Chapter Text
Chuuya wants a drink. In fact, he has wanted one since about seven hours ago, when out of nowhere, he was thrust into a joint mission with his ex-partner. Emphasis on the ex.
Only an idiot would pine after someone who blew up his car.
It starts out tolerably enough: they board a bullet train and ride in separate cars to avoid being discovered together, Chuuya wearing something more casual than he normally does so he’s not easily distinguishable. The mission is all the way down in Fukuoka. He knows it’s not a tourist trip, but he’s already thinking of the tonkotsu ramen. He’s not leaving until he has a bowl.
The first two hours of the trip goes fine. Then, out of nowhere, the stewardess approaches his seat. “Excuse me, sir…”
Chuuya looks up from the book of poetry he’s reading.
“I apologize, but there’s a passenger in Car 5 who requires your immediate assistance.”
“Let me guess,” Chuuya retorts. “Tall, bandages, shitty bolo tie, called you beautiful and asked you to commit a double suicide with him?”
“Ah… yes, that’s the passenger.”
“Tell him that if he fucking disturbs me again, I’ll throw his ass off the train while it’s going at top speed.”
The woman forces a smile. “Sir, I’m afraid I can’t—”
“Tell him exactly like that,” Chuuya insists. “He’ll get the message. Trust me.”
“Ah… right away sir. I’m deeply sorry for disturbing you.”
He doesn’t go back to his poetry right away. Instead, he stares out the window and daydreams of wine, a nice full-bodied dry red. He can practically taste the one he drank the last time he was in France when he catches a glimpse of a familiar shadow in the window.
“Mackerel,” he growls, turning to stare at his ex-partner. Emphasis on the ex.
Only an idiot would pine after a traitor.
“Slug,” Dazai answers with an overly friendly smile. “You’ll never guess what just happened in Car 5!”
“I could not fucking care less. Go back to your fucking seat before I strangle you.”
Dazai sits down without an invitation, glowing like he has some big secret to tell. Chuuya zones out for over half of the story. From what he does hear, the stewardess quietly delivered Chuuya’s message exactly as Chuuya said it, and Dazai noted an error in his calculations. “A dog won’t listen to anyone who isn’t his master, so I strategically convinced the stewardess to let me switch seats for the remainder of the trip!”
Chuuya resists the urge to throw the book in his hand at Dazai. Knowing his luck, it would not deal a death blow. If anything, it would give Dazai a bump on his empty fucking mackerel head that he would then take every opportunity to complain about. So, he curbs his temper, opens the pages again, and murmurs, “I ain’t here for your entertainment.”
“But Chuuya-kun,” Dazai sing-songs. “You’re my dog. You’re here to do anything I want.”
“You know dogs bite when you tease them, right?”
“Some do. But Chuuya never would. He’s so obedient…”
“Fine,” he sighs. “Just so you won’t fucking terrorize anyone else on this fucking train like you did that stewardess, what the fuck do you want?”
“Do some kind of trick for me.”
“Like sitting?” Chuuya retorts, grinning.
“Mmm… I was thinking more like you could see if you could throw this train off the tracks with your ability before I touch you.”
“Why the fuck would I want to do that?”
“Well, for one thing, it would finally let me achieve my goal of committing a double suicide!”
Chuuya shuts his book, “Your math’s off, Mackerel. There are hundreds of people on this train. You don’t want to bring your agency bad publicity, do you?”
Pouting, Dazai grumbles, “Chuuya’s no fun.”
By the time the bullet train pulls into Fukuoka Station, Chuuya’s want for wine has grown to a need. They check into separate rooms at the hotel, and Chuuya takes refuge in his. The first thing he does is get into his hotel yukata since they’re not meeting with the client until tomorrow morning.
The second thing he does is call room service, but they don’t even pick up before there’s a tell-tale knock at his door.
Resisting the urge to commit a felony, Chuuya slams the phone down, stomps to his door, and whips it open to find Dazai in the doorway, smiling and holding a bottle of red wine. Judging from his hotel yukata, Chuuya supposes Dazai had the same idea he did. As always, though, his ex-partner—emphasis on the ex—is one step ahead.
“You looked like you could use a drink,” Dazai says. “So I took the liberty of ordering you a bottle of Bordeaux from the hotel restaurant.”
Chuuya takes the bottle and half expects it to explode. When it doesn’t, he tips it. The contents sound liquid. Humming, he says, “I can’t help but notice you forgot the—”
“Corkscrew?” Dazai produces one from behind his back, probably tucked into his yukata belt, and dangles it in front of Chuuya. “If you’re not picky, you can just drink it out of the tumblers in the room.”
“I guess those’ll have to do,” Chuuya sighs, taking the wine opener from Dazai.
A question rises in Chuuya’s mind. What’s his angle? Because it’s Dazai. From anyone else, Chuuya would consider it a gesture of good will. Or maybe an incentive to cooperate. But it’s Dazai. There has to be a motive. There always is.
“What’s wrong, Chuuya? Is the wine bad?”
