#toad's writing

At first, Chuuya thinks he misheard it. 

Dazai clicks his tongue at the baffled “hah?!” His composure seems to be running out. He tries not to show it, but Chuuya sees it in the tension in his body, in the subtle twitching of his face that he knows would be missed by anybody else but him.

Silence hangs in the air. Heavy, it drips poison onto the floor, hissing as it eats through the hardwood. 

Dazai sighs. “I said,” he repeats, his voice higher than usual, “I want to take you out.”

Chuuya opens his mouth, but Dazai, as a rude bastard he is, cuts him off before he has the chance to speak. “As in a date. Not as in a murder. Although I’m starting to rethink it.”

A date. Desperately, Chuuya stares at Dazai, trying to find any indication he’s joking. 

He’s not a date guy. Hell, neither is Dazai. All this lovey-dovey stuff feels plastic, unnatural. Holding hands? Writing Valentine’s Day cards? Whispering sweet nonsense to each other? Leave it for somebody else. It’s already a miracle they are… together? He’s not willing to put any more effort into whatever this is.

“Shitty Dazai,” Chuuya finally croaks. “Are you out of your mind?”

Standing at the bottom of the stairwell, staring at Chuuya from under a mop of dishevelled hair, Dazai looks weirdly small. He feels small, as if all his confidence left his body along with the stupid, cheesy question he had the guts to ask.

Still, he doesn’t break eye contact. 

“Where’s the joke? Is there a camera here somewhere? You gonna dump a vat of pig blood on my head?”

Chuuya’s heart falls at the momentary change in Dazai’s face. After all these years, he has long gotten immune to his theatrics, but nevertheless, his heart races with anxiety as he watches Dazai grip the bannister and take a step up. And up. And up. And another one — until his face is finally on the same level as Chuuya’s.

It’s unnerving to see the hesitation in the man who always knows what he’s doing. 

“I want to take you out. Someplace nice.” He tastes the words, as if unsure if he likes the flavour. “Like boyfriends do.”

Chuuya’s first instinct is to laugh at the ridiculous b-word Dazai has just dropped. Maybe even smack him for daring to describe them with this.

He doesn’t. The laughter halts before it even starts to bubble in his throat. His arms hang limply, all violence from them gone, as Dazai gently takes his hands. 

“Just you and me,” he whispers. “Chuuya, please.”

Truth be told, Chuuya can’t imagine them doing this. Sitting in a restaurant booth and sipping wine to the gentle sounds of live music as a stuck-up waiter serves them a three-course meal feels too odd. Too normal.

The longer he looks into Dazai’s eyes, the more he craves to get a taste of this unfamiliar so-called normal.

Chuuya nods. At least he thinks he does — he’s not sure if his body cooperates at all, frozen in place at the fear of the unknown. 

Judging by Dazai eagerly smashing their lips together, his mouth curling in a smile, his nuisance of a partner got the message.

The moment they walk into the restaurant, Chuuya has to take a moment to relax and calm his heightened senses. Undercover missions, or meetings with other organisations, Chuuya has been to fancy restaurants, shady bars and everything in-between countless times. He knows the etiquette, what wine goes with what meat, you name it — but it feels off-putting not to have a mission on his mind as they settle in a cosy, secluded booth. It’s harder than he expected to snap himself out of the work mode, and to ground himself, Chuuya grabs Dazai’s hand, letting out a breath as No Longer Human tingles his fingers with its sobering iciness. 

It seems impossible to wrap his mind around the fact that all of this is just for leisure. 

“Relax,” Dazai says, and Chuuya wants to laugh at how flimsy Dazai’s nonchalancy is as he tries to play it cool.

Regardless of their relationship shifting into something more… mature, Chuuya generally tries not to look at Dazai for longer than absolutely necessary. Now, in the intimate, inviting light of the restaurant, he catches himself stealing longer glances at him, until finally, he finds enough bravery to linger oh his bo- par- Dazai a bit longer than usual. In a tuxedo fitting his body just right, cleanly shaved, his hair neatly combed, he looks like a dream, no matter how much Chuuya hates to admit it. 

“You look nice,” he hisses and slaps Dazai’s thigh. He hides his blush behind a glass of red that he practically rips out of the waiter’s hand. He isn’t sure if the words he says sound genuine at all. Like no other, he knows that here, in the kingdom of chic and glamour, the line between the real and the fake is non-existent. 

He doesn’t like it. 

