Chapter Text
1
Dazai was not the type to give out undue praise. He certainly was not the type to go out of his way to compliment anyone. Well, not unless it served some benefit to him. Even at 15, his speech was carefully calculated. However flippant he appeared to be, his thoughts passed through a tight bottleneck in his mind before any of them were vocalized. Flattery was something he used only in situations in which it was called for. It never occurred to him to do something like compliment someone’s choice in clothing, or a personality trait, or to point out any number of observations. After all, what was the purpose in that?
The newest member of the mafia was the exact opposite. Not only was Chuuya Nakahara quite friendly and generally well-liked among his new colleagues, he also did not seem capable of filtering his thoughts in the slightest. Of course, this was obvious to anyone who had witnessed him in a fit of anger. However, it took a more observant person, as well as a considerable amount of time, to notice that Chuuya’s lack of filter slipped into his everyday conversations as well.
He encouraged and praised his team during every mission Dazai had seen him lead. He effortlessly slipped compliments into everyday vernacular, praising Kouyou’s strategic planning or complimenting Tachihara’s new haircut (though Dazai accused him of trying to start a clique of gingers in the mafia for that.) It wasn’t necessarily intentional, it was just Chuuya being Chuuya. Making observations. Voicing them. Often, those things tended to be very very negative towards Dazai. He understood that perfectly, encouraged it, even. However. Sometimes, those observations were slightly positive. Dazai wasn’t quite sure how to deal with those.
The first time it happened, they’d been assigned on an undercover mission. It required sneaking their way into a rival’s cocktail party, closing a few deals with the esteemed guests, andddddd stealing some documents while they were at it. Nothing extreme. Fairly routine. Although, far less fighting and far more acting than Double Black was accustomed to. Kouyou had arranged for costumes of sorts to be sent to each of them, so they could more adequately look the part of “bored, rich, fashionable heirs.”
Personally, Dazai would have preferred to undergo the entire mission in his signature trench coat, but he had been outvoted. So, there he was, sitting in front of the mirror, brushing his fucking hair for once, wearing a pair of nice black trousers and some sort of blousy olive green silk shirt. As he tugged the brush through his hair in frustration, he noticed movement in the mirror as Chuuya entered their shared room.
“Hmm, that’s pretty,” Chuuya hums offhandedly, as his absurd way of greeting the sole occupant of the room.
The brush stops abruptly, still stuck in Dazai’s hair.
“What?”
“The shirt Kouyou gave you. That color kinda suits you. It looks nice,”
Chuuya shrugs, as he begins to rummage through the closet, allegedly looking for keys or maybe a knife or whatever the hell one takes on an undercover cocktail party operation.
Dazai’s eyes go wide, and the brush hits the counter. He swivels around on his chair, turning to face Chuuya, who is already dressed, wearing a high-collared white blouse that reaches under his choker, complete with a pair of tight black slacks and black boots with a slight platform. His hair, which had recently begun to grow past his shoulders, was pulled back in a low ponytail. Dazai could have (and should have) pointed out how Kouyou had intentionally given the man the platforms to compensate for his height, but his mind had gone quite blank. Realizing he had been quiet for a few seconds too many, he sputters out,
“Well. You look like the love-child of a vampire and fucking Mr. Darcy,”
Chuuya’s demeanor changes abruptly in response, but the way he rolls his eyes is full of annoyance, not the expected anger.
“Suck a dick, Dazai,” he responds, ever the eloquent one.
Dazai’s eyes go wide in response and his mind fails him as he shoots back,
“YOU suck a- a- do your JOB!”
Chuuya raises an eyebrow and once again rolls his eyes, and Dazai takes that as their cue to leave, grabbing his coat on the way out.
The mission goes smoothly. After all, it was simple enough. However, he would have to admit that his mind was just a bit distracted. For one, when was the last time that he, Osamu Dazai, had been flustered? And another thing, had Chuuya’s hair always been that vivid a shade of red?
