Chapter Text
It’s a bad night.
Everything goes wrong. The mission fails due to false intel, and Chuuya loses almost half of his squad. It’s only thanks to him using his ability to its absolute limit that he’s able to get the rest of them to safety, and the effort leaves him bruised by the weight of his own gravity.
Mori is understanding, of course, forever the pragmatic leader. But the boss is not the only one in the Port Mafia, and Chuuya can sense the gazes on his back, the judgment. He takes on the job of informing the next of kin of the deceased himself, partially out of obligation as their superior, partially out of deep-rooted guilt. It was his plan, his strategy that led to their deaths, after all. He can’t close his eyes without seeing their corpses imprinted against the darkness like ghosts.
Once that nightmare is over, it’s the paperwork. Urgent, all of it, necessary for Mori to be able to plan their next move and to make up for Chuuya’s failure. It’s almost daybreak before he can justify leaving, sending a subordinate off to deliver the reports to Mori directly as he finally makes his way out of the Port Mafia towers.
To make matters worse, when he gets to the parking garage his car won’t even start, so he has to use his ability to launch himself and jump across the city rooftops back to his apartment in the pouring rain. The effort strains his body all the more, and he nearly plummets out of the sky a few times thanks to his sleepless state catching up with him.
By the time he arrives on his balcony, he’s drenched, dripping, and exhausted. Despite the chill, he takes a moment to stand, staring out at the dark city.
…He’s just so tired. More than ever, recently. Persistent aches have been settling into his bones, so deep that no amount of sleep can erase them. There’s never a moment when he is without some worry, some looming threat.
With each new mission, he wonders if it will be the one to kill him, if the next enemy will be the one with an ability strong enough to do him in. And he never expected to live to a ripe old age, not with the sort of life he leads, but…
The threat of death hangs heavier on his shoulders when he considers who he’ll be leaving behind. The things he has to lose, now. Because, for the last year, he’s had him.
Chuuya takes a breath and slides open his balcony doors, stepping inside. Then he lets the breath out, the exhale hushed and soft in the warmth of the room within.
The living room reading lamp is still on, lending the space a gentle golden glow. And on the couch, wrapped up in an absurd amount of blankets, is Dazai.
Clearly, his partner had been trying to keep himself awake, propping himself valiantly upright with both the blankets and pillows, but lost the fight despite his best efforts. Now Dazai lays half-slumped over, head resting awkwardly on his own shoulder, his face lax with sleep.
The sight settles some of the heaviness in Chuuya’s chest, and he finds himself smiling, just a little. The reminder of the messy, complicated thing he and Dazai have been building between them…it doesn’t fix everything, but it helps. Dazai’s clumsy attempts at accommodating Chuuya, his efforts to make their wildly differential schedules allow them such normal-person things as dates — hell, even Dazai’s irritating habits of mooching out of his pantry and his occasional pranks are welcome inconveniences, particularly after the four years of radio silence following Dazai’s defection.
Now, even if they don’t strictly define it, they’ve become something. Whether it’s the influence of the Agency or something else, Dazai has softened, turned into someone who can admit that he cares about Chuuya. In morse code, at least. With his heartbeat, because it’s Dazai, and he can do weird shit like that. It’s fine, Chuuya’s brain had apparently rotted enough over the years that he’s come to find his partner’s quirks endearing.
Shaking his head at himself, Chuuya steps closer to the couch and bends down to nudge Dazai's cheek with the tip of his finger. “Hey,” he murmurs. “Wake up, dumbass. Your neck is gonna get all fucked up if you sleep like that.”
Dazai’s eyes flutter open with a low groan, wincing as he raises his head enough to feel the obvious crick in his neck. “Chuu—yah?” he yawns, blinking drowsily up at Chuuya. A slightly dopey smile spreads across his face, and it takes everything Chuuya has to not melt.
It took them a while to get to this point, where Dazai is relaxed enough to allow Chuuya to see him with his guard down, and Chuuya can’t help but treasure the sight like the most covetous dragon. It makes him feel a bit foolish to so blatantly hoard each little bit of Dazai’s vulnerability he is allowed, but he knows the trust and effort it takes for Dazai to let him in, and that alone makes it precious.
“Welcome back,” Dazai mumbles, untangling himself from the sheets to reach up for Chuuya with grabby hands. He yawns again, bleary-eyed and only half coherent. “Mm, how late is it?”