Dazai’s laugh is soft. As if too shy to attract others’ attention, he leans closer. The glint of the brown eyes intoxicates Chuuya more than his wine ever can. The astringent taste in his mouth goes sweet as Dazai tucks a strand of Chuuya’s hair behind his ear and smiles. “You too. You always do.”

Chuuya knows Dazai like the back of his hand. He knows everything about him, including just how much of an obnoxious flirt he is. 

He knows it. 

Still, it always catches him off-guard. 

“Idiot. Cut it out. You wanna fight?” Chuuya hisses, targeting Dazai’s thigh again, this time with more purpose. He feels weirdly perceived — none of the patrons is looking at him, and yet, he feels their presence, and this is enough to make him feel like a cornered animal. Fucking Dazai and his fucking “date” ideas. 

“Chuuya, you are in public. Act a bit less feral, would you?”

“Your appetiser,” a male voice sounds, a hint of surprise in it as the waiter puts a cheese plate on the table. He cocks an eyebrow at Chuuya grabbing the lapels of Dazai’s tuxedo, and picks up a used napkin from the table as he rushes to leave.

Dubfounded, Chuuya stares at the variety of cheeses on the intricate plate. He should have probably waited to drink the wine until they got their appetiser. He feels tipsy now. Fucking Dazai. 

“Done assaulting me?”

Holding his hands up in pretend defeat, a beaming smile on his face, his words ring with amusement, with pure adoration that breaks the spell of the excessive opulence of the restaurant. 

No matter the place, this is still Dazai. The idiot. The genius. The man who found the light. The man who left, but then chose to stay. 

His Dazai.

Chuuya lets go. As Dazai mumbles something, busily patting his tuxedo to straighten the creases, Chuuya feels his smile widen, until he can’t keep the laughter inside anymore and it bursts out, the sound so alien and yet so right in this stupid, posh establishment. A moment later, another one joins — and both of them bend in half, their tension fading as they share their joy, paying no mind to the odd looks they are receiving from well-dressed patrons. The masks are gone, and Chuuya has a hard time remembering why they needed them in the first place. Being themselves is more than enough — and the place they are in is nothing but a backdrop on the stage in the play of them.

As the night progresses, their cheeks get redder, and their heart fuller. This normal life does seem to have its benefits, and Chuuya knows he’d be willing to dip his toes into it more often.   

And as much as he hates to admit it… This is a rare idea from Dazai that he doesn’t deem absolutely obnoxious. He likes it, and he knows he will even be willing to admit it to Dazai himself. Here, they are invisible, lost in the waves of gentle music and other people’s voices. It’s an odd place: despite its business, it’s capable of holding secrets, allowing them to enjoy themselves without having to hide behind closed doors and fake animosity. Here, kisses taste sweeter, and accidental touches hold more promises.

Usually, Double Black’s sightings in public mean menace, and Yokohama probably releases a sigh of relief at the unexpected truce that, this time, will probably last.

When they walk out, hand-in-hand, Chuuya’s world seems just a bit brighter, despite dusk already falling onto the city. It’s probably the wine’s fault. His heart sings with a previously unfamiliar tune, and he squeezes Dazai’s hand, smiling at how his fingers curl with his.

◾️🔞 ◾️skk ◾️power bottom Chuuya, service top Dazai ◾️dom/sub undertones

“Not so soon,” Chuuya mutters mostly to himself. “But I guess I can make your mouth useful.” With another drag, Chuuya reaches out. He strokes Dazai’s bottom lip and slowly slides his thumb in, triumphant with how eagerly Dazai opens his mouth for him. Slowly, he blows the smoke into Dazai’s face. He crunches his eyebrows most adorably as it eats into his eyes, but he does not dare close them, and Chuuya is spellbound by the inviting glint of the almost black irises bathed in unshed tears.

Chuuya leans down. Gently, his fingers take Dazai's chin as he prompts him to open his mouth wide. “Hold it open.” His lips brush against Dazai’s, and Chuuya's head spins with the excitement at how easily he complies. Funny how little it takes for him to swap the roles and become a puppet in Chuuya’s possession instead. 

It gets really tiring after a while.

Over and over, Chuuya finds himself drinking his sorrows away, complaining to Albatross, his best friend, about yet another boyfriend. About yet another man who wasted his time. Even broke his heart, at times.

And there he is again. At a wine bar, drunkenly rambling about the latest man who dipped and left Chuuya with a bitter taste of disappointment in his mouth.  

