✩☁︎✩☁︎✩☁︎✩☁︎✩☁︎✩☁︎✩☁︎✩☁︎✩☁︎✩☁︎✩

The stakeout had started at 10pm. It was now 2:37am—according to Dazai because he’s ‘measured the way the sky looks at each time of day’—though he couldn’t exactly tell if that meant time was moving at all or if the whole world had fallen into some sort of drowsy limbo.

The room was small, abandoned, and smelled faintly of dust and something moldy lurking in the walls. The single barred window let in a sliver of moonlight, painting pale lines across the floor. Outside, the city was quiet—too late for traffic, too early for the first workers. A perfect time for shadows.

Chuuya had stopped pretending to be alert around an hour ago.

He was lying flat on his back now, one booted foot bent at the knee, his coat shrugged halfway off his shoulders like he’d gotten halfway through giving up and never finished. At some point, he’d flopped over and rested his head on something that turned out to be Dazai’s lap—and Dazai, running on six hours of sleep from yesterday, didn’t really have the energy to argue or tease him about it.

His back was against the wall, legs crossed, and fingers—without thought, without planning—were tangled gently in Chuuya’s hair. Brushing idly through it. Not the way someone would ruffle it to annoy, but slow. Soothing.

It took about ten minutes before either of them noticed what was happening.

“…the hell are you doing?” Chuuya mumbled, voice thick with sleep. His eyes cracked open lazily, one still half-shut. There was no heat in the words, no real annoyance. Just a foggy, automatic reaction. Like the words were habit, not emotion.

Dazai blinked. His fingers paused, resting against slightly tangled strands.

“I don’t know,” he said, his voice sounding unfocused.

But, He didn’t move.

Chuuya made a sound that could have been a sigh, or just the noise someone makes when they’re too tired to argue with reality. He let his eyes shut again.

“Feels nice,” he—accidentally—muttered a moment later, voice barely audible.

Dazai didn’t answer. The walls had ears, after all. Even if those walls were just made of peeling paint and shitty insulation, and the only ones listening were the two of them. Instead, he resumed what he was doing. Fingers threading slowly through Chuuya’s hair again, catching on a knot here and there, but surprisingly gentle for their relationship.

Neither of them spoke for a while.

The silence wasn’t….uncomfortable, per se. But It was weighted, but not heavy—just full. The kind of silence that only existed between people who’d fought beside each other in blood and chaos, and now sat in the eye of the storm with all their sharp edges dulled by exhaustion.

Chuuya’s breath had started to slow. Dazai could feel the faint rise and fall of his chest against his thigh.

He looked down once, curious. Chuuya’s face was relaxed in a way it never was during the day—none of that tight coil of pride in his brow, none of the fire in his eyes. He looked softer. Gentle.

Like he finally let go of all his walls and only left trust.

Sixteen-year-old partners. Assassins. Bombs waiting to go off.

But in this moment, they were just two tired boys sitting in an empty building at 2:30 in the morning, chasing the shadow of a target who hadn’t shown, too drained to remember they were supposed to hate each other.

Too drained to stop this strange, quiet kindness.

Dazai’s hand stilled again, then moved to brush a lock of hair from Chuuya’s forehead, tucking it behind his ear like he’d seen people do in movies.

That finally earned a twitch of movement from the redhead.

“You’re being weird,” Chuuya slurred, eyes still shut, lips barely moving.

“You put your head in my lap,” Dazai countered.

“You didn’t push me off.”

“Didn’t want to.”

A pause.

Then: “We’re gonna pretend none of this happened, right?”

“Mmhm.”

Chuuya nodded—or maybe just shifted sleepily—and let out a soft exhale that ghosted warm over Dazai’s leg.

Chuuya opened his eyes slightly, not looking at the other. His brows furrowed.

Dazai had stopped.

And his brain was too unfocused to stop himself from talking.

“…Don’t stop,” he added, after a moment, so quiet it might’ve been imagined.