No, but the company’s shit, is what he wants to say. Instead, he says, “Fuck, no, it’s not. It’s just the kind of wine that would taste better with someone else.” He measures Dazai’s reaction as best he can. The problem is, Dazai’s expression barely changes.
“Well, that’s all!” Dazai announces at a volume that makes Chuuya jolt. The bottle of wine would fall if he didn’t catch it with his ability, but he doubts it would break on the carpet. Dazai withdraws, laughing like a maniac. Chuuya shuts his door again. Before opening the wine, he checks the bottom for a bug. Finding none, he uses the sharp end of the corkscrew to rip the foil. Then, he positions the point and starts to turn it.
Exactly two twists in, he hears another knock.
“For the love of fuck,” he growls, returning to his hotel room door and whipping it open. “Dazai, what do you want this time?”
“I just realized you were inviting me to drink with you.”
“I fucking was not.”
“You were! Chuuya is so generous, sharing his wine with me—”
Dazai barges in uninvited… well, semi-invited. His ex-partner—emphasis on the ex—is shitty, but he’s not bad to drink with sometimes, especially in the absence of other options. Chuuya follows Dazai deeper inside, watching the brunet’s head swivel.
Out of nowhere, Dazai says, “Switch rooms with me.”
“Huh?”
“Your view is better, and my neighbors are too loud.”
“Well, that’s too fucking bad, isn’t it?” Chuuya retorts, going into his bathroom to retrieve the tumblers. When he comes out, Dazai is twisting the corkscrew. The cork comes loose with a pop, and he fills both glasses without a word. Setting aside what’s left, he takes one.
“To double suicide and other interesting things.”
“To wine, shoes, and better company than your bandaged ass.” Their glasses clink together. Chuuya sits down on the bed and drinks. Dazai hovers on the edge of it. He doesn’t ask to occupy it, but Chuuya knows it’s pointless to refuse. “I’m not fucking switching rooms with you. I already unpacked.”
“Then share.” Dazai sends him a smirk over his shoulder. “I’ll make it worth your while.”
“The fuck?” He watches Dazai roll over and lean on one hand. He carefully holds the tumbler, mindful of where the wine is, and smirks. “Hah? You think that’s going to work on me?”
“I’m bored,” Dazai whines, sipping his wine. “And you look hotter with wine in your hand.”
“What part of ex-partner did you fucking miss?”
“We’re not ex-partners now.”
Chuuya downs his wine, hoping it will make Dazai more tolerable. It doesn’t. “We’re on a fucking mission,” he growls, glaring into Dazai’s snide face.
“You’re no fun.”
“Top me off,” he demands. Dazai fills his glass again, and he leans against one of his pillows, sipping. The wine is actually not bad. It’s not that cheap shit Dazai usually buys him just to piss him off. Letting out a sigh, he stares at the ceiling. “Why the fuck are you really here, Dazai?”
“You must be extra stupid today, Chuuya. I just said I was bored.”
“So go throw yourself off the roof or something!”
“It’s no fun if I have to die alone. Plus, plummeting to my death sounds like a painful way to go.”
He bristles as Dazai leans closer.
“Go find a beautiful woman for me to die with, Chuuya.”
“I will fucking end you,” he grumbles. As tempting as it is, especially after bolting wine, he knows he needs Dazai alive for this mission.
And he hates that more than anything.
Chuuya tries to make the best of the situation, which is easy with the wine. As more of the bottle disappears, Dazai starts teasing him about how red his face is getting. He notices he’s starting to slur his curses, or he thinks he is. Their conversation grows a little more civil, more playful.
Out of nowhere, he realizes Dazai is still beautiful. He shoves that realization away because the last bad decision he wants to make is hooking up with his ex-partner.
Emphasis, once again, on the ex.
Equally unexpected, Dazai starts to play with his hair. He realizes he’s leaning on Dazai’s shoulder while Dazai, significantly less drunk, smiles down at him.
“It’s still the softest thing I’ve ever touched.”
Maybe he’s too drunk, considering how soft his smile is. His eyes start to drift shut.
“Let me stay here.”
He opens them again. Because as inebriated as he is, he recognizes something more serious than banter and insults in Dazai’s voice like something about being there is unsettling him. “What’s the matter?”
“There’s a ghost in my room.”
Chuuya stares up at his partner. Ex-partner, he reminds himself. Out loud, he murmurs, “In your room or in your head?”
Dazai sends him a frown.
“Does this ghost have a name?”
Dazai sprawls out without saying anything. Eventually, he murmurs, “No.”
Chuuya finishes off his wine, sets his glass on the table, and rolls onto his side to face Dazai again. “Give it one. Like we talked about. So I know who’s ass I need to kick in my dreams tonight.”
“Chuuya doesn’t dream,” Dazai grumbles.
Chuuya realizes Dazai’s eyes are locked on the V in his yukata, but he’s not sure if it’s the wine or something else. “Doesn’t matter. I’ll still kick that ghost until it dies again.”
Dazai’s fingers return to his hair. His eyes sink shut again. The last thing he sees is the smile on Dazai’s face.
