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When Kouyou takes Chuuya in, gives him a place to stay and food to eat, she warns him about the boy that is Dazai Osamu. “Be careful of him, love,” she whispers to him as he clings to her kimono and hides behind her. “He’ll do whatever it takes to survive,” she warns him. “Don’t give him anything that you treasure, lest you never get it back.” And Chuuya nods like he understands, but he doesn’t.
Chuuya and Dazai are assigned to work together, and the expectations for them are great. Dazai’s brilliance and cool detachment are a source of awe and fear in the Port Mafia, and Chuuya, with his exotic hair and eyes and chilling ability, has attracted his fair share of attention as well. Still, Kouyou’s warning echoes in his mind and he learns to work with Dazai but doesn’t trust him fully. They carve a name for themselves in blood and bodies and rise in the ranks.
Eventually, they are trusted enough to handle missions abroad, things far more serious than keeping local gangs afraid and in line. The situation works for the both of them; Dazai is happier when he’s out from under Mori’s thumb. He laughs more and frowns less, and his teasing is light-hearted and affectionate
Chuuya learns to love going on trips with his partner, who goes from being an intolerable ass to merely a pain in the ass when they’re abroad. He relaxes more, takes Dazai’s jokes more good naturedly, and even joins in on his partner’s crazier schemes on occasion. With every mile they travel, Kouyou’s warning seems like more and more of a farce.
The two of them see the world together.
Chuuya learns that he hates Russia in the winter time; he doesn’t like being cold, something he learned because Dazai’s body runs at sub-zero and Russia in the winter time is advanced coldness. Dazai seems unfazed by the weather. He skips along the streets as Chuuya shivers in a fur coat and boots behind him, like it isn’t -15° C outside.
They put down a weapons smuggler that afternoon, Chuuya’s teeth chattering the whole time, and by the evening they’re sitting on a fountain in Moscow, watching people pass by and drinking hot chocolate. Dazai takes one look at Chuuya, who is still violently shivering, and throws an arm around him. For once in his life, Dazai is warm, and Chuuya lets out a quiet sigh of relief. They stay like that for a long while, content to watch the world pass them by. Chuuya lets Dazai touch him freely after that, casual brushes of their shoulders or a hand tucking a stray lock of hair behind his ear.
On the other hand, Chuuya loves every moment of Brazil. He loves the beach, loves the sun and sand and could spend hours lounging on the shores of Ipanema. Dazai rolls his eyes but dutifully parks their towels under an umbrella, and the two lie on the sand listening to the waves crash on the shore, to the gulls screeching overhead, to the idle chatter of the people around them. When the sun starts to set in the sky, Dazai nudges Chuuya gently and he sighs. They pack up their things with Chuuya giving longing glances at the ocean, and head off to do the job they were sent here for.
The drug ring that has been cutting into the Port Mafia’s profit is wiped out in no time at all. Chuuya is ready to head back to their hotel for the night, but Dazai grabs his arm and stops him. Chuuya allows himself to be pulled, lets Dazai lead on silently. His partner brings him back to the sands of Ipanema and tilts his head in a unspoken offer. Chuuya smiles broadly and takes off for the water, shedding his clothes as he goes.
The ocean is much colder at night than it is during the day, but it’s silent and peaceful on the shores. Chuuya is five years old again, splashing through the waves and curling his toes in the sand. Dazai sits on the shore a little bit from him, watching his partner with warm eyes and a gentle smile on his face.
When they make it back to the room, Chuuya is exhausted and covered in sand and salt. He takes a quick shower and the collapses onto his bed, hair still dripping wet. There are footsteps on the floor, and the his bed dips again. Dazai drops a towel on top of Chuuya’s head, and then slender fingers press down on it, running it over his hair. Chuuya lets Dazai dry his hair, and when his partner reaches for a brush, makes no protest. Dazai is surprisingly gentle with the brush; he doesn’t tug to hard to work out the tangles, and Chuuya falls asleep to his partner running his hands through his hair.
Italy is by far his favorite place, however. They stay nearby a local vineyard, and Chuuya is convinced that he could die here and be at peace with the world. Dazai scoffs when he says as much and mumbles something under his breath about how Chuuya is a shitty alcoholic. A forgery ring falls in the early morning hours, and the two of them spend the rest of the day wandering around the Colosseum.
