scratches the back of his head as he looks away. “Awfully considerate of you, bud. But you don’t gotta do that.”

A smirk crosses your lips. “You can just admit you were worried about him, Chuuya. Hey kid, I think your dad would like if you play next to him now.”

“Really?” And now he’s looking at him with those same stars in his eyes. And Chuuya knows he’s already lost. Those goddamn sparkling stars. 

“Tch, whatever.” He’s already making a break for the stairs again, but not before a little hand wraps around his wrist. “Just make sure you don’t touch any of my papers.”

“Okie dokie.”

His son follows obediently behind, where all he can see is the broad expanse of Chuuya's reliable back in front of him, so he misses the smile that Chuuya fails to fend off his face. 

What the boy doesn't know is that later that afternoon, a package will arrive at the door with his name on it, containing a hat that looks dangerously similar to one he's much too familiar with— of the right size this time.

Unfortunately for Chuuya, his son will never learn how to wear his hat the right way around despite how many times he fixes it for him. But even more unfortunately, he knows all too well he wouldn’t have it any other way.

And deep inside the house, the old piece of fabric the boy once used for his bundle now serves as the washcloth you use to wipe down the flower pots on his balcony.

"When you smile, I fall apart And I thought I was so smart"

Chuuya Nakahara

Osamu Dazai

Ranpo Edogawa

Atsushi Nakajima

Michizou Tachihara

Ango Sakaguchi

︵︵︵ꕮ bsd taglist : ⟢ @malaches @mikamiiiiiiii @dazaisoneandonlybelladonna @chuuyasno1girl @asakarai

AKUTAGAWA doesn't care about such trivial things. If the job demands it, he will share a bed with you. If it's not necessary, he will not, to keep things professional and your relationship to each other normal, meaning cool and relatively aloof. It's you who has to convince him to actually share the bed; you're well aware of the bad circumstances he's used to, and that sleeping on the floor would even be considered normal to him. You refuse to let that happen.

It takes a while to convince him; he's stubborn and views sharing a bed as too much, too straining for your relationship, and the thought of things becoming weird between you is bothersome to him, though he eventually agrees, if only to make you quiet down. He doesn't move a lot in his sleep and keeps a reasonable distance between the two of you — until the pillow he's been holding close drops off the bed and he accidentally clings to your arm instead, deep asleep. The next morning, he's up before you, and strongly flustered.

"I'm fine with the floor. I don't mind. I don't. Take the bed. ....... Alright. If you insist, we'll share."

JŌNO is loud in his frustration at some people's pure incompetence. He doesn't curse or yell, not in front of you, though his tone is sharp and clipped, and you swear he's only seconds away from outright threatening the poor front desk employee. When it becomes evident that even the Hunting Dogs' reputation won't fix the predicament, he settles on silently seething. Although he sighs a bit, and it seems more like he's doing it out of obligation rather than anything else — he'd much rather share, really; his back hurts from a long day too! —, he offers you the bed.

If you even hint at being fine with sharing, he's taking you up on it. He won't force you to share, he doesn't want to make you uncomfortable, but he would also prefer the bed, and he doesn't mind being closer to you either. It's not the best sleep he gets; he's a light sleeper, and he does make sure to keep distance between you. When he does wake up and notices you've kicked the blanket off yourself, he's feeling fond enough of you to drape it back over you.

"Pure incompetence from the staff. From a hotel with a usually flawless reputation, I expected much better. .. Share? I don't see any other option. If you're certain about it, that is. I can also bring this matter up to the owner — no? Well. Alright."

Really, TECCHOU doesn't care much. He notices the circumstances — how could he not? The singular queen-sized bed takes up quite a large part of the room —, but if you're not uncomfortable with the situation, he isn't either. If you are, he takes the couch or floor without another word. It's all up to you.

You have to be the one to offer it, though. He's quick to agree, but essentially claiming the bed by offering to share himself feels wrong, somehow, and he knows Jōno would berate him for it. When you end up under the same blanket, he falls asleep easily. He's not sure why, but the feeling of someone being close to him brings him peace, and he hopes you feel similar, knowing he'd be awake and ready to defend your life in a heartbeat at the first sign of danger.

"Yes. Let's share. If you're sure, I mean. I don't mind either way. Yeah. Good. Sharing it is."

KUNIKIDA takes the situation in stride — or so he thinks. While he's sure he's keeping his best neutral expression on, he looks nothing short of stressed out, face pale and sweat beading on his temple as he pushes his glasses up in a nervous habit. He offers the bed to you, of course. There's no other option in his eyes, and no matter how much you insist that you don't mind sharing, he refuses.

The mere idea of accidentally brushing up against you in the middle of the night has him sweating nervously, the thought of you feeling creeped out by him and even suspecting him of getting too close on purpose makes him sick. He'll take the couch, or the floor, if needed. He'll be fine. He's going to court you properly; after all, he already has the exact order in which he'll ask you out on dates to certain spots planned out, and those plans won't be ruined by an accidental bed sharing moment, not if he has anything to say about it.

"No, thank you. You should take the bed. I'll be fine wherever, but it's important for you to get some rest. ... Yes, I'm sure. No need to worry about me. I'll go ask for some extra blankets at the front desk."

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