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He’s leaving the mafia.
No one knows this, of course, because it’s something he’s just decided himself, right now, staring into his sake cup, thinking hard about life.
And well, there’s not much to a life that’s forced to stay in the dark, that has no choice in it’s future, is just a good little soldier following orders.
So he’s leaving, he’s decided, taking a drink from his cup. It won’t be easy, but it is possible, and that’s enough for him to go on for right now. Because right now, there’s nothing in his life that he feels any particular way about, good or bad.
No, that’s a lie. There is one thing. One person.
His partner is seated beside him at the bar, face somber, staring into his glass of wine. They’ve just come back from a completed mission, but it never feels like a success when someone dies.
And Dazai gave up long ago on emotions and feelings of camaraderie because there is no such thing in their profession. Mori can pretend all he wants that they’re one big happy family, but the truth is that the put the ‘fun’ in fucking dysfunctional and it’s fear that binds them all together, makes them obedient, not genuine affection. Dazai knows this, but Chuuya, his angry, emotional, beautiful partner doesn’t.
Chuuya hates losing men, hates it more than he will ever let anyone see, so he’ll drown his sorrow in booze and swears and dark dark thoughts that Dazai is all too familiar with. They’ve both grown up in the mafia, both have killed in cold blood, and yet Chuuya seems incapable of turning off his emotions which is something that only leads to pain for a trained killer.
Dazai thinks that it’s probably because of this that Chuuya is the one person he’s willing to break his own rules for and let close.
Sadness is not a good look on Chuuya however, and Dazai doesn’t want to think about the future anymore, so he stands abruptly, abandoning his drink, and tilts his head towards the middle of the bar where crowds of people have lost themselves to the music trickling through the speakers.
Chuuya follows him (he always follows him, always, always) out onto the floor of the bar, where the lights have just dimmed and a slower song has come on. He stops out in the middle of the dance floor and turns to his partner with an easy grin on his face. Chuuya stares at him a moment, face distrustful and opens his mouth to speak. Dazai doesn’t let him, because speaking won’t lead to anything he wants to talk about right now.
He grabs his partners arm and pulls him forward, so that Dazai can slip one arm around his waist, hand splayed across his partner’s hip, the other coming to rest on Chuuya’s shoulder, trapping him against Dazai. Chuuya doesn’t fight it. Instead, he wraps his arms around Dazai’s neck in return and takes one step back, blue eyes bright in the darkness of the bar.
Dazai lets him lead their dance for only a few steps before he takes control. Chuuya lets him without a fuss, and Dazai doesn’t dwell on the other’s submission, can’t because that may actually break him and he’s come too far in life to forfeit now. Instead, he leans down so that his face is pressed lightly on top of Chuuya’s hat (small, his partner is so so small, such a good fit in his arms). The felt material is scratchy against Dazai’s cheek and there’s a faint trace of gunpowder clinging to it, but he ignores it in favor of pulling Chuuya closer to him.
In response, Chuuya digs his fingers into Dazai’s shoulders: not as a warning but as a sign of thanks and affection. It’s not unusual for the two of them to go out drinking after an assignment, especially one that’s ended in some sort of death, and Chuuya knows him well enough by now to understand Dazai’s unique brand of comfort. Ordinarily, Chuuya would accuse Dazai of trying to distract him, of acting like an idiot, but tonight it’s clear he wants to be distracted, that his partner is hurting and is seeking solace in Dazai’s arms.
Because they are the infamous Double Black, that can bring rival groups to their knees in a single night, and the two of them enough blood on their hands to drown in a river of it but they’re also 22 years young and human and only they seem to realize this. They learned long ago that just between them, nothing else has to exist-there is no mafia, no missions, no Boss monitoring their every move, no unspoken etiquette to follow, or wavering loyalties to deal with. So they take these moments, these quiet moments in shoddy bars on the outskirts of town to be anyone and anything other than Dazai Osamu and Nakahara Chuuya of the Port Mafia.