On the drive back to headquarters, Dazai would finally have the composure to adequately insult his partner, pointing out the boots, telling him in a lilting voice that the new hairstyle made him look like Little Bo Peep, and even bringing up the unfortunate Victorian vampire comparison once again. He would proudly say all of these things to Chuuya, and he got the desired reaction.
He wouldn’t, however, tell him that he had seemed regal, at that party. How the white shirt against his red, red hair was truly striking, how he had waltzed around, seemingly in his element. If Dazai hadn’t known better, he would have believed Chuuya to have been royalty- okay, that was a bit dramatic- but aristocracy, definitely, at least.
Of course, Dazai wouldn’t voice these thoughts, out loud, to Chuuya. Why would he?
And maybe. Just maybe. There were thoughts that Dazai wouldn’t even voice to himself. After all, what use to him was the fact that his breath had caught in his throat when he had seen Chuuya with his hair up for the first time that night? Or that he had felt heat rise in his face when he had been told he looked nice, pretty even. What could he possibly gain from articulating those thoughts?
2.
After leaving the Port Mafia, Dazai never anticipates having to deal with this type of situation again. After all, what shred of praise could anyone have for a man who had betrayed their organization, bombed their car, and had still not stopped trying his best to be as much of a nuisance as humanly possible?
For a while, Dazai’s predictions played out quite as expected. When they meet again for the first time in years, Chuuya’s speech is a blur of insults, threats, and outright hatred. Dazai welcomes it. It feels comfortable, expected, deserved. Why would Chuuya say anything else to him?
What doesn’t feel quite as comfortable are the little slips of vulnerability in his former partner’s long-winded rants. His mention of opening a bottle of Petrus on the day Dazai left— but in celebration— of course. He winces, internally, at that. And more, the way he calls out for Dazai in their fight against Lovecraft, voice obviously brimming with concern. He hates that. If Dazai feels any concern, he certainly doesn’t let it bleed through him like the mafia executive does. If he feels a cold fear sweep through his body as he watches his former partner in the throes of corruption for the first time in years, he shows no signs of it. If there is any compassion in the way he nullifies the godlike ability, it doesn’t come through in action, nor in words.
If he was unfiltered and stupid and open like Chuuya, he might have carried him back to safety, made sure he was unhurt. But he was not Chuuya, so Dazai left him there in the field.
(After all, Chuuya would never know if Dazai had cleaned the blood off his face. Or found his hat, setting it right beside its owner. Or maybe even run a hand through the redhead’s hair, longer now, brushing it out smoothly and gently untangling the knots. Or that he had double, triple, even quadruple checked all of his vital signs before leaving, ensuring that there was no immediate danger. Chuuya could never possibly know if he hypothetically done all that. Good. There was no use in him knowing that.)
3.
Somehow, the animosity between the two of them dies down over the next few months. Much to their chagrin, the pair continue to be assigned on missions together. Chuuya even becomes a regular at the ADA, much to Kunikida’s dismay and to Kenji’s delight. The kid won’t stop talking about how incredible the “fancy hat man” is. Even Atsushi and Yosano seem to warm up to the mafia executive as the mafia and ADA are forced to spend an increasingly large amount of time together.
The event in question occurs during an emergency strategy meeting to defend Yokohama against the impending attack of a Swiss gifted agency (everyone had already pointed out the irony.) In Dazai’s opinion, the threat isn’t extremely pressing. He easily and coherently delivers a straightforward plan to deal with the threat from the comfort of the agency couch. After he lazily makes his speech, the frantic noise of the room immediately subsides.
A low whistle from behind him breaks the silence.
“I forget how damn smart you are sometimes,” Chuuya remarks, a slight taunting lilt of his voice accompanying the remark.
Of course, Dazai’s mind immediately goes blank.
Luckily, another voice chimes in to break the silence and give him a little more desperately needed time to formulate any semblance of a response to that.
“Literally! You’re so smart, it’s scary sometimes,” Atsushi blurts out. “Actually,” he continues, “now that I think about it, you’re probably the smartest person I know. Not that that’s news to you or anything, Dazai-san.”