“How early would be the better question,” Chuuya says with a weary sigh. “You didn’t have to wait up for me, y’know. You know what the mafia is like.”
“Yeah,” Dazai grumbles. “I know, but chibi’s need their beauty sleep, or —” He cuts himself off as his hands finally make contact with Chuuya’s coat, and his eyes snap open wide. He lets out an exclamation, concerned and a bit scolding. “Ah, Chuuya! You’re soaked!”
“Is that your way of saying I’m dripping with good looks…?” Chuuya tries to joke. He feels like collapsing, but he knows he’ll only get water everywhere if he does, so he simply sways in place, vaguely wondering how he’s going to make it to the bathroom to dry off.
Before he can make up his mind whether ruining the couch is worth being able to simply pass out, Dazai is on his feet and sweeping Chuuya into his arms to carry him through the apartment in a dizzying whirl, his bare feet padding across the carpet at a brisk trot.
It takes Chuuya’s mind a moment to catch up, and when it does, he frowns. “Y’ll get water on your pajamas,” he protests, despite being too tired to put up much of a fight.
“Forget my pajamas, you could catch a cold, or worse,” Dazai says sharply. “What happened, slug?”
“Mm. Everything,” Chuuya says, and lets his eyes slip shut. “...But really, nothing in particular. Just…things. Regular things. It’s always like this, I don’t why I…”
He trails off.
I don’t know why I expect anything different, are the words that die in his throat. I always end up losing something. Someone.
Dazai doesn’t need to hear that part, he decides.
He’s not very coherent as Dazai strips his damp clothes off, but he doesn’t mind it. Everything is a haze, and Chuuya simply drifts, allowing Dazai to guide him into the shower under the warm water. It feels unusually hot against his cold skin, but the steady stream slowly begins to warm him, bringing life back to his limbs.
It’s about that time that Chuuya realizes that he’s crying, in a distant, detached way, and he finds the energy to be thankful that the water from the shower head disguises the tears. He doesn’t think Dazai notices, the taller man too preoccupied by fussing over him, washing Chuuya’s hair, rubbing warmth back into his skin. Another thing to be grateful for.
Chuuya closes his eyes, spilling more silent tears, and leans into the circle of Dazai’s arms, hiding his face against Dazai’s chest. Dazai’s hands falter, then continue stroking through his damp hair, easing out the shampoo with soothing touches. He wraps an arm around Chuuya’s waist, keeping him upright, and they breathe together, surrounded by a peaceful bubble of steam and quiet.
…It feels good whenever Dazai holds him. Maybe, Chuuya reflects, that will be enough, even if he ends up dying one day soon. If he can just have a few more moments like this…
That thought comforts him in a way, keeps him from fully collapsing as Dazai rubs him down with towels and blow-dries his hair. It lets him shuffle along after his partner as Dazai helps him into a clean set of pajamas and tucks him into bed, before moving to pull the blackout curtains closed to block out the light of dawn. That done, Dazai promptly wriggles in beside him, tugging Chuuya back into his arms, and Chuuya clings to him, squeezing his eyes tight shut and wishing that the darkness behind his eyelids wasn't still splashed with the phantom blood of his subordinates.
It’s only when he’s on the very verge of sleep that another, more disquieting thought breaks through his dream-like state, and he frowns, winding his arms closer around Dazai’s back and tucking his head under Dazai’s chin in an attempt to meld himself inextricably into the other’s embrace.
“Dazai,” he whispers, his words almost inaudible even in the dead silence. “…You really shouldn’t stay up waiting for me like that…when I die, you’ll just be stuck there, waiting and waiting, and that would be fuckin’ depressing…so please don’t wait for me anymore, okay…?”
Once he mumbles the last word, the tide of sleep becomes too strong for him to resist any longer, and he falls into dark, merciful oblivion.
Dazai stays awake for a long, long time after that, frozen, staring at nothing.
The sun rises higher in the sky outside the blackout curtains, and Dazai should really be rising as well, going to work, but he stays. Thinking, turning over Chuuya’s quiet request in his mind until he feels sick to his stomach.
It isn’t just Chuuya’s words — it’s everything, from Chuuya’s increasingly habitual exhaustion, to his quiet tears in the shower. Dazai hadn’t mentioned them, as Chuuya seemed far too tired to bear with an interrogation, but it had been impossible not to notice the worn-down despair in his partner’s eyes.