“Dazai,” he murmurs. “You can come closer and keep touching my hair, but don’t try to start anything else. We’re drunk.”
“Chuuya’s the only one who’s drunk.”
The words land against his chest, where Dazai has pressed his face.
Sober Chuuya would probably throw Dazai out. Because despite what Dazai says, sober Chuuya is smarter than he lets on. But drunk Chuuya knows this is a bad idea, knows it probably says something he never intended to.
Wine or not, Chuuya also knows Dazai is grappling with phantoms that are real to him, and as his partner—ex-partner—it’s up to him to help as much as his own condition will allow. The wine definitely means he’s willing to do a little more. He lets Dazai continue smoothing his hair, removes a glove and slides his fingers into Dazai’s.
It’s softer than he remembers.
He wakes up in the morning curled against Dazai’s chest, Dazai’s fingers still in his hair.
And he has a fucking headache… perfect.
“Did Chibi drink too much again?” Dazai groans.
Chuuya, startled by their beauty, stares into the drowsy brown of his partner’s—ex-partner’s—eyes. Dazai passes him a groggy smile, then hugs him so tight, he starts bitching about suffocating.
“Chuuya’s too small to need air!”
With a punch to Dazai’s stomach that isn’t nearly as hard as he could make it, Chuuya is free again, and Dazai is sputtering. Without a word, he sits up and rolls out of bed. “Look alive, mackerel! I know that’s fucking hard for you given your desire to die, but we’re getting orders shortly.”
“Can we at least eat something for the hangover?”
Chuuya sighs and looks through the room service menu. When he knows what he wants, he tosses it to Dazai. “Pick what you want.”
“Chuuya.”
“Huh?” he demands, whipping to his still very much ex-partner despite his earlier slip up.
“I said,” Dazai states, crawling over to him. Dazai’s hand settles on his thigh, warm and familiar, pressing against the fabric. “I want Chuuya.”
Chuuya’s mind starts to get fuzzy as Dazai smooths his hair away from his air and blows into it. He holds back a content sigh of his own, clenches his fist until he worries he’ll tear the mattress with “For the Tainted Sorrow,” but Dazai’s nose lands against his temple, nullifying his ability before it can become an issue.
Out of nowhere, Dazai purrs an addition to his earlier statement. “Of course…”
Chuuya’s eyes sink shut.
“I was joking.”
They snap open, and he aims a punch at Dazai’s stupid fucking face. The only punch he lands, though, hits air.
With a cackle, Dazai flops onto his back and kicks his feet like the fucking child he is. Eye twitching, Chuuya throws the menu at him. “Just fucking pick something, asshole. I’m hungry.”
When Dazai does, Chuuya calls the front desk to place the order, demands that Dazai open the door if the food gets there before he’s out, and retreats into the shower. Beneath the warm water, he encounters a realization that makes him want to put his head through the tile. Fuck. When Dazai said he wanted me, I… He can see his cock hardening a little as memories of their previous teenage trysts dance through his head. Gritting his teeth, he turns the water all the way to cold.
But that doesn’t erase the realization that, despite all his prior emphasis on the ex in ex-partner, he wants Dazai, too.
Chuuya could do three things with this realization: he could throw it away, he could pretend it didn’t happen, or he could act on it. But before he makes that choice, he needs to know if Dazai is joking.
When he emerges from his shower, teeth chattering, Dazai is still in his bed, yukata hanging open to expose his bandaged chest, humming that same stupid song about a double suicide. “Chuuya, you look cold. Did I get you going earlier?”
Chuuya, with no preamble, unties his yukata and throws it on the floor, facing Dazai with no shame of his bare body. Dazai’s smile fades. His brow arches.
“Why are you showing me something so lewd, Chuuya?”
“You said you wanted me.”
“I was kidding.”
“I don’t think you were.” Chuuya sets his hands on his hips, hoping his cock stays soft long enough to make a point. The fact that Dazai is staring at him with a Port Mafia wickedness in his smile doesn’t help. Wordlessly, Dazai sits up and paces towards him. They’re so close, Dazai could reach out and grab him, and he’d probably lose his damn composure, shove the moronic suicidal bean pole into the sheets, take what he wants if he finds Dazai is more genuine than he lets on…
Instead of somewhere more intimate, though, Dazai touches a scar just beneath Chuuya’s ribs. “This one’s new,” he observes, smoothing this thumb back and forth over the mark. “What was it, Chuuya?”
“A knife,” he retorts. “Just like the one you stuck in me when we were fifteen.”
“It wasn’t long before I was sticking other things in you.”
Chuuya still can’t believe he let Dazai top the first time they had sex fully. He feels Dazai’s fingers drop to caress the knife scar he put there.
“I was joking,” Dazai says again.
“I fucking doubt that.”
“You can clearly see I’m not pitching a tent from looking at you.” He gestures to his groin.
Chuuya, after an intense moment of staring, announces, “Yet.”
“Huh?”