So they sway side to side, feet matching each other step for step, breaths synching up and eyes locked on each other. Dazai’s hand moves from Chuuya’s shoulder down to his other hip; his thumbs rub circles into the jut of his hips, a subconscious sign of possession, of pain, of love. They turn and turn and turn, and Dazai lets the sensation sweep him up, let’s himself focus only on Chuuya, let’s himself forget about any and everything. He’s drowning in the music, in the shared breaths he and Chuuya have, in the warmth of Chuuya’s hands pressing at his neck and for the first time in forever, he prays to any deity that may be listening to slow the clock down, to not let the dance end, because reality is so much crueler than this simple back and forth between him and his partner.
And he knows Chuuya can tell something is wrong with him, knows the redhead desperately wants to ask him what’s wrong, but he won’t. Not because he thinks Dazai won’t tell him (would he tell him? Could he confide in Chuuya his plans of betrayal? Could he sway the other to join him?) but because he knows Dazai hates people prying into his business. The redhead moves yet another step closer to Dazai and rests his head against Dazai’s chest as the song begins to fade out around them. He can hear Chuuya sigh softly, and his heart clenches.
One day, this won’t exist anymore. One day, Chuuya won’t be content to lie in his arms, warm and fragile, won’t be there to offer him silent comfort, won’t look at him with a small, genuine smile that only he’s allowed to see and Dazai can’t think about that, he can’t, he can’t, he can’t.
Instead, he lifts one hand to knock Chuuya’s hat off of his head; it rolls down his back, hits the floor and bounces out of sight. Chuuya pulls back, ready to protest, only to be silenced Dazai pressing a kiss onto his nose, letting their foreheads come together. His partner flushes, fingers digging into Dazai’s back again, before he surges forward and catches Dazai’s lips with his own.
Vaguely, Dazai is aware of people shouting and whistling around them, but they don’t matter. Chuuya has his undivided attention right now, and he couldn’t give a damn about anything else, up to and including Mori and his killer ambitions. Right now, Chuuya is in his arms and his lips are on his own, and he tastes of cheap wine and cinnamon and he’s perfect.
The music is loud in Dazai’s ears, merging with the rush of blood he can feel and the thrumming of his own heart and it’s all too much and not enough. His hands tighten on Chuuya’s waist and he lifts his partner, spinning him in the air, and Chuuya lets out a breathless huff of laughter that’s tinged with sadness and could very well be hiding a sob, and then they’re kissing again, with far more urgency than before and no, this is nowhere near enough for either of them.
Dazai leads and Chuuya follows (always, always, always) and somehow the two of them make it back to the hotel they had been staying at, make it to their room, lock the door behind them.
They fall into bed with a practiced ease between them.
It’s not the first time this has happened (but it may be the last whispers the little voice in Dazai’s mind) and there is no awkwardness, no fumbling between them, just an animalistic sort of desperation as the two of them rapidly shed their clothes and heated skin meets.
The only important thing is Chuuya’s name on his lips, Chuuya’s arms around his waist nails digging into his back, Chuuya’s voice crying out quietly, Chuuya, Chuuya, Chuuya-
When they finish, they lie curled around one another, with Chuuya resting his head on Dazai’s chest and Dazai combing his fingers through the others hair. Dazai listens as Chuuya’s breathing evens out, as his partner goes limp against his body and the realization hits him that he’s running out of time.
There won’t be a happy ending to this. There can’t be a happy ending to this. He will leave and Chuuya will stay and one day they will meet again and there will be blood and hate and tears and death between them, not whispered words of affection, not warm brushes against one another, not drinks and laughs shared in secret awaying from prying eyes. He will harden his heart, as he has been trained to do and Chuuya will rage and sob and let hate consume him because this wasn’t supposed to happen, this isn’t how partners-friends-lovers treat each other.
And his brain just won’t stop running down and down the same paths he’s thought about a million and one times since he made the decision to leave the mafia. His chest hurts and he dreads the future, dreads the consequences of his actions, dreads the hate and pain Chuuya will go through, but he can see no other way out.
One of them will kill the other and there will be no happy ending, because this is the real world, and what has it ever done for them? But Dazai will do what has to be done, because he’s always been that way and he is a selfish, selfish man.
He falls asleep, twined around Chuuya, and pretends he won’t have to face what the morning will bring.