The longer he reflects, the more Dazai becomes filled with unshakeable dread. It’s all too clear that Chuuya’s state is worsening, both mentally and physically, and each day in the Port Mafia is only exacerbating his misery. The only question is how long it will take before Chuuya finally breaks.
As Chuuya’s soft snores brush against his bare neck, Dazai wonders. Wonders what he would have done if Chuuya hadn’t come home to him, if he had woken up to nothing but an empty apartment. If that night had become the night he lost Chuuya for good.
He’s always known that either of them could die at any time, but…
At this moment, with Chuuya in his arms, he realizes with horrible certainty that he isn’t prepared at all. Not now, not when they’ve just begun to coexist, learning how to fit together and ease some of each other’s pain.
And that look in Chuuya’s eyes — it’s too familiar, too close to the deadened stare Odasaku had given him before walking away, leaving for his death.
Not again.
In the darkness of the bedroom, Dazai buries his face in Chuuya’s curls, his breaths coming quick and unsteady as fear sinks its sharpened claws into his heart. Chuuya doesn’t stir, remaining dead to the world even when Dazai clutches him a bit too tight.
Dazai whispers to his partner, a broken plea that goes unheard.
“Please don’t go. Not you too…”
Chuuya goes back to work, naturally, just like he always does. He sleeps most of the day away in Dazai’s arms, letting the other soothe away the worst of his shadows, and then he hauls himself back up to face the world once more. Because it’s his responsibility, and he can’t hide away forever, no matter how tired he is. He even summons up enough energy to lightly scold Dazai for skipping work to sleep in with him, despite how much he privately appreciates the gesture.
The rest of the week passes quickly. Nothing goes well, exactly, but it’s somewhat better. With the information from Chuuya’s reports, Mori puts together a deadly stratagem that annihilates the enemy organization in one fell swoop. There’s not even one casualty on the Port Mafia’s side of the affair, which settles Chuuya somewhat, even though he still can’t forgive himself for the men he already lost.
(He finds himself questioning more and more often what he’s even working towards, if all he gets in return is an endless cycle of loss and death. But he can’t think like that and keep functioning, so he shoves those thoughts down deep, deep inside.)
Chuuya manages to get more sleep, as well, so much that he’s feeling much more himself by the time the next weekend rolls around. He even has the time to get his car fixed, so he’s able to drive back to his apartment the usual way and let himself in through the front door instead of the balcony.
“I’m home —" he begins to announce as he enters, then chokes on his own spit, halting in the genkan and staring with his jaw hanging part way open.
Standing in the hallway is Dazai, waiting for him like usual, but Chuuya can barely process the sight of him, because —
Frankly, Dazai is a vision. He’s abandoned his usual Agency work clothes, and is instead dressed simply in dark slacks and a criminally tight white button up, the sleeves rolled up to show his forearms, leaving them bare and startlingly free of bandages. The top three buttons are undone to frame his collarbones tantalizingly, and his bangs are tucked back behind one ear, that damn hairstyle that Dazai knows Chuuya thinks makes his eyes look all the prettier. All of it simple, but effective, the clothes tailored and hugging his frame just right. Not only that, but clasped around his neck is one of Chuuya’s own chokers. Just sitting there, a stark band of black against Dazai’s skin, like a collar of ownership.
Dazai grins, looking irritatingly smug. “Welcome back, slug,” he says, fluttering his eyelashes and reaching up a finger to hook beneath the choker, tugging at the leather suggestively.
Chuuya discards his shoes with uncharacteristic sloppiness, not even looking where he drops them as he tries to pull them off and toss his overcoat aside at the same time. What with one thing and another, it’s been weeks since either of them has had the energy to do anything remotely active in the bedroom, and suddenly all Chuuya can think about is getting Dazai beneath him as fast as possible. “Fuck, Dazai,” he says with a groan, almost tripping on the step in his rush to cross the floor separating him and his partner. “You look amazing. Why all of a sudden — ?”
Before he can reach Dazai, however, he’s met with a finger, tapping against his nose to keep him at arm’s length.
“Now now, none of that,” Dazai sing-songs brightly. “This is a negotiation, hatrack. No touching until you comply with my demands, I’m afraid.”