Dazai looked down. He blinked in surprise. Not noticeable to others, but Chuuya would’ve been able to tell if he was actually looking at him.

So, Dazai continued.

The clock ticked on. Somewhere far away, a siren wailed and faded. The room held its breath. And in the stillness between midnight and morning, two enemies—two partners—forgot themselves just long enough to feel like something softer.

Something that didn’t have a name yet.

Or maybe they just didn’t want to acknowledge the name of that “something”.

✩☁︎✩☁︎✩☁︎✩☁︎✩☁︎✩☁︎✩☁︎✩☁︎✩☁︎✩☁︎✩

At 3:04am, something shifted.

Not a sound—nothing as dramatic as a gunshot or a target appearing in the street below. Just a subtle change in the air. The kind that makes you blink twice, like the dream you were in started looking too much like real life.

Chuuya was still lying with his head in Dazai’s lap, half-asleep but not quite anymore. His breathing had evened out, but the tension in his jaw said he wasn’t as unconscious as he was pretending to be.

Dazai hadn’t stopped running his fingers through Chuuya’s hair. Somewhere between idle habit and something gentler now, slower. Familiar. It was the kind of touch you didn’t get from a partner who threw you into walls or called you short every ten seconds.

Which made it strange.

Which made it dangerous.

But neither of them moved.

“…Weird…?,” Chuuya murmured, not opening his eyes. It was more of a question than a statement.

His voice was hoarse from disuse, threaded with gravel and something quieter underneath. Not panic. Not sharp. Just hesitant.

“…Possibly…?” Dazai replied. That too was more of a question than a statement.

His voice was soft too. Flat, like all the sharp edges had filed themselves down in the weight of the hour.

They didn’t say anything else for a bit.

The room was still dim, light from the window slipping across them both like it was trying not to disturb the moment. Dazai stared at the far wall, unfocused. His legs had started to go a little numb beneath the weight of Chuuya’s head, but he didn’t shift.

That would mean changing things.

That would mean acknowledging things.

He wasn’t ready for that. Neither of them were.

“…You didn’t have to keep touching my hair, you know,” Chuuya added a few minutes later, trying for casual but sounding like he wasn’t sure if he wanted Dazai to stop or not.

Dazai blinked. “You said it felt nice.”

Chuuya didn’t respond.

Dazai kept going.

His fingers moved a little slower now, more careful—like he was thinking about it now. Like he was aware of what he was doing and still choosing to do it.

Chuuya’s brows twitched slightly, but he didn’t move. His breathing hitched just once, then settled again.

They were sixteen. They were supposed to be sharp-tongued and sarcastic, full of weapons and venom and insults hurled like grenades. That’s who Soukoku was. That’s what people feared them for.

But right now, the only thing sharp was the awareness curling between them.

Neither of them talked about how close this was. How intimate it felt. That would mean thinking too hard. That would mean one of them sitting up, pretending to shove the other away, pretending they weren’t already too far in to back out clean.

Instead, they stayed quiet. Instead, they breathed together in the hush of a room that had seen more violence than comfort, making space for a tenderness that didn’t belong.

“…Hey,” Chuuya mumbled again.

“Hm?”

“If you ever bring this up later, I’ll kick your ass.”

Dazai gave a slow, sleepy grin. “You’d have to get up first.”

A faint scoff. “Asshole.” But it was said with a tired and an unintentional smile.

And Dazai—who usually would’ve fired back with something biting or smug—only chuckled, so low and tired it barely counted.

Their silence after that was thicker. Not awkward. Just full. Full of all the things they didn’t have the language for, not yet. Not at sixteen. Not when being soft meant being vulnerable, and being vulnerable meant being dead.

Still, Dazai brushed Chuuya’s bangs from his face. Let his fingers linger at his temple a little too long. Still, Chuuya exhaled and turned just slightly into the touch.

They weren’t asleep.

They weren’t quite awake.

They weren’t quite enemies here.