It didn’t last. It never does. 

Progressively, the more glasses of wine Chuuya orders, the louder he gets about his grievances with fucking Hideki, a guy he thought would stick around. He seemed okay. Not the one. Just a man. A man, with whom things could finally work out. 

The one, as Chuuya realised a while ago, is nothing but a myth. He’s given up on that. Just a decent man would suffice. Is this too much to ask?

No matter how hard he tried, the relationship just didn’t work. And so, Chuuya confided in Albatross about everything he couldn’t stand about his so-called boyf- ex-boyfriend. About how arrogant he was. His stupid jokes. How he embarrassed Chuuya in public. How he never did enough. 

He confided in Albatross, but also, coincidentally, in the whole wine bar. 

On about the seventh glass, he probably lost any control of the volume of his voice. He lets it all out to ‘Tross nodding along — and he startles when somebody leaves a little note in front of him. 

Well, not even a note. He straightens up and picks up a shred of a napkin with a hastily scribbled phone number and a short message under it. 

“Let me disappoint you in a new way,” Chuuya reads out loud, his eyes struggling to focus on the text. “Winking face??” He scoffs and shows it to Albatross, who leans forward to read what the note says. He cackles when he finally understands what happened. 

“Well, I think we have just found a rebound for you.” 

Chuuya looks behind his shoulder. He can swear he can see a tall brown-haired man wink at him before disappearing into the sweltering Yokohama summer night.

“Hell no,” he mumbles, downing the rest of his glass. “I’m done with relationships.”

Asshole. This guy is no better than Ha- Ho- Hideki, but almost by accident, Chuuya slips the piece of napkin into his pocket.  

Years from now, when Chuuya and Dazai celebrate their 4th anniversary, Albatross gives Chuuya a call asking him, “So, how is your break from relationships going?”

Dazai can be arrogant as hell — but that makes him the man he is, his obnoxious, adorable quirk that Chuuya wouldn’t trade for the world. His jokes are simply the worst, and yet, they make Chuuya laugh like no one else’s. He embarrasses Chuuya in public — but Chuuya is more than happy to play along, the two of them lost in their own little world, paying no mind to others. And he does so much — in his own way, always finding new ways to make Chuuya feel like the most cherished person in the whole world. 

It is a privilege to forget what heartbreaks feel like. For his actions to be greeted with love and acceptance rather than indifference and bare toleration. His mind is full of one person when he wakes up and when he goes to bed, and the constant presence of Dazai, both in his mind and by his side, doesn’t burden him at all. On the contrary, he has never felt more complete, the force of gravity smashing them together, never letting them drift apart. 

And it feels fucking right.

And maybe, just maybe, “the one” isn’t a myth after all. Maybe that night, drunk and disappointed, Chuuya actually found the right person who will stay by his side no matter his shortcomings, that will be worth fighting for if things go downhill. 

And so far… Dazai seems to be exactly that person. 

Albatross is probably happy for this break from Chuuya’s angry “men-are-trash” tirades. He just chuckles to himself when the three of them hang out together next time. Beer for him, whiskey for Dazai, wine for Chuuya — they nurse their drinks, and Albatross looks at the couple that “never sought relationships”. Chuuya and Dazai are holding hands — and Chuuya probably doesn’t even realise how tenderly his thumb is circling Dazai’s skin.

He takes a sip of his beer. 

Chuuya closes his eyes and puts the pillow over his head. His muscles are sore after the violent mission, and in front of his eyes are still flashes of red, as fresh in his mind as if he is still fighting.

Crash!

The sound of a body hitting the wall startles Chuuya and he turns on another side with a muffled groan.

Crack!

The sound of broken bones rings in the dark room and Chuuya presses the pillow harder against his ear. He got used to the violence in the Mafia ages ago. And still, sometimes his mind feels just a bit too overwhelmed. He taps his phone screen and checks the time. In frustration, he flips the phone over and buries his face in the pillow.

Still about 12 more hours until the extraction crew picks them up from this shithole of a safehouse. He’s got to try and sl…

Creak! Bang! Crash!

Great, now he feels a headache coming on.

Crack!

“Will you fucking stop?” Chuuya yells at the ceiling - the bunk bed’s “ceiling” - and kicks the bed frame with his foot, adding to the cacophony and making the whole structure wobble dangerously.

“This bed is uncomfortable, Chuuya,” the familiar voice whines in response.

As if Chuuya gives a fuck.