Okay, so maybe Atsushi wasn’t helping the situation. To make matters worse, Chuuya had begun talking again, stepping away from where he been leaning against the ADA’s window to better address Dazai’s protegee:
“...this is nothing,” the mafia executive was saying, gesturing animatedly with his hands,
“you should’ve seen what he schemed up for this mission we had in London, once. I still don’t know if i really understand everything that went down there, don’t know if I ever will. it’s fucking infuriating.”
The rest of the ADA is, for some godforsaken reason, listening attentively.
“... but you have to acknowledge it, I guess. He may be an idiot and a maniac, but the bastard’s a genius, when it comes down to it. This is nothing for him. Really.”
He stops his rant there, turns to look at the man in question,
“Isn’t that right, Dazai?”
Dazai only has a few seconds to blink and ask himself if his rival from the mafia is really bragging about him in front of his new colleagues? Is that really what’s happening? He only has a few seconds to sit there baffled before he’s forced to respond in typical-Dazai-fashion,
“Come on Chuuya, anyone would look like a genius next to you.”
That should do it. If Dazai’s quick calculations were correct, Chuuya’s temper would flare up, he would fire off a hailstorm of insults, and quickly (and dramatically) exit the building. All talk about Dazai’s intelligence would immediately cease to be of any import to his coworkers. Good. It was getting creepy.
Unfortunately, Dazai’s calculations were not correct.
Instead of going on a rage-filled tirade, Chuuya simply stares at him incredulously.
“Uh huh,” the latter replies, seeming all too unphased.
“That one was weak. Even for you. I guess this place has made you soft. Even your insults don’t sting like they used to.”
Dazai will have to change the subject.
“I’m sorry, but am I the only one that’s concerned about the impending doom that is the Swiss?!” he whines,
“I think it’s about time we start implementing our plans, or else we’ll be behind schedule! How horrible! Is no one else worried?”
The response is a low murmur and a very unhelpful response from Yosano, who mutters, “I mean, you just spent the last 15 minutes telling us why they aren’t a threat and we shouldn’t be worried.”
“Oh come onnnn,” Dazai drawls, “Kunikida? Help me out here?”
“He’s right,” Kunikida sighs. “Let’s at least attempt to take this seriously. You all know what to do. Let’s get on with it, now.”
Satisfied with his partner’s response, Dazai peels himself off the couch and begins to gather his things (his Guide to Suicide and half a chocolate croissant, to be specific.) As everyone filters out of the room, he feels someone’s presence remain behind him. He turns to see Chuuya still leaning against the window, staring at him intently, a strange sort of smug grin on his face. It’s unnerving. Dazai’s supposed to be the smug one.
“Something I can help you with, Chuuya?”
Chuuya shrugs.
“You really are smart, you know that?”
“No wayyy, the youngest executive in Port Mafia history? Smart? Who could’ve possibly imagined that?” Dazai deadpans, flopping back onto his couch.
He isn’t looking at him, but he can feel the man rolling his eyes.
“Okay, asshole,” he responds, as he begins to gather some paperwork off the center table, “just… it’s weird… you could do anything you wanted, but it feels like sometimes everyone knows that but you. And I mean, obviously you know you’re smart, but, I don’t know, it’s different.”
His tone is casual. Too casual. It makes Dazai’s blood boil. Why would he say something like that as if it was just another of his casual observations?
Even worse, why would that even be one of his casual observations?
He turns around on the couch, quite aggressively, to prop himself up on his elbows, and say, (quite sweetly,)
“Welllll, what I really want to do is die, and that hasn’t worked out for me yet, so I don’t really see your point, chibi!”
Chuuya barely even bristles at the much-hated nickname, he just shakes his head, smiling.
“Yeah. Sure.”
As the mafia executive walks to leave the room, he stops in the doorway.
“I may not be a genius or anything, but even I can tell that that’s not what you want. At least not anymore. I hate to admit it, but this shitty place suits you, asshole.”
And with that, he closes the door, leaving Dazai on the couch, absolutely seething.
Also, maybe blushing.
Just a bit.
…
The ADA suits him?