home is where the heart is

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/9476237.

Rating: Mature
Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: M/M
Fandom: 文豪ストレイドッグス | Bungou Stray Dogs
Relationship: Dazai Osamu/Nakahara Chuuya (Bungou Stray Dogs), Akutagawa
Ryuunosuke/Nakajima Atsushi (Bungou Stray Dogs), Fukuzawa
Yukichi/Mori Ougai (Bungou Stray Dogs), Francis Scott Key
Fitzgerald/John Steinbeck (Bungou Stray Dogs), Fyodor
Dostoyevsky/Nakahara Chuuya (Bungou Stray Dogs), Minor or
Background Relationship(s)
Character: Dazai Osamu (Bungou Stray Dogs), Nakahara Chuuya (Bungou Stray
Dogs), Bungou Stray Dogs Ensemble
Additional Tags: Domestic Fluff, Slow Burn, Developing Relationship, Childhood Friends
to Mafia Partners to Enemies to Tense Allies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff
and Humor, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Angst with a Happy
Ending, oblivious to love, Mutual Pining, soukoku's unconventional
mating rituals
Language: English
Series: Part 31 of soukoku AUs, Part 1 of home
Collections: Will's Special Recommendations (also known as the GOAT), bungou
stray dogs, Bugalicous Library
Stats: Published: 2017-01-27 Completed: 2021-12-30 Words: 141,135
Chapters: 28/28

home is where the heart is

by setosdarkness

Summary

Chuuya tries to have a good, normal life. After all that shit that happened, everyone
deserves a nice, normal happily-ever-after, right?

[or: chuuya attempts to find his one true love by dating the entire bsd cast, as he fails to
realize that he's... lowkey married to dazai already]
[as of 12/30/21, this story is NOW COMPLETE]

[in Vietnamese!] / [NSFW CH27.5]

Notes

• [post-canon] [assumes my favorite post-canon HC of Fyodor succeeding to remove

Abilities from the world, but doesn’t end up killing Ability-users]
 • while the endgame is soukoku, the fic has a lot of chuuya interacting with a whole slew of
characters. i'm really, really curious about (a) how chuuya would interact with other
characters; (b) how the bsd cast would react to a world where abilities suddenly disappear.

• also, 2017 has started out crazily for me, but i'm... alive again. thank you for all the
messages as always!!! much appreciated ♥ ♥ ♥

See the end of the work for more notes

 Chapter 1
Chapter Summary

PSA to new readers: welcome to this fic & i hope you enjoy the ride!

chapters 1-21 have been written/posted around a year before Dead Apple/Fifteen (&
iirc, before gogol too)
(chapter 22 has been posted before English version of DA/full RAW of Fifteen came
out)
so any plot points that match the official soukoku backstory are coincidence only LOL

also, as is with the norm for me updating my older WIPs, i’ve decided to not edit the
older chapters to match my current writing style, so you might find it jarring to see
style changes over the fic… please consider it as my character development instead
wwwwwwwww

thanks again & happy reading!

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

☆☆☆

Thing is… Chuuya knows he’s good. He knows he’s dateable, he’s excellent boyfriend-material,
he’s a well-adjusted human being able to adjust to the world that now doesn’t have any Abilities
whatsoever.

He’s good.

He’s got a great body – well-maintained despite having had the power to literally bend gravity and
not have to lift a finger to do anything, because even during the time when For The Tainted Sorrow
answers his call in less than half-a-second, he’s distinguished himself in the ranks of the Port Mafia
as the best martial artist in the region… and that’s not something that’s achieved with a happy-go-
lucky strength training and a half-assed cardio regimen.

He’s got a well-cushioned bank account – he knows how to handle investments and he has
excellent budgeting skills, able to afford glass-window lofts that scream wealthy bachelor more
often than not, able to import customized Bentleys and Lamborghinis with hardly a flicker of his
hands signing on his checkbook, able to splurge on airflown crates of Romanee-Conti and
sometimes showing some local support with 35-year old Nikka Taketsuru Malt Whiskies.

He has excellent insurance coverage – especially on his car, he won’t make the same mistake
again – and he knows how to stride into a roomful of extravagance with the confidence of a model,
the tailor-fitted suit of a socialite, the fashionable hat of an artistic billionaire.

He never misses the opening night of Salome – if there’s a mission, it doesn’t matter because he
possesses great time management skills too – and he’s a patron of the Tokyo Opera City Concert
Hall. He can discuss La Damnation de Faust and Le Nozze di Figaro without losing steam.

He’s able to play the Violin Sonata in G minor, B.g5 with considerable proficiency, despite a
certain someone’s commentary about him faltering during the last 13th to 15th minutes, therefore
not really allowing him to showcase the trill about this Devil’s Trill. (He tells that certain someone
to fuck off, because even with the help of the stolen Stradivarius, he’s only able to replicate the
first two movements, which is way less than what Chuuya can accomplish.)

He’s working on Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto and that certain dumbass can suck it if he’s able to
do so. He’s also steadily approaching completion of performing all of Mozart’s known
compositions, a choice that definitely doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that Beethoven is
that guy’s choice of poison.

His weekends are spent attending invite-only wine-and-cheese samplings, director’s club showings
of black-and-white movies, short road trips while burning through two sticks of gifted cigars,
culinary adventures in lobster thermidors and flambéed beef steaks.

He publishes poems – under a pseudonym, because there’s a lot of fuckers who will make trouble
for his sanity if they heard of this – every month, subscribes to three literary magazines, submits
reviews – in French, he’s not stupid enough to do so in Japanese and draw eyes to himself – about
world politics to various circles.

He’s good.

Fucking awesome, even.

So here he is, in a bespoke suit that single-handedly caused Higuchi’s fainting spell earlier (though
it’s more likely to be because of the cost rather than how it looks like it’s framing his ass), fedora
against his chest and a bouquet of Holland tulips in his hand, and wondering what the fuck went
wrong.

“It’s, you’re…” The youngest daughter of the previous MEXT Minister fiddles with her hands,
tomato-red blush high on her cheeks. She looks like Chuuya’s her dream come true, but she also
looks like she’s downed too much champagne. “You’re too good for me, Nakahara-san.”

What the fuck.

☆☆☆

It’s not a dating spree.

It’s not that he’s running away from problems.

It’s not, god forbid, running away from things such as feelings.

“Why are you on a dating spree, Chuuya?”

He freezes, like the cartoons with children wrist-deep in cookie jars. He’s here to check up on
things, primarily because nobody wants to tiptoe into (the remains of) Motojirou’s laboratory to
ensure that there’s nothing too explosive there. He’s honestly not expecting to run into anyone else,
given the unholy hour (after driving all over town to shake off the bewilderment over his date’s
ending).

“…I’m…not… Ane-san.”

Damn it.

☆☆☆

It’s not a dating spree, but he’s twenty-five now.

It’s been three years since Fyodor’s ass has been thoroughly kicked to some Siberian underground
prison or the other (Dazai has contacts there, why is he not surprised that he’s even more terrifying
than the KGB?). It’s been three years since Ability users have been demoted to ‘normal’, if normal
means having blood on your hands since birth and suddenly having their extra edge against the
criminals who continue to roam the world removed. It’s been three years since the Special Ability
Department has been refurbished to something just-as-secretive, because there’s nothing to monitor
with regards to Ability-users in Yokohama anymore.

It’s been three years since Mori-san has expressed his desire to retire and leave the Port Mafia in
the hands of the next-in-line, which Chuuya thinks to mean is him, if only the actual first choice is
a massive asshole. (It’s been three years since Chuuya’s accepted that Mori-san is a lying liar who
lies, but isn’t everyone?)

Thing is, he’s lived for twenty-five years without the teenage experience of fumbling like a
hormonal idiot, without the supposedly-normal montage of frolicking across the park with crepes
on one hand and a significant other on another. He’s been really good these past few years, hasn’t
he?

He does deserves some peace and quiet and normality and a fucking life, doesn’t he?

(“No you don’t, petit mafia!”, he can almost hear Dazai yell against his ear, that fucker.)

☆☆☆

“Why not get someone from a pool of people you already know?”

“That won’t—”

…work.

Damn it, he hates it when Dazai makes logical suggestions.

Chuuya glares at him suspiciously – and there’s a lot of suspicious things about Dazai right now –
starting with the fact that he’s successfully broken into his penthouse suite yet again without
tripping his supposedly-state-of-the-art security alarm.

Handling wild animals is dangerous, but Chuuya doesn’t dislike danger, with or without his
Ability. Nevertheless, he crosses the foyer and approaches his living room couch with skittish
carefulness.

Dazai’s hair is wild, almost as though he went here right after waking up and rolling all over his
stupid lumpy futon (it’s not like he has no money – even if he spends an unhealthy amount of it
hiring assassins to take him out of this world – so why not buy a new, thicker one?). Despite the
sort-of homeless look, those brown eyes are sharp and assessing when they meet his.

“Now, where’s my consultation fee?”

Chuuya slaps Dazai’s grabby hands away, seconds from them reaching into his pants to take his
wallet.

“Consultation fee?!”

Dazai has the nerve to tilt his head at him innocently. “I just gave you the answer to your life’s
puny questions!”

“You broke my security alarm system.” Chuuya eyes the half-empty wine bar in his living room, as
well as the broken glass window just a few steps away. “And my bulletproof window.”

“I was gonna jump off your building—”

“—and cause a goddamn scene in my apartment—”

“—but I saw you had a Le Pin as I was falling so I crashed here instead.”

“What the goddamn fuck.” Chuuya exhales loudly and deeply and wonders why the fuck is this
happening to his life.

Aren’t things supposed to be over?

Aren’t things supposed to be normal?

Aren’t things supposed to settle down so he can get a break from all this?

Stupid fucking Dazai giving him a headache.

“…So?”

“So?” Dazai parrots him and waves his wallet at him. Because of course he still manages to
pickpocket him. Chuuya slumps on his couch and brings his legs up and kicks at Dazai’s stomach,
shoes and all.

“I’m sure you already have a suggestion of who I should date next.”

For a moment, there’s an almost surprised look in Dazai’s eyes, like he’s sincerely not expecting
Chuuya to figure out that he’s a meddling piece of shit who has nothing else to do but think of
disastrous recipes for an ex-partner’s love life, like he’s genuinely out of his depth in predicting the
fact that Chuuya knows how to play this game well enough to get the worst out of the way first.

It only lasts a moment though, a particularly evil smirk crossing Dazai’s face.

“I don’t have a suggestion,” Dazai says slowly as he takes hold of Chuuya’s right heel. “What do
you take me for?”

“A meddling asshole bored out of his mind who’d like to make my life hell.”
Chuuya’s nothing if not honest.

Dazai’s smirk grows even as his eyes shutter emotions out. “I have a list.”

☆☆☆

“No offense, kid, but I’m not really into blushing virgin schoolboys.”

Chuuya’s honest and it’s best to get things like that out of the way before they spend more time in
each other’s orbits.

Nakajima Atsushi, to his credit, blushes but doesn’t yelp like a wet, offended cat. He doesn’t
protest either when Chuuya takes his seat out for him, drapes his jacket over the back of his seat
for him.

Dutifully, like it’s a line he’s been harassed into saying: “Dazai-san says that you’re a blushing
virgin yourself, so we’ll match.”

“HE DOESN’T KNOW THAT!”

“So it’s not true?” Nakajima looks honestly intrigued, his multi-colored eyes practically sparkling
at him, like Chuuya’s an interesting mouse. Abilities no longer exist in this world but it’s still
mildly unnerving, knowing that this is the man-tiger.

Chuuya bites his lip as he reins in his composure. They’re on a cozy bakeshop, granted it’s fancier
than most, but still pretty public. “It’s true, but—”

“So there’s no problem!”

“There’s a lot of problems.”

Chuuya sinks to his chair in dismay, because Akutagawa’s going to be insufferable after this, and if
he’s in a prissier mood than usual: (1) Higuchi’s voice will be pitched higher than a songbird being
cooked alive; (2) then Gin’s going to be more trigger-happy when it comes to waving her knives
around; (3) then Hirotsu-san’s going to be ten times more imposing with his disappointed-grandpa
look; (4) then Elise will not have a chaperone to buy her sweets; (5) then Mori-san will slink out of
whatever his retirement bucket list item of the day is and attempt to outdo Akutagawa’s
insufferability; (6) which ultimately means that Ane-san will order him to fix whatever it is or else
he’ll need to entertain her to relieve her stress and he’s not quite ready to part with either his most
expensive bottle or his dignity once she forces him to help out at the courtesan house.

Nakajima doesn’t look like he quite believes him, so Chuuya gestures for him to slink closer so he
can draw an annotated flowchart on the napkins in their table.

Minutes later: “Do you get it now?”

“Akutagawa’s going to be pissed if he finds out about this date?”

“When he finds out,” Chuuya rubs at his temples. “And that’s what you’re focused on?”

“So does he like you or m-me?”

“For shit’s sake,” Chuuya exhales and waves at the waitress for more napkins, three cups of coffee
(all for him) and three slices of cake (all for Nakajima, because he looks like someone with an
insatiable sweet tooth, just like the mentor he’s been unfortunately saddled with).

Once the orders arrive – an excited “Thanks, Chuuya-san!” before the man-tiger polishes the first
plate in record-time – he draws a mini-Nakajima, adding a fluffy tail and some furry ears just so the
guy can’t mistake it. He taps at his drawing and resumes once he gets Nakajima’s attention. On
another napkin, he then draws a darkly-shaded lump of emotional constipation and gloominess, but
takes care to draw hearts for eyes. With the subtlety of a bombed building, he then crashes the two
napkins, mushing the chibi faces together.

“Akutagawa looks at m-me with h-heart-eyes?!”

“Stranger things have happened,” Chuuya responds with the air of a man who’s suffered for a
hundred years. Honestly, Akutagawa’s crush is hilariously obvious and terrifyingly adorable, if
only because he’s never seen the guy trip over thin air so much while supposedly going through his
daily life (read: stalkerishly appearing at places where Nakajima is).

It’s nothing (it’s even downright cute) compared to the other things that he has witnessed. To name
a few: (1) Hirotsu-san being coerced by Kouyou-anesan into kimonos so he can assist in the
courtesan house; (2) Elise and the newly-released Q fighting over the last piece of apple pie; (3)
Mori-san carrying sardines and catnip in his pockets and strategically popping out of cat shelters in
a very stalkerish and highly creepy way of courting.

Long story short, Akutagawa’s (sometimes literally) head over heels for his date for the day.

And Chuuya has an inkling that this date is for Nakajima to talk to someone who knows what’s
going on, but can’t see daily (and therefore lower the possibility of embarrassment) about his
feelings for Akutagawa. Normally, he’d be pissed off like hell for being manipulated into
something like this, but Akutagawa’s a good kid. Stereotypically emo teenager despite being
twenty-one already, but a good kid nevertheless. And this slightly airheaded, naïve man in front of
him seems like the perfect match to him.

He hasn’t received any texts or messages from Dazai, so he figures that he’ll just proceed as
normal?

“Would you like to get more pastries?” He rather hopes not, but he’s always game for doing
whatever his date wants. Matchmaking aside, there’s no reason to not treat Nakajima nicely. “Or
do you want to go somewhere else?”

“I’m thinking I’d like to bring souvenirs back to the Agency…” Nakajima’s eyes bulge as he
surveys the prices though.

“Get whatever you want.” Chuuya helps him stand up towards the display of cakes near the
storefront. “Don’t worry about paying me back.”

“C-C-Chuuya-san! I’m going to buy everything!”

Chuuya laughs as he requests for the waitress to help pack whatever Nakajima chooses so it can be
delivered to the Agency. He’s not opposed to buying the whole supply for the day, but he can’t
carry all of them, especially not if they still have to go somewhere else. “Is that supposed to deter
me?”

Awestruck, Nakajima stares at him with stars in his eyes. “…You’re really gentleman bocchan.”
“I’m not a bocchan, goddamnit.”

☆☆☆

“Why are you being so nice?”

Chuuya falters for a moment as he steps into his apartment. His eyes immediately go to his
window, but nothing seems to be broken. Does he even want to know how Dazai broke into his
place again? Not really, because he loves his sanity too much to let it go.

“…you’ll have to be more specific than that. I’m always nice.”

“You’re not nice to me!”

“Well yeah.” Chuuya hangs his overcoat near the doorway, before he sits beside Dazai, his legs
reaching over the other’s lap so he can kick the other’s chest. He’d rather swallow his tongue than
sit willingly beside the other, but it’s his expensive couch and he’s going to use it even if there’s
vermin on it. “You’re not worth being nice to.”

“Hey!” Dazai chucks Chuuya’s leather shoes to the vague direction of the kitchenette. “I’m
someone who you should be nice to!”

“How about no.”

“…You’re distracting me.” Dazai’s not the type to be distracted by a nuclear weapon exploding in
front of his face, the damn liar. “Why are you being so nice?!”

“I assume you mean regarding Atsushi-kun.”

“You’re on first-name basis?!”

“He calls me Chuuya-san already. Since three years ago?”

“But you’re—you’re—you call him Atsushi-kun?!”

“You call him Atsushi. Everyone calls him Atsushi. What the fuck is the problem?”

“Akutagawa doesn’t call him Atsushi!”

“That’s his problem, not mine?” Chuuya lifts his left foot so his toe can plug Dazai’s nose and kill
him before he can say something more. It doesn’t work – Dazai only wraps a hand around his ankle
and drags his foot so it’s against one slimy mouth. “He’d probably combust if he tries to call him
‘Atsushi’, the dummy.”

“You paid for the truckload of cakes for the Agency.” Dazai’s whiny words tickles against his
foot. He twitches and attempts to kick the other’s nose again. It fails, again. “You even bought him
a kitten! A kitten!”

“It’s a purebred Persian.”

“Fukuzawa-san was so jealous, he wanted to go on a date with you!”

Fear washes over him.

“…does Mori-san know?”

“Silly Chuuya – do you even have to ask? Mori-san was there for his visit!”

“I’m…” Faintly, Chuuya reaches for his phone and thinks whether the Caribbean is far enough
from Mori-san’s jealous wrath. “Is Mori-san going to kill me in my sleep?”

“He’d want you awake for torture first,” Dazai supplies helpfully.

“Goodbye.” Chuuya attempts to move to his bedroom so he can pack a luggage for a year-long
vacation to save his life, but Dazai’s grip on his foot is unyielding.

“I won’t let Mori-san torture you, idiot.”

Chuuya, because he’s a stupid idiot who doesn’t learn, actually believes Dazai.

“This is all your fault, you know.”

“Mmm.”

Chuuya’s foot is back against Dazai’s lips. He wriggles his toes to lessen the ticklish feeling.

“I didn’t sign up for this matchmaking thing with those two dense idiots.”

“Hmm.”

“I mean it.”

“Mm.”

“The date was nice.”

“…it was?!”

Chuuya rolls his eyes at Dazai’s exaggerated disbelief. “Atsushi-kun’s a good kid. It was nice
spending time with someone like him.”

“So… you’re into blushing virgin schoolboys?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“You are?!”

“I’M NOT, YOU STUPID FUCK.”

“Hm, that’s a lot of denial right there…”

“Because it’s not true, asshole.” Chuuya shoves his toe against Dazai’s nose again, because he’s
not a quitter. “And we have another date tomorrow.”

“See, I’m getting mixed signals here, Chuuya.”

“Does it matter?” Chuuya raises an eyebrow at Dazai literally inhaling his foot. It says so much
about his life that it’s not even weird – more accurately, it’s weird, but it’s practically normal
compared to all the other shit he’s seen… “Atsushi-kun’s the one I’m going on a date with.”
“Do you actually hate Akutagawa and secretly want to punish him?” Dazai’s words should be
muffled, but they still sound crystal clear even when he’s speaking against his soles. “Do you want
to sink my ship?”

Chuuya rolls his eyes. “He needs to talk to someone who can give him sane advice about
Akutagawa, someone that’s not you, dipshit.”

“You make it sound as though I give insane advice!”

“You told him to surprise Akutagawa by appearing naked in his house…”

“That’s fun!”

“…as part of their first date.”

“They’ve pined for too long already, stop being a prude!”

“Rashomon’s gone, but Akutagawa still has a gun. Their first date will end in murder.”

“Atsushi’s tough – he can last a bullet wound or three.”

“…this is why we need at least three more dates.”

“Is Chuuya falling in love with Atsushi-kun?!”

“God, you’re annoying.”

“I’m Dazai, but continue.”

Chuuya lets his unrepentant kick to the other’s forehead be his reply.

☆☆☆

Chuuya’s just finished sending Atsushi off after their date, the man-tiger’s arms filled with bags of
pet food and more souvenirs for the folks at the Agency. His offer to walk the other to the
Agency’s building has been turned down, because he’s apparently being protected from Edogawa-
san’s grabby hands and loud tantrums about wanting to go on a date with him too (he’s made to
understand that the term ‘sugar daddy’ has been thrown around).

Though, given the sight in front of him now, Chuuya figures he should have insisted on walking
Atsushi home.

“NO.” He considers stomping on the ground, if it can bring his point across. “JUST… NO.”

He’s not even sure if this is because his route is that predictable, if he just has shitty luck, or if
Dazai’s making money off this.

“Don’t leave, Nakahara Chuuya.”

Good god, he’s not prepared to die! He’s going on multiple dates with Atsushi, yes, but he doesn’t
have a girlfriend or boyfriend yet! He refuses to die a virgin!
Fukuzawa Yukichi looks imposing most of the time, though it’s hard to take someone like him
seriously when there’s an overflow of shopping bags field with sardines and cat food by his feet.
“…Don’t leave… before you buy me a kitten.”

How does the Agency even operate, do they not know about salaries?! Can’t their President buy
kittens on his own?!

The deep scratches on the other’s right cheek and left arm tell him a story, but still!

“…Can’t… Mori-san buy you crates of them?”

Oh god, he feels his stomach flipping. He drinks a lot of wine, but it’s hardly a cause for ulcer!
Yet, he feels like there’s a hole there, acid gnawing at his insides.

“Mori…?” Fukuzawa blinks like he’s trying to place the name. Chuuya feels almost hysterical – he
kind of wants to call Dazai so he has someone with him when he loses his mind – at the fact that
Fukuzawa apparently doesn’t even know the Boss’ name. Then again, that’s better than the truth.
“…Oh. You mean, Rintarou.”

Chuuya considers just throwing his wallet at the other, so he can use it to buy off all the pet stores
in Yokohama, bribe the store personnel so they’ll still sell him kittens even if it’s obvious that
kittens despise him.

Because, of course. Of course.

“…you call him… Rintarou…”

Of fucking course.

Because three years has passed already and old grudges are all forgiven and first-names are for
losers, because it’s all about former names now. He knows Mori-san’s old name because he’s an
Executive, but he’s never dared to use it. But then again, there’s nothing normal about Fukuzawa
Yukichi, is there?

Or rather, things have slipped into domestic normality without any bloodshed for those two.

Fukuzawa is looking at him like he’s a particularly interesting specimen and it’s so much like
Mori-san’s dissecting gaze and he’s just—over this, okay?! He’s not looking forward to being
skewered by Mori-san’s jealousy-driven scalpels and he’s not going to waste time being messed up
by the Agency President’s weirdness.

“…let’s just go, Fukuzawa-san?” Maybe this is a sign that he should drink his newest wine
acquisition. He deserves a treat after this day. “Do you have a breed in mind?”

☆☆☆

“Oh. You’re alive.”

Chuuya rolls his eyes as he strips everything but his undershirt and boxers, piles of clothes ending
up in the genkan of his apartment that hardly anyone visits. “Don’t sound so happy, asshole.”

“I’m not happy,” Dazai quips as he grins, one hand waving a remote and—is that a new TV set
installed in the wall?!—pats at the spot beside him. “That striptease is too bland, I’d rate it 4 out of
10.”

“Since you’re the expert on stripteases.” Chuuya rolls his eyes again as he makes his way to the
living room that’s slowly but surely being filled by random shit that Dazai’s buying using his
credit card, financial restraint an unknown concept. “Also, I’d kill you before I give you a
striptease, bandage bastard.”

Dazai’s grin widens. “Please do kill me—make it interesting!”

“I’d unwind those bandages and let you choke on them.”

“Mm, so it does involve stripping, in a sense.”

“Never mind, I’d just push you off the building.”

“Not very original,” Dazai pats on him on his forehead with the edge of the remote, as soon as he’s
within patting distance. “I’d probably survive.”

“You’d survive falling to a vat of acid.”

“See, I’m touched by your faith in me,” using his left hand, Dazai pulls his legs to rest on his lap,
even though Chuuya’s placed a respectable distance between them considering it’s a two-person
couch. “But I’m getting mixed signals here—do you really want to help kill me?”

Chuuya wriggles a bit so he’s comfortable, one eye closed and another trained on the luminous
display of the new TV he can already feel he’s going to regret. He hardly watches the television
and now he has the state-of-the-art TV in his living room, stupid Dazai messing up his monthly
budget. “I’d rather not help you do anything.”

Dazai shoots him an unreadable look—okay fine, it’s not exactly unreadable, but it’s been years
since he’s last seen that, crossing the threshold of getting a new partner in the Agency, OdaSaku’s
death, their last mission together as partners. It’s the ‘I know you’d do anything for me, Chuuya’
look that he’s hated for a very long time, because of how true it rings.

Because Dazai’s not a complete bastard—just, 99.99%—he hasn’t launched that look Chuuya’s
way since he left the Port Mafia.

Now it’s just annoying because Chuuya’s not Dazai’s lackey, not anymore. He won’t do anything
for the bastard. Maybe some things, but not just anything. Definitely not everything.

“You know you’re lying, don’t you.”

“Urgh, shut up and pick a channel already.”

☆☆☆

“Of course it’s you who’s next.”

Chuuya considers the younger man struggling not to fidget in front of him. Trust Dazai to set him
up on yet another matchmaking date that doesn’t end up with his own lovelife improving.
“…Good evening, Chuuya-san.”

“Right. Good evening to you too, Akutagawa.” He considers his vague dating plans for the
evening. “Would you rather we go to the art museum three streets over?”

Akutagawa coughs into his hand, Chuuya's instincts immediately placing him to the other’s side to
help rub circles on the other’s back.

(“You’re such a mother hen, hat rack!”, he can almost hear Dazai crow against his ear.)

“I’m… fine.” Akutagawa’s pinched expression tells Chuuya just how much he would prefer to be
coughing his lungs out than to be cared for by a work colleague. “The art museum… sounds fine. I
believe in your itinerary.”

Chuuya takes a half-step away from the stubborn man, sliding his hand down to take hold of one
tense elbow. He hears some bush rattle noisily and he hopes that Higuchi’s not about to get herself
arrested for suspicious loitering. “You didn’t have to sound so constipated saying that.”

“…my apologies.”

“You don’t need to say sorry for every single thing too.” Chuuya wonders if Dazai force-fed
Akutagawa with these flimsy manners. “Especially if you don’t mean them.”

“I see.” Akutagawa does not look like he understands, but he does look like someone who knows
how to capitulate when needed. “So where shall we proceed?”

“The museum is better.” Chuuya knows that there’s hardly a lot of people there at this time;
Yokohama citizens aren’t the type to huddle around art especially when it’s not even an exhibition
night. “We can talk more there.”

Akutagawa’s face flushes – in embarrassment or rage or both – at that, but he doesn’t deny it.
Chuuya suppresses a sigh at doing the legwork in calming down two dense idiots in love so they
won’t be as anxious when approaching each other.

“Atsushi-kun loves animals. Kittens in particular,” Chuuya says as nonchalantly as he can, the
moment they cross the threshold to the museum.

To his credit, Akutagawa doesn’t trip over thin air. He trips on the carpet instead.

“…I don’t.”

Chuuya rolls his eyes as he helps the man up, despite the other’s glare. “Suck it up.”

“Relationships should be about compromise.”

It’d be a wonderful, believable line, if Akutagawa’s not glaring at the wall and looking like he’s
been suckerpunched.

“Right. Advice from Higuchi’s magazines aside—”

“—they’re Gin’s.”

“…Okay. Advice from Gin’s magazines aside, give me those lines about relationships and
compromise once you actually manage to start one.”

“Dazai-san said—”
“A lot of shit stuff, probably, but no, your current status of stalking Atsushi-kun and passive-
aggressively waiting for him to notice you does NOT count as a relationship – not in the way you
want it to mean, at least.”

“—he said you’re gonna tell me that.”

“That fucker, predicting my lines.” Chuuya keeps them moving about the museum, pausing for
five minutes at every painting, one hand still latched to his elbow to keep him from running away
from their Talk. “So you have to build a healthy foundation first. And you can start that by being
nice to Atsushi-kun’s kitten.”

“I could be allergic.”

“You could see Atsushi-kun eventually succumb to the adoration of Kyouka-chan and Lucy-chan.”

“I’m not allergic to cats.”

“Thought so.”

There’s at least ten minutes before Akutagawa speaks up, sounding lost and confused and mildly
terrified about the prospect of working at not being completely miserable for once. “…And after
that?”

“Fuck if I know.” Chuuya almost laughs at the scandalized expression on the other’s face, betrayed
by someone he’s been led to believe to help him capture the love of his life. “Akutagawa, your
tenuous… relationship with Atsushi-kun started without any of my meddling. Without anyone
else’s meddling – wait, aside from Dazai pulling strings so you’d encounter each other.”

“But—”

“It will come naturally.” Chuuya lets Akutagawa’s elbow go, sensing the other’s need to pace
away. Akutagawa does take a few steps forward, but doesn’t stray too far. Huh. He really is a good
subordinate. “You could help him take care of the cat. Help him shop for pet food, then grab
dinner afterwards. Go to the park and meet other pet owners. Read pet grooming books at the
public library. Ask Higuchi for a big favor so she’d pet-sit while you two watch a movie. There are
endless possibilities. Just choose one that you can see the two of you doing without bloodshed.”

“That’s…” Akutagawa looks halfway to dismissing his words, but he swallows it down,
acceptance flitting over his expression instead. “Thank you for the thoughtful advice, Chuuya-san.”

“…Why does that sound like something that bastard Dazai told you to say.”

Akutagawa’s not quite smiling, but it’s near that. Chuuya feels warmth blossom in his chest,
because it’s time for people to move to the normality that normal folks monopolized for a long
time. A lot of people deserve happiness – Akutagawa’s one of them and he’s in the verge of
accepting that without kicking and screaming. It’s good. Nice, even.

“He told me that you’d surely give thoughtful advice.” Akutagawa tilts his head a little to the right,
a motion that’s so Dazai, it almost freaks him out. Like mentor, like student. “And he warned me
about making sure to treat you right.”

“That asshole.”

“Where should we proceed to next?” Akutagawa asks after a few more moments, the guards for
the museum starting to make their rounds to advice the few visitors about the closing time.
“Anywhere you’d like to go,” Chuuya replies easily, shrugging as the two of them begin walking
out into the cool evening breeze.

“We can go to a bar.”

Chuuya laughs outright at that. “You look like you swallowed one of Motojirou’s lemons.”

“You’d prefer wine.”

“I’m fine with anywhere.” Chuuya’s not sure, but he’s probably visited every establishment in
Yokohama already. There’s nothing surprising here anymore, not after living here practically his
entire life, doing sweeps to expand Port Mafia territory, misguided desire to expand his world by
visiting each and every shop he could. “Let’s go somewhere you’d enjoy.”

Akutagawa doesn’t say anything, but his eyes sparkle with something that he’s not able to hide
quickly enough.

“Somewhere that’s not the Agency – we’re not stalking Atsushi-kun at night.”

“…I was not about to say that.”

“You were thinking it.” Chuuya sighs as Akutagawa lets out a helpless sigh. Dense idiots. “Let’s
grab coffee – I’ll tell you all about the desserts Atsushi-kun likes.”

“He likes all sweet things. Just like Dazai-san.”

“There are things he likes more than others.”

“Just like Dazai-san.”

“Maybe you should cut down the Dazai talk when you’re with Atsushi-kun.” Chuuya doesn’t think
he’s being biased when he says that. “Atsushi-kun doesn’t seem the type to enjoy talking about
annoying idiots on his dates.”

“You talk about Dazai-san a lot when you go drinking with Tachihara. Or Hirotsu-san.”

“…Didn’t peg you as a gossip.”

“Higuchi tells me these… things.”

“Right.” Chuuya considers that as they approach a 24/7 coffeeshop two blocks away. “And those
aren’t dates.”

“Even the ones with Tachihara?”

Absentmindedly, because Chuuya’s busy ordering drip coffee for the two of them: “Of course
they’re not dates.”

Akutagawa mumbles something that sounds like ‘dense idiot’, but Chuuya doesn’t push him on
that further.

☆☆☆
“Welcome home, honey~♪”

For one terrifying moment, Chuuya thinks that he’s gone insane.

There’s no waste of bandage soiling his living room couch, but he can still hear that godforsaken
voice.

It’s only for a moment though – Chuuya slowly pats his thigh for his dagger as he tiptoes with an
arm on the wall, approaching his kitchen. He relaxes as soon as he sees the firm line of shoulders
and the familiar back – and that’s when Chuuya decides that he’s gone insane.

“Should I call the fire department?”

“I know how to cook katsudon, have some faith, Chuuya.”

Chuuya sniffs at the air and draws a blank. “…you’re cooking katsudon?”

“That’s too much faith,” Dazai says dryly, flipping something in the pan. “I’m cooking omelet
now.”

“For a midnight snack?”

“Well, if you’re gonna criticize my menu, I won’t give you any.”

“I didn’t ask for one.” Chuuya rolls his eyes as he dumps the bag containing slices of blueberry
cheesecake and apple pie on his dining table. He sinks to a chair after, his eyes on Dazai’s back as
the other whirls around in his kitchen like he owns it. “Given that you’re using my kitchen without
my permission though…”

“You get first dibs?”

“I’d rather not. I want to see you eat it first.”

“You want to watch me eat?”

“I want to make sure I’m not gonna end up with food poisoning.”

“I told you to have some faith, Chuuya.”

Chuuya laughs, derision in his tone instead of fondness. He’s sure of that. “I don’t think so.”

“Aren’t you having fun on your dates?”

“I wasn’t expecting that I’d be… playing matchmaker when you suggested I date people I already
know.”

“You weren’t expecting an ulterior motive from me?” Dazai flips the omelet again. “That’s stupid
of you, Chuuya.”

“I was expecting an ulterior motive,” Chuuya corrects him, because this is Dazai. He’s not entirely
idiotic. “Just… not about smushing Akutagawa and Atsushi-kun together. Or even using my corpse
to bridge our bosses together.”

“Oh?” Dazai serves the food, with too much grace and fuss about plating, given that it’s a midnight
snack. “What did you expect?”
“Making me a gofer. Getting blackmail information from our mutual acquaintances. Something
along those lines.”

When Dazai sinks to his own chair, he does it with a long-suffering air that’s just not warranted.
“You really are stupid.”

“I’m not, you jerk.”

“Hat rack.”

“Bandage bastard.”

“Petit mafia.”

“Stupid asshole.”

“Chuuya.”

“Why the fuck are you using my name as an insult?!”

“…Eat your food.”

“Hmph.”

☆☆☆

“I’m… not expecting you.”

“It was surprising to me too, Nakahara-san.”

“I don’t mean it in a bad way,” Chuuya backtracks a bit, because he’s honestly – pleasantly –
surprised. “I wasn’t expecting Dazai to send me to meet someone decent.”

“Are you calling Atsushi-kun indecent?”

Chuuya raises an eyebrow, lips quirking at the other man’s words. “It’s hardly decent to date
someone days away from dating someone else.”

Kunikida Doppo isn’t someone who’d usually collide against Chuuya’s orbit, but it’s good. Nice,
even. They’ve only ever interacted in terse confrontations – right-hand men of two opposing
organizations that had to tenuously work together in a war that had hostaged the entire world – so
it’s surprising to have to deal with each other in peacetime.

It seems like the wonderful sort of challenge though – one that doesn’t end in piles of dead bodies
and autopsy reports.

This guy is the right-hand man to Fukuzawa Yukichi. More importantly, this guy is the one
currently suffering the brunt of the misfortune of being Dazai’s partner. He already feels an
immense connection.

“I like organized things and I dislike annoying bastards like Dazai.”

“I like many things and I greatly dislike everything about Dazai.” Chuuya laughs at the sight of
Kunikida’s answering grin, thrilled and carefree, as he stretches his hand over the table between
them. “I’m sure we’ll get along well, Kunikida-san.”

☆☆☆

They do get along well.

Too well even.

Kunikida takes him fishing – they drive out one Saturday on Chuuya’s convertible and they spend
sunrise until noontime knee-deep in water, buckets filling with freshly-caught fish. Chuuya grills
their catch over a portable grill that he suddenly (oh-so-mysteriously, if only he doesn’t smell that
bastard’s rare indulgence of tobacco on the grill’s box) finds on his living room an hour before the
drive – because Kunikida’s handwritten recipe has a smudge on one edge and it asks for some
herbs that aren’t available in the wild.

On Wednesdays and Fridays, they alternate between attending art exhibits and watching the
currently-showing movies in alphabetical order. Each Sunday, they go for lunch on Chuuya’s
favorite restaurants; Saturdays are dinners of Kunikida’s choice – mostly seafood places.

Most weekday nights they go for dinner, joined sometimes by some folks from the Port Mafia,
sometimes by some members of the Armed Detective Agency, oftentimes joined by the other
Mafia-Agency couple in a double-date, Dazai a permanent absence during these meals.

It’s all so normal and unobtrusive, both of them orphans and have no families aside from their
respective affiliations. There’s no curfew or meet-the-parents that he needs to be nervous for.
Given that the world has calmed down considerably, all of their plans go through without a hitch,
their dates lined up weeks in advance on Kunikida’s notebook.

It’s all going along so well.

Too well even.

“—so you can’t bring yourself to kiss Kunikida-kun?!”

“Don’t yell, you shitty fuck,” Chuuya whines as he presses his face against his bed, headache
pounding like a particularly wild drum.

He probably shouldn’t have opened his new bottle of Screaming Eagle Cabernet Sauvignon, not
tonight when he’s feeling… confused about himself, but it’s rare that he approves of an American
wine and…

Urgh.

He’s not drunk though – not drunk enough to miss the fact that Dazai’s half-yelling at him, that
Dazai’s on his bed, fully-clothed and completely annoying.

“I mean, I know you’re a virgin, but.”

“Argh, shut the hell up.”

“You called me here, slug.”

“Urgh. Don’t remind me.”

He’s fairly sure that he only drunk-dialed Dazai. He’s not drunk enough to actually beg the other to
come here and listen to his problems… is he? Fuck, he can’t remember. Shit. Urgh.

“So you called me to tell me… that your lips remain untouched?”

“It’s not like I could call anyone else,” Chuuya grits out over his pre-emptive hangover migraine.

Everyone who knows about him dating Kunikida (and there’s a LOT) approves of their match-up
wholeheartedly – even Kouyou-anesan, and she has standards as high as the heavens – and
Chuuya’s not in the mood to be scolded for not wanting to put out, or something. He’s probably
never going to be in the mood for such a confrontation.

And Kunikida’s—nice, very nice. It almost feels wrong to not want to take things further with him.

Almost.

It’s not something anyone could simply agree with.

Dazai – who always begs out of going to dinners with them, supposedly because he’d gag over
seeing his partner and ex-partner make cow eyes at each other (Chuuya has this distinct feeling that
it’s more because that despite this match-up being Dazai’s idea, Dazai’s not so kosher with the idea
of the two people who know how insufferable he is to band together against him) – is the only one
who could probably understand.

“So he’s normal, but too normal for you?”

“Something like that?”

“I always knew he was boring but nobody believed me!”

“He’s not boring.”

“He was a Math teacher, Chuuya.”

“That has nothing to do with it!”

“It has everything to do with it.”

“Argh – he’s not boring. He’s not. Just. Too normal?”

“…you think he’s too good for you?!”

“You’re shrieking, damn it.” Chuuya throws a pillow at Dazai’s direction, but it’s futile effort. The
pillow just gets smashed over his head in return. “Don’t raise your voice at me, argh.”

“You think he’s too good for you,” Dazai then repeats with a modicum of restraint.

“Sort of?”

“You’re the stupidest fucking idiot in the world.”

“Shut up, I have a hangover.”

“You just drank one glass an hour ago, you lightweight.”

But there’s none of the shrieking in Dazai’s voice anymore. Chuuya feels the pillow leave the top
of his head – just as he adjusts so that his cheek is flat against his silk sheets, fingers comb through
his hair, smoothing out his curls.

“Urgh.”

He tries to vocalize a protest, swat Dazai’s hands away from his hair.

He attempts to make this strange calming camaraderie stop.

He ends up sleeping soundly within the next minute.

☆☆☆

“Well, this is… awkward.”

It’s supposedly a Sunday lunch date with Kunikida – but the other man’s not here.

Chuuya rubs at his eyes as discreetly as he can, because despite the aspirin and bottles of water by
his bedside when he woke up two hours ago to the annoyingly loud ringtone of the goddamn
mackerel calling him to haul his ass out of bed – he’s still fairly exhausted, sleepy and suffering
from a hangover.

There’s Atsushi-kun’s naïve excitement and there’s Dazai when he sees a bridge to jump on – and
then there’s this.

“Good afternoon, Nakahara-san!!!”

“…good afternoon to you too.” Blond kid with superstrength isn’t a good thing to call his date for
the day. Or is this guy just early in joining him and Kunikida for lunch?

…is he still dating Kunikida?

Fuck, he should have asked Dazai before he dozed off last night.

…goddamn it, it’s his lovelife, he doesn’t need to consult that bastard on this. The guy sustained
himself on the tears of his heartbroken conquests, back in the day. He’s hardly the best person to
help when it comes to matters of the heart that doesn’t involve death and/or stabbing.

“Yosano-san told me to order all the expensive foods twice and bring leftovers to her!” Blond kid
shares the plan to drain his wallet rather enthusiastically. “She told me that you probably wouldn’t
want to date me again after this, so I have to take advantage!”

“…that sounds pretty mercenary.” Chuuya doesn’t mind though. He’s warier about the fact that
this guy can unleash a constant smile brighter than the sun – it’s pretty bad for his eyes. “Order
whichever you want.”

Seconds after their impressive orders have arrived, blond kid seems to remember one more thing
he’s been asked to relay to him.
“Oh, and Dazai-san said that he already broke up with Kunikida-san for you, Nakahara-san!”

☆☆☆

“—you—!!!”

“…me?”

“What the fuck did you think you were doing, breaking up on my behalf?! Did you just break my
window again?! Why are there strawberry waffles on the kitchen, you know how much I hate that
flavor! Also—remove your socks if you’re going to just! Laze around my bed. God, please stop
breaking my windows—the building manager’s going crazy over the constant repairs, and she’s
driving me nuts in turn, can’t you just take my goddamn key?!”

Dazai looks halfway between cackling in evil glee and keeping up his exaggeratedly innocent
gaping. “…which one did you need answers to?”

“EVERYTHING.”

Chuuya makes a point of removing his socks before he launches himself to his bed, utterly drained
from lunch and afternoon shopping spree with Miyazawa Kenji. He’s a pretty energetic man, if he
says so himself, but even his no-hangover self is no match to the other’s sheer enthusiasm and
brightness. He’s still wondering if there’s a remote to the kid so he can adjust the contrast and
brightness, not unlike the not-that-new-anymore TV in his living room.

Slowly, deliberately, Dazai refocuses his attention back to his video game, his legs crossed as he
leans against the headboard.

Chuuya throws his socks to the other’s face, ignoring the sputtered complaints about smelly feet
(lies).

“I DEMAND ANSWERS.”

“After my game, Chuuya, don’t be rude.”

“You fucking broke into my apartment for the thirtieth time, don’t argue with me about rudeness.”

“You also clearly don’t know how to count.” Dazai laughs at his indignation. “Kunikida-kun’s not
that great of a math teacher then, that’s probably why he quit?”

“I don’t care to count your transgressions, I’d run out of numbers.”

“Hm, do you think it’s possible to run out of numbers? You can just substitute it for ‘infinity’? Or
is that too difficult for you?”

“Don’t distract me,” Chuuya drags the video game console out of the other’s hands. The grip isn’t
too tight, so Dazai’s probably expecting it. Also, it appears to be his console, so Dazai doesn’t look
too concerned that he hurled it to the floor. Feh, whatever, it’s carpeted, it’ll live. “I demand
answers.”

“I’ll think about supplying them.”

“You—!”

“—me?”

“—are fucking insufferable.”

“Technically a compliment, because you don’t suffer when you’re with me.”

“Answer my—”

“I got strawberry flavor because I felt like it.”

“…huh?”

“Your question about the waffles.”

“I don’t care—and two, I know you got them because you know I hate them.”

“So presumptuous – I don’t do things in relation to you, you know?”

“So that’s why you keep on breaking into my suite then?”

“You have the best appliances and the most expensive TV.”

“Because you keep on doing credit card fraud!”

“It’s not like you’re using your credit cards for anything other than your wine and whatever culture
obsession of the moment you have?”

“That doesn’t mean you get to use them!”

“It’s for the greater good.”

“You just wanted a UHD screen.”

“As I said – the greater good.” Dazai’s looking at him like he’s expecting something else though –
and oh. Throughout their conversation – it’s absolutely shitty conversation, but a conversation
nevertheless – Chuuya’s ended up kneeling over Dazai, his legs caging Dazai’s, his hands still
gripping Dazai’s.

He drops Dazai’s hands.

(His only consolation is that he still keeps on wearing his gloves, because Abilities may be gone,
but the scars left remain. He’d rather not broadcast to the world the mark Corruption has tainted
him with.)

“Why the hell did you break up with Kunikida – ‘on my behalf’?”

“I’m all about the greater good.”

“Bullshit.” Chuuya’s knees are frozen, so instead of sliding off Dazai’s legs, he settles in, because
he’s nothing if not resourceful. This close, he can punch Dazai right on the face if he says
something too annoying. “Tell me.”

Dazai sighs and looks at him like he’s a particularly dimwitted brat.

Something must be on his face, because Dazai actually relents after a moment.
“…you’ve gone on dates with him, every single day, for the past three months. That’s eighty-eight
dates. And you didn’t even want to kiss him or take things further.”

“That doesn’t mean I want to break up with him!” Chuuya really doesn’t think so. Love and
normality shouldn’t depend on kissing – there’s too much blood spilled and too high of a body-
count in this city for things like kissing to matter so much. “And even if I wanted to, why do you
have to do it for me?!”

“…so your actual issue is me doing the ‘break up’ for you.”

“NO—I mean, yes, it’s an issue, but it’s not the only one!”

“Is there a point in continuing to date others?”

“I wouldn’t even be thinking, right now, of dating others, if you didn’t break up with Kunikida on
my behalf.”

“…so you’ll continue this… ‘dating spree’?”

“It’s not a dating spree, stop talking to Ane-san.”

“Someone has to, you’re hiding from her.”

“I’m not, I’m just avoiding the courtesan house.”

“Afraid to see beautiful ladies there rocking kimonos better than you?”

“Not about that!”

“Mm, so you’re confident in your ability to still be the best courtesan.”

Chuuya moves to slap Dazai to stop him from speaking nonsense, but it only brings him closer, his
hand caught. “Not that either!”

Dazai hums as he sticks Chuuya’s right hand against his cheek, his fingers cradling the other’s jaw.
His fingers twitch with the urge to attempt to slap the other again.

“Where’s my key, Chuuya?”

“I didn’t make one for you!”

“You’re the one who told me to take a key.” Dazai huffs, reminiscent of how he passive-
aggressively complains about not getting his way when they were much younger, when Dazai
hadn’t fully mastered his manipulative bastard qualities. “Aren’t you becoming senile already,
baldie?”

“I’m not bald!” Chuuya squirms as he tries to get his hand free, to no avail. “And I’m not senile
either!”

“So I’ll have to spend money to make a key copy?”

“Don’t sound so put-out!” It’s not like Dazai’s spending money on anything but his abhorrent
preserved crab and sake. He hasn’t been spending money on buying useless souvenirs and
senseless gifts for women, or else Chuuya would have been called to deal with damage control
already. It’s just a couple of yen – and. “It’s not like you have to make a copy, goddamnit.”
“I’m going to, you can’t take it back.”

“Stupid mackerel.”

“Slimy slug.”

“I’m not slimy.”

“You’re slimy, getting Kunikida-kun’s hopes up…”

“I did not.”

“So you admit you feel nothing for him?”

“He’s… he’s nice, okay?” And Chuuya’s very dateable, very secure in his life, very well-adjusted
to a world that’s suddenly different from everything he’s fought for. But he’s not nearly as nice or
as normal as Kunikida. It’s not even about the amount of blood on his hands, not even about the
fact that he’s raised as a child soldier. Kunikida doesn’t have the same dark whispers about raging
on until nothing remains, whispers that he hears despite the fact that Corruption shouldn’t be here
anymore. And if it’s not Corruption, then it must be his own voice, right?

“…so you want, what, a bad boy character?”

Chuuya sighs, the fight and annoyance leaving him in puff of air. It’s exhausting to deal with this
bastard, because his words say one thing, but his gaze sees through him anyway.

“…Just shut up.”

He slumps forward then sideways, rolling into his unofficial side of the bed. He thinks about
pushing to chew Dazai out for being so… presumptuous in breaking up with people on Chuuya’s
behalf.

It’s probably a lost cause anyway, so Chuuya just closes his eyes and thinks about how unfairly
difficult it is to live like a normal human being.

☆☆☆

“You’re… Nakazawa from the Port Mafia?”

“It’s Nakahara.”

Chuuya raises an eyebrow at The Guild’s leader – or wait, is he the leader now or did they have yet
another civil strife? does it even matter? – as he sips at his champagne delicately. He takes a half-
step closer to the American when one of the patrons nearly bump to his back.

“You’re wearing William Fioravanti.”

Chuuya’s eyebrow lifts higher – aside from Dazai, nobody else is able to identify his bespoke suits
on sight (though that’s probably because he rarely sees his colleagues on black-tie events).

“And yours… is by Brooks Brothers.” He’s not entirely sure – he’s not one for American brands
when it comes to clothing, but given that Fitzgerald is most likely back in Japan to help promote
his country since his current business venture is based there…

“Excellent eye, Nakahata.”

“It’s Nakahara,” he repeats with an eyeroll, furnishing a copy of tonight’s program from his pocket
and flashing it to the other. His name as one of the sponsors is on flowing script at the first page, in
romaji so the foreigner can easily read it.

“I’d like to call you ‘mine’, instead, if you’d allow it.”

Unwittingly, a snort leaves him – cheesy pick-up line aside, he didn’t think Fitzgerald is the type to
‘allow’ people to do things. It’s not in his personality – though the war changed a lot of things.

“Just for tonight,” Chuuya demurs instead, letting the other stir him into conversation about
Japanese tailors.

☆☆☆

“I didn’t think you were serious about the bad boy preference!”

“Good morning to you too, dumbass,” Chuuya replies dryly as he squints at the sunlight streaming
to his room. He’s not quite sure what time he managed to crawl into bed, flutes of champagne
nearly floating him higher than his penthouse suite. He remembers promising himself not to drink
a lot because he actually enjoys opera, but Fitzgerald’s had talked about too many expensive topics
and it felt apt to drown himself in alcohol to deal with him.

“Society pages have such poor taste,” Dazai bemoans this as he eagerly flips through his tablet
(bought, unsurprisingly, using Chuuya’s credit card) for more pictures from last night’s opera.

“I gave you an invitation – it’s your fault you didn’t get your picture splashed all over the news.”

“I hate it when you make sense,” Dazai complains even as he’s making himself comfortable at the
foot of Chuuya’s bed, spreading crumbs everywhere since he’s speaking as he’s biting onto his
breakfast (or brunch?, what time is it?). “But since it pretty much never happens…”

“Get the fuck out of my room.”

“Before or after I hand over your breakfast?”

It’s not even a choice. “Give me coffee first.”

“They have some great Guatemalan beans today.”

“Huh. You actually bought great coffee today.”

“Just wait until the food poisoning kicks in after an hour.”

“Poison cannot taint great coffee.”

“Oh-so-wise words coming from a coffee addict.”

“I thought I was a wine addict?”

 “One can have more than one addiction.”

“Pfft – quit the solemn act, you look stupider than usual.”

“Your hair’s sticking out in all directions.”

Chuuya’s cup is halfway empty, his belly warmed and his blood caffeinated nicely. “I look
wonderful despite it, shut up.”

“Hm.” Dazai stares at him for a brief moment, before handing him a paper bag of bagels. He then
flops on the part of the bed where Chuuya haphazardly threw parts of his suit before he crashed last
night. It’s a testament as to how fucked-up his life is that he doesn’t even screech about his suit
getting wrinkled – it’s old news at this point. “Fitzgerald didn’t bitch about your suit being more
expensive than his?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Did you even listen to him during your date?”

“Is that counted as a date?” Chuuya’s all for dating if he can hopefully, finally, find someone
who’ll give him a place to feel normal about.

“Uh, he said that you were his for the evening?”

“Stop stalking me.”

“It’s on the papers, idiot.”

“He gave an interview?” Chuuya remembers being stopped for pictures, but that always happens
recently.

“You agreed to his statement, dumbass.”

Maybe he did? “I don’t remember.”

“You don’t look debauched though, so your virgin lips are still safe?”

“GET OUT.”

Chapter End Notes

• this is supposed to be a oneshot, but after 9k+ words, i figured i should split it into 2?
also, this was written in like, 2 hours (and is unbeta-ed), so please feel free to let me
know if there are glaring errors ^^;;;

• people on the list for dating chuuya: steinbeck (because WINE), ranpo (sassmasters
unite), yosano, higuchi, tachihara (he deserves to be noticed by senpai), fyodor (i'm
fyoya trash), ango (chuuya/traitors is my jam) and... *smudged ink* tsushima shuji and
dogs.
 Chapter 2
Chapter Summary

• chuuya dates best bro steinbeck

• 100/10 domestic soukoku
• will chuuya ever realize that he's already lowkey married to dazai tho

Chapter Notes

thank you everyone for reading so far! i realized that nah, this can't be over in 2
chapters, so i figured i'll just post as it goes???????

See the end of the chapter for more notes

☆☆☆

“It’s… you.”

Try as he might, he can’t quite pinpoint the name of the guy in front of him, long dark trenchcoat
painting an austere outline of his body, bright blond hair almost out of place with the solemn figure.
The last time he saw the guy, there’s no coat, but there’s that severe line on his mouth still, face
swathed in bitterness.

“Nice to see you here, Nakahara Chuuya.”

Those eyes look dull even as the words imply cheerfulness – Chuuya’s reminded of the person he
saw in the mirror in the wake of receiving a phone call from Hirotsu-san, news about Dazai’s
betrayal delivered tonelessly amidst the heavy noise inside his head.

He shoots for casual as he inquires: “Is everyone from The Guild here for a reunion?”

He’s still part of the Port Mafia and protecting the source of their income – Yokohama itself –
remains priority. Everyone’s been stripped of their Abilities, leaving behind scars and inerasable
pasts, but wealth can buy many things – firearms, power, destruction.

“Just touring around.” It’s a lie, but there doesn’t seem to be something sinister underneath the
words, so Chuuya erases the frown on his face. “And since you look like you’re still figuring it out
– I’m John Steinbeck.”

Records show that this guy’s Ability was called Grapes of Wrath. There’s nothing particularly
wrathful about this guy, but he supposes that Ability names didn’t always match the user – unlike
his.
“Do you need company for your ‘touring around’ then, Mr. Steinbeck?”

He’s not entirely sure about the impulse to offer being a tourguide, but it’s not like he’s particularly
busy. It’s Sunday and he doesn’t have anything lined up (he remembers Dazai offhandedly
mentioning something about crashing Akutagawa’s date today – anything too serious and he
figures he’ll see smoke from a distance).

“Mr. Steinbeck sounds so serious. Call me John instead.”

Does this count as a date, Chuuya idly wonders. Does it say something about him that he’s drawn
to someone with similar sorrow in his eyes, he wonders further.

“Then it’s fair for you to call me Chuuya, John.”

☆☆☆

“You know that he can’t cultivate grapes for your privately-owned vineyard, right?”

Chuuya rolls his eyes and tugs his tie out of Dazai’s grabby, filthy hands. “He actually knows how,
even if he doesn’t have an Ability anymore.”

“I can’t believe you actually asked him about that, you alcoholic.”

“It’s not like I’m dating him because of the wine.”

“…you’re not?”

“I’m not,” Chuuya says firmly as he looks over his form in his full-length mirror, steadfastly
ignoring Dazai flitting about in his bedroom like the annoying pest that he is.

“You do know that he’s here because he’s stalking Fitzgerald?”

He didn’t know, though Chuuya didn’t really buy the vacation tour excuse to begin with. “Such a
gossipmonger.”

“So you’re the rebound guy, even though my sources say that they weren’t together to begin with.”

“We’re just dating.” Chuuya doesn’t even know why he’s wasting time explaining this to the
asshole who keeps on invading his personal space. One of these days, he’s afraid that he’ll inspect
his other properties and find them overrun with knickknacks from Dazai’s closet. It makes him
want to charge Dazai for rent – something he refrains from doing, because Dazai is an absolutely
terrible tenant. “We’re just… getting to know each other.”

“You can do that in five minutes,” Dazai whines from the general direction of his bed. “I’ve got his
file here.”

“Why the fuck do you have his file – wait, that’s the Port Mafia file on The Guild!”

“Hirotsu-san gave it to me.”

“Hirotsu-san is playing favorites,” Chuuya declares darkly, remembering the time he asked the
man for a copy of Dazai’s file. Not because he’d like to check how his knowledge about the man
fared against the information written on paper.

“Hirotsu-san just wanted to make sure you were in capable hands~♫”

“John’s… a farmer. He’s harmless.”

“You’re tiny and you’re harmful.”

“Fuck you.”

“Really?”

Chuuya ignores that and chooses a coat to go along his ensemble. There’s still thirty minutes until
they’re supposed to meet, but since the cinema is just five minutes away on foot… Maybe he
should go early so he can get away from this nuisance?

“He claims to be a farmer, but he has enough money to tail his ex-boss around.” Dazai is rolling all
over his bed, rumpling his bedsheets. He makes a mental note to fumigate his entire apartment.
“All of his siblings are now attending prestigious schools. Did he say that he’s the one who led—”

“Look,” Chuuya interrupts, rubbing a hand across his face.

There’s a twinge of warmth inside his chest, like he’s too full, too sated, when in fact he hasn’t
eaten anything since lunch. It’s a strange feeling, but it almost feels normal, similar to the feeling
he gets when he gets home and sees Dazai messing around his place. It’s quite possible that
Corruption leaving his body has irreparably damaged his mind.

“I… appreciate you looking into John’s file. He used to be part of Yokohama’s enemy. I get that.
But I know what I’m doing, okay. I’ve survived even without your mission plans and strategy
briefings.”

“…you know what you’re doing?”

Chuuya feels the confession slip out of his mouth before he can attempt to stop it. “I just want to
live a normal life.”

“…I thought Kunikida-kun felt too nice and normal?”

“It’s… I don’t know what it’s like to be normal. And shut up – you’re not normal either, asshole.
But I’d like to find that normality.”

Dazai looks thoughtful, in a way that he hasn’t appeared since he was promoted to Executive,
many years ago. It stutters in Chuuya’s ribcage, the knowledge that Dazai hasn’t really considered
his opinion since then. It hurts, but it almost hurts more that Dazai appears to be considering him
now.

“So you’re dating around as a process of elimination?”

It’s not quite that, but he now only has ten minutes left. “I guess?”

“I see.”

Whatever he sees, Chuuya doesn’t get to question, but there’s a sparkle in Dazai’s expression, too
brilliant and Chuuya wonders if he should expect fire in his apartment once he returns from the
movies.
 ☆☆☆

Dating John is easy.

They’re able to cover a lot of topics in their conversations – wine, education differences between
America and Japan, balancing sheets to ensure an organization is well-funded. Chuuya’s English
isn’t the best, but he’s glad for the chance to exercise it; John’s Japanese is passable for light
conversation.

They’re only able to meet twice a week for a quick dinner and/or movie, because Mori-san’s
getting antsy about retiring so he can dote upon Elise more, because Fitzgerald’s own Japan tour of
kissing up to various companies’ asses take him all over the map.

He supposes there’s something wrong in dating someone you know to be hung-up on another
person, but it’s his time to spend. Maybe he won’t get that happy-ever-after ending complete with a
white picket fence, but it’s not so bad to gain a friend too.

Maybe it’s wrong to date with the goal of finding a friend instead of a lover, but whatever.

“Why did you decide to stay in The Guild when moneybags left?” Chuuya wonders if John has
read that article about the one-night date between him and Fitzgerald. He probably did. “If you
hated it so much, why did you decide to rebuild it?”

He figures that there’s no better time to ask the heavier questions – Fitzgerald is widely-publicized
to be going to Korea tomorrow and John is sure to follow on his heels.

John smirks at him, looking so different from the guy Chuuya kicked on the face back then. “Why
are you training to be the Port Mafia’s Boss when your partner left you?”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Once you find your answer to my question,” John’s eyes are sharp and calculating, as his hands
move to hold Chuuya’s hands. Chuuya’s fingers stiffen inside the protection of his gloves. “You’ll
realize that it’s the same as my answer.”

“…still not an answer.”

John smiles at him and it halfway reaches his eyes. Conversationally: “Did you know that there’s a
sniper trained on me right now?”

“…Ha?!”

“You didn’t sense him?”

“No—I should—”

“You’re about to ascend as the Port Mafia’s Boss – you have perfect instincts for bloodlust and
danger.” John looks entirely too serene about this; Chuuya doesn’t think he’s lying, now that he
thinks about it, he can sniff that bloodlust in the air just so, but he didn’t notice until John pointed it
out. “Maybe you’ve accepted him as normal, so you didn’t notice him?”

“…good god, I should re-train myself.”

“Not exactly the point I was trying to make, but that will do.” John still looks like there’s a wave of
sorrow hiding inside of him, but Chuuya hopes that he was able to enjoy their time together too,
even just a little bit, like he did. “It’s been great, Chuuya – and I hope you know I expect great
deals with Yokohama once our respective organizations grow.”

“Are you implying you dated me as part of peacetalks between Port Mafia and The Guild?” But
Chuuya’s smiling, thoughts about the sniper forgotten.

“That’s fine, isn’t it?” John shrugs, before he leans in, just close enough to whisper: “How was
your one-night stand with Fitz?”

“It wasn’t a one-night stand!”

☆☆☆

“I have a revised list~♪”

He’s seriously considering marching down to the Agency and demanding they give Dazai more
assignments – it’s unreal how much time he’s spending loitering around in Chuuya’s apartment.
But going to the Agency means risking seeing Mori-san being there in his attempts to… court
Fukuzawa-san and he’s too fond of the remaining bits of his sanity to punish himself like that.

Also—

“What the hell are you doing.”

“Cleaning your fridge~~~♫”

“…why.”

Should he be worried about finding some preserved remains there? He lines his shoes neatly on the
genkan, changing to his house slipper instead of simply padding across his place barefooted. A
matching set of house slippers are on Dazai’s feet, a sight that greets him along with Dazai’s
backside as the other bends and scrubs at his fridge.

Chuuya pinches himself. “Why are you cleaning my fridge, bastard?”

“Because I’m bored and I have nothing to do while waiting for the laundry to finish.”

“…Why did you do my laundry?”

“Are you actually complaining I did your chores for you?”

“I’m worried my clothes would be ruined.”

“Trust me, the thought crossed my mind.” Dazai sounds a bit distracted as he takes out a box of
different cheeses. “Want to try making pizza later?”

“You want to use up my specialty cheese board?!”

“They’re at the back of your fridge – don’t pretend you didn’t forget about their existence.”
“I’ve been saving them up for a special occasion,” Chuuya protests as he checks the wash cycle.
It’s true that laundry is the chore that he hates the most, still… “Where did you put my suits?”

Dazai’s placing back some of the things back to the fridge, leaving the box of cheeses and some
other things on the kitchen counter, just as Chuuya approaches the kitchen. “I bagged them for dry
cleaning – have some faith, you’re not the only one who owns suits here.”

That brings Chuuya to his closet, being generally suspicious of Dazai’s good deeds because they
just don’t happen. “Some of these suits aren’t mine.”

“Who else would the rest belong to?” Dazai manages to sound fond and insulting at once. “You’re
being stupider than usual, did something happen?”

“Motojirou’s experiment gone wrong, witnessing yet another cake feud between Elise and Q…”

“I’ll let Hirotsu-san know to restrict Motojirou’s budget.”

“Why not just take over Port Mafia while you’re at it.”

“Ew, I don’t want to succeed Mori-san.”

“Then stop meddling with us?”

“Though… will you hate me terribly if I stage a coup once you’re in power?”

“Bring it.” Chuuya critically eyes the non-existent muscles on Dazai’s figure. “I’ll kick your ass.”

“It should be fun, bribing everyone around you.”

“Geh. Stop fantasizing about making my life hell.”

“So you’ll hate me if I do that?”

“I already hate you plenty,” Chuuya assures him, as he fires up mail to Hirotsu-san about not
listening to Dazai’s budget cuts. “Will you be here tomorrow morning?”

“…”

“Don’t look so shocked,” Chuuya waves irritably at his phone, annoyed at the wide-eyed look
Dazai’s sporting. “I’m scheduling the dry cleaners to pick up the suits, but I have to be at the base
tomorrow morning. I need my suits back by—why the fuck are you laughing?”

Dazai’s laughing but it doesn’t sound completely happy. To be honest, it sounds deranged, but he
already knows Dazai’s insane, so.

“Just… you’re such a bocchan. Why not just bring the suits to the cleaners themselves?”

“If you won’t be here, just tell me, damn it.”

“I’m always here.”

“You should find a different, more productive hobby.”

“You think your home is my hobby?”

Chuuya traipses towards his week-old home theater surround sound system (he supposes Dazai has
started actually telling him about the credit card purchases ahead of time – five minutes ahead of
time, but still), fumbling about the controls so he can play some music as they make pizza.

“Bothering me at my apartment.”

“You don’t look particularly bothered.”

“Grace under pressure and all that.”

“Pfft, you… and… composure. Pfft.”

“Stop snickering and start kneading the dough.”

“We are making pizza?”

“It was your suggestion!”

“I thought you were going all overprotective over your cheese spread?”

“You managed to do my laundry without burning down my apartment.”

“You can say ‘thank you’ like a normal person, petit boss mafia~”

“I could report you for breaking and entering, like a normal person.”

“You gave me a key!”

Chuuya’s grinning, as he slices tomatoes. “You stole my key and had it copied.”

“With your express permission~~~”

“Verbal promises will not hold water under the court of law.”

“Being scholarly doesn’t suit you,” Dazai mutters as he bumps their elbows together. “But you can
try saying that again with glasses, might work better.”

“You’re just gonna take lots of pictures and blackmail me about it.”

“What do you take me for?!”

“An insufferable bastard.”

“Hm. I’d also tease you a lot about looking like a nerd.”

“Asshole.”

“I guess there’s the special occasion if you really want that.”

“Akutagawa managing to trip ten times on one date isn’t a special occasion, lay off that kid.”

“One of these days, Akutagawa-kun will end up calling you ‘mom’. Atsushi-kun too.”

“Why am I a mother?! I’d make a great—”

He won’t.

Because he doesn’t even know his own parents, doesn’t have any experience about parental figures
in his life. Ane-san took him in, but she was more of his handler, more of a big sister figure. And
Mori-san is many things, but a healthy father figure he isn’t.

He—

“Stop panicking about that, idiot.”

Chuuya takes a series of deep breaths, until he’s able to see his hands holding onto the knife,
onions cubed without bloodshed despite his shakiness.

“…I’m not an idiot.”

“You can learn.”

“What, to be an idiot?”

“To be a father.”

“I’m not—”

“I can rock being a wine mom too, that way.”

“I… don’t understand what kind of gibberish you’re saying.”

“That’s okay. You can be the mom, while I’ll be the coolest dad ever with the cool dad jokes.”

“You’re…” Chuuya knows he shouldn’t, but it slips out of his mouth anyway. “Your parents were
shit. How can you—”

“Quite fortunately, human beings are able to do things that deviate from their past. Isn’t that the
point of moving on?”