He doesn’t respond and dives under the blanket. What’s up with this stupid bed arrangement, anyway? Making them sleep in a bunk bed after a mission like they are some snotty kids in a summer camp and not the Mafia’ most dangerous asset? Ridiculous.

At least he managed to get the bottom bunk. He was not going to climb the tiny ladder to the top one. Fucking embarrassing.

Crash! Crack! Bang!

The sounds seem to get even louder and Chuuya kicks the frame again.

“Stop making noise, I can’t sleep!”

“It’s not like I choose to make this noise, Chuuya,” Dazai hisses in response. “This is the bed’s fault, not mine.”

“Nothing is ever your fault.”

“I’m trying to get comfortable.”

“Creak!” the bead whines, as if agreeing with Dazai.

Unblinkingly, Chuuya stares at the top bunk, where he thinks mackerel’s head should be - maybe he’ll manage to bore a hole in his useless skull.

Crack!

I’ll crack his neck if he doesn’t stop, Chuuya thinks.

Bang!

With a groan, Chuuya jumps out of the bed. He’s just a bit too short to see the top bunk, so he floats, making sure to be just a bit higher up than his nuisance of a “partner”.

“I’ll help you get comfortable on the floor if you don’t stop fucking moving! I’m trying to sleep!”

Dazai lifts on his elbows and the bed creaks again. Chuuya knows he could send him tumbling down with just a slight touch of his finger - but he knows Dazai wouldn’t dare to now.

“You know,” Dazai says, unusually quiet, “I had a hard day, too.”

Metal screeches when Dazai sits up. He rubs his eyes and grits his teeth. His hands pick on the bandages on his wrists and with each slight move the bed whines in protest.

Finally, he looks at Chuuya…

…and he has to admit that Dazai does look fucking miserable.

Well, he always does. Except, this time it looks… Genuine? So unlike the Demon Prodigy attitude Chuuya’s so used to?

For once, Chuuya has no words to shoot at the bastard.

“I’m tired, Chuuya,” Dazai finally speaks. “Just let me be. Can’t do anything about this bed. Get over it.”

With that, Dazai collapses on his bed with another CRACK! and quietly groans, burying his hands in his hair.

Chuuya doesn’t go down. Unmoving, he floats above Dazai, looking at the second half of Double Black.

“Come down,” he blurts out.

“I’m not sleeping on the floor.”

“Fuck the floor. The bottom bunk.”

“Last I checked, it was occupied by an aggressive chihuahua.”

Chuuya clicks his tongue. Anger rises in him, but no matter how much he thinks he wants to, he can’t bring himself to show Dazai his place.

It’s hard to find words.

He’s not used to it.

“Just go down,” Chuuya croaks, hypnotised by the tremble in Dazai’s clenched fists. “I can’t sleep when your bed creaks like this. Ain’t doing it for your sake.”

The staring contest seems to last centuries.

The last embers of anger turn into barely warm charcoal the longer Chuuya looks at the fatigued face of the boy on the top bunk. Something else, the feeling he never felt toward Dazai – compassion – alights instead and Chuuya wants this eerily foreign feeling to keep warming him.

“Just come down,” Chuuya repeats quietly. He is stubborn. And Dazai knows it like no one else.

“Okay,” Dazai finally bleats.

He gets up, each of his moves marked by a deafening screech of the metal bed frame. When he climbs down, he freezes in front of the bottom bunk.

The blanket and the bed linens are crumpled and he can see the Chuuya-shaped dent in the old mattress. His fatigue is calling him to climb in, and at the same time he feels like he has no right to it.

“Do you need some kind of written invitation or what?” Chuuya snarls. He lands on the floor and pushes Dazai’s back. “Get your ass in the bed.”

Dazai shakes his head but says nothing. Silently, he climbs in and Chuuya follows - it’s pretty cramped now but at least, it’s finally quiet. He covers them both with the blanket and shifts awkwardly.

Fuck. In hindsight, it wasn’t such a great idea. Where does he put his arms now? And fuck, his legs are touching Dazai’s and it’s just weird. And he’s too close, and too warm, and weirdly alive - he wouldn’t expect this kind of warmth coming from the dead mackerel.

He tries turning. Turning again. Sticking his foot from under the blanket.

Nothing works.

Until… Chuuya gives up and puts his hand on Dazai’s waist. He tenses under the touch that used to bring pain, but relaxes when nothing angry follows.

It feels… just alright.

