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“Isn’t it kind of nice?” Dazai asks his companion as he savors his fifth kani sushi in a row. “I’m becoming more and more popular~!”
“Yeah, gangs are practically lining up to kill you,” Chuuya agrees, his seat across his employer as he partakes in the fresh sashimi.
The only reason why he’s here, babysitting Dazai outside of their agreed work hours is that if the enemies end up striking Dazai down during dinner, it might destroy this shop and it’s one of Chuuya’s favorite restaurants in the city.
“Isn’t that nice~?”
“Whatever.”
Chuuya’s never drunk enough to deal with this asshole of a bastard, but he does have enough ethics to refrain from drinking on the job. He’d like to be in top condition in order to protect this restaurant from Dazai’s assassins, after all.
“This isn’t good, Chuuya,” the other says so seriously that Chuuya’s body goes into high alert in milliseconds.
“What is?” He sneaks his left hand towards his holster, ready to throw the spare gun he has towards his charge.
Dazai complains a lot about carrying weapons on his person, claiming that with the amount of money he’s paying Chuuya - a grand total of ¥1000 per week - he shouldn’t have to bother with defense and all.
Chuuya has very strong feelings about the amount of money his babysitting service is getting, but he also has very strong pride in his skills to know that yes, he’s sufficient on his own.
That doesn’t mean he wants to hear Dazai whine about being in a pinch and whine even more about getting rescued, so he keeps a spare gun for the other. It never hurts to be prepared for emergencies, even if the entire city crawls under this man’s whims and information network.
“...You’re being so serious that it’s gross.”
Chuuya throws an empty bowl towards Dazai’s face, grunting when the other’s hands deftly block the attack. He should have known that the other’s just full of nonsense, really.
“But really! Where’s the Chuuya who goes wild just at the sight of me?”
Chuuya sighs deeply, chews on his ootoro sushi before he responds. “First of all, I do not go wild.”
“That’s not what the newspapers say~”
“I don’t get covered by newspapers, fucker.” The group he belongs to is very careful and very particular about having one of their own captured by any sort of mass media, after all.
“Well, I say newspapers, but it’s actually just one publication here,” Dazai says merrily, not even bothering to wipe his hands properly as he goes for his phone, swiping this way and that before he shows a screen to Chuuya.
A bunch of text in unfamiliar alphabet - Russian? - fills up the phone screen, but he doesn’t need to understand the words when there’s a blurry snapshot of his profile, his hat and curly hair obvious to his own eyes.
This doesn’t mean that the police has enough to go by, but it’s still fucking dangerous.
“How the hell did they get a picture of me,” Chuuya doesn’t snatch the phone from Dazai’s hands - because Dazai’s already pulling away by the time he forms that instinct.
“Of course, it’s thanks to me~?”
“It’s you, you jerk?!”
“Hey, would you rather that there’s someone else aside from me who’s unfortunate enough to have your picture?”
Chuuya places his left hand to his temples, futilely hoping to rub the headache away. “I’d prefer if nobody had my picture, damn it.”
“But then again, how can I hire hitmen to take you out if I don’t have a reference photo?”
“Ha! As if lousy hitmen can take me on,” Chuuya snorts as he imagines Dazai holding a press conference to discuss him and his abilities. The only reason why his group had allowed him on a sort of holiday, despite particularly stringent operations, is because he is the best. Nothing short of a miracle can take him on, not if they fight fair and square. “And damn it, delete my photos!”
“I can’t! I’m already planning to print more so I can redecorate my dartboard!”
“Fuck you.”
“Haha, now that’s more like it!” Dazai practically squeals in delight as he claps enthusiastically. “You just don’t look normal when you don’t have those frown lines~”
“You’re such a piece of shit.”
“I’m a ‘piece of shit’ that you like~”
“Don’t say such disgusting things!”
“Ah, I didn’t know you were so sensitive! That’s very gross of you, Chuuya!”
“Someone like you don’t have the right to call others ‘gross’, bastard!”
“Growing up knowing you is all the clearance I need to call you names, you know?”
“Don’t sound so fucking proud!” The huge platter they’ve ordered is already finished, because Chuuya’s appetite becomes unnaturally hungry when he’s bickering with Dazai. “And you can wipe that shitty smirk on your face!”
“Hey, I’ll have you know that this smirk is something all the ladies love~”
“Is that so?” Chuuya’s downing a glass of water, eyes on the clock on the far corner of the booth they’re in. It’s been an hour since they’ve entered - that should be enough time for assassins to intrude inside the restaurant and set up their tools. Now, whether those assassins are here to kill Dazai, Chuuya or both... “That why Yosano kicked your ass last week?”
“Yosano-chan’s always like that to everyone~ That’s how she shows her love~”
“By attempting amputation?”
“See, if she didn’t like me, she would have cut off my arm seriously!”
“She should have gone through it,” Chuuya murmurs with a laugh, imagining a one-armed Dazai attempting to lead a normal life.
It’s funny at first, because there’s a sudden lack of purposeful grace in the other’s imagined movements, but then the Dazai in his imagination lets out very realistic whines about needing Chuuya to help him wear his clothes or feed him food and arghhhhh even in imagination, the other doesn’t give him peace.
“You imagined giving the poor me a helping hand, didn’t you?”