Dazai’s tone is ice-cold, but he still remains beside Chuuya. Even though he knows that he said
something insensitive.

“Is that why… you’re not doing suicide attempts recently?”

“I’m… fairly contented to live right now. The gap has closed considerably. Not fully, mind you.”

“You’re not breaking the hearts of women everywhere too.”

“Oh, I’m pretty sure I’m breaking their hearts still.”

“Pretty confident, enemy of women.”

“I’m not in the market anymore.”

“Good.”

Chuuya feels, rather than hears the tremor in Dazai’s voice. “…good?”

“Because nobody will buy you anyway.”

“…pffft. Eternal torment, indeed, Hirotsu-san.”

“Why are you bringing Hirotsu-san to this?”

 “Never mind that.” Dazai takes the knife from him and shoos him to wash his hands. “Fitzgerald
has announced his new organization merging with Steinbeck’s Guild.”

“That’s great!” Chuuya makes a note to send John an email of congratulations, maybe stalk the
other’s Facebook to see if his new pictures has him looking the slightest bit less sorrowful.

“They’ll celebrate the merge with a wedding.”

“…holy shit.”

“Special occasion, right?”

Chuuya’s not listening anymore, already busy with dialing John’s number so he can yell his
congratulations instead.

Chapter End Notes

• yeah, dazai was the sniper

• next chapter: chuuya dates the ladies (higuchi / gin / yosano / naomi) + overprotective
bro akutagawa

“…but you’re already dating Atsushi-kun.”

“I… care about my sister. I will not put her in Dazai-san’s way.”
 Chapter 3
Chapter Summary

• gentleman!chuuya dates the ladies [part one]

• the ~first kiss~ (lol) finally happens

Chapter Notes

• sorry, i didn't manage to squeeze in yosano/naomi/gin yet, but they'll be on the next
chapter! it's just that... it's already so long lol

• so chuuya’s lot more ~gentlemanly~ about his dates with the ladies! I do see him as
someone who’d really put extra effort in dealing with ladies (whether he sees them as a
romantic interest or not). all the places mentioned below are real date/tourist spots in
Yokohama ^^;;

• as always, feedback of any sort is greatly appreciated ♥ thank you to everyone

who's reading this ;)

See the end of the chapter for more notes

☆☆☆

“I feel like I’m providing a support group instead of dating.”

“Are you heartbroken too?” Lucy quips in response to his honest assessment of their situation, her
red braids unraveled to provide a fiery mane that curls over her face beautifully. “I wonder what the
rest of Yokohama’s grapevine would say about that.”

“At least you’re accepting that you’re heartbroken, Ms. Lucy,” Chuuya smoothly avoids his date’s
tart tone, opting instead to go towards the calm route. He’s chosen a quaint teashop just a road
away from Motomachi, to strike a balance between playing off his date’s foreign roots but not
outright going for the expensive European shops.

Lucy folds her hands over her lap, primly stating: “I’ve moved on—so the less we discuss him, the
better.”

“Your wish is my command,” Chuuya says gamely, retrieving a box from his pocket and sliding it
over the table.

“Laying it thick on the prince act, aren’t you.” Lucy’s eyes are sparkling though, excited about the
present even if she says otherwise.

Chuuya smiles, then slides the box an inch further, nearly touching the edge of her cutlery. “Please
do let me know if you’d like another design.”
It’s unlikely that she’ll request for another design, because he’s chosen the present with great care
(read: a lot of unasked-for comments and complaints from Atsushi, Ane-san and Elise). And
judging from her delighted gasp and the way she trembles as she gently traces the gift with her
fingers—he’s made a good choice.

A red butterfly made of smatterings of ruby crystals resting on a silver hairclip – it makes for a
striking hair accessory just as well as it serves as a centerpiece to be shown off in velvet-lined
jewelry display cases. It’s also fairly expensive, so it will fetch a good amount should Lucy decide
to resell it for being too ostentatious for a date that’s not really meant to go anywhere further.

“I usually get annoyed by people who waste their money like this.”

“You’ve worked with Mr. Fitzgerald for quite some time.” Chuuya shrugs and doesn’t take
offense. “And I don’t consider this is as a ‘waste’, so please don’t get annoyed with me.”

“Too smooth,” Lucy says with an indulgent roll of her eyes, but she’s smiling. “You must really
like that brooding guy.”

“Rest assured that I’m not here for Akutagawa’s sake.”

“So for Atsushi-kun’s sake then?”

“I’ve never thought that you were the type who’d do anything to go between them.” Maybe not on
her own, but still. Kyouka’s apparently entering her rebellious phase, according to Ane-san. Maybe
it would have been better if Lucy and Kyouka grow closer together so they could go through this
together. “I am here because I wanted to spend time with you and get to know you better.”

“A model gentleman,” Lucy murmurs, definitely echoing something that’s been whispered around
in the Agency. Chuuya makes a note to remind Atsushi that, once again, he’s not a bocchan, damn
it.

“Now that I have declared my intentions,” Chuuya says with a smile, waving for the server to
present them with the menus. “How about we take advantage of this shop’s food?”

☆☆☆

“…a model gentleman?”

“Jealous?” Chuuya pointedly raises an eyebrow at Dazai slurping away noodles while in his dining
table, one hand busy with his tablet. “That’s not something you’ve been called, naturally.”

“I’ve been called a ‘gentleman’ many times before.”

“Then you get slapped five minutes after.” Chuuya knows the entire routine – well, it’s been years
since he’s witnessed it first-hand, the opening dance of Dazai being so respectful and princely,
derailed after five minutes into double suicide invitations. “And get dumped right after.”

“I’m not arguing that,” Dazai speaks around his noodles, Chuuya wrinkling his nose at the action,
even as he makes his way to the table after hanging up his coat. “But I’ve still been considered as a
‘gentleman’.”
Chuuya rolls his eyes, dragging a seat out in front of Dazai. “Must be good to have such low
standards.”

“You can definitely reach them,” Dazai’s eyes are laughing at him. “As short as you are.”

“Ha-fucking-ha.” Chuuya rolls his eyes and resolves to ignore Dazai for the next thirty minutes.
“…where did you get these noodles from?”

“I was just walking around, trying out new stalls in Chinatown~”

“…Were you stalking me?”

“Chuuya, Chuuya, Chuuya~~~♪ I know you want to be taller, but getting a big head isn’t the way
to go.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Yokohama’s Chinatown and Motomachi are just a couple of minutes away from each other, after
all. But… Chuuya squints at Dazai, who innocently (but very obnoxiously, loudly) eats his dinner.
There’s no real point in stalking him around town, not when Dazai’s the one who lined Lucy up to
have a date with him to begin with, especially not when Dazai makes himself a regular pest in his
apartment at the end of the day, every single day, anyway.

“…They’re good noodles, right?”

It’s the right mix of crispy and spicy. Chuuya always hates moments when Dazai is right, but. “…
Buy more from this stall next time.”

There’s a slight faltering in the obnoxious sounds from Dazai’s very noisy eating—but only for a
moment. When Chuuya lifts his eyes to regard Dazai again, there’s a quiet sort of smile on the
other’s face.

It’s annoying, so he kicks Dazai under the table for it.

☆☆☆

“Now I feel like a dirty old man.”

Chuuya’s smiling though as he gazes upon Kyouka—all dolled up in resplendent salmon pink
kimono, bright colors fitting her much better now that she’s also happier. She still has a cellphone
around her neck, but it has a cutesy casing and an equally cutesy ringtone, no dead bodies turning
up whenever another voice comes through the line anymore. Her hair’s much shorter than the last
time they met each other; it’s not the first time he’s seen her new bob though, because Ane-san had
knocked back two bottles by herself as she showed him stealthily-taken pictures, as she sobbed into
his desk about Kyouka growing up into such a beautiful lady.

“Buy me crepes and I won’t report you to the police.”

She’s also developed a sharper tongue—quite possibly due to Akutagawa’s influence, given that
he’s hanging around Atsushi more, and Kyouka’s not willing to give up her ‘territory’ that easily.

It’s almost adorable to see, Kyouka adopting Akutagawa’s mannerisms now that she’s not under
his thumb. Chuuya wonders if it’s worth it to let Kyouka know that it’s not like Atsushi’s
masochistic enough to have fallen for Akutagawa because of his sharp words. (Or maybe that was
the main part of the attraction? He’s not entirely sure, given that any Akutagawa-related discussion
devolves Atsushi to either a blushing, stuttering mess… or ignites him to a hundred-word-per-
minute rapid-fire soliloquy about the virtues and charms of Akutagawa.)

“Would you prefer the crepes sold on the foodtrucks or the ones from Starlight Café?”

“I want the one that has a bigger serving.” Kyouka seems to think of it again, probably
remembering Ane-san’s phone call from earlier this morning. “And the one that’s more
expensive.”

Chuuya chuckles, then offers his elbow for Kyouka to slip her hand to, her gracefulness in handling
her past assassinations showing up now in a different form and enchanting the passersby they meet
as they make their way to the popular restaurant. Starlight Café has a casual and romantic
atmosphere and while Kyouka being too young for him is just one of the many issues about the
possibility of them becoming a more serious couple—there’s no harm in ensuring that she has a
lovely experience in one of the most recommended date spots in Yokohama.

He’s pretty sure that Ane-san will skin him alive (and let the stupid Dazai do the commentary) if he
so much as makes one wrong move, so he makes sure that he has a mild smile on his face the
entire time, keeping his touches light and unobtrusive all throughout.

They discuss cats, crepes, cooking light meals.

“Would you like a kitten too?”

“No, Atsushi lets me play with his.”

Ah. Chuuya doesn’t wish to remove that connection then.

“I can teach you how to cook, if you’d like.”

“…Lucy’s offered me too.”

Ah—Chuuya definitely doesn’t wish to stop that connection from forming.

“How’s the crepe?”

“Order three more.”

“Your wish is my command.”

Once they’ve ordered practically every dessert available in the café, Chuuya asks Kyouka if she
would like to take a stroll in the Sankeien Garden, yet another popular spot for couples and
tourists. He’s not gunning for romantic strolls though – he’s hoping to buy some of the Memorial
Hall’s limited-edition fabrics for her, given that she’s expanding her wardrobe.

“Will we eat after?”

Chuuya thinks of the tea ceremony room, as well as the shops in the area. “We can have dinner
after, so we can take our time in the garden.”

“But you have dinner with Dazai-san, right?”

“E-Eh, not really?”

Kyouka’s eyes are wide – it almost feels like he’s lying to his kid about the state of his marriage
and it’s just so wrong.

He decides to amend his statement: “It’s… not really set? I mean, if he’s there… but we don’t
really make plans? Though he’s always there, especially recently, and he’s definitely using my
card to buy groceries and stuff. But I don’t have to have dinner with that bast—um, that person? I
have dinner with lots of other people, too! So, what I mean to say is, I’d rather have dinner with
you than that… person.”

Kyouka’s eyes are still wide, but then priorities. “We can buy more crepes later?”

Chuuya laughs, indulgent and fond and so proud of her. The Kyouka he’s glimpsed from before
pales in comparison to the Kyouka he has in front of him right now. She’s moved on and she’s
enjoying a world without her Ability that she’s always hated and she’s so normal now. He’s so, so
proud of her.

“Definitely, Kyouka-chan. We’ll buy all the crepes in Yokohama!”

Hours later, with hands full of bags with twenty different fabrics inside, with bellies filled with
crepes, tea and more crepes: “Thank you for spending time with me today, Chuuya-san.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” he returns easily, quickly, adjusting his hold on the shopping bags so he
can offer a gentle touch on Kyouka’s elbow.

She’s so normal now, but he still hears the slightest twinge of loneliness in her voice, like she’s not
sure if she deserves to have someone spend time and money on her, if she has the right to be happy
being doted upon.

“Ladies need to go an experience beautiful things so they’ll become even more beautiful.”

He’s not quite sure if that’s true – because does it mean that if people experience ugly things,
they’ll become even uglier? But it doesn’t really matter to Kyouka, especially to the Kyouka in
front of him right now.

“I enjoyed spending time with you. Thank you for allowing me to do so.”

“…you sound so different.”

“Really?” He’s not faking the sentiment, but if it sounds like that— “I’m sorry if—”

“It’s good.” Kyouka nods to herself. “You sound so different when you’re screaming at Dazai-
san.”

“I—I don’t, well, I do scream at him because he deserves it, but—Kyouka-chan—”

“You’re… just like Atsushi-kun. He’s different. When he’s.”

“Love makes him do weird things, huh?” Chuuya tries to break it as gently as he can. While he
isn’t sure if what Kyouka feels is romantic love (Ane-san laments that it is, but Chuuya thinks that
idolatry and friendship can be as intense as that, sometimes) towards Atsushi-kun, it’s probably
still painful if she’s feeling left behind.

“Mm,” Kyouka hums instead, still looking forward.

He has a fleeting thought that he needs to prepare his last will if Kyouka-chan ends up crying.
“You’re a strong girl, Kyouka-chan.”

“Mm.”

☆☆☆

“How was Kyouka-chan?”

The voice is a bit faint.

Dazai isn’t in the living room when Chuuya arrives, but the lights are bright inside his apartment.
There’s a smell of curry in the air—upon further inspection, there’s a boiling pot in the kitchen.

Curry is way too advanced for Dazai’s cooking skills though, so he’s most likely just reheating
something, Chuuya doesn’t even have to check his trashbin to confirm that there’d be some take-
out packets there.

Eventually, Chuuya finds Dazai in his bathroom—humming as he’s washing his hands. The smell
of curry isn’t as strong here, instead overpowered by the scent of Dazai’s soap.

Chuuya stands by the doorway, eyes unseeing even as he’s staring in the direction of the beauty
products lined up in two shelves. Belatedly, he realizes that he’s never had the problem of
accidentally using Dazai’s strange bubblegum toothpaste or cinnamon shampoo – probably thanks
to the organized shelving.

Dazai… has a lot of beauty products here. Not as much as Chuuya’s – Dazai resists in
acknowledging the merits of conditioner – but it’s still a lot.

“…since when did you have that soap?”

“Just yesterday,” Dazai replies slowly, drying his hands in the process. “They’ve got some new
flavors in.”

Huh.

“Want to smell it?”

Dazai doesn’t give him a chance to answer, waving his right hand over Chuuya’s nose, before
moving to pinch his left cheek.

“Apple?”

“To match the apple curry for dinner.”

“It’s late.” And Chuuya’s still rather full.

“Well, I’m eating it regardless of the time.”

“Kyouka-chan’s fine.” Chuuya remembers the original question when he arrived. “She looks…
happy. Despite the…” He makes some vague hand gestures.

Dazai’s hand stays on his cheek for a few more moments, before sliding down to his neck ever-so-
slowly. Chuuya’s cheek throbs, not in pain per se, but…

“You probably bought her at least twenty crepes.”

Chuuya laughs in agreement, the hand near his throat too warm. “…Am I becoming the support
group for heartbroken people?”

“I thought you said she was happy?”

“She could be happy and heartbroken at the same time.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works.”

“Quite fortunately,” Chuuya mimics Dazai’s words from before, “human beings are able to feel
more than one emotions at once. Isn’t that the point behind humans being social creatures?”

Dazai blinks at him, like he’s trying to absorb him and his words. It feels like an eternity,
confusing and comfortable at once. He doesn’t think to take a step back, even as the grip near his
neck tightens minutely.

“…Pffffft—Chuuya, you’re such a stupid idiot.”

“H-H-Hey!”

☆☆☆

“…I was kidding when I mentioned the support group.”

“Oh come on, Chuuya-san, don’t be like that!”

Chuuya smiles as he raises both of his hands in placation, the lines of his suit remaining
impeccable despite the fact that Higuchi’s not-so-playfully hitting him with her purse.

“Let me start over then,” Chuuya says as he takes a step back and kneels down in front of her,
furnishing the corsage as one would offer an engagement ring. “Higuchi, would you accompany
me to the photography exhibition this evening?”

“That’s so beautiful, Chuuya-san!” Higuchi quickly tugs at his wrists so he can pin the corsage on
her, the glitters on her cocktail dress catching the setting sun’s light. Some of the passersby are
taking pictures of them – Higuchi’s sister being one of them – and he smiles for the cameras,
infectious enthusiasm spilling between them.

He’s driving them to the Yokohama Museum of Art, where one of the rising stars of the
photography world is holding her third exhibit. The theme is all about the future, which is apt as
the exhibition is being held in Minato Mirai.

“Do you think it’ll be awkward?”

“About us, Chuuya-san?”

Chuuya hums as they wait in the slight traffic of cars going towards the museum. “It’s just that…
Tachihara asked me earlier if I don’t think it’s awkward to date a work colleague.”
Higuchi makes choking sounds that has Chuuya concerned, but she waves him off. “…A-And your
reply was…?”

“I don’t think it should be awkward. Dating and work are different things, after all.”

“I’m sure that made him happy.”

“You think? I’m glad then.”

Higuchi’s choking sounds happen again; his concern gets waved off again.

Eventually, they manage to make it to the exhibition, other well-known photographers milling
about, along with some of the wealthier patrons in Yokohama.

“Is that—”

“She is,” Chuuya confirms, but he locks their arms together so that Higuchi will not give in to her
urge to squeal and run towards one of the celebrities and beg for an autograph.

“Ooh, is that—”

Chuuya glances at the direction Higuchi is practically vibrating towards, before confirming that
yes, that’s one of the infamous haute couture models residing in Yokohama.

“Wow, you’re really loaded, Chuuya-san!” Unlike some of his earlier dates and the gossip that
he’s heard, there’s no gold-digging motive in Higuchi’s excitement. “I feel so lucky you took me
tonight!”

He doesn’t comment on his wealth – only a couple of people know him from before, orphaned and
abandoned and clothed in tattered rags and covered in filth. Only Dazai has seen him struggle with
understanding the stock market and investments, self-help books and printed web content all
scattered around him as soon as mission reports are completed. Only Dazai knows of the
untraceable wire transfer to his account two days after his car went ablaze courtesy of the bastard’s
idea of a splashy farewell.

So he only smiles graciously and steers them towards the next photograph, a picture of an exposed
motherboard atop a scattered tableau of metal chips and wires. “You’re welcome. Thank you for
agreeing to come with me too.”

“Nakahara-san, it’s great to see you!” One of the event organizers whirls towards the two of them,
a flute of champagne in her hand. “Our great appreciation as always for your support!”

“Michiko-san, thank you for having me, always glad to be here.” Chuuya recites the well-worn
words, but manages to inject it with enough pomp that it seems sincerely theatrical. “I’m just doing
my part to help support growth of our culture and talent.”

Michiko-san then turns to Higuchi, eyes gleaming in interest at finding yet another one of
Chuuya’s dates. “Nakahara-san is always such a pleasure to be with, isn’t he?”

“He is!”

“Though – is your previous companion not with you?”

Higuchi blinks, both at being ignored and at the question. To her knowledge – and the Port Mafia
grapevine is nothing but not resilient, especially in peacetime when nobody has to do anything too
deadly and time-consuming – the last date that Chuuya had was with Kyouka and she’s hardly the
type to be included in exhibits. (Also, Ane-san would definitely have divulged any and all details
about Kyouka’s date, because she was so very proud and oh-so-very heartbroken about Kyouka’s
maturity.)

Chuuya stiffens and grimaces slightly. “That—he’s…busy with some things.”

“I believe he said that he was simply working on bettering his housekeeping skills, the last time we
spoke.”

Higuchi places a hand over her mouth as she realizes who Michiko-san is talking about.

“He’s fairly… occupied. I’m sure he regrets not being able to come tonight to see yet another
wonderful exhibit you’ve helped put up, Michiko-san.”

A bit more small talk, mostly interspersed with Michiko-san needling Chuuya about Dazai’s
whereabouts. Thankfully, another patron catches the event organizer’s eye and she leaves them
with a flurry of promises to speak more next time.

“…She was… intense.”

“She’s convinced Dazai is the best thing since… wine?” Chuuya’s face twists as he considers that.
What kind of insanity would one have to have in order to think of such a wrong thing, he’d never
want to know.

Higuchi shoots him a strange look. “You disagree?”

“She’s got the worst taste in people.”

Chuuya remembers the last photography exhibition he had attended, Dazai beside him in a tux
despite Chuuya making it clear that he’s NOT invited. Michiko-san had been so delighted to titter
and whisper with Dazai about the flower arrangement and the lighting and the material of his suit
and this and that.

“She has a crush on Dazai-san?”

“Unfortunately.” Chuuya still remembers how Michiko-san had staggered close to Dazai then,
holding on to his arm as they spoke. She hadn’t been subtle at all about her interest, undeterred
even when Dazai made references to guns, even when Chuuya flat-out told her that Dazai was a
pest.

“Aw, no need to worry, Chuuya-san!” Higuchi coos at him, something that she’s definitely going
to regret tomorrow once he submits the final version of their rotation schedule for the next month.
She’ll keep her hours and rest days, but she won’t be working in tandem with Akutagawa anymore
—well, not the male Akutagawa at least.

“I’m not worried, she’s a big girl.”

“I mean, Dazai-san definitely wouldn’t go for her!”

Chuuya snorts, as he brings them to the next photograph: a picture of a person with very realistic
make-up of having a half-android face. “I should hope not, she’s too old for his strike zone.”

“Dazai-san is… twenty-four now?”

“Twenty-five,” absentmindedly, he corrects Higuchi as they make their way to the final photo of
the exhibition, a view from the top (from a helicopter?) of the Minato Mirai area.

“Mm, so he’s the same age as you!”

Similarities between them always irk him, so Chuuya only lets out a disgruntled grunt.

“So I guess he only goes for someone near his age.”

“…Maybe?” He’s not paying particularly attention to the people Dazai has lured before – the guy’s
standards are set pretty low, just as long as they’re pretty and will agree to a double suicide.

Higuchi mutters some more things, something about ‘being the only serious one’, along with
others that are too soft for him to understand. He keeps them together, as they smile and pose for
the cameras when the event organizers ask for a shot near the final piece.

It’s not until Chuuya’s dropping Higuchi off at her place that they speak again. He walks her to the
door and for one terrible moment, he thinks that she’s about to stab him, as she moves in two quick
steps, leaning in close enough that she can whisper to his ear.

Automatically, his hands go to her shoulders, holding her back. “What are you doing, Higuchi?”

Higuchi blinks at him, confusion on her face. “Um, after spending an evening together, a kiss is a
nice ending to it?”

“You wanted to kiss me?”

“J-Just your cheek!” Higuchi flails a bit so Chuuya lets her shoulders go. “Just your cheek, as
thanks, because it seemed polite, I swear—”

So spending an evening together warrants a kiss? He can’t quite remember reading that from his
books or seeing that—wait. Huh. A number of movies that he’s seen has the leads kissing (or
attempting to, at least) at the end of spending time together.

But in that case—

“But not always, right?” Chuuya frowns as he tries to make a quick mental checklist. “Dazai
doesn’t try to kiss me after we spend time together.”

Higuchi’s gaping at him, so Chuuya adds: “…thank god for that.”

Higuchi’s still standing shell-shocked, so Chuuya sighs and knocks on her apartment door so her
sister can let her in after some pleasantries. She doesn’t even react when he reaches out and drops a
feather-light kiss on her hands as he thanks her for the evening.

☆☆☆

“Oh, you’re awake.”

Chuuya yawns as he rubs the crust out of his eyes, curtains drawn but bedside lamp bright inside
his room. Dazai’s standing near the foot of the bed, rubbing a towel over his hair, making it stick
out in all directions.
He looks utterly ridiculous.

“You look ridiculous.”

Dazai’s eyebrow is pointedly raised at him. “So says the one whose hair is tangled everywhere.”

“Did we… I don’t remember going to bed.”

“You ended up snoring halfway through the movie.” Dazai’s lips are twitching though, even as he
tries for a mock-serious look as he relates what happened last night after he arrived from sending
Higuchi off. “And being the gallant and gentlemanly gentleman that I am, I carried you to bed.”

Chuuya winces as he feels a faint crick on his arms and legs. “Why do I feel as though I got
dragged against the floor?”

“Ignorance is bliss, Chuuya.”

“I fucking hate you.”

(“I hate you too, Chuuya~~~♪” – he can hear those words whispered into him, but the voice is
sounding fainter and fainter as time goes by.)

Dazai only hums at him, sitting down on the bed beside Chuuya despite being slightly damp from
his shower, protests and complaints about getting the bed wet soundly ignored.

Something strange whirrs inside him – snippets of thoughts about ‘spending time together’ and
‘kissing on the cheek’ and Dazai’s really insufferable and he has this gnawing, knowing, feeling at
his stomach that Dazai will end up flabbergasted if he goes through with this.

Though come to think of it, how is it any different from bestowing kisses upon the hands of his
dates? It’s not too different, really. It’s all just part of things that people do.

So Chuuya leans sideways, his left hand resting on Dazai’s knee to balance himself, and presses a
kiss to the apple of Dazai’s cheek, practically tasting the apples ripened on Dazai’s skin.

Dazai goes stock-still, pale and rigid and it’s almost like he’s gone as still as a corpse. Chuuya
grins at him, victorious about his guess regarding the other’s reaction. Instead of crowing in victory
though, he just says simply: “Thanks.”

And he flounces off towards his bathroom, humming all the way.

☆☆☆

“CHUUYA-SAN!!!”

“What.”

“DID I DO SOMETHING WRONG?!”

“I don’t think so?” Chuuya squints at Higuchi – she’s way too panicked. He hasn’t released the
new rotation schedules so he’s not quite sure what’s going on. “Did something happen?”
 His phone buzzes against his thigh as she wails and flails and makes a racket in his office. “WHY
DID DAZAI-SAN SEND ME A GIFT PACKAGE I’M TOO SCARED TO OPEN IT WHAT IF
IT’S A BOMB I’M TOO YOUNG TO DIE.”

Chuuya rolls his eyes about the dramatics. “You work for the Port Mafia, death is part of our job.”

“I GOT A GIFT PACKAGE FROM DAZAI-SAN. FROM THAT DAZAI-SAN.”

“Is it expensive?”

“I DID NOT OPEN IT.”

“Let me know if it’s expensive – that fucker should pay me back for dinner the other night if he
has money to buy other shit.” Chuuya can see that it’s not helping Higuchi calm down. “…Not that
I’m saying gifts to you are shit, Higuchi.”

“WHY IS HE BEING NICE TO ME?!” Higuchi wails louder. He needs to calm her down, or else
her voice will summon Gin, which will then prompt Akutagawa to check in, and then— “WHAT
ABOUT THE OTHER PEOPLE YOU DATED, WHY DON’T THEY GET THIS PASSIVE-
AGGRESSIVE DEATH THREATS?!”

“It’s a gift. Probably a bomb so it’s not really a threat. Did you hide the gift from Motojirou? He’d
want to blow it up—do it away from the headquarters, okay?”

“CHUUYA-SAN, THIS IS NOT OKAY, DON’T SOUND SO BLASÉ ABOUT THIS.”

“Just open it somewhere safe, be ready to run like hell away, there’s no need to worry.”

“NO NEED TO WORRY—?!”

Ah, he can already hear the rest of the Black Lizard Squad approaching his office. He takes out his
phone – it’s been buzzing nonstop like a particularly irritating bee for the past few minutes – and
promptly deletes a nearly-Higuchi-hysterical text message from M A C K E R E L.

[ Chuuya, is this yet another one of your French fever shenanigans?! ]

Given that the rest of the twenty unread messages are from Dazai, he deletes them all and places
his phone on silent.

It’s bound to be a long day.

(Strangely enough, he feels like he’s smiling all throughout the day.)

Chapter End Notes

• i promise gin/yosano/naomi will be the dates next chapter!!! they were gonna be
here, but it was already 4k+, it's too long lol

some ramblings!!!

• I mentioned this on some of my replies, but Chuuya being dense… well, it’s one part
because I want Dazai to suffer and pine LOL but mostly because… Chuuya’s lived his
life being part of the mafia. He’s always had his Ability. Taking away those things – a
peaceful world that doesn’t really NEED the mafia, a world where he’s not feared
because of his Ability – he’s gonna be a bit lost. I HC him as someone who’s never
had a “normal” life and he’s never had to think about what it means to be really happy.
Everything that’s not related to fighting, he has to actually learn. His idea about
normality/happiness comes from books/TV/pop culture/other people. He… doesn’t
realize, (yet), that being “normal” and being happy… he doesn’t have to follow what
everyone else does. He doesn’t realize (yet) that having Dazai with him is what’s
normal, is what makes him happy.

• in addition to above, I’ve been building up Chuuya’s home (and Dazai’s invasion of
it LOL) as part of Chuuya’s development. I made sure to not have Chuuya reference
his apartment as “home”, because Chuuya doesn’t feel like it’s home yet. I’m
alternating the domestic scenes between different rooms, because Dazai’s invading
everything and Chuuya’s slowly-but-SURELY noticing it 8D once he acknowledges
that his apartment has become a home because of Dazai’s presence… wELL. I hope
you’re all looking forward to that.

• lastly!!! Isn’t it wonderful that Chuuya has like, 4 different modes? There’s the
drunk!Chuuya, the everyday-life!Chuuya (polite, prim-and-proper, good senpai), the
fighting!Chuuya… and the Dazai!Chuuya. his interaction w/Dazai is so different than
his interactions with everyone else, it’s amazing to see.

:D :D :D
 Chapter 4
Chapter Summary

• akutagawa hijacks chuuya's date with his sister

• dazai and chuuya talk about Feelings™ and dazai's Most Important™

Chapter Notes

• thank you as always for reading! ♥

• i cannot believe how fast i'm writing for this. i also cannot believe how i can write so
much for this, this was meant to be under 10k and i'm just at the halfway mark for
these two idiots why did this become such a longfic *sobs forever*

• i know, i know, i promised The Ladies part 2, but the atmosphere of this installment
is different from the fun dates!!!, so i figured i should just separate them??? that way
dazai's "confession" (poor guy) can be the chapter's ending lol

See the end of the chapter for more notes

☆☆☆

“How do you feel about dating Gin-chan?”

Chuuya quirks an eyebrow at the question, pausing in his folding of his just-dried clothes. It’s a
cool Sunday afternoon, lunch heavy in his stomach as the entire apartment smells of an odd mix of
detergent and chocolate-curry-cooked-by-Chuuya. Most of his Sundays start late, especially if he
has a date that goes well into the evening of the day before, so Chuuya rarely manages to finishes
all of his chores in the day.

Rarely—at least, before Dazai barged in, uninvited, to his apartment and started spending more
time here, helping out with the chores almost as enthusiastically as he bought more and more things
that filled his living space.

Almost as an extension of their partnership that managed to function without much words
exchanged between them (not just because Chuuya felt like he was about to go bald from the stress
born out of dealing with the bandage bastard) – they’re able to split the chores between them
without actual discussion.

Chuuya handles the ironing (because Dazai and something hot and dangerous… just no), the
folding of clothes and storing them in the closet (because Dazai’s the type to not have any sort of
order with his clothes, storing his socks beside his handkerchiefs, or folding his shirts in-between
his pants), as well as anything that required a lot of physical exertion (because Dazai’s flimsy arms
are… pfft).

Dazai takes care of the laundry and the dishwashing and cleaning of the toilet and presumably
everything else.

It should make Chuuya guilty, but given that Dazai eats junk food while on the couch as he
channel-surfs… cleaning up his messes should be his own job.

So, just like the past Sundays (to be honest, Chuuya can’t remember when exactly it had started),
he folds the clothes while Dazai… does something, flitting around the house.

Unlike past Sundays that don’t pose questions to Chuuya that he’s not prepared for, however…

“…so? Do you approve of Gin-chan?” Dazai approaches him, tips of his sleeves wet from his
chores. He’s wearing a plain white shirt and plain white boxers and it’s so… not Dazai that Chuuya
averts his eyes from the sight, mind screaming at him as to how it doesn’t compute. “Did you hear
me or have you become deaf, baldie?”

“I’m not bald!” Chuuya doesn’t even understand how baldness relates to deafness, really. “And I’m
not deaf either.”

“So, your answer?”

“…I’m surprised you’re asking me.”

“Mm, I figured I should check in if you’ve already decided on the love of your life, after all.”

There’s a tiny pause, smoothed over by Chuuya’s fingers folding over fabrics. “Are you still going
on about those pictures?”

Dazai pauses for a moment as well, eyes boring at him. “The entertainment section of the local
newspaper is still going on about the pictures.”

“Can’t help themselves, I suppose.” Chuuya rolls his eyes when Dazai exaggerates grossed-out
faces at him, but doesn’t resist the unvoiced offer to help him place the clothes to their proper
places. “I looked dashing there. And so does Higuchi.”

“Pffft, I caught how she was an afterthought, you narcissist.”

“Shut the hell up.”

“So you’re good with Gin-chan?”

“I don’t foresee Akutagawa being okay with this.”

“I am doubtful that you know how to answer questions.” He ignores Dazai’s pouting. “I’m so, so
disappointed, Chuuya~~~♫”

“Why would you even think that I have an issue with her?”

“…You are pretty laidback when it comes to your dating criteria.”

Chuuya sighs as he doesn’t protest Dazai linking their arms together – it’s too tiring to resist and
it’s not like it actually hurts. “I can’t find what I want if I don’t try as much as I can.”
“Some would argue that narrowing the sample size would be better.”

“What would be my criteria for selection?” Chuuya allows Dazai to tug the two of them towards
the couch. “I don’t even know what exactly—”

Dazai’s tone is light and teasing, with just the right touch of nostalgia. That’s how Chuuya knows
that he’s serious. “You’ve always been accepting of a lot of things.”

“If I can stand dealing with a gloomy, clumsy guy who kept on using English with me despite my
protests about hating the language…”

“Just for that comment, I’m gonna kick your ass in Resident Evil.”

Chuuya nearly sighs in relief at Dazai swerving their conversation away from their past; instead, he
pastes a cocky grin on his face as he wriggles his (always gloved) fingers against the console. “No
matter the result, I’ll kick your ass for real too.”

☆☆☆

“…why are you here?”

“I’m… here for your date.”

Chuuya doesn’t understand.

“…but you’re already dating Atsushi-kun.”

Akutagawa’s face proves that it’s possible to look like an unhealthy cross of lovesickness, disgust,
so-done-with-the-world, constipation and murderous intent. It’s almost fascinating to watch, if only
it isn’t concerning how it looks like he’s about to choke on the spot. Chuuya prompts the man in
front of him, “Are you alright?”

“I… care about my sister.” Akutagawa takes a visible steadying breath, the words foreign on his
tongue. Chuuya knows – living in the Port Mafia, in Yokohama while she’s filled with criminals
and criminal Ability-users alike, isn’t the best environment to admit about having any traceable
weakness. “I will not put her in Dazai-san’s way.”

“It’s Dazai who brokered this date though.”

“Dazai-san is utterly ridiculous when it comes to you.”

“He is ridiculous,” Chuuya agrees as he recalls their breakfast earlier with purple-colored eggs
from Dazai’s experiments with yam. “All the time.”

“No, not that kind of ridiculous you’re thinking of,” Akutagawa corrects him with a shake of his
head.

Chuuya raises an eyebrow at that, sipping at his tea. With Gin not here – probably not for the
foreseeable future, given her brother’s overprotectiveness – it’s best to start drinking the drink he
ordered before going to his table. “Developed mind-reading?”

Akutagawa bristles at that, probably remembering the argument he had with Atsushi two days ago
(something that Chuuya’s aware of from different sources: (1) from Dazai’s embellished,
exaggerated retelling of the entire conversation even if he wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near the
two during the time; (2) from Atsushi’s odd mix of tears and anger as he asked Chuuya out for a
quick coffee so he could vent out; (3) from Higuchi’s half-excited and half-distressed rambling as
to whether this means she has a chance to be noticed by her senpai; (4) from Akutagawa’s mouth
himself as he had ambushed Chuuya inside his office to dispassionately recite what had happened).

Long story short—the argument is because of some assumptions, failures in communication and
lack of fluffy hugs. Atsushi has apparently yelled something about Akutagawa being the worst at
mind-reading during the process.

A few seconds of bristling – just like an angry cat, Chuuya muses – but Akutagawa manages to
recover. “You were smiling fondly as you were saying the word.”

“I was not.” Chuuya can feel his lips stretch a bit, so he schools them to a sterner line. “There was
zero fondness whatsoever – have you seen that guy’s sorry omelets? I’d probably die within the
next hour from food poisoning.”

“I haven’t seen any of Dazai-san’s cooking.” Akutagawa says that slowly, like he’s speaking to a
particularly stupid child. It’s such a Dazai thing, tugging at Chuuya’s ribs for some well-
experienced annoyance and familiarity and irritation. “He makes it a point to not do any sort of
chores.”

“But he’s—”

Huh.

Before, when they were roomed side-by-side as they were partners, Dazai had made it a point to
whine and groan and throw a tantrum whenever he had to do anything that’s not what he wanted
(and it was usually just a shuffle between being a creepy asshole, torturing others, acting like a
general sadist, playing game after game like a spoiled child, destroying each and every strand of
Chuuya’s patience). Chores did not factor in, at all.

(Space and time for chores didn’t factor in, at all, for everything was following orders, executing
people, spreading destruction.)

…Huh.

“—Chuuya-san?”

“Sorry, I spaced out.”

“I could tell - you had your ‘Dazai-san look’.”

Chuuya’s lips twitch as he says: “My face automatically feels my disgust of that man.”

“You are also ridiculous when it comes to him.”

“Akutagawa, you’re a good kid and all, but that is so wrong.”

☆☆☆
“Dazai! Why are you doing my chores?!”

The slow blinking that answers him is almost painfully loud. Dazai is sprawled over his couch, a
bowl of popcorn on his stomach held in place by his left hand curled over it, his right hand hanging
off the couch and touching the carpeted floor. Both of the man’s legs are stretched out, nearly
hanging off the couch’s arm. The television’s bright display is colorful, almost as vivid as the
pinkish-red afternoon sunlight streaming into his apartment.

“…I’m not?”

Dazai’s watching an afternoon drama – doesn’t look like Higuchi’s favorite overdramatic dubbed
Spanish ones, but it does look romantic and sappy to make him want to gag. He looks so…
comfortable, his bare feet almost heart-stopping in their presence, even if he’s been seeing Dazai in
shirts and boxers as he pads around in house slippers a lot of times recently. He looks like he’s
passing time while he’s waiting, but the only thing he can be waiting for at this moment is Chuuya
coming back. Or maybe the primetime news.

He’s not doing something so uncharacteristic from the mafia partner he knows, such as doing
chores, but it’s still so jarring. No, this is also out-of-character for his ex-partner – comfortable
laziness did not have any room in their lives before.

This… almost-soft Dazai is—

“I mean. Why do you do my laundry?!”

“Don’t sound so scandalized, I didn’t ruin any of your clothes.”

“That’s not the point!”

“Why are you complaining about me taking your hands off your chores?”

“I’m not complaining,” he insists with a tone that’s only fifty-percent petulant now. “I’m asking
why.”

Dazai tilts his head at him, brown air fanning behind him with the motion, dark ink against the
white pillowcases of the throw cushions. Chuuya has the distinct feeling that he’s being dissected
where he stands, gloves on his hands unable to ward off the chill from the stare.

“I don’t do anything I don’t want to do, Chuuya.”

Chuuya opens his mouth, knowing that he’s about to say something bad again, about to quip about
staying in the Port Mafia despite his misgivings, about to retort something about continuing to live
despite clamoring for death—

But Dazai’s always been one step ahead of everyone, including him. So he adds, a quiet smile on
his face: “…Not anymore.”

“…so you want to do my laundry?”

“I am doubtful you know how to understand words, Chuuya. So disappointing~~~♫”

Chuuya rolls his eyes as he sits atop Dazai’s legs, feeling the strain on the other’s limbs. He
doesn’t relent, going so far as to lean back on his couch to make himself comfortable, even if there
are two wiry legs under his ass.
“I just wanted to confirm your intentions in continuing to handle my laundry.”

“Pfft, you and your love affair with your clothes.”

“It’s—it’s not a love affair!”

“I know.”

Chuuya squints down at Dazai, unsurprised to find the man staring back at him, the drama going
by unwatched. “You… you said that weirdly.”

“Can you define what’s weird about it?”

“It’s just. Not normal.” Chuuya thinks about it a little more, but can’t grasp it, the moment slipping
by his fingers. “Your tone. Something about it.”

“So you know me enough to know what’s normal.”

“I’ve known you for more than ten years, jackass.”

“Technically, I’ve known Mori-san longer, but I assure you he wouldn’t be able to call that weird.”

“Are you sure? Mori-san’s fairly good at reading you.”

“Mm, but that’s regarding plans, fights, games.” Dazai looks like he’s re-imagining every single
one of Mori-san’s faults. “He’s shit when it comes to emotions, personal things. It’s why
Fukuzawa-san is so confused.”

“Why are we discussing those two?”

“Seems apt to discuss slow-acting couples.”

“Those two knew each other for a long time, right?” Chuuya tries to remember Ane-san telling him
about Mori-san’s past as a doctor. “We’re doing much better than them.”

Dazai’s legs jerk violently under him and Chuuya almost yelps as he crashes sideways, his seat
shaken up. He lands against Dazai’s chest – a pained oof escaping him, as his forehead is clipped
by the other’s chin.

After a few moments, the heartbeat underneath him thunderously loud in its drumbeats, Dazai
manages to mumble: “…you’re heavy, Chuuya.”

“I am not,” he whispers against the thin cotton shirt, his head whirring and whirling with so many
different thoughts.

“Though I will not deny that we’re doing better than them. Kittens love you and everyone else
loves me.”

“You, bandage bastard, are sorely mistaken about that.”

“Everyone else aside from you, huh?”

It’s not true, but Chuuya finds his lips burnt by the contact against Dazai’s very flimsy shirt, it
almost feels like he’s whispering against the other’s heart, the way they’re positioned like this.

And when he lifts his head, tilts his chin slightly, it almost looks like Dazai’s blushing, the
 sunset’s colors painting his entire face a dark rose.

And when he backs down from the too-long stare between them, dropping his head back to Dazai’s
chest, he realizes that Dazai’s pendant isn’t there anymore.

(He remembers mocking Dazai’s new, disgusting, fashion choices after the other has left the mafia,
Dazai calmly returning his jabs about everything, except when he’s reached the part where he’s
insulting the emerald-green pendant. He remembers Dazai saying that it’s to keep things most
important close to his heart, the words almost-romantic and definitely not matching the freezing
glare on his face.)

Even someone like Dazai has something important. It’s strange, to think that someone as
accomplished, bastardly, cruel and deadly as the other can find time to think about important
things. It’s all those multi-tasking skills, the other will claim teasingly.

“It’s gone.”

Dazai hums, sounding so serene that Chuuya almost doesn’t notice the weight at the back of his
head, cradling him close. And Dazai must want to do so, because he claims to not do anything he
doesn’t want. But even a child can want a lot of things, a lot of them nonsensical. So—

“I already have what’s most important close to my heart right now.”

And when he closes his eyes, he imagines Dazai finding his happiness.

Even someone like Dazai is capable of achieving something as normal as getting the thing he
wants.

It’s hard for him to resent the man for finding it ahead of him – Dazai has always been one step
ahead of everyone, especially him, after all.

He remembers reading the dossier on Oda, tracing the words that cannot fully bring to life the
relationship strong enough to shake Yokohama’s foundations and future.

“Don’t be an idiot and let it go this time.”

Dazai chuckles, the hand at the back of his head moving ever-so-slightly, still-present, infinitely-
warm.

“I promise you, I never will.”

Chapter End Notes

• trufact: dazai threw the popcorn bowl to the ground but neither of them noticed lol
• also, if you know me (and/or read some of my other stuff), you know that pendant's
contents already lol
• chuuya sort-of-but-not-quite shipping oda/dazai is the type of delicious irony i live
for *gets bricked*

• see you next water time, thanks as always for dropping by! ♥
 Chapter 5
Chapter Summary

• chuuya & gin go on a shopping date!

• dazai demonstrates his utter inability to not be clingy

• this chapter, a quick summary:

gin: i've always thought you're beautiful, chuuya-san

chuuya: aw, child, you're beautiful too

Chapter Notes

• thank you again for tuning in to the tale of Chuuya’s denseness™ LOL
• also, i'm sorry, i suck at estimating my chapter lengths, why is this chapter at 3k
already i haven't even gone through half of what i need to write orz

See the end of the chapter for more notes

☆☆☆

“…you want anything?”

Chuuya doesn’t raise his head from his spot on the new ergonomic armchair in his living room, yet
another purchase that he didn’t exactly authorize, but hey, the right balance of softness and
firmness against his back is hard to find, so he’s willing to forgive this one. Also, it’s spacious
enough that he can sit on it cross-legged quite comfortably. One of Dazai’s rare good purchases,
surely.

“…World peace, a new coat, a good Camembert, a bottle of Egon Muller-Scharzhof

Scharzhofberger Riesling Trockenbeerenauslese?”

“You just wanted to hear yourself nail that tongue-twister of a wine name,” Dazai accuses as he
slides his arms through his coat, a grey peacoat that looks handsome on him. This year’s autumn is
the coldest in recent memory and it’s just beginning. Chuuya doesn’t remember pausing in his
reading, but he does look back down when Dazai’s lips twitch at him, catching him on his idle
staring.

“I’m going out later anyway,” Chuuya says instead, a few hours away from his next appointment.

“Oh? A date?”

“Gin asked me to accompany her shopping.”

“I wonder if Akutagawa-kun knows about that.”

“If she manages to make it to our meeting place, probably not.” Chuuya looks at Dazai again, a bit
thrown off by the sight of Dazai making preparations to leave his apartment. It’s been months and
this is probably the first time he’s seen Dazai leave—of course, not counting anything prior to the
Ability-removal operation. Dazai has left him behind so many times before this strange
companionable rapport they’ve established, that it’s nonsensical for it to be so… strange, abnormal,
to see him do so now.

It should be normal, Dazai leaving him behind.

It should be, but it somehow isn’t.

It should be.

“I’m just going to the grocer one block away,” Dazai ends up saying, both hands pressed against
Chuuya’s folded knees, “then maybe shop around a bit. I’ll be back.”

Chuuya blinks, but the sight doesn’t change: of those hands, the unbandaged parts, pale and some
veins visible, light against the dark material of his pants.

“…I’d rather you don’t.” He manages to say the words, but they come out strangled, his mouth
dry.

The hands curl around both his kneecaps for a moment, squeezing them, before they slide off.
Dazai’s voice sounds like he’s half-laughing: “I’m hurt, hatrack. I’d probably end up cancelling a
certain order I made to a certain someone’s favorite hat-making company for a certain limited-
edition hat design.”

“I can buy that hat for myself, asshole.”

“Mm, but the order window is already closed. Only ten orders for the design forever~~~♫”

Chuuya mentally weighs the pros and cons, but then again, HATS. “Fine, you can be back. I’ll be
out with Gin later though.”

“That’s fine, I’m not that clingy, slug.”

“Fuck you and your stinky coat, mackerel.”

“You like my coat – I’ve seen you staring at it!”

“I do not,” aghast and annoyed at being caught, Chuuya swats at the other and shoves Dazai away
from him.

“Liar, liar, pants on fire~~~♪”

“Just go, goddamnit.”

☆☆☆

“You look… tired, Chuuya-san.”

“I’m not,” he automatically responds, a smile easily sliding to his expression in an effort to make
her more comfortable. “I’m happy to be in your company, Gin-chan.”

Gin’s foregone her usual spiky hairstyle, as well as her mouthguard, revealing the feminine face
that she so sort-of shares with her brother—and no, this isn’t the time to think about Akutagawa
with longer hair and a smile, because it’s probably going to show up as horror on his face and he
can’t do that to Gin.

“You should have told me if you were busy, Chuuya-san.”

“I wasn’t.” Chuuya’s glad that he’s seated beside her – a bit forward compared to most of his first
dates – since her voice hasn’t really evolved into something louder. “I told you – I’m happy to
accompany you. Did you have an idea of what you want to buy?”

“I was hoping to buy something for my brother and his lover.” Gin’s long hair flutters in the breeze
that passes; Chuuya can feel the stares of some of the patrons of the restaurant they’re in. He’s
opted for a table outside despite the autumn chill, because the garden around the place is
particularly beautiful, with its carpet of reds and browns, some odd flowers in yellow blooms.
“And I wanted to spend some time with you, Chuuya-san.”

He can sense either a bet from some of the Black Lizard Squad members or Dazai pressuring her
because that asshole is the type to stick to his plans even if they don’t really make sense –
especially if it can cause Chuuya some problem one way or another. Though, it’s also equally
possible that Gin just wants to go against her brother’s overprotective streak.

Either way: “I’m honored you’d want to spend your afternoon with me.”

Conversation flows in tranquil waves between them – the only spike being that time he offered his
outer coat to her, thick wool perfect for the weather, something that he brought along for the
express purpose of being offered to his date. He hears the sighing from their neighboring tables.

Once their late lunch is finished, they opt not to get dessert yet, not until they manage to complete
their shopping itinerary.

As they leave, he holds out his arm for her, but he doesn’t quite hold her hand. He’s never really
held hands with any of his dates so far, the thought of someone touching his hands, even through
his gloves, for an extended period of time not really sitting well with him. He can still feel the
whispers of power inside his veins, the increased pull causing streaks of reddish-black to form
rivulets of taint all over his skin, forming the most on his fingers that manipulate gravity.

Gin doesn’t comment about his reluctance, slipping her arm inside the space he’s created, linking
them close enough that nobody will second-guess that they’re companions, separating them far
enough that everybody will second-guess if they’re actually lovers.

She didn’t strike him as someone who’s into things noted on magazines for teenage girls, but she’s
dressed in a stylish dress, knee-high boots in the same design as what’s popular for this season,
small purse fashionable enough to go with her outfit and big enough to contain a handgun, light
dusting of make-up brightening up her face, simple pair of earrings and necklace on her.

Then again, being Akutagawa’s sister, even if it’s not particularly well-known to the lower ranks,
carries enough of pressure on its own. Not to mention sharing the same past as him… – and he
hates Dazai a little bit for sharing Akutagawa’s backstory with him, telling him the very night after
the man took him into his wing. With or without Abilities in this world, liking cute and normal
things are still seen as a weakness, after all.
“Brother could use a warmer coat,” Gin murmurs as they go inside the first apparel shop they find,
just a few streets away from Motomachi. There’s bound to be more clothing shops there, but given
the imported European brands that cluster on that shopping street, it might exceed Gin’s budget.
While he doesn’t mind paying for it or lending her money, he doesn’t want to offer it too early, in
case she also has the classic Akutagawa Allergy against anything that can be misconstrued as
charity or pity.

“He could use an entirely new outfit.” He doesn’t see Akutagawa deviating from his fashion when
he still has Rashomon as his sentient coat, but it’s been years. It’s definitely time to revamp his
closet. “Maybe I should buy him clothes for Christmas too, even if he hates it.”

“Christmas isn’t until a few months.”

“Atsushi said that he’s already breaking Akutagawa on the idea as early as now.”

“…a wise idea.” Gin has a sparkle in her eye, excited at the idea of her brother actually agreeing to
celebrating Christmas without having to pull teeth. “I should buy him two presents then.”

“I’ll buy Atsushi a gift too – as congratulations if he succeeds in his endeavor.”

Gin laughs, dainty and song-bird like. He’s reminded of her, small and trembling and shy, when
she first entered the Port Mafia while hiding behind her brother’s leg. “He’ll succeed. Brother’s
useless against him.”

“I don’t want to say useless…” He then remembers Atsushi texting him about Akutagawa’s
adorableness as he trips over his futon (the actual mail was filled with more typos, emojis and
exclamation marks, strung together with incoherent squeeing—but he got the main gist of the
message even if he’s only actually read the first 140 characters). “…well, okay, he’s a little bit
useless when it comes to Atsushi.”

“I didn’t think I’d get to see my brother even attempt to smile.”

“That Atsushi’s a real miracle worker, isn’t he?” Chuuya nudges her when she looks like she’s
about to sob in happiness as she’s definitely remembering their unsavory childhood. “Your brother
deserves to be happy. You too, Gin-chan.”

Gin laughs again, this time tinged with an almost-sob. “…you sound so old, sometimes, Chuuya-
san.”

“Do I get to be your cool uncle?”

“I remember when I first saw you – you were wearing such flashy clothes.”

Chuuya tries to think back on their first meeting: Mori-san busy on meetings with top government
officials so he isn’t present; Dazai a stony presence with arms crossed over his chest, coldly
looking down his nose at his new acquisition to the guerilla squad. He was there… he literally ran
from his prior mission (he was given more and more single missions since the days leading to
Dazai’s promotion), he was wearing a kimono because it was an undercover mission, and since he
ran right after the mission because of how important the meeting apparently was, he was covered
in the blood of his enemies.

“I was confused at first – you were wearing kimono and your hair was loose and you looked so
beautiful then. But then you started yelling at Dazai-san for taking in stray children into the mafia
like some ‘fucked-up orphanage’. I didn’t know the term then, but you were being the ‘good cop’
to Dazai-san’s ‘bad cop routine’.”
Chuuya cringes slightly at that recollection, “I must have looked like some weirdo crashing that
meeting.”

“Dazai-san was expecting you. He told us that if we were to be useful to him and his squad, we
needed to know about his partner.”

Chuuya tugs at some of the shirts, all cotton, all in white or cream, because colors are just not
Akutagawa’s thing. He moves towards the display for scarves, a few steps away from the shirt
racks, where Gin’s testing the texture of some of the scarves there. Maybe a blood-red cashmere
scarf will do wonders for the kid – one flashy color amidst all the black and white?

“I guess that bastard remembers that we’re partners on the most convenient timings.”

“The way he was talking…” Gin’s wistful tone turns sly. “…I thought that he was going to
introduce to us to our new mother.”

Chuuya chokes on thin air.

“T-T-T-That’s—!” He remembers his outfit that day again – he must have looked like one of those
mistresses that Dazai cycled through faster than underwear. Even while covered in blood. Gin’s
smiling at him. “You’re teasing me, Gin-chan.”

“I’m really not.”

“Well, I guess it is true that I’m prettier than that bastard.” Chuuya considers her and makes a
mental note to have them swing by one of the jewelry shops in the station area, so he can buy her a
good souvenir too. Maybe a sunflower-inspired hairclip or a chandelier earring. “You’re prettier
than both of us combined though. I’m glad you turned out to be beautiful despite having a stupid
bandage bastard of a father.”

Gin laughs once again, calls him silly, and buys the clothes for her brother.

“Let’s grab dessert after going to Takashimaya?”

“Is that where we can find gifts for Atsushi-san?”

“The department store is safe because it has a lot of things. Atsushi enjoys any and all things, after
all.”

“I was thinking of buying him things for his pet.”

“You can, but Ane-san is planning on sending him a gift check for one of the high-end pet shops
already.”

Gin pauses, before considering: “Is it because brother’s in a good mood recently?”

“He apparently laughed happily enough and Mori-san heard him.” Chuuya smirks as he remembers
Ane-san laughing evilly at that. “Mori-san was apparently spooked enough and Ane-san bet with
him about that.”

“I don’t think I want to know the rest of the details.”

“Wise girl.”
 ☆☆☆

It’s getting chillier now, but since his car is still being serviced and it’s not like he minds a little
physical exertion, he’s walking back from his date with Gin – she managed to buy a backpack for
Atsushi that he can use when he finally manages to convince Akutagawa that they’re not going to
die if they spend a weekend sightseeing in Tokyo – when he sees him.

He’s caught off-guard – not a good sign for someone supposedly training to become the new Port
Mafia Boss (supposedly, because Mori-san’s gallivanting with the Agency’s President 24/7 and
he’s doing the same things as before so it’s not like anything’s changing?).

He’s caught so off-guard that the first thing that slips past his mouth is: “You said you weren’t
clingy!”

Dazai has the nerve to laugh at him, a paper bag with the logo of the cheese store in this area on his
left hand. He’s walking towards him, still in that handsome grey peacoat, even though it’s not
buttoned all the way. He’s removing the coat as he approaches, a strange type of stripping in the
middle of the road and he’s not ready to be arrested by the police for public indecency!

“Don’t look so panicked,” Dazai chides him as Chuuya eventually realizes what’s happening –
Dazai removing his larger coat so he can place it over his shoulders. “I knew you’d give your coat
to Gin-san like a gentleman.”

“Stop predicting me.” Chuuya knows that his request falls on deaf ears anyway. He doesn’t resist
Dazai tugging his bags of purchases away from him: two shirts and one scarf for Akutagawa, a
guide-to-Tokyo handbook and a matching scarf for Atsushi… and three new games for Dazai.

Dazai matches his pace in walking, their arms brushing as they make their way back to Chuuya’s
apartment. He keeps his hands in his pockets. He’s still a bit full from the cheesecake and coffee,
so he can take his time making dinner tonight.

“If only you’re not so predictable~~~♫”

“You walked around for hours and you only bought that?”

“Mm, if you must know…” Dazai lets out an exaggerated put-upon sigh. “I went back to your
place, but the TV shows were boring, so I ended up going out again to amuse myself!”

“I got you some more games – please stop ruining my apartment with your boredom.”

“Why do you make it sound like I’m throwing popcorn all over your living room when I’m
bored?”

“Because you did exactly that just a couple of days ago?!”

“That was one time, Chuuya, let it go.”

“Fuck you and the shit vacuuming job you did afterward.”

“I hired a cleaner after that!”

“Urgh. Don’t remind me, I hate people going to my apartment.”

“Which explains all of your pick-at-home dry cleaning.” Dazai adjusts the bags on his hand and
 Chuuya has a feeling of what’s going to happen next seconds before it actually does. It doesn’t
make it any less surprising to feel Dazai’s arm drape over his shoulders to keep the lent coat from
slipping off of him though. “As well as your sign-on-delivery purchases.”

“I don’t like them going inside.”

Dazai’s hand doesn’t leave, keeping the coat in place even as they continue their trek amidst the
scattered fallen leaves whirling about in the breeze. So Chuuya feels it stiffen, for a brief,
dismissible moment.

“…I didn’t say I wasn’t clingy.” Dazai huffs a breath, deep and loud. Chuuya keeps his hands in his
pockets. “I just said I wasn’t that clingy.”

“Pffft, semantics, you damn octopus.”

Dazai doesn’t reply and he doesn’t remove his arm, even as they ride the elevators up to his suite.

Chapter End Notes

• trufact: dazai really did go home early, but then thought about whether it's too needy
to buy the Camembert cheese chuuya mentioned at the beginning of the chapter, but
figured why the fuck not, he'll just go back out to buy it;;;;

• up next (tho given my pace, it's probs gonna be 1 date per chapter) (also given my
general failure to predict myself, that can also be false):

naomi ("i still haven't forgiven you for doing bondageplay with my nii-san!"), yosano
("let's have a drinking contest!"), ranpo ("buy eVERYTHING FOR ME"), motojirou
(FOR SCIENCE), tanizaki & poe (so they won't feel left out lol). & of course, the big
3: tachihara (senpai finally noticed me!) + ango (chuuya/'traitors' otp) + fyodor (but
he's in jail in this timeline, you say. don't worry, i gotchu fam)
 intermission: your heart is my home
Chapter Summary

• intermission: dazai's pov! :)

• as requested in the tumblr ask about dazai pov for this chuuya-harem fic lol
• this is set in the past, just moments after the Final Fight-o with Fyodor
• this is, quite literally, the moment dazai realizes his feelings for chuuya

• warnings: drunk!chuuya + DAZAI

• thank you as always for your support ♥ ♥ ♥

He’s leaning against a cool metal railing, splintered off from all of its buddies on the ceiling above
that—oh dear, it looks like it’s all precarious and about to collapse on top of him.

On a day where everything has happened so far according to his plans—managing to use No
Longer Human against Crime and Punishment just before both of their Abilities have been erased,
restraining and gagging the Demon so that he’s ready for detainment, orchestrating every single
person at his disposal so that they’ll arrive at this precise moment—getting crushed by an unstable
building seems like a fitting end.

If he manages to just slide a couple more meters to the right, using his blood to lessen the friction
of his body against the flooring, he’ll reach and topple over a broken tenth-floor window. He’ll
have even more internal bleeding, some more broken bones, possibility of dying at more than fifty
percent. Then again, if he stays here as the ceiling collapses – Atsushi-kun and Akutagawa-kun do
not know the meaning of restraint when fighting, even as temporary allies – there’s a ninety-nine
percent chance of dying.

It’s been a long twenty-two years. He’s managed to save people, screw some people over, helped
others live, pushed others to death. He’s managed to stop a worldwide disaster – even at the cost of
having Abilities permanently erased from this world – and he’s managed to defeat a long-time
enemy. It’s a fairly eventful life, the gaping hole inside his chest that somehow has been partially
filled by OdaSaku’s outlook in life still churning and gnawing at his entire being.

The people he’s currently with—he respects them, their shining brilliance in accepting life. The
people he’s left behind—he respects them, their grim determination to thrive from the deaths all
around them. He wants to continue existing just as much as he wants to exit this game that has
dragged on for too long.

With his less-damaged arm, he rummages in his coat’s pocket – takes out his phone and a
necklace. To be honest, he’s forgotten about the necklace – he’s removed it from its usual place
prior to the final confrontation with the Demon, in a half-hearted attempt to keep it safe from harm.

Like a lot of things, the necklace started off as a whimsical joke, something that he’s thought of
springing off in its intended target once things were less tense, reserved for a day that he needs
cheering up because there’s always something incredibly fun about seeing that hatrack’s confused
and enraged face. He’s fond of revealing things slowly and purposely, so he’s sure that even until
now, that petit mafia is still not aware of the culprit behind his unevenly-chopped off hair.
So he ignores the necklace for a moment, focusing his efforts on his phone instead. He thinks of
leaving a cryptic dying message – scratch that, multiple cryptic dying messages to various people,
idly wondering if Ranpo-kun will manage to solve it quickly or if he will be tainted by the idea of a
death of a colleague, lazily speculating the chances of the midget drowning himself in bottles of
wine from receiving his message, half in celebration and more than half in enraged confusion.

He fiddles with the recording app – because hey, he still has a gorgeous face even if it’s a bit
bloody and scratched, and these people deserve to see his face and hear his voice as he recites
riddles to distract them from the fact that it apparently only takes one well-placed steel beam on top
of his head to shut him up eternally.

But in a day where everything has mostly gone according to plan, it’s almost fitting that he ends up
half-frozen, half-interested in the most recent recording showing up on his app. Logically, he
already knows what’s in that recording. He’s the one who recorded it to begin with. But he can’t
quite stop his fingers from opening the recording – the tinny sound reverberating fully inside his
skull, the shaky video steady in his mind’s eye.
(It’s not an entirely coincidental meeting – Hirotsu-san has mastered the terribly neutral tone even
in texts, managing to sound without any ulterior motives when he tells him about an
embarrassment making a spectacle of himself at one of the bars in the outskirts of Port Mafia’s
territory. But there’s no pressure in that message, no coaxing about making sure his ex-partner
doesn’t die of alcohol poisoning, no guilt-tripping into taking responsibility for driving their most
powerful Executive into a hot mess. It leaves him with a choice and that’s how he too-lightly
makes his way to the bar that has no Port Mafia security lining up the entrances and exits.

He’s already taking out his phone and recording the plum-flushed cheeks of the midget, reddened
eyes nearly overshadowed by his drunkenness, coat strewn around and shirt unbuttoned halfway
down. “Too careless, Executive Chuuya~~~♪”

Chuuya, drunk as he is, merely groans like an aggressive cat against the wooden bar, questionable
liquid near his mouth. He generously thinks that it’s spilled wine and drool, instead of something
saltier and more painful.

“What would your beloved subordinates say about their favorite boss?”

He plucks the abandoned cellphone with one hand, stifling a grin when the most recent phone
records all show his number, calls to M A C K E R E L in short bursts of 5 to 10 seconds, because
he picks them up and doesn’t say anything until Chuuya starts screaming before he hangs up. The
message drafts have 88 unsent items, more than half of them ridden with typos and capslock, all of
them with a disquieting sense of loss and anger.

He sends all of the drafts to their intended recipient, his own phone buzzing seconds afterward and
making the video shaky.

“I’m recording you so you can see how noisy your snoring is, you know. So irresponsible – I can
kill you easily like this, you see.”

He thinks of a world without Chuuya and stops short, because he nearly drops his phone. He
resumes recording the hatrack’s drunken snoring, incessantly poking at the other’s face – wait, he
orders whiskey on the rocks and takes out the block of ice and presses it against the other’s swollen
cheek instead.

Chuuya, who hates the cold ever since before, groans louder and tries to swat him away.
Fortunately for his entertainment, the action only causes the man to flail about and free-fall from
the bar to the floor. Unfortunately for him, he witnesses the other man’s strange ability to control
his Ability when unconscious, his own Corruption corrupting him to the point that it automatically
activates when he’s about to get his nose broken by collapsing on the floor, lessening the impact
and instead just leaving him as a pathetic lump on the floor.

He’s never been a kind man, so he keeps the recording on as he nudges Chuuya’s body with his
shoe. “Still alive, you drunkard?”

It’s not entirely unexpected, but the commotion apparently drags some semblance of consciousness
to the other, blue eyes blinking blearily up at him. It’s not entirely unthinkable, but the fact that the
first emotion on the other’s eyes is a mix of recognition and relief—it stops his breath short and his
grip on his phone slacks again.
“D-Dazai.”

It’s a strangled sound, almost as though Chuuya’s had to wrench his name from somewhere deep,
buried by years and resentment. It’s a wonderful sound, because he’s always wanted to be buried
deep into nothingness. It should be a wonderful sound and instead it only makes him bend his
knees as he lowers himself to be nearer to the reeking alcoholic mess in front of him.

“Where do you want me to take you, partner?”

It’s not supposed to sound so genuine, but maybe it is. He plans on dumping Chuuya on some
abandoned alley regardless of his answer anyway – it’s not like he’s interested in sneaking around
Port Mafia security with a deadweight lightweight on his arms at two in the morning.

“Aren’t I—” Chuuya makes a wretched, retching noise, the reddened rim around his eyes bringing
out their blueness even more as he stares, blinks, stares some more. How he’s able to keep his right
hand steady in angling the phone by his knee, he’s not entirely sure. “—but you’re here—already
—I’m home?”

Dazai drops his phone then, the video ending with the immense confusion on Chuuya’s voice.)
Moments before the ruined building collapses entirely, Dazai Osamu’s phone records a grainy
video taken with steady hands, the split-second transformation of apathy to determination captured.
There’s only one line in it, spoken as a green pendant stuffed with a supposedly-shocking-joke of
cut-off complementary red locks, settles into the other’s chest.

I need to go home.
 Chapter 7
Chapter Summary

• chuuya's date with naomi

• chuuya starts to notice dazai (congrats bro)
• chuuya accidentally (lol) asks dazai out on a date

Chapter Notes

• we’re back to our regular scheduled program! ;)

• man, i don't even know why i'm so fast with this;;;;;;; one date per chapter sounds
about right though lol
• i can never say this enough: thank YOU for reading! ♥ ♥ ♥

See the end of the chapter for more notes

☆☆☆

“I still haven’t forgiven you for doing bondage play with my dear brother.”

Chuuya doesn’t quite drop the mug of coffee, but he does spend an eternity in openmouthed shock
at his date’s grand entrance. Quite possibly, the only consolation is that this café’s staff is fairly
discreet and the hour is just right for the early morning caffeine rush to be over. It also helps that
it’s relatively expensive here, so it doesn’t usually draw huge crowds even at its worst traffic.

“Oh, don’t look so confused.” Tanizaki Naomi has the confidence and grace of someone who’s
been a normal human being all along, none of the awkward transition from having power at the
tips of his fingers to being someone who can’t expect to be immune to bullets flying to his face.
“You do know what bondage play is, don’t you?”

“…I can’t say I do?”

Naomi tsks at him, carefully scrutinizing his face. For one moment, Chuuya gets this thought that
Dazai’s been sending him off to younger women recently – and yes, they’re all lovely, but it’s not
really conducive to his goal of finding someone to settle down with eventually.

“How did Dazai-san manage to not educate you on this?”

“I’d literally have anyone else tell me about those… stuff.”

“But that’s such a waste!” Naomi crosses her arms over her chest with a huff, scolding him like
he’s been a particularly naughty child. And she’s younger than him. “Why not take advantage of
what you have?!”
“If by that you mean I ‘have’ Dazai,” he ensures that there’s proper air-quotes there, “then what I
‘have’ is a useless piece of shit.”