Chuuya steps further into Dazai’s space. “You aren’t pitching a tent yet, asshole.” Dazai’s eyes are so close now, Chuuya can see the different warm shades filling them: the brown, the gold, the stain of port mafia red that really only comes out when Dazai calls on his demon prodigy side. He wonders if Dazai can see the same dimensions in his own: the three or four shades of brilliant blue, the faint traces of cool gray, completely submerged by the other colors…
Dazai’s hand winds up holding his jaw. Not hard enough to hurt. Just firmly enough to steady it. Then, he starts to lean forward. I fucking knew it, he thinks, holding back his triumphant smirk to savor—
There’s a knock at the door. Chuuya’s eyes open fully. Dazai, smiling, brushes past him. Biting back a growl, he picks up his discarded yukata.
On second thought, he won’t put it on. Maybe he’ll let whoever has brought their meal get a good look at him. Nothing fires Dazai up like jealousy, after all. Tempering his devious plans, he starts slipping it over his shoulders as soon as the host enters. Tossing a coy glance over his shoulder, he ties the belt, watching for any signs that the person carrying their meal isn’t about to drop it. The server definitely jolts to a stop, but once Chuuya covers up, they proceed, setting the tray down on the desk with a bow.
“My most sincere apologies for interrupting.”
Chuuya glances at Dazai to see if his ploy has worked. Sure enough, Dazai’s smile cuts him from the doorway.
“Please call the front desk if you need anything else.”
Dazai follows the employee out with his glare, then sighs and walks towards Chuuya. “Showing off for a stranger like that… you’re trying my patience,” he retorts.
“What do you mean, shitty Dazai?” he asks, sitting down in the desk chair and lifting the silver cover from one of the trays. “I thought you were joking.”
As obviously displeased as Dazai is, he grabs his own food and sits down.
“There’s a note under your plate,” Chuuya retorts, chewing his bite.
“It’s probably a love letter for you,” Dazai fires back. “To the average-hung, ripped, redheaded guest in room 818…”
“That ain’t what you said about my dick last time we fu—”
But Dazai, ever the pest, continues. “Please come to the staff room on floor 12 at 7:00 pm for our special service.”
Chuuya doesn’t even bother saying he’d rather have Dazai. That would end Dazai’s obvious annoyance, after all. They eat in less than amicable silence, and Chuuya reads it when they’re done. By the second line, he’s already fuming.
“What’s wrong, now, chibi?”
“Fucking read this and tell me what fucking part of this makes any fucking sense at fucking all.”
Dazai takes the note from him and skims it. “I don’t know what you’re upset about.”
“A reception?” he demands. “The target is at a fucking reception? And we’re supposed to pretend we’re married?”
Dazai hums and studies the paper. “It says here our attire will be delivered in thirty minutes, along with a formal invitation. For the evening, we’re Tsushima Shuuji and his loving partner, Kashimura Chuuya.”
“Couldn’t I have a full fucking pseudonym? How many fucking Chuuyas are there?”
Dazai, snickering, says, “They changed the kanji at least. Look. ‘Chuu’ as in loyalty and devotion, ‘ya’ as in increasingly.” With a smirk, Dazai says, “A loyal name for a loyal dog.”
“Fuck you!”
“Oh, no, chibi…” Dazai sets a finger under his chin. “If anyone’s fucking anything, it’s going to be me fucking you.”
“What happened to joking?”
“There’s more fun in it for me if I’m caught in a lie for once.” Dazai leans forward a little. “How about we make things more interesting?”
“How?” Chuuya asks.
Dazai smooths Chuuya’s yukata off of one arm, his touch so gentle, Chuuya shivers. “After we’re done at the reception… after we have the information we need, that is…” Dazai smiles. “We see who can outlast who.”
“A fight?”
“Of sorts,” Dazai concedes.
Chuuya lips his lips without meaning to. Dazai’s are still so close, he could probably lick them if he tried.
“It’s more… a gamble, one where we try to make each other come. If I win, you let me fuck you.”
“And if I win?”
“You’re not going to win, Chuuya,” Dazai purrs. “You never do.”
“If I win,” Chuuya mumbles, bringing Dazai’s hand to his mouth and lapping at the pad of his thumb. “Then I get to fuck you.”
“I can agree to that,” Dazai says. “But I guarantee you, you’ll be at your limit in three minutes from the things I plan to do to you.”
“Want to bet?” Chuuya grins. “Your stamina’s shit.”
“At least it’s not short like the rest of me.”
“My stamina is fucking fine,” Chuuya growls, watching Dazai circle the room, his keycard between his fingers. He hears the door open. “And I ain’t average, asshole! My dick’s practically the same size as yours!”
The door slams, and Chuuya drops into the chair, holding back his delighted laughter. He knows Dazai will spend most of the afternoon when they’re not solidifying their bedroom eyes and affectionate looks plotting.
“You fucking plot, you crafty bastard,” Chuuya says to his room. “You you run those rusty fucking mackerel mental gears of yours. It won’t do you any good.”
Chuuya doesn't need a plan to undo Dazai. He already knows exactly what he’s going to do.