Chuuya harrumphs and ignores the stupid leer on the other’s stupid face. “I imagined hitting you with your severed arm. It was nice.”
“Such language, Chuuya!” Dazai fakes a gasp, showing off his two hands for maximum annoyance. “You don’t say the word ‘nice’!”
“I’ll say whatever the fuck I want to say.”
“Then can you say, ‘Dazai-sama is wonderful’?”
“Over your dead body.”
“Come on, Chuuya, it’s a fairly small sentence. It’s ‘Dazai-sama is’—”
“I heard what you said and I’m ignoring it.”
“Aren’t you just going deaf?”
“I’m not.”
“You sure? I heard drunkards start to lose their five senses early, you know?”
“I’m not a drunkard,” Chuuya protests and ignores the voice in his head that tells him that yeah, he kind of is, what with his wine collection. “I just love appreciating wine.”
“Which only drunkards do.”
“Shut the hell up!”
“You’re the one who’s shouting~”
“Because you’re fucking annoying!”
“Chuuya, this is why they think something’s going on between us. If you can’t keep your voice down when we’re together, they’re gonna think—”
“Finish that sentence and I’m shooting you in the mouth.”
“Sounds kinky,” Dazai comments offhandedly, eyes glinting in a way that makes shivers roll in Chuuya’s stomach.
It’s definitely not the food, because the change in atmosphere is hardly palpable - but people like Chuuya has survived on base instincts that are just never wrong. And Dazai might be the lowest of the low of all bastards, but his ability to sense danger is second to none.
There’s only one moment, when Chuuya’s breath escapes his lips as a sigh, just as Dazai’s smile widens by a centimeter, lips tilted up in amusement.
The paper sliding door to their private booth flies towards their table from the force of gunshots, military-grade and definitely illegally imported from the sound of the rapid rat-tat-tat of bullets and klink-klink-klink of metal shells. Chuuya has flips the table over, thank goodness they already finished their food or else Chuuya would feel bad about a wasted meal, and tugs Dazai behind the wooden makeshift shield.
The owners of this restaurant only want the best materials for their shop - vegetables fertilized by the freshest fertilizer supplied exclusively by the mafia, furniture coated with state-of-the-art experimental bulletproof nanomachine-paint - so Chuuya’s confident that the table will hold out against the barrage of bullets.
Judging from the tap-tap-tap of footsteps milling around, tonight’s assassins are hoping to take Dazai out with sheer numbers. It’s the type of group that Chuuya dislikes, because there’s no challenge or thrill in just wiping out faceless goons lured into giving their lives up in mass recruitment efforts and chump change. These are probably people desperate for even the slightest trickle of money and the thought of such fervent desperation is enough to make him scowl.
“I wonder how it feels to be hit by a stray bullet~”
“You wanna try now?” Chuuya asks, hands poised to push Dazai away from the cover and into the line of fire.
The tatami linings of the walls are getting torn down, but the bullets can’t pierce through the real, solid wall underneath.
Fukuzawa-san really didn’t spare any expense in making this restaurant of his a damn fortress and Chuuya likes that kind of permanence it shows off.
“Nah, if I get hurt, then Chuuya will be sad, so maybe not today?”
“I’ll be ecstatic,” Chuuya corrects the other’s silly misconception with a swat to the other’s head.
He waits for the click of the guns being emptied of the bullets and once he does hear that, he flies out of their hiding place, both of his hands already with their respective weapons: a dagger on his right and a gun on his left. The thirty or so men meet their end not even five minutes after Chuuya retaliates in the attack.
It’s all very boring.
He didn’t even get a chance to practice his newly-acquired martial arts skills on them.
“Yay, Chuuya’s so strong~” Dazai says with very little inflection, his eyes shining with bloodlust that makes Chuuya shiver. Dazai’s eyes are staring at him appraisingly, going up and down his body and tracing the flecks of blood here and there from his rampage. “You’re my hero~♥”
“Fuckin’ disgusting,” Chuuya shakes his head as he reigns in the desire to strangle his stingy employer.
“I should give you your reward later,” Dazai promises with a dark voice, the stupidly fake happy-go-lucky expression in his face replaced by something sinister that Chuuya can’t help but detest and crave all the more.
Chuuya stares right back, fingers twitching with the desire to wrap his hands around that slim, pale neck and just squeeze until everything ends. Their connection has been forged ever since their youth and it’s not something that he can ever run away from.
“...I’d prefer if you just give me my salary.”
“Haha, patience is a virtue!”
“You haven’t paid me for a goddamn year.”
And it’s nothing short of a miracle really, how the two of them continue to co-exist in this world.
Chuuya, the man whose physical limits have been absent to the point of him gaining superhuman strength.
Dazai, the man whose brain power goes so deep that it dislocated his heart.
Chuuya, the monster whose lack of control over his power caused him to kill his own family in a slaughter.
Dazai, the demon whose whims brought him to keep Chuuya outside the reach of this country’s laws.
“...And yet you’re still with me,” Dazai remarks cheekily, his hands reaching out to tug Chuuya by the elbow, like a master and his loyal bodyguard.
And there’s really nothing Chuuya can say to that.
Aside from agreeing, that is.
“...And yet I’m still with you.”