Almost like it is the way it should be. And finally, it’s quiet, even when Dazai shifts a bit to fit Chuuya’s mold better, and the only sound disturbing the silence is the rapid beating of Chuuya’s heart, and even then… it doesn’t bother him for some reason.

Dazai falls asleep first and Chuuya holds his breath listening to the steady breathing of his partner - peaceful, calm, trusting. And he thinks, basking in Dazai’s warmth, that he might want to try and cherish this unexpected kind of trust a bit more.

Chuuya closes his eyes.

He will file a complaint to Mori-san tomorrow. The Mafia should really take better care of its safe houses.

But now? He can finally sleep.

He wasn’t really too picky.

The next morning, Dazai had to try and stop himself from ogling Chuuya as he walked out of the shower, wearing just a towel wrapped low around his hips, beads of water glinting on his chest and running down his abs.

He failed, of course.

“Oi. Give me something to change into,” Chuuya said, absentmindedly stroking a hickey on his collarbone.

And so, Dazai did. He didn’t pay much attention to it, throwing Chuuya the first shirt he found in his closet.

Dazai didn’t pay much attention.

Until he did.

When Chuuya walked into the kitchen, his hair in a lazy bun, Dazai dropped the omelette he was flipping. Comically hanging from his shoulders, the sleeves way too long, the hem reaching the middle of this thighs, Dazai’s shirt was the totally wrong fit for his petite boyfriend. It should have looked comical, funny, pathetic.

Except, it was the complete opposite.

Except, Chuuya looked like the meal Dazai would love to eat right now, forgetting all about that stupid omelette.

“Whatcha staring at?” Chuuya asked, coming up to Dazai, a slight move of his arm making the lazily buttoned shirt reveal his shoulder. “Do I have something on my forehead or what?”

Dazai swallowed and turned the stove off.

They were both late for work that morning.

After that day, Dazai noticed that something about Chuuya had changed. Casual, oversized hoodies, shirts and whatnot started appearing in his outfit rotation way more often, and each time Dazai had trouble thinking straight in his presence. Sure, he loved Chuuya perfectly tailored outfits that highlighted all the best features of his body, showing off his snatched waist, strong legs and muscular arms - and still, there was something special about the baggy clothes Chuuya suddenly took a liking to.

It was akin to knowing a secret - that underneath the baggy clothes that made him look so petite and fuckable, was the mafia’s strongest martial artist, his sharp mind, lean muscle and agile body making him a perfect death machine Dazai was lucky enough to tame and make his own.

The more Dazai saw Chuuya sporting his new street style obsession, the more he got used to it, and he thought that he finally learned to act norm…

Nope, it still took him a few seconds to come to his senses when he saw the outfit Chuuya wore for their date a few weeks later. In an oversized black and white bomber jacket and a black baseball hat (of course, from Chuuya’s stupid “workplace” if you could call mafia that) he radiated such effortlessly cool energy, that for a moment, Dazai felt like he was 15 again, crushing on the boy he’d just met

“You look like a delinquent,” Dazai croaked nonchalantly and took a swig of water out of his bottle. His eyes were fixed on Chuuya’s choker, a fancier kind, black leather so smooth, Dazai wanted to reach out and touch it. Or lick.

Totally nonchalantly.

Chuuya smirked and tilted his head, his ponytail falling off his shoulder. “Oh, really?”

“I’d be afraid to meet you in a dark alley. You look like a guy who’d beat me up.”

“You didn’t mind me slapping you last night though.”

Dazai choked on his water, and Chuuya, still with the same cheeky expression on his face, fixed his hat.

Needless to say, this date was cut short, too (even before it started).

Dazai adored this new style on Chuuya. And he held a special place in his heart for the exciting feeling of taking these bulky clothes off, too.

And as for Chuuya - maybe it wasn’t exactly his style. Maybe he would never trade his tailored clothes for the world.

Oh.

Oh, Dazai thinks, holding Chuuya’s favourite woollen sweater and looking it over. This is bad. He swallows and pulls on its damp sleeve. Then on the other one. He pulls on its neck and on the bottom, then on the sleeves again… And, as expected, nothing changes, no amount of stretching changing the sweater’s size at the slightest.

Dazai swallows.

“Well,” he mutters the verdict under his breath, “I’m fucked.”

Crouching in front of the washing machine, he helplessly holds what used to be Chuuya’s favourite sweater. Well, technically, it is still a sweater.

Technically.