It takes Chuuya a little more practice to get the ruse right, and he still doesn’t get it as well as Dazai. They perfect their loving couple stare. Chuuya stops grumbling for Dazai not to touch him when Dazai grabs his hand or sprawls his fingers across Chuuya’s back. He’s in a devilishly handsome white suit with half of his hair slicked back. Chuuya dresses in black with brown shoes and a red shirt, Dazai’s near-perfect opposite. Standing side-by-side, anyone else might argue they don’t fit together because of their difference in height or demeanor.
But everyone else can go fuck themselves. Chuuya knows they do. And he firmly believes Dazai does, too.
Which is why, he tells himself as the elevator doors slide open and they pace towards the ballroom. Dazai’s hand settles on his back as they approach the door, where Chuuya produces their invitation. When this is over, I’m going to dick him down so well, he’s going to be in another mental galaxy for at least a week.
Dazai takes the lead and introduces them to the individual being celebrated. Chuuya does his best to smile expectantly, but he’s half searching for the person who’s supposed to have their file. Everyone else looks exactly like they belong there, though. Chuuya hopes they look just as convincing.
“Chuuya, dear,” Dazai purrs.
Chuuya swallows his urge to punch the bastard.
“You’re spacing out a little.”
“Well,” Chuuya says, tempering his desired blow to a playful swat and putting the rest of his fury into the most convincing glowing smile he has ever given in his life. “You wore me out earlier, love.”
“My, my, you two seem happy.”
Dazai makes a show of peeling Chuuya’s left glove off and pressing the fake wedding band to his lips. “It’s hard to be anything but happy when I’m with Chuuya.”
You fucking lying bastard. Still, he holds back gritting his teeth and instead just smiles. He can think of all the times Dazai, riddled by his mental illness, has shown up on his doorstep to cry on his shoulder or get fucked senseless. Sometimes both. Sure, Chuuya has been miserable just as often, usually because of Arahabaki. But he never denies his moods like that.
“Shuuji, you’re shameless.” He almost says “Dazai” by mistake, but he catches himself at the last minute.
Dazai launches into a colorful story of how they first met. It winds up being so romantic, he thinks he has a cavity by the end. Or food poisoning. Way more romantic than getting dragged into the Port Mafia by a suicidal maniac covered in bandages.
They continue circling the room, drinking champagne, nibbling this or that. “I hope the appetizers are to your liking, Chuuya,” Dazai purrs in his ear.
“Why?” he asks. “Are you worried I’m going to be disappointed in the main course?”
“Far from it,” Dazai murmurs.
Chuuya feels Dazai’s hand slide a little lower down his back.
“In fact, I fully intend to make you beg for more.”
Chuuya grabs Dazai’s wrist and squeezes it hard enough to bruise. He listens to Dazai’s rapid repetition “ow,” which he continues until Chuuya stops squeezing. “Chuuya, such a brute,” he whines.
“Hands to yourself until after the reception, darling,” he answers, loosening his grip a little more and kissing Dazai’s bandaged wrist. He keeps his eyes on Dazai’s, just to see how he’ll react.
“Are you hungry, honey?”
“Absolutely famished, Shuuji.” He pulls Dazai’s hand to his face. “But I’ll make do with the appetizers for now if you promise me something better later.”
“Chuuya,” Dazai sighs, his face lighting up. “Is a sexy double suicide a good enough offer?”
“Only if the deaths are small ones, gorgeous,” he answers, letting go of Dazai’s wrist. “Your lapels are a little crooked. Let me fix them.”
“Chuuya, such a doting partner… what did I do to deserve you?”
Chuuya, flushing, fixes Dazai’s lapel. He’s pulling my leg, Chuuya thinks. Trying to rile me up with sweet talk.
But he finds himself unsure whether those words are as disingenuous as Chuuya first thinks. Because Dazai’s smile feels real. The gentle way he catches Chuuya’s hands feels real. All of this… the ring on his finger, the suits, the words… not all of it feels like a lie, but it doesn’t exactly all feel like the truth, either.
“Ah, Miwa-chan! Just the person I was looking for… it’s been so long…”
Chuuya watches Dazai recede with a woman whose deep green dress perfectly reflects his envy. He occupies a table and throws back another glass of champagne, half wishing it was Bordeaux while he glares at Dazai dancing with the woman. He doesn’t even know how Dazai knows her, but it’s obvious from how they talk and move that they’re not strangers. Before long, their slow dancing has caught the attention of most people in the room. Chuuya tries to focus on his food, tries to keep his eyes from stinging because he wishes it were him with Dazai instead of some woman.
The longer he watches, the more clearly a single thought emerges, one he wishes he could act on but can’t. It starts as a murmur that grows closer to an internal scream with each repetition. I need to get the hell out of here.
“Pardon me, sir.”
Chuuya looks up.
“You seem to need a moment.”
It takes all of his fucking will power not to spit in the man’s face.
But then, he says, “Please permit me to escort you to the restroom.”
An opportunity to get the hell out of here, he tells himself. How convenient…
They wind up in a deserted restroom just outside the ballroom where the reception is taking place. Without a word, the man unbuttons his double-breasted coat and slides two identical envelopes, both sealed, across the counter. Chuuya looks at it.