“I cannot believe you’re still stuck in the honeymoon stage – how do you guys do it? It’s been
months!”

Chuuya’s happy to be here for a date with Naomi but he’s very confused as to what she’s talking
about now. As politely as he possibly can: “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

No nonsense whatsoever, Naomi places both of her hands on the table, nearly slamming them to
make her point. “You have that blissful look on your face when you call him a piece of shit.”

“That’s probably because of the coffee I’m having.” With that said, Chuuya waves a hand for a
server to approach their table. “I would recommend getting their Columbian blend, paired with
their house special éclair.”

“You’re really as clueless as they say.”

“…once again, I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re lucky you’re cute and you’re rich.”

“…thank you?”

“However, Dazai-san has convinced my brother to express interest in wanting to spend time with
you, so I’m here to make sure that you will not harm my brother.”

There’s an undercurrent of steel surrounding the stern line of her lips, even as the rest of her body
language has shown degrees of relaxation. She’s someone who’s lived without any tangible
measure of power, but she has her own strength that burns because of her sibling. It’s a powerful
sort of love that Chuuya supposes one can read about on books even from the olden times.

“You must really love your brother, Naomi-san.”

And just like that, she claps her hands together in delight. “I know right! He’s such a naughty boy
sometimes, but that just makes me want to torment him even more!”

“…I see?”

“You know, you boys are sometimes so dishonest when it comes to what you want,” Naomi
remarks pointedly, her voice loud enough to deter anyone from approaching their table, forcing
them to listen to her sordid tales from a distance. “Like this one time, niisan said that he wants to
stop, but I know that he wants more—”

☆☆☆

“You look like you’ve aged twenty years.”

Chuuya doesn’t even have the strength to flip the guy off, nearly face-faulting into his genkan.
Dazai’s arms settle around his shoulders, steadying him against the wall, before the other kneels
down to help him change to his house slippers.
“Though even with that, you still didn’t grow.”

“Fuck you to hell and back.”

“Also, I told you to not wear your new shoes for this date.” Dazai’s inspecting the reddened parts
of his feet, rubbed raw against the leather as Naomi’s dating itinerary sent them covering the
entirety of Minato Mirai twice in six hours. “Naomi-chan’s relentless when it comes to
sightseeing.”

“Yeah, yeah, save the ‘I told you so’ for when I’m not listening.”

“You always don’t listen to me, Chuuya.”

“Exactly.”

“Lucky for you I’m a very nice guy, so even with your attitude, I still drew you a hot bath.”

“Stop stalking me.”

“Nuh-uh. I used my super psychic skills to predict that you’d be dead on your feet after your date.”

“Were you the guy texting Naomi-san non-stop earlier?”

“I will not confirm nor deny that.” Dazai considers it though, as he practically drags Chuuya from
the doorway to his bathroom, bypassing the living room with the newly-purchased XBOX Kinect
booted up, as well as the dining room ready for two place settings, and the kitchen where there’s a
pot of some chicken-smelling broth that’s on low simmer. “Was it around five in the afternoon? If
not, that’s probably her brother.”

“So you were the one harassing her at five.”

“Again, I will not confirm nor deny that.”

There’s a change of clothes folded atop the shelves of beauty products, placed too high that
Chuuya will have no choice but ask Dazai to get them for him. The tub – big enough for two, not
that Chuuya’s ever in the mood to share – is already filled with warm water, the scent of his
favorite bubble bath bomb already wafting to his nose.

“Stupid psychic powers,” Chuuya mutters as he lets Dazai strip him out of his clothes, practically
shoving him to the bath as soon as he steps out of his boxers. The water is perfectly warm against
his sore muscles and his possibly-expired soul, defeated by the onslaught of TMI from his date for
the day. “Guh, stupid temperature control powers too.”

“Yes, I know I’m the best~~~♫”

“Arrogant asshole.”

“I don’t hear you denying it though~?”

“You’re the best at predicting bath temperature,” Chuuya allows as he sinks everything below his
mouth to the water. “That’s hardly an accomplishment.”

Dazai snorts as he picks up the discarded clothes and balls them up in front of his eyes, wrinkling
his suit, teasing him. He’s too exhausted to go to a yelling match about proper care for suits though.
He just glares as fiercely as he can, though he knows that it’s probably as effective as mewling
from a newborn kitten.
…huh.

He watches Dazai falter a bit, but the moment of weakness is gone.

Hmm. Maybe not cats then.

But then, seeing that one moment – it’s something that he doesn’t remember seeing at all – wait,
no, that’s not true. He’s seen that split-moment of vulnerability before. Lips parted in an unvoiced
gasp, brown eyes widened in something like shock and horror, less about gore and dystopia, but
more like Dazai’s seeing his entire world destroyed right in front of his eyes.

He’s seen it somewhat like this scenario, him looking up at the man, always, always, always high
above and far away from his reach.

He thinks he can remember looking up at Dazai, telling him something apocalyptic, maybe
something about finally finding a gorgeous lady delusional enough to want to commit double
suicide with him, maybe something else?, but he’s looking up at him, Dazai’s head haloed by some
sort of light behind and instead of making him look angelic, it only casted shadows into his face the
creep that he is.

Dazai… is human too, isn’t he?

No Longer Human is gone from his system, even if he’s still the annoying too-smart guy with too-
perfect strategies. He’s human too, because he speaks of having things important to him with a
wistful tone, because he promises to never let things go with a quiet determination, because he can
look like someone who’s afraid too.

Dazai is human, even if he’s far from normal, isn’t he?

Not that different from Chuuya himself – Chuuya is much, much better than him in so many ways,
even if he’s also far from normalcy – but not too similar that it’s suffocating to inhabit the same
space. Corruption still sings whispers against his mind sometimes and it helps to open his nights
and break free from the nightmares to see Dazai staring back at him with too-dark and too-knowing
eyes.

“—I can hear you thinking Chuuya and I can hear your mind quitting on you, you know?”

“Such a jerk,” he murmurs, submerging himself for a few seconds before pulling himself up,
reclining against the tub so that his mouth is above the water again. “Stupid Dazai, did you put
yourself on the list?”

He keeps his eyes on Dazai, intent on catching that moment of weakness again. It doesn’t come.
Instead, Dazai takes a step forward, even though wariness is painted like a veil over his eyes. “…
why are you asking, midget?”

“At this rate, I’d soon end up dating everyone from the Port Mafia, the Agency and the Guild—
except for you.” Chuuya considers it a bit, then cringes as he recalls: “And Mori-san, good god,
just no. And that Lovecraft guy. And Hirotsu-san too. But yes.”

“So you’re aiming for a 100% completion rate?”

“You’re making it sound like those dating sims.”

“Pffft, why are you playing dating sims?”

“The game you gave Akutagawa was giving him trouble so he asked me to help him.”

“So you played it for him? I knew he finished it too quickly, that cheater.”

“I just directed him to some walkthroughs.”

“How efficient. I’m so proud of my student.”

“He’s not your student anymore.”

“We can be co-teachers then?”

“You’re also not answering my question.”

“You’re the one who didn’t answer first!”

“I did.”

“Did not.”

“I did, you bastard.”

“Did noooooot~~~♫”

“You sound shittier than a crying toddler.”

“You’re lucky your kids are all grown-up then.”

“Still not answering my question.”

“Urgh, fine!” Dazai doesn’t look fine, the wariness still ever-present. The last time Chuuya’s seen
that much skittishness was when Dazai hasn’t mastered the art of doing whatever is asked of him
to the best of his ability, bruises and failures waiting for him at every turn. It’s painful, to see it
now. “If you want to get the chance to date yours truly, just ask~~~”

“I didn’t say I want to date you though?”

Almost instantaneously, Dazai’s lips form a sneer that’s reminiscent of the ones he used when he
was being cornered by the older Executives who didn’t know how to be terrified of him yet. “That
kind of tsundere shit is fucking annoying, even if it’s you.”

“I just asked if you were on the list,” Chuuya says as mildly as he can, feeling the bathwater cool
too rapidly.

“I’m not.”

“You didn’t place yourself there.”

“I didn’t think I needed to,” Dazai bites out eventually, annoyance radiating from him. He’s still
standing maybe three steps away, opting not to storm off from the tension inside the bathroom.

Chuuya tries to understand this, the way his heart doesn’t hammer in his chest like a jackrabbit
even as every single one of Dazai’s expressions practically scream out danger. He used to feel the
call of adrenaline each time it happened before, ready to punch the other in the face, kick the other
in the stomach to put a stop to the other’s bastardly actions.
 Now, he’s just—inexplicably sad, sorrow tainting everything even if it used to be so warm and safe
until a few minutes prior.

“I won’t force you if you don’t want to.” Chuuya tastes the words and they feel cheap, misplaced.
He tries again: “But it should make for an interesting experience, right?”

“We’ll go tomorrow morning,” Dazai cuts in decisively, the wariness sliding away—and oh.
Chuuya tries to avert his eyes, but Dazai’s stepping closer, hands reaching into the water to hold
onto his, and Dazai’s shirt sleeves and bandages are getting wet, and he’s half-leaning over him,
and his hands—

“W-Where would even go,” Chuuya manages to ask after a few seconds, his entire body shivering
from how cold the water is now, Dazai’s grip unrelenting on his hands. “We’ve… we’ve already
gone through the entire Yokohama, before.”

“But not on a date.”

The wariness is entirely gone but it’s replaced by this quiet determination, and Chuuya’s not sure
why it feels even heavier, more painful now. This is the look Dazai has before he launches a batshit
crazy plan that sounds insane in theory but works out perfectly in practice. It should comfort him,
because this is the look Dazai has before he gives Chuuya a heart attack but ultimately ensuring
that he stays alive through hellfire. It should relieve him, because this means that whatever
happens, everything will end up fine.

Instead, he just feels like—

“Why do you even want to go on a date with me?”

He shifts so that he’s kneeling on the tub, forcing the two of them at eye-level. Dazai moves with
him, but doesn’t let his hands go.

Slowly, like the drag of a snake’s skin leaving its old body, Dazai tugs his hands closer so he can
whisper the words against his fingers bruised black and blue and red and purple from the burst
veins of Corruption: “…Ask me again after our date tomorrow.”

Chuuya rolls his eyes and snatches his hands away, but not before slapping Dazai lightly on the
face. “Stupid secretive asshole. Get the hell out.”

Dazai laughs, the tension in him gone. “Keep that attitude up and I won’t give you your
clothes~~~”

Chuuya doesn’t sink back to the cold bathwater until Dazai leaves and half-closes the bathroom
door, letting in colder air to the room in order to spite him. He doesn’t yell about that though,
because he’s too bewildered at the fact that possibly for the first time since he’s had to stay with
Dazai ever since their Abilities were taken from them… his heart is actually beating fast enough
for him to become dizzy with the sensation.

Chapter End Notes

• now, before you all become happy for dazai, let me just direct you to: (a) the long
list of people to date chuuya still lol; (b) the fact that chuuya doesn't necessarily
equates dates with romance. but then again, it's a start!!! oh wait, and (c) yosano's date
IS next chapter, so that should tell us something about the soukoku date lol

• in case you missed ch6/dazai's pov, the scene chuuya's flashbacking to re:
vulnerable!dazai is when he drunkenly tells dazai that he feels at home with him (well,
not that clearly, but that's the gist)

• oh, and if you're not up to date w/the manga, the 'bondage play' is when port mafia
tied tanizaki up lol

• see you next water time ♪

 Chapter 8
Chapter Summary

• dazai finally gets to go on a date with chuuya!

• also features: chuuya's date with The Queen, yosano~♪
• as always, thank you for reading! i hope you all enjoy this chapter too :]

Chapter Notes

• all the venues below are real! Motomachi is a shopping street with pricey European
brands; Mutekirou is a well-known French restaurant; Suzaku Gate is at the entrance
of the Yokohama Chinatown; Ma Zhu is the Taoist goddess of the sea, Yue Xia Lao
Ren is a matchmaking deity – both are on the same building; Kirin Beer Factory does
offer tours and beer samples!; Minato Mirai is that iconic place where the Port Mafia
buildings are nearby; Intercontinental Yokohama Hotel is a sail-shaped popular hotel
inside the Minato Mirai area;

• travel times are lifted from the Yokohama Visitors’ Guides all over the internet 8D

• Yosano’s character profile lists her dislikes as (a) chauvinistic men AND (b) weak
men. Her likes are: (a) flowers, (b) eels, (c) sake, and (d) wagashi/Japanese sweets

See the end of the chapter for more notes

☆☆☆

“You look—”

Chuuya blinks once, twice, thrice, foregoes rubbing at his eyes. Instead, he then looks at Dazai up
and down, the other’s clothes not giving him the answer he needs. He then transfers his gaze down
at his own forest green sweater layered over a plain white long-sleeved button-up and simple black
slacks.

He tries again, after clearing his throat. “…am I underdressed?”

Dazai’s black shirt looks a bit shimmery from his angle, his blood-red necktie forming a sharp
contrast. He has a charcoal vest, with a black overcoat lined in crimson. He looks like he’s about to
attend the opera’s first night to show off an engagement, not walking around Yokohama with an
ex-partner he’s tormented for years.

“You look great as always, shrimp.”

“…Right.”
Chuuya’s still bewildered though – on top of the already mystifying morning.

A quick recap: (1) he’s woken up by the smell of pancakes and the warm waft of coffee, because
Dazai apparently thought that it was a great time to try a ‘breakfast in bed’; (2) Dazai then admits
that he doesn’t have a plan for their day, telling him that he’s planning to just ‘wing it’, causing
Chuuya’s brain to go offline for nearly thirty minutes because Dazai not having a plan?!; (3) Dazai
requests that he doesn’t use his own coat and borrow the grey peacoat instead—a bit strange, but
the most disconcerting part is when Dazai actually uses polite words and requests it with a please.

(Oh, and (4) when some of the maple syrup trickled past his lips, Dazai is very eager to save the
comforter from being stained by wiping the syrup away with his thumb, though it takes him some
time in rubbing at the stickiness.)

It’s a very strange morning.

“You look surprised.”

No shit.

He keeps quiet, unsure of what he can say to that. Should he change clothes? He’s already
comfortable—and he’s fairly sure that he’s not the one with the incorrect dress code.

“…did you not get enough sleep?” There’s something that sounds too much like concern on
Dazai’s voice. It’s very, very strange. “I told you to wake me up when you have nightmares.”

“You always wake up before me when I…” He trails off, the word ‘nightmare’ heavy on his
tongue. Hallucinations of Corruption whispering to him doesn’t sound any better.

Fact is, even before his eyes fly open from his fever-pitch dreams, Dazai’s already wide-awake and
prepared with a glass of water and soothing murmurs to calm him down, with bandages on his
body less about maintaining aesthetics, less about hiding bruises from a lifetime of clumsiness and
nonchalance towards injuries. Even before Chuuya can regain his senses and ascertain that he’s not
drowning in the madness of the power inside of him, Dazai’s already prepared the first aid kit
within grabbing distance should Chuuya scratch and kick with more fervor than expected.

“Hm. Do you want to cancel our date today?” The concern hasn’t fully receded, but there’s
something akin to resignation there instead. It’s all so uncharacteristically Dazai that it itches,
aches, to hear it.

“No – we might as well go.” He goes for flippant, but probably overshoots, given Dazai’s slight
wince. “I’m not dying or anything – just… spacing out a bit.”

Him dying would be terribly inconvenient. Him dying would probably cause Dazai to birth kittens
from jealousy. Him spacing out sounds pretty safe, all things considered.

“Going on a date absent-mindedly?” Because Dazai is nothing if not astute when it comes to
reading the atmosphere (not that he’s decent enough to acknowledge it most of the time), he teases
him instead, recovering from the odd, tense moment. “What would your other dates say?”

Chuuya sighs as he slips his wallet into his pants. He considers – and concludes that it’s fine to be
sloppier today, to not be the sophisticated gentleman he’s been working towards. It’s just Dazai
after all. They’ve known each other for roughly twenty years now and god it’s been a long twenty
years. They’ve seen each other with crust on their eyes, snot on their faces, with blood on their
teeth, with internal organs hanging out of their guts. A little sloppiness is nothing.
“It’s fine. It’s you.”

Dazai doesn’t reply, but he does open the door for him, holding out a hand for him to grasp as they
step out of his apartment.

☆☆☆

Dazai’s fairly well-behaved as they walk around in Motomachi once Chuuya’s car has been parked
safely.

Chuuya buys new ties – fine, there’s something for Dazai there too, another blood-colored one,
because there’s something to be said about how blood looks wonderful surrounding the jerk’s
neck.

Unashamedly, Dazai buys a pair of slacks for Chuuya (it’s not worth his blood pressure to know
why the fuck Dazai knows his exact measurements) and some sapphire-crusted cufflinks for
himself – both using Chuuya’s card.

A little bit before the lunchtime rush, they settle to the very traditional tatami room of Mutekirou,
escargot appetizers served to them within five minutes of seating.

“I thought you didn’t have plans,” Chuuya manages off-handedly, knowing how difficult it is to
get a table here especially given how popular it is for weddings and proposals.

Dazai smiles charmingly at the waitress that comes in and brings them the rest of their entrees,
traditional French food cooked with fresh Yokohama produce. “I know the manager.”

“Probably flirted a lot with her then, huh?”

“Ha, no. She knows I’m here for a date.”

“That didn’t stop you before,” Chuuya points out with only the lightest hint of bitterness,
recollection of Dazai’s entanglements during their Port Mafia days lightened by the fulfilling
perfection of their lobster.

Dazai delicately takes a bite from his baked oyster, before lifting his eyes to catch Chuuya’s as he
speaks. “Let me amend that – she knows I’m here with you for this date.”

It’s the same thing, but Chuuya foregoes arguing because Dazai did do the decent thing and reserve
them for the best French restaurant in Yokohama, knowing how much he loves the French cuisine
and culture.

Dazai pays for their meal – not using his credit card, to his utter shock – and they slowly walk
towards the nearby Chinatown. They gather a bit of curious looks, Chuuya’s fingers tingling inside
his gloves as they walk hand-in-hand. He’s used to gathering attention when he’s out and about,
but that’s mostly because people are looking at him.

Now though, they’re mostly snapping pictures of Dazai, still in that ridiculously formal suit of his.
He cleans up nicely, he’ll give him that, because it’s not exactly a hardship to admit something
everyone else knows to be true.
Once they pass the bright red Suzaku Gate of Chinatown, Chuuya frowns a bit, because why the
fuck are they going for the Heavenly Empress Shrine?

“Why the fuck are we going for the Heavenly Empress Shrine?” He makes sure to use English,
because he knows how important the shrine is to the locals and tourists, he’s not about to get into a
brawl because he’s disrespecting it.

“We’ll pray for safety.”

“I’m not exactly about to… go out into the sea?”

“Ma Zhu isn’t only a goddess of the sea. She can also protect people from natural disasters and
diseases.”

“Are you foreshadowing causing harm to me?”

“You’re about to become the Port Mafia Boss, aren’t you?”

“So you want me… to become safe?”

“Don’t sound so shocked,” Dazai chides him with a laugh, tugging him further inside the shrine.
“Don’t think too much, it’s not good for your underused brain.”

“Stupid fuck.”

The man praying beside them gives them a horrified look.

Shit, that was a pretty recognizable English swearword.

“Maybe you should curse in French instead,” Dazai suggests lightly, still laughing at him.

Just for that, Chuuya uses Italian when he says: “I’ll curse however I want to, bastard.”

“Mm, let’s drop by Yue Xia Lao Ren next.”

“You’re going to pray for matchmaking when you’re with me?”

Dazai huffs another laugh as he tangles his fingers with Chuuya’s, the gloves insufficient in
blocking the other’s almost feverish warmth. “It’s supposed to improve relationships.”

“If you just asked me, I could give you multitudes of advice about how to improve our
relationship.”

“Hmm – I’m asking now.”

“Stop using my credit card, for starters?”

Dazai makes a considering noise, before shrugging. “Let’s just get the matchmaking deity’s help.”

“Stupid bastard fuck.”

☆☆☆
“We’re really going to the Sankeien Garden?”

“Why the protest, Chuuya? You came here with Kyouka-chan, right?”

Chuuya rolls his eyes at the petulant voice. “You’re a bigger pain on the ass than Kyouka-chan.”

“I would be surprised if she manages to cause pain to your ass.”

Ignoring that jibe, Chuuya parks his car again and rolls his eyes again when Dazai practically flies
out of his seat so he can do his mock-gentleman thing again of opening his door for him.

“If you really want to be a gentleman, why don’t you volunteer to drive instead?”

“You trust me to drive your car?”

“Geh, nevermind.”

“Thought so~~~♫”

“So why are we here?”

“It’s supposed to be a very romantic place!” Dazai huffs and puffs until Chuuya holds his hand as
they make rounds on the garden. He has this distinct feeling that Dazai’s never been here, despite
having had girlfriends – multiple ones, simultaneously – and a string of admirers before.

“We’re at another matchmaking place – this time it comes with a legendary love story too.”

Dazai speaks slowly, like he’s dealing with someone impossibly dense. “We are on a date, after
all.”

They walk around some more, bypassing the Tea Ceremony Room and the Memorial Hall.

Chuuya’s a bit bewildered – so they just, what, strolled around?

Dazai doesn’t look dissatisfied with the lack of purchases from the gift shop, or the general lack of
excitement.

Huh.

He’s never really spent a lot of time thinking about Dazai and dating – hmm, not really, not
anymore – but he didn’t think that Dazai would prefer boring dates.

And maybe he should stop jinxing himself, because a few meters away from his parking spot, a
familiar face approaches them.

“There you two are!”

Dazai doesn’t let go of his hand and Chuuya has to pry his fingers away so he can offer a
handshake to the slightly-panting woman.

“Yosano Akiko-san, right? I’m Nakahara Chuuya.”

Yosano doesn’t look happy, but she does look slightly impressed and shakes his hand briefly. Even
as she says: “I know who you are, Port Mafia Boss.”

“Not yet,” he allows and hates Dazai for staying quiet when dealing with his colleague. “I’m afraid
Mori-san still hasn’t completed the transition.”

“And speaking of… that guy,” she looks positively ill at the thought of the current Boss, “he made
a move on the President. It’s downright chaos at the Agency.”

“He didn’t—”

“He did.” Yosano confirms grimly. She turns to glare at Dazai. “And you’d know about it if you
answered our calls.”

Dazai’s voice is half-petulant and half-murderous. Chuuya understands, he wants to murder Mori-
san too for being fucking stupid. “I’m on a date with Chuuya.”

“Everyone knows,” Yosano says with a flip of her hand, clearly unhappy with the fact that she has
to track them down. “You’re needed for damage control.”

Chuuya frowns, because Port Mafia needs to clean up its own messes. Even if it’s left and started
by their current Boss to begin with. “I can—”

“I’ll do it,” Dazai cuts in, “I just need to incapacitate Mori-san, right?”

“I’m stronger—”

“You don’t have the balls to kidnap Elise-chan and threaten her safety if he doesn’t calm down.”

“Don’t kidnap her, she didn’t do anything wrong!”

“Exactly my point.”

Yosano offers a very helpful bit: “I don’t really care who goes there, as long as everyone settles
down.”

Chuuya tunes out the rest of the conversation, because he’s busy bemoaning the fact that his
Boss’s outright thirst is causing this embarrassment. Yosano’s describing the details of what
exactly Mori-san did, but he’d rather not hear about them. He already has enough nightmares.

Dazai gets briefed about the situation after a few minutes, which is when Chuuya tunes back in to
the program.

“Use my car so you can get there faster.”

Dazai looks more shocked by that offer than the news that Mori-san ended up wrestling with the
Agency’s President. Naked wrestling. Urgh.

To counteract the wordless gaping, Chuuya continues: “It’s a mess caused by the Port Mafia. I’d
help as much as I can.”

Yosano hums in approval. “Such a strong sense of duty. Replace that dirty old man as a boss soon,
would you? You look easier to bully.”

“…right.”

Before Chuuya can try to say anything more, Dazai steps closer, his right hand rummaging inside
Chuuya’s pocket for his car keys. The clinking sound of the keys are drowned by the fact that
Chuuya’s blood roars in his ears as Dazai draws impossibly closer still, his lips pressing against his
cheek in the process.
He’s the one doing the wordless gaping now, but there’s truly no words for that. His vision swims
for a moment, blurring Yosano’s unimpressed face as she watches them. Unfairly, Dazai’s smirk
remains starkly clear as he takes a small step back, his hands heavy on his shoulders now, and oh.
It’s the damn coat.

He doesn’t speak still, because if he opens his mouth, he’d probably say something damning. Like
how the coat looks better on Dazai than him. Like how he’d rather go back to the Agency and face
a probably-naked Mori-san, rather than be left here. Like how he has this urge to give Higuchi a
gift for her inadvertently valuable advice about kissing at the end of a date.

“Will you return to the Agency, Yosano-san?”

“If you want… that guy to be castrated, sure.”

“Let’s not go for drastic measures so quickly. Blood is hard to clean and we just got a new carpet.”

Yosano hums again, then flaps a hand towards Chuuya’s general direction. “I can go on a date with
Mr. Gentleman here instead.”

“Oh, he’s such a gentleman indeed. Please don’t devour him, Yosano-san.”

“I’m not going to castrate him if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I’d rather there be no touching his bare skin whatsoever.”

“He is pretty much covered up.”

“It’s a fairly cold autumn.”

“I’ll take care of pretty-boy here for you.”

Chuuya doesn’t open his mouth, because he’s not sure what he should protest to. Dazai turns to
him, speaking to Yosano but their eyes remain locked. “He’s a lightweight, so please don’t let him
have more than half a glass.”

“I thought he’s the guy who has an extensive wine collection.”

“He is.”

“I like the irony.”

“I don’t,” Chuuya ends up blurting out, miffed that he’s unable to get a word edgewise.

Yosano moves close to him as Dazai makes his way to the car’s driver seat.

With a pat to his arm, she says: “Say your prayers about your car already.”

Chuuya sighs as he excuses himself to dial the number of his insurance company, watching Dazai
speed out of the parking lot.

☆☆☆
“You’re an elitist snob.”

“I’m not,” Chuuya protests even as he’s still shuddering from the train ride experience. This is why
he’s in love with his cars – they keep him safe from such horrors.

“Though it’s pretty interesting that I’m the one who needs to protect your virtue.”

“Urgh.” He shudders again as he remembers the press of the crowd all around him. It’s a relief that
it’s only a few minutes to Namamugi Station.

“You get plus points for not acting all chivalrous and presuming to protect me instead.”

“…thank you?”

He’s had a couple of encounters with her, but they were mostly in the context of combat. He knows
that he’s slated to have a date with her in the future, but given the mess in the schedules now… He
remembers Dazai commenting about how she hates chauvinistic pigs (but then again, shouldn’t
everyone?) and how she likes drinking.

“We’ll go to this tour, drink beer, eat a lot, then go home!”

“Hopefully the mess is all cleaned up by that time.” Chuuya’s not pessimistic, per se, but he knows
how terribly stubborn Mori-san can be. He’s bound to cause havoc until the President accepted
him.

“We can get drunk from inhaling all the beer being brewed,” Yosano supposes, as they make their
way to the front gate of Kirin’s Beer Village.

“Sounds like a good plan, Yosano-san.”

☆☆☆

“Did you do research on me?”

“…unfortunately, I haven’t had the chance to.” Chuuya supposes that honesty remains to be the
best policy and all that. He orders another serving of eel sushi for her. “I planned to do it two days
before our supposed date.”

“Such a gentleman,” she mutters instead, as she gulps down another bottle of Kirin. “No wonder
Kyouka-chan and Lucy-chan were so enamored.”

“I’m happy to hear that they were happy with our date.”

“I can at least tease Ranpo-kun about being able to try you first.”

“I hope to be able to make sure Ranpo-san’s date with me becomes enjoyable too.”

“Ho-hum, maybe first make sure that I am having a good time.”

“Of course. Would you like to drop by a seafood restaurant? There should be more choices for eel-
based dishes there.”
“Yeah, let’s do that. I’ll just grab another bottle.”

“Of course. Let me get our bill – I would like to pay for it entirely, but it would be remiss of me not
to check with you if that’s alright.”

“You’re really different from what Dazai-kun says.”

“That asshole is a lying liar who lies.”

“Nah, that was my mistake.”

“I see – about the bill?”

“Knock yourself out, gentleman bocchan.”

☆☆☆

“…you really didn’t do research on me?”

Chuuya looks down at his order, wagashi arranged into a flat rendition of a bouquet. “I’m glad that
you like it.”

“Is that your intuition as a serial-dater?”

He almost protests about being called that, but it’s better than pretty-boy, if only because it feels
strange to accept compliments when there’s Dazai’s overcoat pressed around his shoulders.

His phone remains silent, no updates from Dazai.

“I just ordered the loveliest thing from the menu – not that it could hope to match your loveliness.”

Yosano glares at him, but only for a moment. “I’ll let it go because you actually sound sincere.”

“Would you prefer less compliments from me?”

“You can continue to be honest.”

“Then the sweets I had ordered failed to match your beauty, despite the lovely arrangement.”

“Atta boy.”

☆☆☆

They end up hopping between the more expensive, quieter, exclusive bars (not because he’s an
elitist snob, but because Yosano-san didn’t seem like the type to enjoy bars bustling with men
eager to hit on her) and sweets shops near Minato Mirai.

Her bluntness and attitude reminds him of Akutagawa with less coughing and less drama, actually.
It’s great to spend time with her, discussing politics as they knock back another serving of matcha
mochi, arguing about different fabrics and their tendency to absorb blood as he buys her different
clothes, conversing about how the feminist movement hasn’t fully spread to their country despite it
being a common theme in the West.

The long discussions become longer because he’s not drinking more than a few sips, to the point
that it’s nearly midnight and they’re still walking around Yokohama. She doesn’t appear tipsy at
all, despite nearly drinking half her body weight in alcohol. Though she looks a bit tired, tired lines
on the edge of her eyes.

He knows better than to point it out so bluntly though.

“Would you – would you like me to book a room for you?”

He’s not sure where she lives, though he thinks everyone from the Agency lives at the dorms?
Given that the last train has already gone its merry way, it’s either he gets her a cab or walks her
back. He looks at her heels and thinks about buying her something for calluses.

She’s smirking as she asks: “Not gonna invite me to your place?”

“I don’t think you’d appreciate that kind of inappropriate invitation.”

“Inappropriate – because Dazai’s there?”

“He shouldn’t be,” Chuuya bites out, though he sighs at her raised eyebrow. Concedes. “He
probably is.”

“I can get a cab home, but I won’t stop you if you want me to be pampered at a five-star hotel.”

Chuuya smiles and adjusts his grip on her shopping bags. “I should be able to get you a room from
The Intercontinental.”

Yosano whistles in appreciation, accepting his elbow as they walk towards the waterfront building.

☆☆☆

Once Chuuya steps out of the Intercontinental Yokohama Hotel, with his date happily ensconced at
the top floor suite, he’s tired enough to not even be surprised to see his car waiting for him at the
pick-up point.

His car’s temperature is moderate enough that he can forego the outer coat, leather seats warmed.
Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto smoothly flows from his car’s speakers, a still-warm cup of decaf
balanced on the dashboard.

“…you didn’t have to pick me up.”

“And what, have you walk all the way back?”

“I could just book my own room. Or get a cab.”

“You hate public transportation.”

“I’m not an elitist snob.”

 “I’m kicking you out of this car if lightning strikes us because of your lies.”

“I’d be kicking you out first, because this is my goddamn car. And you lie more than me, fucker.”

“I had bonded with your car and named her Moby Dick.”

Chuuya debates internally about throwing the decaf over Dazai’s face. It’s really good coffee
though. Damn it. “I’m not riding a Dick, you absolute ass.”

“You actually managed to control your drinking habits. Great job for Yosano-san.”

“Why do you assume that she has to stop me?! I managed to do that on my own, damn it.”

“Careful about lightning~~~♪”

“Shut the fuck up.” Chuuya leans back against the heated seat as soon as he finishes off his coffee,
feeling clear-headed despite the late hour. He looks at Dazai from the corner of his eye, and catches
a spot of blood on the corner of his collar. “I don’t want details if it involves Mori-san being naked
– but what the fuck happened?!”

“I reserve my right to silence as I don’t wish to remember.”

“You have blood on your collar. And your chin, what the hell.”

“Huh. I thought I got it all off.”

Chuuya raises a gloved hand to wipe off the stubborn spot on Dazai’s chin. If he rubs with more
effort than needed, well.

“Is Mori-san still alive?”

“…disappointingly, yes.”

“Pffft, you and your issues.”

Dazai doesn’t reply – doesn’t say anything about how they’re not mere issues because Mori-san,
despite being a better Boss than his predecessor, still fucked their lives up. Instead, he takes one
hand off the steering wheel and traps Chuuya’s against his chin, pressing his hand there for the
entire duration of their ride.

Yue Xia Lao Ren – improving relationships, huh.

Chapter End Notes

• thank you for reading! any and all feedback is much appreciated ♥

• so some of you might have seen the spoiler for the future chapters from tumblr -
we're getting there, i'm just getting the overly fluffy parts out of the way first LOL

• if you say: this is the first time chuuya actually pays attention to dazai's clothing,
you're right. if you say, this is the first time chuuya has acknowledged to someone else
that dazai is living with him, you're also right.
• next chapter should have: tanizaki / ranpo / poe / motojirou, covering October to
November in the timeline. pretty cold months needing lots of cuddles, hmmmmmm
 Chapter 9
Chapter Summary

• chuuya’s on food duty for a “collaborative” picnic to have members from the agency
and port mafia together
• ft: soukoku being so married, shin soukoku being dorks, hints of other pairs
(morifuku, ranpoe, tachihara’s pining, tanizaki siblings being questionable as always)
• oh and dazai gets to cuddle chuuya??

Chapter Notes

• HAPPY VALENTINES DAY! Or Happy Single Awareness Day! Or just, y’know,

Happy Tuesday! Something light and fluffy for the occasion, as the next bits are gonna
be “serious” and plotty (?!) LOL

• the Guatemalan blend & the poems are a callback from chapter 1 :D

• Chuu-nii is a mix of “Chuu” from Chuuya & “nii” from niisan, while at the same
time, a shout-out to the fact that IRL Chuuya’s likened to someone with chuunibyou
8D

• this chapter is dedicated especially to melowmarsh. that art!!!!! is so wonderful.

you're too kind *v*

• also this fic is at 36.5k???? i haven't even gone to the plotty parts??? 36.5k of
married soukoku fluff???? what even??? thank you for reading this long-winded fluff-
fest ♥ ♥ ♥ i love you all ♥

See the end of the chapter for more notes

☆☆☆

October brings an even harsher bite to the air, so Chuuya’s glad for the respite from the coldest
autumn in recent history when he ducks inside the coffee shop two blocks away from his
apartment.

There’s a picnic of sorts a few hours from now – members from both the Port Mafia and the
Armed Detective Agency attending in a show of camaraderie – and he’s not entirely sure how he
got volunteered to help make the food, and more importantly, how he only got informed just an
hour before.

(“No need to make anything fancy, I’ll gladly eat your sandwiches!”, Dazai had said as soon as he
had dressed him in a warm bundle of coats.

“You’ll eat anything,” Chuuya had replied then, too sleepy for even the easiest perfunctory
objection to being manhandled out of his own apartment so they could complete some last-minute
grocery shopping for picnic-friendly food.)

And now Dazai’s somewhere out there, trailing after him, lugging the bags of groceries around
with his stupidly skinny arms because it’s his fault he forgot to tell Chuuya that he’s signed them
up for food duty.

Serves him right.

“Oh, you’re – Chuuya-san, right?” The cashier smiles sunnily at him, too cheerful for the cold
Saturday morning. He looks down at his clothes – nope, no nametags on his person – then pats at
his head – nope, no post-its on his face. She reads his panic about her knowing him by name and
laughs cheerily. “No, I’m sorry, that was too forward of me. It’s just that – when your partner
orders coffee for you, he always talks about you, you know? And he’s shown us your pictures too.
He’s very proud of you.”

Her smile brightens even more, like she hasn’t just destroyed a few of his brain cells in just a few
words.

“Uh.”

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” she says very sincerely. “Did you want to try our newest blend?
We’ve received some great beans from Indonesia yesterday.”

He has a feeling that she – and the entire staff – knows about his favorite blends already, but she’s
trying to be polite and not admit that she knows that bastard’s order by heart.

Still – it’s not her fault that Dazai’s mouth is the exact opposite of unflappable. “Right. That sounds
great. And do you still have some of your Guatemalan beans?”

“Dazai-san always reserves an order for those, it’s fairly popular.” The café is cozy chic, but the
expensive prices and exotic blends make them appealing to a certain set of clientele only. It’s not a
wildly popular store with a noisy bustling crowd – and he’s usually thankful of such an
environment, but he’s almost hoping for a commotion to distract him from this conversation. “He
mentioned about you favoring it over all our other beans.”

“It’s great. Delicious.”

“We’re glad to hear that, thank you. Here you go, Chuuya-san.” She hands him his order, along
with another paper bag of something he definitely didn’t order. “There are some bagels there for
you too – you like the one with cream cheese, right? And some of the scones Dazai-san always
orders.”

It’s just because of the months of repeat orders.

It’s just because Dazai probably charmed the hell out of everyone here.

It’s just because of that, because there’s no other reason for her to smile knowingly at him, almost
forgiving that he forgot buying their usual breakfast.

He ducks his head and leaves her with a 10,000-yen tip, because she seems like a nice,
hardworking girl who deserves it from being inflicted with Dazai’s blubbering. And because he
won’t have a chance to give her another tip ever, because he’s going to die of embarrassment. After
he guts that bastard, that is.

And because he’s got amazing luck (‘great misfortune’, proclaimed during his New Year’s shrine
visit) – the moment he escapes from the too-warm café, he nearly bowls against Dazai. For a
moment, he’s annoyed at himself for having incredible balance, because the only way this morning
could be salvaged is if he not-so-accidentally poured piping hot coffee right into the jerk’s face.

Dazai waves at the café, the clear windows ensuring that his greeting isn’t missed by the staff
inside. “I see you met Yuri-chan. Did you have a nice chat? She’s probably the only other person
aside from you who actually likes hats.”

“We didn’t manage to discuss that, I was too busy being horrified.”

“Eh? Did something happen?” Somehow, Dazai managed to negotiate the nearly-overflowing
groceries into manageable bags. There’s a strain on his shoulders as he carries them, but it’s
virtually unnoticeable. He can almost pretend that his arms aren’t too scrawny.

“You happened, damn it.” Chuuya walks briskly ahead, but Dazai’s longer legs make it easier for
him to catch up.

“Ah, then it’s a good development.”

Stupid, narcissistic, self-absorbed bastard.

“It isn’t. I can’t show my face there ever again.”

“Hm. If that’s the case – I’d make sure to show them more recent photos of you so they won’t be
deprived of their Chuuya experience.”

“Urgh. Please don’t. What do you even tell them about me?”

“That you’re a shorty who’s definitely not a morning person,” Dazai says with a laugh, easily
dodging the kick that Chuuya attempts to connect against his shin. “Hair sticking up in all
directions and with a stupid morning breath, too.”

“There’s no such thing as a stupid morning breath, what the hell.”

“I get to experience it first-hand so I get to have a say on it.”

“Stop experiencing it then, asshole.” Chuuya huffs and decides to pity the idiot’s arms. Because
it’s what normal people do. Plus, there are eggs there and he’s not about to make the trip back to
the grocery store because Dazai wasted them. “Give me one of the bags.”

“Just one? Take them all, Chuuya, they’re heavy.”

“It’s your punishment for not telling me about this ahead of time.”

“You went drinking with Yosano-san the past three nights, I didn’t get the chance!”

“You couldn’t have left me a note?!” Chuuya glares at the other’s shrug. “Or sent me a message?!”

“I was planning to doodle it on your face…”

“Don’t leave me a note ever, urgh.”

“Come on, I was going to use a washable marker.”

“Somehow I don’t trust that,” Chuuya remarks dryly, but helps keep the door open as they arrive at
his apartment. Again, he’d rather slam the door on the bastard’s face, but groceries.

“I’m so hurt, Chuuya.” Dazai makes a mock-hurt expression that looks so fake Chuuya rolls his
eyes in derision. “And so proud of you, you’re right, I’d have used a permanent marker. And
probably doodled unflattering designs too.”

“I’m starting to think you’d rather not reach the picnic alive, Dazai Osamu.”

“Ooh, dark and serious.” Dazai makes a show of fanning himself after he sets the groceries down
on the kitchen counter. “How would you try to take me down then, Nakahara Chuuya?”

“I’d bash your head in on my kitchen sink.”

“Eh, I prepared some trout there last night. It feels a bit unsanitary.”

“I’m going to kill you, not ask for your preferred murder scenario.” Chuuya frowns at the other’s
complaint though. “Also, clean my sink up properly, damn it.”

“Maybe you can push me off the window? I bet the air feels nice flying down.”

“And what, give you a free skyboarding trip?” Chuuya adjusts his gloves then rolls his sleeves up.
Dazai’s adjusting the room thermostat, fiddling with his own apron tie. “Also, my window’s now
certifiably bulletproof.”

“I’m sure you can find a way.”

“You’d just drag me down with you, no thanks.”

“Don’t you think it’s a nice way to go? I’d make sure to hold on to you real tight.”

“I’d rather you don’t, you jerk.” The annoying thing is that it’s something that they’ve both tried
before – Chuuya bashing Dazai’s head against his previous four-by-four tatami mat room’s wobbly
sink; Dazai getting kicked out of a window and him subsequently dragging Chuuya with him on
the way down, before shoving him to the ground first, Corruption activating in the nick of time.
“Why are we even talking about this?”

“You were going to stop me from showing up on the picnic.”

“Urgh. We only have a few hours – start molding the meatballs, will you?” He’s already preparing
to boil water for the pasta. Some pasta, some grilled fingerfood, some sandwiches. Maybe a few
pitchers of detox water, because subsisting on soda is gross. “Would your colleagues prefer wine or
beer?”

“You’ve dated most of them, you should know by now, right?”

“Yeah, I shouldn’t have counted on you providing an actual answer. You got the meatballs?”

“Uh-huh. I’ll make them small enough so your tiny hands can hold them properly.”

“My hands aren’t tiny, fucker.” Chuuya pokes Dazai’s neck with one uncooked spaghetti strand.
“Watch the pasta, I’ll set up the travel cooler for the drinks.”

“Pack your Glenfiddich for me?”

“I’m—I’m not going to bring a 40-year old Scotch for you! On a—on a picnic!”

Dazai hums, unimpressed. “You’re fine with letting your colleagues have your Boerl & Kroff
Brut.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have quit the Port Mafia then, huh?”

—Ah, shit.

He shouldn’t have. He really shouldn’t have.

“I’ll even trade you – I bought you the bottle of Egon Muller-Scharzhof Scharzhofberger Riesling
Trockenbeerenauslese you requested, after all.”

—so Dazai’s ignoring his slip. Fine, he can work with that.

“I didn’t see any unfamiliar charges on my card. How did you manage to hide it from me?”

“I used my own, duh.”

“If you have a card – why don’t you ever use it then?!”

“Silly Chuuya, are you deaf? I said I used it already.”

“Why don’t you use it to buy the rest of your shit?!”

“Mm, it’s fun to see your reaction!” Dazai’s hands are a bit red from the mix of ground meat,
tomatoes and some other spices. “Plus, you use them anyway, right?”

“Because you bought them using my money already!”

“Chuuya, your pasta – did you not want to cook them al dente?”

“Fuck—!” Chuuya hastily stores the bottles of wine inside the cooler, because proper temperatures
and all are important in shaping how the wine will taste once opened. “Also, if that’s the case, then
how much was the suit from last week? I’ll pay you back.”

“I forgot already.”

“It’s Alexander Amosu – it’s at least $90,000!”

“I threw away the receipts~~~♫”

“Urgh.”

“It’s a gift, midget. Don’t be rude about it.”

“URGH.”

☆☆☆

“Great job on securing the venue.”

“Ah, thank you, Chuuya-san!” Higuchi’s enthusiastic acceptance of his words effectively drowns
out the reactions of both Gin and Kyouka. The trio had been assigned with finding an open space
big enough to handle the attendees and any fallouts that might happen, far enough from police
stations so that everyone’s safe from an untimely arrest, quiet enough that there won’t be a gaggle
of people gawking at the sight of notorious Yokohama citizens gathering in one place.

Most of the folding tables have already been set-up, cliché checkered tablecloth fitted over them.
There’s an open grill, a pile of grilled pork chops and some yakitori already done. Because they’ve
survived this long by not being entirely stupid, during the picnic planning, it’s been decided that
there’s only a few people allowed to man the grill (Hirotsu-san, Ane-san, Yosano, Lucy, himself).
There’s also a couple of people explicitly banned from approaching the grill’s five-meter radius
(Dazai, Elise, Mori-san, Motojirou, Atsushi). Atsushi’s pretty well-behaved compared to the rest of
the people in the ban list, but his klutzy tendencies don’t inspire trust, especially now that he has
no supernatural healing abilities anymore.

Chuuya’s planned back-and-forth trips to his car has been cut in half, since a lightly-bouncing
Atsushi is eager to volunteer in helping him out with carrying the multitudes of Tupperware
containing food (though he has this very huge inkling that Atsushi’s offer is less about altruism and
more about smelling the food ahead of everyone else).

Atsushi’s antics, of course, prompts Akutagawa to offer assistance as well (he’s trained well, so
very whipped), though the man’s unfortunate enough to inherit his mentor’s useless, skinny arms;
without Rashomon, he’s hardly any help when it comes to lifting. Lucy smirks at the coughing
man, smugly carrying two big boxes at once with her.

Because Dazai is Dazai, the man only assists with taking care of the drinks cooler by emptying it
bottle by bottle, already distributing the drinks between himself, Hirotsu-san and Yosano. In the
next moment, Dazai’s pouring some of his less-aged wine to something that looks like a
punchbowl manned by Kunikida.

He tries to catch the other’s attention to alert him of Dazai’s nefarious plans, but he isn’t getting the
message across. Nevertheless, despite the potential for future chaos, for now, things are more-or-
less peaceful, as peaceful as things could be with such a mix of personalities. It helps a lot that both
Mori-san and Fukuzawa haven’t arrived yet.

“Don’t think about what they’re doing to be late~♫” Dazai singsongs against his ear as soon as he
puts down the last of the food containers. “Don’t think about them being cuddly and—”

Chuuya slams his left hand against Dazai’s stupid mouth, spouting off disgusting things and now,
good god, he’s starting to imagine Mori-san removing his tie and—guh. He flicks the man’s nose
off after he feels Dazai try to lick his gloves. “I hate you so fucking much.”

“You’re not alone in worrying about why they’re late,” Hirotsu-san says mildly as he drinks
straight from the bottle. He’s still in his usual outfit and he looks so very done with the world—or
in Mori-san, in general. Same, really. “Kouyou-kun went back to make sure that they weren’t being
inappropriate.”

“Or dead.”

Hirotsu-san lifts his bottle in half-acknowledgement, half-cheers towards Yosano and her words.
“Or dead.”

“I am not dressed for a funeral,” Chuuya remarks flatly, looking down at his button-down shirt and
soft slacks. “Or a police interrogation, for that matter.”
“The Port Mafia Boss should always be ready for extenuating circumstances,” Yosano teases him
as she gently swats his hand away from trying to reach for the drinks cooler.

Dazai catches his wayward hand and traps it in his own to prevent him from drinking his own
wine. What a fucking bastard, really.

“Then it’s great that I’m not the Boss right now,” Chuuya teases right back, ignoring the way
Dazai’s fingers interlace with his own, tight enough to ground him, loose enough that he can pull
away anytime he pleased.

“Chuuya-san, I think there’s something that looks… funny on the pasta.”

“I think we should inspect it,” Dazai chimes in to support Atsushi, tugging Chuuya away from the
congregation of heavy drinkers. “It sounds serious.”

Chuuya sighs heavily, but it’s coated in fondness, because really. “You both know that I do know
that you just want to eat it ahead of everyone, right.”

“Are you accusing me of lying?” Dazai’s exaggerated affronted look is all wide eyes, stretched-out
gasp, one hand over his lips. “Me?”

“Yes.”

“Without hesitation whatsoever!” Dazai continues to showcase exaggerated indignation over being
(rightly) accused of being a liar. “And here I thought we had a connection, a partnership—”

Atsushi interrupts the man’s dramatics with both hands raised in a seemingly-placating gesture. “—
you are kind of a liar, Dazai-san.”

“And even Atsushi too! I’ve been betrayed by my comrade! Alas—”

Chuuya rolls his eyes and just marches ahead towards the food, untangling his hand from Dazai’s.
Atsushi follows him closely, food a clear priority to the younger man.

“Is it okay to leave him like that, Chuuya-san?”

“He’s too dramatic, it’s causing me a headache.”

Atsushi winces in sympathy. “And he’s like that with you every day?”

“Urgh, don’t remind me.”

“But you do manage to stay together without killing each other…”

Chuuya perks up at the wistful tone, focuses his attention on Atsushi. After squinting a bit, he
grabs Atsushi’s arm to stop the man from reaching the table. He leans in closer, so he can hiss his
words next to the other’s face: “Are you planning on moving in with Akutagawa?!”

“I—I’m, not, well, it’s, he spent the night, and—the morning after—breakfast—so domestic, I just,
forever, I kind of want—every single day?”

“You make no fucking sense,” Chuuya declares with a frown, slapping Atsushi’s arm. “Get your
head together, Atsushi. You can’t just make a decision like that under duress! At least make a
decision while he’s not within ogling distance!”

“He—apron—domestic, he was—so I want to see—I want to see him in apron every day!”
“Then take a picture of him wearing an apron and make it your lock screen?”

“Also—duress—ah, maybe, but—so cute, help me.”

“Did you hit your head or have you always been like this?”

“He did it again this morning.”

Chuuya blanches, letting the other’s arm go. “I did not want to know that.”

“No—uh—not that—well, yes, but apron! Cooking! Good morning kiss!”

“Stop yelling!”

Dazai cuts in smoothly, having recovered from his drama outtake. “You two do realize that I can
hear you both?”

“It doesn’t matter if you know,” Chuuya says the same time Atsushi half-complains with a, “It’s
not like Chuuya-san can keep it a secret from you later anyway.”

“Hey! I do know how to keep a secret!”

“I know,” Atsushi replies just-as-harried, “but Dazai-san.”

Damn, he’s right. Annoying bastard manages to scent secrets so easily. “Urgh. Dazai.”

“I’m right here, you know!”

“We know,” Chuuya puts up a long-suffering sigh. And then, once Dazai leans so much closer,
nearly collapsing against him, elbow resting on his shoulder—“Don’t make me into your arm-rest,
asshole!”

Dazai simpers, keeping his arm in place. “But you’re so short!”

“Fuck off and die.”

“Your shortness is perfect for me, don’t worry about it.”

“I DON’T WORRY ABOUT IT!”

Atsushi watches their bickering with a discerning eye. “Hmm, well at least, I do know that my
house with Akutagawa would be much more peaceful…”

“Akutagawa-kun could be rowdy in his own way!”

“Somehow, I don’t see that kid being rowdy at all,” Chuuya defends the man loyally. Also,
because Dazai likes lies and dramatics too much to not lie every other sentence.

“Do you think he’ll dance with me if he’s drunk?!”

Chuuya laughs as he remembers Akutagawa avoiding beer like his life depends on it. “I think it’s
more likely that you’ll get drunk first.”

“Mmm, we can enjoy some wild drunken dancing together then…”

“Snap him out of this delusion,” Chuuya jabs his own elbow against Dazai’s liver, but because the
bastard is an annoying bastard, he doesn’t even flinch from his attack.
“Eh, why not let him enjoy his young love fantasies…”

“Akutagawa would probably murder him in cold blood if he learns of this drinking plan.” Chuuya
subtly shifts the covers on the food once he notices Atsushi’s drool trickling down again. Of
course, it could be because he’s imagining the drunken dancing, but Chuuya’s confident that his
food trumps imaginary Akutagawa’s uncoordinated flailing. “And then we won’t have a wedding
to go to. Your shiny new tux will collect dust.”

“There’s still The Guild’s…”

“For the record: John only invited me.”

“But you can bring a plus-one, right?!”

“I can, but I won’t.”

“Stingy!”

“You don’t even know them!”

(John had mentioned, during their Skype chat the other afternoon – that they wanted to ask him to
play Violin Sonata in G minor, B.g5 during the reception.

He tried his best to not inquire about John’s sleeping habits – it was nearly dawn then, on John’s
timezone; there was a deep purple bruise on John’s chin then and he really didn’t ask.

Unfortunately, Dazai had then passed by his bedside desk, peered into the camera perched atop his
computer screen. Dazai had then superficially-politely offered a brand of concealer to help cover
the hickey really well. He drifted off towards the bathroom, but the damage had been done.

After the chat, Dazai had commented as to how playing the Devil’s Trill during a wedding
reception didn’t seem like a great soundtrack to celebrate a happy couple. Unless maybe it was
Fitzgerald’s way of announcing that he was the Devil? Chuuya didn’t ask text John about that,
despite Dazai’s persistent whining.)

“I kicked their ass!”

“That doesn’t count,” Chuuya argues, then backtracks. He shoves Dazai away so he can glare at
the smug asshole’s face. “Plus – I did the ass-kicking. I fucking kicked his face!”

“Fitzgerald must have been blinded during the attack of our dear Atsushi and Akutagawa…”

“I didn’t destroy his face, what the fuck.”

Plus the only thing that happened to John’s face then was mature into sadness, but it made him
more handsome, to be honest. And his fiancé noticed him after that transformation, so.

“Mm, that’s true, because that would mean that your puny, little feet packed that much strength…”

“Oh, I’ll let you taste this feet—”

“Please don’t do it in front of me…” Atsushi starts off mournfully, making a face like he’s been
transported back to his orphanage. The expression clears though as he considers his words a little
more. “…Actually. I might get some tips? So you can go ahead?”

“Please don’t,” Akutagawa interrupts, coughing his way to their little party. “I haven’t eaten
anything yet and wouldn’t want to ruin my appetite.”

“Implying that you wouldn’t throw up after you see Chuuya’s puny, little feet?” Dazai’s smirking
as he regards his ex-subordinate, who’s not-very-subtly escaping from the excitement happening
one table away.

But then again, Ranpo and Motojirou simultaneously arguing about recent scientific breakthroughs
and vowing to test them right at that very moment… That’s bound to be stressful.

Miyazawa Kenji’s volunteering himself for any experiments – and Elise, who’s there already, early
and safely away from Mori-san, is busy braiding the tips of the blond’s wayward bangs, so she
goes along for the ride. Kunikida’s on his second cup of (unknown-to-him) spiked punch, so he’s
rowdier and louder than usual when it comes to lecturing them all about propriety and common
sense and order. Higuchi’s fluctuating between being scandalized by Motojirou’s behavior and
being interested in the crazy shit happening; Gin’s just watching the spectacle from a safe distance
away, though she’s also keeping an eye out on her brother’s skulking. Tachihara’s hovering near
Gin – hmm, is he…? probably best not to have Akutagawa notice that then – staring at his
direction, so he waves a little, smiles a bit in encouragement. Tachihara seems to get the message,
because he blushes hard enough for it to be obvious.

Poe’s beside them earlier—but now, he’s been apparently dragged by Yosano towards the drinking
corner so he can be grilled about his intentions about their Agency’s ‘Dearly Beloved Innocent
Fluffball’. Chuuya doesn’t believe it one bit, but it looks like Poe does believe that Edogawa
Ranpo is hiding a fluffy innocence underneath the snarky exterior. To be that gullible… he doesn’t
envy the guy one bit.

The Tanizaki Siblings are supposedly helping set up some of the activities for later (wow, they’re
really aiming for a teambuilding vibe here) – but they’re suspiciously absent and he resolutely
blocks any memories of singsong words from Naomi about her plans for her brother.

Chuuya then spots and waves at Lucy and Kyouka standing guard near his car, presumably so they
can catch Ane-san before she makes her way to the picnic. She’s bound to be in a bad mood from
her errand, so she’ll definitely need to fawn over Kyouka and her newest best friend to regain her
cheer.

All in all, it’s pretty peaceful.

So of course, he’s jinxed himself. Akutagawa’s next words are of course bound to give him a
headache: “Chuuya-san’s feet are fine.”

Dazai’s smug smirk falls off so quickly that Chuuya gets a whiplash just watching him. “—you’ve
seen them when, where, why, how?”

“…in the Port Mafia?” Akutagawa says very slowly, similar to the way Dazai lengthens the
syllables when he’s thinking Chuuya’s being particularly obtuse (for the record: he isn’t, he just
doesn’t have the same train of thought as a batshit asshat).

“Akutagawa-kun~♪” Dazai says it with such a light-hearted singsong that it rings alarm bells in
Chuuya’s mind. He sounds exactly like when he’s about to lock the door so he can have some so-
called quality time with prisoners about to be tortured.

Chuuya cuts in before Dazai tries to antagonize Akutagawa even more (because that means that
Atsushi will jump into the fray, and once Atsushi joins, both Kyouka and Lucy will definitely help
out, and if those two are involved, there’s the wrath of Ane-san to be faced—).
“I know you’ve betrayed the Port Mafia, but you could at least have the decency to remember that
we do have shower rooms. And infirmary. And lockers there.” Chuuya doesn’t hear everyone in
the picnic collectively hold their breath as they hear him broach the subject of Dazai’s betrayal in
public. “…Or are you exhibiting signs of aging, oldie?”

“…you’re older than me, shortstuff.”

“Fuck you, at least I have a babyface.”

“Pfffft, I’ve never heard anyone be proud of that.”

Dazai chuckles – he’s not giggling, is he? that’s disturbing, too much for what he’s hoping to be a
lovely day – while clutching at his stomach with one hand and draping an arm over Chuuya’s
shoulders with another.

Akutagawa looks spooked – everyone else has similar reactions, but Chuuya doesn’t notice them
and Akutagawa’s look so extreme, all wide, round eyes and he looks like he’s stopped breathing.
He sort of gets it – Dazai rarely laughs like this, all mirth and zero untoward intentions. Dazai
laughing probably looks like the coming of the Devil or something equally horrifying.

Curling his arm tighter around Chuuya’s shoulders, Dazai continues: “And I won’t let you distract
me. Why the hell are you showing off your feet to Akutagawa?”

“What the fuck is your deal with my feet?!”

Akutagawa’s horror softens a little bit, before it sharpens to unimpressed disdain. He doesn’t say
anything, simply snorts. Then coughs.

Dazai whines so very loudly the entire picnic can hear them. “They’re puny, little feet that are so
cute and petite!”

“How can feet be cute?” Chuuya looks at his feet, but no answers come. His shoes are so-so today,
because he didn’t want to use any of his new purchases, not when there’s a chance someone (either
Kunikida or Akutagawa) will throw up on his shoes. He wriggles his toes inside his shoes and no
answer still. “Also, stop calling me small!”

“I said you’re puny and petite, you deaf old bat.”

“I’m not old and I’m not deaf!”

“Mm, but you have cute feet.”

“Again, how?!”

“Why are you asking me?” Dazai asks with too-round eyes. “They’re your feet.”

“How should I know?! You’re the only one who calls them cute!”

Dazai’s voice turns steely again, mood swings at full force. Chuuya jabs his elbow over the other’s
kidney this time, but it doesn’t dislodge the leech-octopus-demon-hybrid. “Akutagawa-kun doesn’t
find your feet cute?”

Akutagawa’s quick to respond, much quicker than how Rashomon used to activate. “I have no
opinions, positive, negative or neutral, regarding Chuuya-san’s feet.”

“You said they were fine earlier.”

“I was lying, Dazai-san.” Akutagawa replies quickly again, then adds: “I learned from the best,
after all.”

Atsushi laughs and joins their arms together (with only a bit of awkwardness and coughing, he’s so
proud of them—well, not about the cough, though—he makes a mental note to check on stronger
antibiotic treatment therapies for Akutagawa, maybe Yosano has some contacts?) in solidarity in
calling Dazai a fucking liar who lies. Chuuya’s tempted to cross the distance and go with the two
as well, because an anti-Dazai coalition is in the works and that’s one checkmark on his personal
goals for this picnic. Rather unfortunately, Dazai’s hold on him is stickier than a slug’s.

Dazai claps his hands in glee though—because, figures. “I knew you’d admit I was the best!”

“At lying,” Chuuya reminds the man, but it’s buried underneath Kunikida’s sudden, undignified
screaming.

He feels a chill run up his spine and freeze his mind.

Mori-san’s here.

With Fukuzawa.

Fuck.

☆☆☆

Ideally—

So it’s not exactly a surprise.

There’s no age limit on love (or so they say in TV Shows, but he’s never seen a romance show or a
movie, for that matter, that focuses on love between older people, so maybe there is an age limit).

There are no more Abilities now, no more Big Bad that needs to be sealed away, no more enemy
factions eager to spill blood across fiercely-protected borders.

There shouldn’t be anything stopping a romance from blossoming.

Also ideally—Chuuya’s not frozen due to his mind quitting on him (smart thing, his mind, running
for the hills ahead of the rest of his consciousness), because.

Because ideally—Chuuya’s not gaping at the sight of Mori-san and Fukuzawa approaching their
picnic, with arms linked together, wearing matching garish oversized Hawaiian shirts (that neon
pink with sunflower-yellow print burns his eyes) and cargo shorts, flipflops on their feet.

“Did nobody fucking tell them they weren’t going to the beach,” Chuuya ends up managing to say,
though it isn’t too loud—because not a lot has reacted—or maybe it’s too loud and everybody else
just has been abandoned by higher brain functions. Same, really.

“Why were these beasts unleashed to the wild,” Dazai whines in commiseration. “Plus it’s damn
cold, why the hell is that guy showing off his hairy legs.”

Ane-san’s speed-walking towards them, not because she misses them, but because she looks like
she needs a drink. Or ten. Her hand is already stretched out when she’s about five steps away;
Hirotsu-san’s ready for her, with a glass tumbler that has four fingers of whisky. It disappears
quickly—and Mori-san and Fukuzawa hasn’t moved more than five steps forward, not for lack of
trying. But Mori-san’s attempting to link their fingers together too, while the Agency’s President is
smart enough to avoid giving Mori-san too much at once. The result is a glacial pace interspersed
by two old men squabbling over holding hands.

How is this his life, twenty-five years, really.

“Hey there Chuu-nii,” Kyusaku (don’t-call-me-Q-for-now) greets him with a demure smile that he
knows hides daggers. He’s apparently with Ane-san today. He doesn’t mind, mostly because
moving on, he’s moving on, he doesn’t need to discuss anything with Q, it’s not like he had full
control of his Ability then. The faces and names and lives of his subordinates don’t flash as
painfully now, on the blue-moon-rare occasions he crosses paths with the young teen. He also
doesn’t mind, despite the annoying nickname, because Q’s hostility towards Dazai now manifests
in magnificent cold shoulders.

“Hey,” he returns with a smile. It comes out as a grimace, because Mori-san is still within the
periphery. “How’s it going?”

“I haven’t chased my home tutor out yet.”

It should be normal for most people, but for Q, that’s a milestone. So Chuuya tries for another
smile, a proud one, as he pats Q’s head. “That’s great.”

“Such a mom, Chuuya~~~♫”

“Well, you’re definitely not my dad, u-zai,” Q counters, sticking his tongue out childishly.

“Chuuya, he’s calling me annoying!”

“You are annoying,” Chuuya rolls his eyes, but he turns to Q and tells him to mind his manners
and not stoop so low as Dazai.

“You’re the one who’s literally lower,” Dazai mutters petulantly, but Chuuya silences him with a
kick to the shin.

☆☆☆

The picnic more-or-less goes well – the guests have more-or-less collectively decided to huddle
close together on one side, which is not-so-coincidentally the furthest they could be from their
organizations’ respective leaders. Mori-san doesn’t seem to mind, delighting in being able to
publicly display his manipulative ways of getting Fukuzawa to relax with him. For the most part,
Fukuzawa seems pacified by the kitten half on his lap (the other half is on Mori-san’s, because
that’s apparently their compromise for Mori-san taming the animal for him), a tiny fuchsia-colored
scarf on the kitten.

Right now, there’s an ongoing game of charades, words to be guessed coming from each of the
guests, written on small patches of paper folded the exact same way to appease Kunikida’s sense
of order. Each one who makes a wrong guess or takes more than the expected time is eliminated
from the game. Atsushi’s the first to go, which is probably his plan all along, because he gets to
hang around the food and eat without anyone else disturbing him.

Though to call it a game now isn’t exactly right – there are three participants left and they’re all
able to guess the words within ten seconds. Chuuya acquiesces to providing more obscure words to
Naomi – names of some French poem, brands of couture gowns, cities that have not yet become
mainstream vacation destinations – because now everyone else is getting apprehensive of the way
Dazai and Mori-san are sniping at each other murderously after each correct guess. Edogawa
Ranpo’s complaining about how this is too easy for him.

Chuuya excuses himself to go to the public bathroom – and once he’s back, Ranpo’s apparently
won and Dazai’s sulking in one corner.

He really shouldn’t, but Chuuya sighs and drags a chair beside Dazai’s and lets the other whine at
the question’s unfairness and how he got eliminated before Mori-san.

He doesn’t kick him in the shin or jab him on his kidneys, this time.

☆☆☆

As they’re all pitching in on cleaning up – thankfully, there’s not a lot of blood (not-so-thankfully,
Motojirou’s all energy despite the nasty cut on his arm, but only because Yosano’s patching him
up and he’s practically vibrating in his seat) – from the picnic, Chuuya manages to decline a
tentative invitation from Atsushi to have lunch with Akutagawa and Dazai.

He doesn’t turn down an invitation to drink with Ane-san, Hirotsu-san and Yosano next Friday. He
doesn’t turn down an invitation from Lucy and Kyouka for a foodtrip; Higuchi hears about it and
Higuchi invites herself for a shopping expedition after. He promises to help Kunikida look for an
antique book of poems on Tuesday; on Wednesday, he’s going to accompany Atsushi to a pet
grooming salon for his cat. Thursday is for Akutagawa to be brought for a new round of check-ups
—the man doesn’t know it yet, but Gin does, so he can count on her to make sure Akutagawa
doesn’t make too much of a fuss.

“You’ve got a busy week,” Dazai remarks as Chuuya marks his appointments, old-fashioned
enough to actually write them down, on an opera-cream planner. Dazai then snaps a picture of his
appointments, cheekily saying: “You might be senile enough to forget them, so this is for back-
up~”

“Hmph – don’t mess around with my appointments.”

It’s a futile call, because he doesn’t control what Dazai does. All he can do is make his kick extra-
painful once the time comes.

Chuuya drives them back to his apartment; Dazai slips a handful of yen to the guards in the lobby
to help bring the empty food containers up.

“You’re so fucking lazy.”

“Mm, it’s your money anyway~~~”

“Urgh, you’re such an ass.”

Chuuya tugs at his clothes, some streaks of crimson on them. They’re on a lump by his bathroom
floor once he’s done stripping them away from his body, but before he can google a way to
effectively remove the bloodstains, Dazai’s already picking them up, bundling them in his hands.
He’s only slightly irritated that Dazai’s just waltzing into his bathroom while he’s stark naked, but
he can’t be too annoyed given that Dazai will be handling his laundry.

It’s a fairly tiring day.

Chuuya’s thinking about today’s events – his mind skipping over scenes that involve Mori-san and
Fukuzawa for the sake of his sanity – as he settles inside his bathtub, eyes half-lidded as the warm
water fills his space comfortably.

☆☆☆

Once Chuuya opens his eyes, he’s neatly tucked in, blanket and comforter pulled up to his neck.
It’s warm, like he’s floating in a toasty oven.

The curtains are drawn; his view of his bedside table’s clock is blocked by Dazai reclining against
the headboard with a book in hand. The brown hair looks soft and mildly wet from a shower, the
scent of apples and the warmth making him think of apple pies. With the way the blanket is drawn
over Dazai’s body – oh, they’re sharing a blanket – he’s able to see the navy blue robe loose
around Dazai’s chest, no bandages peeking out from the space above the topmost button. Long,
oversized sleeves nearly cover Dazai’s fingers as he flips to the next page.