In reality, Chuuya would not even be able to fit his head in this shrunken abomination.

He must have missed it when he was sorting the laundry. The pesky sweater must have hidden between other items, and Dazai must have been too lazy to double (and triple; and quadruple) check. So many “must haves” piled up on top of each other, and as a disastrous result of all these mistakes, chibi’s precious sweater got washed in hot water along with their t-shirts, socks and whatnot.

“What’s taking you so long?” Chuuya calls from the living room.

“Nothing!” Dazai shouts back and hastily shoves the comically undersized sweater in the middle of the pile of freshly washed clothes. “Coming!”

Come on, think, he frantically tells himself. In panic, he shoves everything in the clean laundry basket and carries it to the living room. When he enters the room, the chilling realisation suddenly washes over him - he is acting suspicious.

He never uses the basket.

Usually, much to Chuuya’s annoyance, he makes his way to the living room with a messy pile of washed clothes in his hands, dropping a couple (or more) of socks on the way. No matter how often Chuuya tells him to use the basket, he never listens.

And now, suddenly, he does?

Upon seeing him, Chuuya gets up from the couch to let him, as usual, dump the laundry on it, and raises an eyebrow when he sees that Dazai came to the room with the laundry basket and already diligently put it on the floor next to the drying rack.

Chuuya smirks. “Oh. Finally listening to me?”

Dazai laughs - probably, a bit too loud. “Of course, chibi. Way more convenient than picking up the stuff I dropped afterwards, right?”

Chuuya narrows his eyes. He glances at the basket. “Right. Anyway, let’s get it over with.” With that, Chuuya tries to take a t-shirt from the basket, and Dazai slaps his hand away.

“No!” he yells and mentally scolds himself. “Don’t worry love,” he says and giggles hysterically. “I’ll handle it.”

Chuuya gives him another puzzled look. “We always hang up the laundry together.”

“Well,” Dazai giggles, “it’s your first day off in a while, isn’t it? I’m more than happy to do it myself today.”

Chuuya stares at Dazai and puts his hands on his hips. “What did you do?”

Dazai feels his cheeks flush red, which doesn’t help his case at all, and giggles again. “Chibi!” He gasps, feigning offence. “Why is it so hard for you to believe I care about you?” Dazai has to admit, that despite his pretend shock, it does sting a bit. Maybe he needs to slow down with all the pranks.

“What did you do?”

Dazai keeps silent.

“Am I gonna find somebody’s lacy panties in the laundry? Or a bomb? Or a dead tarantula? What did you do?”

Dazai sighs.

Well.

If seems like it’s time to give up and come clean.

Silently, he rummages through the clothes, all looking fine and dandy, until he gets to the item that does not. When he slowly takes the sweater out and sullenly shows it to Chuuya, dead silence falls upon the living room.

After a few charged moments and a dozen expressions flashing through his face, Chuuya… falls on the floor, laughing hysterically. Confused, Dazai looks at Chuuya rolling on the floor. His face is red, and there are tears in his eyes, and he just can’t stop until the loud, brash laughter turns into weak wheezing as he runs out of breath.

Finally, Chuuya sits up. He wipes the tears from the corner of his eyes. His face, as opposed to Dazai’s prediction, radiates pure joy, not a hint of anger in his blue eyes. Dazai must look remorseful enough for this mishap not to be confused with one of his numerous pranks.

When Chuuya sees the sweater again, pathetic, limp and microscopic in Dazai’s hands, another burst of laughter makes him fall back on the floor.

“You…” Chuuya can barely speak, and yet, he tries his best, hiccups and coughs stopping him from forming a coherent sentence, “you turned it into a cat sweater, you idiot.”

Dazai feels a smile growing on his face as he realises that Chuuya is not planning to strangle him on the spot. Quietly, he starts to giggle, and when it turns into a full-blown laughing fit, he drops the “cat sweater” back in the basket and kneels in front of Chuuya.

“So,” he says, his heart fluttering from the pure amusement on Chuuya’s face, “you’re not mad?”

“Well,” he laughs, “you’re a moron for putting my sweater in the regular load, but…” he grabs Dazai’s cheeks and gives him a big kiss, “I’m more than happy to forgive you.”

After way too many kisses on the living room floor and a few more hysterical bursts of laughter, they finally hang the laundry up to dry, Dazai’s kind offer to do it himself forfeited.

“I’ll make sure to show it to all our friends when they come over,” Chuuya says, when they are snuggled on the couch hours later, hot tea and unabashed love warming them like nothing else.