“Before you ask, yes, this is what you came for, and yes, your partner dancing with a woman was a ploy to draw most of the attention to him so I could make the delivery.”
Chuuya stares at him.
“Go back to your hotel room. I’ll tell everyone else you felt lightheaded from the alcohol. Once Dazai-san hears that, he will soon find a way to excuse himself.”
The envelope on the counter calls for his attention.
“Do not open them. Deliver them to your respective bosses. I understand you’re in a position of power, but the title of executive will not shield you from the truth inside of these.”
Chuuya takes them in silence. “You promise he’ll be safe?”
“Rest assured: no one here suspects a thing.”
Chuuya does what the man tells him: he returns to his room with the envelopes, tucks them away, and sprawls out on his bed, nursing his fury at seeing Dazai slow dance with another woman.
Eventually, there’s a knock on his door. He doesn’t answer it right away. Let the bastard rot in the hallway, he thinks. But the knock persists, and he eventually drags himself to the door to open it.
Dazai, with a satisfied smirk, says, “What’s your problem, Chuuya?”
“You fucking know what the problem is.”
Shrugging, Dazai says, “Maybe this should be your lesson not to dish it out if you can’t take it.”
Chuuya practically slams the door in Dazai’s face, but in the end, he says, “The guy told me you were just doing it to draw attention.”
“I was,” Dazai answers.
Chuuya swallows. “You said… a lot of things in there. I don’t know what was part of the ruse and what wasn’t.”
Dazai stares at him.
“I can’t do this with you if a ruse is all it is, Dazai. Maybe it was okay like that when we were younger, but I want something… more.”
“Chuuya, without my ability, I would likely be institutionalized, and you—”
He gives into his urge to slam the door. The last thing he wants to hear is Dazai rationalize how them fucking is okay somehow. That’s the fucking price I pay for being honest about my feelings. He lays back down on his bed, balling up as the pounding on his door continues. He ignores it. Eventually, it stops.
As soon as it does, the phone in his room rings. Chuuya picks it up and growls, “Fuck off.”
“Sir?”
“Ah.” He realizes it’s the front desk.
“I’m calling to ensure the room is to your liking.”
“Yeah, it’s fine,” he sighs. “The view’s nice.”
“I’m happy to hear that, sir. If you need anything, please feel free to call the front desk.”
He hangs up. No sooner does he do so does his phone ring again. “Hello?”
“You know, chibi—”
“Fuck off, you fucking asshole.”
“Chuuya, can I talk for a minute without you interrupting? It’s kind of rude, and I have a lot to say to you.”
“You damn well should’ve fucking thought of that before—”
“Let’s start with the thing you’re obviously upset about: I was going to offer to slow dance with you in your room while we waited for dinner to arrive, but Chuuya’s so rude, he slammed the door in my face…”
“Stop fucking around!” Chuuya snaps. “I get this is a fucking game to you, asshole, but I really fucking care about you, so if it’s all the same—”
“I’m not fooling around, Chuuya. I’m being serious.”
“Well, that’s a fucking first. Prove it.”
The other end of the line goes silent for longer than it should. “Can I finish talking first? I don’t want Chuuya to kick the door down when I come back.”
Chuuya knows full well he shouldn’t listen to Dazai’s nonsense any longer than he already has. But that’s the thing about love: this nonsense, while definitely nonsense, feels important somehow. Chuuya recognizes that.
“The things I said to you earlier… not the sexual things, the soft ones…”
Chuuya covers his eyes with his hand.
“I meant them.”
His breath hitches. “You fucking bastard. Quit lying to me.”
“I’m not lying, Chuuya.” After another long sigh, Dazai says, “I’m in a better place now, but I hate that to be there, I have to miss us.”
“You were the one who fucking left.”
“I didn’t leave for me,” he says. “I left because of a parting gift someone left me.”
Chuuya exhales.
“Let me make it up to you tonight, Chuuya.”
“How do you plan to do that?” he asks, unable to curb his curiosity.
“For starters, I’m taking you to the hotel restaurant. And we’re going to gorge ourselves on steak and seafood on Mori’s dime. We can share a nice bottle of red wine, but I want to make sure we don’t get drunk.”
“Then?”
“Then I’m taking you back up to my room, and if you want, I’ll slow dance with you.”
Chuuya pinches his nose.
“After that, we sober up a little, drink some water, watch something stupid on the TV…” Dazai’s voice trails off. “Then, if you want to—only if you want to—we can test that bet we made earlier.”
“If not?”
“Then I’ll just hold you until you fall asleep like you held me last night.”
With a scoff, Chuuya says, “That sounds just like the date I told you I wanted to go on when we were seventeen.”
“It is.”
“Dazai, you fucking laughed in my face.”
“I was a different person back then.”
“It fucking hurt.”
“I know.” Another pause. “It… kind of hurt me, too. To laugh at something some part of me wanted, too.”
Chuuya rubs his face with his hand.