He looks comfortable and sleepy. Looking at Dazai, surrounded by Chuuya’s things, by the dim
glow of his bedside lamp, makes him feel boneless, sated.

Chuuya’s sure that he doesn’t make any sort of noise, but Dazai’s attention swings to him anyway.
There’s a smirk on Dazai’s face as he tilts the book’s cover towards him, but it looks unbearably
soft, like it will melt if Chuuya touches it.

It’s probably the tiredness. Or the apple-cinnamon smell. Or the way the yellowish glow from his
lamp pushes back all the shadows in this room except for Dazai.

He reaches out with one hand, the sleeves on his own oversized robe sliding back the jut of his
wrist, touches the edge of Dazai’s lips. It does melt, the smirk dissolving into the hazy glow,
replaced by a tentative smile that Chuuya doesn’t know how to handle. He hasn’t seen it on
Dazai’s face before.

“Didn’t they tell you to always update your passwords and locks?” Dazai asks with a tone that tries
to be teasing, but only ends up hushed.

He breathes against Chuuya’s fingers, the warmth hitting his fingertips directly without his gloves
to intercept. He doesn’t remember getting out of the bathtub and he definitely doesn’t remember
changing to his sleeping robe. It’s strange, to see Dazai’s preference for him to walk around
gloveless inside his apartment, to see the ugly burst of black-red veins instead of smooth black
leather.

“Stop messing around with my poems,” he replies with the same hushed quality. He hasn’t
published his poems for this month yet. He hasn’t started on it yet, to be honest, but he thinks
about the company earlier, the easy banter, the blanket of crisp, dead leaves.
 He presses his fingertips harder against Dazai’s face – if Dazai’s face was made of glass, his
fingerprints could be smudged there forever. The thought makes him press even harder. Dazai
doesn’t even flinch.

It’s entirely possible that Dazai has located his diary as well – it’s in the same safe as his book of
poems – but he supposes that there’s no thrill to reading it. Dazai’s been there for every single
memory transcribed in those pages, after all.

Dazai’s leaning sideways, Chuuya’s hand falling from his face and dropping into the diminishing
space between them, right on top the bunched pile of blanket and comforter. The room’s warmth is
so very different from the coldness outside, the gentle softness on Dazai’s face so very different
from the expressions Chuuya has memorized and analyzed before, when he was trying to do his
best for their partnership.

The tentative smile is gone, but there’s an expression in Dazai’s eyes that Chuuya’s familiar with.
He’s seen it while he’s at a bar with Dazai, drinking together like buddies as part of their cover,
while Dazai pretends to be a third-rate gentleman who sidles close to the prettiest woman in the
vicinity, moments before he kisses her.

“…you’re planning to kiss me?”

Chuuya’s whisper-thin question escapes him in slow increments, reins slipping out from his hands.
His hands are motionless, one underneath the blankets and one trapped between the bed and
Dazai’s chest.

Dazai’s looming over him, his body weight distributed over Chuuya’s arm and his own elbow.
Dazai’s face is pressed against his, their foreheads and noses knocked together, close enough that
Chuuya closes his eyes eventually so he doesn’t get crossed-eyed.

“I plan to do a lot of things to you, Chuuya,” Dazai responds in an equally-slow drawl, the words
vibrating in-between the air they breathe. With how close their lips are, Chuuya’s surprised that
Dazai doesn’t just murmur his words as a kiss and be done with it.

But he knows Dazai is Dazai.

Chuuya doesn’t reply and Dazai stills for a minute, before sighing, moving, brushing his lips
against the tip of Chuuya’s nose, moving, brushing a feather-light kiss on the space between his
eyes, moving, brushing a hard press of lips on the dead center of his forehead, moving, brushing
Chuuya’s hair with a kiss that threatens to pin his soul down like needles on a butterfly.

Chuuya doesn’t speak still, even as Dazai’s hand settles over his arm and against his back, even as
Dazai scents his hair in steady breaths, even as Dazai moves impossibly closer to trap both of his
hands between them.

Chuuya keeps his eyes closed the entire time, sleep already beckoning to him.

Traitorously, he thinks about how good it would be if they could just exist like this forever.

Chapter End Notes

• feedback is always lovely ♥ ♥ ♥

• next chapter should cover the months of november to december, plus halloween!

edit, mar 8 2023: art by morgan-san re: the last scene of the chapter!!! soft soukoku
cuddles!!!
 Chapter 10
Chapter Summary

• Chuuya/Motojirou date
• Motojirou lowkey experiments as to how to make Dazai jealous (FOR SCIENCE!)
• we get a glimpse to Chuuya’s nightmares and his real thoughts/insecurities about his
past/Dazai
• and I guess, hurt/comfort at the last section?

Chapter Notes

• thank you as always for tuning in! your feedback make my day, really ♥ feel free to
ask me questions about the fic (some of you do on tumblr already ♥) - i'll try to
answer them as best as i can!

• i think i'm back at a one harem member per chapter lol so the chapter # predictions
get pushed back...again...

• chapter is a bit all over the place on purpose, because it’s Motojirou LOL Chuuya
feels all-over-the-place dealing with him too 8D

• quick reminder that this fic is set 3 years post-series! (well it was 3 years as of ch1,
but now, around 3.5 years?)

• also! welllll, i did say that the next installments will have more plot? to those who’ve
caught on to the fact that chuuya still has major issues with his past + the betrayal,
well. this is just the beginning! this is ultimately a fluffy fic, but the fluffy beginning
and ending must have a tasty storm as a filling, right?

See the end of the chapter for more notes

☆☆☆

Attending a Halloween party with Motojirou isn’t exactly how he’d envisioned this date, but he
supposes that it’s much better than hanging out in the man’s labs and helping him mix some
chemicals. Especially since Motojirou’s current obsession is making lemon-flavored beer that acts
as a low-grade aphrodisiac, in order to catch Yosano’s eye.

(Multiple times, Chuuya had tried—and failed—to knock some sense to the scientist, quite
literally, because Yosano’s an actual doctor who wouldn’t hesitate to crush his balls if he tries to
drug her into accepting a date with him.)

(Plus, she dislikes men weak enough to resort to bribes and drugs and outside influence to
showcase their appeal. What Motojirou’s planning will surely get him rejected faster than a bullet
train.)

“We could do trick-or-treat after—if they don’t give us candy, we’d throw a lemon bomb at them!
It’s genius!”

“It’s not,” Chuuya says as calmly as he can. It’s standard fare for Motojirou anyway. “If you want
candy, I’ll buy them for you. If you want to throw bombs instead, let’s go back to your lab. Pick
one.”

Motojirou sniffs at his fun being reined in, but recovers quickly as soon as he spots some very
realistic monster costume. Chuuya allows himself to be tugged along, smoothing over any sparks
in the conversation that appears whenever Motojirou’s grabby hands land too close to the
cosplayer.

The costume inspection ends with a stinging slap on Chuuya’s face, because he did the right thing
and shoved Motojirou away when the cosplayer had had enough of the other’s fumbling with her
costume. Motojirou’s half-apologizing, half-complaining about overly-sensitive people, as they
walk with as much dignity they can muster out of the party.

The apologies and complaints taper off to stuttered mumbling—and Chuuya, who’s walking half-a-
step behind Motojirou, busy nursing his cheek, crashes into the man when Motojirou stops
walking abruptly.

“What—”

Motojirou’s sudden high-pitched exclamation stops Chuuya from completing his question. “You
see, ahaha, I can explain, Dazai-san—!!”

“What the fuck are you doing here,” Chuuya asks the man wearing a matching vampire costume
with him. Chuuya’s suit is altered to hug his body tightly enough to hint at the muscle definition of
his legs, but the all-black suit coupled with a blood-red tie (he has great taste in gifts, if he may so
himself) looks unfairly better on Dazai. It’s not because he’s taller, okay?! It’s just the fit and Dazai
looks skanky and shady enough to pass as a vampire even without a costume.

(“I don’t need your permission~♫”, Dazai from three years ago would have said, Chuuya could
hear the phantom voice, somehow, faint and almost-disappearing.)

Instead, now—

Dazai is smiling, razor-sharp, made even sharper with a fake fang on the edge of his lips.
“Motojirou-kun~~~♫”

Motojirou has two hands raised in frantic surrender: “I have the name and picture of the girl who
slapped Chuuya-san!”

Dazai doesn’t reply, but he brisk-walks towards where Chuuya is, one black-gloved hand turning
Chuuya’s face by the chin, inspecting the faint flush on his cheek from the slap supposedly for
Motojirou. Chuuya huffs and swats Dazai’s grabby hands away, holding the other’s wrist to stop
him from storming inside to harass the other partygoers.

“I don’t need a goddamn bodyguard to go on a date with Motojirou.”

“Ew, I’m not your bodyguard,” Dazai quickly says, and it almost sounds genuine, disgust layered
over his face. Chuuya knows that expression though, it’s Dazai’s I’m-lying-and-don’t-care-enough-
to-disguise-it-because-I-know-you’ll-figure-it-out-anyway face. It’s annoying as hell.
“You’re here for this Halloween party, then.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I see.” Chuuya knows Dazai’s lying, can smell it off his skin, can spot it on the twitch of his eyes,
really. There’s no point wasting time arguing though. Motojirou might be pining for someone else
at the moment, but it’s still right to make their time together as nice as possible. Dazai isn’t going to
help with that (it’s the opposite, he thinks). He takes a step away from the idiot stalker, links arms
with the gaping Motojirou. “Then enjoy the party, bastard. We still have a date to continue,
Motojirou.”

☆☆☆

“Is this really a date, Chuuya-san?”

“I’ll buy more food,” Chuuya promises, already clicking on his phone for another delivery
restaurant nearby.

Motojirou’s still wearing his Hobo Albert Einstein costume (in short: just his usual clothes), as he
pours something that smells like bleach, something that looks like lye, something that hisses like
muriatic acid to a beaker. Chuuya takes a subtle step away from the table where Motojirou’s
mixing his strange concoction – his suit is rather nice, he’d rather not have it torn into scraps
because of yet another explosion.

“I mean, Dazai-san—”

“Stalking me is part of his entertainment,” Chuuya says with a flip of his hand, takes another step
away when he hears the beaker vibrate when Motojirou adds another element to his mixture.
“Don’t worry about it.”

“I think it’s something that you should worry about.”

“It’s fine. And I ordered some two boxes of pizza. That good?”

“It’s gourmet pizza?”

“Yeah – they deliver 24/7.” Chuuya doesn’t mention that he’s become a fairly regular customer to
the pizza place – or rather, his credit card is familiar to them, no thanks to Dazai ordering from
them every week, trying out new flavors each time.

“So it’s fine if you stalk someone, huh?”

“Don’t stalk Yosano, she’ll kill you…” Chuuya grimaces when Motojirou starts getting a far-away
look in his eyes. And it’s obvious despite the goggles and it’s not making him feel any confident
about this new acid thing he’s making. “…And not in a fun way, stop being a weird pervert.”

“But Dazai-san does it!”

Chuuya huffs in annoyance, his arms on his hips as soon as he pockets his phone. “Since when is
Dazai a great role model?”

“Hmm… you make sense, Chuuya-san.”

“You don’t have to sound so surprised.”

“But isn’t it a waste?”

“Hm?”

“You got matching costumes and all. We could have scheduled our date to some other day. To be
honest, I’m not sure why we’re even going out on a ‘date’…?”

“It’s not a matching costume,” Chuuya denies even though it totally is. But then again, all that’s
needed for a vampire costume is a nice suit, some fake blood, some fake fangs. It’s not that
difficult to match. “Yeah, I know. You’d prefer to go out with Yosano. Tough luck.”

“That’s true, but that’s not really what I meant…?”

Chuuya frowns at that, thinks whether he should warn Yosano about possible stalkers starting
tomorrow. But then his nose catches a whiff of something that smells like it’s going to explode in
the next ten seconds—

“Goddamn it, Motojirou!”

☆☆☆

“Do you think there’s an open arcade at this time…?”

Chuuya’s wary at the question – because it’s pretty late and there’s some soot clinging to his suit
still. He can already imagine the bitching Dazai will passive-aggressively do once he comes back.

But then again, maybe he can send it for dry-cleaning before Dazai arrives…?

He’s wearing a skanky vampire costume in a party filled with drunk partygoers, it’d be easy for him
to convince someone to a double suicide, before ultimately getting slapped. He’s probably dancing
some slow-dance with some monster-girl with cat-ears right now, right after he sends a picture of
the costume and sends it to his protégé who’ll undoubtedly be traumatized by it. He’s probably
leaning in closer and murmuring nonsense about subjectivity and leaps of faith—god, when would
he ever understand that not everyone’s into philosophical discussions about Kierkegaard and
matters of life and death? He’s probably whispering it directly to her ear, about how sickness unto
death makes it urgent for a double suicide now, there’s a nice bridge just a few blocks away. He’s
probably sealing the deal by placing his hands on her hips, his mouth barely-grazing her non-cat-
ear—

“—you see, Chuuya-san, I know you don’t have your Ability anymore, but you kinda like when
you’re under Corruption…?”

Chuuya blinks and realizes that there’s a pulverized card in his hands. It’s a call-card given by the
oh-so-helpful fireman from Motojirou’s ‘scientific emergency’, who had asked if Chuuya had
wanted some special lessons about fire safety. He had accepted because Dazai nearly burnt down
his kitchen the other day when he had attempted some clay roast thing. Chuuya thinks the fireman
probably has other intentions with his invitation as subtle as a sledgehammer to the face, but now it
doesn’t matter anymore, because Chuuya has shredded the card unknowingly.
Stupid fucking Dazai, invading his thoughts, making him want to murder people instead.

So Chuuya instead sighs and cups his hands together so he can throw the pitiful remains of the call-
card on the next trashcan they can find. “I thought you were a genius, Motojirou.”

“Hmm, you really believe that, Chuuya-san?! You’re too nice to me! Of course, it’s true, but it’s
still good of you to agree! Do you think Yosano-san will—?”

“Maybe don’t blow anything up first,” Chuuya says mildly, already mentally listing an order for
more bandages in the headquarters’ infirmary. He supposes that it will take at least ten date
attempts for Yosano to tone down her use of scalpels against Motojirou for daring to encroach in
her personal space with a ten-meter radius.

“Hmm – do you think there are still some stationery stores open?”

“What do you plan to do?” Chuuya asks warily, stepping away slightly because he’s spotted a
roadside trashcan.

“I was thinking, I could leave a bomb in the front entrance—”

“No.”

☆☆☆

“Maybe we should prank Dazai-san!”

It’s in bad form, but Chuuya somehow wishes this night to end already. He managed to keep
Motojirou to two explosions in four hours and that’s frankly a great improvement already. He can
persevere, really.

Though if he wishes to keep Motojirou in one piece – he’s a fine asset for the Port Mafia,
eccentricities aside, really, and everyone has their own quirks, right? – he needs to put a lid on this
insanity. “He’ll find a way to turn the prank on you and then you’d wish you were dead instead.”

“You think that highly of him!”

Motojirou’s lucky to not have crossed paths with Dazai while in the Port Mafia; he hasn’t
witnessed the Dazai Osamu Greatest Hits when it comes to torturing his opponents into seeking
deaths by their own hands just to escape from his personal brand of cruelty. Or silly entertainment,
as the Dazai back then used to say.

“Well, if you really wish to experience suffering…”

That’s what he says, though inside, he’s thinking about ways to knock Motojirou out. It’d be better
to endure his whining tomorrow than have to deal with a mutilated, humiliated body tonight. The
Port Mafia is made up of individuals who are cutthroat when it comes to protecting their turf, the
space they’ve carved out for themselves, but it will not last if the individuals don’t last either. He
has to protect Motojirou somehow.

(Yosano doesn’t count, because she won’t truly kill him or harm him irreparably. Dazai, on the
other hand…)
“Please make it my epitaph, Chuuya-san, if it becomes like that.”

“What, ‘here lies Motojirou Kajii, who didn’t fucking listen to Chuuya’?”

“Eh, that will do.”

“So you wish to do what, exactly?”

“I’ll pretend to make-out with someone to make Dazai-san jealous!”

“That won’t work,” Chuuya feels the need to correct the path Motojirou’s on, because if he’s going
to die anyway from dealing with Dazai, it’d be better to not go for something so stupid. The two of
them make their way back to the party they were kicked out from, hoping to catch Dazai there.
(Well, he actually doesn’t hope for that, it’d be much better if Dazai’s drinking sake somewhere
instead, everyone’s happier that way.)

“Is Dazai-san that confident?”

“That guy doesn’t feel jealousy,” Chuuya explains with a shrug, adjusting the cuffs on his suit.
Because why would Dazai be jealous? Despite his douchebaggery being well-known, he still
manages to snag beautiful women here and there with just a few well-placed touches, with just a
few drops of his voice. Though he hasn’t been asked to help stop some lady from having a mental
breakdown after being dumped by Dazai recently, has he? Maybe the Dazai charm has faded
already? A bit unlikely, but… “If what he has gets taken, it’s because he planned for it. And he’ll
just get another one.”

“Are you talking about a particular… um, incident?”

“It’s how he works.” It’s how he’s always worked when he was still a mission partner to Chuuya.
“He can’t feel jealous because he doesn’t even care anyway.”

“That… does sound like the legendary Mafia Executive.”

“It does, because he’s like that.”

“Though he’s not like that now, I think?”

And that’s the problem, Chuuya doesn’t say.

Because the guy who promised to never change has now changed so wildly that Chuuya finds it
easier to just ignore everything, finds it much easier to cling to the things he know with certainty,
even though he hates relying on his past.

But then again, isn’t that just like Dazai?

Changing alone, without telling Chuuya, without giving Chuuya a chance to catch up.

But he’s changed too, hasn’t he? He’s already changed a lot—

(And it’s a respite, since Corruption’s voice isn’t here anymore. Because that voice would surely
hiss and cackle about him being stuck, as always.)

“Erm, Chuuya-san, you’re spacing out weirdly again…”

“Ah, maybe we should have just gone for the opera.” Chuuya knows that a lot of the Port Mafia
members get surprised when they find out that Motojirou enjoys bombing the hell out of buildings
the same way he enjoys a particularly good Faust. “I’m sorry I’m not a very good date right now.”

“You really take this seriously, huh?”

“Maybe we can go on another date, to the opera and then drinks after?” And maybe he can control
his spacing out by then.

“Nah, you’re great, so it’s fun, but Dazai-san will kill me.”

“We don’t need to follow his stupid schedule for my dates.”

“There’s that, but there’s also—ooooh, there’s Dazai-san!”

Chuuya doesn’t immediately look up, busy as he is with patting his suit to get all of the smoky
smell and the soot off. They’ve walked all over Yokohama because Motojirou has very strong
feelings about traffic (and his definition of traffic is any red stoplight) and maybe they should have
walked a bit more because he hasn’t decided on how to best knock Motojirou out.

Dazai’s looking at them, from a few meters away. Chuuya’s line of sight to him becomes cut-off
when Motojirou’s chest blocks the view, and then there are arms on his shoulders, pulling him
closer – okay, he can work with this, he can headbutt Motojirou instead – so he leans in close as
well, stands on his tiptoes, and—

Oh.

For someone with such skinny arms, Dazai was able to throw that fake plastic fang of his really
hard. He kneels down at the fallen form of his date, a nasty lump at the back of his head already. It
doesn’t look life-threatening, but—

“You couldn’t have, I don’t know, made sure he’s not concussed?”

“He’s trying to make me jealous, Chuuya.”

“You don’t feel jealous,” Chuuya says as he busies with laying Motojirou down on his folded suit
jacket. He then takes out his phone and texts Yosano if she can help check if an associate of his is
going to die within the next few hours. If Motojirou’s going to die by Dazai’s hands, because
Chuuya’s not competent (or tall, or quick) enough to headbutt him, the least he can do is grant him
a favor – a favor he’s too out of it to appreciate, but a favor nevertheless.

“…I don’t?”

Maybe this is a good chance to confirm that Dazai hasn’t changed and left him behind again.
“There’s no need, right?”

There’s heavy silence from Dazai’s end, the distant sounds of the party just a faint murmur to
them. Chuuya’s phone beeps with Yosano’s agreement and her request for a good bottle of whisky
in return for this favor.

“…I’ll help you take pictures of your favor to him.”

Dazai’s ignoring his questions – which is standard fare for Dazai. So that’s enough of an answer.

Right?
 ☆☆☆

…Right.

“So I only have Naomi’s brother, Ranpo-san and Tachihara left?”

“Uh-huh. That should round up the year nicely, don’t you think?”

“Make sure that Tachihara’s date doesn’t coincide with Christmas. Or New Year.”

Dazai hums as he plays his newest game, cross-seated on a new warm sheepskin rug on the living
room floor. “You’re unexpectedly cruel.”

“I’m not!” Chuuya protests hotly from his position on the couch, kicking the back of Dazai’s head,
though admittedly with not as much force as he wanted. (It’s not because his legs are short,
goddamnit. It’s because he’s going easy… no, not that either. Urgh.) “It’s just that… if it doesn’t
work out, I don’t want to ruin his holidays!”

“…unexpectedly cruel, indeed.”

“Urgh, I hope you fucking lose.”

Dazai chuckles with unholy glee, adjusting backwards so that Chuuya’s outstretched foot can rest
on his left shoulder. “Can’t you see my name on the high score list, Chuuya? Do you need glasses
already?”

Chuuya replies by stabbing his right toe on the bastard’s ear, but Dazai merely chuckles again, as
though he’s amused by Chuuya’s attempts at bodily harming him.

“I’ll look great in glasses.”

“You look great in anything.”

Chuuya stabs his ear again with his toe – or at least, attempts to, but Dazai plays the game one-
handedly so he can tickle his foot with the other hand. Reflexively, Chuuya tries to pull his foot
away, but Dazai leans in, trapping his calf between his shoulder and cheek.

“I’m not ticklish,” Chuuya resolutely says, even as his entire leg tingles from the intentional brush
of Dazai’s fingers all over his feet. “And it’s weird to have you agree with me.”

“Unlike you, oldie, I’m not blind.”

“I’m not old, fuck you.”

“Compared to the lovely youngster, such as myself, you’re old, oldie~~~♫”

“Hmph. Plus the only reason you’re in the high score is because you’re the only one playing this
game.”

“Oho, is that a challenge, shrimp?” Dazai pauses the game and turns to him, but the motion only
drags his face against Chuuya’s leg. He’s not ticklish, damn it. Dazai’s next words rumble against
his calf. “Want me to connect the game to the net and see the world record?”

“Whatever. And I’ll kick your ass.”

“Just because you’re good at martial arts doesn’t mean that you’re gonna be good at a fighting
game too, you know~”

“Urgh, why are you complimenting me and insulting me at once?! It’s creepy! And annoying!”

“Mm, you’ve got such a nice calf, Chuuya.”

“That wasn’t an invitation to be creepier!”

“Ah, I thought you wanted me to just compliment you without an insult.”

“Can’t you stop both?”

“I can, but why would I?”

“Just for that, I’m so kicking your ass.”

“You already kicked my face.”

“I’ll do so much more than that,” Chuuya promises as he snatches the second console from Dazai,
the extremely wide TV screen showing the entry of P2 and the loading screen.

Dazai smirks at him, before blowing a raspberry against his skin. “…Please do.”

☆☆☆

Dazai’s slow-dancing with some monster-girl with cat-ears, no why should he do that
when he can be slow-dancing with a flawless person, with a person who can see a few
seconds to the future, to a person who managed to remain pure and noble and bright
despite being in the Port Mafia, who has that much power but doesn’t get
overwhelmed by it, doesn’t get out of control, doesn’t kill anyone but manages to
remain pure and noble and bright, and it’s someone flawless like that, that Dazai
seeks friendship with, that Dazai seeks equality with, that Dazai seeks—

Unlike everyone else who just kills and kills and kills, who rises from the ashes of
people that’s been killed, killed, killed—

Compared to someone so flawless, he’s a disgrace, which is why Dazai didn’t seek
friendship with him then, which is why Dazai treated him like a sheepdog despite
being partners in name, which is why Dazai left him all alone—

But he’s not that anymore, he isn’t a disgrace anymore, not anymore, he’s tainted, but
he’s not—

But his body is disintegrating, because all tainted things must eventually corrode
away—

—!!!

Chuuya gasps and heaves and startles out of his nightmares of black-red spider-veins rising up
from his foot and corroding his body. He looks down at his hands, vision unsteady from his sudden
motion and from nausea and from unshed tears. He blinks and it’s still blurry and he can’t see his
hands, did he finally—

“—you’re here.” Chuuya swings his head, sweat making his hair stick to his skin, making his robe
stick to his skin, making everything so sticky and sickly. “You’re here, with me.”

Chuuya’s gaze focuses, bit by bit, to the sight of Dazai cupping his face with one hand, another
hand pressing a cool glass of water against his lips. He doesn’t need assistance to drink, he’s
managed to survive with less, but his limbs are all frozen, still stuck in their corrosion. He opens
his mouth a bit, feeling his face tilted slightly by the back of his neck so the water comes down
more smoothly.

Once the glass is empty, Dazai’s hand produces a hand-towel, pressing it over his forehead, wiping
at the sweat there, moving the cloth over his face, to his neck, to his hands, in small, soothing
motions, all while keeping one hand pressed against his cheek, as though to anchor him to reality.

It’s been more than three years and he still hears Corruption’s whisper. He knows it’s because
such a tainted human being to begin with, even if he tries his best to be normal. He can’t remember
how he’s woken up before Dazai’s re-entry to his life (did he really leave, to begin with, yes, yes,
yes).

“You’re Nakahara Chuuya.” The hand-towel disappears and now there are two hands framing his
cheeks. Dazai’s breath is warm against his face, too warm and too intense, so he closes his eyes,
sees the play of black-red recede from his body, much like how No Longer Human used to make
them crawl back to his insides. “You’re a shorty who’s definitely not a morning person.”

Taking advantage of his long fingers, Dazai shifts so that his hold enables him to hold Chuuya
forehead-to-forehead against him, all while the tips of his fingers are able to massage some parts of
his scalp, messing and combing his hair in equal measures. “Your hair sticks up in all directions
and you have stupid morning breath, too.”

Dazai shifts them again so that Chuuya’s stiff-limbed straddling his lap, so that Dazai’s next words
are murmured right against his forehead.

“You’re here with me.”

Chuuya trembles slightly, feels feeling start to return to his limbs. He doesn’t push himself off
from Dazai—he sinks lower, letting his head rest on the other’s shoulder.

—a disgrace, despite—no, even as he covers himself in an armor of bespoke,

expensive suits; even as he fortifies his mind with different cultural and intellectual
pursuits; even as he scavenges aspects of himself from different operas, movies and
music; even as he builds towers of wealth; even as he drowns himself in the presence
of different people; even as he kills people and eradicates organizations in the name of
his job—in the end, he’s just himself, an orphaned disgrace—

—the black-red spider veins starts to crawl back in—even with No Longer Human, it
only just manages to push it back inside him, but it’s back, they’re back and he’s—

—why is he even bothering with trying to be normal—he knows, he knows, he knows—

he remembers the reason even though he tries not to, day by day by day—it’s hard not
to because Dazai is here—it’s easy to, because Dazai is here—but history repeats and
Dazai was there too, for years and years until the day he wasn’t—he knows better
now, he knows how tainted he is and he can’t blame it on Corruption anymore,
because it’s gone and he’s still here, even though he’s fading away—
 “Chuuya.”

He doesn’t look up immediately, but when he does, Dazai’s mouth is upon his closed eye, kissing
the tears away before they even fall, so that he won’t even have the chance to cry.

It’s such a Dazai way to stop someone from crying and it just—

“A leap of faith is how someone in love acts. Faith doesn’t need evidence that a person is worthy
of love. There wouldn’t be evidence enough to justify a commitment to love. There would never be
evidence, but faith means that you make the commitment anyway. One has to doubt the available
evidence, then choose to believe it, despite it being not enough.”

Chuuya’s able to make his throat work, just enough to say: “I keep telling you to stop lecturing on
Kierkegaard.”

“Do you doubt me, Chuuya?”

It doesn’t need thinking. “Always.”

“…do you believe in me, anyway?”

Chuuya feels Dazai’s lips go to his other eye, warmth keeping the tears at bay. “I shouldn’t.”

“…believe me when I say that—”

Chuuya feels Dazai’s heartbeat speed-up, for a moment, for a minute, for an eternity. He opens his
eyes slowly, when no continuation is forthcoming. His vision is now startlingly crystal-clear—he
can see Dazai’s face, can see Dazai’s eyes dark under the shadows of the night.

“Believe me when I say that you’re here with me,” Dazai says eventually. Chuuya can sense that
he’s lying—that he didn’t say the words he was originally planning to. But it’s been an exhausting
night and he doesn’t want to argue with the person capable of keeping the cruel whispers of his
nightmares at bay.

Plus, it’s not like he doesn’t know that Dazai lies a lot, anyway.

(But even without any evidence that can justify anything, he still believes—)

Chapter End Notes

• again, feedback is always welcome ♥ i love to hear your thoughts about this fic :3

• i would like to share my rambling goals for the fic – which I hope to achieve!: (a) for
Chuuya to realize that, despite everything, he wants to be with Dazai, not because he’s
someone familiar to him for his entire life, not because he can’t live without him, but
because he actually wants to stay with him; (b) for this to be a journey for Chuuya
(and the readers?) to realize that he’s an actual angel and the best Boss Port Mafia
could have; (c) for Chuuya and Dazai to face what has happened in their past in the
Port Mafia properly so they can have a nice, happy wedding already GDI

• some references for the chapter!: as per Chuuya’s character song (Dazai
supposedly sees eye-to-eye with Kierkegaard ) // lemon bomb in a stationery store is
from IRL!Motojirou’s Lemon // the bleach, lye, acid is from a list of things that can
dissolve a body, Motojirou NO // Motojirou’s likes are lemons, bombs, science, opera
& alcohol + dislikes are traffic & jazz // the repetitions of disgrace is of course due to
the ‘O Grantors of Dark Disgrace’ line // same vein, flawless is because of OdaSaku’s
Ability // leap of faith spiel from Dazai is paraphrased from Kierkegaard //
 intermission: you are my everything
Chapter Summary

• as requested, dazai pov! + where the hell is the pendant?! :D

Chapter Notes

• takes place shortly after ch6 (the previous dazai pov) & this covers dazai's first
break-in to chuuya's apartment lol
• experimental 2nd person pov haha i hope it's not too bad;;;;;
• thank you as always for your lovely comments ♥ ♥ ♥

Anything I would never want to lose is always lost.

It is a given that everything that is worth wanting will be lost the moment I obtain it.
There’s nothing worth pursuing at the cost of prolonging the suffering.

You observe him for a couple of days first.

You’re still recovering from your injuries and you have no doubt that he is recovering from
something much worse than that. You make plans that take advantage of your Ability, but you did
not become a fearsome strategist by resting on your laurels and being a one-trick pony. You enjoy
the advantages given to you by No Longer Human but you also live your life thinking that anything
and everything will leave you eventually.

You used to think that it would be better to not want anything. Abandonment requires expectation,
so there’s no point in prolonging your suffering by wanting something—someone. You pushed
away everyone and everything so that nothing can make a half-hearted play at filling the void
inside you.

You know better now.

You are still a strategist at heart though, because some things you just can’t leave behind.

So you bide your time, you exchange small talk with your colleagues all cooped up in the hospital,
you passive-aggressively snipe at how Ango won’t ever change even without his Ability. You flirt
with the nurses until they fondly hit the fading bruises underneath your bandages. You ask pointed
questions about Akutagawa and Atsushi fiercely protecting each other’s backs during the final
fight, without regard for the collateral damage to their surroundings. You tease Kunikida about his
anxiety regarding possibly succeeding the President’s role.
You know how excitable he can get, despite how he charmingly plays his reliable Executive role.

Once your body is physically healed, marks all faded unless you count the very faint lines of fine
scalpel cuts on your pulse points, you visit every single one of his properties. You know he buys a
lot of safehouses, collects them like it’s going out of style. You know it’s because he’s lost his
home so many times over the course of his life. You know how he likes to overcompensate so he
can bury the things that he doesn’t want to face.

You find it easy to figure out his passwords and security codes. You are not surprised that you
don’t find that one apartment amongst his properties. You have a plan brimming inside of you—
you don’t make any impulsive actions. You buy that place under a false name. You think it’s
because it’s nostalgic. You probably just want to burn the place down yourself.

You give him time, idly following his activities from a safe distance. You’re becoming more and
more familiar to chilly nights spent on rooftops. You’re becoming more and more familiar to
seeing his face from the scope of a rifle you ordered from Hirotsu. You tell yourself you’re
keeping an eye on him, because he might not know it yet, but he’s the candidate for the next Port
Mafia Boss.

You think it’s the best move Mori can ever do in his life. You think that everyone else who wants
Port Mafia to disappear knows that too. You think it’s not really that different from the surveillance
you did on him way back then.

You tell yourself you’re fine with passing time, with simply looking, with peppering random
appearances every month for an actual interaction.

You spend nearly three years just watching him, biding your time to ingratiate yourself back to his
life.

You tell yourself it’s fine if it takes a long time, because it has to be perfect, because it has to be
permanent, because you’re playing for keeps.

You’re a strategist, but even you couldn’t predict yourself when you end up focusing the rifle on
the bedroom of his penthouse suite. You see him drenched in sweat and tears, you see the whispers
of Corruption affecting him even now.

The very next day, you flirt with the receptionist and then crush her hopes by waxing poetic about
him as soon as she clears you to go up the building. You pick his lock easily, because he’s utterly
predictable when it comes to this. You like it, how you can easily understand him sometimes. You
like how comforting that feels, even if comfort is alien to both of you.

You breathe in the room of his suite—you don’t smell his perfume or anything that indicates that
this is a home. You see modern ritzy lines and furniture, but you also see a gaping space here. You
think it’s because he’s trying to do a 180 from his previous life—gone are the crowded desks filled
with hundred-yen knickknacks. You see glamor and wealth, but you also see loneliness. You see
yourself in this apartment.

You don’t think he’s ready to forgive and forget—you don’t think he’ll ever be able to forget. But
you can work on forgiveness, work on making him comfortable with your presence, work on
drowning him in yourself so that he’ll never be able to leave you the way you left him.

You see your plan spinning out of your heart and you see a future that spans endlessly and this
time, you don’t fear it.
You smash the supposedly-bulletproof glass of his windows—you shake your head at how easily
he trusts building contractors. You think about what you can do today to welcome him to this suite.
You think about his credit card information and how you can make him blush so prettily in anger.

You set out to shop, but before you leave the building, you stop by the receptionist’s desk. You ask
for an envelope, you smile sweetly and you flutter your eyelashes when the receptionist hesitates in
cooperating. You think about how it wouldn’t work on him and you love him all the more for it.

You take your old phone out of your pocket—its contents copied to your new one and its number
replaced, because you’ll always have the same number, for his sake. You remove your pendant
from your neck—its contents seven-years old and still ultimately beautiful. You remove these
reminders and seal them inside the envelope.

You can part with them now, because you’re going to be with him.

You give strict and clear instructions to the receptionist as to when she’ll have it delivered to his
apartment. You compensate her in advance for her trouble with a wad of cash.

You thought about the timing for a while, but you figure that you don’t want his birthday to bear
both the tragedy of you leaving him and his gift of himself to you. That’s why your instruction is to
have the proof of your devotion be delivered on your birthday instead, more than a year from now,
more than enough time for you to convince him to stay with you for the rest of your lives.

You can imagine his face as he realizes that you’ve always kept him close to your heart, even when
you were trying to push him away.

You tell yourself you’ll only kiss him then, once he tells you that he doesn’t want to let you go.

You smile, because this is the last, grand design Dazai Osamu will ever plan.

You can taste victory - it tastes of Nakahara Chuuya's love.

 Chapter 12
Chapter Summary

• chuuya accidentally dates poe

• ranpo finds out & makes it a trio-date
• dazai stalks them and makes it a double date
• also friendly reminder that japanese place the wedding ring on the left ring finger~♪

Chapter Notes

• we’re now back again to our regular programming! 8D thank you as always for
tuning in! i always enjoy receiving feedback, so i hope to hear from you!

• for this chapter, i enjoyed browsing through the pictures of Yokohama Cosmo
World! though since this is Chuuya’s POV, he isn’t too interested in describing the
rides LOL all the rides mentioned are real – you can check out blogs (there’s a lot of
them) with pictures of the park :D

• i really tried to squeeze in tanizaki's date with chuuya & make chuuya get a one-on-
one date with ranpo, but the double date.........

• ALSO!!!! bRUH have you seen BONES’ belated Valentines gifts to the soukoku
fandom?! A movie poster (~~~sunset + soukoku, man, the sunset is even the same
shade as Chuuya’s hair LOL) & that 20k followers art (Chuuya being the perfect
height to rest his head on Dazai’s chest con-fucking-firmed)

See the end of the chapter for more notes

☆☆☆

Chuuya wakes up and stretches—tries to, anyway. He only manages to open his eyes and wriggle
his toes, but further movement is arrested by the sight that greets him: Dazai smiling softly at him
—like he’s precious, like he’s a gem that will only be mined once in a thousand years, like he’s
going to disappear any moment. He recognizes alertness burning inside those eyes, despite the
fluttery-soft glow in them, so Dazai’s been awake for some time. He’s too… not surprised, but
rather shaken, to notice that there are arms around him, that he’s nearly nestled into the other’s
body, like he’s a child that needs comfort.

“Good morning, Chuuya.”

Dazai says it so simply, like it’s normal for the two of them to wake up cuddling in bed, after yet
another night of Chuuya’s nighttime terrors, like it’s normal for him to spend god-knows-how-
many minutes watching him sleep.

Then Dazai leans down slowly, as though to give him a chance to flinch (a chance he can’t take,
because it’s taking his everything to just breathe), and rubs their noses together, before shoving
Chuuya’s head gently away from his chest and towards the pillow-filled bed.

“I’ll go make breakfast—stay put, okay?”

Dazai doesn’t wait for his response before leaving, the bedroom door left slightly ajar. Soon
enough the sounds of motion from the kitchen reaches his ears, but he’s too… bewildered to do
anything other than blink up at his ceiling—now covered with a wallpaper that’s supposed to
represent a map of all known constellations.

“…what the fuck just happened?”

☆☆☆

Chuuya’s aptly-titled ‘Autumn Poem’ is already sealed in an envelope and mailed to his editor—
well, not really his his, because this editor doesn’t know him, hasn’t met him face-to-face, hasn’t
communicated with him aside from mailing back a postcard each month after his poems are
published, addressed to a false name and mailed to one of his many safehouses.

It’s better this way – no pressure to meet deadlines or make appearances to meet critics and
literature professors who’d like to dissect the flow of syllables in his writings, who’d like to
interview him about the influences (definitely foreign, they’d say, because it’s so different from
what’s published by local poets). His identity is fairly well-known – it’s not a stretch for any of
them to find out that he works for an underground organization. He thinks about discarding his veil
of anonymity if only to see the terror and disgust on their faces, of someone so tainted writing
things enjoyed by normal people.

He thinks about it—humming idly as he enters a dusty bookshop tucked inside a sepia-bricked
building—and would have continued to ponder about the balance of the momentary satisfaction of
being proven right and ultimately causing himself grief, if not for him bumping into a bulky black
lump standing beside the bookshelf containing yellowed paperback versions of A Study in Scarlet.

The black lump groans and flails. “Ah—”

Chuuya instinctively reaches out to steady the lump – is that a blanket or just a really oversized
jacket on top of his head? – and he endures the almost-seizure that it induces on the other man. “I
got you—”

“K-Karl—!”

Oh.

Chuuya sees a raccoon jump away from the black lump, skittering towards the bookshelf and
running across other yellowed mystery books.

“I’m sorry I spooked your pet,” Chuuya says as soon as he manages to turn the guy around. He
didn’t immediately recognize the man, but it must be Edgar Allan Poe. He’s not that familiar with
the man himself, though Yosano’s complained about Karl’s fur clogging up the Agency’s furnace
whenever it’s Edogawa Ranpo’s turn to babysit the office.

“Y-You’re that Nakahara Chuuya.”

“Yes, I’m that Chuuya,” he confirms with a half-laugh, because it’s not like there’s anyone else out
there sharing his name. He remembers seeing Poe in the background of the picnic a few weeks
ago, but they haven’t really exchanged any words together. “I don’t believe we’ve formally been
introduced. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Poe-san.”

Poe’s hand trembles as they shake hands, before Chuuya takes a step away from the man and
towards where Karl is rubbing his tail against the spine of a hardcopy of The Murders in the Rue
Morgue. It takes a few seconds of his gloved right hand stretched out invitingly towards the
raccoon before it lightly nips at the edge of leather, before finally acquiescing to be petted by him.

“K-Karl rarely allows people to pet him,” Poe makes an aborted gesture, choosing at the last
second continue hugging a sealed newspaper-wrapped package close to his chest. “You have a w-
wonderful ability.”

Chuuya hums as he considers this, his right hand rubbing at the raccoon’s chin. He remembers
Yosano’s complaints about the raccoon’s indiscriminate scratching of her heels when she
accompanies Ranpo and Poe. He allows a: “I don’t think it can be considered an ability.”

“Still…”

“Are you sending out a manuscript too?”

“A-Ah, yes, but how…?”

“I send anonymous manuscripts to the same publisher,” Chuuya confides to the man with a stage-
whisper, because finally! There’s someone out there who understands the beauty of anonymity!

(When they had attended school as part of the Port Mafia’s commitment to not have completely-
stupid members, as well as a convenient cover for their day-to-day activities – Dazai used to make
copies of his poems and sent them to the school newspaper, used to print them on garishly-colored
papers and pinned them on notice boards, his name on them so that people knew who to point and
laugh at, who to bug for help for literature-related homework, who to blame for the littering and
vandalism.

It was enough to put him off publishing anything with his name attached to it—because it invited
unwanted criticism about the things that he put to paper, things that he couldn’t say out loud, things
that he found special.

The only good thing from that experience was that it made him strive harder to learn deeper
metaphors and more complex literary techniques so he could disguise the real subject of those
poems.

He had a feeling that Dazai knew anyway.)

Poe mumbles his words, but since the bookshop is empty save for them and the sleepy cashier
snoring on the counter, it’s easy to hear him. “You wrote ‘For The Tainted Sorrow’.”

It’s not a difficult deduction, because the publisher using the logo on Poe’s package has only
published two types of anonymous contributions—one writing purely in poetry-form, while
another focusing on the mystery genre.
“And you wrote last month’s ‘The Tell-Tale Heart’,” Chuuya returns with a tinge of admiration. “I
enjoyed how you wove the contrast between rationality and insanity—and the end! I think I read it
three times, at least.”

And just like that—Poe brightens (well, now he could actually see one of his eyes underneath the
messy bangs) and relaxes his hold on his package.

“I was inspired by the insanity defense—as well as—”

☆☆☆

November’s first two weeks prove to be teeth-clatteringly cold, almost as though all of the wintery
air has been siphoned towards Yokohama, even though it’s technically still autumn. Good thing is
that Chuuya knows a lot of coffee shops that have very small client-base, so his need for privacy
when discussing his poetry, as well as Poe’s general dislike for crowds, are both satisfied.

Of course, the nearest such coffee shop to his apartment is that one, and when he comes inside the
warm and cozy café, he’s greeted by a small wave from Poe already huddled in the corner farthest
from the door, along with the still-cheery smile of the cashier (he should really know her name; he
hopes she enjoyed his tip from last time).

“Would you like to try a new blend today, Chuuya-san?” She doesn’t disguise the fact that she
openly looks behind him to see if Dazai is with him. “We’ve got a new batch of excellent
Ethiopian beans from our supplier!”

Chuuya only sees piles of papers on Poe’s table so he makes a hand gesture towards the table,
along with: “Make that for two, plus your brunch recommendation? Thank you.”

“Dazai-san isn’t with you today?”

“You make it sound like I’m always with that bastard.”

“Well, every time I see him, he’s either with you or talking about you!” She doesn’t seem fazed by
his grumpy reply—he really should take a look into this café’s staff – they’re all too cheery despite
the gloomy weather, what the hell is their secret?! Ane-san and Hirotsu-san are both worrying
about how most of the Port Mafia staff are feeling lethargic recently.

Chuuya opens his mouth to deny it—but urgh. She’s probably right. She senses her victory, but
doesn’t gloat, simply smiles at him as she hands the completed order atop a polished wood tray.

“Thank you…” Chuuya squints at her name-tag. “…Haruno-san.”

“You’re welcome, Chuuya-san!”

That interaction completed, Chuuya makes his way towards the table—the shop is empty save for
the two of them and Haruno-san at the counter—but when the door to the café opens with a
resounding bang, surprise and general need to be on guard makes him almost drop the tray filled
with mugs of steaming coffee and an assortment of breakfast items.

A very familiar guy comes in, marches towards him with purpose and glinting glasses. Chuuya
feels a headache approaching.
 ☆☆☆

How he’s ended up being on a ‘date’ with two guys at the same time, he’s not quite sure. He
doesn’t text Dazai to confirm—he’s got his planner with him, but who knows if Dazai changed the
arrangements on his own? plus, he can just feel that the bastard will let him stew in his annoyance
for a couple of hours, instead of replying, anyway—but he’s fairly certain that he’s not supposed to
be on a date with Edogawa Ranpo until the last day of the month.

But then again, there’s no way he could have stopped himself from extending an invitation to Poe
(who looked like he saw God come in) and Ranpo (who looked like he’s childishly jealous that
he’s not the one getting free food AND he’s not the one in the middle of Poe’s attention) to
relocate to Yokohama Cosmo World.

It’s just a couple of minutes’ walk—he remembers Yosano’s fond-and-exasperated sigh about how
public transport is a concept that their Agency’s genius hasn’t grasped—and he tries his best to
bridge the strange gap between the two.

From his previous coffee dates with Poe, he knows that the other writes all the short stories for
Ranpo to decipher, because it’s their Thing. Poe strings up mysteries and red herrings from a
rhythmic lull of words, while Ranpo dissects and demolishes them with a flick of his fingers (to put
on his glasses dramatically, he’s been told).

From his ongoing drinking sessions with Yosano (sometimes joined by Kunikida; oftentimes
crashed by Hirotsu-san and Motojirou; always ended, at least recently, with Dazai sliding next to
his bar stool and paying for his tab and helping him with his coat before they make their way
back…) – he knows that Ranpo seesaws between throwing tantrums when Poe’s not paying
attention to him, and ignoring Poe when the man’s there, waiting for an interaction to happen.

He’s not quite sure why he’s prone to ending up on these situations, acting as a bridge between
couples so obviously in love, but are too blind to see it.

There’s Atsushi and Akutagawa—who are, thankfully, still living separately, because Gin hasn’t
completed her household chores training for her brother and because Atsushi’s a Mess whenever he
tries to think about logistics when it comes to moving in together.

(Chuuya’s half-tempted to just help the two poor souls out and gift them a semi-furnished
apartment that has two bedrooms so that there’s a back-up room in case either of them becomes too
enthusiastic in their bedroom activities. He doesn’t think the two bedrooms will be utilized because
of an argument, because Akutagawa’s a softy deep-inside even if he wouldn’t admit it—and this is
a direct quote from a drunk-but-he-doesn’t-know-it-Akutagawa: apparently, he’d rather burn the
first and only gift that Dazai has given him, rather than make Atsushi sad for even one second.

But then again, said gift is a stupid cookbook about different ways of making chazuke and it’s from
Dazai, so it’s probably not that big of a deal.

Chuuya’s been told, multiple times, by Dazai that it’s too much motherhenning on his side, though
he could probably gift them a vacation suite instead, as part of their wedding gift once Atsushi
stops flailing about. The discussion ends there, multiple times, because why is he the one paying
for a joint gift?!)
There’s John and Fitz—set for a spring wedding, because they’re apparently being true equals
now, so they chose a month that’s in-between their birthdays (yeah, he doesn’t know either). He’s
still steadfastly refusing Dazai’s stealthy ways of getting him to agree to make him the plus-one to
an all-expense-paid trip for the wedding.

There’s Kyouka and Lucy—who, okay, fine, so he hasn’t exactly asked permission from Ane-san
to matchmake the two, but they complement each other so well and they are becoming close
friends now, since they’re united in their cause to embarrass Akutagawa in front of Atsushi (the
result is Chuuya gets secondhand embarrassment from Atsushi’s unfiltered reactions delivered
either via an enthusiastic phone call or a typo-ridden text—all yelled gibberish about adorable and
cute and some other things he’d never use regarding the mafia’s rabid dog).

He’s not involved in setting up Mori-san with Fukuzawa—thank god—and he refuses

responsibility and gratitude from Motojirou when he successfully bridged him with Yosano during
their drinking sessions. He especially refuses any involvement with Motojirou’s teary-eyed joy at
being verbally abused by Yosano when he had presumed to pay for her drink.

And now… he’s here.

He buys ice cream first—three different cones; only Ranpo’s has more than one scoop—because
he hasn’t exactly enjoyed himself in this amusement park before and he needs a minute to reorient
himself. Also, he’d like to get smaller bills so that it’s easier to pay for the rides (it’s 2100 yen per
ride if all three of them will go).

He pats his pockets and sighs slightly at the lack of his purse for his smaller bills. He hopes that
the leather is able to withstand the thicker content; he’d also rather not ruin the line of his suit
because of a bulging wallet. Going here is unexpected; he has a couple of 10,000 yen bills and his
cards with him, because his plan was just to meet with Poe and discuss their upcoming
manuscripts, then return to his warm apartment.

It’s not a bad kind of unexpected though. It’s good to get used to this—when Dazai was his partner,
he relied on the sense that everything that happened to him was within Dazai’s expectations,
there’s no such thing as surprises—unless he counts that time Dazai left. (And he counts that every
fucking time.) When he became a full-fledged Executive under the Boss, he heard vast amounts of
quotes regarding game theories and strategies that he also relied on that sense that everything that
happened to him was also within the Boss’ machinations.

This kind of unexpected things happening should be a sign of being normal, right?

Nevertheless, he texts Yosano about this (a friendly reminder for her that his last will is final and if
he dies from this date, she’s only going to get 25% of his wine cellar) and asks whether Ranpo has
any known allergies. (Yosano replies before Chuuya’s even done carefully arranging his change
from the ice cream. It’s a mixture of a good-luck message and an ominous warning about sugar-
highs and getting dragged to the Kids Carnival Zone.)

“I want to try everything right now!!!”

Poe sounds a little too breathless – either from lack of walking practice, fear of crowds, or from
being actually addressed by his idol. “Yes, Ranpo-kun, we’ll try everything.”

“We’ll try them one at a time.” Chuuya tries to be the voice of reason, because there’s no way
they’re going to the Diving Coaster or the Cliff Drop on a full stomach. “Let’s walk around first so
that nobody throws up on the rollercoasters.”
“Che, you’re boring.” Ranpo tilts his head to peer at him, his glasses glinting. “If Dazai is here,
he’d surely agree to try the rides right away. Does this mean that you’re boring compared to him?”

Chuuya snorts in-between large licks of his espresso ice cream. “If Dazai is here, I wouldn’t be
chaperoning your date.”

Ranpo doesn’t bat an eyelash, but his triple-scoop is starting to drip down the cone; he doesn’t
notice. “Oho, so you two are going to run off together?”

“This isn’t—a date—is this—really—date—a date?!”

“Be honored—don’t you forget that this is the first time I’ve allowed myself to be taken out on a
date.”

“Ranpo-kun, I—”

Chuuya interrupts before Poe can burst into tears. “Should I leave you two here?”

“No, because you need to pay for our rides.”

“Can I just give you money and leave?” Chuuya thinks fifty thousand should be enough? He
doesn’t mind chaperoning this two’s date, really, but from Poe’s googly-eyed expression and
Ranpo’s declaration that this is his first date, being a third-wheel doesn’t seem very nice.

After all, according to Yosano (and Dazai and Naomi and Atsushi and Kyouka and Lucy—it’s a
wonder how the Agency members managed to make trouble for the Port Mafia when it’s filled
with gossipmongers), the two’s flirting stage has been going on for quite some time and it’s not
even the cute type with flowers and banter, but mostly people accidentally getting trapped inside
Poe’s Ability (before Abilities have been sealed, at least) or people being roped into helping Poe
complete Ranpo’s more outrageous whims.

If these two have waited for so long, it doesn’t seem right to ruin their first date by being here…?

“Are you running away with Dazai? Is he finally here? Are you two going on a date of your own?”

“No, no and no?” Chuuya doesn’t think Dazai is the amusement park type of person—unless it’s to
jump off from Cosmo Clock 21’s peak. “Plus, if he’s here, he’ll be the one paying for your rides
instead.”

“Nah, he wouldn’t do that. He’s saving up, right?”

“Dazai, saving up? Don’t make me laugh.” Chuuya bites the edge of his cone. “Are you sure you
didn’t knock your head somewhere, oh-so-great-detective?”

“How could you not know? You’re really stupider than Dazai.”

“I resent the word ‘stupid’!”

Poe’s quiet mumbling manages to be heard, despite Ranpo’s huffing and puffing. Poe’s fingers are
clinging on to the tail end of Ranpo’s parka as he speaks. “…He’s saving up for you, right?”

“Is that bastard finally going to pay all of his debts?!”

Their trio is approaching the entrance to Ice World and Chuuya sneezes at the sudden cold draft.
Ranpo’s about to reply—from his expression, it’s to burst Chuuya’s bubble of hope that the
bastard’s enormous debt is finally going to be paid—but he closes his mouth after a second.
Chuuya makes to rub at his nose with his free hand, but there’s already a handkerchief dabbed over
his nose, the smell of apples and sandalwood overpowering the espresso still heavy on his tongue.

“I didn’t reply to your text,” Ranpo addresses the newcomer petulantly, but almost as though he’s
expecting to be praised as well.

“Mm, that’s fine,” Dazai murmurs against the back of Chuuya’s left ear, just before an arm goes
around Chuuya’s shoulders, aiming for the remaining bite-sized portion of his ice cream. The arm
tightens and Chuuya’s near-forcibly turned around so that he’s face-to-chest with Dazai, but he
digs his heels on the ground to resist the motion. It’s not a particularly smart move, because it only
makes Dazai shift his arm so that he’s securely wrapped around Chuuya’s neck and shoulders,
Dazai leaning down so that their cheeks are pressed together as he steals the ice cream.

Chuuya’s thankful that he’s wearing gloves because he can just feel Dazai’s intention to lick his
fingers along with the cone.

Even when Dazai’s finished eating the ice cream, he doesn’t relax the hold, even when Chuuya
jabs his elbow against the other’s spleen.

“So are we going or not?” Ranpo’s bouncing on his feet, already bored with posing near the
penguins holding entrance signs. Poe continues to take pictures. Both of them are waiting for
Chuuya to fork over the entrance fee. “If you want to mess around outside, then that’s fine too, I’d
rather not see anyway, my memory’s photographic after all.”

Chuuya rolls his eyes and passes three thousand to the clerk, Dazai half-draped over him. They
move like some strange three-legged creature, but they manage. Dazai grabs the change and bops
Chuuya’s forehead with his coin purse—apparently Dazai’s intuitive enough to know that he’s
been looking for it.

“Will you be fine, though? I think your coat is a bit thin.”

“It’s fine, Poe-kun will give me his coat.”

“Y-Yes, I will!”

“Then it’s Poe-san who will catch a cold, are you actually supposed to be smart, detective?” To
Poe who looks torn between loyally declaring that he’ll brave subzero temperatures for Ranpo’s
sake, and staring at the ice formed around the entrance, Chuuya says: “I’ll lend you a coat.”

“Then it’s you who’s going to get a cold, stupid Chuuya.”

“I’m not stupid, you vagabond.”

“Right,” Dazai says as he throws an overcoat towards Ranpo’s face. “Yosano-san said she’ll make
you wish you’re dead if you get the sniffles, Ranpo-san.”

“Geniuses don’t get sniffles!”

“It’s ‘idiots don’t get colds’,” Chuuya and Poe simultaneously corrects the genius.

Dazai huffs against Chuuya’s ear. “Urgh, why do you two have a catchphrase already?! Chuuya,
let’s rehearse a line too!”

“Sure. Let’s go with ‘Go to hell, Dazai’—ready, one, two—urgh, don’t pinch me!”
 ☆☆☆

“Why is Poe-san not using the chance to hold Ranpo-san’s hand?!”

Dazai laughs and squeezes Chuuya for a moment. Chuuya allows it, because the coat that Dazai is
wearing (new, black wool with some thermal lining inside, too large a size, it can fit both of them,
though Chuuya’s left half is smushed against Dazai’s chest) is very warm and comfortable.

“Why are you so invested in their date, Chuuya?”

“Because it’s freaking cold and it’s a waste if they don’t use it as a chance to be closer!”

“You mean, like what we’re doing?”

“Yes, exactly.” Chuuya perks up as he realizes something. “Stupid Dazai, let’s exchange coats with
them, if they can huddle together under one coat—”

“WE CAN HEAR YOU TWO, YOU KNOW!”

☆☆☆

“Let’s go to the Cycle Monorail next!”

“Ranpo-kun is right, let’s try that…”

“You have no idea what’s that, do you, Poe-san?”

“Yeah, let’s go, Chuuya’s height is perfect for the kiddy rides—ow, ow, stop kicking me,
Chuuya.”

☆☆☆

“That’s it?! I want to ride it again!”

“Your date is still looking green, great detective.”

“I don’t date boring people who can’t handle water roller coasters!”

“Stop bullying Poe-san—plus, you’re all shaky too.”

“Am not!” Ranpo crosses his arms over his slightly damp polo. “Poe-kun, come on, let’s gooooo.”

Ranpo drags Poe back to the Diving Coaster: Vanish!, but not before holding out a hand for their
ticket fare.
Still at ground level because he’s not interested in trying rides twice, Chuuya sneezes again; this
time, he gets his nose pinched by Dazai’s handkerchief.

“If you get the sniffles, Chuuya, I’ll play nurse, don’t worry.”

“You do know that we’re not yet in the haunted house, right? No need to do horrifying things yet.”

“So you’re afraid of me, Chuuya?”

“You, playing as a nurse? The patient would definitely die.”

“I’ll have you know I have wonderful bedside manners.”

“Character references provided under duress don’t count, shitty Dazai.”

☆☆☆

“Stop clinging—stupid Dazai!”

“But I’m scared!”

“You sound so fucking fake, quit it, I want to win the prize!”

“You keep on pointing your wand at the wall like some weird magical girl, Chuuya.”

“Why am I a magical girl?!” Chuuya jabs his elbow somewhere hopefully-life-threatening. It

doesn’t work. “I’m pointing the wand because it’s the attraction’s mechanics! Not because I want
to!”

“Would you prefer rich-ojou-sama?”

“And again, why am I a girl?!”

“Pffft, is that really a great question to ask in public?”

(Needless to say, Chuuya doesn’t win the prize for surviving The Judge Horror House, because
he’s not able to get points with how Dazai’s clinging to him like a slimy octopus.)

(Ranpo and Poe have apparently cleared the attraction for a minutes already, both of them
unimpressed by Chuuya’s haggard state from fending Dazai off.)

☆☆☆

“Do we really have to?”

“But, Ranpo-kun, it’s the main attraction in Cosmo World!”

“Hmm, is the great detective scared of heights?”

“I’m scared of heights,” Poe admits easily, but he’s more-or-less relaxed now with holding onto the
sleeves of Ranpo’s polo. It’s not yet holding-hands, but Chuuya knows how to appreciate small
victories.

Chuuya says as reassuringly as he can: “I’m sure Ranpo-san will be able to distract you.”

“Excuse you—I’m not a distraction, I’m the main attraction.”

Chuuya stifles a laugh as the sunset’s blood-orange starts tainting the sky as Yokohama’s
buildings start to light up. “Come on, let’s get this over with. Should we get one carriage—”

“Separate,” Dazai and Ranpo simultaneously stresses out. Ranpo continues: “Again, I’ll remind
you that I have eidetic memory, so I wish to spare myself of any… sights.”

Chuuya pays for two carriages, smiling at the cashier even as he snarks, “If you want to miss
seeing the sight of my beautiful face in the sunset, be my guest, great detective.”

Poe and Ranpo go first, Poe looking back and bowing down in gratitude. Chuuya just hopes that
Poe manages at least a pinky-touch.

☆☆☆

“…Huh. Nice view. Yokohama has grown a lot.”

“Chuuya sounds like an old man reminiscing,” Dazai teases as the two of them gaze at the stretch
of Yokohama Bay, of Yokohama’s little kingdom, now peaceful and twinkling under the purple-
red-orange hues of sunset.

“I’m not old,” Chuuya retorts, but it lacks the bite it normally has. Maybe he is getting old.

“Mm, I’ll keep saying that until you’re actually old enough for it to be true.”

Chuuya’s kneeling on the seat (fine, he’s short, so he gets a better view if he’s kneeling on his seat
rather than remain sitting down like Dazai, fine) and he shifts so that he’s staring at the top of
Dazai’s stupid messy hair. Dazai’s face, moments ago gazing at the glass beside him, slowly turns
so that they’re staring at each other.

“…so you plan to be a plague on my side until, what, I’m thirty?”

Dazai hums, shoulders lax, but not because he’s actually relaxed. There’s tension on the stupid
jerk’s face—like he thinks he can hide it from him—but he’s acting like this isn’t something to be
tense about.

Acting.

Fine. Chuuya can do that too. He un-reminds himself of the diagnosis by the Boss—when he was
purely Doctor Mori back then—that he’ll most likely die by thirty because of the Port Mafia
lifestyle and if that doesn’t kill him, Corruption surely will.

(But then again, Corruption is gone now.)

“Not just until we’re thirty,” Dazai murmurs, the blood-orange hues making his eyes appear red
from his angle. Chuuya’s left knee practically burns against Dazai’s right thigh, from this position.
He can’t move.

Chuuya exhales, feels the carriage grow warm despite the record-cold temperatures. Yokohama’s
night sweeps the land and sea surrounding them—even before that, all Chuuya can see is the
blood-red twinkle on the other’s eyes. “What a pain in the ass.”

“I’ll take care of you—”

“—don’t.” Chuuya shudders as he remembers Dazai’s infamous brand of ‘caring’—it always ends
up with their prisoners’ minds damaged from the torture. “I don’t need a caretaker.”

“…I’m not your caretaker, though, am I?”

“You’re not my partner anymore too.” Chuuya’s mouth trembles at the word—and he shouldn’t be
like this, because it’s been seven years since that day. Normal people should have moved on, right?
Is he destined to not be normal, even at this? “So what, you’ll just remain as a pain in my ass
then?”

Dazai’s cheeks are awash with red, but that’s just because of the sunset, he’s sure. The alternative
is too dangerous to consider.

It takes a few seconds for Dazai to recover, but when he does, he reaches for Chuuya’s left hand.
To his credit, Chuuya doesn’t punch Dazai for the sudden movement, even as his fingers suddenly
feel very stiff and numb. It’s just because it’s cold, he’s sure. There’s no possible alternative for
him.

Dazai takes off his gloves, slowly, tugging at the leather finger by finger, so that they’re right at
the top when Chuuya’s left hand is bared.

Chuuya doesn’t blink, doesn’t break eye contact when Dazai tugs his hand closer.

“I’ll be…” Dazai starts to say, imprinting his words against Chuuya’s palm first, before moving on
to kiss each of his fingers, “…for as long as you want me to be…”

Dazai murmurs the rest of his words against his fourth left finger—it’s not his ring finger, he can’t
think of it as his ring finger, because—

“I’ll be whoever you want me to be.”

Chuuya doesn’t have a reply—doesn’t know what to reply—doesn’t know if he’s required to
reply, really, because Dazai says a lot of shit meaningfully but it’s not like he needs input from
Chuuya, even if it affects Chuuya directly. That’s how they’ve always operated—before, and even
now, even if now is a lot gentler than before.

Chuuya doesn’t have a reply that isn’t I’ve wanted you forever but I can’t break again if I lose you
again now.

Chuuya knows that he’ll lose Dazai again—isn’t that how it works, for him? He always loses
because a tainted person like him doesn’t deserve any of this.

He’s still learning how to be normal. He doesn’t have a reply for Dazai, but Dazai’s still staring at
him, like he’s the one gutted like a damn fish, like a damn dead-eyed mackerel.

“You don’t have to tell me anything now,” Dazai murmurs, still against his finger, apparently
taking pity on him and his failure to come up with a succinct reply that won’t finish him off.

“…okay.”

“Just—stay still.”

Chuuya hates how instinctively his body stills at those words, at how immediately he responds to
Dazai’s words. He’s his own person and he’s going to be the next Port Mafia Boss and he’s not
normal enough to not instantly follow someone else’s orders.

Dazai lets go of his left hand. Now, Dazai kneels on the seat as well, their knees bumping, as he
uses both of his hands to cup Chuuya’s cheeks, keeping him at an arm’s distance, as though
framing him against the glass paneling of their windows and the disappearing sunset.

“This is the best view,” Dazai declares with a cheeky grin, thumbs at edges of Chuuya’s lips.
“Definitely worth more than a ten-billion masterpiece.”

Chuuya sighs deeply, but his mouth twitches. “You shitty jerk, find your own description.”

“Fine, a twenty-billion masterpiece.”

“My worth is just twenty-billion?!”

“Twenty-billion…cents.”

“Did you just downgrade me?!” Though Chuuya figures that his complaint will be more effective
if Dazai’s not squishing his face.

“I thought your beauty’s supposed to be priceless?”

“That, or twenty-billion dollars.”

“That’s a big difference, are you sure you know math?”

“Shut the fuck and let me enjoy the rest of the ride, asshole.”

Dazai hums in reply and tugs Chuuya by the face, bringing their foreheads together in one smooth
motion. Chuuya doesn’t close his eyes, despite the danger of going cross-eyed.

“Didn’t Higuchi-chan teach you to end your dates with kisses?”

“This date isn’t over,” Chuuya quips back, sliding backward until his back is against the window
on his side of the car. “Plus, she said that’s supposed to thank someone for a good date.”

“Hmm, so you’re telling me this isn’t a good date?” Dazai then claps his hands together. “Ah! I get
it, you want me to be the one to kiss you.”

Dazai moves like lightning, half on his lap in just a split-second and Chuuya wishes he’d just fall
off the seat.

“No—wait—!”

Chuuya tries to keep Dazai at bay, but his hands are trapped by his own motionlessness, by the
Chuuya from before who wanted nothing else but Dazai.

Chuuya keeps his eyes open, so he sees the chilling expression in Dazai’s eyes just moments before
their lips can touch.

Before their lips can touch, the carriage they’re on comes to a stop, another half-second, before the
door is yanked open by an enthusiastic Ranpo, who yells about PDA and about wanting to go eat
now.

Dazai’s eyes go one shade darker at the interruption, but he smoothly slides off Chuuya’s lap like
it’s nothing. Acting.

Fine, Chuuya can do it too.

He stands up without too much difficulty despite how numb his entire body is.

He returns Poe’s smile, as their strange foursome start to walk to find someplace to eat—Ranpo
and Dazai ahead of them by a couple of steps.

Chuuya catches only snippets of the conversation, but he decides that it doesn’t matter.

(Even if Dazai’s saying coldly, in a manner reminiscent of the Dazai from before: “I cannot believe
this is how you repay me, Ranpo-san.”)

☆☆☆

“Earlier—”

“Hmm?” Dazai’s freshly-showered, the tips of his hair still wet despite the use of a blowdryer,
because he’s apparently an idiot who doesn’t know how to use technology properly.

Chuuya—with his completely-dried hair, thank you very much—kneels on his side of the bed, tugs
at the lapels of Dazai’s robe before he can even spout off more shitty lines. “Here you go,” he
whispers moments before he presses a kiss to Dazai’s cheek.

Only, Dazai shifts and Chuuya misjudged the distance, so he ends up pressing his lips on the bare
patch of skin exposed by the collar of the robe, too close to the man’s jugular. He can smell the
apples and sandalwood, much stronger this time. He can feel the drumbeat march of Dazai’s pulse.

He’s frozen in that position—no, it’s because Dazai’s arms come up to secure him by his waist.

“I had a great time too, Chuuya,” is whispered against his hair.