Dazai smiles and kisses Chuuya’s temple.

Drip. 

Drip. 

Drip. 

As if hypnotised, Chuuya stared at the disaster before him. The puddle of spilt coffee on the table was dripping onto the floor, hiding in the tiles’ pattern, and probably staining his shoes, too.

He couldn’t care less about the shoes.

Slowly, his eyes travelled across the table. His cup, miraculously intact. His fucking croissant. His book, the treasure he’d been hunting for years and finally found.

United by the same misfortune, they were all soaked in black coffee, the kind only absolute psychos drink. The dark stain looked out of place in the bookstore decorated with heart-shaped garlands and smiling cupids.

It felt like the red-cheeked bastards were laughing at him.

Nauseating. 

Chuuya jumped when a bandaged hand started frantically patting his table with a crumpled bunch of napkins. He looked up. Suddenly, it became clear what the source of the annoying yapping in the background had been all along. Like a pesky mosquito, the man was hovering over him, and he just wouldn’t shut up. 

Watching him try to mitigate the damage was absolutely laughable — but Chuuya didn’t feel like laughing.

The cupids giggled. 

He tried to rewind the events of the past few minutes in his mind. How did this even happen? He’d only put the book down on the table for a second, about to put it in his bag and bring the newest addition to his vintage collection of Verlaine’s poems home after enjoying his coffee and croissant.  

Naturally, this second was enough for some absolute moron to fail to use his stupidly lanky legs and trip on a small step, sending the tray with his coffee flying straight onto Chuuya’s table. 

Whose stupid idea was it to open a cafe in a fucking bookstore, anyway?

Chuuya snapped out of his trance when the tall idiot started patting him, trying to fix the damage done to his clothes, too. With a growl, he grabbed the thin wrist and finally looked at the bandaged bastard.

He looked genuinely apologetic. With his mouth silently opening and closing, he resembled a mackerel washed ashore. Like his wrists, the man’s neck was covered in bandages, too, the most bizarre fashion accessory Chuuya had ever seen. 

“I’m so sorry. I’ll buy you a new croissant,” the brown-eyed man finally bleated. His eyes darted to the table. “And a coffee. And a book.” He looked at Chuuya’s vest, the light-brown tweed all spotty and wet with fragrant americano. “And a-” 

“You won’t,” Chuuya croaked.

The man blinked. 

“Book. Old edition. Rare. Don’t have.”

Chuuya mentally cursed himself. What happened to his eloquence? Was one look of stupidly big brown doe eyes enough to make his brain malfunction?

“Oh.” The man furrowed his brow. He looked at the book’s cover, trying to make out the name on the soaked cardboard. “Well… I’ll make it up to you.” He winked, and Chuuya’s heart skipped a beat. 

He let go of the wrist. Under his fingers, he could still feel the man’s pulse rapidly beating beneath the rough bandages.  

If faced with a choice between vintage French poetry books and men, Chuuya would always choose poetry — and still, that day, he saved a new number in his phone, along with the name: Dazai Osamu (coffee).

The mischievous cupids intently watched Chuuya leave the bookstore, cheeks red on par with theirs. 

~2 years later~

Of course, Dazai chose to be a fucking clown even on their wedding day — and naturally, for the entire event, he was nudging Chuuya’s side, winking at him and reminding him of a ‘surprise’ waiting for him in their hotel room. 

Horny bastard. 

A small package on the bed wasn’t what Chuuya expected when they finally got away from the crowd. Knowing Dazai, it could be anything from a box of chocolates to a nuclear briefcase.

Slowly, Chuuya picked it up. 

“I promised I’d make it up to you.”

Dazai’s voice sounded small. He looked oddly bashful, too — just like on the day they first met, with books, cupids, coffee and cheesy Valentine’s day garlands witnessing the lucky accident.

He watched Chuuya carefully unwrap the paper and stare at the old, well-loved 1964 edition of Paul Verlaine's poetry. There was not a single stain on the paper yellowed from time, and still, the hotel room filled with the scent of ground coffee for a brief second. 

The cupids’ laugh rang in Chuuya’s ears again, resonating through his entire body, pure happiness overwhelming him. 

Clumsy stranger. Boyfriend. Husband. Some men, as Chuuya learned, were as good as vintage poetry books — and the way Dazai smiled into the kiss and wrapped his arms around his neck was yet another proof of it.  