“I want to take you, Chuuya. And not just because I want in your pants.”
“How romantic,” Chuuya retorts, rolling his eyes. “You suck at this.”
“Chuuya.” It’s a whine. “I’m trying so hard for you…”
Chuuya bites back his groan.
“But if you’re okay with me messing up a few more times, I’ll keep trying.”
“Go on,” Chuuya retorts. “I’m waiting.”
Dazai clears his throat. Chuuya waits to hear the next words that roll off of his silver tongue. It winds up being, “Chuuya, if I’m not fed in five minutes, I’m going to waste away…”
“In what fucking sense, mackerel?”
“Both?”
Chuuya folds his arms.
“Food always tastes better when you eat it with someone you’re hoping to fuck after.”
“You’re not any closer.”
With a sound that Chuuya thinks is a choke, Dazai says, “Chuuya, do me the honor of taking you out before you take me in.”
“Before you take me in, you mean?”
Dazai sighs. “What do you say? Does it sound alright? The date, that is.”
Letting out a hum of thought, Chuuya answers, “It sounds okay.”
“Okay? It’s exactly what you wanted!”
“Yeah, when I was seventeen.”
“Chuuya… so mean…” With a long sigh, Dazai says, “What more can I give you?”
Your heart, Chuuya almost says. Instead, he rises and says, “Give me five minutes, and I’ll go. There’s just one other thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Dessert. Room service.”
“Yours or mine?”
“You pick.”
“Mine, then.”
Chuuya can hear the smile.
“You’d better be prepared for me to knock you off your feet.”
“Literally or figuratively?”
“Yes,” Dazai answers.
The line disconnects. Chuuya, with another long sigh, makes sure no signs of being upset remain. His eyes are a little red. He hopes Dazai doesn’t look at them too closely, a hope instantly dashed when he answers Dazai’s knock on his door and finds himself crushed in a hug.
“Chuuya… I’m sorry… please forgive me…”
“Can’t… breathe…” he chokes.
“Chuuya doesn’t need air! He just needs wine, cursing, and my magnificent di—”
“Dinner,” Chuuya snaps, pushing Dazai back and straightening his clothes. “Dinner,” he says again. “Then, we dance. Then, we eat dessert and talk about it.”
Dazai nods.
“Now quit fucking pouting and hug me again.”
This time, when he’s crushed in Dazai’s arms, he doesn’t utter a single complaint. They’ve had joint missions since Dazai’s re-emergence as a member of the Armed Detective Agency. But it’s never been overnight. They haven’t had opportunities to revisit what they were. He hasn’t been crushed in Dazai’s arms or tempted by the promise of sex. He never thought that promise would be accompanied by—
“Please tell me the date isn’t just a bribe.” Out of nowhere, Dazai pulls back and studies him.
“I don’t know what it is, Chuuya.”
He blinks as Dazai’s hands press against his face.
“But I know it’s not a bribe.”
He’s an idiot for going. He knows he is. Because what Dazai said could easily be a lie. But it could just as easily be the truth, considering how Dazai looked at him when he said it. A lie would be louder. This is gentle enough to make him ache for something he never expected to have.
“Chuuya…”
“I’m fucking hungry.”
“We could skip dinner—”
“Fuck, no.” Chuuya wraps his hands around Dazai’s lists and pulls them down. “I want to see you put in some effort for once. But don’t you worry your pretty little head, dear.” He smirks at how Dazai blinks like he’s startled to hear the endearment outside of the ruse. “I’ll make it up to you later and then some.”
The hotel restaurant is probably a risk considering they were at a reception as someone else not more than an hour ago, so in the elevator, they decide to carry the ruse a little longer. “But,” Chuuya says, hugging Dazai’s arm. “If we’re on a date, we’re on it as ourselves. Got it?”
“You should still call me Shuuji.”
“Only if you still call me Chuuya.”
“I already call you Chuuya,” Dazai retorts. “Chuuya’s so stupid… he forgot his name and I’m not even fucking him ye—”
Chuuya shuts him up by kissing his hand. “Come on, Shuuji,” he insists. “I’m feeling better, but I’ll feel better still if I get to stare into your eyes the whole time I’m eating.”
The nice part about dinner is it’s only outwardly a ruse. Dazai can be more himself. So can Chuuya. He definitely feels Dazai’s foot tap his own beneath the table. Chuuya arches a brow, debates on smiling as he snaps something about not kicking him. But he’s way too smitten. The atmosphere has only amplified his feelings, the ones he tried to bury after Dazai blew up his car and left him, the ones he forgot about when Dazai completely disappeared, the ones that came back when Dazai turned up chained to a wall in the basement.
The ones he fought off in desperation and inanity.
As dinner progresses, Dazai’s fingers intertwine with Chuuya’s. Their hands part only to reach for their wine or their utensils. Otherwise, they’re tangled up just like they are in each other. The longing looks, the banter… unlike the reception earlier, this feels real in a way Chuuya doesn’t need to question.
When Chuuya is so full, he couldn’t eat another bite if he tried, Dazai mentions his prior wish for dessert. He finds the appetite when he has none as they return to the elevator after paying the bill.