Suspicion immediately aroused, Chuuya stops. Stands still, despite his instinct to tug Dazai into his arms, to hook a finger into that choker himself — instead he drops his hands to his sides, his shoulders stiff with tension and the desire to feel. Leave it to Dazai to dress up in a way specifically calculated to drive Chuuya mad, only to instantly pull the rug out from under him. “What demands?” he asks, a low rumble in his throat.
A slight blush colors Dazai’s cheeks at his tone, and for a split second he seems to falter. However, in the next moment his expression clears, and the flicker of doubt is nowhere to be seen. “I want you to leave the Port Mafia,” Dazai says, strangely blunt. “And join the Agency.”
Chuuya stares. Blinks. Stares some more, convinced he must have somehow misheard. “…What?” he asks, tipping his head to one side.
“Leave the Port Mafia,” Dazai repeats, crossing his arms over his chest defiantly. “I can get you a position at the Agency. It worked with Kyouka.”
Chuuya pinches the bridge of his nose, feeling a migraine beginning to build behind his eyes. “Kyouka was only fourteen when she joined,” he points out. “And she hasn't killed nearly as many people as I have. And even if it were possible — why the fuck would I want to do that?”
“You’ll live longer,” Dazai says immediately, like he’s reading off a script. “Yosano’s ability alone puts Agency members at an advantage over anyone in the Port Mafia.”
The practiced way Dazai speaks sets Chuuya’s hackles up. “Yeah, but I’d also be on Mori’s shit list,” he says irritably. “Not to mention the issue of all the people I’d be abandoning. I’d probably end up dead anyway, one way or another. Mori fears you, that’s one of the reasons he never tried that hard to kill you after you defected. He doesn’t fear me, and he knows I care about the people there. He might go as far as to threaten my subordinates if he thought it would bring me back.”
“I wouldn’t let Mori hurt you,” Dazai says, his eyes flashing dangerously. “You’d be safe. And your subordinates…I could make arrangements, if it bothers you that much. It’s like you say, Mori fears me. He won’t risk anything that will harm the city, so he’s not about to go to war with the Agency over one executive.”
“Right,” Chuuya says drily. “You think. Come off it, Dazai, we both know you’re not as omnipotent as you like to behave. You hope you’ll be able to put Mori off, but you’re not certain, and I won’t risk my own people. Actually, speaking of your own defection, why throw a fit about this now? You didn’t have any problem with me being in the mafia when you left, clearly. You didn’t even tell me you were going, let alone try to get me out too. What changed?”
“…Back then, I thought you were thriving in your position,” Dazai admits, looking down at the wood floor beneath his feet, a crease in his brow. “In retrospect, perhaps I should have known better, but the fact remains I didn’t. You’ve always been a bit of an enigma to me, slug. I can never read you quite as well as you seem to think I can.”
Chuuya frowns. “You’re right, clearly you can’t read me, because I’m fine,” he argues. “Thriving might be a bit of a stretch, but I’m doing as well as can be expected.”
“But that’s the thing,” Dazai says, his voice terse. “You’re doing as well as can be expected for someone in the Port Mafia. But if you were somewhere else, somewhere better —“
“Oi. I’m gonna stop you right there. Just because running away worked for you doesn’t mean it will fix all my problems,” Chuuya snaps. “Look, is this seriously an issue for you? If you hate that I’m still part of the Port Mafia to this extent, why did you start sleeping with me in the first place?”
“I don’t hate it,” Dazai shoots back, his shoulders hunching slightly. “I hate Mori, but I don’t resent you for staying there, I just — Chuuya, you’ve been exhausted. I was here last week, remember?”
At that memory, the thought of how Dazai took care of him that night, some of the fight leaves Chuuya’s frame. He sighs, noticing how tightly Dazai’s fingers are squeezing at his own arms, a clear sign that Dazai is more discomposed than he will ever admit.
…At the very least, Dazai does seem to be trying to be helpful. As per usual, he’s just going about it in a particularly irritating way. It’s hard for Chuuya to be truly angry over it, no matter how unwelcome the interference is.
“There’s always bad times,” Chuuya says, purposefully shoving down the part of his mind that murmurs that he is tired, that he just wants to rest — that part of him is weak. It’s not who he really is, he won’t let it be. “That doesn’t mean I need to run away. There’s never an acceptable time to run away.”