The stone steps leading up to the top ring are huge, and Chuuya has to cling to the rails so that he doesn’t trip down them. Dazai snickers and points out that one step is about half of Chuuya’s height, and then he’s clinging to the rails too as Chuuya shoves him. He’s so amused at the other floundering that he takes the next step too boldly and begins to topple forward; Dazai catches him at the bottom of the steps, face wrinkled in concern as his partner clings to his chest. That night, Chuuya lets Dazai choose the wine they’ll have with their dinner. It’s an unspoken thank you and the first hint of trust Chuuya has ever shown Dazai.
Both of them like Canada, though the plane ride there is long and hellish. Chuuya hates to sit still for extended periods of time; it makes him anxious, and he spends most of the flight fidgeting in his seat. By the time they land, he’s a ball of stress and Dazai takes one look at him and informs him flatly that they’re going to take a day off before they try to tackle their mission. Chuuya protests, but he’s so wound up he can’t get his words to work properly and Dazai drags him off.
They spend the day wandering about town, doing nothing in particular. Slowly, Chuuya’s body starts to relax and his fingers stop twitching. By the time he’s calmed down completely, it’s too late to do anything so they head to their hotel to check in. Their room, as it turns out, has only one bed in it.
Chuuya spends a few minutes with Dazai arguing about whose fault it is (it’s absolutely Dazai’s, he was the one to book the room) before throwing his hands up in defeat and getting into the bed. Dazai can sleep on the floor for all he cares.
Except it’s Dazai, and he never does anything that Chuuya thinks he will. The sheets are tugged down beside him and he turns, ready to protest, only to be silenced by Dazai crawling into bed next to him. His partner quirks an eyebrow at him, daring him to say something. Chuuya hesitates--and then turns back around. He wakes up the next morning, with Dazai’s arms around him, and it doesn't bother him much at all.
England is rainy and gloomy and Chuuya spends most of the trip looking like a very disgruntled cat that’s been forced into a tub. They’re there to do some recon, which is standard, but it’s still miserable to be constantly wet and cold.
Dazai gives him a small smile as he wrings his hat out violently, slapping it back onto his head. Chuuya glares at the taller male, daring him to say something. Instead, Dazai tilts his head, like he’s considering something. Then, in one fluid movement, he’s snatched Chuuya’s hat back off his head, holding it up in the air. Chuuya leaps for it with a hiss.
With a laugh, Dazai holds him back. The redhead opens his mouth in a snarl, ready to lay into his partner, when Dazai bends down and lowers his hat so it’s obscuring both of their faces. And then he’s kissing Chuuya behind his hat, lips warm and soft, and his free hand hooks around his partners shoulder to pull him closer. Chuuya lets him, steps closer into the embrace, throws his own hands around Dazai’s neck and kisses the other back with just as much passion.
And Kouyou’s warning lingers in his mind, but he ignores it.
*
“Is there anywhere you’d like to go?” Dazai asks him, as they lay outside sprawled on a blanket in Yokohama, staring up at the night sky. “Somewhere where we don’t have to worry about a mission, where it’s just the two of us?” Chuuya looks over at his partner, but Dazai’s eye is still fixed on the stars and there’s a far away look on his face. He mulls the question over in his mind, shifting closer to his partner.
“France,” he says quietly, and Dazai turns to face him. “I would like to go to France.”
His partner hums, processing that information. “Because you were born there?”
“Because I want you to see my home,” he admits, and Dazai props himself up on his elbows to stare down at Chuuya. He can feel his face turning red, but he meant what he said damn it, so he won’t take it back.
“I would be honored to see your home with you,” Dazai says softly, and Chuuya turns to bury his face into his partner’s chest.
“It’s decided, then,” he mumbles. By this point, Kouyou’s advice to him doesn’t matter; he’s already given Dazai everything.
*
*
On reflex, he pulls his knife from his coat, brandishing it before him. Dazai smiles. “It’s nice to see you too, Chuuya.” And there’s a strange look in his eyes, one that Chuuya is familiar with after having worked with Dazai for so long.
“What are you planning?” He asks bluntly, readjusting his grip on the knife.
“Something grand.” His old partner answers, and something in the way he says it gives Chuuya pause. “Will you trust me?”
Chuuya stops and considers the question. He thinks about Kouyou’s warning that’s stuck with him all these years, that he ignored before and lived to regret. But he also thinks about exotic places around the world, of shared drinks, of nights on the beach, of gentle hands in his hair and warm arms around him, of quiet breaths and huffs of laughter and of love and freedom.