“Let me go, I’m sleepy, idiot Dazai.”

“Then sleep already, slug.”

“Your chest isn’t comfy, for your information.”

“And yet I don’t see you moving away…”

“Because you’re crushing me, asshole!”

“Aha, is the great-martial-artist Chuuya admitting to be weaker than me?”

 “Fuck no.” Chuuya accompanies that statement with a powerful shove that doesn’t manage to
dislodge himself from Dazai’s stupid octopus-skinny-arms. “Goddamn octopus.”

“I thought I was your mackerel?”

“Also a damned octopus.”

“Gotcha. Good night, Chuuya.”

“Urgh.”

(Despite his complaints, Chuuya manages to sleep that night without nightmares. Thankfully,
Dazai doesn’t mention it the next morning.)

Chapter End Notes

• (yes, dazai texted ranpo that chuuya & poe were on a date, causing ranpo to crash
their lunch date)
• (remember dazai's supposed plan? shot to all hell, because he’s thirsty af)

• references! [A] IRL chuuya’s style of poetry is considered to be very innovative (his
style is ‘experimental poetry’, attributed to mainly European influence) (one of his
poems is titled Autumn Poem /// [B] IRL poe’s The Tell-Tale Heart has the following
elements: (1) an unreliable narrator; (2) written in medias res; (3) very
detailed/rational planning; (4) ‘hypersensitivity’; IRL poe also wrote The Murders in
the Rue Morgue /// [C] ‘worth more than a ten-billion masterpiece’ is a reference to
chuuya’s description of the view of dazai in bondage LOL /// [D] steinbeck's bday is
feb, while fitz's is on sep /// [E] poe's likes are raccoons & mysteries, while dislikes are
noisy crowds & heights

• i’ve mentioned this to my replies in the previous chapter(s), but chuuya’s

showing/acknowledging/feeling the insecurities more now—because. everything’s
going so well, so perfectly, so fluffy—can he really trust things to remain as perfect as
this? now that he should have zero cause for worry, the things that he’s hiding/running
away from are surfacing…

• again, thank you so much if you've reached till this part lololol can you believe this
fic is at 48k already??? (it's 51k at my word doc, but that includes some future scenes
already...) i said this was a oneshot ahhhhhhh wow i'm really shit at predicting chapter
length haha;;;;

• feedback is always very lovely ♥ ♥ ♥

 Chapter 13
Chapter Summary

• naomi asks chuuya a v.v.v. important question: “are you not dazai's boyfriend?”
• chuuya realizes a couple of (probably wrong) things
• nothing says romance more than conversations while stuck in the rain

Chapter Notes

• to my twitter followers, slight change of plans – no umbrella sharing this chapter, but
we get to keep the rain 8D
• this is a bridging chapter which is why it’s short (is 3.2k considered short haha) –
though there are some reveals here!
• chapter is deliberately written with a… hmm, desolate? distant? atmosphere to reflect
chuuya’s mood and internal struggle D:

• thank you so much for the wonderful response last chapter!!! all the comments make
me cry asdjsdaasabflsafasfl i'd like to dedicate all of my love to all of you ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥
♥

• that said, this chapter breaks the 50k word mark and we're finally seeing more
plot/conflict lol buckle up – it’s the start of the storm :D *hides*

See the end of the chapter for more notes

☆☆☆

The last couple of days of November continues to be freezing-cold, so Chuuya punctuates his visits
to different business offices connected to the Port Mafia by ducking into different shops and cafés
to seek warmth in-between. He supposes he should have brought a car, but most of the offices are
just separated by less than six blocks and it seems terribly lazy to drive the short spurts of
distances. Whether or not Mori-san decides to go through his decision to make Chuuya become the
next Boss, it’s doesn’t seem right to show off opulence and laziness to businesses that they’re
relying on. Even if he doesn’t become the next Boss—and there’s always the possibility that Mori-
san will change his mind, maybe manage to convince someone who’s a better fit—he’s still an
Executive and it’s still part of his job to be a role model to his subordinates and their ‘business
partners’.

“Chuuya-san, wait up!”

He slows down his pace—he has one more office he plans to visit before he calls it a day—and
allows Naomi and her brother to catch up. They’re holding hands, though Chuuya’s more than
willing to bet his entire month’s salary that it’s more like Naomi’s dragging her brother by the
hand.

Once the two of them catch up, Chuuya wordlessly takes a bottle of water from his briefcase and
passes it over to her panting brother. Tanizaki Junichirou accepts it gratefully with his left hand,
since Naomi’s not letting his hand go.

“How are you, Naomi-san? It’s been a while.”

“I wanted to thank you, actually. Want to grab coffee?”

“I appreciate the invitation – though what for?” He waves off her brother’s concern that he’s
finished off his water. He has an extra bottle, plus it’s not particularly difficult to replace,
especially if they’re going to a coffee shop anyway. Maybe he can get an apple-flavored sparkling
water instead?

As their trio make the trek over sidewalks littered with yellow-red leaves, Naomi starts updating
Chuuya about the recent happenings in the Agency. Given that Dazai is such a gossipmonger
though, most of the things she tells him are old news. He lets her talk though, because he has a
feeling that her brother isn’t a very enthusiastic audience about this.

“—and so I want to thank you because you’ve made Ranpo-san less insufferable!”

“I don’t believe I did anything in particular though.” He’s been paying attention to her, but he’s
sure he’s missed the logic jump there.

“Um, he got laid so the stick up his ass has been replaced?”

“Naomi!”

“Nii-san, it’s not like these people know him,” Naomi flippantly gestures towards the pedestrians
who are now giving them wide berth.

“That’s not the point!”

Chuuya takes pity on her brother’s blood pressure, that shade of red on his face doesn’t look
particularly healthy. “Maybe let’s continue our conversation in a more private setting?”

“Aw, Chuuya-san, how are you still such a prude? Ranpo-san told me that you were on a double
date!”

“I just don’t think it’s appropriate to discuss… Ranpo-san’s… proclivities in public.”

“In short, you’re a prude,” Naomi declares with hands on her hips, running ahead of them, then
stopping, turning around so that she’s glaring at him as she walks backwards. “How are you still so
shy about these things when you have such a shameless boyfriend?”

…Huh.

He doesn’t have a boyfriend, does he?! He’d remember if someone actually asked him out, right?!
He’s… he’s single. His relationship status on Facebook remains single. His will isn’t updated to
include anyone new. The books—the movies—the dramas—they—they told him that clear
communication, bouquets of roses, candlelit dinners, love confessions herald the start of
relationships. Characters always wait for the right moment and they say I love you and then they
ask—and nobody’s done that to him and he hasn’t done that to anyone, so he does not have a
boyfriend, what is Naomi talking about?!

“What,” he says out loud, his feet frozen in place despite the lack of snow. “…I don’t have a
boyfriend.”

Naomi’s look seems enough to flatten steel. “Are you fucking shitting me.”

“Naomi, language!”

“Are you fucking kidding me, Chuuya-san?!”

“Naomi.”

“Hush, niisan, I need to set this straight.” Naomi marches back to where Chuuya’s rooted in place.
“Are you not Dazai-san’s boyfriend?”

Ah.

So she’s talking about Dazai.

Chuuya lets out a sigh. “I’m not his boyfriend. He’s not my boyfriend either.”

“Really?”

“Naomi—don’t—”

“Niisan, I have a duty to idiots.” To Chuuya, she asks again if he’s really sure.

“If we are, it’s news to me.” Chuuya’s glad he has a briefcase with him. He focuses on his hand
wrapped around the handle, strangling the leather. It has important papers so he can’t drop it. He
has to focus. “He hasn’t asked me out.”

Naomi’s eyes look terribly sharp at this distance. “Have you asked any of your previous dates to be
your lover?”

“…not really?” He’s not sure why he’s providing details, but Naomi doesn’t seem impressed. He
tries again. “The timing didn’t seem right.”

“Uh-huh. So you plan on finding your one true love by dating around and then waiting to be
formally asked to be their lover?”

Chuuya bristles—it’s not like he’s expecting anything, but for him to make the first move beyond
the dates seem just not right. He’s done his part to give his dates a chance to get a glimpse of what
he is—and it’s not that he would accept just about anyone—but it doesn’t feel right to be the one to
extend the question to be something more. He needs to know that they’d be willing to bear with
him, he needs to get a confirmation from them that it’s okay to proceed. He can’t be the one to ask.

If he asks, then it will not come true, just like before, just like always.

“It doesn’t have to be ‘one true love’, don’t listen to Dazai.”

“I see.” It doesn’t look like she understands, but if it makes her back off on this strange topic, then
— “Will you be my boyfriend then, Chuuya-san?”
Her brother briskly walks towards her, hands on her shoulders as though it would deter her words.

He considers her for a few seconds—not tainted by any Abilities of her own, confident, beautiful,
stable in life. “If you’re fine with me, I’d be honored to be your boyfriend.”

“I cannot believe you’re that easy, Chuuya-san.”

“Should I spend a few more days deliberating?”

“I don’t like how easy you agreed to me. We’re done.”

Chuuya shrugs, half-relieved that she didn’t push, because it’s one thing to bring her out shopping
and listening to her gossip, but it’s another thing entirely to be responsible for her happiness. And
maybe that’s the problem? He’s looking for a normal, happy life, but he’s not able to accomplish
something as pure as that, is he?

His head hurts, though maybe it’s just the cold. They’ve stopped in the middle of the road after all
and winter’s just a week away.

“If that’s what you want, Naomi-san.”

The movies he’s seen has lines like it’s not you, it’s me, but Chuuya thinks that it’s too obvious to
warrant the need to be stated out loud.

“Why don’t you become my brother’s boyfriend instead?”

“Naomi—um, Chuuya-san, it’s not that I think you’re not, uh, accomplished, and I’ve heard really
great things about you, but, uh—Naomi, I thought you want—”

Chuuya cuts him off, before his face becomes even more of a tomato. “I’d be honored, though
Naomi-san, it’s not nice to tease your brother like that.”

“Hmph, you’re both hopeless,” Naomi says as she cuddles against her brother. The older Tanizaki
makes soft noises of protest about his sister’s wandering hands, but he doesn’t pull away. Chuuya
averts his eyes from them, makes his legs work so that he can take a couple of steps away from the
duo. He’s not about to be included in their arrest for public indecency.

“Would you still like coffee?” He asks as politely as he can, but Naomi’s murmuring about the
things she’d do to show her appreciation of her brother’s reluctance to be parted from her, so
Chuuya flees from the scene as soon as possible.

☆☆☆

Chuuya’s watching the swirl of wine as he flicks his wrist in gentle figure-eight motions. He’s not
so terrible at recognizing his environment though, especially since he’s been nursing his drink
while only taking two sips for the past hour.

“How the fuck did you find me here,” he asks without any inflection, leaning back against the
armchair of the private club-cum-bar he’s at.

There’s a fire burning inside an earthen brick fireplace, casting a reddish-amber glow across all the
antique wooden furniture, high-backed armchairs, mahogany-finish low tables. It’s his first time in
this private club, having only receiving his approved membership yesterday. He’s only texted Ane-
san and Yosano about finding a new drinking place—he hasn’t even mentioned any details like the
name of the club or its general location. It’s at the outskirts of Yokohama’s border – it took him
more than an hour’s worth of commute and walk. This isn’t an easy place to find.

“I bugged your phone,” Dazai says with a shrug, settling into the armchair opposite Chuuya’s, his
wine-glass filled with thick red Merlot settling on the coaster on top of the end table beside his
seat.

Chuuya doesn’t need to study Dazai’s face to know he’s lying. He keeps his eyes on his own glass
of wine. “I know you did and I know it wouldn’t have helped.” He shut off his phone and disabled
its GPS right after fleeing from Naomi and her brother, after all.

Dazai chuckles at that, shrugging again. “Fine. Naomi-chan told Yosano-san that she’s traumatized
you. When you didn’t answer your phone, Yosano-san told me that you’ve found a new drinking
place.”

“I didn’t tell her details about this place.” He thinks back on what could have given this place
away. “And my membership card was delivered to my office.”

“Silly Chuuya, why do you think I only arrived now?” Dazai gestures to his slightly damp hair. “It
took some time to cross-reference new private clubs, after all.”

“Cross-reference?”

“Mm, but I got it right on my first choice. When I saw the place’s website, I knew you’d go here.”

Chuuya looks around the room—all Old World aesthetic, like the ones in the French movies he
favors. He sighs as he allows that—his main reason for applying for membership here is because
he finds their painting collections and polished décor pleasant to look at.

“So why did you only arrive now?” Chuuya’s not expecting Dazai to come and fetch him—he’s
come to not expect anything at all from him, at this point. “It’s been hours since I’ve been here.”

“It was raining a bit and I grabbed dinner before going here.”

“I see.”

Dazai looks like he’s considering taking Chuuya’s temperature. “Did Naomi-chan really traumatize
you?”

“…she just made me realize some things.”

Like—

Waiting for people to ask him to be with them isn’t going to work. Nobody’s going to do so, ever,
if he just waits.

He’s—he’s done his best, he’s studied ways to grow the money he’s got, he’s devoured all the
magazines and movies and books that he’s got, he’s studied the behavior of someone who gets
what he wants, he’s made sure to be able to buy clothes that make him stand out, he’s made sure to
be able to talk about a variety of topics depending on the person he’s with, he’s made sure to be
cultured, he’s made sure to be strong.

But he’s—it’s not enough, is it?

He needs to ask someone to belong to him.

(He can’t do it—he’s done it before and look where it got him—it got him here, to this point. That
experience opened his eyes—but he can’t risk that, not again.)

He needs to ask someone who wouldn’t mock him, who wouldn’t leave him readily. He needs to
ask someone he’s got power over, so that he can control the situation. He needs to ask someone—

—Tachihara’s the next person on his list—the last person on his list—and he’s hardworking and
he’s seen Chuuya fight before even though Corruption’s not involved then and he’s someone who
looks nice enough to agree.

He’ll ask him—he doesn’t think he’ll agree, really, but he needs to make sure—he needs to know if
this will work. Will he be able to start moving on if he tries to be the one to make the first move
(again)? Will people actually respond to what he wants if he asks?

He doesn’t think so, but he needs to know for certain.

He needs to—

“—she really did traumatize you,” Dazai murmurs from a few centimeters away, too close to
Chuuya’s face.

“Why the hell are you kneeling on the floor,” Chuuya croaks out as he finally makes his throat
work. Dazai’s kneeling on the chandelier rug, both of his hands resting on Chuuya’s forearms.
Chuuya’s glass of wine is on the table even though he doesn’t remember putting it down.

“I wanted to get your attention.”

“Then?”

“I think we should go back.”

Chuuya allows it, but only because he’s too tired to resist.

☆☆☆

“When you said it was ‘raining a bit’—!”

“I may have downplayed it!” Dazai yells as the two of them run in-between shops with awnings or
roofs big enough to shelter them from the heavy pelt of rain. There’s at least three inches of water
on the streets, making the insides of Chuuya’s shoes feel disgusting. Chuuya thanks his past self
for deciding to leave his briefcase behind in the headquarters after the last of his rounds earlier
today.

Nothing in the weather forecasts have predicted rains or storms—certainly nothing like this. The
private club they came from is tucked away remotely enough that no cabs are nearby and the
nearest train station is more than a couple of blocks away.

It’s an annoying situation all around. Chuuya looks at his phone’s ‘no signal’ as soon as they
manage to squeeze together in front of a closed antique shop, with a small roof over the door for its
guests. He’s not looking forward to running in the rain all the way until the train station—or at
least until he gets a signal so he can call for a cab company or for one of his subordinates to bring a
car.

It’s such an annoying end to a rather dismal day and it’s not helped by the fact that Dazai looks like
he’s about to say something stupid. He’s fidgeting a lot.

“Haaa, what is it, shitty Dazai?”

Dazai looks surprised that he’s asking—though he hides it quickly. He turns and shuffles them
about so that he’s holding on to his face.

With an expression that definitely foreshadows stupidity, Dazai asks softly, gently, loudly enough
that he can over the drumming of his heartbeat and the pounding of the raindrops against concrete
streets:

“…can I kiss you?”

Chuuya blinks—it must be some sort of sorcery, because despite the fact that the heavy rain is
making the entire street appear covered in thick mist, despite the fact that there’s droplets of rain
dripping from his hair to his eyes—and he still sees Dazai’s expression clearly. It has to be some
sort of trick, because Dazai’s hands are wet from the rain but they feel terribly, fever-warm against
his cheeks right now.

He considers Dazai’s uncharacteristic question. He studies the way Dazai’s eyes look shuttered, the
way those eyebrows are furrowed, the way the other’s messy hair flops down to his forehead.

“…you’re actually asking—me—for permission?”

Dazai closes his eyes briefly, as though pained. “You make it sound like I go around kissing people
against their will.”

Chuuya almost retorts that it’s not technically against their will, but Dazai enjoys parading himself
under false advertisement. But then, he realizes something. “But you only ask me if I don’t have a
choice, right?”

Dazai stiffens further, but his hands remain warm on his face.

“So you… you’re just asking me, for the hell of it, but you’re not planning to actually kiss me,”
Chuuya concludes—he knows it’s true, judging from the frown on Dazai’s face. It should delight
him, because that’s one less complication to think about. It should, but it doesn’t, because he’s
really stupid sometimes.

Instead, Dazai says, softly still. “I plan to do a lot of things to you, Chuuya.”

Chuuya knows he’ll try to resist, but he’ll end up allowing it. Just like always.

“…we need to get moving,” Chuuya tries to steer them back to more pressing topics, like avoiding
hypothermia.

“Promise me one thing first,” Dazai says—no, commands. His grip tightens around his cheeks.
“Make sure that I can always find you, whenever you run away.”

A tough request—Chuuya almost wants to spit at Dazai’s face. “You mean like the way I was
always able to find you when you left?”
“…Chuuya.”

It’s—annoying, almost, how Dazai’s able to say his name and make it sound like it’s a plea. It’s—
annoying, almost, how Dazai looks like a child about to cry right now. It’s just the rain, because
the alternative is too painful to think about.

“Fine, whatever,” he eventually acquiesces to the irrational request—because the only reason he’ll
run away is because of Dazai. There’s no point if the reason for leaving follows him. But it’s cold
and he’s not looking forward to having a cold in December and it’s too much to deny Dazai when
he looks like that.

“Thank you, Chuuya,” whispers against his ear, before Dazai shifts them again so that Dazai’s chin
is resting on his shoulder.

Dazai is hugging him, tightly, arms around his back, raindrops splashing against his hair. It’s cold
and warm at the same time. There’s probably an incoming storm that’s puzzling the weather
stations right now—there’s a hurricane stirring his insides right now.

It’s the first time Dazai has actually thanked him and meant it.

It’s a strange feeling—because Dazai arranges things so that everyone moves to his tune. He has no
reason to thank them for doing their handwritten parts. But here and now—Dazai thanked him.

He’s not quite sure how many minutes have they stayed there, clinging to each other in their wet
clothes and rain-sluiced limbs. Eventually, Dazai takes a step back, the kicked dog expression
gone.

“Let’s go home, Chuuya.”

Chuuya hesitates for a second before accepting the hand held out to him.

The last time Chuuya called something home—

Ah.

So he’s really right. Dazai asked him, even though he had no plans of going through it.

It should delight him, that Dazai didn’t kiss him. It’s one less thing to think about it.

It didn’t, because it’s a reminder that Dazai chose not to kiss him.

Just like back then.

☆☆☆

The morning after, Dazai’s snoring in bed and Chuuya’s in the living room, waiting for his call to
connect. The moment it does:

“Good morning, Tachihara-kun. I know Dazai scheduled our date for next week, but would you
like to do it later tonight instead? And… I was thinking, if our first date goes well, would you like
to consider being my boyfriend?”
Chapter End Notes

*starts prayer circle for Tachihara’s safety from Dazai’s jealousy*

• Chuuya’s insecurities rage on—and before you hate on him for being so unaccepting
of Dazai, please keep in mind that he’s lived for 25 years thinking (and having his
thinking reinforced/validated by Dazai/Mori/Port Mafia) that he’s not normal and that
his main worth is his monstrous Corruption. He himself doesn’t know what’s normal
—he’s basing them on what he learns/hears from the media/people surrounding him
(e.g. see how gullible he is about the thank you kisses c/o Higuchi).

• also, Chuuya’s been in love with Dazai during the Port Mafia days. Something on top
of Dazai leaving happened and we’re very near the chapter that reveals that. I hope you
all stick around the ride! Here’s a brief outline of what you can expect next:

- Tachihara having his dream come true of dating Chuuya

- two interludes about soukoku during the time they were partners, which should
hopefully shed light as to why does chuuya believe that he’s a monster so strongly, as
well as why he’s SO SURE that dazai doesn’t like him back
- Dazai confessing to Chuuya during Chuuya’s birthday
- John/Fitz wedding
- Ango
- Fyodor

• in other news, if you’d like to help translate maybe five lines of conversation from
English to French (it’s for chuuya's childhood interlude), please let me know! I’d use
Google Translate but I’m not too confident about its accuracy LOL wOW a lot of
response on this, thank you!!! i did receive a couple of offers to help tysm ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥
♥

• and as always - your support is very much appreciated! feel free to yell at me here or
at my tumblr (guys, thank you for sending me asks about this fic ahhhhh i'd be happy
to answer your questions anytime!!!) ♥ ♥ ♥ comments, long/short, happy/sad,
yelling/sobbing, any kind really, are always lovely ♥ thank you for reading and
tuning in! :D
 Chapter 14
Chapter Summary

• dazai solves his "how to remain the waifu when your husband has a boyfriend"
dilemma
• taking care of drunk!chuuya, pair skating, mistletoes, first sunrise of the new year
• oh, & dazai finally confesses
• chapter has big spaces between some scenes for ~drama, so please scroll with
caution :)))
• (it's 12.6k, so i def won't advise reading it when you need to sleep, stay lovely,
everyone ♥)

Chapter Notes

my apologies for the delay – i've been going through some RL shenanigans –
and i've reached a point where i've been second-guessing my plan for the rest of
the story, in a very, hm, ‘do i really want to proceed with this route??? can i
write something less… emotionally taxing instead & not destroy the plot
completely??’… but then i realize that (1) it’s already far too late to change the
plot, and (2) i actually like the route i planned, despite the… pain 8D also, i
know that y’all are lowkey masochists anyway LOL

chapter arrangement is a bit… hm, different than usual, because it’s reflecting
chuuya's frame of mind more and more. i have a feeling this isn’t what most of
you are expecting to happen, but i do hope that you read on still and that you
enjoy (um)! :D but no, more seriously, please be on the lookout for innocently-
insensitive chuuya + arguably emotional infidelity + tension-
filled/emotionally-taxing last scene. i would advise reading this with either
tissues or alcohol nearby (or why not both) & definitely not when you need to
wake up early the next day. i leave my tumblr & twitter & of course, the
comments section, open for yelling ^^;;;;; (and feedback, as always!)

oooh and much thanks to those who answered my polls/questions on twitter

:))))))

See the end of the chapter for more notes

☆☆☆

Questa storia che senso non ha

Svanira' questa notte assieme alle stelle
Se potessi vederti dalla speranza nascera' l'eternita'

Stammi vicino, non te ne andare

Ho paura di perderti

☆☆☆

“Good morning, Tachihara-kun.”

There’s a loud yawn from the other end that sputters into breathless gasps and—a rather ungainly
thud. He almost asks if the other’s safe – did he call at a bad time?, it’s sufficiently early for
someone like Dazai, but for a hardworking guy like Tachihara, it should be fine, right?, is he on a
mission?, but he shouldn’t be because there are no assignments for the Black Lizard this week… –
but Tachihara manages to weave his syllables to form an enthusiastic greeting.

So he proceeds: “I know Dazai scheduled our date for next week, but would you like to do it later
tonight instead?”

There’s more sputtering from the other end, interspersed with some mumblings about ‘dreams’ and
‘god’. Chuuya patiently waits for a more solid reply. He makes a mental note that Tachihara’s
phone (or is it his location?) has terrible reception, given the strange interference on the line.

Once Tachihara’s able to respond with something that sounds like an effusive affirmation, Chuuya
continues with the real reason for his call. Dazai’s snoring is starting to taper off – he’s only got a
few minutes of privacy left. Not that he thinks he can hide this from the clingy asshole, but he’d
rather speak to Tachihara without interruptions or – more likely, unsolicited inputs.

“And… I was thinking, if our first date goes well, would you like to consider being my boyfriend?”

“CHUUYA-SAN!!!”

Chuuya winces slightly at the volume of the reply.

“…I could hear the number of exclamation points on that. Is that not acceptable?” He pauses for a
second, before adding, “Don’t feel that you have to agree with me, because of our difference in
rank. I will not dole out punishments of any sort if you reject me, I promise.”

Tachihara’s side sounds chaotic, like there’s a tableful of knickknacks that’s knocked off to the
floor. “No-no-no-no! Not like that!”

“…I see?”

Tachihara goes to a rant not unlike Atsushi’s when he’s gushing about Akutagawa—which is,
really, the only reason why Chuuya’s able to understand it despite the pauses and gasps. (He’s
rather floored that he’s actually picked up a life skill from Atsushi.)

“Even if our d-d-d-date doesn’t go well—no, I’m sure our date will be amazing because you are
amazing, Chuuya-san—you’re always so great and wonderful, and plain amazing and I can’t
believe you would—because you’re so amazing—but even if it’s not, which will not happen—
EVEN IF. I’d still want to be. To be—um.”
Tachihara’s really such a nice guy, a great kouhai. It almost makes him feel guilty for asking,
because he can already see the future, even if he doesn’t have Flawless.

And really, there’s just one response to that.

“Thank you, that’s kind of you, Tachihara-kun. I’ll pick you up tonight – send me your address?”

There’s a rather audible gulp, before: “A-Actually, Chuuya-san, I’d be honored if I can pick you up
instead!”

Chuuya instinctively grips his phone harder. His gaze immediately goes toward the bedroom door,
shut close, barely visible from his angle that it doesn’t appear like he’s keeping an eye on it during
his call – to anyone but Dazai, that is. He looks at the colorful kitchen towels hanging from an
overhead rack, patterns of strawberries and apples brilliant red against the monochrome furnishing
and tiles. He looks at the dining table’s centerpiece for the week, flowers mid-bloom amidst some
broken tainted glass. He looks at the expensive wall-mounted television, the spread of gaming
consoles underneath, the towers of game discs beside it.

“Don’t.” He thinks about the force in that response, amends it, softer. “There’s no need for you to
go through the trouble. I’ll pick you up at seven?”

It almost makes him feel guilty, the way he wrangles the acceptance, because he’s sure that
Tachihara’s nice enough, unlike some people he knows.

The call ends with polite goodbyes and a carefully-blank stare from Dazai in front of a now-open
bedroom door, clad in an oversized nightshirt, big enough that most of his thighs are covered if he
stands still, that his boxers don’t peek out, but that’s mostly because Chuuya doesn’t look there.
The red silk looks flattering against his skin, but that’s nothing new, because Dazai makes most
things look and sound flattering, when he puts his mind to it. It doesn’t help that he’s bleeding into
Chuuya’s eyesight in the same frame as the kitchen towels of strawberries and apples, moving
closer to the dining table with red roses mid-bloom.

“Eavesdropping really isn’t beneath you, is it?”

Dazai’s stare remains carefully-blank, but his tone is almost effortlessly sincere. “Mm, I only heard
the part where you very kindly avoided telling him that you’re the one with the fancy cars, so you
get to decide the pick-up locations.”

“That’s not it,” he says, but doesn’t continue. Of course it’s not the reason, Dazai knows it, he
knows it. He looks at the vibrant colors and chaos splattered like an arterial spray all over his
apartment and knows that it’s something that he doesn’t want anyone else to taint.

“Hmm.”

Chuuya folds his legs so Dazai can sit on the vacated space on the couch; once Dazai sits down, he
coaxes Chuuya to unfold and rest his legs over the other’s lap. He needs to take a shower soon,
because he still needs to complete a report about his recent visits. Instead, he slides further down
the arm of the couch so that he’s mostly horizontal, Dazai cradling the arch of his left foot all the
while.

“So you want to be Tachihara-kun’s boyfriend, Chuuya?”

“I want to try,” he corrects, glaring at Dazai when the grip on his foot becomes too—tight. He
wriggles a bit to get the other to loosen up. “…You disapprove.”
“Disapprove is such a light word to describe how I feel right now.”

Chuuya squints at Dazai who’s glaring at his foot like it’s done something to personally offend him
—maybe outlaw everyone from talking about double suicides or something equally inane. “I don’t
need your approval to get a boyfriend.”

“I know.”

“So there’s no point to feeling like that.”

“I know.”

“Urgh, hearing you agree with me is kinda gross.”

“Your foot’s gross,” Dazai says childishly, even as he continues to rub his hands all over it.

“Then let it the fuck go?”

Dazai snaps his gaze towards him then, before he brings the foot closer to his face, rubs it against
his cheek, then his mouth. His breath tingles—Chuuya squirms at the sensation, especially once
Dazai murmurs his words against his skin, the sound vibrating against his toes. “I’m hungry and
this is my meal though.”

“Why the fuck is cannibalism your first answer?!”

“You’re tasty.”

“You just said my foot’s gross, urgh.” Now that he mentions it though, he is kind of hungry.

“Still tasty,” Dazai says as he literally sucks on his big toe.

Chuuya responds by kicking the bastard on the face.

☆☆☆

Their date goes well—it’s dinner at the newly-opened Spanish restaurant three blocks away from
the Port Mafia Headquarters, striking bullfighter red being the main theme, paella negro
overflowing with toppings for Tachihara to gingerly pick at.

There’s a spot of black ink on the corner of Tachihara’s mouth; Chuuya grabs a napkin and dabs it
on his date’s face.

“C-Chuuya-san!”

“You have something on your face,” Chuuya explains, continues rubbing at the stubborn spot. He
can feel the other’s face grow hot under his touch—even through the layers of cloth and gloves.
“There, now it’s gone.”

The waitress refilling his sparkling water makes an odd cooing sound. He smiles mildly at her,
because it’s good that she’s approving of his actions—that means he did something normal, right?
As he sips at his apple-flavored water, he remembers Dazai’s insistence at smacking his face
without any heads-up whatsoever whenever he claims to see flecks of sauce or food on Chuuya’s
face.

Tachihara’s face looks unhealthily red.

“…Are you okay? Did I rub too hard?”

“N-No, it’s not that, I just.” Tachihara swallows, the bob of his Adam’s apple clearly visible. He
looks very red and very pained. “I wasn’t expecting. I got surprised, is all.”

Dazai does it all the time, without preamble, Chuuya doesn’t say. It’s gauche to talk about
someone else during a first date—unless that someone is their date. Plus, there’s no point starting a
comparison between Dazai and Tachihara, it’s a difference between a human and a demon. It just
wouldn’t work.

“I’ll make sure to let you know in advance, next time.” He’s nothing if not adaptable.

“N-No, the surprise is good.”

But you look like you’re about to die, Chuuya doesn’t say, especially because most people don’t
like to talk about realism or death during dates. Even the shows where the main characters are
police or detectives—whenever they date, they don’t talk about cases. Actually, no, they just go
straight to the bedroom for most of them, don’t they? Urgh, he needs new shows to watch.

“…If you say so.”

☆☆☆

Chuuya doesn’t bring up the boyfriend label when he drops Tachihara off—for some reason, he’s
requested to be dropped off at the headquarters, where Hirotsu-san and Motojirou are lounging by
the front desk, bottles of convenience-store beer lined up like target practice. There’s Higuchi and
Gin whispering furiously behind the desk; Higuchi’s phone is surreptitiously focused on the front
doors.

It’s still fairly early, but Tachihara’s cheeks have been red for two hours already and he looks like
he needs time to recover. He doesn’t bring up the boyfriend label not because it looks like there are
Port Mafia gossipmongers ready to get Tachihara drunk to spill details about their date. He doesn’t
mind them knowing.

But he’s already asked him and he doesn’t want to appear too pushy. He’s fine if it takes some
time.

“Thank you for agreeing to go out with me,” Chuuya says as he closes the distance between him
and Tachihara, pressing a kiss against the other’s still-hot cheek. (Higuchi makes a weird dying seal
sound—oh, that’s her regular squealing sound.)

“I, I—give you everything.”

“…uh, thanks?” Chuuya watches how the all-suffering look takes hold of Hirotsu-san’s face as he
herds Tachihara to sit behind the desk, beside Higuchi’s dying seal sounds and Gin’s judging
silence. “I’d rather be the one buying you things?”
He knows the salary of the Black Lizard folks, after all, and even if Tachihara’s nasty enough to
smuggle at least half of the drugs they shuttle around Yokohama, it’s still not enough to be a
quarter of his monthly income. Tachihara has two brothers he’s putting through school, according
to him during dinner, so he’s not about to allow Tachihara to give him anything too expensive,
much less everything.

“Pardon the stupid,” Hirotsu-san says gravely as he not-so-subtly steers Chuuya away from the
front desk and towards the doors.

“You’re leaving me out of a drinking party,” Chuuya comments not without a pout at being left-
out. But then, he considers the beer cans and bottles arranged, and nah. He’d rather go for the wine
in his apartment—he thinks they still have some Krug Clos d'Ambonnay left.

“We’re going to embarrass Tachihara-kun and make him rethink his life choices.”

Chuuya rolls his eyes at the too-serious tone, even though, deep-down, he’s kind of worried. But
then again, that’s within his expectations, right? “You make it sound like I’m a plague to his life.”

Hirotsu-san’s brand of diplomacy means avoiding uncomfortable topics, so he parries with:

“Dazai-kun has tickets to a late-night Hitchcock marathon at the theater.”

It’s an obvious distraction, but come on, it’s Hitchcock. “Wait—that’s tonight—no, now, right?”

“I’m afraid I’m not a Hitchcock fan.”

“But you know about the tickets,” Chuuya’s muttering, even as he’s dialing the bandage bastard’s
phone. Dazai rejects the call, but before Chuuya can rage and throw his phone towards the glass
front doors, a text message from M A C K E R E L chimes in.

run as fast as your little legs can, already got bbq popcorn & diet coke

“I hate barbeque-flavored popcorn,” Chuuya breathes out even as he’s distractedly waving
goodbye with one hand at his colleagues, sprinting towards where his car is parked in front of the
headquarters.

you get the diet coke, so don’t bitch about the bbq

show’s about to start in 15, i'm near the drinks stand

Chuuya doesn’t waste time replying to the messages, choosing to flirt with the maximum speed
limit as he drives instead.

☆☆☆

“Would you like to go to Salome with me on the 23 rd?”

Tachihara’s eating is much faster now, since they’re at Motomachi and they provide chopsticks
upon request. (He’s offered to teach Tachihara how to be more handy with Western cutlery, but
Tachihara declined it. It could be because when asked, Chuuya admitted that the reason he was
familiar with forks and knives was due to the fact that, forks and knives made for better emergency
weapons.)
“…as a date, Chuuya-san?”

“Of course.” Boyfriends always go on dates, right?

“Not like… today?”

Huh?

“We’re on a date.” Chuuya wonders if he should have asked it as a question, because Tachihara’s
looking at him strangely.

“Why is Dazai-san here then?”

“Because he’s a pest,” Chuuya replies automatically—eyes immediately going to a point

somewhere behind Tachihara, the restroom where Dazai’s disappeared to. Not that he’d listen, but
— “I can tell him to leave.”

Tachihara looks like he’s about to say something else, but instead he goes with: “Is it another
French restaurant?”

“Oh. No, it’s an opera. Their opening night is on the 23 rd, I can book us a hotel near the Tokyo
Opera City Concert Hall so we can take our time.”

“Opera.”

“Have you been?” Chuuya thanks their waitress when she tops up his coffee. It’s lunch and he’s
not about to get wasted in front of his date, even though Motomachi’s wine selection is wonderful.
Tachihara’s gaping at him, so Chuuya continues with: “If it’s the tuxedo you’re worried about, I
think we can still have a rush order completed—we still have a week. Or if you find a ready-to-
wear one—we can shop after lunch?”

“Um, a tuxedo? Chuuya-san, that’s. That’s too much!”

Chuuya savors the lobster with a sigh. “If we go with Komeda-sensei, I’m sure she can give us a
discount, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“—Komeda-sensei spoils you too much,” Dazai chimes in, poking his cheek with a still-wet finger.
Chuuya swats the offending finger away, wipes at his face with a napkin.

“I’m a loyal customer, of course she’ll spoil me.”

“She does,” Dazai agrees with a half-smile, settling down on his seat to Chuuya’s right. The three
of them are on a low square table, the place on Chuuya’s left empty. “She gave me a 25% discount
on that new cashmere coat when I told her it’s for your… benefit.”

“I did not fucking—shit, urgh—order that coat.” Chuuya bites his lip when he notices the horrified
look on Tachihara’s face. He tries to tamper down on his cursing—especially in English—
whenever he’s with his colleagues, after all.

“I’ve seen your lust-filled looks towards that coat~♪”

Chuuya rolls his eyes. “It’s a good coat, but not that good.”

“Komeda-sensei will be shocked to hear that.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“So, why are you buying a tuxedo this time? You have, like, nine right now.”

“Huh? I have ten.”

“You donated your Ermenegildo Zegna to that charity thing two weeks ago, idiot.”

“Geh. Urgh.”

“You can say ‘you’re always right, Dazai-sama~♫’, you know~♪”

Chuuya chances a look at his date, who’s stopped picking at his food. “I’m inviting Tachihara-kun
to Salome’s opening night.”

“On the 23 rd, right? Michiko-san gave me tickets on the sly.”

“Why the fuck is Michiko-san giving you opera tickets?” Chuuya thinks that Michiko-san’s taste is
the worst. “Have nothing to do aside from swindling old ladies?”

“Michiko-san is a wonderful lady who has tickets to a number of invite-only places,” Dazai says
with a laugh, no remorse at encouraging the event organizer’s crush on him. “We can all go to your
private box then.”

“Did you just invite yourself to my private box?”

“Hmm, you are becoming deaf, oldie.”

“Fuck you.” Chuuya clears his throat when he remembers Tachihara’s horrified expression. “So,
Tachihara-kun, would you like to?”

“I’d like to, love to,” Tachihara’s shooting looks between Dazai and Chuuya, looks that Chuuya’s
unable to decipher. “But the tuxedo—the tickets—the hotel—it’s too much.”

“Well, I already booked us a room in Park Hyatt Tokyo.” Dazai’s smile is razor-sharp. “I guess
you can come, Chuuya, though you have to be careful, because pets are not allowed there. Children
below twelve too—”

Chuuya throws a salad fork towards Dazai’s face, but the man simply knocks it down with a flick
of his spoon. “Just so we’re clear, whose card did you use to book the room?”

“Since I got the 51st floor with the park view, of course it’s yours?”

“Bastard.”

“I specified blackout curtains and the hypoallergenic bedding for you already, you bocchan.”

“I’m not a bocchan.”

“And it’s booked from Friday to Sunday, so we’ll have some time to shop around Shibuya before
the show and go to Skytree the morning after.”

“The ice skating thing is on Sunday?”

“It’s on Christmas, so it’s a Monday, idiot.” Dazai shoves his new phone towards Chuuya’s nose,
their itinerary for the holidays an image of Chuuya’s own planner. “You’re having so much
memory problems, old man.”
“It’s been busy,” Chuuya says with a shrug. He’s been so busy cleaning up the records and
eliminating any small-time spies from other organizations—and in a way, he’s grown to trust Dazai
making sure to keep track of his non-work activities for him. It’s almost like he’s managed to
acquire a secretary, if said secretary spends more time spending his money and spending his
patience, really.

“That’s right, Chuuya-san’s been busy with… work.”

“That reminds me,” Dazai shifts the attention back to Chuuya, “since we’re doing your stupid
anime rewatch on Atsushi’s dorm, do you want to just buy a widescreen TV for the occasion or
have ours installed there for the day?”

“Yuri!! on ICE isn’t a stupid anime.” Chuuya’s learned so much from that show, really. Mostly in
preparation for their ice skating thing with both the Agency and the Port Mafia (the picnic’s
apparently not successful in driving everyone insane), but he ended up learning the limits of what
one can do to someone. “And what, now you’re asking me?”

“Mm, because it solves your fretting about what Christmas gift to give to my disciples.”

“I’m pretty sure that they consider you the lousiest teacher ever.” But urgh, Dazai is right. He can
just gift them a TV set—and a stand? XBOX 360 to go with it? “Also, Akutagawa agreed to have it
on his apartment instead.”

“How did you manage to convince him?” Dazai looks relieved that it’s not going to happen on
Atsushi’s dorm, because the walls there are paper-thin and if Chuuya’s memory serves him right,
there’s a big trashcan there where he can dump Dazai’s body should the other be too annoying. Or
maybe Dazai’s just relieved that Chuuya will not get to inspect his dorm?

“I didn’t. I told him that it’d be comfier for Atsushi if we watch it on his house, which has actual
couches and beds. Instead of one lumpy futon.”

“I cannot believe you’re familiar with how Atsushi’s futon feels.”

“I went there, once.”

“You went home with Atsushi?!”

Chuuya throws his knife next, which suffers the same fate as his salad fork’s. “I brought him home
—after our date. Remember, we actually dated before, memory guy?”

“I cannot believe Chuuya takes men home after their first dates…”

“You’re trying and failing to make it sound scandalous.”

“So, Christmas gift then?”

“You’re asking me, but I know you already bought the TV set.”

“…and an XBOX 360.”

“Urgh.”

“You can say ‘you always have the best ideas, Dazai-sama~♫’, you know?”

Chuuya rolls his eyes again and turns to Tachihara instead. “So, about Salome?”
Tachihara doesn’t look too happy with the prospect of going to a black-tie event with Dazai nearby.
“I… we can get dinner on Sunday night instead? Plus we’ll see each other on the skating rink after,
right?”

“Tokyo Opera City Art Gallery has that Dada-exhibition on 24th,” Dazai says as a reply to
Tachihara, but he’s looking at Chuuya, because he’s fucking rude like that. “Plus, Chuuya, if you
really want to use your money to dress someone up, let’s go buy William Westmancott suits!”

“Your idea of a Christmas gift is a $75,000 suit?!”

“What, no, that’s just your regular gift to me.”

“What the fuck.”

☆☆☆

“I’m glad Dazai-san isn’t here,” Tachihara confesses in a small whisper as they walk side-by-side
the busy Chinatown streets. Snowfall has stopped for the day, but it’s still pretty cold. He’s already
wearing two coats – the second one being Dazai’s deep maroon cashmere coat, which okay, fine,
he’s been staring at for the past few days.

Chuuya huffs as he adjusts his grip on his shopping bags when Tachihara tries to take hold of
them. He can carry them. He’s not used to people offering to carry things for him—mostly because
Dazai’s a lazy fucktard and everyone else knows he’s stronger than them anyway. “Me too. He’s
on a meeting of some sort? About Abilities and what not.”

He keeps his voice casual, to match the festive atmosphere and Tachihara’s happy-go-lucky
kindness.

Kunikida’s very flighty recently and Yosano’s postponed one of their drinking sessions. Hirotsu-
san’s frown is deeper than normal and Ane-san’s busier than ever. There’s something going on –
he heard Mori-san went to Russia yesterday – but as usual, he’s not in the loop.

Which is just fine, he tells himself. He’s more effective as a sword – he has no worth in trying to
plan the ambush. He’ll attack when he’s ordered. If he’s ordered. Dazai’s been sneaking out of bed
a lot of nights now, but he’s just camping on the floor with some files surrounding him—not that
Chuuya cares, because bigger bedspace for him.

He—he’s useless when it comes to strategies and planning.

“Did you manage to buy most of the gifts you need?”

“Yes, Chuuya-san. How about you?”

“Mostly, yes.” He doesn’t care if Dazai’s been sneaking about doing what he does best: being a
sneaky, manipulative bastard—who gets shot by Russians in alleyways, who gets stuck in
collapsing buildings, who—urgh. “Say, can we drop by the Heavenly Empress shrine?”

“You’re planning on some sea travels, Chuuya-san?”

“I’m—” about to pray for protection over that stupid asshole. “No, but let’s drop by anyway.”
Chuuya walks faster, doing his best to ignore Tachihara’s confused expression.

☆☆☆

We’re driving to the hotel now. Let me know if you have some requests for Tokyo ‘souvenirs’?
Have a great weekend. See you on Monday.

Chuuya doesn’t receive a reply to his text message; he gets a text from Hirotsu-san five minutes
later instead.

With a message like that, you sound like you don’t plan to contact Tachihara-kun at all during the
weekend.

Chuuya snorts as he reads the message while they’re waiting for the traffic lights to change.
Dazai’s too busy fiddling with the temperature controls of his car, making it warmer. Their suits
for tomorrow night’s opera are on the backseat, along with the travel suitcase Dazai has packed
(Chuuya didn’t have time to check the contents, but he’s prepared himself to discover that Dazai
has not packed any clothes for him, just for maximum annoyance.)

I try not to expect Dazai’s good behavior whenever possible.

There. It’s not like he doesn’t know that Dazai will hide his phone from him the moment they
check in.

“Chuuya, don’t text and drive, I’d rather be wearing my new suit if you’re going to crash the car.”

Chuuya rolls his eyes—what kind of suicidal maniac cares about the clothes they’re about to die
in? And he’s not going to crash, he’s only texting during stop signs! “Change in the backseat then,
asshole.”

“Ah, if you wanted to get me naked that quickly…”

“Good god, I’d rather crash.”

☆☆☆

Salome is always a vision to watch.

It’s the first time that Chuuya’s with company inside this private box of his—an octopus who clung
to him the entire time, ruining the lines of their suits.

It should be annoying and too-warm, but the hall has impeccable airconditioning. He’s so
distracted by fingers interlaced with his, that he visibly startles when Dazai whispers against his
ear: “It’s the Intermission now, Chuuya.”

Dazai doesn’t let go though—not to get champagne, not to go to the restroom, not to mingle with
some of the bigwigs that have descended to Tokyo’s cultural oasis—if possible, he crowds Chuuya
deeper into his seat.
So Chuuya doesn’t either.

They hold hands until it’s time for the standing ovation and clapping.

Chuuya’s seen Salome countless times, but for the life of him, he can’t remember the storyline or
the actors at all.

Stupid Dazai.

☆☆☆

“I cannot believe you booked just one bed.”

Dazai laughs, Chuuya feeling it against his scalp. “You’re small anyway, don’t tell me you need
more space?”

It’s true that he’s not used to beds smaller than his custom-made one at his apartment, but he’s
more concerned about the fact that despite a king-sized bed being spacious enough, Dazai has
chosen to cling to him like an octopus, still.

“Plus, they don’t have an extra bed~”

Chuuya doesn’t argue about how a well-known hotel must have extra beds for their guests. After
all, once Dazai decides that he’d like to leave again, there will be no repeat performances of this
comforting closeness anymore.

He falls asleep to the hummingbird-quick flutter of Dazai’s heart, his phone on the bedside table,
several unread messages on it.

☆☆☆

“Skytree, Tokyo Tower or both?”

“Why are we acting like tourists here?” Chuuya asks with a yawn, buttering up the toast from their
room service breakfast.

Dazai hums as he flips the newspaper to the next page. He’s busy perusing the Entertainment
section for gossip, Chuuya’s willing to bet his entire bank account on it. “But we are tourists, from
the far-off land of Yokohama…”

“We’re thirty minutes away, what the hell.”

Chuuya’s careful not to spill his coffee or spread any breadcrumbs on the sheets pooled around his
waist, but he gets this urge to not-so-accidentally spill his drink all over Dazai’s side of the bed.
It’s not something he’d ever do in his own bedroom, but given that they’re at a hotel…

“So it’s both?”

Chuuya huffs at Dazai’s knowing smirk. “Damn right it’s both.”

☆☆☆

Messages Chuuya reads from his phone when he checks it just as they check out of the hotel:

(1) chuuya-san!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! you asdsalfeloped with dazai-san why

(2) you eloped how can i become the best man
(3) btw ryuu cooked chazuke for me!!!! ♥ ♥ ♥
(4) he’s apron uwan asa sada.d help too cute too much my ehadsaidas heart

(5) Chuuya-san, I heard you got kidnapped? Please let me know if you need my squad to provide
back-up and/or rescue your kidnappers.
(6) Chuuya-san, please ignore the message above. Gin had provided me with your location. Please
don’t make any decisions while drunk. Dazai-san knows how to spike water if needed so please be
careful. Thank you for your advice on cooking the chazuke perfectly, Atsushi enjoyed it a lot.

(7) send me pictures of the room – I heard the view is amazing? also, please tell me you actually
wore your tiny speedos when swimming in the hotel’s pool, I desperately need entertainment while
hiding my shoes from that blasted raccoon
(8) actually, you know what, don’t wear those, the pool is a public place, we’re too busy to bail
dazai out of jail if he snaps
(9) ozaki-san dropped by the Agency to visit kyouka and she’s a good conversationalist. good taste
in wine too. also, tell dazai that I’m enjoying my FB & IG wall be flooded by pictures of your face
(but can he take more pictures of the room? and the jacuzzi?)

(10) Fancy hat, I have it on good authority that there’s an antique book shop near Shinjuku
Station. Go forth and buy first edition paperbacks of mystery stories. If you don’t trust your taste in
books (I know you don’t), ask Dazai for recommendations. I’ll pay you back by trading an hour of
my help on your cold cases. Wrap the book properly and box it with a fancy ribbon on top so that
Edgar-kun is properly surprised.

(11) Chuuya-san, please send a text message to Tachihara-kun confirming that Dazai-san hasn’t
whisked you away to register your marriage. (Or if that was what happened, let me know so I
can… collect my winnings. And help prepare the right amount of alcohol, of course.)

(12) Hey, Chuuya! I tried to stop Francis, but he mailed our gift already – it’s a Stuart Hughes
Diamond Suit. He said he expects you to wear it to our wedding, but I’ll definitely understand if
you want to throw the tacky suit away. (You can remove the diamonds first before throwing the rest
out.) We don’t have a gift for Dazai, but does that guy need anything aside from your company
anyway? Anyway, I’ll tell Francis you liked his gift so he doesn’t sulk, and then give you the wine
from our vineyard when we see each other. See you soon! Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

(13) Nakahara Chuuya, this is Sakaguchi Ango. I heard that you’ve been made to entertain Dazai-
kun recently. I offer my sincere condolences for that. I would like to establish a more open
relationship with the future Boss of the Port Mafia. Let me know if you’d like to grab lunch after
the holiday season. Happy Holidays!

Chuuya sighs at the messages, rubbing at his temples. Most of the time, he’s really thankful for his
colleagues, acquaintances and friends, but sometimes, he just wishes they’d stop being so excited
and giving him false hopes.

“Want me to reply to them?” Dazai asks as he reads the messages over his shoulder.

“No way in hell,” he replies even as his phone is being tugged out of his hold.

“Mm, you can worry about that… after Christmas?”

Chuuya walks alongside Dazai as they make their way to the valet parking where his car is
waiting. They have enough time for the Skytree and the Tokyo Tower and still make it back for
the art exhibition, but they’d have to be quick. “I’ll be seeing most of them tomorrow, you stupid
fuck.”

“Then you don’t need to worry or reply to them at all.”

“You are the worst.”

“Mm, but you like it, right?”

Chuuya remembers the Agency’s lamentations about how Dazai never replies to their messages or
calls. It’s gotten to the point that when any of them needs something from Dazai, they either (a)
learn not to need it; (b) ask Chuuya to relay their message; (c) use Chuuya’s phone to send their
message. Dazai always replies if it’s him, after all.

He doesn’t reply, but Dazai’s squeeze to his hand is enough of an indication that the other knows
the answer anyway.

☆☆☆

Chuuya’s admiring the section for assemblages and photomontages – particularly, Hausmann’s
Mechanischer Kopf in front of him, when a particularly loud throat clearing catches his attention.

His clutch on his champagne stem goes tighter for a moment, before he forces his body to return to
its previous casual state.

“Good evening. Is there anything I can help you with?”

While he’s not self-important enough to think that he’s well-known beyond Yokohama, he’s also
not naïve enough to think that Port Mafia doesn’t have enemies beyond its borders. He keeps his
name secret for now, but he shifts his drink to his left hand, so that his right hand can retrieve the
dagger underneath his breastpocket quicker.

The man in front of him has a friendly—too-friendly smile on his face, almost similar to how
Motojirou leers when he recalls the times he’s been scolded by Yosano. He looks normal, an
everyday sort of salaryman, but the fact that he’s here on this exhibit and the fact that his watch has
ostentatious diamonds—he’s far from normal.

“I realize I am in dire need – and only you can help me.”

Chuuya raises an eyebrow – so does this guy think that he still has Corruption? Or does he think he
can buy Chuuya’s loyalty from the Port Mafia? Or does he think he’s already the Boss and he’s
about to get a quick favor in?

“I am helpless against your beauty and I’ll need your company to cure me of this lovesickness.”

Is that a new fucking code amongst Tokyo’s mafia groups?, Chuuya doesn’t ask out loud. He
squints at the guy – the smile spreads larger, almost like a Glasgow-grin now. Urgh.

“Did you just fucking imply that my looks made you sick?!” Chuuya hisses instead as his mind
repeats the words and grasps its meaning.

“What? No! I mean, you’re pretty and I’d like to have you on as my arm candy. Plus – don’t you
know who I am?”

“No? Maybe we should exchange business cards then.”

“Are you actually rejecting me?”

“Newsflash, rejection happens to everyone,” Chuuya says snidely – though he keeps his voice low
enough that the event organizers and the security will not escort him out. He’s seen most of the
items in the exhibit, but he’s not looking forward to be escorted out, mostly because his phone and
his car keys are with Dazai – and that guy is off somewhere, presumably to the restroom, but most
likely to become the heartthrob amongst the old ladies in the gallery, since Michiko-san and her
colleagues are here. While has money with him so he can call for a cab and go back to Yokohama
alone, he’d rather not leave his car alone in Dazai’s hands, it’s not going to survive and his
insurance company might blacklist him.

The guy looks flabbergasted at the thought of being rejected though. “You, do you even have a
lover right now?”

“That’s none of your business, stranger,” Chuuya says – and reins in his desire to punch the guy.

“—As a matter of fact, I’m here,” Dazai interrupts by resting his chin on Chuuya’s right shoulder,
pressing close enough that Chuuya can feel the other’s steady heartbeat from his back. Dazai’s
hands immediately cross over his waist, prompting Chuuya to move his arm so that his champagne
doesn’t spill.

“Urgh, I’ll remember this humiliation,” the guy promises before marching away from them.

“I didn’t need your help,” Chuuya mutters as soon as the guy’s out of earshot.

“You looked like you were seconds away from skinning him alive, I don’t think you want to go to
jail on Christmas Eve.”
Chuuya breathes in and out, doesn’t smell overly feminine perfumes from the guy behind him.
“Stupid Dazai.”

“Aw, Chuuya, I’ll stick to your side the whole night to protect your virtue.”

“Please don’t.”

☆☆☆

“Urghhhh, why did you let me drink too much last night, I fucking hate you.”

Dazai laughs – but it’s soft, instead of grating. Though that’s probably because the curtains are
drawn, there’s very dim lighting, and Dazai’s pressing painkillers to his mouth, followed by two
full glasses of water.

“You’re the one who insisted on watching Casablanca and then Breakfast at Tiffany’s, while
armed with wine.”

Chuuya keeps his eyes squeezed shut, waiting for the painkillers to take effect. He feels Dazai
rubbing soothing hands all over him, though one hand remains pressed against his temples,
drawing circles with his thumbs. “Use small words, fucker.”

“It’s around 7:15 – do you want to eat breakfast here or when we reach the skating rink?”

“It’s so fucking early,” Chuuya grouches out, though he knows it’s because Christmas at Shin
Yokohama Skate Center is expected to draw big crowds.

He sort of hates Atsushi again for suggesting that they go ice skating for their weird ‘let’s have a
great, fun alliance!’ trip. He knows it’s because Atsushi’s counting on hearing Akutagawa make
(cute, in his words) sniffling sounds, plus the fact that he’s sure that he can spend time just holding
hands while they both try not to fall flat on their faces. Sadly enough, it’s Atsushi’s approximation
of a nice, loving Christmas.

(And because it’s Atsushi, most of the Agency members are game. And because it’s Atsushi,
Akutagawa’s a definite yes, which means Higuchi’s spent too many hours hounding everyone else
in the Port Mafia to agree. And because it’s Atsushi, cat-whisperer, the Agency’s President has
allowed it, which means Mori-san approves by default. So ice skating it is.)

(And of course, everyone agrees on Christmas because they have zero social lives aside from each
other. But then again, seeing that most people are dating each other within their not-so-little
group…)

Shin-Yokohama is a bit farther away if he’s going to drive—and frankly, he’s not in the mood to
be behind the wheels within the next two hours. But then again, the alternative, which is braving
the trains is a bit… urgh.

“If we get moving now, we can arrive there in maybe an hour? There should be an izakaya open
there. If not, we can always go for their 24/7 Mcdonalds.”

Chuuya sighs loudly, though most of it is swallowed by Dazai’s chest anyway. “Stop talking so
much.”
“Let’s get you to your bath then,” Dazai murmurs softly, propping Chuuya upright so they can
hobble towards the bathroom. The moment Chuuya sets foot on the tiles, he finds that they’re
warm, already. So Dazai must have been awake for quite some time. “Once you get your
drunkenness washed off, you should feel more alive.”

Chuuya just grunts as he keeps his eyes closed while Dazai clinically removes his clothes – well,
it’s not like it’s much. It’s just his sleepwear and in seconds, he’s being led to his ceramic tub.
There’s a hand gently guiding his head against a – plastic pillow? – near the edge of the tub. While
this bath might help remove the grime and the general unpleasant feeling of waking up drunk, he
thinks he’s rapidly going to fall asleep in the meantime. There’s a scent of freshly-picked apples,
did Dazai bathe in apple puree or something?

“Don’t fall asleep, Chuuya,” a faintly amused voice tells him, “or else, you’d go ahead and drown
in your own tub, tiny as you are.”

“Did you bathe already,” Chuuya slurs out as he feels the warm water soothe his limbs.

Dazai laughs, gently again, softer than the pillow squished beneath Chuuya’s cheek. “Is that your
invitation for me to get in the tub?”

“We won’t fit.” Actually, they can, but Chuuya likes stretching his legs in his bath.

“Maybe I should wash you so you can get over this quickly.”

“Is that you asking me permission?”

There’s a snort somewhere above Chuuya, before there are hands helping him become clean, his
head propped up against a sound of rapid drumbeats.

Just before Dazai tilts his head so that his face and hair can become wet and be shampooed, he
asks: “Can you text Tachihara that I can’t pick him up? We can meet on the rink.”

The heartbeat that he hears stutters for a moment, so Chuuya adds: “Be nice. Or rather, don’t be
such an asshole.”

Dazai’s heartbeat resumes, but it’s still hummingbird-quick. “I already sent him a message earlier.
You always go too far when you’re drinking, after all.”

“So you know that means that you can’t do crazy stunts with my car, right.”

Dazai’s heart skips again – is the bastard actually sick, that doesn’t sound healthy – before hands
dip his head back. Just as those same hands slide all over his scalp, Dazai murmurs: “You can trust
me, Chuuya.”

☆☆☆

Of course, ‘you can trust me, Chuuya’ means that Chuuya’s about to throw up when they reach
Shin-Yokohama, because ‘crazy stunts’ apparently don’t include reckless speeding and swerving in
Dazai’s definition. Chuuya’s already dreading the fines and the paperwork that he’s going to face
because of the traffic violations. More immediately, Chuuya’s dreading the state of his own car if
he ends up throwing up inside.
“I hate you so fucking much,” Chuuya swears as he rests his forehead against the car window’s
cool glass, willing the world to stop spinning. The painkillers Dazai gives him always work, but
they take some time before the full effect can be appreciated.

“You’re just saying that because I haven’t fed you yet.”

“I’m going to throw up on your shoes.”

“Can you aim somewhere else?”

“Maybe your face instead.”

“Chuuya, you can’t reach that high.”

Chuuya snarls, but he accepts the steadying arm around his waist when he crawls out of the
passenger seat anyway.

☆☆☆

Atsushi’s staring really hard at his gloves.

“Do you want a McFlurry?” Chuuya asks the man, tilting his half-finished dessert forward. “Or do
you need a visit to the optometrist?”

“I’m trying to see if you really got married over the weekend,” Atsushi confesses eventually when
it’s proven that he hasn’t earned laser version in exchange for losing his Ability. “So, did you?”

“Why the fuck would I get married?”

“Language, Chuuya-san.”

“Don’t you ‘language’ me, man-tiger.”

Atsushi laughs – “Ah, so the man-tiger really sounds threatening when said by mafia members. I
thought it was just Akutagawa.”

“You call him ‘Ryuu’ on your texts but ‘Akutagawa’ in person?”

“Do you really want to know what I call him, Chuuya-san?”

Chuuya’s disgusted look speaks for itself, but Atsushi only laughs again and grabs his dessert from
his hands.

“Whoever said you were innocent is a big liar,” Chuuya grumbles about his lost food, but not even
two minutes later, Dazai and Akutagawa return to their booth – with a new McFlurry for Chuuya.

Atsushi leans against Akutagawa’s shoulder as he says: “Your power of prediction is really creepy,
Dazai-san.”

“Mm, I can predict anything as long as it’s about Chuuya~♥”

Akutagawa sighs, as though pained that he’s stuck with them, even Atsushi. The rest of them aren’t
here yet, but that’s probably because they prefer to skate with a not-so-full stomach. “He was
staring at this booth the entire time, that’s how he knew you stole Chuuya-san’s food.”

“Boo, Akutagawa-kun, why are you ruining my mystery?”

“Don’t worry, I still consider it creepy,” Chuuya reassures the man beside him, ducking when
Dazai tries to hug him for those words.

“Chuuya, you’re such a great person!”

☆☆☆

“Let’s just charge everything on our card,” Dazai suggests as soon as everyone (sans their
esteemed leaders, which is for the best, really, Chuuya’s sort of excited to see if they’d still wear
beach outfits here) has arrived, practically camping out in front of the rink’s entrance so they get to
be the first customers.

“And by ‘our’, you mean…?”

“Your card, of course!”

Chuuya wraps his hands around the bastard’s neck, all the more angrier when Dazai squats a little
bit for it to happen. “I’m gonna fucking kill you—!”

“We’re not going to be admitted if there’s a homicide investigation here,” Naomi cuts in, steel on
her words. “And I’m going to pair-skate with niisan, NO. MATTER. WHAT.”

Chuuya relaxes his strangulation, unnerved by the intensity from Naomi. Her brother’s just in the
background, trying to disappear.

“Thank you, Naomi-chan, you’ve secured us our entrance and skate shoes rental fees~♪” Dazai
singsongs triumphantly as he waves Chuuya’s wallet way above his reach.

“Bastard—!!!”

☆☆☆

“Oh… I thought you said you didn’t know how to skate, Chuuya-san.”

“I didn’t,” Chuuya agrees, as he skates alongside Tachihara, quickly distancing themselves from
where most of their bags are, because that’s near the entrance and that’s near where Mori-san and
Fukuzawa-san are going to appear once they actually arrive. Ane-san mentioned something about
strange Christmas customs, while Hirotsu-san only mentioned praise for industrial-strength
earplugs. Chuuya’s decided that he really doesn’t want to know what’s holding those two up.

“But…”

“But I… studied some well-made videos to help me learn.” Chuuya doesn’t mention the Yuri!! on
ICE marathon he did, followed by the obsessive Youtube-binge on this year’s Grand Prix Final that
concluded two weeks ago. He also definitely doesn’t mention the fact that he’s watched a certain
someone skate on an actual lake of ice before, enchanting and nymph-like and ever since then, he’s
found ice skating beautiful. There are also some videos focusing on the angles of the legs versus
angles of skate edges, so he only needs to… relax his body and let the things he saw flow into him.
It’s working out well so far.

“So you’re able to learn things just by seeing them?! That’s so amazing, Chuuya-san!”

“Not really…?” Chuuya tries to deflect, but Tachihara’s already gushing about his skills—and he’s
really just like Atsushi. Maybe they can be great friends, so that Atsushi has a partner in the mile-a-
minute Akutagawa-praise moments that he has. “It’s just… what it is.”

Because there’s no other way to learn for him – he knew nothing before and he couldn’t catch up
unless he absorbed everything around him. Killing and fighting are easy to learn, because everyone
else around him does it, he has no shortage of moves to observe. Controlling Corruption—and
failing, ultimately—is much more difficult because he has no references, only trial-and-error.
Everything else is on books or on the Internet, so he tries to make up using that.

It is what it is—it isn’t special.

Because Dazai has the exact same ability—no, even better. Dazai started watching the skating
videos three days ago and he’s already—

—speak of the devil. There’s a round of applause at the other end of the rink where Dazai
illustrates a smooth triple axel out of nowhere.

Annoyed, Chuuya slides forward, gathers momentum, before he takes off from the forward edge,
spinning and completing his own triple axel. There are less onlookers on their side of the rink, but
Tachihara’s enthusiastic clapping—along with Higuchi’s cheering, even though both of her hands
are tightly gripping the handlebars so she doesn’t fall over—are enough to get the attention of a lot
of people.

Slightly embarrassed by his competitiveness, Chuuya skates back to where Tachihara’s still
clapping at him. “Sorry about that—”

“—it was wonderful, Chuuya-san! Are you aiming for winning our mini-tournament then?”

“Not really,” Chuuya says with a shrug, as he pulls Tachihara by the arm so he can teach him the
axel. “I just don’t want that bastard to win.”

☆☆☆

Chuuya spends the next hour and a half instructing Tachihara about the different jumps he’s
watched, so he has missed quite a number of things around him. Once the two of them rest for a bit
though, Higuchi’s all-too-happy to keep them posted.

Apparently:

Atsushi’s prediction is right and he spent the entire time half-cuddling, half-holding hands
with Akutagawa (Higuchi’s wails of I’m not jealous at all don’t sound convincing);
 Ane-san and Yosano are apparently skating prodigies, all graceful moves and spins, and they
apparently made a vow to beat each other in their mini-tournament?

Poe-kun tripped within the first 15 seconds on ice; Ranpo-san laughed at him for 5 minutes
straight after that, then Ranpo-san fell on the ice (Lucy’s still sulking that she lost the rock-
paper-scissors as to who’s going to help babysit Ranpo-san’s injured pride, especially since
Ane-san’s apparently twirling Kyouka around on the ice);

Hirotsu-san’s volunteered to guard their things, but according to insider info (read: it’s Gin’s
ninja skills during their drinking session last time), it’s because he doesn’t want anyone to
see his secret skating skills before the mini-tournament;

Q and Elise are chasing each other across the ice at terrifying speeds, injuring the people
they have bumped against. Nobody’s complained about them yet – presumably because
they’re cute, but most likely because they threatened those people;

Motojirou’s dutifully recording Yosano – he got stopped by one of the security guards,
because there was a complaint about a creepy man moving around the rink area. Higuchi’s
not sure if he’s managed to extricate himself from that pinch, but it doesn’t sound like she’s
particularly concerned;

Higuchi hasn’t seen the Tanizaki siblings in the past hour, but knowing them, she had wisely
stopped any sort of pursuit. She’s too young and pure and innocent (Tachihara snorts at this;
Chuuya approves of the Tachihara/Higuchi pair-up, if only because Higuchi seems a safer
choice compared to Gin, or himself) for such things, you see;

Kunikida’s studying the videos Dazai watched, muttering and taking notes, generally
disbelieving the fact that someone could learn figure-skating just from videos. He’s been at it
the past hour and a half – Chuuya surmises that he probably won’t get to skate if he keeps
this up. Miyazawa Kenji’s apparently balancing some things atop Kunikida’s head each time
he passes by the man, but Kunikida hasn’t noticed – or moved yet;

Nobody admits to seeing Mori-san or Fukuzawa-san, but there have been eyewitness
accounts about terrifying Hawaiian-print shirts and exposed hairy legs;

Dazai’s—

“I don’t want to hear about that bastard,” Chuuya says with a huff, stepping away from Higuchi
and donning on his skates again. To Tachihara: “Do you want to skate some more?”