Dazai’s expression shutters. “…Like I did, you mean,” he infers flatly.
Chuuya winces, hearing how his own words sounded. “I — no, that’s not what I meant,” he says, running a hand through his hair in exasperation. “I know why you left, and I understand it. But I just can’t , Dazai. The people in the mafia are relying on me. They’re my family, have been for years — you know that.”
A flicker of something crosses Dazai’s face, too fast for Chuuya to interpret. Then Dazai looks away with a huff, tossing his hair and disrupting his carefully styled curls. “Then no sex,” he says, his tone a bit bratty, a blatant coverup for that brief crack in his facade. “Not unless Chuuya changes his mind.”
A weight drops into Chuuya’s stomach. “Is this you breaking up with me?” he asks. “Just like that?”
Dazai turns back to him at once, a flash of panic crossing his face, and he takes a hasty step forward. He still doesn’t touch Chuuya, his hands hovering awkwardly in the air between them, but he’s so close that they’re practically breathing the same air. “No,” Dazai rushes to say. “I — I’ll stay with you either way. And you can kiss me, and hold me when we’re sleeping, if you still want to. Just no sex.”
“Ah,” Chuuya says, relaxing a little. Not ideal, and very weird even by Dazai’s standards, but he can live with that. A bit bizarre that Dazai seems to think it will be enough to make Chuuya change his mind, but it’s impossible to tell how Dazai’s mind works at the best of times, so Chuuya shrugs it off. “So basically, if I give in and initiate sex first, I have to join the Agency. And if you give in, then you’ll drop all this nonsense?”
Dazai nods, biting his lip, and watches Chuuya warily.
“Alright then,” Chuuya agrees, tucking his hands into his pockets. “In that case, what are the exact conditions?”
Dazai blinks, somehow taken by surprise. “…Er. No sex? I just said.”
“Yeah, but a lot of things can count as sex,” Chuuya says, looking up at Dazai with an eyebrow raised challengingly. This, at least, he’s used to, negotiating the terms of Dazai’s stupid wagers. He leans in closer, dropping his voice low. “If I can still kiss you and hold you, what crosses the line?”
Dazai swallows thickly, leaning back. “…You can’t touch me with the intent to make it sexual,” he says after a moment’s consideration. “No kisses anywhere except my face, and no touching below the belt.”
The words sound a little regretful, and Chuuya has to restrain himself from grinning. Already, he can see several loopholes to exploit. It shouldn’t take long for Dazai to crack, as long as he can frustrate the detective enough — at least on a physical level, Chuuya is reasonably confident in his ability to outlast his partner.
So he may as well have a bit of fun with it.
“It is rather a shame,” Chuuya says casually, stepping forward until Dazai is forced to stumble backwards. “I was looking forward to fucking you while you wear that choker. And only that choker.”
“…Ah,” Dazai chokes out, his eyes going wide.
Without pausing, Chuuya herds Dazai back further until the taller man’s back collides with the hallway wall, then presses his hands against the plaster on either side of Dazai’s waist, hemming him in while being careful not to make direct contact.
“You dressed up so nicely for me, too,” Chuuya says, clicking his tongue and dragging his hungry gaze down Dazai’s chest. He leans in until his breath fans across Dazai’s collarbones, heating the already flushed skin even more. “Too bad I won’t be able to take it all off myself, piece by piece. I would love to take you right here, just like this…”
Dazai lets out a quiet whine, shivering against the wall, his pupils already dilated with want. “You could fuck me,” he says unsteadily, clenching his fists at his sides until they tremble. “If — if you agree to leave the Port Mafia —”
“Mm. Nope,” Chuuya drawls, pulling back with an evil grin. “Unless you want to call this off yourself?”
Dazai glares down at him, bright red in the face. “No, I won’t,” he snaps. “I’m not giving up! Chuuya will be the one to break first!”
“Good luck with that,” Chuuya shrugs and turns away, strolling off towards the kitchen. “In the meantime, want some dinner? I was thinking I’d make something fancy tonight.”
He hears a thud behind him, and identifies the sound as Dazai knocking his head back against the wall in frustration. “Chuuya is mean,” Dazai complains loudly.
“And Dazai is stubborn,” Chuuya mocks in return.
And that’s that.
The wager is on.