And if their hands brushed later—if Dazai’s other hand rested by Chuuya’s hand— If Chuuya’s fingers curled briefly against Dazai’s wrist of said hand, grounding himself—neither of them said a word.

Or would.

Because it was 3:26am.

And the line was blurring.

And they were too damn tired to care.

✩☁︎✩☁︎✩☁︎✩☁︎✩☁︎✩☁︎✩☁︎✩☁︎✩☁︎✩☁︎✩

The mission was a blur of gunfire, arguments, backtracking plans, and some kind of cursed box with a personality. But now it was over.

Joint missions weren’t as rare as they used to be—not since the Guild fell.

Fukuzawa and Mori tried convincing themselves the joint missions were necessary—but everyone knew there was more to it—Paperwork said “cooperation.” Reality said “Two fucking idiots with unresolved emotions.”

Dazai and Chuuya didn’t speak much during the mission. Not anything that wasn’t sharp or mission-critical, anyway. And yet, there they were. Assigned the same hotel room because “you’ve worked together before,” and “there’s only one room left,” and “figure it out” and “luckily there’s two beds so you won’t kill each other.”

The fight about it never even happened.

Because once again—they were too tired to care.

The room was nicer than the safehouses they used to squat in at sixteen. Carpeted, warm, blandly corporate. Twin beds, both untouched.

Chuuya kicked off his boots and dropped onto the nearest bed like a puppet whose strings had been cut. His coat landed somewhere near the nightstand.

Dazai leaned against the wall beside the window, one hand still wrapped in gauze from the last close call, the other resting in his coat pocket. He stared blankly at the skyline, city lights blurred by sleep deprivation and exhaustion.

“You’re gonna fall over if you stay standing like that,” Chuuya muttered into the pillow. “Don’t die dramatically in a hotel room, Dazai. It’s pathetic. And not your style.”

Usually at that—Dazai would tease him by saying something along the lines of “My style? Has the Chibi been stalking me?!” Or “Ooh~ someone’s a bit obsessed?”

But he didn’t.

He didn’t tease.

He didn’t scoff.

He didn’t even roll his eyes.

He just dropped the small bag full of random shit to help wounds on the other bed.

Chuuya got up, grabbing fresh bandages, a cloth, and a cup of water from the small bathroom sink.

He sat in front of Dazai, holding out his hand for Dazai to show him his arm.

Without a fight.

He undid the previous bandage, half bloodstained.

The red head wet the cloth and lightly pressed it against the wound Dazai got while pushing off rubble that fell on him. A piece of metal cut his upper arm.

He cleaned off the dried blood then wrapped the clean bandage around the wound.

“Too tight?” He asked, glancing at the other. Dazai just shook his head.

Chuuya sighed and undid the bandage, loosening it a bit.

Dazai never told the truth about the bandages being too tight. Chuuya learned that the hard way when they were 16. Let’s just say that it ended up with Dazai barely able to move his left arm for a few days.

“Still doing that, huh…” Chuuya muttered, knowing he won’t get an answer.

He grabbed the items and put them away, tidying up the room a bit.

When he went to close the overnight bag, something caught his eye.

A book.

A familiar one.

Serafina and The Black Cloak

“You still have this…?” He hesitantly muttered, picking it up. Dazai looked over to see what he was talking about. “Huh….forgot that was in there.” Dazai muttered, telling the truth.

Now, here comes the sleep deprivation.

Some-fucking-how, they ended up in one bed.

Dazai had his back against the headboard. Book in his hand. 3 chapters passed. Chuuya’s head on Dazai’s thigh. Eyes closed. The only sound in the room being Dazai’s voice.

Sure enough, Dazai’s hand threading through Chuuya’s hair. Slow and absentminded. A rhythm older than their grudges.

“…6th time…” Chuuya murmured, eyes still shut.

“…You’re letting me,” he said.

Chuuya gave a tired scoff. “I’m tired, not stupid.”

“You’re tired enough that you forgot how much you hate me?”

“No. Just tired enough not to fight the comfort.”