Tachihara declines it, saying that he’d rather rest for a few more minutes. Chuuya shrugs, thinking
that at least Tachihara and Higuchi can spend time together.

☆☆☆

Like most things in Chuuya’s life, he’s not quite sure how it has come to this?

“And why did you volunteer us for a pair skating exhibition, fucker?!” Chuuya hisses to the bastard
who apparently agreed to his adoring crowd’s demands for more of his flashy skating—and
dragged Chuuya along with him for the ride.
“Pair skating looks more fun!” Dazai claps his hands together as they swirl lines on the ice, a big
space made for them by the spectators. “Plus, we know each other’s moves well, right, partner?”

“We haven’t been partners in years,” Chuuya spits out venomously, but he tries to keep his
expression from becoming too enraged, because there are lots of children around.

“Mm, it’s a good test of our bond, then!”

“Would you listen—!”

“We’ve decided, we’ll do the “Stammi Vicino” Aria~♪”

“We haven’t decided—!” Chuuya glares at Higuchi who gives him a thumbs-up as she sets-up her
phone and speakers. To Dazai: “Are you fucking kidding me, that’s supposed to be a really
difficult program, even in fiction!”

“Chuuya, we’re double-black.”

“That makes no fucking sense in this context, asshole.”

“Eh, it sounded nice.” Dazai shrugs as he shoves Chuuya away so they’ll have space for the initial
individual portions of the program. “Plus, when have I ever been wrong?”

Chuuya’s about to reply, but the song’s already starting to play and goddamn he’s going to kill
Dazai for this later.

(Like most things between them, it somehow works out well, in the end.)

☆☆☆

“I can’t believe we lost the tournament.”

“You tried to lift me single-handedly, what the hell did you expect,” Chuuya grouses as he
gingerly touches his bruise on his near his liver. Dazai’s skinny arms have failed them and all he
got for it was a hand-shaped bruise on his torso. (And a chance to dance that closely, intimately,
with Dazai, but that’s neither here nor there.)

“Ah, let me get you an ointment for that,” Dazai says, disappearing into the bathroom for their
medical supplies.

Chuuya removes his coats and hangs them by the doorway, wincing a little bit when he recalls
Hirotsu-san destroying the competition. Gin’s insider info is apparently correct—and Hirotsu-san’s
hiding some very flexible moves despite his maturity.

While waiting for Dazai to reappear, Chuuya checks his Facebook and promptly grimaces when he
sees the first (and hopefully only) documented sighting of Mori-san and Fukuzawa-san for the day.
He scrolls down to the comments and likes Akutagawa’s comment of I’m going to the hospital—
before he panics and calls Atsushi to check if Akutagawa’s indeed going to the hospital. (He’s not;
apparently just an exaggeration of his emotions. Chuuya very politely doesn’t snort about that turn
of phrase.)

He removes his gloves for his right hand when scrolling becomes a bit more tedious—maybe he
should get those special gloves for phones?—and he likes all the photos he can see that doesn’t
include Dazai.

He becomes engrossed in his social media—okay, fine, it’s because he hasn’t really had such an
active Facebook account since recently, so it’s still a bit exciting—that he doesn’t immediately
notice Dazai approaching him. He mostly ignores Dazai lifting part of his shirt so he can apply
ointment to the part he bruised. But what he can’t ignore is how Dazai’s other hand ending up near
his left ear, a sprig of mistletoe in his hand.

No.

Nonononono—it can’t be.

Chuuya slowly lifts his eyes from his phone screen and meets Dazai’s—the angle making it
difficult to see anything beyond a pool of black there.

He can’t.

He can’t want to.

He just can’t.

Chuuya’s phone slips from his hand—it lands on his toes, but he almost doesn’t register the dull
ache.

“Mistletoe are parasites, pests,” Chuuya rambles, tensing when Dazai shifts so that his left hand is
steadying his hip against the door, so that his right hand is tucking the plant against his left ear.
“They… kill trees. And stuff.”

“And stuff,” Dazai agrees, his right hand sliding down to his nape and gathering the longer strands
of his hair. He hasn’t cut it for a fairly long time – some of the strands are long enough to reach the
middle of his back. And Dazai’s—Dazai’s taking hold of the strands, looping them around his
fingers—and—

Dazai’s pressing their bodies close together and it shouldn’t feel as—new as this, because they’ve
done it countless times, but, never with Dazai looking at him like this, like there’s nothing else that
exists, and Chuuya feels the tug on his scalp but it feels like a mild inconvenience, compared to
how his heart clenches and dies inside his chest. It’s—it just can’t. Because things have ultimately
not changed, have they? They can’t change—because that would mean—

“Merry Christmas, Chuuya,” is Dazai’s whisper before he starts unravelling the spool of his hair
right above his lips – a red curtain, just before he leans in even closer, close enough that Chuuya
can open his ribs and let him in – the pressure of lips over his unmistakably present, even if he
deludes himself that it’s not really an actual kiss, because all he feels is the weight of the thick red
veil over them. It only lasts a second, before Dazai retreats.

Chuuya doesn’t follow.

At least, not until Dazai comes back for him, still frozen near the doorway—and coaxes him to his
bedroom.

☆☆☆
Chuuya spends the next few days closing some end-of-the-year deals for the Port Mafia. He
dutifully texts Tachihara every day—the man’s back to Nara to see his family—the same way he
dutifully declines any voice call requests.

Dazai’s spending a lot of time outside of his apartment—which is a good thing, really. The only
way Chuuya notices is the absence of warm-smelling food when he arrives. Chuuya knows it has
to do with the issue from a couple of days ago—Mori-san’s back to Russia, slated to be there for
the next two months.

Chuuya’s the interim head in the meantime.

He has no room to falter.

He ends the year with his laptop half-filled with reports, his wine bottle half-emptied in his office.

☆☆☆

“HOW DID YOU EVEN GET A GODDAMN HELICOPTER?!”

God, he should have known Dazai was planning something when he was suspiciously gone for a
few days.

Chuuya clings to his seat, because the helicopter is rapidly tilting as Dazai tries one maneuver after
another, the seatbelt can only do so fucking much.

“I’M GOING TO THROW UP ON THE CONTROL PANEL!”

“Can you aim somewhere else, petit mafia?” Dazai cheerfully asks him during the brief moment
that the helicopter Chuuya’s at manages a fairly horizontal position. And this being Dazai, he
doesn’t wait for an answer before he makes a damn flip, to the tune of Chuuya’s half-enraged, half-
nauseous shrieking.

Eventually, Dazai tires of making Chuuya scream his vocal cords out, but as Chuuya rests his
forehead against the glass windows, he sees the first streaks of sunlight breaking the horizon over
Yokohama Bay.

Dazai’s smiling—he can sense it, even as he keeps his gaze riveted on the first sunrise of the year.

“Only you would think of hijacking a helicopter just to see the first sunrise.”

Chuuya feels Dazai grab one of his hands. “Let’s do next year’s hatsuhinode on top of Mount Fuji,
Chuuya.”

Next year.

Chuuya smiles, because that kind of promise is nice, but ultimately means nothing. It’s nice, if
only in this moment though.

So he squeezes Dazai’s hand back, then realizes that Dazai fucking let go of the controls to hold
his hand, as evidenced by the sudden plunge in their altitude.
“You stupid fuck—!”

☆☆☆

“I cannot fucking believe you almost made us commit a double suicide. On New Year’s Day. What
the fucking fuck?!”

“Come on, Chuuya, we survived, didn’t we?”

Chuuya’s not impressed, even as Dazai helps him out of the tangles of safety belts. “I think I lost a
few years of my life there, you shitty dick.”

“But it’s an exciting way to start the year, right?”

“You kidnapped me from my office, ran off with me on a helicopter, nearly crashed the helicopter
to the sea… that’s what you call exciting?!”

“Hmm, the kidnapping part isn’t really exciting because Ane-san called me to complain about your
snoring in your office.”

“Ane-san?!”

“If you become too much of a workaholic, your subordinates will worry about you, you know.”

Chuuya glances at Dazai, who stands leaning against the helicopter from where they did their
emergency landing. It’s a cliff, somewhere, Chuuya’s not exactly sure and his phone’s GPS is
useless since it’s in Dazai’s hands now.

Dazai’s fidgeting a bit, some traces of sleepless nights on his eyes.

“Spit it out so I can go back to sleep, damn it.”

Dazai freezes for a moment, before taking a deep breath.

“I need to go with Fukuzawa-san to Russia. For an… investigation.”

 ☆☆☆

Things that happened to Chuuya after his first hour awake for the new year:

Dazai must have kissed him goodbye, somehow, because his entire face tingles (well, save
for his mouth) and his neck actually hurts. Or maybe Dazai knocked him out by smashing
his face against the helicopter door, because goddamn, it really hurts.

Dazai must have planned – when has he not, really – for Akutagawa and Atsushi to pick him
up there (so even their emergency landing isn’t an emergency after all) and bring him for the
new year shrine visits. He knows he must have selected a fortune, but he can’t remember it.
Knowing him, it’s a big misfortune.

Dazai texts him nearly every hour. Chuuya shuts off his phone because the steady vibration
is driving him nuts. Ane-san storms to his office every time he does that, because Dazai’s
apparently driving her nuts if he doesn’t respond.

Dazai reminds him to return to his apartment every single day. Chuuya ignores that every
single day too. He has a fairly spacious office that has complete living facilities in the
headquarters. He’s the Interim Boss, he can’t just leave.

Dazai sends him a box of expensive chocolates on February 14, along with a message that he
won’t sulk that much if he sees Facebook posts about Chuuya enjoying a date with
Tachihara. Ah, that’s right, he has a boyfriend right now.

Dazai doesn’t tell him about the investigation he’s assisting Mori-san and Fukuzawa-san
with. Nobody in the Port Mafia or in the Armed Detective Agency tells him either. He gets
the information from Ango, who treats him to a surprisingly-good coffee in some shady
street stall.

Dazai doesn’t answer his question about the likelihood of success for the new terrorist group
threatening to break Fyodor Dostoevsky out of prison so he can return Abilities to the world.
Instead, Dazai tells him i miss you terribly in pixelated characters devoid of feeling.

Dazai sends him more chocolates on March 14, along with a message i’d like to bleach my
eyes out, *they* are cuddling urgh i want to hug you in still-pixelated characters devoid of
anything that Chuuya needs from him.

Dazai siphons the life out of him, leaving him with work, work, work. It’s just like before,
only with more phone contacts and more Facebook friends, this time. He wonders if he
should feel happy for expecting this all along.

☆☆☆

One more thing:

Dazai doesn’t tell him that his flight back is on April 29.
 ☆☆☆

Chuuya tells himself that he’s not excited for Dazai’s return.

“Are you excited for Fukuzawa-san’s return then?” Atsushi asks him as he seats cross-legged over
his lumpy futon. Well, he’s about to say goodbye to the lump as he’s moving in with Akutagawa
on an apartment just across Gin’s at the end of Golden Week. Higuchi’s going to be Gin’s new
roommate, since her sister has apparently found a boyfriend and would like some privacy.
(Higuchi’s been wailing about always being kicked out, to which Gin tells her that she’ll kick her
out if she doesn’t stop wailing at home too.)

“I’m not,” Chuuya says with a groan as he slumps over the box he’s helping Atsushi tape over.
Akutagawa’s been banned from attempting to help with Atsushi’s packing, if only because he’ll
just be a liability (Lucy’s words, not Chuuya’s).

“I heard they plan to get married in June.”

“…Dazai and Fukuzawa-san?”

Atsushi takes the box away from him, causing him to slump forward against the tatami instead.
He’s so damn tired, it’s like the work’s never-ending, now that there are other mafia groups
beyond Yokohama that want to make deals with them. “You’re being silly, Chuuya-san.”

“I’d really rather not imagine Mori-san’s marriage, you know.”

“But you can imagine Dazai-san’s?”

“There are nooses everywhere. There’s a ticking bomb strapped to the unfortunate spouse. The
ceremony’s held at a skyscraper about to fall down. Meteors will rain down on Earth as
punishment for allowing such idiotic thing to happen.”

Atsushi laughs again, calls him silly again. “Don’t jinx yourself, Chuuya-san.”

“I won’t allow myself to be dragged to that, don’t worry.”

“If you say so.” Atsushi’s nearly finished, so he tugs Chuuya over to the futon so he can slump in a
more dignified manner. “By the way, are you planning anything to welcome Dazai-san back?”

Chuuya closes his eyes so he can’t see Atsushi’s earnest eyes. It makes it harder to lie.

But then again…

“Actually, I’m planning to get some things from Dazai’s dorm.”

He remembers Dazai saying that he hid a bottle of his most favorite drink of all time somewhere in
his home—for the life of him, Chuuya can’t remember what drink is it. He plans on cooking
something that complements the drink—not because he’s actually relieved to see Dazai back. It’s
just… the helicopter thing is kind of a nice gesture, that he needs to give something back? And
he’s never really returned anything regarding the chocolates too.

“Eh, I was wondering why you bothered to visit me on your birthday,” Atsushi mock-pouts at him.
“And here I thought you liked me better than honeypot!”

“I don’t ever want to hear that pet name for Akutagawa again,” Chuuya says gravely, slapping
Atsushi’s arm in admonition. “Also. Oh. It’s the 29th. Yes, I believe it’s my birthday.”

“It’s really creepy—Dazai-san texted me last week and told me you’d say that, word-for-word.
Happy Birthday, by the way!”

“Thank you, Atsushi. Did he predict this too? Dazai Osamu should go to hell.”

“………yes,” Atsushi says with his face scrunched in creeped-out horror.

“Geh. Stupid bastard.” Chuuya then hits Atsushi’s arm again, gentler this time. “So? Come help
me raid Dazai’s dorm.”

“But it’s been empty for months?”

“But he’s—has he moved?”

“…I’m not sure why you’re asking me, Chuuya-san.” Atsushi looks very concerned, and very
much interested in running away. “I mean… you’re living together, right?”

☆☆☆

Things that happened to Chuuya after Atsushi shows him Dazai’s empty dorm:

•
 ☆☆☆

Chuuya’s not surprised that the door to his apartment swings open without him even trying to slot
in his key. He’s not surprised that Dazai’s already there, thick coat for Russian climate already
discarded, already waiting for him on the couch.

Atsushi told him ‘Happy Birthday’. If he checks his phone now, he’s sure there’ll be similar well-
wishes there.

Chuuya feels anything but happy right now.

“…You’ve moved in with me.”

Dazai’s eyes are as dark as coal, with the curtains drawn shut and the lighting dimmed. His voice is
equally dark, low, almost like tar. “Yes.”
Chuuya takes a deep breath as he feels trembling spreading all over his body.

“…You’re in love with m-me?”

It’s a question that he knows the answer to. Or at least, he used to know the answer to. Dazai
claimed to never lie on negotiations and what happened back then—was a negotiation, nothing
else.

“—yes.”

Dazai Osamu is a fucking liar.

“Why—” Chuuya feels the shadows in the living room crawl all over his skin, skittering inside,
clinging to his lungs, embracing his throat. “—why didn’t you tell me, you bastard?!”

Chuuya’s heart beats staccato beats of misery and hurt, as he watches Dazai’s face remain
impassive, in control. He hates it. “You’ve got—you’ve got so much time on your hands, so many
chances—”

He’s gesturing wildly, his hat’s dropped off, his outer coat is on the ground, his heart is crushed
half-beaten by his own feet.

Dazai’s eyes remain impossibly dark, his face impeccably serene. “You’d have rejected me.”

“Damn right I would have.”

Dazai’s eyebrow raises, and Chuuya could hear what he was about to say, moments before he said
it. “And you wonder why I didn’t tell you?”

Thing is, when he’s right, it’s always about the things that hurt him anyway.

He grabs his right wrist in order to stop himself from flipping off the table. He ends up kicking the
table anyway, bowling it over towards the dining room portion of his apartment. The resounding
crash doesn’t calm the noise inside his head, screaming at this injustice, at this disgrace.

“No, no, no – you do not get to turn this on me!” Chuuya uses both of his hands to tug harshly at
the collar of Dazai’s shirt. “You – you do this. All the fucking time. You always didn’t trust me –
you never did – to control myself, to make my own decisions, to actually know things, to decide on
how I feel – all the fucking time.”

Dazai has the grace to look chastised, though his words are stone-edged. “…That was back then.”

Chuuya snarls against Dazai’s face, his teeth bared in anger. He can’t do this to him. He’s been
doing so well. It’s been three—no, four years now. He’s been doing so well. It’s been seven—no,
eight years now. He’s been doing so well.

“And now, you didn’t even trust me enough to tell me. Anything.”

Not about them apparently shacking up together for real. Not about the chance that Abilities—that
Corruption, will return to haunt him, if Fyodor Dostoevsky’s released back to the world. Not about
Mori-san continuing to ask Dazai to consider returning to the Port Mafia to be its new Boss. Not
about the fact that their love is apparently mutual. Not about the fact that Dazai had lied to him for
years.

“Even though, you’re what? Living with me? Telling all of your friends about how ‘Chuuya must
be so happy I’m paying attention to him now’? Well, guess what—”

Dazai interrupts with a shake of his head, even though he doesn’t wriggle out of the chokehold on
his airways. “I didn’t—you know that.”

“I don’t really know anything, do I? Back then—”

“Chuuya, don’t—”

Chuuya glares at the man who has ruined everything for him. This monster who used to be his
partner, this demon he trusted for all the wrong reasons.

“Back then. I told you I loved you back then. Back then, you didn’t even trust me enough to give
me a proper rejection, did you? You probably thought that poor old me would lose my shit and be a
liability to you if I got my heart broken. You—”

“Chuuya—”

Dazai struggles against his hold, but Chuuya tightens the grip around the collar even more, so that
it raises red bruises around Dazai’s neck.

“—probably thought that, I – what, am blind enough to see that you were paying more and more
attention to your drinking buddies? That I didn’t know you were going to reject me anyway?”

“—OdaSaku and Ango—they were my friends.”

Chuuya exhales—and lets Dazai go. He staggers backward until his back hits the television screen.
“And I’m just the sharpest tool in your box.”

The placid façade over Dazai’s face ripples, for a moment. “No, you—”

“Back then, ha – and this is crazy, back then, you didn’t even reject me outright.” Chuuya’s voice
turns wistful, even though he doesn’t mean to show even more weakness to this demon. His vision
blurs, so he doesn’t see if Dazai’s expression changes again. It doesn’t matter. “Do you even
remember what you told me? No? You told me that we’re not normal. That things like, what,
holding hands, kissing, living together, being happy – aren’t for us. That we’re monsters.”

Chuuya exhales again, continues with a cracked voice. “And the craziest part is – I actually
believed you. All this fucking time.”

“We were not normal then,” Dazai replies, a dark blur that’s approaching him. Chuuya leans harder
against the screen, wonders, idly, if he can merge into it, so he can run away from this world, so he
can leave everything behind in a burst of sparks and colors. “—and you know it. But it’s not like
that anymore.”

Chuuya half-snorts, half-cries. Ah, so that’s why his eyes aren’t working right. He’s crying
—again—for this stupid jerk.

“No? You told me that I was just drunk and not in my right mind – that I was not really in love with
you, because what I felt wasn’t love.” If he closes his eyes, he can still see everything from that
moment play out in technicolor. It’s been exactly eight years since that day. “But that didn’t stop
you from fucking with me, did it? And then the very next day – I get the news that you left the
goddamn Port Mafia.”

Chuuya takes another deep breath, lets it warm the shadows slithering inside his mind, exhales.
“You—you can’t just suddenly think, one day, that it’s a nice day to start screwing up my life
again. I won’t let you.”

Never again.

“But I really do love you, Chuuya.”

“So?” Chuuya asks even as Dazai scrambles to wipe the tears from his eyes. “I’ve loved you longer
and you’ve hurt me longer, after all.”

“So everything should work out,” Dazai says, sounding like the petulant child that he really is,
underneath all those layers of bandages and strategies. He’s just a child who’s never really grown
up, because he’s already an exceptional child genius, so there’s been no point to changing. He’s
always seen the world in such simple terms of winning (him) and losing (everyone else) that
Chuuya’s heart is just part of the dust that falls off a chessboard that’s flipped over one-too-many
times.

Eight years ago and Chuuya would have carved out his own, beating heart, the moment Dazai said
that it’s part of the plan.

Never again.

“Give me proof that you won’t just—” Chuuya bites at his lip, bites the fingers that tries to keep
him from gnawing his teeth together. “Proof that you won’t just leave.”

“Chuuya—”

“Don’t have one, do you?” Chuuya spits out the blood from biting Dazai’s stupid fingers. He thinks
it lands somewhere on Dazai’s face. The hissing inside his head doesn’t stop, calling him a
disgrace loved by a fellow disgrace. But Dazai’s so very good at sloughing off his problems and
leaving him behind with the mess. He’s the only one truly disgraced here, tainted with darkness,
tainted with the budding light of hope that will never fully bloom.

“Chuuya—there might be no proof, but—”

Chuuya inhales, exhales. The air inside him is all clotted and dark. But once Dazai leaves,
everything inside him will just be pure Nakahara Chuuya. Just like before. Just like how it should
be. Just like how it always will be. “Get the fuck out of my life, Dazai Osamu.”

Dazai’s holding his face, the grip vice-like. Chuuya doesn’t feel that pain, because there’s
something that will always ultimately hurt more.

“Don’t make me, Chuuya, I can’t leave you again—please.”

“Get out,” Chuuya repeats, but when Dazai doesn’t let go, he punches the man’s stomach, too
quick for Dazai to guard the blow. Dazai flies to the other end of the room, almost as if—

But it doesn’t matter, because Dazai’s running towards him, more frantic than ever, and there are
hands tugging off his gloves, and there are hands wrapping around him, and there are hands,
shadowy hands wrapping around his beating heart.

“Don’t—don’t leave me, Chuuya—don’t—you can’t accept Corruption—I can’t leave you again
—”

There’s a mumble of pleas—prayers—but all he hears is the own roaring inside him.
O acquaintances, grantors of dark disgrace, do not wake me again!
I will endure my solitude, arms seeming already useless.

O eyes that open doubtfully, open eyes that stay motionless for a while,
ah, heart, that believes in others more than itself,

O expectations, stale and dismal airs, leave, leave this body of mine!
I enjoy nothing anymore but my wretched dreams.
 “—Chuuya, don’t leave me, I’ll do anything—just don’t—”

☆☆☆

This story that has no meaning

Will vanish this night along with the stars
If I could only see you, eternity would arise from hope

Stay close to me and never leave

I am afraid to lose you

Chapter End Notes

• before you reach for tissues/bricks, please take note that this is all according to plan.
they'll be together in the end, i swear.

• the next two chapters will be the interlude re: dazai & chuuya's past - so we get to
see the details for chuuya's past confession to dazai (aka: more more suffering)

• i did a post summarizing most of the symbolism/themes references for this fic. might
be worth to check it out! ;) please note that it doesn't include spoilers for future
chapters. mostly. LOL

others!

lyrics / song is from the beautiful “Stammi Vicino, Non Te Ne Andare” (Stay
Close To Me and Never Leave) from Yuri!! On ICE. the pair skating version is
here (i couldn’t find a better version in youtube orz)
timeline-wise, i'm basing the current year we’re in on the story to 2017 (crossing
over to 2018) (so the days for the holidays correspond accordingly, as well as
any of the “real-life” events mentioned e.g. Grand Prix Final, etc.)
also, dude, if chuuya watched YOI, he’ll just go – so it’s ok to kiss and exchange
wedding rings! it's not considered romance because the genre label isn’t
romance and they don’t refer to each other on the show itself as boyfriends,
right?! (if you haven’t watched/heard of Yuri on ICE – omg wow! LOL well,
long story short, it’s a figure-skating sports anime that has its main characters in
 a canon BL relationship / …though the characters don’t use boyfriends/lovers to
refer to each other in-show 8D)

references!

Michiko-san is that event organizer during Chuuya’s date with Higuchi ;) // the
Stuart Hughes Diamond Suit is quoted at $892,500 (WTF Fitz) // Dada
(~European avant garde movement) is apparently one of IRL Chuuya’s main
influences // mistletoes are considered “useful parasites”, because despite their
parasitic ways, they provide a net gain to the ecosystem by increasing
biodiversity // hatsuhinode is the ‘first sunrise of the new year’ is sorta a Big
Deal in Japan + sunrise viewed at the top of Mt Fuji is considered A+++ //
Chuuya’s birthday (APR 29) is also Showa Day in Japan (holiday celebrating
Emperor Hirohito’s birthday) // the grantors of dark disgrace line is from IRL
Chuuya’s poem: Sheep Song //

references for places!

the Heavenly Empress Shrine is the one that Dazai & Chuuya visited on their
“first date” // Tokyo Opera City Tower is a skyscraper in Shinjuku, Tokyo, that
houses many facilities, like the Concert Hall & Art Gallery; it’s tall enough for
one to be able to view the Tokyo Tower/Sky Tree/Mt Fuji from its sky
restaurants // Park Hyatt Tokyo has 52 floors & is apparently the closest hotel to
Tokyo Opera City Tower at 500 meters away? if I read the map right LOL //
also according to Google, travel time between Tokyo & Yokohama is at 29-65
mins, depending on train/car/traffic/which part of Tokyo you come from/how
much you get lost in the station platforms/etc. // Shin Yokohama Skating Center
is… a skating rink… located 5 mins away from Shin-Yokohama Station LOL
it’s open on holidays! // there’s quite a bit of restaurants near Shin-Yokohama
Station – but the ones referenced here: Mcdonalds (24/7) & PRONTO (the
izakaya; 7AM-11PM) both exists :D

• and of course, last but not the least, i hope that you managed to read till the end, and i
love you all ♥ ♥ ♥
 intermission: The House of The Dead
Chapter Summary

• interlude set a few weeks after dazai leaves the port mafia

Because Chuuya is a good partner, he cleans up the leftover missions and cases Dazai
was working on before he left the Port Mafia. The last one he’s working on brings him
to Russia to investigate a Demon who can supposedly “weigh one’s soul”. There he
meets a sickly man who offers to help him.

(protip: it’s Fyodor)

Chapter Notes

• heya! i'm still battling my shitty internet situation (even loading ao3's chapter posting
page takes 10+ mins)... i'll try to finish replying to all your comments from last chapter
(you all rock so hard ♥) but if i can't, i promise to do so once internet issues have been
resolved!!! for now, sorry for any delays v__v

• so this isn't part of the two interludes that was supposed to happen after last chapter,
but i got a request to post fyoya early, so... (just to clarify, this scene is supposed to
happen anyway, just not posted now. supposedly. haha)

• thank you as always for your support!!! ♥ the soukoku-past interlude part 1 is 25%
done as of now ^^

See the end of the chapter for more notes

☆☆☆

Chuuya sneezes—and promptly tries to hide it. He’s hoping he could travel to Russia by taking the
Eins Soya ferry from Wakkanai to Korsakov – it’s nearly six hours and it would have given him
time to ignore the way Boss sussed out his supposedly-real intentions for doing this.

Boss had said that he’s trying to chase the feeling of adventure and purpose he got from D—the
bastard. Boss had said that he’s simply recreating the days of glory of investigating and taking
down organizations. Boss had said a lot more of things and Boss is always right.

Chuuya thinks that Boss understands him better than he understands himself, because he looks
down at his gloves and he only sees trembling fingers.

He doesn’t bring the case files – anything that D—that jerk, works on ends up being an
overflowing stack of paper regarding evidence and a one-page executive summary. He’s not about
to bring sensitive material on an international goose chase. He knows better than that.

In any case—the ferry service has apparently been terminated already. He didn’t want to enter
Russia so blatantly by flying directly from Narita to Domodedovo. He’s not self-centered enough to
think that he’s known to foreign mafia, but it doesn’t hurt to be more careful. D—he would have
wanted an operation that’s been checked over thrice, not leaving anything up to chance.

Since he’s in Hokkaido anyway – he should have checked if the Eins Soya ferry was still running,
but it’s not that bad, he had to check on some Port Mafia business in the north anyway – instead, he
books a flight thru Aurora so he can fly from Sapporo’s New-Chitose Airport, arrive at the
Yuzhno-Sakhalinsk Airport, before taking the next-day’s Aeroflot to Moscow’s Sheremetyevo
International Airport.

Even counting for delays, that should land him firmly in the Moscow Oblast within two days. D—
that guy’s report shows that the last known contact information for The Russian Demon places him
at Khimki, but the notes state that moving their base of operations to Korolyov or somewhere
further, Saint Petersburg.

It’d be extremely annoying if he has to travel further west, but once he’s already in Moscow,
there’s at least the high-speed Sapsan train connecting the two major cities, so the travel time
shouldn’t be too much if he needs to avoid airports. He hopes it doesn’t come to that, because
there’s already a connecting flight between Sheremetyevo International Airport and Pulkovo
Airport.

If everything goes well, he can just take a direct flight back to Narita, but in case not… well, he can
lead them to a chase and provide them a seeming opportunity to ambush him. It would take a little
over six days of travel, but he can take the Trans-Siberian Line from Moscow to Vladivostok, kill
pursuers who’ll join him on the train, then catch a flight from there to Narita (after so much
Aeroflot, maybe he can use S7 Airlines instead…).

…It’s difficult.

Because as Boss had said, he’s trying to relive the time he’s spent with D—that bandage bastard.
But all it does is remind him that he’s never been the one to quickly devise travel plans, he’s never
been the one to look at flight prices and instinctively know if they’re overpriced, he’s never been
the one to enter credit card information bearing his name and simply waiting for the system to
accept the money that he’s still bug-eyed at. He’s never been the one to strut confidently into a
foreign city and manage despite not sharing a language with most of its inhabitants.

It just makes him feel the loss all the more keenly.

It makes him wonder why he’s pushing so hard for this, really.

It’s not like Dazai will learn of this and praise him for his work and return to the mafia.

☆☆☆

It’s been two weeks of bitter Russian winter and he’s unable to find traces of the Russian Demon
he’s chasing. He doesn’t doubt the information that D—that guy was able to research, but there’s a
few months of catch-up that he has to do and Chuuya’s—Chuuya’s never been good at too much
logical thinking. He looks at the maps and notes and he doesn’t see the patterns and lines that
connect one’s thoughts together.

He promises himself to give one more sweep at the city before he ends up calling it quits, but for
tonight, he plans on—maybe not drinking himself silly, but at least give that infamous Russian
vodka a try.

It’s a wonder how he ends up nursing some transparent cocktail with a drop of red in it (his Russian
is embarrassingly insufficient aside from the usual greetings and polite phrases) – he doesn’t know
what drink the bartender gave him. It tastes overly sweet and fruity – something that he thinks D—
that asshole would actually enjoy, given his sweet tooth. It also doesn’t taste or smell very
alcoholic, but Chuuya’s head spins a little despite having only two small sips.

The thought that his drink has been drugged is just—hilarious isn’t the proper word, but it’s close.
His head continues spinning in that awkward, noncommittal fashion for the next couple of minutes.
The spinning doesn’t stop even when he senses the presence of a mini-army hulking behind him—
maybe a dozen or so heavy-muscled men. If they’re smart—they’d have snipers trained on all exits
to this bar.

This is why he fucking hates making strategies—he chose this bar because… instincts. And it
seemed decrepit enough to annoy the aristocratic arrogance of the Russian Mafiya or the possible
delicate sensibilities of someone making a name for himself as the Russian Demon. But apparently
that’s too predictable.

He considers the cocktail that he doesn’t think he’ll end up finishing. The urge to challenge them to
a brawl is pulsing underneath him, but he’s alone in a foreign country with zero back-up and zero
negotiation finesse. He’s not about to offend a big-time Mafiya—not to the point that he’d end up
dragging their feud back to Yokohama.

It’s as he’s considering the too-sweet cocktail that he gets a new seatmate, an extremely fluffy
overcoat brushing by his arm as his seatmate settles himself awkwardly over the neighboring
barstool. There’s a stream of murmured Russian, but the stream is fairly shallow with rocks in it,
because there’s hesitation and fear there. Chuuya tilts a bit so that he’s able to observe the
newcomer better, subtlety flying out of the window when he notices the guy looking right back at
him.

An oversized black fur coat wraps around the man like a blanket, covering everything save for the
angular face framed both by a snow-white coolskin cap and ebony hair. His looks match the
description of Snow White – hair as black as ebony, skin as white as snow, lips as red as the rose –
sans the gender. The slope of his cheekbones look sharp enough to hint at his heritage, but soft
enough to appear boyish and welcoming. The way the coat sags around him tells Chuuya about
how thin and fragile the man should be.

All in all, not quite someone Chuuya would expect from this place.

Despite that, it’s the man who speaks first – in English. Chuuya tries not to panic, tries to
remember that he looks foreign enough that nobody expects him to speak Russian. “Bad people are
to be found everywhere.”

Chuuya’s English is still leagues below his French, but it’s enough for conversation. “That…
doesn’t paint a very welcoming view of this country. Or the world.”

“…but even among the worst there may be something good.” The man continues with a neutral
smile on his face, tipping his head a little when the bartender returns with his drink. “I hope I can
be that ‘something good’ for you, this time.”

Chuuya hums as he watches the man sputter a little bit from his drink. It smells like vodka – the
man coughs and coughs from the burn of the hard liquor. He’s not quite sure why this man is
attempting to blend into this place when he looks so terribly out of place. He looks like some
beautiful painting – or some incredibly naïve boy.

“I do hope that means you won’t try to protect me from the men wanting the attempt to beat me
up.”

Chuuya’s here on a mission – fine, it’s D—that guy’s mission, abandoned, forever – but he’s not
about to get some overly-curious weak-looking civilian get caught in the crossfire unnecessarily.

“But I can help you.”

Chuuya watches the prim smile balance itself on the other man’s face.

“Tell me how I can get out of here,” Chuuya starts to say, but he doesn’t make it past the second
syllable when there’s a deafening roar from behind him.

☆☆☆

Chuuya’s not quite sure about the sequence of events – he’s running on instincts and ingrained
moves that doesn’t need much mental power to use. He knows he’s able to suppress most of the
grunts’ attacks – some of them diverted to the bar’s surfaces and liquor collection. He knows he’s
able to catch the bullets from the snipers and render them useless. He knows he’s able to survive
that attack unscathed, alone.

He looks at the man who has shown him the way away from the bar – ducking underneath tall
buildings and empty alleyways. The man, who right now is panting like his lungs are giving up, so
very different from the men pursuing them.

It almost—almost feels like back then, when he’s the one who’s able to effortlessly subdue the
enemies’ physical attacks, but it’s D—that guy who has to devise the plan to move in and out of the
situation they’re in. D—that bastard’s all about panting like a dog once there’s nobody else around
to judge his skinny arms and low lung capacity.

It almost feels like back then—too much, that Chuuya ends up laughing at the absurdity of the
situation, at finding a random Russian that reminds him of D—that jerk. It’s almost too pathetic,
his shit luck, really.

“I may be mistaken…” The Russian starts, voice breathy from all the excitement earlier. “…but it
seems to me that a man may be judged by his laugh.”

Chuuya tries to get his laughter under control—he looks like a madman, probably, tears in his eyes
and laughter in his throat and slaughter in his wake.

The Russian continues: “And that if at first encounter you like the laugh of a person completely
unknown to you, you may say with assurance that he is good.”

“So did you get assurance that I’m good?” Chuuya asks once his laughter has tapered off to a lazy
grin. He still has his dagger inside his coat’s inner pocket—he’s still ready to react to an
extraordinary thing happening. He doesn’t think this man’s dangerous—at least, not in the way that
he knows.

“I wouldn’t be here still if I didn’t.” The man’s voice has started to lose its breathy quality, back to
the neutrality from before. He sounds young—not entirely innocent—but almost like he’s young
enough to know only good and evil and hasn’t had to encounter problems about gray areas. Chuuya
likes that voice—if only because he can’t be like that. “Though, maybe I should give you a chance
to ascertain for yourself if you like my laughter too.”

“Will it work as well if you laugh without reason?”

“I have plenty of reasons to laugh, I assure you.” The man says with the same prim smile as before,
walking towards a still-white frozen lake. Everything seems covered in white – with the way the
snow is falling, even Chuuya’s coat and hair will be drowned in white in no time.

“See this?” The man continues, waving a hand towards the lake. Chuuya follows him, a bit warily,
because he’s not sure if the sheet of ice will be able to carry their weight. He’s not particularly
looking forward to be doused in ice water. “Here is the world to which I am condemned, in which,
despite myself, I must somehow live. I’ll continue laughing as I continue living here.”

Chuuya doesn’t get a chance to reply as he sees the man glide into the lake’s surface, feet graceful
in their slide over the ice, thin arms raised in different directions, an intricate dance that Chuuya’s
transfixed into watching, even though he knows he should be running further away, in case there’s
backup chasing him. Somehow, he’s pretty sure that the abandoned park they’re at is safe enough –
it has that kind of atmosphere, as though it’s tucked away into the ends of the world.

The man looks like he’s skating over the ice, despite the normal shoes, despite the absurdity of the
situation.

Chuuya watches the man’s motions over the next ten or so minutes.

The man approaches him again, coat still wrapped over the man’s body, the two of them meeting
at the edge of where the frozen water meets frozen land.

“You remind me of someone,” Chuuya ends up blurting out after a few moments of just staring at
each other.

“I should like to think that I’m not like anyone.” The man’s smile goes razor-sharp. “Just like how
you are also quite unlike anyone.”

No.

Yes.

“I’m—”

A monster.

“The one I reminded you of—tell me, is it Dazai Osamu?”

Chuuya’s heart stops for a moment, because it’s been weeks and nobody has dared to say or show
that name to him. And then it stops for a moment more, because—

The man’s hand is resting on top of his stuttered heartbeat, the moment as frozen as the smile on
 the man’s face. One-three-five seconds pass – Chuuya breathes and his heart resumes beating.

The man’s smile wavers for a split-second, his hand leaving Chuuya’s chest slowly, like he’s
surprised by what’s happening.

“You have been spared from Punishment,” the man says hotly, purple eyes gleaming like
amethysts. “Japan’s Demon has inadvertently sent me such a unique, unexpected gift. How fitting
that you’re his partner.”

Chuuya takes his dagger out and points it towards the man, unease coiling inside him. “ Who the
fuck are you?”

“I’m someone who can’t wait to meet you again, Nakahara Chuuya,” the man replies serenely, as
though it’s a normal everyday thing to have a dagger pointed to his face. That’s moments before a
flurry of gunshots arrive and Chuuya becomes preoccupied with annihilating the force that’s been
sent to chase him.

When Chuuya turns back to look at the frozen lake, he sees no sign of the strange man.

Chapter End Notes

notes!

yes, the guy Chuuya fanboy'd re: skating was Fyodor all along;;;
Chuuya’s travel itinerary (ferry, plane options, etc.) are c/o my Googlefu…
though please don’t use it to plan your Japan-Russia trip in case you get lost :))))

the quotes Fyodor says (re: bad people, re: laughter, etc.) are from the novel:
The House of The Dead, a semi-autobiography written by IRL Fyodor re: his
own experiences in being imprisoned in Siberia. IRL Fyodor is apparently also
referred to as Mad Russian because most of the characters he writes about are
“mad” & that he likes writing mindgames that will drive the readers mad :)))))
on top of that, IRL Fyodor’s considered to be the founder of modern
existentialism… which is a theme that IRL (and BSD) Dazai subscribes to.

For purposes of this fic, Fyodor’s Ability, Crime and Punishment – is an Ability
that weighs one’s soul’s attachments to itself with one touch and punishes it with
death should it fail the test.

thank you as always & see you next chapter! :)♥

 intermission: the long way home
Chapter Summary

• interlude re: soukoku past, part 01

• the 5 times chuuya has lost his home, plus the 1 time he found it

Chapter Notes

• this is part one of the interludes re: the soukoku past! please be on the lookout for the
usual mix of angst/fluff :)))) more specifically – chuuya's childhood is definitely not
pretty. POV is a bit shaky especially in the beginning, which should, hopefully, reflect
chuuya's struggles back then? D: D: D:

especially in the first three “sections”, there’s allusions/mentions/hints/showcases of

emotional/physical abuse, starvation, human trafficking, prostitution, ‘witch-hunts’,
‘fantastic racism trope’ against Ability-users, brief suicidal thoughts (that don’t come
from its usual culprit for the show), Corruption going out of control, actual
government corruption, bullying/homophobia in schools, general mafia things,
MAFIA!DAZAI. most of these things have been shown/hinted/alluded to in BSD
canon (orphanage flashbacks!!) but i’m listing them out, just in case. let me know if
more warnings are needed!

• French translations c/o of the lovely (RisaMadara)! ♥ tysm dear ♥ ♥ ♥ please

hover over the French words for the translation! :)

• as always, i hope you enjoy reading!!! :D it's a fairly long chapter (~15.8k) so please
take your time :))

See the end of the chapter for more notes

☆ first ☆

—make them pay—everything’s a disgrace—taint everything—make everything just like you—

A young kid—aged anywhere from four to ten, with a face beautiful enough to attract hordes of
unwelcome attention, with a body thin enough to serve as a testament of prolonged starvation, with
reddish curls fiery enough to look like a sun that burns anything that dares approach, with bluish
eyes cold enough to appear like a marionette frozen dead in time—kneels in the middle of what
used to be a four-walled studio apartment on the fourth floor of a shabby residential building,
sharing a common bathroom and mess area with seven other apartments in the same floor.

Ten other floors atop theirs have been blown off, while the three floors underneath have been
crumbled.

Nobody dares approach the young kid—or ask—or understand why there are tendrils of black,
black and more black spilling out from his fingertips and crushing everything it touches to
nothingness.

Which is why nobody knows that thirty minutes prior to this, he’s alone inside an apartment with
an empty fridge save for an apple with a maggot inside and a cob-webbed cupboard with mold
festering inside, dutifully waiting for his mother to arrive and fervently praying that she’s safe, like
always, and guiltily fantasizing that she’s able to get enough customers so they can eat this week.

Twenty-five minutes before this, his mother arrives with a literal bang—rusty hinges cringing in
protest as his mother’s current patron knocks her head to the wood with enough force to finally
unhinge the door. The young boy immediately tries to stand up and hurry to her defense, but a
week of no food makes him slow, weak, useless, that he’s only able to kneel and collapse back,
horror in his eyes and fear locked inside his throat. The young boy sees the touches on his mother’s
body and remembers the echoes of his mother’s words about how touch between two people only
serve to cause more and more pain.

Terror seizes his body even more violently when he recognizes that the man his mother’s with is
the head of the city’s police. He has a gun, a baton, a bevy of bodyguards, a lot of power. He’s the
same man who approached his mother after her back-alley performance of Salome, the clothes
falling off her body at the same rate their dignity as humans do. He’s the same man who heads the
manhunt—no, witch-hunt for father, who had left them behind as soon as the boy was born. He’s
the same man cursing his mother’s looks now, cursing the way she apparently made him lose
control.

The young boy doesn’t fully understand what happens between twenty-five minutes ago and now
—but when he focuses again, he sees himself alone in a nest of soot and blood and crumbled
cement. There’s black and black and black everywhere. There’s noise inside his head—a noise that
his mother used to say his father had complained about—had stopped complaining about the
moment he was born.

He doesn’t understand anything and when he spots his mother, he sees her with her hair windswept
and curled in all directions, her eyes wide with terror that he feels acutely. She’s yelling, yelling,
yelling, and there’s a march of the city’s police, that man’s subordinates behind her, surrounding
him.

“Emmenez ce monstre loin d'ici!”

In the middle of the roaring inside his head, he hears that man say something about sorcière and
exterminer and brûlé.

He knows they’re talking about his father—his father who had left them because he had gone mad
and had been subsequently hunted down and burnt as a witch, all thanks to his mother’s
cooperation in the investigation, all in exchange for a chance to sell her body in back-alleys and a
moldy apartment in the outskirts of Paris, even though they don’t have any identifications and
passports and permits to remain in this country that they had fled to in futile hopes of curing his
father’s madness.
“Ce n'est pas mon fils, ce n'est pas mon fils,” his mother’s voice travels to him, even as she
denounces him. As some of the men in terrible black try to haul her to her feet, she adds,
frantically, “Je ne sais rien de ce que cette chose ignoble a bien pu faire!”

She continues yelling, as the words fill him, as the roaring inside him fills him, as the black tar
flowing from him fills everything within a fifty-meter radius, as the men in terrible black try to
cage him, chain him, contain him.

“Ce n'est pas mon fils - ce n'est qu'un monstre sombre et sale - une honte aux hommes - ce n'est
même plus un homme!”

(several, uncounted, months after this, he ends up losing control of the rage festering inside him
like a disease once more. this time, it happens while he’s being transported—caged like a wild
animal, shamed like a war prisoner, treated like a non-human—over turbulent seas to the east. this
time, there are no survivors aside from him, just as there are no remains of the shipwreck aside
from the crumbled steel, eviscerated guts of captors old and older than him, and pulverized bones
of kids young and younger than him, saved from the indignity of being sold to those who find
human trafficking a passable pastime.

several, uncounted, moments after that, he ends up washed over a port filled with cargo and ships
and men in black. before he passes out from the struggle of staying awake so he can keep himself
afloat the sea, he remembers seeing a boy wrapped in black and bandages peering down at him like
he’s a particularly nasty piece of shit, eyes almost black-red in the moonlight.

several, uncounted, seconds then after that, the other boy whispers, “what a unique, unexpected
thing you are”, and he doesn’t retort that it’s even more unexpected that this boy talks to him while
he’s covered in the blood of the people that’s been destroyed by his rage.)

☆ second ☆
“Je n'ai rien à dire,” has been his default turn of phrase whenever someone tries to talk to him. He
understands more than mere bits and pieces of Japanese, because his father’s a Frenchman who has
fallen in love with his mother in Japan—at least, before the voices inside his head drove him mad.
He doesn’t tell them that.

People shove him by his shoulders, shove his face towards the industrial showers for high-pressure
hoses can douse him in icy water, so he can be assessed properly if he can’t be of any use as the
lowest sort of human being.

The touches change slightly after that—he’s clothed in oversized clothes that are too nice
compared to what he’s had to deal with his entire life. An oversized coat is wrapped around his
shoulders as he’s presented to a beautiful woman with heavy make-up that hopes to cover up the
heavier feeling inside her. She’s the head of the courtesan house he’s been sent to, he knows, even
if the Japanese words used are too rapid-fire for him.

She’s Ozaki Kouyou, but she’ll only answer to Ane-san from those who live and work inside her
domain.

She’s speaking to him, asking him something.

He replies with "Je n'ai rien à dire".

This goes on for a couple more months, lessons on how to move gracefully, lessons on how to
string admirers along with make-up and strategic falling of clothes over shoulders, lessons on how
touches all mean that their patrons seek to control him. This goes on long enough that he’s almost
able to stay asleep without the echoes of “Ce n'est pas mon fils - ce n'est qu'un monstre sombre et
sale - une honte aux hommes - ce n'est même plus un homme!” ringing inside his ears for at least
two hours. This goes on long enough that he forgets to correct his thoughts when he thinks of this
place packed with beautiful clothes and sparkling courtesans and wealthy patrons as his second
home.

New Year passes and the fortune he draws tell him of bad luck. He crumples it because he doesn’t
need a slip of paper to tell him that. New Year passes and Ane-san’s most devoted patron stops
coming after one night and the morning after, Ane-san’s make-up is heavier than ever.

He doesn’t comfort her—he doesn’t know how—but he tries not to flinch so much when the
patrons examine him and judge if he’s worth enduring for his looks when he’s got nothing else
going for him.

The day after Ane-san shows up with red-rimmed eyes, the courtesan house is filled with men in
black, guns not even hidden well in their holsters. He tenses when he sees them, but the ones
who’ve been here longer don’t seem that worried, so he tries not to worry so much.

“We’re here for a routine inspection, Kouyou-kun,” the only man not in black in the entourage
says with a friendly smile on his face. “You don’t mind, do you?”

Ane-san minds a lot, he can see in the tense lines of her shoulders. She smiles back with the same
level of friendliness, though. “Of course, Mori-san, please feel free to inspect everything.”

The courtesan house operates under the protection of this land’s mafia group and are therefore
subject to sudden inspections, but he has a feeling that this is just a way to make sure that Ane-san
is still here despite the disappearance of her most devoted patron. He doesn’t ask her why she
tolerates his touches or smiles when she (and his mother) insists that touches and affection only
serve to manipulate and imprison one’s heart.

He stands with his back flat against the wall. He sees that boy again, more bandages on his face
this time. The boy sees him too – proves that he’s not only enchanting under the cloak of
moonlight. The boy moves slowly – not with weakness, but with confidence that every single
moment is dedicated to him.

He remains still, even while the boy reaches him and reaches out for his right hand. He remains
still, even when the boy presses small, deliberate kisses against every single one of his fingers,
almost like a perfect gentleman that his fellow courtesans sigh about. The boy’s smile looks
smitten and adoring, but he sees the boy’s eyes, deep coffee brown at this angle, and sees nothing
but a yawning chasm.

“How are you finding the life inside this birdcage?” The boy asks him in English – he’s tempted to
snatch his hand away, scratch the boy’s mouth off. But Ane-san’s looking at him, the man who led
this inspection is watching him.

So he lets his hand tremble in the boy’s hold. "Je n'ai rien à dire".

The boy doesn’t look deterred from their incompatible languages and continues in English: “I
wonder what other songs can come out from a broken bird like you?”

He doesn’t roll his eyes, but he doesn’t stop the stream of put-upon words that leave his mouth. It’s
not like the boy will know. “Ce gars a des lèvres aussi rouges que la peau d'une pomme, mais avec
une âme aussi pourrie qu'une pomme desséchée.”

He bites his lips after that statement – because it’s an unfair insult to the memories of apples he’s
had in France.

The boy’s smirking at him – and his hand genuinely trembles at the sight. The boy’s grip on his
hand tightens. “Je n'avais jamais entendu parlé de mon âme étant comparée à une pomme pourrie,
d'habitude ils se contentent de juste dire que je n'ai pas d'âme.”

The accent is all wrong, but the words are fine, almost mechanical, as though they were lifted
directly from some book.

He pulls his hand away and hisses: “Who the fuck are you?”

The boy’s smirk grows wider.

“I’m someone who finds you interesting,” the boy replies in Japanese this time, confident that he
can be understood despite him only speaking in English and French so far.

“I don’t need your interest, you wretched man.”

The boy lets out a huff of derisive laughter. “Tu es intéressante, petite poupée.”

He watches the boy move towards other courtesans, questioning them with a smile on his face and
a soulless glint in his eyes, though there have been no hand-kissing with them.

The inspection goes on for another two hours, but once that’s done, most of the men in black
spilling out of the courtesan house, they open for business, because no work means no food.
Annoyingly enough, the bandaged boy and the doctor-like man remains, seated in the VIP room
reserved for extremely important people.
But he’s been doing this for months – he’s seen how his fellow courtesans act. He can endure this,
even though the mafia force behind their business is surveying their work.

He can endure this, he repeats to himself, when a wealthy patron known for lascivious leers and
wandering hands appear by the reception area. Ane-san looks troubled; the courtesan beside him
murmurs something about it not being the usual schedule for ‘Jack-san’. Ane-san’s troubled gaze
transfers to him—and within seconds, he knows why.

Jack-san makes a beeline for him, cutting through the meters of space and décor, lascivious leer in
full force. He doesn’t quite tremble from the weight of such… lust, but he feels the noise inside
him skittering like ants underneath his skin. The noise is always particularly rowdy whenever he
gets a gaze that exceeds appraisal, appreciation, admiration. It whispers things like desires tainting
him even further, whispers how he can just close his eyes for a moment and then everything will
disappear. It tempts him, with promises of eternal silence from all the noise.

He can endure this, he repeats to himself.

Five minutes and a brush of hands against his lips later—and he blinks.

Ane-san’s troubled look is now gone and replaced with such deep sorrow—like she’s, like she’s
sorry for him.

He blinks at the man underneath his slippers and he doesn’t recognize him. He knows it should be
Jack-san, but there’s nothing left to identify him. He chucks the arm he’s holding to some far-off
corner—only, there’s no corner anymore, because there are no more walls. He sees most of his
fellow courtesans huddled behind Ane-san and the glow of her Golden Demon.

He tries to go towards them, maybe he’s supposed to be with them, but Ane-san points a wakizashi
at him. He tries to ask why, but all that comes out is deranged laughter that hurts his throat. His
mouth feels strange, like it’s been stretched out. He tries to stop laughing, but he can’t. He tries to
stop what he’s doing—he doesn’t even know what he’s doing.

He can almost see faint lines of black and red crawling underneath his skin—he tries to claw at
them, get them out, but it only makes the lines darker, bolder. Everything itches and everything
hurts and he should just take it all out, why not let everything flow out so he can be rid of this nasty
feeling?

He continues laughing and laughing and laughing, until his lungs feel like they’re deflated
balloons, until his chest feels like it’s hollowed, until his eyes feels like they’ve been gouged out.
There’s black and red everywhere—and he thinks about his mother’s dance that led to his father’s
death, he thinks about the rage he feels inside him, he thinks about how there’s no such point in
living in this kind of black-red world.

He continues laughing and waving his hands, launching destruction at all directions. He continues
to do so, until his right hand is caught by another.

“Your song right now sounds like languor dreams of death,” the bandaged boy tells him almost
dreamily, “I wonder what other songs you’re hiding?”

He doesn’t reply—he doesn’t have anything to say, because his mind has practically short-circuited
at how fast the noise suddenly zeroes into silence. His knees wobble; he collapses to his knees a
second after, his right arm stretched taut above his head. Feeling returns to his body—hundredfold,
and his eyes roll to the back of his head from the onslaught of pain and fatigue.
Before he faints, he remembers seeing the gaping chasm of the bandaged boy’s eyes—no, it’s not
completely empty and that’s even more terrifying.

(unknown to him, seconds after he’s started losing control of his own raging corruption, the
strange man in the strange lab coat tells the bandaged boy to use no longer human to contain the
destruction.

unknown to him, the bandaged boy refuses, though he shifts closer, as though eager to watch an
entertaining show.

unknown to him, the strange man in the strange lab coat intones in a sing-song voice that wrongly
suggests he doesn’t care either way: that destruction to port mafia property deserves a grave
punishment.

unknown to him, the bandaged boy replies that since things are interesting, he doesn’t mind taking
responsibility for this destruction, isn’t that what a good strategy is, to pay in advance to get what
you want?

unknown to him, the strange man in the strange lab coat already makes plans of forwarding an
incoming request—in just a few hours, no tomorrow, because the bandaged boy will not want to
appear too invested in his new toy—to have a broken bird transferred to a new cage, with a new
jailer that will masquerade with the title of a partner.)

☆ third ☆

Things that happened to the young boy that was always left kneeling behind the carnage he had
caused, after he was taken away from the courtesan house’s care:

• He gains a name – the young boy becomes Nakahara Chuuya. It happens on one of the days of
Golden Week, a strange holiday for the Port Mafia to participate in. It happens roughly two weeks
after he’s been deposited by Ane-san to a tiny dormitory that only has a lumpy futon and Dazai
Osamu in it.

It’s been roughly two weeks and his body hurts in places he’s never known it could hurt, since the
training to make him resistant to physical blows is very hands-on.

His new jailer, Dazai Osamu, is absent for the most part of those two weeks, though he’s not
oblivious enough to not sense that the other’s been checking up on him quite often. He gets the
sense that the bandaged boy is fairly important and also rather hated, in equal turns. A disgraced or
exiled heir, perhaps? He can’t find it in himself to care too much, as he lives every day with
persistent aches in his body.

He needs to be better soon, because he hasn’t saved enough money from his work with Ane-san –
he wants to visit the place they used to live at when they were a family in Japan. When everything
was still bearable. He’s not sure where to start looking first, but he knows he needs money for that.

His new jailer apparently has strict instructions that he’s not to be sent to any mission that could
earn him money if he hasn’t completed the ‘basic training’. He knows that his new jailer is stricter
with him – because he’s seen some others who flinch at the sight of his training. He doesn’t really
care—well, he does—but it doesn’t matter.

In any case, it happens on a day when he doesn’t have any training scheduled. It’s his only day of
rest, his only holiday. He looks around the tiny room – a dormitory-of-sorts for new Port Mafia
recruits – and sighs at the emptiness. There’s nothing here aside from his futon. There’s no Dazai
Osamu either—

“Hey there, petite poupée~♪”

O-Okay. So now, there is a Dazai Osamu inside his tiny room. It should make the room feel
smaller, with the presence of one more person to take up the space. It doesn’t. Though he privately
wishes that Dazai Osamu would pick a personality and stick with it. He’s a bit worried at how
quick the man cycles between stone-cold blankness and fake cheeriness. The only constant is the
blankness in the other’s eyes – but even that is changing slightly each time they meet.

Honestly, what a terrible man.

He looks out at the opened window, sees and hears birds chirping. Decides. “Good morning, Dazai
Osamu.”

Dazai Osamu has huge bags underneath his eyes. The white bandages near his nose just emphasize
it even more. “While it’s nice to call you a little doll, you should have an actual name, no?”

“You’re…losing sleep. Nightmares?” He asks because it doesn’t hurt to try being slightly more
open to his new jailer. He’s younger but he looks like he has more power than the chief of police,
than the human traffickers, than Ane-san.

“Maybe your first lesson should be listening to me and answering my questions,” Dazai Osamu
murmurs, but his eyes retain that sliver of interest inside the abyss of nothingness. “I just have
some research project I needed to finish, deadlines and all, nothing to worry your pretty little head
about.”

“Stop saying I’m pretty. Or that I’m a doll.” It reminds him of how everyone called his mother
pretty – right before they ruined her face.

“Maybe when it stops being true,” Dazai Osamu compromises with a shark-like smile. “Or if you
actually listen to me about having a name.”

“I don’t know what my name is,” he says and he repeats it again in English and in French.
“Mother… never really called me by name.”
There’s a small hum – like whatever he’s said is inconsequential. Dazai Osamu’s smile doesn’t
waver. “Well, it’s good that I’ve prepared a name for you!”

“O-Okay. I don’t really care about my name.”

Dazai Osamu’s smile falters then, but only for a quick second. No, it’s faster than that. “After all
the time I spent! Thinking about your name!”

“How much time did you spend thinking about my name?”

“Mm, two seconds, tops.”

“Two seconds wasted,” he says dryly, only flinches slightly when Dazai Osamu hauls him out of
his futon by his arms.

“From today onwards, your name shall be Nakahara Chuuya.”

“Okay.”

“Come on, think about my two seconds.”

He—he’s Chuuya now—sighs and tilts his head obediently. “Does my name mean something?”

“It’s ‘naka’ for ‘middle’, ‘hara’ for ‘field’, ‘chuu’ for ‘middle’, ‘ya’ for ‘sum of money’.”

“…so it’s a middle-field, middle-sum-of-money?”

“Appropriately average, don’t you think?”

“So it’s a normal name?”

“No – average. Nothing about you is normal, you see.”

He—he’s Chuuya now—sighs again. He thinks that with the amount of kids in that human
trafficking ship, he cannot be considered an outlier, with the number of courtesans working under
Ane-san, he cannot be considered strange. But then again, he remembers the way he’s always
looking back at savage carnage around him—and agrees.

“O-Okay.” He stretches out his right hand, a gesture he’s seen others do. “I’m Nakahara Chuuya.
Pleased to meet you, Dazai Osamu.”

Dazai Osamu shakes his hand, but doesn’t let go. The abyss looks at him—and there’s a spark
there, something like interest. Like he’s still a disgusting piece of shit, but he’s at least an
interesting disgusting piece of shit.

“And your birthday is going to be today.”

“Can’t my birthday be on some nicer holiday,” he says, not asks, because Dazai Osamu doesn’t
strike him as someone who’d answer that kind of question.

“But today’s Showa Day. It should be a good day!” Dazai Osamu tightens his grip on his hand, just
as he continues muttering, “I skipped video games to complete the research—nevermind that. But
today’s your birthday!”

“…Right. Happy birthday to me,” he says without that much bitterness.

“Happy birthday, indeed,” Dazai Osamu echoes and his smile is very bitter indeed.

• He gains things, all bought with a black card that has Dazai Osamu’s name on it.

“Think of it as your birthday present from me,” Dazai Osamu tells him when they first venture out
to the shopping malls in the incredibly busy Yokohama Station Area. It’s particularly crowded—
probably because it’s a holiday?—so Dazai Osamu holds his hand the entire time so he doesn’t get
swept away by the throng of people. It feels—not exactly wrong, but not right either. It makes his
entire body tingle, but whenever he tries to pull his hand away, Dazai Osamu only tugs tighter.

They spend a lot of time there, cycling between Takashimaya, Lumine, Marui and Sogo, buying
things like air mattresses, dozens of pillows, small kitchen appliances, shower heater, a wall
television that he’s not sure will fit in his room, a gaming system despite the fact that he’s not
particularly interested in those, a lot of other things.

All of them will be delivered tomorrow to his dorm—Chuuya protests about that, because he’s
supposed to be training tomorrow, because he’s not sure if any of the things will fit in the tiny
room, because aren’t they supposed to get permission from the dorm manager before they make
any change to the dorm?

Dazai Osamu tells him that he’s already texted Hirotsu-san (the right-hand man to the Boss, just
how high up the ladder is Dazai Osamu??) and that he’ll be in Chuuya’s dorm to receive the
deliveries.

“Anything else that won’t fit can go to my place,” Dazai Osamu tells him as he’s tugged towards
the electronics shop so he can get a cellphone. “Or I can get you another place too.”

Chuuya doesn’t manage to gape at that flippant statement, but it’s close. Once the purchase is
completed, Dazai Osamu tucks his new phone into his pants’ pocket, bandaged fingers burning a
path from his hips to his upper thighs.

“Make sure you pick up when I call.”

It sounds like a threat—when Chuuya checks the phonebook (it takes him several attempts before
he manages to navigate properly, Dazai Osamu being supremely unhelpful as he’s busy checking
out new video games), there’s only two entries on it: his own number and Dazai Osamu’s. Against
common sense, he actually flushes at that. He knows that it’s unsurprising, because it’s not like he
actually knows anyone else in the Port Mafia, in his life, right now, so of course his only contact
will be Dazai Osamu. He stares at the numbers and thinks he’ll have it memorized forever.

• He gains clothes, enough to fill the built-in wooden cabinet at his dorm.

More things bought with Dazai Osamu’s black card—though their shopping trip this time takes
them to several stores that remind him of the high-end designer shops that he caught glimpses of in
France. He doesn’t know what to order – how to order – so he just stands there and trails Dazai
Osamu as the bandaged boy dictates the clothes and colors and fabrics he wants to encase his new
doll with.

And he—he’s Chuuya now—he knows that he’s just a doll to this bandaged boy. There’s careful
remarks and lingering touches on his hair, on his face. There’s assessing looks towards him. He’s
just a little different from the usual dolls, he knows, because he’s also able to destroy everything
around him. He knows he’s supposed to earn his keep alongside Dazai Osamu—as a partner, he’s
been told, though he supposes that it’s better than a plaything.
Then again, despite the aristocratic posture and the sneering glares, he doesn’t suppose that Dazai
Osamu is plenty strong. He looks just as thin as him—and at least, he has the excuse of living in
poverty and slavery before this. He’s not sure he wants to know what the other boy’s excuse is.

In any case, he’s whisked to a dressing room with a floor-length mirror with golden linings, thick
drapes acting as a curtain to shield his body from the rest of the store. There’s a rack of clothes
already waiting for him, an armchair facing the mirror, a small desk behind it, with two glasses of
water.

He falters as he stands in the middle of the dressing room, hesitates to pick something to try.

“Just try them,” Dazai Osamu says as soon as he settles on the armchair, looking bored already.
“We need to be back by 1 so I can supervise your training.”

“You’re not…” He’s not quite sure how to ask the other boy to fuck right off, because he’s
supposed to strip and try on clothes?? Why the hell is Dazai Osamu still sitting there for?? Or is
this part of this partnership thing, then?

“I promise not to shriek at the sight of your scars,” Dazai Osamu says dryly, hitting his main
concern quickly. “Now, hurry up so we can still get lunch before you get beaten up.”

(He doesn’t quite beg, but he does tug at the bandaged boy’s sleeves and ask him if he can buy a
hat to replace the one he destroyed while at Ane-san’s care. It’s—it’s hard to explain. The only
picture he remembers of his father has the man’s face shadowed by the fedora he’s wearing. When
he was first dragged off the water to be presented to the courtesan house, a hat has been shoved on
top of his face, in order to mask his hair and eyes—sure marks of a foreigner. Dazai Osamu lets out
an irritated sigh at his request, but allows him to get a plain black hat. He thanks him, hands
clutching at the hat’s rim as they make their way to a restaurant for their lunch.)

• He gains knowledge of how to write kanji, courtesy of Dazai Osamu.

“If you’re going to keep staring at me, might as well make yourself useful,” Dazai Osamu tells him
one day, while he nurses the bruises all over his arms.

It’s been two months—and he’s more-or-less able to dodge most of the heavier blows, doing
wonders to his bruise collection. It’s been two months—and he hasn’t lost control in that time. He
considers celebrating, but acting like a normal human being isn’t exactly a cause for celebration.
Plus, he has nobody to celebrate with, he doesn’t have any money so he can celebrate.

All of the things inside his dorm, all of the food that’s inside his fridge and his stomach are all
bought by Dazai Osamu. Sooner or later, he’s sure that it will feel that his entire being belongs to
Dazai Osamu. It isn’t a nice thought—but it’s comforting, in a way. There’s something soothing
about the thought of knowing where to belong. He just wonders when would his mother’s
screaming about him end up being repeated in Dazai Osamu’s voice.

“You’re not listening to me again,” Dazai Osamu complains after a few moments, one finger
reaching out to poke his forehead. “Get some paper and watch how I write.”

He copies the kanji for his name – middle-field, middle-sum-of-money – reeking of something
completely average, the kanji for naka and chuu the same even though they’re pronounced
differently. Chuuya is the name of someone who’s both average and a monster.

How fitting.
• He gains knowledge about things to like and dislike.

He ends up sticking his tongue out at the taste of crabs preserved in cans. Strawberry-flavored
things make him want to brush his tongue immediately, even though he’s fine with actual
strawberries still tart with sourness. He isn’t particularly fond of sweets, but he enjoys apple pies
and bitter coffee.

Dazai Osamu drops by, unannounced, usually in time for dinner. They usually go out and ignore
the curious looks of the adult passersby—they must make a sight, two young boys filled with
bandages and bruises, but with clothes expensive and tailored, with men in black trailing them a
respectable distance away.

When Dazai Osamu’s in a mood, they stay inside the cramped space of his dorm, sharing the single
air-mattress as Dazai Osamu either plays racing games in deafening volume or picks at his healing
wounds by stabbing his fingernails over them again and again.

He dislikes it, seeing and smelling the blood in the air, whenever that happens. During one of his
moods, Dazai Osamu tells him that he’s just waiting for a suitable moment to die. He’s not sure
how truthful that statement is—it feels like something Dazai Osamu will not lie about, but there’s
also not much point for him to speak the truth. It feels like a threat and he dislikes it.

He dislikes the times Mori-sensei drops by during his martial arts training, dislikes the heavy
weight of the doctor’s hand on Dazai Osamu’s shoulder as they both watch him struggle against a
barrage of strikes. He dislikes those times the most, not only because Mori-sensei watches him
with a sense of a doctor who wants to dissect him—like his ribs are going to be broken one by one
so that his insides can be exposed to the man’s curiosity. He dislikes those times, because Dazai
Osamu has ordered him to act like a weakling each time it happens—easy to follow during the first
few weeks, but it’s difficult to allow the blows to reach him after he’s able to understand the
rhythm of the movements.

Nevertheless, they’re supposed to be partners. He supposes that Dazai Osamu hasn’t given him a
reason to not follow his words yet.

He dislikes the nights when he tries to sleep and he only hears the nightmares echoing inside his
mind. He supposes that he should be thankful that the sight of his mother screaming at him has
been reduced to patches of black and red. He wonders if there will come a time when he won’t hear
the words, when he’ll hear something else, when he’ll just be suspended in the darkness, drowning
in all the destruction, all alone.