He makes his choice then.
That night, reports reach the Armed Detective Agency and the Port Mafia that Nakahara Chuuya and Dazai Osamu fought and killed one another in the dark streets of Yokohama. By the time the respective sides arrive to investigate, the scene is coated in blood and broken debris, and all that’s left is Chuuya’s ripped up coat, some bandages that have gotten wrapped around lampposts and street signs and two bodies that are beyond recognition, but match their DNA.
*
It’s rather morbid, attending one’s own funeral, but Chuuya needs this, needs some sense of closure, needs the validation that the life he knew before is over and done with. He watches the ceremony concluded, and wishes that he felt something other than relief at leaving the people who have been his family for years. The only one he feels bad for is Kouyou nee-san, who is beautiful even with tears in her eyes.
“You know,” he says conversationally to the man who has shown up behind him. “Kouyou nee-san warned me about you when I was a little kid.” Chuuya turns around to smile at his partner, who is very much alive.
“Well,” Dazai says, grinning at him. “It’s not like Kouyou nee-san was wrong when she warned you about me. I do value myself over almost everyone else.” The way he says almost, the way he looks at Chuuya has the redheads heart skipping a beat. He pauses for a minute, grin widening. “She just wasn’t entirely right.”
Chuuya snorts and then walks forward to embrace his partner. Dazai’s arms wind around him in response, and the two of them stay like that for a while. Eventually, Dazai is the first to pull away, but only enough so that he can look down at Chuuya with a spark of mischief in his eyes.
“So,” he says casually. “France, right?”
*
It takes them two false passports, a chunk of their savings, and no small amount of subtlety, but they manage.
Marseille is a beautiful city, Chuuya thinks, accepting the crepe that Dazai offers him as he rejoins him on the park bench they’ve staked out. The two of them eat in silence, content to simply enjoy one another’s company after so long apart.
Sitting on a park bench with a dead man, the sun on his skin and the breeze in his hair, Chuuya thinks about the warning that Kouyou gave him as a child. He glances sideways at his partner, who is stretched out against the back of the bench, arms extended outwards and hips jutting forward. Impishly, Chuuya jabs his fingers into Dazai’s ribs while the other is vulnerable, in a spot he knows is sensitive.
With a yelp, Dazai jerks to the side--only to promptly fall off the bench and onto his ass. He looks so startled, so confused as to what just happened, that Chuuya can't’ help himself.
He bursts out laughing and he can’t stop himself. He doubles over, clutching his sides, and there are tears running down his face and he’s snorting for fucks sake, but he just can’t help himself. They are free, free of the Port Mafia, of the death that has surrounded them for so long and no one can tell them what to do anymore and he’s happy.
Chuuya bends over farther, still laughing, and his hat falls from his head. It flops onto the ground in front of him and his feet knock it under the bench in his mirth. That only makes him laugh harder, and he leans back against the bench to try to catch his breath.
“That is a dangerous amount of laughter,” Dazai informs him from his spot on the ground, but there’s a smile on his face and his eyes are shining.
“You-you look so fucking surprised!” Chuuya manages to get out, before he erupts into another bout of giggles. He cups his face in his hands and slumps over sideways onto the bench. “Oh my god, your face!” Chuuya takes a few deep breaths to steady himself; one hand moves up to his hair to brush it out of his face.
“Yes, yes, it was glorious I’m sure,” Dazai says, rolling his eyes. “Now would you kindly help me up?” He lifts both of his hands up to Chuuya, fingers curling in a grabby gesture.
The redhead wipes some tears from his face and stands up properly. “Yeah, yeah,” He says, and grabs Dazai’s hands.
He finds himself being tugged forward and, unprepared for it, he loses his balance and braces himself for a faceplant on the concrete. It never comes.
Dazai has leaned back and his arms are supporting Chuuya’s hips; he’s ended up on all fours, hovering over his partner, who looks rather pleased with himself. “Did you have a nice trip Chuuya?”
Chuuya could hit him for that terrible joke, he really could, but the joy in his chest is still bubbling out of him so he smiles warmly at the other instead. “You’re such an idiot,” he whispers, and Dazai’s returns his smile, a genuine one that makes his eyes crinkle and glow. “But you’re my idiot,” he says, leaning down to kiss Dazai.
They’ve traveled all around the world together, but Chuuya’s favorite place will always be by Dazai’s side.