Silence fell again, except now it buzzed louder. Not tension. Not danger. Just the sound of two people quietly realizing this was something that apparently never ended. That maybe it never stopped being theirs.

“Your hair’s longer now,” Dazai said, brushing a strand behind Chuuya’s ear like muscle memory. “Feels the same, though.”

Chuuya didn’t answer.

But he didn’t move away.

The clock glowed faintly on the nightstand. 3:18am. Always past three when they let the truth sneak through.

“I should probably move,” Chuuya muttered.

“Probably,” Dazai agreed.

Neither of them moved.

✩☁︎✩☁︎✩☁︎✩☁︎✩☁︎✩☁︎✩☁︎✩☁︎✩☁︎✩☁︎✩

…It always ended with a jab, a scoff, ignoring it happened. With distance.

Not…this.

Chuuya’s breath hitched once when Dazai adjusted, sliding down the headboard until he was lying flat, legs stretched out, head tilted slightly on the pillow. His chest rose and fell, steady. Predictable. Chuuya didn’t mean to follow, didn’t plan to let his body shift so naturally into the empty space offered.

But he did.

His head found Dazai’s chest without thinking. Right over his heartbeat—slow, faint, annoyingly steady. And Dazai’s arms, like they belonged there, looped around Chuuya’s back. One curled around his waist. The other settled back into Chuuya’s hair.

The rhythm resumed. That same, slow pattern of fingers through red strands. So careful. So practiced.

Chuuya was confused.

Not panicked. Not flustered. Just…

Confused.

Because Dazai didn’t do this. Dazai didn’t hold people like this. Dazai didn’t stay.

“You remember that job in Kyoto?” Chuuya murmured, voice muffled into the cotton of Dazai’s shirt. “Back when Mori sent us to pose as a married couple to catch that arms dealer?”

Dazai gave a soft chuckle, almost entirely breath. “You mean the one where you threatened to castrate me if I held your hand again in public?”

“You deserved it.”

“You were very convincing as a husband.”

Chuuya hummed. “You wore that fucking god-awful pastel suit.”

“And you said I looked good in it.”

“I said you looked less horrible than usual.”

Another low laugh. “Semantics.”

A pause.

Dazai’s hand didn’t stop moving. If anything, it slowed further—like his body was beginning to drift into something even more vulnerable than this moment already was. His breathing had evened out too, as if just holding someone—holding Chuuya—was enough to calm whatever chaos still lingered under his skin.

“…You used to hum when you were bored,” Chuuya said suddenly, softly.

Dazai blinked at the ceiling. “Did I?”

“Yeah. Always the same song. You’d hum it when you were waiting for someone to die or when you were on lookout.”

He didn’t respond right away. The silence stretched. Full of that weird, old echo of something unspoken.

Then:

“I stopped humming after I left.”

“I noticed.”

Chuuya’s voice was so quiet, it almost didn’t make it out of him.

Dazai’s fingers paused in his hair for a moment. Just one beat. Then continued.

“You noticed more than I thought.”

“I always noticed more than you gave me credit for.”

“…I’m sorry,” Dazai murmured.

That made Chuuya go still.

Because Dazai didn’t apologize. Not like that. Not without the safety net of sarcasm or a grin.

He didn’t lift his head. Didn’t say anything right away. Just let himself stay there, breathing in Dazai’s scent—faint antiseptic, old paper, and something distinctly like rain on warm pavement.

“Why now?” Chuuya asked, barely audible. “Why are you being—like this?”

A long pause.

“I don’t know.”

Another truth.

A dangerous one.

“You always did weird shit after missions,” Chuuya muttered, trying to deflect. “Remember that time you tried to teach me how to waltz in a graveyard?”

“You stepped on my foot.”

“You dipped me into a thorn bush.”

Dazai smiled a little. “You looked so dramatic with rose petals in your hair.”

“You were a menace.”

“You stayed until the sun rose.”

Chuuya didn’t answer. Because yeah. He had.