Some nights, Dazai Osamu drop by, unannounced, way after curfew, sitting down on his legs as he
trashes about in his futon. Some nights, Dazai Osamu holds him down, pins him on the tatami
floorboards as he tries to claw at his own face. Some nights, Dazai Osamu talks to him about
difficult words, about existentialism and leap of faith, talks to him about wandering around in the
paths toward purgatory, talks to him about an emptiness so vast it overcomes one’s life.

Those nights, he’s unable to answer, to hear, to see.

Those nights, he’s unable to understand.

Those nights, the “Ce n'est pas mon fils - ce n'est qu'un monstre sombre et sale - une honte aux
hommes - ce n'est même plus un homme!” blend into something else.

He likes the voice, deep in the dark of night, that says: “Crois moi lorsque je te dis que tu es là
avec moi.”
He likes the hands, strong and reliable, that says: “Tu es Nakahara Chuuya, et tu es là avec moi.”

He likes the presence, there with him, that says: “Tu es Nakahara Chuuya et je suis là avec toi.”

• He gains power – strong enough to defeat the strongest martial artist in the Port Mafia.

He doesn’t mean to do it.

He’s never meant to do any of it.

He’s—he’s tried so hard to not do anything like it again. He’s been taking up meditation, he’s been
undergoing harsh training under Dazai Osamu so he could withstand not giving in to the darkness
inside him. He’s been doing so well – he’s been able to complete missions backing Dazai Osamu
up, not standing out too much as he’s been ordered, his hair all curled up inside his hat, his eyes
covered by a sheet of brown contact lens. He’s been doing so well, pretending, acting,
masquerading like someone in control.

It only took one word to unravel everything.

You’re just a tainted dog of that demonic prodigy.

He tells himself it’s because of the word ‘dog’ that he’s lost control, but it’s useless, because he
knows it’s not. He’s made peace with that part of himself – that he’ll always remain a dog, waiting
to attach himself to a master, waiting for an order, waiting to be fed, waiting for treats, waiting for
praise, waiting, waiting, waiting.

He’s not supposed to react so easily – to the word that alludes to his own corruption. It’s the entire
point of his additional training with Dazai Osamu, for the other to verbally abuse him with
reminders about his past (and present, and future, and forevermore) so he can build resistance to it.

He should have backed down – he’s already subdued the person teaching him martial arts, the
person who has traveled the world in pursuit of learning many different arts and has accepted
millions of illegal yen so he can lend his strength to the Port Mafia. Taekwondo, karate, aikido and
capoeira – he’s bested this master known as the best martial artist, not only in Port Mafia, but also
in the entire Kanto region, bested him in all four arts.

He shouldn’t have extended a helping hand to his teacher then, when he was sprawled on the
ground after he’s been defeated. He should have known that defeat stings, even more when it
comes from some odd foreign monster like him. Of course, Dazai Osamu had told him that his
Ability to cause mass destruction hasn’t been made public to most Port Mafia members yet (how
they were able to suppress that information, when he had destroyed the courtesan house, he’s not
sure). So his teacher shouldn’t have known to connect him to that.

Still.

His teacher spat at him, “Don’t get cocky, brat. You’re just a tainted dog of that demonic prodigy.”

And minutes later, he’s spitting blood, and he’s—

“Ah, did you have to blow up even your dorm?” Dazai Osamu asks the cratered ground, covered in
blackened blood. There were some low-level trainees still in their dorms when the Ability had
activated. They’re now stuck there, to the tatami floors, forever. “I still haven’t beaten that one
game.”

He hears the words, but he doesn’t really understand them. They’re coming from outside, from all
around him, while he’s floating inside his mind. All he feels is pain and rage—and maybe, that’s
fine. He takes a step forward, the ground rumbling with each step he makes.

“I just wanted him to stop,” he tries to say, but only blood and laughter bubbles from his mouth.

Through the veil of black and red, he sees Dazai Osamu’s eyes tinted with black and red too.
There’s a spark there, bubbling like scattered stardust, and he realizes, oh.

Dazai Osamu finds this situation interesting.

What a terrible man, indeed.

His heart tries to beat faster at that revelation—someone, no matter how soulless and terrible,
actually finds his corrupted form interesting instead of terrifying—but it’s overburdened by
exertion. It stutters, freezes, breaks, inside his ribs and his vision swims.

The last thing he recognizes before succumbing to the darkness is Dazai Osamu whispering to him,
hands cradling his face, “Tu es Nakahara Chuuya, et tu es là avec moi. Tu es Nakahara Chuuya et
je suis là avec toi.”

(unknown to him, in the report that comes after the incident, dazai osamu tells his higher-ups that
there’s just your run-of-the-mill explosion from an experiment gone wrong in one of the dorms for
low-level trainees. unknown to him, dazai osamu tells them that the best martial artist in the
region has quite unfortunately, been caught up in that terrible explosive accident.

unknown to him, dazai osamu tells the executives that nakahara chuuya remains to be a weakling
of no further use to them, so he’s going to try some new training, in some new environment,
because it also doesn’t bode well for the port mafia to have stupid members who have zero
education to their name.

unknown to him, dazai osamu confronts hirotsu-san afterwards, about things like meddling in his
business and informing more people than needed about the uncontrollable power of corruption.
unknown to him, dazai osamu tracks down the family, friends, dormmates, mission partners,
anyone in contact with the best martial artist in the region for the past two weeks.

unknown to him, dazai osamu makes it so they couldn’t speak about corruption to anyone.

unknown to him, dazai osamu tells mori-sensei afterwards that he’s not someone who likes their
games interrupted.)
 ☆ fourth ☆

High school is such a terrible place to be. But then again, he’s had a number of terrible places to
be, so it shouldn’t be so bad…?

Chuuya tugs at the collar on his uniform, the cotton sticky from the nervous sweat of standing in
front of the class to introduce himself.

Because he has little practice with using his name – before Dazai Osamu had given him a name,
it’s always ‘you’, ‘boy’, ‘monster’; after Dazai Osamu had given him a name, it’s not like he’s had
a lot of people around him and most of them don’t call aside from ‘you’, ‘boy’, ‘Dazai’s dog’ or
‘little doll’ – he stumbles on his name, “G-Good morning, I’m Na-Nakahara Chu-u-ya. Um.
Nakahara Chuuya, that is.”

Also because his name still feels alien to him, he doesn’t immediately respond when he’s
addressed by the homeroom teacher, prodding him to say more because he’s a transfer student with
striking hair and even more striking eyes – his records show that he’s half-French, does he want to
share some details to the class?

He mumbles a reply that convinces everyone that he’s a freak.

It doesn’t take long for people to crowd him on his desk during break; it takes even faster for them
to disperse upon seeing his utter inability to deal with them.

In between their admission to high school and that day – when Chuuya literally blew up his dorm –
Dazai had him stay on the other teen’s dorm’s sofa. (Dazai rarely sleeps on his own bed, he finds
out, almost always camping out in his sofa as he alternates between speed-reading through books,
reports, novels and playing different video games. He also discovers that Dazai is a weirdo who
can’t decide on a personality, because the other teen cycles between snoring against him when it’s
only the two of them and coldly shoving him away when they’re in public.)

They’re roommates now – this school is inspired by European boarding schools, so they offer
dorms to its students – but Chuuya’s still surprised when Dazai drops by his classroom and drags
him out for lunch, effectively saving him from the torturous questions from his classmates.

***

Actually, now that he thinks about it, he’s not sure how he’s able to attend school when he has
zero credentials or identification paperwork.

He coughs as Dazai stabs his hand with a fork, his punishment being unable to control his Ability
when their classes were playing baseball for PE.

Actually, now that he thinks about it further, he’s pretty sure Dazai handled everything here too.

A fourteen year-old with the Ability to deny others’ powers, with the ability to play around a
person’s thoughts that they can’t help but spilling out information during torture sessions, with the
ability to negotiate crazy business deals and come out the unscathed victor – what a terrifying man
indeed.

“Chuuya, stop daydreaming about me.”

“I’m thinking about how terrifying you are, you wretched man.”

Dazai actually claps his hands together, the fork clattering to the scant space separating them.
“That’s much better – tell me, do you want to kill me when you think about me?”

“I always do want to kill you,” Chuuya says honestly, because he’s never learned how to lie.
Lately, he’s also been thinking that it’s nice to sleep beside Dazai when they push their beds
together. It’s nice because no matter how bad his nightmares become, Dazai’s there to deny him
destruction. It’s nice because Dazai always calms him down—unless it’s those times that Dazai’s
teasing and mocking him, that is.

“That’s great to hear, Chuuya,” Dazai replies with zero honesty.

Honestly, Chuuya’s not sure why he even expects the other teen to not lie to him.

***

Lately, Chuuya’s taken to writing poems—about how he’s left alone by his classmates once the
wonder about his foreign looks fade, about how the wind rattles the leaves off the trees on the
school’s courtyard, about how a certain man can’t stop rambling about ways to die, about how a
certain man’s eyes look under different lighting.

He never signs his work and he definitely never tells anyone – even his partner – about the subject
of those poems.

Dazai being Dazai though—

He worries that he’ll lose control of Corruption when he finds out that Dazai’s posted his poems
all over school.

He doesn’t.

He’s pleased—but only for a moment, because it means that Dazai, once again, is right about his
methods working.

***

On Friday afternoons, Chuuya writes poems as he waits for Dazai to stop making a nuisance of
himself inside the Student Council room.

This particular afternoon, Chuuya knows that Dazai’s dropping kisses steadily up the Student
Council President’s fingers up to her face. Her father monopolizes Yokohama’s drugstore industry
and Dazai has picked their company out of a literal hat—Chuuya’s still annoyed that his kanji
practice now includes writing down dozens of company names on strips of paper and dropping
them on his fedora.

He sits on the floor, just beside the sliding door, the afternoon sun not visible from his spot, mostly
because it’s raining heavily. There’s a couple of meters of uncovered walkways separating the
school building and the school dorms. Chuuya’s not sure if his hundred-yen umbrella can
withstand the heavy downpour.
He hears a gasp and a moan—it’s not from Dazai, mostly because that guy has too much control to
slip up like that.

He promises himself to not plug earphones into his ear and listen to songs from the mp3 player
Dazai handed him before he went inside—if only because he wants to prove Dazai wrong, that he
can force himself to sit still for hours while listening to Dazai seduce the unwitting daughter of a
company he wants to control for the Port Mafia’s income’s sake.

He ends up using the mp3 player fifteen minutes after he hears that gasp and moan.

He focuses on writing poems, cycling back to the line: Oh connaissances, vous qui cédez cette
honte sombre, ne me réveillez // Je n'apprécie plus rien mais que mes propres pitoyable rêves. His
French remains better than Dazai’s – he’s not counting on being able to completely hide his
writings from Dazai’s detecting ways, so he’s working on making it more difficult for the other to
understand what he’s written to begin with.

He sinks into his own bubble of writing that he almost jumps when one earbud is tugged out of his
ear, replaced almost immediately by a pair of lips whispering, “Let’s go, Chuuya~♪”

Chuuya stands up and averts his eyes from the sight of the debauched-looking Student Council
President. There’s a flush on her cheeks that’s absent on Dazai—and it feels, good, even. He
hastily packs his notebook inside his bag, taking care to not accidentally slide it inside Dazai’s bag
that’s with him ‘for safekeeping’.

“Osamu-kun…?” She asks uncertainly, like she’s not quite sure why he’s stopped kissing her.

It’s almost time for his new TV show obsession , Chuuya doesn’t tell her. He’ll probably get over it
next week, he doesn’t tell her either.

He got all the blackmail material he needed, Chuuya definitely doesn’t tell her.

“I’m bored with you,” Dazai says simply, and for a moment, Chuuya thinks that Dazai’s talking to
him. But Dazai’s tugging at his arm, dragging him towards the stairwell so they can go their
lockers and change out of indoor shoes. It feels—like relief. “And I’m going home with Chuuya,
so.”

“My umbrella’s shit,” Chuuya says when Dazai doesn’t say anything as they arrive at the locker
area. The sound of the Student Council President’s outraged sobs echo in the mostly-empty school
building, since it’s pretty late.

Dazai doesn’t seem bothered by the fact that he’s going to get wet and catch pneumonia and die.
“Eh, remind me to make you my supplementary so you can have your own card.”

“I’m not going to use a credit card to buy an umbrella!”

“But you don’t have much money,” Dazai says – not unkindly – well, okay, a little unkindly, but
it’s so matter of fact, because it is.

“Urgh.”

“For now, give me your umbrella.”

“I’m—you want me to drown in the rain?!”

“Pfft, you’re so small so you’d probably drown,” Dazai laughs with childish cruelty. “But no – I’ll
hold it because I’m taller.”

“I have a feeling you’ll just let me get wet.”

“Let’s see if your intuition has improved then?”

They share the umbrella, Dazai holding it with his left hand so that his right hand is free to wrap
around Chuuya’s shoulders, to keep them close, to keep them warm, to keep his promise that he
won’t intentionally let Chuuya become wet.

They don’t go for the dorms and they don’t call for a Port Mafia car to pick them up. They go to
Yokohama Station, buying more clothes, more video games, more random knickknacks to fill their
dorm room to bursting. They buy books—philosophy and business for Dazai, a whole lot of others
for Chuuya because he’s playing catch-up to his genius partner’s knowledge.

They have dinner at one of the sky restaurants, seated near the window so they can watch the
raindrops slam forcefully against the windows. Chuuya spends more time watching Dazai’s eyes
though, but Dazai doesn’t comment even though he’s sure the other notices. They leave the
restaurant with Dazai’s hand warm on his lower back—it’s enough to make him shiver when the
cold rain’s unable to make him do so.

Dazai whines about being too lazy to go back to the dorms and books them a hotel room with two
king beds that they shove together. They order wine and the room service staff doesn’t question
their ages. They fall asleep with mere millimeters of space separating them.

Chuuya wakes up from his Friday night’s nightmare with his sweaty forehead mashed against
Dazai’s.

All in all, it’s a pretty okay day.

***

Saturdays are saved for the Port Mafia—reporting to the headquarters, completing leftover
missions. Dazai always drops by the interrogation rooms—Chuuya stays outside the rooms,
always. He makes it a mission to finish homework while waiting for Dazai to complete the torture
—in the thirteen times this has happened, he’s never been able to be faster than Dazai.

Dazai doesn’t hold his hand or direct him with a hand on his back on Saturdays. When they walk
the dark hallways of the Port Mafia Headquarters, Chuuya walks behind Dazai, Dazai’s orders.

He always hears some murmurs about being a dog, but he doesn’t lose control.

***

Sundays are more-or-less free days, unless there’s some extremely important mission. He knows
it’s not a luxury offered to most members, but since he’s Dazai’s partner, he’s able to enjoy that
perk too.

There are times Dazai spends the day roaming Yokohama and finding ways to die. There are times
he forbids Chuuya from leaving the room so they can just spend the entire day ordering food and
playing video games. There are times Dazai quizzes Chuuya on the different books he’s read.

There’s one time that they go out and Dazai tries his version of getting a chauffeur—forcibly
entering an expensive car stuck in traffic and cocks a gun against the head of the driver, cheerfully
threatens the driver about death unless he drives them around in some screwed-up roadtrip. It
doesn’t happen again—because Chuuya’s slammed Dazai’s head against the dashboard for doing
something so stupid. It doesn’t happen again—because Chuuya ends up having to kill the guy
anyway because they’re recognized as part of the Port Mafia.

There are times that Dazai takes him to some underground casino—Dazai clears most of the
millionaires’ pockets by cheating outrageously in poker. Dazai clears the rest of their money when
the millionaires send some thugs after them once they leave the casino. Chuuya clears the rest of
them when they persist to follow and get the money back from Dazai.

“Such a good dog, Chuuya,” Dazai teases him with a smirk that’s calculated to infuriate him.

“Shut the fuck up,” he replies, because there’s nothing else he can say.

***

That Monday, Chuuya sees the school billboard filled with pictures of him sharing his hundred-yen
umbrella with Dazai last Friday. The teachers don’t say anything—instead, they eye him warily,
judging whether he’s gay or just half-French.

He knows it’s because of the Student Council President.

He doesn’t reply when they call him various names. To be fair, they could have called him
‘Chuuya’, but he’s pretty much still unused to anyone calling him name, aside from Dazai.

He takes a moment to wonder just how Dazai has manipulated an entire school to think that he’s a
goddamn innocent, harmless, charming man, that they’re all focusing the blame on Chuuya
instead. And then, he realizes that it doesn’t take much effort—maybe they’re just more perceptive
in knowing that Chuuya’s the one who’s less human between them.

He tries to ignore them all – they’ve practiced Chuuya’s outbursts of power to be controlled by a
phrase – but it’s not particularly good if he ends up losing control now. There are too many
witnesses – the Port Mafia is being watched more closely by the government now, after all.

Dazai ignores him too – no lunches together, no spending time with each other after club activities.
Chuuya fills his days with studying his books – because when he stares at his classmates so he can
copy their behavior, they all yell at him to look away.

***

That Friday, Chuuya passes by the Student Council room. He doesn’t hear gasps and moans—
instead, he hears the velvet-soft voice punctuated by angry sobs of the Student Council President.
He walks past—because he hasn’t received an order otherwise.

***

That Saturday, Chuuya goes to the Port Mafia Headquarters separate from Dazai.

Dazai locks him out of their school dorm until he apologizes about it. He’s not really sorry, but he
also recognizes that one of Dazai’s orders is that they must always be together when they report to
the Five Executives.

When he wakes up from his nightmare that night, Dazai tells him that he’s stupid, over and over.
He disagrees each turn, until their words melt into each other by the time there’s sunrise.

***
That Sunday, Dazai nags at him to try a bespoke suit that he knows he can’t ever pay back. They’re
supposed to go to some opera that evening—a story about a man so arrogant he thought he could
outsmart a devil.

“Are you Faust in this scenario?” Chuuya asks as he fiddles with his tie, his fingers a bit stiff. “Or
are you Mephistopheles?”

“You’re doing it wrong,” Dazai tells him, but doesn’t take mercy, content in lounging on his bed,
all suited up, phone angled so he can take a video of Chuuya’s ineptitude with ties.

Chuuya huffs and takes a break in trying to strangle himself, opting to drink a cup of coffee that’s
grown cold because of how long he’s taking to dress. He takes pains to avoid spilling it all over his
suit, even if Dazai assures him that all of their laundry are always handled by the best cleaners –
able to remove all sorts of stains, no matter how old or bloody.

They mill around the crowd eager to watch La Damnation de Faust in Tokyo Opera City Concert
Hall, most of the patrons there greeting Dazai with firm handshakes, while Dazai flirts shamelessly
with their dates, while Chuuya’s hanging off his arm like a limp doll dragged all over the place.
Most of them ignore the fact that they’re way too young to be unsupervised, but Chuuya supposes
that there’s a different sort of power with them, one that transcends their younger looks.

Dazai hums during intermission, mutters about the possibility of buying a private box. Chuuya
swats his arm and tells him to be more responsible with his money. Dazai hums noncommittally in
response, but then he leans in close enough to brush his lips against Chuuya’s cheek when one of
the patron’s teenage son try to pass a champagne flute to Chuuya.

Chuuya doesn’t pull away, not even when the hall dims again after intermission.

***

It’s still Sunday, though it’s close to midnight when they walk back to their hotel from their post-
opera dinner at the Tokyo Opera City Tower’s sky restaurant.

Dazai holds his hand as they walk, doesn’t drop it even when they get surrounded by some men
wearing ski masks on their faces. They look like low-level grunts and Chuuya bemoans the fact
that his suit is definitely going to be ruined—and even with the cleaners, Dazai will never let him
hear the end of it with his passive-aggressive whining about Chuuya tainting his gift.

“Does Keiko-chan think that you’re enough to take me on?”

“Who the fuck is Keiko-chan?” Chuuya manages to get out despite the squeeze to his hand. He
supposes it should feel comforting, but who the fuck is Keiko-chan?

As always, Chuuya’s questions don’t get answered, because Dazai’s shoving him forward, while
saying, “We’ll use code Songs of Bygone Days!”

So basically you want me to take them all alone while you watch, Chuuya doesn’t say out loud. He
ends up wiping the floor with all fifteen grunts anyway.

***

It’s already Monday by the time Dazai drags him up the hotel they’re staying at. They skip classes,
returning only to Yokohama after paying the fine for late check-out because they slept for ten
straight hours.
 ***

Tuesday finds them back at school—though not for learning.

Chuuya’s inside the Student Council room this time, watching Dazai pluck one fingernail after the
other from Keiko-chan, until she ends up crying out the name of the member of the school’s board
that she bribed with her father’s money to get information about Chuuya’s affiliation to the Port
Mafia.

Dazai asks him if he wants to be the one to execute her—Chuuya declines and closes his eyes.
Three gunshots later and they’re on their way towards the director they need to silence.

“I don’t think you can keep them from knowing about me,” Chuuya haltingly says seconds after he
watches the director’s blood paint his office floor with a red that clashes against his décor.

Once again, Dazai hums noncommittally in reply.

☆ fifth ☆

It’s the first apartment that Chuuya’s paying for—yes, it’s kind of cramped, yes, there’s mildew
proliferating in the bathroom tiles, yes, there are mold patterns on the ceiling, stupid Dazai, if
you’re going to complain, then don’t fucking visit—so of course, knowing his shitty luck, it’s
going to explode.

Adjusting to Mori-san as the new Boss is more-or-less okay, since the previous Boss… the less
said, the better. It’s much harder to adjust to the thought that Dazai’s up for a promotion to
Executive soon—but then again, knowing the bastard, it’s all part of the plan or something jerkish
like that.

After that dismal attempt at being a normal highschool student, this apartment has become his
home, filled with useless souvenirs and knickknacks courtesy of Dazai (he swears that bastard just
buys whatever without thought about usage, common sense or interior design), very full shelves
and cramped furniture. Most of the things here are things Dazai has bought—he keeps on
promising to give Chuuya a supplementary card, but Chuuya doesn’t really care for that, and Dazai
doesn’t like him going out shopping on his own anyway. (And to be honest, not that he’d admit it
out loud even with a gun to the head, Chuuya prefers shopping with Dazai too, even if it’s in
Tokyo, in an effort to get away from Port Mafia surveillance on Dazai.)

—In any case, warm and fuzzy feelings towards his apartment aside, it has exploded in a show of
fireworks, fire easily burning down the fairly ancient building. He hopes there’s not a lot of other
tenants caught inside the burning building. He hopes Dazai’s tapes of himself singing various
suicide-friendly songs are all burnt to ashes.

“Ah, it’s a challenge to us, Chuuya~♫”

“Couldn’t they have blown up your place instead?” Chuuya’s starting to get attached to his
apartment—it’s not very nice, but there’s something to be said about something bought with his
own money, something he owns for himself after a lifetime of having zero possessions.

“They probably thought we live together,” Dazai offers, but as all things Dazai, even his guesses
work as truth.

“So it’s because of all your stupid sleepovers?!”

“How can there be stupid sleepovers?” Dazai asks him with arms crossed over his chest, but even
in that commanding pose, there’s something that sparkles like laughter in him. Chuuya knows that
Dazai’s been dividing his time with his now-blown-up apartment, the Port Mafia Headquarters,
their various missions and his newly-found drinking buddies. He’s… not jealous, because it’s not
like he wants 100% of the other man’s intense attention completely for his own.

“It’s because you’re involved.”

“Well, it’s in your place…”

“I’m going to fucking kill you, one of these days,” Chuuya promises darkly, but he doesn’t shrug
off the arm that curls around his shoulders to steer him away from his still-blazing apartment
building.

The two of them catch a cab easily—Dazai paying for their fare with a handful of yen and thanking
the cab driver, rather meaningfully, for dropping them off so quickly. It’s a twisted version of a
hush money—especially since Port Mafia is actually fucking illegal in Yokohama, the previous
Boss mucking up the organization’s standing with the government with its unhinged grabs for
power. They’ve always been an illegal organization, but it’s easier for the government to ignore
their dealings and to lower both sides’ body count if there’s at least some semblance of pretend-
peace.

Dazai’s apartment is fairly empty – furniture-wise – though it’s filled with a carpet of take-out
boxes and game discs. There’s an overflowing tower of paper on one corner of what can be
classified as a living room – all files about previous reconnaissance for missions. Chuuya’s fairly
certain that he has a file there, somewhere, because it’s unthinkable for someone like Dazai to not
do more than a passing scouting regarding his partner.

Chuuya wrinkles his nose when he’s led to a dining table that’s deep-red cherry mahogany that
looks like it came from the 18th century or thereabouts, but it’s covered in some filthy checkered
tablecloth that seems more apt to be used as a rag. There’s a centerpiece – a plastic bowl with
coffee stains, various small figurines and pocket figures mixed together inside like some fucked-up
salad.

Sometimes, it bothers him that someone as logical and powerful as Dazai can have such…
disorganized whims. To be more accurate, it bothers him how much he finds it endearing. It’s
annoying—because it means he doesn’t really put up much protests whenever Dazai throws his
money around and buys useless shit that will end up scattered in strange décor salads in his
apartment (or Chuuya’s, once he gets a new one).

“Let’s wait here for further development,” Dazai tells him when he tries to stand so he can stalk
around the apartment, restless energy humming inside him. “I’m pretty sure that an organization as
bold as that to make an opening challenge can’t help but issue an invitation soon.”

“I’m not just going to sit around and do nothing!”

“We can order something.” Dazai dumps a file five inches thick in front of Chuuya. “Or I can cook
us something while we wait.”

“And how will we get news,” Chuuya asks even as he starts reading through the file that Dazai has
compiled—a list of organizations that might have unsettled issues against the Port Mafia, ranked in
order of strength, network of operations, intelligence, and probability of attack.

Chuuya means to keep going, but his flipping stutters on the organization ranked 19 th on Dazai’s
list, The Setting Sun. It’s an organization that’s steadily growing in numbers – despite its highly-
selective membership rule of only admitting Ability-users into their fold. Their motto is uniting
Ability-users together, to delineate the division between normal humans and Ability-users. Dazai
scribbled a note in the margins about there being a 95% certainty that this is an organization who
would eventually seek to occupy territory and create a country of its own, made solely of Ability-
users, within the next three years. Most of its satellite offices are scattered all over Europe and
Continental Asia; the reason Chuuya’s interest is arrested is because their start-up headquarters is
located in France, even though they have already relocated their main base of operations to
England last year. There’s another scribbled note about England being easier to secure due to it
being an island nation.

“I’ve asked the Research Team to make some new listening devices,” Dazai answers belatedly,
sitting back down with two mugs of hot chocolate. He places one of the mugs a few inches away
from Chuuya’s right hand that’s all bundled up into a fist. “Mm, good choice. There’s a 50%
chance tonight’s attack is from them.”

Chuuya frowns, even as Dazai reaches over to ease out the tension from his hands. He knows he’s
crinkling Dazai’s reports, but he’s pretty sure that the other has copies of it anyway. Dazai
dismantles the way his hands curl into fists, but only for a moment, before he tangles their fingers
together, anchoring him to this moment.

His head clears a little at the action. “We have a Research Team?”

“It’s a start-up.” Dazai drinks, but the action leaves a faint stain on his lips. Chuuya stares at it, his
frustration at the sudden attack to his home fading away and being replaced by the urge to lick the
chocolate away. “We’ve found a scientist—he’s a bit mad, it’d be funny if you guys meet, though
he’s pretty bonkers when it comes to beautiful people, so maybe not—and he’s helped develop it.”

“So we literally have a mad scientist in our organization.”

“He’s got a strange Ability, but he’s quite useful when he’s not being a nuisance.”

Really, that about sums it up. Dazai rates people based on their usefulness versus being a nuisance.
Chuuya figures he ranks fairly high up on this ranking, what with the way Dazai keeps on sticking
by him. Of course, it’s also possible—just highly improbable—that Dazai actually likes him back,
but Chuuya’s not counting on it.

“In any case, once we get confirmation that it’s The Setting Sun, we can set out for their
headquarters so we can return the favor.”

“You already sound pretty sure it’s them,” Chuuya points out, tries to untangle their fingers so he
can drink his own chocolate. Dazai doesn’t let go, instead using his free hand to lift the mug and
nudge it against his lips. Chuuya’s frown grows deeper—he’s not a fucking invalid who needs to
be assisted. But then again, the stupid part of his brain rejoices at this close intimacy, because
surely, Dazai will not just do this for anyone?

“50%,” Dazai reminds him with a smirk—Chuuya keeps his eye on the report, but he can hear the
smirk. “That guy will approve of my mission request.”

Despite being Mori-sensei’s charge for the most part, Dazai has taken a rather cold stance against
the man as soon as he’s become Boss. Well – it’s years in the making, but the open hostilities (as
open things can be between two extremely manipulative people) between the two now is rather
obvious.

“Is it my turn this time?”

“No – I already packed our bags.” Dazai moves their chairs closer together, to the point that their
thighs are fitted against each other. “I bought you a new, fashionable, overcoat that shouldn’t be
too heavy in the rain.”

Chuuya rolls his eyes at the other’s passive-aggressive sniping about his fashion sense. His
renewed obsession with hats is plenty fashionable, okay! He almost makes a comment about that—
but Dazai’s thigh buzzes and there’s something from the device Dazai has planted around his
apartment building (because, of course, Dazai has planted surveillance around his home, even
before this threat has made itself known, that fucker).

Dazai shoves one earbud against Chuuya’s cheek—after some minor wrestling with each other for
that, he manages to place it against his ear and hear the strange static on the line, as though
someone’s tampering with the device. There’s a creak, then two, then something like chalk grating
against wood.

And then a robotic voice-alteration: “Nakahara Chuuya—we’re inviting you to join The Setting
Sun. Japan’s Port Mafia is too small an oyster to hold someone of your caliber.”

And then there’s the sound of the device being stomped on by a sharp heel.

“…Huh.” Chuuya thinks about whether he should feel flattered that he’s actually known by people
other than those he deals with in Yokohama, that he’s actually being acknowledged by people
outside of Port Mafia, that he’s actually seen as someone other than the dog that acts as Dazai
Osamu’s human shield and sword. “That’s the most fucked-up recruitment tactic I’ve ever heard
of.”

Dazai’s pouting like a kid who’s been told that he can’t have any more sweets until he eats his
vegetables. “I cannot believe Chuuya’s actually popular.”

“You do realize that they just want the firepower of my Ability, right,” Chuuya says, feeling
ridiculously fond of the ridiculous man pouting in some strange sort of jealousy. “Are you actually
annoyed that my Ability is more popular than yours?”

“All of our missions are credited to my name,” Dazai whines, flopping against him sideways, until
his pouting face is staring up at him from his lap. Chuuya freezes for a moment, because Dazai
Osamu’s head is on his lap, abort, abort—but then his heart untwists, because pouting face. “Why
do they know about you?”

“Is that why my salary is much lower than yours, bastard?!”

“You make it sound like I’m not taking care of your needs, Chuuya.”

“D-Don’t make it sound like that!”

“Mm, like what?”

“Urgh, I really am going to fucking kill you one of these days.” More believable if his right hand
doesn’t settle on Dazai’s forehead as he speaks, but it’s not like it matters when Dazai’s gaze
glitters at him from this angle. A strange thought flitters inside his head—something about the
looks he gets regularly from most Port Mafia members—like he’s a useless piece of shit who can’t
do anything unless he’s attached to the frightening monster that is his master. Like it’s almost
planned. The thought disintegrates when Dazai pouts at him even more.

“Maybe they invited me too!” Dazai mumbles, but he doesn’t sound like he’s counting on that to
happen. “I can’t believe they’ll invite you but not me.”

Chuuya’s fondness crinkles inside him at the decidedly dark undertone of Dazai’s last mumbling.
It doesn’t feel like he’s annoyed because he’s being looked over in favor of Chuuya. It almost feels
like Dazai’s angry that someone else has noticed Chuuya—in that strange way of his, that is.

He feels the littlest bit flattered, which he knows is fucked-up, he knows, but it’s Dazai, so it’s
expected that he’s going to be a bit stupid about it, because Dazai wants to be the only one who
owns his cage, the only one who has his key, the only one who can hear the song of death and
destruction that wells inside his body. That kind of possession is dangerous, but also very
attractive, because nobody has wanted to possess him this much, because everybody else has
always wanted to push him away, because most people in the Port Mafia don’t acknowledge him as
anything other than Dazai’s lackey anyway.

“…So when will we leave?” Chuuya diverts his mind away from dangerous roads.

“Our flight is in two hours~~~♫”

“You goddamn piece of shit—you could have told me that our mission got approved already—”

“Mm, I expect that guy to approve it in an hour.”

“You and your goddamn plans…”

“When has my plan ever been wrong though, Chuuya?”

And it’s even more dangerous when Dazai’s voice go that low, and dark, like he’s leading him
blindfolded inside a seedy labyrinth. And Chuuya could have looked away, could have snatched
his hand away, but all he does is sigh helplessly, guilelessly, fondly, when Dazai practically stabs
him with his piercing gaze, when Dazai tugs at the hand that’s not clammy against a hot forehead,
brings that hand over to his lips in a patent rendition of a gentleman’s kiss.

The two of them don’t speak for minutes afterward—wordlessly and skillfully maneuvering around
each other as they quickly make their way to Narita Airport in order to catch their flight so they can
catch and destroy The Setting Sun.

Chuuya’s body tingles the entire time.

***

British Airways transports them from Tokyo to London’s bustling Heathrow Airport—and
Chuuya’s thankful for the companionable silence that they have silently agreed upon when Dazai
wraps his left arm around his shoulders and holds his right hand as well in some awkward octopus-
like hold. How they managed to actually navigate around the busy airport and into their rented car
that will let them cross the M6 motorway all the way to the City of Carlisle—escapes Chuuya.
Quite possibly, nobody bumps into them because of how strange they must look—like some
eloping lovers who can’t stop hovering each other protectively and possessively.
In any case, the driver behind the wheel doesn’t make a comment about their disgusting clinginess
to each other, simply raises a privacy window as the two of them huddle together in the backseat.

As soon as they shut the door, Dazai plugs his spying earphones in and closes his eyes. Chuuya
sighs and allows the other to rest his head over his lap again for the duration of the ride.

Chuuya takes Dazai’s phone from his pocket when it buzzes—he enters the passcode (it’s the first
16 digits of pi for shit’s sake)—sputters at the lock screen when his own, sleeping, drooling face
greets him (it’s him eating an ice cream the last time he saw it! when did the bastard get a chance
to snap this picture, urgh)—then once he gets his bearings straight, he answers Hirotsu-san’s text
inquiring about their whereabouts while mimicking Dazai’s texting style. With a pounding heart,
he navigates towards the picture gallery, blushes to the tip of his toes when he sees his own face
taking up the better part of the 8 GB of the image folder.

He considers opening the car window and throwing the phone out—then maybe hurtling himself
out too, just to spare himself this giddy elation. But then Dazai mumbles and wrinkles appear on
the space between his eyebrows and damn it it’s too comfortable even though his thighs are
beginning to feel numb.

Instead, he considers the grayish scenery that they pass by beyond tinted windows, the heavy drops
of rain that hammer against the glass. They’re on yet another mission—they’re still partners even
though Dazai’s being considered for promotion even though he’s just about to turn 16—they’re
building a life together slowly but surely. They’re near the place where everything went wrong for
Chuuya, but maybe, just maybe, it’s finally time to create a different legacy.

He closes his eyes and leans back against the car seats and thinks of the organization that they’re
arrogantly taking on with just two people. It’s hard to feel any real trepidation, since he knows that
Dazai’s plans never go wrong, not really. He closes his eyes and doesn’t wake up until they’re ten
minutes until their destination.

***

They check in to their one-king-size-bed hotel room with a hand curled around Chuuya’s waist and
a saucy wink from Dazai to the receptionist. Chuuya’s not quite sure why vacationing couple
became their cover for this mission, but he’s too lovestruck to comment. Dazai’s attentiveness is
annoying and irritating and why can’t this bastard act like this all the time?, and you know what,
never mind, because Chuuya will certainly die of a heart attack within a week of this intense play-
acting.

(But then, is this really play-acting, there must be something there, with the way Dazai’s hand
lingers on his waist, with the way they remain pressed close to each other as they study mission
notes before they attack??? It’s all confusing and irritating and he doesn’t want it to end.)

“If things deviate from the original plan,” Dazai tells him as they sit cross-legged on the bed, their
knees knocked against each other, “will you use Corruption?”

Chuuya huffs irritably at the memory of Dazai saying those lines to him. Since they’ve managed to
put a lock on Corruption unless it’s deliberately invoked, Chuuya hasn’t had to use it. But there are
other ways to slam against his limits aside from Corruption, he’s learned. “You only ever ask if I
don’t have a choice.”

“Would you prefer if it was an order?”

“Urgh—it means the same to you anyway.”

Dazai doesn’t deny it—because really. Dazai’s questions and illusions of permission are just
smokescreen for what he really wants. It’s irritating and it’s something that Chuuya’s lived with the
entire time they’ve known each other.

“So, will you?”

“You know I will, bandage asshole.”

***

Things end up deviating from the original plan—because there’s a dozen of Ability-users not in
Dazai’s dossier, all recruited to the organization within the past two days under really shady
circumstances—but Chuuya doesn’t feel any fear.

He’s angry, yes, mostly because he’s already dreading the recovery time for this and how he’d be
stuck in bed and how Dazai would probably get him all the strawberry-flavored food he can get his
grabby hands on, just to piss him off enough to faster recovery.

He’s angry, because these people think that he’ll fit right with them, spending time drinking tea
and making a small country for themselves, terrorizing those who disagree with their point of view,
and they expect him to last without inviting Dazai?

He’s angry, because the wrathful voices inside of him hasn’t been released in quite some time,
accusations about taint and corruption and rage all swirling in a mass of tar-like agony. Corruption
is enraged at the hulking building of steel and glass, a bit out of place in a fairly rural area, enraged
at the leader with a tattoo of a black snake captured seconds before striking, enraged at the
haphazard and irresponsible use of fire by most of its members, enraged at the fact that it’s been
collared effectively by Dazai’s meditation and control techniques, unleashed only when it’s needed,
like a dog that answers to its master’s commands, enraged at Chuuya for allowing to be caged to
begin with, enraged at every single thing.

Power burns from his insides and out of his fingertips, the control of the most powerful force on
Earth seeping out from his pores. Blood pours along with it, clotting from his ears, dripping his
nose, tearing from his eyes and drooling out of his lips. His internal organs weep with the agony
the heavy set of power subjects him to.

Yet Chuuya doesn’t feel any sort of fear.

He doesn’t fear for his life nor does he fear anything else.

He doesn’t see or hear or taste or smell or feel anything, not anymore.

No—more accurately, he doesn’t feel anything aside from the twist of rage and trust. He’s
enraged. He trusts Dazai with his life and the life of everyone else in the world that might be
caught up in the unending destruction should they fail to stop him.

Uncountable minutes later, Chuuya feels a hand wrap around his bruised wrist. He smells blood
and smoke and smoky corpses and bloodied earth. He tastes fatigue and victory as he sags against
Dazai’s chest. He hears a staccato heartbeat even out to a calm tune as arms wrap around him. He
sees the blur of destruction even as Dazai sways them together to a lulled rest, standing together at
the center of a mess that will be called a dawn of double black agents of mass destruction.

“Rest, Chuuya,” the whisper rumbles from his scalp all the way to his toes. “You’ve eliminated the
enemy.”
(And that’s when he realizes that he has one remaining fear—and that’s for the man making him
see or hear or taste or smell or feel these things to disappear.)

***

Seconds-minutes-hours later and Chuuya regains his senses, tastes dried blood in his mouth. He’s
lying down on a surprisingly-comfortable patch of rubble—when he slowly sits up, he realizes it’s
because Dazai has laid him down atop a makeshift cushion made of their coats. His gaze refocuses
just in time for Dazai to do a little victory dance after he’s able to unlock a rather sizable safe—
revealing a very sizable amount of wealth in terms of actual ingots, practically thousands of euro
notes, and more than a pirate’s share of stolen gemstones.

He remembers the days-nights-weeks-months-years of staring at moldy cupboards as though he

can wish food and happiness to appear with enough glaring. He remembers the way his mother
begs for a coin or two to be sent her way. He remembers the days of nothingness.

The Setting Sun has apparently made it a top priority to gain wealth and Dazai now has all of their
hard work in his hands. Trust the bastard to win a lottery of the lifetime when it comes to mission
loots.

“Chuuya, come on, stop pretending to be asleep, come and look at this!”

Chuuya rolls his eyes and half-crawls towards Dazai, minding his left side where it feels like his
stomach has been punctured. He manages to stand and lean against the safe’s doorway, splashing a
spot of red against the steely gray.

Dazai’s rooting around the piles of gemstones, all sparkly enough to serve as flashlights in times of
blackouts, he’s sure. Dazai doesn’t seem like the type to enjoy jewelry, but then again, maybe
sparkly things is his current obsession?

“Mm, this looks like it matches your eyes and your hair,” Dazai says in a tone that would make
Chuuya blush if he had enough blood to spare, lifting an apple-green stone from the pile. “It’s a
polished jadeite stone.”

Chuuya shrugs helplessly—jadeite sounds expensive, but he doesn’t really know. He’s also not
particularly sure how something green matches his eyes and his hair, but then again, it must be
true, because Dazai says so.

“Eh, you’re useless, Chuuya,” Dazai mock-pouts and pockets the stone as they wait for the
extraction team to take them out of this place along with the loot.

“I don’t really care for jewelry,” he ends up saying as he also ends up sitting down. Standing up
takes too much effort and he still feels woozy.

“Then you can take all of the money.”

Chuuya shrugs again. “No, you can take it. I don’t… really know what to do with it.”

Dazai doesn’t comment on his background of poverty, instead going for, “Then just keep it in a
bank account?”

“I… haven’t really earned it,” he says after a few moments’ pause. It’s hard to explain, but it feels
like something that he doesn’t deserve. He can admire the wealth from afar and long for it, but it
feels wrong to be so near it. He remembers the way his mother went mad for just a few bills and
he’s reminded that he’ll probably go insane if he’s afforded more than that.
Dazai goes silent for a moment, before he sits down beside Chuuya, sliding downwards until his
head is pillowed on Chuuya’s lap yet again.

“You’re a really strange guy,” Dazai murmurs and Chuuya boldly grips his hand while they wait
for the telltale sound of a helicopter arriving to fetch them.

***

If Chuuya isn’t feeling so out-of-sorts, he’d actually want to congratulate himself for discovering
the cure to jetlags—which is to be so fucking exhausted from using Corruption. As it stands, he’s
barely able to lift his arms once the aftershocks of using such a dangerous Ability sinks in. He’s
definitely been taken over by Corruption before but it feels much harder and more painful now—
almost as if his own Ability is making him pay for attempting to cage his power.

Dazai hasn’t filled the bedside table—oh, they’re back at Dazai’s apartment—with strawberry-
flavored snacks yet. Instead, there’s a wealth of bandages and half-open first aid kit and several
syringes. He knows the other isn’t an actual doctor, but trust Dazai to be able to understand medical
theory effectively while just trailing after Mori-sensei and reading books.

He tries to ask what the fuck is going on, but it comes out as “Gurghhhh.”

Dazai gently pats his hand—right on top of where the dextrose needle is in, that fucker—and tells
him that he has successfully molested Chuuya and snapped photos of his nude body while he has
bandaged him up. Mortification shots through him—and he’s apparently received a blood
transfusion, because he feels a blush warming his face.

“Goddamn bastard,” he manages to hiss out, oh-so-very cross now that he feels nearly his entire
body wrapped in bandages.

“You look very fetching like this, Chuuya.”

“Just because I now share your same fashion…”

“I was tempted to bandage your face too, you know.”

“I cannot fucking believe you expect me to praise you for restraining yourself.”

“Hmph, I’ll upload your photos if you keep this up.”

Chuuya rolls his eyes and doesn’t point out that Dazai’s irrational possessive streak isn’t going to
enjoy other people taking a glimpse at his dog.

“Why the hell am I here instead of the infirmary?”

“Med Team is scattered all over the place, missions, whatnot, etc.”

“Etcetera?!”

“Eh, there’s been some barrage of attacks, but don’t worry your pretty little head about it.”

“Guuurgh.” Chuuya bites his lip until he ends up mentally chastising himself for flailing at being
called ‘pretty’. “So you took care of my wounds?”

“I told you I can definitely take care of your needs, no?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“You can’t move well yet, so I’m definitely helping you take a bath later~~~♫”

“Guurghhhh.”

☆ plus the one time he found it ☆

Chuuya opens his eyes to the morning of April Fools, discovers that he hasn’t trashed about too
wildly during the night, the nightmares down to a more manageable level of chaos. He’s neatly
tucked in, blanket and comforter pulled up to his neck. It’s warm, like he’s floating in a toasty
oven.

Thick blackout curtains are drawn; his view of the hotel’s bedside table’s clock is blocked by
Dazai reclining against the headboard with a folder of reports in hand. The man’s brown hair looks
soft and mussed from sleep, like he woke up and immediately started working even though it’s
their rare day-off. With the way the blanket is drawn over Dazai’s body – oh, they’re sharing a
blanket; oh, they’re sharing a bed, again – he’s able to see the hotel’s fluffy wraparound white robe
loose around Dazai’s chest, the infernal bandages peeking out from the V that would normally
show off one’s collarbones. Long, oversized sleeves nearly cover Dazai’s fingers as he stops
writing and flips to the next page.

He looks comfortable and at-home. Like he belongs there, leaning against the headboard, enjoying
his day-off with his partner, sharing the same bed. Looking at Dazai, surrounded by all the things
that Chuuya’s never had in his life pre-Dazai, by the glow of the dimmed bedside lamp—it makes
his heart stutter and fumble towards—towards—he doesn’t know—only that he wants it so badly
—that he wants it to be forever.

Chuuya’s sure that he doesn’t make any sort of noise, doesn’t gasp at how lovely the pain he feels
is, when he thinks about Dazai so within reach, but Dazai’s attention swings to him anyway.
There’s a lazy smirk on Dazai’s face as he tilts the neat lines of his handwriting towards him, all
contrasts of teasing hard edges and cozy soft curls, and Chuuya wants, so very badly, to touch it.
He doesn’t want anything to shatter when he does so.

It’s Dazai who reaches out—poking his forehead with one slim finger.

It’s—

He tries to open his mouth to say something, anything, everything.

Like thanks for Dazai getting him tickets to the opening night of Salome. Like thanks for Dazai’s
overall existence in his life—because now, he can actually watch Salome and see it as a wonderful,
powerful opera, instead of a searing reminder of his mother’s abandonment. Like thanks for Dazai
remaining as his partner even though he’s an Executive now, even though he now has a list of
women he’s bedded as part of his chase to fill the void in his life, even though he now has new
drinking buddies that he actually likes enough to call as friends.

There’s a lot of other things he owes gratitude to Dazai for—being recognized as part of soukoku
and an asset to the Port Mafia, supplying him with books and materials that he uses to learn more
about the world, co-owning a two-bedroom apartment with him that serves as their home, being
able to live a life where he can pretend he’s not wholly tainted by Corruption by caging it as much
as possible, being able to live a life where he doesn’t feel fear in case he loses control.

Even though he’s lost all traces to his family—it doesn’t feel lonely, not anymore.

“Didn’t they tell you that leaving your mouth open is an unattractive look?” Dazai asks with a tone
that tries to be teasing, but only ends up hushed. The smirk widens, but it remains hard-soft, curling
against Chuuya’s heart. “I can see your tonsils from here, you know?”

That one finger traces the outline of Chuuya’s face, drifting near his right ear and curling a stray
lock of hair there, traipsing near his eyes, brushing by his eyebrows and eyelashes when they
flutter shut, patting the tip of his nose like it’s a button that he can’t help but press, tracing the bow
on his upper lip, flirting with the edges of his lower lip, stopping in the middle of his mouth once
he manages to stop gaping and actually close it.

Dazai’s just staring at him—assessing him—and Chuuya tries to prolong that ephemeral moment,
his lips parting the slightest bit so that Dazai’s touch feels like a butterfly’s wing fluttering against
him. He raises his right hand and lands it against Dazai’s heart, the staccato beats making his toes
curl.

Because, because, it means that this means something, right?

Dazai’s always had an effortlessly calm heartbeat, even while killing, but he’s now unravelling,
just like Chuuya.

He splays his fingers there—and if he curls them just so, it almost feels like he can take Dazai’s
heart out of his chest and put it against his, for safekeeping, forever. He doesn’t do anything like
that, just stares at how the black-red taint on his hand looks impossibly dirty against the pure white
robe, but it doesn’t hurt, because it’s a reminder of a power that they can unleash together. He’s
tainted but it doesn’t matter as much because Dazai treats him like he’s precious anyway.

He parts his lips even more, because he wants to say everything.

I love you.

I love you so fucking much.

I love you so much that I feel like I’m going to die if I stop.

He just needs to get the words out—words that he’s felt since the day that he’s felt those lips
pressed against his knuckles—since the day that he’s looked up from the mass of water and gore to
the moonlight and the devil that lurks there, waiting for him—since the day that he’s been
abandoned by his mother and he’s wished for someone to look at him and see something else aside
from the monster howling with rage.

I love you—the you who can see the corruption and accepts me anyway—even before I met you.

“I—”

Just a few more words.

He doesn’t think of asking for much.

He’s not asking for to be considered a priority over advancement in the Port Mafia. He’s not asking
to be chosen on top of the tight knit of friends that have a level of understanding that he doesn’t
possess. He’s not asking to stop the strings of affairs and games that the other enjoys.

He’s not asking to be loved back with the same intensity that burns inside him.

He’s just—he’s fine with this, with whatever they have.

He’s fine with this, as long as Dazai never leaves.

“I—”

“—I’m hungry, Chuuya.”

Chuuya exhales—and Dazai’s finger moves away. There’s a shuttered look in Dazai’s eyes—
disappears, after a moment. He considers saying his words anyway, but he moves his hand away
too, so that Dazai can stand up.

“Go get your messy hair sorted out so you don’t horrify the room service staff.”

“Pffft, you wish, bandage bastard.”

It’s fine.

Dazai’s the youngest Executive in Port Mafia history, he’s got an information broker and someone
who can see the future as friends, he’s got the rabid dog as his subordinate, he’s got Chuuya as his
partner. They can preserve this moment forever, Chuuya believes.

He makes a promise to himself—one day, soon—he’ll be able to confess even just a tiny part of his
feelings for Dazai.

Maybe he can make it on a special occasion—learn how to cook both their favorite meals—order
some absurdly expensive wine since Dazai enjoys drinking, the last time they’ve gone on an
overseas mission, they’ve dropped by a wine auction and Petrus has caught their attention even if
they didn’t end up buying—maybe do it on his birthday less than a month away, because it’s a
reminder of the day that Dazai gave Chuuya his life.

Soon.

I love you, he practices in his mind.

He’s giddily counting the days inside his mind, and he doesn’t react too badly to Dazai telling him
that he looks strange being so happy.

Just twenty-eight days until then.

 days before dazai osamu leaves the port mafia: 28

Chapter End Notes

mafia!dazai is a huge dick – though I wrote the scenes above with the HC that
mafia!dazai is an emotionally-constipated idiot who was so bored and angry at
the world, that he really doesn’t care about shit – but then he meets chuuya who
he’s very interested in, to the point that he’s kind-of obsessed, but then he’s also
very pissed that he’s that into chuuya (because he’s supposed to be this strategy
genius, he’s part of the mafia, he can’t have weaknesses) so he alternates
between acting really in love… and being a huge dick. though he tries! he’s all
about trying to downplay chuuya's strength to the executives in the beginning in
a twisted effort to shield chuuya. in this story, he’s been in love with chuuya all
along, though dazai doesn’t recognize the depths of his feelings until that scene
in ch6.
that said, dazai is one big influence to chuuya but there are others. the idea
about how chuuya got orphaned is inspired by the revelation re: kyouka’s
parents being the original owner of her ability. as of this point in the fic, we
haven’t seen (1) the final fate of chuuya's mother, (2) how exactly did chuuya
become so rich, (3) THAT CONFESSION. so those 3 things will be the focus of
the final part of the interlude ^^;; i promise we’ll go back to the ‘regular
timeline’ after that! well, actually! the next part will be 75% flashback and 25%
back to present time, so. ^^;

references!

Salome is written originally in French – it’s the opera that has popularized the
Dance of the Seven Veils (aka: the origin of striptease) + the way Salome
seduces a guy in love with her so he’ll bring her the head of the guy she’s in
unrequited love with.
“Languor dreams of death” is a line from IRL!Chuuya’s For The Tainted
Sorrow.
“pay in advance” theory is Mori’s line when he details his strategy for having
soukoku work together again in ch30-31; the “interesting to watch corruption” is
callback (?!) to dazai’s line as to why he didn’t stop Corruption immediately (or
rather, just admit that you want to watch chuuya, stupid dazai)
the meaning behind the “naka-hara chuu-ya” is based on searching for
 individual kanji meanings – though i'm definitely not an expert on the language
and i think the name as a whole means something different? (in any case, it’s not
like dazai actually thought of the name, after all :)))) so him being wrong about
the meaning is within the keikaku)
“Jack” is throwaway OC but I just wanted to point out that for the Port Mafia’s
side, we already have A (Ace) and Q (Queen?). And maybe even a Kouyou
(King). So we’re just waiting for a J (Jack/Joker???)
jadeite is 1 of 2 stones considered as jade; it’s in the top 10 rarest precious
stones in the whole world as of 2015. i'm also pretty sure that’s the stone on
dazai's pendant haha.
The Setting Sun (Shayou) is one of IRL!Dazai’s works. It’s a story set in WWII
& has copious amounts of black snake/flame symbolism.
Similarly to the previous chapter, the travel info is c/o Googlefu, but please
don’t use it to plan your Tokyo-London vacation in case you get lost :))))

• thanks again for reading!!! your feedback is always ♥ ♥ ♥ see you next water
time~

• ETA - my internet is being wonky again so my replies to the previous chapter's

comments might be delayed again;;;;;; but i will reply to them as soon as i can,
promise!!!

ETA#2 - please see Hanabi_Angel's lovely drawing of 'broken bird' chuuya in a

birdcage guuuuuuh *A* s-so beautiful *___*
 intermission: home, run
Chapter Summary

• interlude re: soukoku past, part 02

• the four times dazai tried to break chuuya's heart & failed

[psa: this update is a double-update!] [ch 17] [ch 18]

Chapter Notes

this is the final part of the interludes re: the soukoku past! style is a little
different compared to the other interlude chapter, because while that one
focused on the fluffier/more romantic aspect of their relationship (e.g. in dazai
helping chuuya replace the homes he keep on losing) – this one is about the
harsher aspect. i felt it important to show that they have such a dynamic
relationship – they can be fluffy/bickering/romantic/dastardly toward each other
and still love each other deeply. that said, this is teenage soukoku still – so
please be on the lookout for mafia!dazai being a dick still (specifically:
manipulative bastard tendencies, torture technician dazai). i rewrote this
chapter a couple of times because i wanted chuuya to have a really… dry (?)
tone while experiencing the shit dazai did;;; i hope it was successful orz

special warning for the last scene – wine + tissues are preferred as
accompaniment (though feel free to throw bricks at me too?)

• as always, feedback is appreciated!!! :)

See the end of the chapter for more notes

☆ first attempt ☆

“Stand up.”

He groans as he mentally yells at his legs to obey the coldhearted command. He manages to rise to
a half-kneeling position when a fist sinks to the top of his head and topples him back to the ground,
his face getting reacquainted with the bloodied cement.

“Is that it?” Dazai Osamu asks the boy splattered to the ground; he slowly, deliberately, steps on
top of the other’s head, squashing his face more forcibly against the ground. “You’ve caused so
much destruction when you’re this weak?”

He groans again, the seething inside his head redoubling their efforts in trying claw out of him.
He’s not particularly bothered by being called weak, but the howling inside him belong to beings
that fancy themselves as gods, who cannot be contained by a mere human, not even by a monster.
They’re affronted by the implication that they are weak, red and black beginning to stain his eyes.

Dazai Osamu keeps his heel on top of the red locks, until he feels the stirring of power below him,
the force of gravity shoving him away from the redhead and towards the ceiling of the abandoned
warehouse they have claimed for themselves.

“What do you want to do to me?” Dazai Osamu asks as he smoothly kneels down beside his fallen
partner. “Do you think you can do anything to me, little doll?”

He hisses against the floor, tastes his own blood and rage. The babbling of the voices inside of him
threaten to spill out; he bites his lip until it bleeds—fifteen seconds, twenty. “I… I’ll repel you.
Send you flying.”

“Ha!” Dazai Osamu barks his laughter, slapping a hand on top of his dirtied hair, No Longer
Human cancelling the Ability that covers his body. “Someone as weak as you—who can’t even
control his power—can’t do anything to me.”

“I’ll control this,” he promises stubbornly.

Dazai Osamu places a hand underneath his chin, tilting his head up. He doesn’t know it, but his
blue eyes are practically burning in their determination.

“You’re just someone who kills and kills and kills,” Dazai Osamu tells him point-blank, line of his
lips severe and unforgiving. “You—who can’t even rise from your own carnage—what can you do
to me?”

“I’ll—” He can—he can—he can harness the threads looping around his limbs, gather the points of
energy scattered all around him, focus them on his hands, on his feet, on his head—he can send
Dazai Osamu flying high above, past the high ceilings, past the tallest skyscraper, past the clouds
—he can—he can—he can— “I’ll—!”

Gravitational force responds to him, forming an invisible armor around his head, wanting to slap
Dazai Osamu’s hand away from him.

No Longer Human activates faster, negating his Ability, cutting the threads he’s holding in his
fragile grip. He sees the backhand coming, but it doesn’t lessen the ache to his jaw and cheek when
it lands.

“You’re a disgrace to humans,” and he waits for the just like me to fall, but it doesn’t, though it’s
probably lost in the roar of blood inside his ears. “You just taint and corrupt everything around you,
don’t you?”

Dazai Osamu transfers his hold to his right hand, circling his wrist with force enough to snap it.

Black-red tendrils—roots of a tree of death, webs of a deadly poison, veins of a monster with black
blood—run all over his fingers, his palms, his wrists, his forearms, his elbows. He knows that his
body is cocooned in such tell-tale markings, whenever he tries to survive the drowning from the
gods inside him, just as he knows that most of them are concentrated on his hands and feet with
each passing session with Dazai Osamu.
It should make him—not happy, per se, but accomplished—because it means that the training
sessions are working, because he’s able to narrow the focus of the explosion of his power,
somehow.

“You’re just a dirty dog eager to please its master, aren’t you?” Dazai Osamu asks him these
questions, tells him these things, in an effort to rile him up, to test his teetering control over his own
insides gushing out of him in a display of destruction.

There are times that the words that Dazai Osamu tells him hurt more than usual though, all jagged
edges curated to pierce him into pieces.

“You just want to do whatever I say, don’t you? You don’t listen to anyone else—you don’t
interact with anyone else—you don’t know anyone else. You just know me, me, me.”

And he knows that nobody else in the Port Mafia looks him in the eye, that nobody bothers to
speak to him, that nobody bothers to acknowledge him. He’s the black-red shadow to the person
who will eventually rise to the top, he’s the pet monster locked up with bound wings and strangled
throat, only able to sing in tunes of destruction of others and calling for his master. He’s a nobody,
a disgrace, but as long as Dazai Osamu’s there, he’s not truly alone, not completely useless.

“And that’s what you should do, hmm? Just listen to me, believe in me, follow my orders.
Anything else and I just might find a more obedient partner, Chuuya.”

There’s a finger shoved against his eye, but his Ability activates in time, faster than before, more
focused, so that it only shoves back against the tip of Dazai Osamu’s fingernail, while the boarded-
up windows don’t shatter and the ground only rumbles faintly from the aftershocks of his Ability.

“So you do know how to follow instructions,” Dazai Osamu says appraisingly after a few tense
seconds, breaking off their eye contact. “Make sure you have an appropriate name for your Ability
by tomorrow.”

He draws a blank, sighing against the ground when his partner drops him. “I don’t—”

“Naming it should help you control it better,” Dazai Osamu explains, not patiently, but not as
abrasively as before. Though—his eyes are burning, like he’s enraged at him for being obedient,
disappointed in him for not managing to leap to the other’s train of thought automatically. “You
should know all about that, Nakahara Chuuya.”

☆ second attempt ☆

“What the fuck was that?!”

Recovering from the engineered free-fall unfairly quickly, Dazai sits up in one smooth motion,
torso gliding like a snake—right on top of Chuuya’s stomach, because he’s an inconsiderate
bastard, that’s why—and throws him a lazy, self-satisfied smirk. “That, my dear petit mafia, is
what you call everything going according to my plan.”
“You attempting a murder-suicide by jumping off a goddamn skyscraper is according to plan?!”

“You do shriek worse than the birds we saw in the zoo last weekend,” Dazai complains half-
heartedly, placing one hand lightly over his heaving chest (more like, making sure that No Longer
Human can intercept any attempts to lob him with the force of gravity), still smirking like the
asshole that he is, inconsiderate about the fact that Chuuya’s heartbeat is still in 100s—or rather, it
feels like he’s somehow left his heart and soul at the top floor, maybe it’s been held back in the
glass shards of the not-shatterproof floor-to-ceiling windows that Chuuya smashed when he
barreled into it, Ability activated over his entire body because goddamnit, Dazai and their target
jumped off the fucking tower!

“Because you goddamn jerk actually have zero consideration for my suffering—and I cannot
fucking believe you would attempt to complete our mission and go for a fucking suicide attempt in
broad daylight—do you know how many inches of paperwork I would have needed to accomplish
if you actually fucking died—not to mention how annoying the clean-up and media blackout, fuck
—why do you never tell me these things—I could have drowned myself in some sedatives first!”

“But it’s the perfect plan,” Dazai replies with such zen calmness that Chuuya gives in to the urge to
trash underneath Dazai, his hands gripping the other’s biceps and shaking his stupid partner.
Dazai’s peaceful tone continues even as he’s being shaken hard enough to scramble his brain.
“You’re too honest—it would have been obvious if you knew that I wasn’t really planning to
commit my suicide then. And see, it’s successful! So don’t worry too much!”

Chuuya snarls and shakes the bastard again, ignoring the gory splatter a few steps away from them
—courtesy of the target that needed to be eliminated in an accident, the same target that Dazai had
apparently convinced to jump off with him on top of a goddamn skyscraper, the same target who’s
not aware that Dazai is confident that his partner’s not going to waste a second to bend the laws of
physics to save his scrawny ass.

Dazai’s still smirking at him, even as men in black suits and black sunglasses start to secure the
perimeter so the Cleaning Team can waltz in and scrub the sidewalk clean of splattered body parts.
Using the one hand that’s not pressed against Chuuya’s traitorous heart, Dazai takes a couple of
shots at his handiwork, presumably so he can attach the grainy, low-res picture to the report that’s
going to be up to Chuuya to embellish and refine so that it doesn’t sound so batshit crazy that they
end up being executed for besmirching the Port Mafia’s name and image via ultra-creative, open-
to-public-when-it-shouldn’t-be ways of target disposals.

“Dazai-sama, your transport back to the headquarters is ready.” One of the countless black-clothed
men steps forward, back already bent in a 45-degree angle. “Please, this way.”

Chuuya huffs in annoyance when Dazai doesn’t even turn his head to acknowledge the guy. He
squirms more violently, ignoring Dazai’s not-so-silent laughter about him being like a wild bull.
“You heard the guy—Okamura, right?—shitty mackerel, get off.”

Dazai’s smirk melts into a smile that appears so innocuous—if not for the way his eyes are frozen
over, like a thin sheet of humanity layered over nothingness. “Mm, Chuuya, you didn’t tell me that
you’re friends with… Okamura, here.”

“You don’t tell me about a lot of shit,” Chuuya parries back, doing a little stretch on his legs once
Dazai actually deigns to stop sitting on him.

See, it’s just the way they landed – maneuvering while free-falling from the fortieth floor is all
well and good, but it’s not like he can allow Dazai to be the one who’s going to crash to the ground
first! See if he does it again – the next time shit like this happens, he’s going to absolutely not care
whether Dazai lands head-first or not.

“How can we have an outstanding partnership that will last the test of time if you won’t tell me
things, Chuuya?”

Chuuya rolls his eyes as he walks toward their designated car, their arms brushing as they move.
“You don’t tell me mission plans, you fucker.”

There’s something that feels like a pinch against his chest—memories of missions just like this
one, plans that unravel without his input, games that end with him as Dazai’s favorite game-
breaker NPC.

Dazai doesn’t say anything for long moments: not even until they’re seated on the plush leather
backseat; not even until they’re back in Dazai’s place, Chuuya’s glasses perched on his nose in an
effort to stop the words on their report from blurring; not even until Dazai’s in front of the top
brass, reciting the words that Chuuya’s slaved over while Chuuya himself waits outside with his
back flush against the opposite wall.

He knows—knows that he’s just the shadow, the lackey, the pet. He knows that he should find
pride and contentment in that—because Dazai’s too much of a picky bastard to work with anyone
else, so it’s not like anyone’s going to steal his role. He knows that it’s the best thing someone like
him can hope for—a nameless, good-for-nothing vessel for power, a monster donning on human
skin. He knows.

It hurts—a pinch inside his chest—worse than the nightmares that play inside his head—worst still
when Dazai finally comes out of the room and wraps his bandaged arms around Chuuya’s body,
like some octopus clinging to its prey, sticky and sickening and Chuuya’s heart stutters and
scrambles, the voices inside him writhing about wanting to erase this man wrapped around him, in
the dark and empty hallways away from anyone else’s prying eyes, because this man will surely
destroy him.

☆ third attempt ☆

“You should watch and learn, Chuuya.”

Chuuya bites his lip so that he doesn’t end up saying anything. He tastes blood—acidic and bitter
and just—he tastes his own blood. There are bandaged hands clamped over his shoulders like
talons that have captured their prey and won’t let go until they’ve finished playing with their food.

He doesn’t tell his godforsaken partner that it’s useless to hold him down. He’s—he’s in too much
shock, no, pain, to even contemplate about moving an inch.

The surveillance room is usually bustling with activity, dozens of black-suited men milling about.
It’s also usually projecting live feeds from different parts of Yokohama. It’s not usually quiet with
just two men—or is it more accurate to say two monsters?—in the dead-center of the room. It’s not
usually broadcasting recorded footage from one fancy hotel room.
The screens don’t usually forego variety and thoroughness in favor of hammering down on
Chuuya’s heart by showing off Dazai fucking some girl for information.

“See, you wouldn’t have to watch this if you succeeded in doing your part, Chuuya.”

And that’s the most distressing thing.

Because Chuuya faltered in making small-talk, in trying to reel their chosen informant in with jokes
and expensive food. Because Chuuya had taken three days and didn’t have any results to show.
Because Chuuya had failed his part in the mission.

Because Chuuya’s sure that even his failure is within Dazai’s plan.

“Yes, yes, you’re the best when it comes to seducing poor, unsuspecting people,” Chuuya grits out
when Dazai’s fingers tighten their grip, clawing into his coat.

There’s a heavy silence—punctuated only by the loud, breathy moans erupting from the
surveillance video playback—that has Chuuya second-guessing his decision to speak up. He’s
accomplished great things regarding his control over his Ability, but reining in his desire to snap at
Dazai at every opportunity—to let the other see that he’s not just a yes-man who agrees to all of
the other’s ideas, to adopt the charade that he doesn’t always automatically do whatever the other
commands—it’s a work in progress.

“See how she sells out her clients with just a kiss to her pulse-point?” Dazai asks meanly, the hands
on his shoulders cold and—trembling. “See how she babbles all of the information just so I’ll push
my cock into her?”

Chuuya bites his lip again, tastes the blood again.

On one hand—it’s success for their mission. It’s sad for someone like him—who’s actually been
other Ane-san’s care—to do so badly when it comes to seduction.

On another hand—

“Don’t tell me you’re jealous, Chuuya?”

Chuuya’s whole body stiffens. “I don’t—”

“Because you don’t have a right to feel that way,” Dazai cuts in like a particularly sharp knife. “We
do whatever it takes to accomplish our mission, even if it means dirtying yourself. That’s the Port
Mafia’s way.”

Another moment of heavy silence passes. Dazai takes a deep breath, exhaling it loud enough for
Chuuya to feel it.

“Just leave the planning to me,” Dazai says. “After all, you know better than anyone that my plans
never go wrong, right?”

☆ fourth attempt ☆
“—thing is a monster!”