Once back in Dazai’s room, he immediately orders room service. Chuuya studies the view. Outside, the city lights are just starting to come on. His reflection in glass shows a different Chuuya than he’s used to. However, if asked what about his reflection was different besides the color of his clothes, he would have a difficult time articulating it.
“Chuuya.”
The mackerel doesn’t sing song his name for once. Far from it. The call is gentle, genuine, and almost shy in its soft volume. He turns, and Dazai extends both a smile and his hand.
“I believe I promised you something. Before dessert arrives.”
They don’t need music to dance, but Dazai puts some on anyway. The dancing they’re doing doesn’t even match the song in mood or rhythm. Still, like with everything else they’ve done together, they find a way. Feeling Dazai’s hands slide lower down his back, Chuuya retorts, “No fucking cheating, mackerel.”
“What? I’m not allowed to cop a feel of the ass I’m going to be inside tonight?”
“Keep fucking telling yourself that.”
He still grins as Dazai’s hands slide past his beltline.
“You’re such an ass man.”
“You like it,” Dazai answers, smirking as he squeezes.
Chuuya has half a mind to yank Dazai down into a kiss, but that would interfere with his sweet tooth. As sweet as Dazai is being, there are very few things in the world he likes better than creme brulee. Before Dazai can rile him up too much, a knock on the door announces the arrival of their room service. Dazai has some kind of chocolate cake he also thought about ordering until he saw his personal favorite on the menu. There’s something gratifying about cracking the burnt sugar with his spoon.
“Chuuya, look.” Dazai points to the window.
Chuuya is foolish enough to turn. He catches the glint of Dazai’s spoon from the corner of his eye and fends it off with his own. “You fucker. You know this is my fucking favorite.”
“Stingy,” he retorts.
“Apparently, you’re still a criminal even after leaving the Port Mafia.”
“How do you figure that?”
“Grand theft dessert?” Chuuya asks. “That ring a bell?”
“It’s only grand theft if I actually manage to steal.”
“Attempted grand theft, then.” Chuuya dips his spoon back into the ramekin and offers Dazai a bite. “Here. You’ve earned it.”
Dazai accepts the bite with a glowing smile. He even offers one in return unprompted, which Chuuya takes. It’s easily one of the best bites of anything he has ever had, and not just because Dazai offered it to him. One bite feels like three given how dense the cake is, and the way Dazai stares at him while he chews it with a genuine smile on his face…
“You’re working harder than usual to get in my pants tonight, Dazai.”
“I thought that’s what you wanted.”
In truth, Chuuya wants Dazai to desire more than sex. He thinks, based on how he’s being treated, that he does. But with Dazai, while he can be sure on some subjects, feelings were never one of those.
“Chuuya, you’re looking at me funny.”
Even if it’s tough to swallow his explanation, he does. It’s better that way, after all. “Maybe I just didn’t dance with you enough.”
“Then we’ll just have to do it some more once we finish dessert.”
“I thought we were fucking.”
“Really?” Dazak asks, tipping his head and raising his fork. “Because I thought we were just talking about fucking.”
Chuuya realizes his own words and stares into his ramekin, almost half-empty, knowing there’s not recovering from what he just said, half wondering if he even wants.
“Chuuya.” Dazai squeezes his knee. “Are you ashamed of it?”
He shakes his head.
“Reluctant?”
As always, Dazai hits the nail on the head. “For a lot of reasons,” he admits.
“Like what?”
“Like…” he pauses and grapples with his words. “What if it’s a mistake?”
“Then it’s one we’ll make together.”
“What if… I don’t know… we start and I change my mind?”
“Then we’ll stop.” Dazai says it like it’s the most simple solution in the world.
Chuuya, swallowing one more time, murmurs, “What if… it’s good?”
“Then we keep doing it. If you want to, that is.”
Out of nowhere, he finds himself chuckling. “Well, well, well… looks like someone finally grew up.”
“And looks like someone else didn’t, at least not in terms of height.” He feels Dazai’s hand on top of his head as if measuring him and fends the playful touch away with a fork.
“Is that the best you’ve got?”
With a snicker, Dazai drives his fork directly into Chuuya’s food. “Finish your dinner, Chuuya, or do you want me to feed you the rest?”
“You don’t need to spoil me that much,”
“It’s not about needing to, Chuuya.”
Dazai’s fingers trail along his face while he chews a bite, and he looks up.
“It’s about wanting to.”
No doubt about it: Chuuya feels surer of Dazai’s intentions now. He’s good at acting, true, but whatever he feels for Chuuya isn’t something he can fake.
“Come on. Dance with me.”
When their dessert dishes are empty, Dazai pulls him back into their graceful, slow movement around the empty bits of the hotel room. Quarters are tight. He wishes he could spin with Dazai the way Dazai spun that woman earlier, wishes he could dance on air while Dazai danced with him even if No Longer Human makes it impossible.
But for now, he’ll make do with winding around the narrow space of Dazai’s hotel room with the city lights as his audience.