“You’re going to be in charge of coffee in this family,” Dazai whispered when Chuuya pulled away.

“Deal.”

With that, Chuuya leaned in again. 

“Just a bit longer,” Dazai says, catching Chuuya’s sleeve as he is about to stand up and leave, wordlessly and nonchalantly, because then, he can pretend that whatever is happening between them is not important.

They sit on the pier, their legs dangling over the edge. The concrete is hard and cold, but the breathtaking Minato Mirai view makes up for this minor inconvenience. And so does the presence of another person - but no one has to know. Colourful city lights reflect in their eyes. Yokohama has always captivated Chuuya, and that’s the only reason why he’s still sitting here, by Dazai’s side. Yokohama is his only love - and he doesn’t have any more space in his heart for anyone else.

Mesmerised by the slow rotation of the ferris wheel in the distance, Chuuya suddenly becomes too aware of Dazai’s thigh pressing against his, and the only thing he wants to do is to lean against his shoulder; so, in attempt not to give in to this desire, he tries to get up again.

Because whatever’s happening between him and Dazai is /not/ important.

Because he can’t let himself show this morsel of vulnerability, even though he himself doesn’t understand why the hell not.

“Chuuya, come on.” Dazai is stubborn. He pulls harder on Chuuya’s sleeve, but he doesn’t budge.

(Well, maybe just a bit.)

“I’ll walk you home,” Chuuya grumbles. This is a compromise he’s willing to reach. He doesn’t think about whether he’s doing it for Dazai’s sake or for his own. He stands up, and with a sigh, Dazai follows, and immediately, Chuuya misses the warmth by his side. In his head, he calculates how long it’ll take them to get to Dazai’s shitty dorm. It’s quite a walk, but well… the things he would do to save himself from Dazai’s whining. Dazai smiles and takes Chuuya’s hand. He doesn’t tell him that it’d be way more convenient the other way around - Chuuya’s place is just a few blocks away. He knows it already.

“Chuuya’s such a gentleman,” Dazai murmurs instead, playing along.

Chuuya pretends he doesn’t hear that, and the only reason he squeezes Dazai’s hand back is because he’s acting way too annoying to keep calm. Hand in hand, they walk through the night city, leaving the bay behind and wandering into the midst of the urban jungle that, in this late hour, belongs to them, and them only, with streetlights and the Moon as the sole witnesses of their rendezvous. Dark alleys keep the secrets of stolen kisses and dishevelled hair. Empty squares act as a ballroom for the two of them. The river, almost lost between sleeping high-rises, gently rolls its waves, hiding tender words in its quiet hum. The darker it gets, the deeper the conversations become, and the easier it is to tell each other things they would’ve never dared to say in daylight. Pains, worries and emotions rush out like an avalanche, each of them knowing they would not be met with any judgement or mockery.

The night unveils it all. Slowly, the cover of pretend indifference is being removed, and one day (or rather, night), they both know all the ridiculous boundaries and taboos they set in their own heads, will be gone completely. Deep inside, they are more than ready for it. The long walk becomes even longer when they take multiple detours on the way to Dazai’s home. Each time, there’s a half-assed reason to make one. Each time, the reason is accepted without complaint. Each time, kisses get longer and embraces - tighter.

Hours later, a faint glow of the sky signals the end of the night and the end of their time together. However long it might be, it’s never enough before they part their ways. Their intertwined fingers have trouble letting go, and today, the last kiss comes much later than usual.

“Will I see you tonight?” Dazai asks breathlessly, his lips craving to feel Chuuya’s again. Saying goodbye has never been this hard, and each time he goes to his dorm alone it feels like his heart is being ripped out.

Funny how such a small person can make Dazai feel so much.

“Can I get a good night’s sleep for once?” The response is snarky, but Chuuya’s voice lacks its usual bite. The final nail in his pretend indifference’s coffin is his hand pulling Dazai close by the waist, lips meeting lips to have a dozen of last (for real this time) kisses.

The sun is way higher in the sky than usual when they finally part their ways. Dazai will certainly sleep in the Agency’s office. Chuuya will run on coffee and energy drinks, only sometimes letting his eyes stay shut for a few moments longer than necessary.

Tonight, they’ll meet again - and the cycle will repeat.

And who knows… maybe one day, the fearless Double Black duo will find the courage to roam their beloved city in the daylight.

Maybe one day, the city will not have to keep their secrets anymore.

Maybe this moment they both crave so deeply, will come sooner than they expect.