He stayed because part of him always thought that maybe, just maybe, if he waited long enough, Dazai would stop running.

That maybe he’d turn to him, just once, and say I’m not leaving.

But he hadn’t.

Not then.

Maybe not now either.

But he was here. Arms around him. Breath warm against Chuuya’s temple. And that had to mean something, even if neither of them had the energy to figure out what.

“…Still tired?” Dazai asked, voice soft and close.

“Yeah.”

“Then sleep.”

“You’ll be gone when I wake up.”

Dazai’s arms tightened—just slightly.

“I won’t,” he said. “Not tonight.”

“…You’ve said that before.”

Dazai didn’t argue.

Because Chuuya was right.

But he also didn’t let go.

They didn’t talk after that. Not with words. But the silence that followed wasn’t avoidance—it was too full for that. It was soaked in memory. In confessions left half-said. In all the ways they didn’t know how to love each other without bleeding a little for it.

Chuuya’s hand found its way to Dazai’s shirt, fisting loosely in the fabric over his chest. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to hold.

Dazai’s thumb traced the curve of Chuuya’s jaw once. Maybe by accident. Maybe not.

…And just like that, it all quieted.

Not the city outside—sirens still screamed distantly, tires hissed in the rain slicked streets, someone yelled drunk declarations of love three floors down—but them. The hum that always buzzed between them, high-strung and volatile, settled into something soft. Almost fragile.

Dazai’s hand slowed in Chuuya’s hair. Stopped. Rested.

Chuuya’s eyes were closed again, but he wasn’t asleep. Dazai could tell. His breathing wasn’t deep enough, and his fingers still twitched faintly where they curled into Dazai’s shirt.

“…I meant it, you know,” Dazai said quietly.

Chuuya didn’t answer.

“I won’t be gone when you wake up.”

Chuuya’s breath hitched—just a little. But still didn’t speak.

“And if you ask me to stay again,” Dazai continued, voice even softer now, “I might actually do it this time.”

That got a response.

Chuuya’s head lifted, just barely. Enough to look at him. His expression was unreadable in the dim light—eyes shadowed, lips parted, hair mussed where Dazai had threaded his fingers through it.

“You’re tired,” Chuuya said, voice flat. “And sleep-deprived. You don’t mean that.”

“I do.” Dazai met his gaze without flinching. “You think I don’t know the difference anymore, but I do. I know what I’m saying.”

Chuuya blinked at him. Once. Twice.

Then:

“You always say things like that when you’re scared.”

Dazai didn’t look away. “Maybe I’m tired of being scared without you.”

It wasn’t a good answer. It wasn’t enough. Not after years of almosts and half-promises and all the ways Dazai had left. But it wasn’t nothing, either.

Chuuya dropped his head back onto Dazai’s chest with a sigh.

“You’re an idiot,” he muttered.

Dazai exhaled, something shaky. “I know.”

“And I hate you.”

“I know that too.”

“I’m not saying I want you to stay.”

“I’m not saying you have to.”

Silence again.

But this time, it was warmer.

Eventually, Chuuya’s fingers uncurled from Dazai’s shirt. His hand settled flat against his chest, over his heart. The beat was still steady. Still there.

“…I do remember the song,” Dazai said, eyes closing. “The one I used to hum.”

Chuuya hummed in response. “Do it again...” Voice almost fragile sounding.

So Dazai did.

Softly. Off-key. Barely audible.

And Chuuya—traitor that he was—let it happen. Let it lull him. Let the weight in his chest ease for the first time in what felt like years.

Maybe it wasn’t forgiveness. Maybe it wasn’t even trust. In all fairness, trust has never been something they doubted in their partnership. But it was something.

And it was theirs.

✩☁︎✩☁︎✩☁︎✩☁︎✩☁︎✩☁︎✩☁︎✩☁︎✩☁︎✩☁︎✩

The clock read 4:27am when Dazai finally drifted off.

Chuuya was already halfway there.

Sleep deprivation.

It has its ways with the two.