Dazai shoots the woman’s—it’s not just any woman, that’s—right pinky, the sound of pained
yelling reverberating all around, masking the sound of a bullet whistling to the air and burying
itself on the ground while cushioned by blown-off flesh and bone.

“I told you…” Dazai’s tone is casual, almost-friendly, the wide smile on his face frozen like a
caricature of warmth. The icy anger burning in his glare is anything but casual. “…I’d let you
speak if you apologize to Chuuya for being such a despicable human being. Do you understand?”

Chuuya’s frozen by the doorway, a couple of footsteps away, but he feels detached, like he’s
anywhere but here, in a closed-off, soundproof room reserved for the most atrocious of Dazai’s
torture sessions. It’s an empty, desolate room, with only bloodstains for floor-to-wall carpeting.
He’s frozen, ice in his veins, since Dazai has commanded that he keep his eyes and ears open
throughout this.

He’s not a complete animal—he still remembers bits and pieces of familial affection for his
mother, even though they haven’t had the most congenial relationship. He still remembers, in the
same vein, her screams as she realizes that she’ll never be free from the curse of the Ability that
drove her husband crazy, not when he’s around. He still remembers all those things—and here, in
front of him, is Dazai, erasing them from this world.

“It’s not too late,” she babbles through the pain, her back bent as she cradles her wounded hand.
“You can still—that monster must have seduced you, no, cursed you somehow—”

“—wrong.” Dazai says with the finality of a funeral bell, shooting her other pinky this time. “Do
you want me to coach you on what to say? Since it seems that you’re not understanding what
you’re being asked to do.”

Cradling both of her hands close to her chest, she lifts her head and glares back at Dazai, full of
hatred. “I will never apologize for throwing that monster out.”

“Hm. Now I know where Chuuya got his stubborn streak.” Dazai hums as he pockets his gun.
There’s a moment of hope on her face, her body relaxing, but it only lasts a second, the very same
second it takes for Dazai to take out a serrated dagger. And then he takes a step forward, the click
of his heels terrifying inside this bloodthirsty room.

“He’s way more beautiful compared to you, though,” Dazai continues, just seconds before he
smoothly kneels down and cuts off her left ring finger.

Chuuya’s there—but he can’t do anything—not to save his mother from his partner’s sadistic
torture, not to help his partner extract information from their target—can’t think, can’t feel, can’t
smell, can’t taste, can’t hear, can’t see, can’t understand.

He can only stand there and remember:

—Helping Dazai hide the gold and gems that they’ve transported from The Setting
Sun’s vaults. In just a couple of days, he’s sure that all the wealth would be laundered
into untraceable money under Dazai’s offshore accounts.

—Reporting together, for the first time, in front of Boss about their successful
annihilation of an entire organization overnight. Dazai leaves out the part about
Chuuya receiving a strange recruitment message prior to their mission.
—Discovering that they’ve been dubbed as soukoku – ‘double black’ – by those who
have seen them and the destruction that trailed their footsteps. Dazai makes a number
of quips and congratulations about Chuuya being visible enough, despite his meager
height, to the onlookers.

—Meeting with Dazai’s real estate contact so they can look for a two-bedroom
apartment, because Chuuya’s home has been sacrificed by The Setting Sun and
because Dazai spends more time in Chuuya’s place anyway. Chuuya carefully doesn’t
react when their contact insists on offering them one-bedroom apartments, primarily
because he’s not sure what the correct reaction is anyway.

—Traveling with Dazai to Yamaguchi supposedly for an errand to be accomplished

during their time-off. Chuuya doesn’t complain about being strung-along to some
sightseeing, only because he did not know the significance of their destination. He
doesn’t notice it until it’s too late—doesn’t recognize the shabby bungalow tucked at
one end of the street, overgrown weeds softening the walkway, dark-green moss
curled around the rusted, unhinged nameplate that’s been scratched-out, only leaving
the kanji for ‘naka’ visible.

—Kicking open the wooden door as per Dazai’s orders, because he’s an ass who can’t
be bothered to physically exert himself not even during his own errands. Dazai’s
wearing his full Mafia Executive regalia despite the fairly rural atmosphere of their
destination, something that Chuuya understands too late. He doesn’t recognize the
man who yells at them from a four-seat dining table, even though he looks familiar
enough with face etched in rage as he yells and shoots at them. He doesn’t recognize
the next set of people who make their appearance: a lanky teenager wielding a
baseball bat with shaky hands; a grandfather with greying hair brandishing a rickety
cane; a woman with an even more familiar face and an unfamiliar kitchen knife.

—Gasping in shock as Dazai takes a step forward, shrugging off the fiery welcome
and the bullet embedded on a wall a few centimeters away from his face. Dazai says
something coolly, slowly, condescendingly, like he’s speaking to ants crushed
underneath his heels—says something about selling Nakahara Chuuya’s information
to foreign organizations that collect and study Ability users. And Chuuya realizes it
too late—that there’s no reason for these people to know who Nakahara Chuuya is,
because it’s a name picked by his partner—that these people snarl and sneer when
they hear the name and don’t deny the accusation.

—Paling white when his mother—aged with stress lines and wrinkles, but still utterly
regal and beautiful despite the anger that distorts her expression—makes her presence
known, saying something about her doing the right thing, because nobody was able to
stop his father from spiraling out of control, and if The Setting Sun is able to control
the monster at the expense of his sanity and freedom, if they’re able to help make the
world a better, safer place by helping him become locked up, then they should be
compensated for that.

—Freezing when Dazai knocks their foreheads together—his grandfather, his uncle,
his cousin, his aunt, his mother all bound and gagged for further treatment because
Dazai needs to know who else has information on Chuuya—and Chuuya realizes that
this, this, is the home where he was born, from a foreign father who has attempted to
live a normal life and failed, from a beautiful mother who had her dreams shattered
when she fell in love with a monster wearing a human mask, this is the home that he’s
been forced to abandon, this is the family who’s supposed to love him but has instead
 sold his information, that this is the place where he’s been named Nakahara Chuuya
one April 29 years ago, the place that Dazai had researched prior to the day he
received his name and identity.

—Shoving Dazai’s face to the sink once they arrive in their current home in
Yokohama, because there’s one thing about claiming credit about thinking of his name
and identity and lying to him about it for years,, there’s another thing to track down
the remains of his family and sentence them to death without letting him know until
the last minute. Dazai asks him—only it’s not a question, really—whether he’ll
actually let them go for betraying sensitive information that can endanger him and his
partner and the Port Mafia. Chuuya doesn’t answer that—he doesn’t need to, because
him being endangered means trouble for the Port Mafia, means trouble for Dazai,
more importantly—but he still knocks Dazai’s forehead against the porcelain in
retaliation for underestimating him, for not trusting him with information regarding
himself.

He can only stand there and remember: everyone but Dazai thinks of him as a monster that needs to
be shackled and destroyed.

“Chuuya, she’s pretty stubborn about giving you that apology,” Dazai says with a pout, as though
they’re discussing the weather or the corner store not having Dazai’s favorite snacks. “I think it’s
better if we just kill her and get this over with. I got all the other information already.”

It takes a few tries, but his throat finally cooperates to say: “…Did they tell other people about my
Ability?”

“It’s all been taken care of.” Dazai’s expression smoothens into terrifying calm. “Did you need
anything from that place? I was thinking of locking them in and burning the place down. Get rid of
any leftovers.”

Chuuya’s breathing hitches, but it’s how things go. He’s named Nakahara Chuuya and his birthday
is on April 29, but he’s not the same person that came from that place. Not anymore. The people
that Dazai wants to burn alive are not his family – they’re just people who want to sell information
about Corruption to the highest bidder, people who have abandoned him to the mercy of fate.

They’re – they’re not people who have cuddled him close when he has nightmares, not people who
have brought him food when his stomach threatens to burn his insides, not people who have told
him stories about their lives, the world in general, not people who have saved him from a sinking
boat weighted with shackled children, not people who have saved him from the leering looks and
terrifying touches of clients waiting to sample the most exotic courtesan.

They’re nothing.

They’ve given birth to a monster so they’re not as human as they think they are.

They can be burned alive for betraying the Port Mafia’s information and Chuuya will not feel any
guilt or see any nightmares or—

There’s only one person who has been with him through all the painful parts of his life. That one
person is the cause of more than half of those painful parts, true, but he’s stayed by Chuuya’s side.
That one person is the only one he’ll consider as his true home, his family.

Not them.
Not the people set to die soon.

The voices inside of him don’t say anything, but they’re warmly purring in satisfaction with what
he’s thinking, deciding.

Make them pay.

We will not be disgraced any longer.

Erase everything that has caused us disgrace.

“Do whatever you want,” he manages to say, voice flat and unfeeling. “Will you execute them first
before burning their bodies?”

“Want to do the honors?”

Chuuya doesn’t look at the woman bleeding on the ground from a few steps away. “You can take
care of it.”

“You won’t think that I’m not trusting you to take care of yourself?” Dazai asks teasingly, one
hand reaching up to rub at the bruise on his forehead, from the time he allowed Chuuya to
enthusiastically beat him up.

“You’re not taking care of me.” Chuuya still doesn’t look at her sprawled, bleeding form. “You’re
taking care of a traitor to the mafia.”

“Mm, maybe you should watch. You never know when you have to do it yourself.”

He doesn’t think anyone’s stupid enough to betray the Port Mafia, but stranger things have
happened. This instance, for starters. “…Alright.”

“I see how it is.” The woman gasps out, spitefully, despite the bloodloss that should have made her
more compliant. Her accent is heavy with the influence of French. “You think that he accepts the
monster. You’re wrong. Everyone who gets close to you is only because they want to capture the
monster. Everyone will look at you and only see a disappointment, a tainted monster—”

Chuuya blinks and his hand is already wrapped around her throat. Just one more squeeze and she
will be silent forever. The heavy cloak of gravity around him shields him from her attempts to kick
out at him.

Make them pay. We will not be disgraced any longer. Erase everything that has caused us disgrace.

He’ll make them pay. If only she didn’t give up on him—if only she didn’t fall in love with the
previous vessel of Corruption—if only she didn’t exist—

“—Stop it, Chuuya.”

Chuuya gasps—and Corruption starts to recede even before Dazai’s fingers fully close over his
wrist.

“I’ll take care of this.” Dazai continues calmly, like he didn’t just stop Chuuya from killing his
own mother. “Just sit tight and wait for me back home.”

Corruption is seething at being robbed the chance to unleash itself. “…I… thought I needed to
learn how to execute traitors.”
“We can do that next time.” Dazai pulls him away from the woman, letting her crumple to the
ground while glaring at them. “Now, go home and wash your face, you look awful.”

“Fuck you,” he returns weakly, scrubbing a hand over his face.

“You can join me when we hunt down the person who sold you to human traffickers back then.”
He didn’t tell Dazai about that – about the client this woman roped in so he would provide them
meager assistance with living in Paris. But then again, a much younger Dazai was able to research
his name and identity in under two weeks – finding out about the chief of police is child’s play for
him. “He’s now enjoying retirement in Nice. We can visit him there and do wine-tasting
afterwards.”

“…Alright.”

“I’ll be back by dinner – make sure you have a lovely meal ready for me, okay?”

Chuuya thinks of retorting about not being a goddamn live-in chef, but he catches sight of the
hatred on the woman’s face—and Chuuya knows, that she’s seeing herself and his father again, a
person who accepted the monster, even for just a short while. There’s a strange twinge on his chest
—disappointment that she gave up too soon, happiness that he’s managed to find Dazai even
though his father and his much younger self had failed, inevitability, finality, goodbye.

He closes his eyes and leaves the room, ignoring a woman’s shrieks about not deserving to die for
doing the right thing.

He has a dinner to prepare.

 ☆☆☆

Triple chocolate cake with candles (unlit, because he doesn’t fancy the thought of having to deal
with a kitchen fire, thanks) on it: check. He’s not a particular fan of the too-sweet flavor, but living
with someone who’s brazenly courting diabetic coma on a daily basis with the amount of sweets he
shoves to his mouth… is a good exercise of his tolerance.

Petrus decanted: check. He also has Domaine de la Romanee-Conti on stand-by in case Dazai
sniffs that Petrus isn’t expensive enough; he also has Yamazaki Mizunara single malt whisky if
Dazai’s in a whisky mood.

Lobster thermidor, flambéed beef steaks, sashimi platter, chili crab: check. It’s too much for just
two people – he’s already packed some for his colleagues, because they might not interact with
him that much, but as the partner of an Executive… it feels like something he should do.

He took the day off and he ended up cooking too much to counter his nerves—not that he’d admit
that.

Dazai’s been caught up in a case—solo mission, because Chuuya’s needed for some additional
muscle that doesn’t require Corruption in the Continent, and he’s only able to arrive in Yokohama
just the day before. Chuuya doesn’t know a lot about the mission – only that it’s something that the
Boss is involved in, along with Dazai’s favorite drinking buddy. Chuuya doesn’t interrogate
Akutagawa who’s been shadowing Dazai as part of his extended training, but some well-placed
inquiries told him that it involves an organization called Mimic. He’s not particularly worried –
because Oda might be as pure as driven snow when it comes to his Port Mafia existence, but
Flawless is the perfect defense.

He’s not particularly worried – though he’s getting annoyed that he’s been waiting for Dazai for
hours already. It’s almost midnight and his birthday is about to be over – well, okay, he’s not
worried about his birthday, for there’s always next year – but where the fuck is Dazai? His phone
is shut off and Chuuya’s throat is already itchy from leaving dozens of voicemail about promises to
roast the other’s ass once he shows up.

Chuuya considers cleaning their home – but he already did that in-between the waiting time of his
cooking. Maybe he can do it again? He’s only been gone for two weeks, but Dazai’s laziness
knows no bounds. Maybe there’s a bundle of unwashed clothing still hidden under the bed? Maybe
he should scrub the bathroom tiles in case there’s still some grout? Maybe he should check Dazai’s
desk and look for a note that’s probably buried underneath his game discs?

Or maybe he can start drinking already.

He considers taking a sip out of Petrus but then. He bypasses that and grabs a convenience-store
bottle of Merlot instead. He likes wine – though a huge part of him thinks that it’s probably
because Dazai’s always with him on some fancy wine-tasting event. But then again, he does
appreciate the flavor, even if it’s a cheap bottle. It’s good that it’s not as lovely as he’s used to,
because that means he can control his drinking better, only taking a sip every ten minutes.

He arranges himself on an armchair near the living room window, his overcoat that’s supposed to
make him look so much nicer already folded in his bedroom, because stupid fucking Dazai is late.
He considers eating the food already – he’s been studying the recipes and making sample batches
and they all taste nice – but. He’s cooked them while imagining that he’ll eat a candle-lit dinner
with his partner. Who’s still fucking late.

Chuuya must have fallen asleep on the armchair, because he startles awake to the sound of Dazai
closing the door and to a lap wet with spilled cheap wine. He hasn’t quite managed to blink the
sleep out of his system when he spots Dazai’s closed-off expression from the distance, spots the
all-too-familiar specks of blood on the other’s clothes.

“—I was so worried.” He ends up blurting that out, before his mind catches up to his mouth. But
then – he’s promised to confess even just a tiny part of his feelings tonight, right? He feels his
cheeks warm as he watches Dazai impassively remove his overcoat, hanging it over the coatrack
near the doorway. “You—are you alright? The blood—didn’t belong to you, right? I’m—was so
worried.”

“Of course it’s not my blood,” Dazai ends up saying, eyes deader than Chuuya remembers. No – he
still remembers that bandaged boy from long ago, but he hasn’t seen Dazai like this since then.
“And why are you worried? Someone like you doesn’t have the right to worry about someone like
me.”

“Someone like me—”

Chuuya cuts himself off, because he’s not sure how to proceed. Corruption – who’s been so quiet,
so behaved, for the past few weeks – laughs and laughs and laughs.

“A monster like you,” Dazai clarifies, his hands crossed over his chest, imposing despite the lines
of fatigue on his entire body.

“A monster like me, you say.” Chuuya’s heart thuds inside him and he digs his fingers to his
palms, shaking fists by his sides. “Someone like me is in love with someone like you, you
bastard.”

Dazai does the impossible – appear even colder than ever. “You’re not in love with me.”
“What the fuck,” Chuuya feels his vision shake – but that’s probably just because of the tears in his
eyes. He’s not sure why things are suddenly like this – he’s just. He’s just cooked and prepared
something for his birthday, hoping to welcome Dazai home after his grueling mission that he
doesn’t want to involve Chuuya with. And—hopefully confess his feelings so that he’s not keeping
anything secret from Dazai. His wineglass underneath his feet when he takes a step forward. He
doesn’t notice—not really. “I know I’m in love. I know what the hell I’m feeling!”

“You’re drunk.” Dazai’s expression is shuttered, his voice freezing. “You’re confused.”

“I just drank a little bit while waiting for your sorry ass to arrive!”

“You reek,” Dazai counters with a disdain sniff. “And you can’t be in love. A monster like you –
like us – can’t be in love.”

“You—”

“What, you think just because I hold your hand, we’re in love? Just because we live together? Just
because we spend a lot of time together?”

“Well—”

Yes.

Isn’t that part of being in love?

Chuuya’s heartbeat goes into overdrive whenever they’re together, he feels like he can do anything,
like he can ignore everyone else who regards him with disdain, like he can survive without being
noticed by anyone else. He doesn’t feel anything when he’s not with Dazai and he doesn’t even
want to be anything with anyone other than Dazai. He thinks he can consider it a blessing if he dies
protecting Dazai, an ideal ending for someone who’s always failed to protect or preserve anything.

“Normal humans might consider those as part of being in love. But we’re not. We’re monsters,
Chuuya.”

“You’re not—”

“Why do you think I managed to rise up in Port Mafia so quickly? Why do you think I was able to
tolerate you?” Dazai’s staring at him, but there’s no connection there anymore, like a line that has
been severed. “It’s because I’m not normal too.”

“T-Tolerate?”

Chuuya’s mind strains to remember all the years, the moments, that they’ve spent together. Playing
video games together. Using up Port Mafia funds to go hotel-hopping. Eating different cuisines and
trying to cook them at home. Walking aimlessly in shopping malls while window-shopping.
Killing and destroying together. Living together.

“You’re just the shiniest, newest, most interesting doll.”

“You—”

“I just used you and played with you, Chuuya.”

“I—”

“But I’m bored with you already.”

“You—”

“I cannot believe you would think that you’re in love with me.” Dazai’s just two steps away from
him. Chuuya’s not sure if it’s him that moved, if he’s subconsciously used his power to pull Dazai
towards him. “You’re stupider than I thought.”

I love you.

I love you so fucking much.

I love you so much that I feel like I’m going to die if I stop.

Words that he’s felt since the day that he’s felt those lips pressed against his knuckles—since the
day that he’s looked up from the mass of water and gore to the moonlight and the devil that lurks
there, waiting for him—since the day that he’s been abandoned by his mother and he’s wished for
someone to look at him and see something else aside from the monster howling with rage.

I love you—the you who can see the corruption and accepts me anyway—even before I met you.

Words—feelings—lies.

Dazai never told him that they’re in love, that he could feel something like love. His mother told
him that he could never find anyone who’d accept him.

They’re right, aren’t they?

Dazai, especially, because he’s always right.

But then what is this feeling? If it’s not love—then what is it?

“Hmm, nothing to say?” Dazai asks – and there’s a split-second of relief there. Chuuya doesn’t
catch it. He’s not in love and he’s not supposed to pay so much attention to Dazai and he’s not
supposed to feel anything. “Finally realized how stupid you’re being?”

Chuuya doesn’t say anything—because his lungs feel like they’re collapsing into themselves, like
his insides are filling with black tar. Thoughts of celebrating – of candle-lit dinners and birthday
wishes – they’re all swirled inside and devoured by hisses about corruption, tainting, monster.

He sways, a little bit to the right. Dazai doesn’t catch him.

His vision is blurry so he doesn’t see hope and resolve flicker in Dazai’s eyes. “I’ve always
disliked you, since back then. But I knew that I had to work with you, so I merely tolerated you,
played with you so you’ll be bearable to deal with.”

This is—

Dazai is telling him an answer, in riddles.

“…I’ve always disliked you too.” Chuuya thinks of all the times that he’s wanted to punch Dazai
for making irritating observations, that he’s wanted to smother Dazai so he’ll stop saying things
that make his skin tingle, that he’s wanted to remove Dazai from his sight so that he can breathe
easier. “You’re a disgusting piece of shit.”

It must be true.

It must be true, but his insides are curling into each other, voices inside him hissing that he must
make Dazai pay for making him disgrace himself.

Make them pay. We will not be disgraced any longer. Erase everything that has caused us disgrace.

He’ll erase Dazai and his feelings will disappear and everything should be alright.

He feels Corruption agree with him, black-red veins tainting his entire body as he surrenders to the
destruction. Maybe if he destroys himself, he’ll be able to destroy his heart as well.

His senses are already overpowered by the grantors of dark disgrace spilling out from him—so he
doesn’t hear the words I’m sorry, Chuuya just before everything turns black.

***

Nakahara Chuuya wakes up to the following:

his face sticky with tear-tracks and his entire body devoid of blood and dirt, like he’s been
cleaned before being laid down in the middle of rubble, leather gloves covering his black-red
hands – something that rarely happens, overcoat draped over him like a blanket;

a chunk of his hair chopped off;

the smell of burnt leather as his car is apparently bombed to smithereens due to some
unknown perpetrator;

the two-bedroom apartment he used to co-own with Dazai mostly destroyed, the food in
smashed dishes, the bottle of Petrus the only survivor;

the metal safe inside his bedroom tampered with – his notebook of handwritten poems
flipped to the page where he’s written two lines that he ended up not having the courage to
have prescribed on plain platinum rings: Reste près de moi et ne t'en vas pas, j'ai peur de te
perdre;

the inside of his safe gaining an addition: a checkbook under his name, along with
documents with an attached credit card, bank statements stating that he currently has billions
of dollars in offshore accounts, as well as a vault filled with gold and jewelry, transaction
history stating that he’s received most of the funds via wire yesterday;

a visit from Hirotsu-san telling him that Dazai Osamu has officially left and betrayed the
Port Mafia in the middle of a mission yesterday – with said betrayal going on, he’s forbidden
from undergoing any missions that require the use of the Ability that Dazai Osamu’s been
hiding from the top brass in an effort to hold his cards close to his chest in an event of a
coup: Corruption;

an invitation from the Boss for him to join the Five Executives’ dinner for he’ll be the one to
replace the open spot left by Dazai Osamu;

the key to the cage he never wanted to leave in place of his hollowed-out heart;

He feels lighter – because a chunk of his hair is missing, because his feelings have been destroyed,
because his heart is now missing.
 Nakahara Chuuya wakes up to a world without Dazai Osamu.

★ …and the one time he succeeded ★

Chapter End Notes

• feedback / comments / questions / screaming = always welcome, always a+++ :)

• [reminder: this update is a double-update!] [ch 17] [ch 18]

• just in case it’s a bit confusing, timeline is as follows:

1st scene = set during ch16’s 3 rd scene;

2nd scene = set before ch16’s 4 th scene;
3rd scene = set after ch16’s 4 th scene;
4th scene = set after ch16’s 5 th scene;
5th scene = set after ch16’s last scene;

references!

IRL!Chuuya’s birthplace is at Yamaguchi City; his father is an army doctor.

IRL!Chuuya also started writing poetry at a young age (8 y.o.) & started
submitting poems for publishing when he was 13. I think I forgot to include this
in previous chapters, but Chuuya has lived/studied/moved in a lot of places.
IRL!Chuuya also wrote a lot of poems as coping mechanisms for pain/tragedy –
and he’s also an example of bros before hoes (his girlfriend left him for his
 friend, but he remained friends with him).

first scene/”training” is inspired (!?) by Dazai shooting Akutagawa right in the

face // womanizing Dazai is canon both in BSD & IRL.

the ‘Dazai names Chuuya’ scene in ch16 has Dazai saying that he has a research
project + spending a lot of time re: the name – which is Dazai referring to him
hunting down Chuuya’s remaining family (&lying to Chuuya about it);

apparently the French translations don’t show up when you hover while in
mobile? translation for “Reste près de moi et ne t'en vas pas, j'ai peur de te
perdre” = “Stay close to me and never leave; I am afraid to lose you.”

• oh, and one more thing. a "friendly" (?!) reminder that dazai hints that the mafia is
likely to execute chuuya under the slightest suspicion of helping him out (y'know, just
before he asked chuuya to do an ojou-sama impression). soooooo if dazai & chuuya
had a good, working partnership, chuuya would have been under immediate suspicion
of being involved in the betrayal. not unless they parted in a way that obviously sets
them on opposite sides. . . . .

• one last thing - if you've survived until the end of this chapter - thank you so very
much for giving this fic a chance! stay strong, my dears :)♥
 Chapter 18
Chapter Summary

• dazai watches over chuuya

• we're back to present timeline + dazai pov ^^;;

[psa: this update is a double-update!] [ch 17] [ch 18]

Chapter Notes

we’re back to the present timeline!

this takes place right after chapter 14 :D and as requested – it’s Dazai POV for a
present timeframe; so, warning: Dazai being Dazai. (specifically: referenced
stalking / drugging / cuddling people who hate you while they’re asleep /
general craziness). fairly short chapter (compared to the usual LOL) but we
should be back to the usual ~10k next chapter onwards!

• ALSO. ALSO. WE HAVE ART AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

[1] my dear Hanabi drew more beautiful doll chuuya in a cage ahhhh ♥ ♥ ♥

[2] the lovely Helena gave us asd;jasssa FYOYAAAAAAA (&fyodor's pick-up lines
that work on chuuya) ahhhhhh ♥ ♥ ♥

so much pretty ahhhhhhhhhhh thank you!!!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

☆☆☆

Chuuya is sleeping peacefully.

It’s enforced peace—but it’s better than nothing.

Most people would probably complain about pumping patients with so much sedatives to achieve
rest for recuperation, but most people don’t have such a beautiful and powerful patient to look
after. They don’t have Chuuya lying in their bed—rightfully so.
Nobody else in the world can say that they’ve had Chuuya sleep in their bed—Kouyou-anesan’s
strict in enforcing bonding moments between her charges, but she draws the line in bed-sharing.
Chuuya’s previous roommate in the courtesan house has already been taken care of; same case
with the transient housing that Chuuya and his mother had inhabited on their travels across Europe.
He’s made certain that this remains the case even during the two years that he spent mostly
drinking and rolling about in his futon uselessly, during the first two years of his tenure with the
Agency, during the time that they’ve seen each other face-to-face while on separate sides. He’s
sure.

He’s the only one who’s seen Chuuya breathe in and out peacefully, fingers trembling every few
minutes or so while he’s visited by nightmares, nose twitching every time he fails to stop himself
from pressing a soft kiss against the other’s forehead.

Chuuya is sleeping peacefully.

When his phone vibrates against his hip – prolonged vibration, so it’s a call – he rejects the call
without actually looking at the caller ID. He considers just shutting it off entirely, but he’d rather
make it easier on himself when he gets the urge to look at his sizable collection of pictures and
videos.

And he’s waiting on word about the exact delivery time for the imported artillery he ordered,
supposedly to be transported tomorrow night right under the government’s nose. He also uses his
phone to check on the status of the offshore accounts he arranged on Chuuya’s behalf – he’d rather
not use any of the money he’s saving, but he’d like some insurance that his suppliers will not go
back on their word even if he’s not really paying for his order.

…but mostly it’s because it’s only a few clicks until he sees the slideshow of Chuuya’s pictures,
really.

The phone rings again and he considers shutting it off – or maybe chucking it outside the window.
They’re currently in one of Chuuya’s barely-used properties (it’s something he had abandoned two
years ago, when he was running around from house to house due to an unspoken fear of being
haunted – though it’s just because he has a very determined watcher, not that he’s admitted that to
Chuuya). It’s something under a different name so it should be pretty safe from people dropping by
to visit Chuuya.

…He shouldn’t throw the phone. It’s the number that Chuuya has memorized – a number that he
remembers even though he’s drunk enough to forget his name and his hatred, a number that he
used to call while angrily ranting about being left behind, mispronouncing names and sprinkling
French every other word – he’s remembered to bring an audio recorder with him so he doesn’t miss
out on such gems.

He sets the phone on mute while disabling vibrate, sets it atop the bedside table, just short of
knocking it against the empty vials of sedatives. Hmm, he should start to clean up a little bit. But
that means that he has to stand up and leave his vigil by Chuuya’s bedside. He considers it for a
second – but he decides not to, clutching Chuuya’s right hand with both of his instead, feels the dry
coolness of the airconditioning making sure that there’s not a drop of sweat in Chuuya’s body,
despite spring starting to make its way to summer.

He—he’s so close to getting everything he ever wants in his hands. He—he’s made a lot of
missteps along the way, but it’s all paved his way forwards. He—he’s so very close.

He can’t allow Chuuya to slip from his hold.

He—

Chuuya will receive the proof of his devotion, even if it’s not proof of him never leaving ever
again.

Chuuya will respond to his proposal while they’re at Yokohama Marine Tower.

Chuuya will wear an engagement ring – a simple band made from the golden ingots they managed
to retrieve from The Setting Sun; reste près de moi et ne t'en vas pas, j'ai peur de te perdre inside
the band in tiny but unmistakable inscription – he’ll accept it with a brilliant sunset on his
background, the gold warm on his finger, the jadeite on his neck contrasting against the longer
curls of red.

Chuuya will go with him to Paris – to a flat that he will purchase, built on the same plot of land
where Chuuya was taken before he was sold to human traffickers. It will be the beginning of him
helping Chuuya rewrite over the unsavory parts of his life – and they will hold a private wedding
there.

If Chuuya agrees to leave the Port Mafia, they can start over there, adopt a kid they’ll spoil terribly
so Chuuya can prove to himself that he can rise from whatever influence is left over from his
despicable parents. If Chuuya wants to postpone retirement, that’s also fine – they can postpone
adoption, because it’s not like there’s a shortage of people needing Chuuya’s guidance in
Yokohama.

Chuuya will have a house in Yamaguchi too – one can’t have too many vacation houses – and it
will be a place where Chuuya can override the remaining marks of the Nakahara family in the
area.

Chuuya will give him the chance to teach him how to love himself as much as he deserves.

Chuuya will be with him forever.

He—

He will not allow anyone to get in the way.

☆☆☆

The moment someone stops outside the door, Dazai whips out the gun from the bedside table with
his right hand, keeping his left hand on Chuuya’s.

“Good afternoon, Dazai-kun.” Ango wisely enters the apartment briefcase-first, receiving the
bullet that Dazai releases with the folders of papers inside. “Though I doubt it is such a good
afternoon if you’re greeting your guests like this.”

“You’re not welcome at all, Ango-kun~~~♫”

Ango raises an eyebrow as he surreptitiously surveys the person lying peacefully in bed. Dazai
stands a little straighter, hiding Chuuya’s face from their unwelcome visitor.

“I heard you carried him out of your home,” Ango relays the gossip with hardly a shrug. He does
position his already-shot briefcase a little higher, closer to his chest. “…Bridal style. Are you
practicing?”

Dazai snarls, showing off his teeth, the gun still trained on Ango. “Delete all the information about
Chuuya’s apartment.”

“Your payment? I was under the impression that you’ve allocated a lot of funds already.”

“You’re asking for payment, Ango-kun?” Dazai grips Chuuya’s hand tighter. “Your life should be
a pretty good payment, I’d say.”

Ango sighs, but Dazai knows that it’s within the other man’s expectations. “You can’t keep him
asleep forever, Dazai-kun.”

“Then I suppose that means you all have to work harder to close the issue.”

Ango stares for a moment – looks like he’s about to say something, but thinks better of it. Dazai
raises an eyebrow – knowing that there’s something unsavory there, while also knowing that Ango
isn’t the type to start nasty confrontations.

“…I’ll delete the information from your previous home.” Ango sighs again. “But I can’t promise
anything about this place.”

Dazai doesn’t say anything, merely nods, keeps the gun on Ango’s direction until the man leaves.

Chuuya continues to sleep peacefully.

☆☆☆

The phone continues to ring.

Dazai continues to ignore it.

Chuuya continues to sleep peacefully.

☆☆☆
Anything I would never want to lose is always lost.
It is a given that everything that is worth wanting will be lost the moment I obtain it.
There’s nothing worth pursuing at the cost of prolonging the suffering.

—Chuuya’s the exception.

He will not lose him – not to himself, not because of their time as soukoku, not to Corruption, not to
anything else.

☆☆☆

“Kouyou-anesan,” Dazai greets their newest disturber with a very placid smile. “…and you brought
in friends.”

“Dazai,” Kouyou’s greeting sounds like a scolding, but Dazai doesn’t care. He barely
acknowledges the people huddled behind her elaborate kimono.

“I don’t remember inviting you to intrude in our space.”

“We won’t stay long. We’re just here to remind you to answer Mori-han’s calls.”

“I’m not interested in dealing with him.” Dazai drapes the blankets higher on Chuuya’s prone form,
covering him until his chin. “Or anyone else, for that matter.”

“Fyodor Dostoevsky has made his demand.” Kouyou doesn’t rub a hand at her face, but it’s close.
“He wants to speak with Chuuya first before he reveals any information about the plans to return
Abilities to the world.”

“…Why?”

“We don’t know either. He’s confident that Chuuya will agree though.”

Dazai snarls as he catches the suggestion in her voice.

“I won’t allow it.”

“You’re not Chuuya’s owner.”

Dazai doesn’t reply, merely raises an eyebrow at her and Hirotsu, Yosano and Motojirou hiding
behind her. In a way, he’s glad that they’re all worried about Chuuya. More importantly, he wants
them gone from here, before Chuuya’s sleep is disturbed.

They leave eventually.

Dazai continues to ignore Mori’s calls.

Chuuya continues to sleep peacefully.

 ☆☆☆

He feeds Chuuya via IV.

He keeps Chuuya’s lips moisturized so that it continues being plump and full, patting it every
couple of minutes with a damp towel.

He gives Chuuya a sponge bath every day, checks the IV, checks his pulse and blood pressure.

He watches Chuuya sleep, peaceful with his mind forcibly kept quiet, so that he’ll stop hearing the
whispers of Corruption in his sleep.

By the end of the first week, he crawls into bed with Chuuya, because his back already hurts from
sitting the entire time.

By the end of the second week, he considers grabbing the phone and yelling at someone, anyone,
everyone, to light a fire under their asses for moving so slowly in capturing the group responsible
in the attempt to revive the Rats in the House of the Dead, which then apparently wants to return
the Abilities to the world.

By the middle of the third week, Dazai’s mouth is a permanent presence against Chuuya’s bare
knuckles.

Before the end of the third week:

Nakahara Chuuya wakes up to Dazai Osamu.

Chapter End Notes

• reminder that this is a double-update~ [ch 17] [ch 18]

references!

as with the previous chapter, in case the French doesn’t show up on hover – it’s
“Reste près de moi et ne t'en vas pas, j'ai peur de te perdre” =“Stay close to me
and never leave; I am afraid to lose you.”

“Anything I would never want to lose is always lost.” spiel is c/o Dark
Era!Dazai;

• comments/feedback/violent reactions are always welcome and appreciated! :D

• next chapter? winter fyodor is coming;;;;

 Chapter 19
Chapter Summary

“Unhand me, you crazy asshole.”

“I will never.”

“You shouldn’t be so proud of being a clingy, crazy asshole."

Chapter Notes

many, many, many rewrites later, here’s the next chapter!

i'll keep this short - i hope you enjoy this chapter and thank you so very much for your
patience with me ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

See the end of the chapter for more notes

★★★

[June 19]

“If you’re about to ask a rhetorical question, let me posit a rhetorical answer: I am here because
you wished it so.”

Fyodor Dostoevsky should be locked up—he was in prison just yesterday, Chuuya was there—he
shouldn’t be here—but here he is, standing in the middle of the apartment that belongs to Chuuya
by name, but has been so infested and infected by Dazai that it reeks, it makes him reel and makes
him sick—and Fyodor shouldn’t be here.

Chuuya’s mouth is just gaping uselessly, because he’s just arrived, just been pardoned out of
prison, the same prison that Fyodor should still be in.

“So this is your home? Very… quaint. ” Fyodor looks around, June’s summer not deterring him
from wearing his winter outfit, hands gloved and fur coat around his person.

Chuuya’s just arrived (and he shouldn’t even be here, because this is home, but also not, because
this is where Dazai has lied so many times to him and Chuuya still—) and he hasn’t even had a
chance to arrange his mail—and Fyodor’s walking towards his coffee table, gloved hands easily
tearing through the package he’s received, uncaringly dropping the contents back to the table.

And in a way so different—yet so similar—to the way Dazai’s presence in his apartment feels,
Chuuya’s throat goes dry and sticky at once, a lump that’s impossible to swallow, once he sees the
contents of the package.

It’s just two small, insignificant things.

Dazai’s old phone and old pendant.

He’s not—

Fyodor makes a curious humming sound though his eyes remain hollow and blank, curiosity for
curiosity’s sake, as he pries open the pendant. It fails, the thick gloves making it difficult, so he
simply chucks the pendant hard enough at the table—and for a guy who claims to have a weak
physical constitution, it’s a pretty solid throw—and Chuuya can only watch, frozen in his place, as
the pendant cracks and locks of reddish-brown hair spills out, leaving only a familiar picture inside
—

“Have you thought about my offer?” Fyodor doesn’t look like he minds that his conversation
partner is struck speechless by the fact that there’s an escaped criminal in his living room.

And Chuuya tries to make his mouth work, tries to answer, tries to deny, tries to accept, tries to do
something, anything. Instead, Chuuya hears a hiss that wells up from deep inside his heart.

“Let him pay for disgracing us—he can’t disgrace us—don’t let him touch it—we will not be held
back, we will not be disgraced any longer—”

★★★

[May 22]

Chuuya wakes up with an IV hooked to his wrist, a niggling sensation worming underneath his
skin. The space beside him is still faintly warm—it must be mere minutes since Dazai has left,
presumably to relieve his bladder. There’s a stale smell in the room, a sterile chemical scent mixed
with the distinct odor of unwashed hair. A quick sniff tells him that his hair and his body smells
surprisingly fine, if not a little too fruity.

Well. There’s only so much he can stare at to stall the inevitable. Chuuya takes a deep breath
before he meets Dazai’s stare head-on.

And because Dazai is Dazai, the man leaps over the scant distance between them, ignoring things
such as propriety and inertia, causing the bed Chuuya’s on to skid a couple of meters from the
force of it. Chuuya doesn’t even get a chance to yelp and complain and worry about his IV being
tugged out unceremoniously—because Dazai does something that Chuuya would never have been
able to predict, with or without Flawless surely.

“I missed you so much,” is what Dazai probably says—or sobs out, rather. It’s a little difficult to
understand, given that Dazai’s practically molding their bodies together, his mouth babbling words
around Chuuya’s neck that’s steadily growing damp.

It’s almost enough to make Chuuya relent on his decision.

Almost.
“Unhand me, you crazy asshole.”

“I will never.”

“You shouldn’t be so proud of being a clingy, crazy asshole,” Chuuya rasps out once he finally
takes stock of himself. Thankfully, Dazai’s neurotic enough about planning for worst-case
scenarios, so the IV pole is attached to the bed and therefore didn’t get yanked out from his
dramatics. Not that thankfully, because Dazai sobbing to his chest gives him mixed feelings (he’s
definitely regretting the fact that his phone is nowhere near his person and he’s therefore unable to
record this moment for posterity) and gives him an itchy nose. “Also, did you not take a bath for
two weeks?!”

“Three,” Dazai corrects him with an uncalled-for confidence. Very uncalled-for, because when
Dazai finally lifts his face—it’s. It’s really, really bad for Chuuya’s heart. There’s tears on his eyes
and everything.

“That is very disgusting.” Chuuya swallows and very carefully keeps his arms pinned to the bed.
“You are very disgusting.”

Dazai only grins at him, looking very helpless against an onslaught of emotions.

That’s the only reason why Chuuya swallows down his plan to burst Dazai’s bubble by telling him
that despite his nearly comatose state for the past three weeks… he wasn’t fully unconscious and
he had overheard quite a number of things.

★★★

Going to John and Francis’ wedding is hardly within the acceptable limits for someone who just
woke up from a coma, but Chuuya’s body is hardly normal.

(He’s hardly normal. He’s an entire solar system away from normal. He’s—)

But a promise is a promise. Granted, he hasn’t actually promised John anything about his
attendance, but an RSVP is pretty important and solid and he’s not the type of person who said one
thing and did another. That’s more of Dazai’s specialty, really. Chuuya bites his lip as he mulls
about that. In any case, the wedding is rife with scandals and paparazzi, not only because
Fitzgerald is a ruthless businessman who actually leaked inside scoop to the highest bidder, but
mostly due to the fact that Fitzgerald’s previous spouse (may her soul rest in peace) was a female
media darling.

It’s a compromise, Chuuya remembers John telling him before. I tolerate his worst so I can enjoy
his best.

John makes it sound so easy, when everyone knows it’s anything but. It’s not even just their
philosophies in life clashing terribly—but they’re getting married in a couple of days.

Chuuya bites his lip until it bleeds.

★★★

Going to the wedding without alerting Dazai is an exercise in patience and extreme luck. It’s
difficult, given that Dazai’s acting like some juiced-up touch-starved leech pretty much 24/7.
While he’s had years of experience of dealing with octopus-arms-Dazai, it’s somehow nothing
compared to the present.
He bides his time, because no matter what anyone else (read: Dazai) says, he’s actually very good
when it comes to patiently waiting out his target. He doesn’t always compromise missions because
of impatience (read: after that fucker had left, there was no room for error for him and his missions,
if he wanted to hold onto being an Executive; before that fucker had left, there was no room for
error for him, if he wanted to hold onto the youngest Executive in Port Mafia history).

Chuuya doesn’t lash out or swat Dazai’s hands away or kick the bastard’s skull in. In return, Dazai
hums and doesn’t comment on how fishy Chuuya’s docile behavior is.

It’s an exercise in waiting.

Almost as if there aren’t any lies between them, Chuuya smiles at Dazai. All the while, waiting for
the signal that a certain man gave him when he had visited while he was still unconscious—an
ability that suits the other’s secrecy just fine.

It doesn’t matter.

Chuuya’s had plenty of practice when it comes to waiting, after all.

★★★

[May 24]

“…so how does this work, exactly?”

“Hmm, one of the things we agreed on is that I will not reveal the full extent of my capabilities in
exchange for assisting you.”

Sakaguchi Ango keeps his eyes on the road as Chuuya quickly changes clothes at the backseat of
the car, tinted windows providing privacy from any peering eyes from the pedestrians and other
cars. While Chuuya prefers travelling at less busy hours, the traffic and the general commotion
afforded by the city works to their favor. A grand escape on an empty road is just an invitation for
Dazai to show off his nauseatingly fast driving skills.

“Funny that, I don’t remember actually agreeing.”

“You being here is enough of an agreement, I reckon.”

“You could be a little nicer to me,” Chuuya squints over the glasses that complete his disguise.
Great, now he has the same owl-like look as his abductor. Is it still abducting if it’s all according to
plan? Does it even matter? “I’m doing you a great favor, after all.”

“It’s not like you’re not benefiting from this escape as well,” Sakaguchi doesn’t sound bothered at
all. In fact he kind of sounds amused, as though helping someone escape Dazai’s clingy octopus
arms provides great comedic value. “And it’s not like you’ll not end up saving the world.”

Chuuya scoffs as they switch lanes so they’re on track to the airport. While it’s probably too
obvious a move, there’s no point in delaying their leave of Japan by going on several highways and
losing any tails by travelling over water.

“I’m a Port Mafia Executive, saving the world is pretty low on my list of priorities.”
“But you don’t mind humoring Dazai-kun.”

“And that time is over,” Chuuya says with as much finality he can muster. It’s not like it matters –
Sakaguchi doesn’t look like he’s the type to believe someone easily.

“Escaping to go to a wedding without letting him know personally sounds like you’re still
humoring him.”

“Not letting him know is humorous to you, huh?” Chuuya squints at the man that’s one of Dazai’s
previous drinking buddies. It’s at times like this that Chuuya somehow feels… hollow, that he
hasn’t made an effort to know more about the Flawless Oda Sakunosuke. It’s not like it would have
changed anything, but at least… It doesn’t matter. “Figures that someone who tolerates Dazai
mixed with alcohol has a pretty warped sense of humor.”

Sakaguchi laughs – almost like Dazai’s, really. It’s creepy, in a very eerie manner, like Dazai’s
ghost is here, even though he’s pretty much alive (and probably fuming about being fooled).
“You’re sending him on a goose chase, a case that has very little clues, with very high stakes, with
many unpredictable variables involved. That’s not even considering that it’s involving you. Isn’t
that the best type of present for someone so bored with the mundane?”

Well.

When it’s put like that…

Chuuya bites his lip as he kicks the back of the driver’s seat instead. “If my chauffeur is this
talkative, I won’t be surprised if we end up on a traffic accident.”

“You do share the same trait of being unable to be honest…”

“I so do not want to hear that from someone like you.”

★★★

[May 25]

As expected of a wedding that involves Fitzgerald, it’s blindingly bright. There are diamonds
everywhere and Chuuya feels an abject horror that there are no imitation gems in a one-hectare
radius. It’s been a long time since he’s worried about his financial status, but there’s something
about being surrounded by so much wealth that actually makes his stomach cramp with acid.

He glances at his date, but he draws his eyes away immediately. Sakaguchi’s glasses are glinting
way too much. Chuuya fervently hopes that the glasses that he’s wearing provides some protection
against too much brightness.

There’s a certain honor (and bewilderment) that he’s actually seated on one of the main tables,
sharing it with John’s siblings. Chuuya doesn’t know what he’s done to be considered close
enough to John’s family, but he’s pretty sure that kicking John on the face isn’t it.

But then again, compared to… let’s say Dazai, this wedding is fairly happy. And normal. Dazai
would probably have a very deranged wedding, with an equally deranged partner. Chuuya idly
remembers telling Atsushi about nooses and time bombs involved; that’s still solid in his
assumption of a Dazai Osamu wedding debacle.

“They’re just happy because they get to eat more food and buy more books,” John’s voice cuts into
his musings. Chuuya fixes his facial expression to something more jovial. John doesn’t look like
he’s buying it, but he also looks pretty done with a number of things. His eyes are twitching—but
then again, it’s probably due to the cameras clicking non-stop. “You haven’t introduced me to your
last-minute date, Chuuya.”

Chuuya sighs at that, tugs at Sakaguchi’s sleeve. While he’s thankful enough that Sakaguchi
agreed for this detour when his escape is purely as a bargaining chip against Dostoevsky’s
demands… Chuuya’s not blind enough to not see the ulterior motives. After all, despite the lack of
Abilities in this world (and probably even more because of their threatened return)… this new
shape of The Guild is enough to raise the hackles of any self-respecting control-freak organization.

(Chuuya wonders if it’s because Sakaguchi has spent time with Dazai, if that’s why he’s
marginally easier to read than other manipulative bastards in his life.)

“John, this is Sakaguchi Ango.” It’s not like the two of them don’t know of each other already, but
whatever. “Sakaguchi, this is John… Fitzgerald. Wow, congratulations.”

“I know, I’m still reeling from it,” John says with a grin that’s genuinely happy, even though he’s
crushing Sakaguchi’s hand in their handshake. “And thanks. It’s nice to meet you.”

Chuuya gestures to both himself and Sakaguchi and hopes that John will not make any more quips
about Dazai’s conspicuous absence. “We should go and congratulate your husband.”

“Nah, it’s fine, he’s busy preening in front of the cameras.”

“Which ones,” Chuuya dryly says, because there’s an actual section and queue for all the
photographers.

“All of them.”

“Sounds tough.” Chuuya raises an eyebrow at John’s younger siblings, all looking too innocent for
a paparazzi-filled life. “How are they faring in the adjustment?”

“Well, Fitz can’t remember names all that well…” John shrugs as though it’s a cutesy shortcoming,
when there’s probably another line of people pissed off by that guy’s attitude. “So it’s a relief that
we’re married now so he can just call me ‘husband’ in case he forgets.”

“Haaaa.” Well. At least, despite Dazai’s extremely long list of shittiness, forgetting his name will
probably never make an appearance. “So your siblings are… ‘husband’s family’ or something?”

“He’s been addressing them like that even when they’re alone.” John smiles and tugs Chuuya and
Sakaguchi close for a picture when someone asks them to smile. It’s almost instinctive now, when
Chuuya knows that John loathes all this display of wealth. Is this what true love does to people?
Turns them into actors with photoready smiles? “My family thinks it sounds royal. They’re stupid
about it, really.”

“It’s probably not a good idea to call them stupid.”

“Not like they can hear me,” John gestures to the lot of them, busy with stuffing their faces, but
delicately, using the proper cutlery order and everything.

Sakaguchi clears his throat and Chuuya knows that the time for chitchat is over.
“Well. Congratulations – we won’t keep you from your mingling duties.”

John wordlessly sets him off with a clap to his back, eyes shrewd. Chuuya feels the littlest bit
judged.

Before Chuuya can warn Sakaguchi about being too obvious when it comes to gathering
information about the Fitzgeralds, there’s a request for him to stop and pose. Chuuya waves off the
questions, but they’re pretty insistent.

“—awkward as you’ve dated Mr. Fitzgerald before?”

Well, they’re now both Fitzgerald, aren’t they? Chuuya squints at the reporter and finds himself
mildly terrified by how resilient journalists are. Technically, he has also dated both of them, no
matter how briefly or ill-advised. But then again, it’s not like anyone here has actually paid
attention to John pre-engagement announcement.

“Well, it was a one-night stand,” Chuuya confirms with a stage whisper, keeping one hand on
Sakaguchi’s sleeve so the other can’t slink off and do extracurricular work. “As in, we spent one
night standing around in an exhibition.”

On one hand, it’s a very large arrow pointing to Chuuya’s current location. (But then again, Dazai
surely knows where he’s at right now, Dazai’s many things but not intelligent isn’t it.) One another
hand, keeping the cameras focused on him (and on his date that’s unceremoniously dragged to this)
because of his juicy stories will make sure that the cameras will also hone in on Sakaguchi.

Oh well, this can be his additional wedding present to John.

★★★

[May 26]

“—not so dead, this house of yours, isn’t it?”

Fyodor Dostoevsky spreads his hands as far as the chains will allow. It still looks commanding and
imposing, like the chains can actually crumble with just a word.

And then, it actually does.

The chains crumble to the ground and the overhead lights suddenly blink off, and—

Chuuya doesn’t even get the chance to run away from the prison cell when the walls start coming
down, supposedly to halt any advance of escaping prisoners. But instead, it only effectively locks
Chuuya in an enclosed space with Dostoevsky, effectively separated from Sakaguchi, Fukuzawa
and Mori-san just beyond the walls.

“You—!”

“Yes, that is my doing.” Dostoevsky tilts his head and exposes the pale skin of his neck – or at
least, the small part that’s not covered by his prisoner attire. “But do not fret – I only did it so we
could have real privacy.”
 Chuuya snorts, “I’m sure. Undo that shit that you just did, you—”

“Will you listen to my offer? It will help with your dealings with your Dazai Osamu, after all.”

Chapter End Notes

because i can't have an update w/o a long AN:

i really have no words for my tardiness! thank you to all those who’ve read this, who
commented, who bookmarked, who kudos’d and just generally remembered this fic’s
existence. you're all such angels, thank you ♥♥♥

here's the rundown of the upcoming chapters:

:: CH20 – covers May 26, the full length of the Fyodor/Chuuya talk/chapter
:: CH21 – covers May 27, the Dazai/Chuuya airport reunion chapter
:: CH22 – covers May 23, Fyodor’s POV + June 18, Fyodor’s prison escape chapter
:: CH23 – covers June 19

revised estimate of chapters is 31 chapters, including epilogue! the plotty bits should
end by CH24/25, which should give ~6 chapters for Dazai & Chuuya to be back to the
fuwafuwa loveydovey relationship :)
 Chapter 20
Chapter Summary

“Oda-san… he doesn’t… didn’t completely understand Dazai-kun, not entirely at

least, I think, but he did understand that Dazai-kun was lonely.”

“Lonely isn’t a word I would use to describe Dazai.”

“Because he’s pretty happy when he’s with you, right?”

Chapter Notes

• some parts have been posted on my twitter before, but there have been some changes
to the dialogue, so please don’t skip anything! :D

• a lot of references to CH15 during the Fyodor/Chuuya chat & CH2 (the Chuuya/John
date) so it might be helpful to have those chapters handy!

• feedback/screaming is always welcome!!! :D i hope you’ll forgive me for being

super late to replying (…still…backlogged…) but please do know that i treasure every
single one of your comments! & re-read them at least 10 times i swear, you’re all so
sweet *v*♥

• also, i'd like to blame thank chomra, gab & senren for reminding me to update this
before i get too distracted by looking @ trip itineraries for chuuya lmao ♥ ♥ ♥

• lastly, chapter is divided into 3 parts - part 3 might induce screaming so pls be
warned accordingly;;;;;;; that said, i hope you enjoy & happy friday! ♥

See the end of the chapter for more notes

★★★

[May 26]

“—schedule is a bit tight.”

Chuuya hums as he examines the contrite expression on Sakaguchi’s face from the mirror. He’s
never been all that great when detecting lies, usually preferring to take people at their face value.
He closes his eyes as he gives up on trying to read the other man – or rather, he only manages to
read sincerity, which, because Sakaguchi is someone who’s actually been friends with Dazai, isn’t
all that trustworthy.
(But then again, that’s a little unfair, isn’t Flawless—? But then again, that’s probably why he’s
flawless like his Ability’s name. Managing to remain pure and untarnished by a mafioso’s lifestyle
even if it doesn’t make sense.)

“It’s fine.” He replies, anyway. In a way, Sakaguchi was his date, even for such a small time and
for such a farce. “I was the one who wanted to go to John’s wedding.”

“Those two… are quite possibly more different than—well.” Sakaguchi clears his throat, sounding
unsure whether it’s okay to proceed. The road they’re currently on is smoothened by a sheet of ice,
the car ambling along without any bumps. As if in contrast, Dazai’s friend or not, Sakaguchi is still
lacking in finesse when it comes to subtle manipulations on conversations.

John’s family, upbringing and beliefs. Fitzgerald’s previous family, upbringing and beliefs. They
couldn’t be more different, and yet—

“They come from wildly different backgrounds, but they managed to ignore their differences and
their worst parts so they could enjoy each other’s bests.”

Sakaguchi’s tone isn’t sly, but that only shows his cunning. “While you and Dazai-kun have the
same backgrounds, but have managed to pursue wildly different paths?”

“There’s a reason the wedding I came from is John’s.”

‘And not mine’ is unsaid, but it hangs in the air, frozen despite the car’s heating cranked up high to
combat the seemingly-eternal winter around them.

“And that I was your date instead of Dazai-kun?”

Chuuya grits his teeth and kicks at the seat, which should jostle Sakaguchi a bit, but not to the
point that his driving will veer off-course and kill the two of them in a freak accident.

“You know…” Ango’s conversational tone is also pretty annoying, all things considered. “Dazai-
kun disliked talking about you, even in the safety of Sensei’s bar.”

Chuuya’s eye twitches. He’s not particularly excited to meet with Dostoevsky, but he’s starting to
wish that he’s with the Russian instead of this guy. “Hmph. That bastard probably enjoyed talking
about, what, the newly-released Pocky flavors at the time? About the ladies that he broke the hearts
of? About this or that game that he beat the high score of?”

“You’re actually right.” Sakaguchi coughs to cover his laugh, but not quickly enough that Chuuya
couldn’t hear. He kicks the back of the driver’s seat again. “He liked talking about superficial
stuff. Things that wouldn’t get him in trouble. Things that wouldn’t let anyone peek into his heart.”

“There’s nothing but coal there,” Chuuya retorts, but it sounds weak, even to his own ears. He
understands what Sakaguchi is getting at, somehow, an amorphous shape that seems to spell out
that Dazai considered him as some kind of weakness that would chink his armor. It shouldn’t be a
compliment and it should be an annoyance, but given that Dazai is Dazai… It shouldn’t make
Chuuya pleased, so he stomps down on that feeling.

“I didn’t really get it before, but he’s quite lonely, isn’t he?”

“If he was a more decent person, he’d have a better social life.”

“Dazai-kun’s personality… hmm, it’s pretty bad, isn’t it?”

“What are you softening the blow for, you could just say it’s fucking terrible.”

“His mind is pretty twisted,” Sakaguchi agrees. “Ever since he’s young, he’s been really smart,
right? He’s smart enough to understand humans, knows how their minds work. He’s smart to know
that there’s a lot of terrible people.”

“He should be smart enough to know enough not to add to the terrible-ness.”

“Isn’t that what he did?”

Sharp inhale, then: “Haaaaaaaaaaaaa, I’m pretty sure I didn’t sign up for a ‘Dazai is an Angel’
Talk, Pastor Sakaguchi.”

“But you need to hear this, I think.”

Whiplash-quick, “You thought wrong.”

“Oda-san… he doesn’t… didn’t completely understand Dazai-kun, not entirely at least, I think, but
he did understand that Dazai-kun was lonely.”

“Lonely isn’t a word I would use to describe Dazai.”

“Because he’s pretty happy when he’s with you, right?”

Chuuya doesn’t answer, only keeps his eyes closed so he doesn’t see the expanse of snow
blanketing everything around them. And so he can’t have eye contact with the person chauffeuring
him to the prison currently holding Dostoevsky.

After a couple of seconds, Sakaguchi continues, when it’s obvious that Chuuya will not deign to
respond to that. “You both ended up pursuing different paths… but didn’t you end up on the same
one, in the end?”

“Dazai isn’t on his way to meet with the demands of Fyodor Dostoevsky, is he?”

Sakaguchi doesn’t point out that it’s Chuuya who escaped from Dazai in the first place. Or that
Dostoevsky has expressly requested to speak with Chuuya, not anyone else. Or that Dazai was
dealing with Dostoevsky up until a couple of weeks ago. Instead, “I’m fairly certain that he’s on
his way to follow you.”

“I can handle an imprisoned criminal, without an Ability, mind you, on my own.”

“And Dazai-kun needed to handle becoming a human being on his own.” Sakaguchi doesn’t a miss
a beat when he adds, “And so did you, right?”

Chuuya doesn’t talk to him for the rest of the ride.

★★★

Mori-san’s first words to him, after a long time of not seeing each other face-to-face: “Good job in
escaping from Dazai-kun’s clutches.”

Chuuya’s body is confused, for a moment, because he wants to instinctively bow to Mori-san, yet
he doesn’t want to acknowledge the other’s words. He ends up being frozen there, in the hallway
three doors away from the special cell holding Fyodor Dostoevsky.

There have been numerous transfers in the past couple of weeks, because of the resurgence of The
Decay of Angels and Rats in the House of the Dead. It’s not a secret that they plan on getting
Dostoevsky out – it’s one thing when Abilities are still present and Dostoevsky’s plans have
accounted for being imprisoned. It’s another thing entirely to have an entire organization flopping
around like a headless chicken, seeking out its brain.

The current prison they’re at is thirty minutes to the north of Korsakov, which should make it easy
to transfer Dostoevsky after to the special underground holding cell in Hokkaido. The next cell is
special and solitary, which would make visiting very difficult. Now’s the best chance to find out
what Dostoevsky wants to gain by talking with Chuuya. There’s a chance that it’s just a statement,
a more socially-polite fuck you to Dazai who has supposedly denied Dostoevsky that vein of
negotiation.

Well, whatever it is, Chuuya’s here because he wants this to stop. He already has a lot going on in
his life, he doesn’t need the whispers of Corruption growing louder and threatening to break open
from his ribs. (And if he’s able to stop Dostoevsky, the Demon that even Dazai couldn’t defeat
alone… well, that’s another matter entirely.)

“Dostoevsky’s ready?” Chuuya knows it’s impolite, but he doesn’t make further small talk or ask
about Fukuzawa-san. Mori-san and Fukuzawa-san have been supervising the transfers and have
therefore been spending the past couple of months joined at the hip. Chuuya really has a lot going
on in his life, he doesn’t need his mind broken by gross old men being gross together.

“He’s been harassing the guards, asking after you.” Mori-san looks at him with the same-old
calculating look that has made him so terrifying. It looks like he’s trying to dissect Chuuya alive,
infinitely curious about why the Demon is looking for someone like Chuuya. “The guards would
appreciate the reprieve.”

Chuuya nods as he listens to the security briefing. Dostoevsky’s entire floor is being handled with
extra caution – neighboring cells are empty, because he’s driven them to suicide just by the power
of his suggestive words. Chuuya’s not scared at all, because he’s been with Dazai for so long.
Cutting words can’t make him bleed—not anymore.

Fyodor Dostoevsky’s demand is to speak with Nakahara Chuuya first, in a room with just the two
of them, before he reveals his intel on the plans to return Abilities to the world. Dostoevsky has
agreed to audiovisual surveillance via the security cameras surrounding his cell and the hallway
beyond it – almost as though it’s part of his demand, when in reality it’s non-negotiable to begin
with.

Chuuya clears his mind of anything that can be used as a weakness against him. He’s here so he
can get information from Dostoevsky. If he’s not able to read Dostoevsky right, Mori-san,
Fukuzawa-san and Sakaguchi are on stand-by, watching the video feed. He can do this. He takes a
deep breath and nods to the head of the prison security so that he can be ushered inside the
requested ‘room’. It’s basically Dostoevsky’s cell with the man inside, the two empty cells flanking
his, the empty hallway.

The door closes with a heavy groan, leaving Chuuya alone with Dostoevsky within a space of a
few square meters.

Chuuya goes on offensive first, “—not so dead, this house of yours, hmm?”
Fyodor Dostoevsky stands in the middle of his modest cell, looking like he’s undisturbed and
faintly enjoying his capture. He then spreads his hands as far as the chains will allow, clinking
sounds in Chuuya’s ears. Despite his prison uniform and the general shabbiness of his
surroundings, Dostoevsky still looks commanding and imposing, like the chains can actually
crumble with just a word.

And then, it actually does.

The chains crumble to the ground and the overhead lights suddenly blink off, and—

Chuuya doesn’t even get the chance to run away from the prison cell when the walls start coming
down, supposedly to halt any advance of escaping prisoners. But instead, it only effectively locks
Chuuya in an enclosed space with Dostoevsky, effectively separated from Sakaguchi, Fukuzawa
and Mori-san just beyond the walls.

“You—!”

“Yes, that is my doing.” Dostoevsky tilts his head and exposes the pale skin of his neck – or at
least, the small part that’s not covered by his prisoner attire. “But do not fret – I only did it so we
could have real privacy.”

Chuuya snorts, “I’m sure. Undo that shit that you just did, you—”

“Will you listen to my offer? It will help with your dealings with your Dazai Osamu, after all.”

Chuuya feels his heartbeat trip and fall to a crawl. Stuttering, struggling to recover. And then it
beats, hummingbird-quick, as Chuuya tries to make his mouth work. His throat feels like he’s
being strangled right now, even though Dostoevsky is still behind bars and there’s nobody else
around.

He—

He needs to do this.

He can verbally spar with Dostoevsky. He’s not afraid of cutting words. He can stall for time until
the people outside can work this out.

“…he isn’t my Dazai Osamu.”

“Your lengthy pause and your blushing face renders your statement false.” Dostoevsky smiles
though, like they’re friends, when they’ve only met once, and that was under pretense. “But please
do excuse me – I had a lot of thoughts of what I should first say to you and I ended up not being
able to say any of them.”

“Well, do pardon me that I haven’t devoted any time at all to thinking about you.”

“Apology accepted,” Dostoevsky smoothly says, happily missing his sarcasm. “I couldn’t wait to
meet you again, Nakahara Chuuya.”

“Somehow, I didn’t think that Yokohama was that big.” Chuuya shrugs, but his back is against the
wall, to maintain the farthest distance between them, given that Chuuya can’t actually run for the
hills at this point. “Not that I actually wanted to see you.”

Dostoevsky’s smile doesn’t falter. “You didn’t wonder why a powerful Queen was kept away from
the frontlines?”
Chuuya bristles, because the memory of being the Acting Port Mafia Head and being sucked inside
an Ability still stings, even after all these years. “I fucking hate chess so if you’d please stop with
the metaphors?”

“Japan’s Demon is a quite competent strategist, after all.” Dostoevsky’s smile widens, like he has
sniffed out something delicious. “I’m certain that it was no trouble for him to manipulate you into
being backed to that situation.”

“If you wanted to trade stories about Dazai’s assholishness, you should have told me ahead of
time,” Chuuya frowns as he tries to think about why Dostoevsky is going for this topic. “I could
have brought some embarrassing pictures.”

Dostoevsky continues though, with a serene expression on his face: “And so even though my hands
were all over Yokohama, I was unable to reach you. I have to admit that was clever – vexing, but
clever.”

“So, what, you’re saying that Dazai planned for me to get captured by that Ability so we couldn’t
meet?”

“He wanted to make sure I couldn’t take you away with me,” Dostoevsky’s face suddenly morphs
into something colder, as if to match his surroundings. “An unforgivable man, really.”

“I have zero plans in joining your squad of crazy.” Chuuya raises an eyebrow. “With or without
Dazai’s supposed meddling.”

“You wouldn’t have to lift even a finger.”

“Ha, so you know my Ability. Previous Ability.”

“I know you, Nakahara Chuuya. I would like to get to know you further.”

There’s a leer there, buried underneath the calmly-spoken words. Chuuya needs to regroup, divert
things a little bit.

“I seem to remember you touching me that time.” Chuuya hates remembering that time, really, but
if it will help… “Did you read my mind or something back then?!”

“I knew that you’re unlike anyone else.” Dostoevsky’s expression smoothens back to the previous
neutral one—no, this time, there’s a pleased tilt to his smile. “No wonder Japan’s Demon is very…
protective of you.”

“Haaaaaa, Dazai being protective! That’s so funny I could cry from laughter.”

Dostoevsky’s still smiling.

“One of the members of Rats in the House of the Dead is a Truth Ability-user. If you cooperate
with me in making Abilities return to the world, he can help you interrogate Dazai Osamu so you
could find out the truth for yourself.”

“…is that supposed to be your recruitment pitch?”

“It’s supposed to make you think about your circumstances,” Dostoevsky corrects, still with that
ever-present smile that Chuuya wants to slap out of his face. It’s infuriating and it reminds him of
Dazai, which is more than enough reason to hate it. “‘Dazai Osamu saved his favorite toy from
being cannibalized by his surroundings’ – don’t you want to know if that statement holds true?”
“I don’t need an Ability to tell me that.”

“Don’t need, huh?” Dostoevsky walks around his cell, an even, gentle pace. It’s almost as if he’s
just sightseeing or something. It rankles at Chuuya, at how someone so certifiably evil and insane
can be so at peace, when it’s taking him all his might just to feel the slightest bit normal.

Chuuya needs to be firm. “I really don’t.”

“There is a list of the world’s most powerful Abilities – ones capable of destroying the world.”
Dostoevsky walks closer, until his forehead is touching one of the vertical metal bars. “One of
them doesn’t have a name, rather, a description. So powerful that only glimpses of it have been
witnessed, you see. The description is this: Tainted One. Do you follow?”

Chuuya bites his lip as he swallows, his mind tugging at the Spider’s Thread being dangled in front
of him. Some sort of salvation is being offered to him, if he pursues this conversation. But he
knows that the offer is from a Demon, and so—

Even so—

Deeming the silence as enough of an answer, Dostoevsky continues, “I had wanted to recruit The
Tainted One, long ago. Especially once I’ve learned that the Ability has been passed to a child –
it’d be easier to… influence a kid’s decision to pursue a path not tainted by sin, after all.”

“So, you wanted to recruit a kid who didn’t know any better?” Chuuya crosses his arms over his
chest, not caring anymore that it’s a universal sign for defensiveness. “Were you involved in
that—”

“Unfortunately, I was still building my network back then. Therefore, I wasn’t involved in the
events leading you to be sold to the human traffickers.”

“And that’s unfortunate?!”

“It is, indeed. It led you to meeting Dazai Osamu first, didn’t it?”

“Hmph, so your plan didn’t work out, what a sad, sad, thing.”

“More vexing than sad, really.” Dostoevsky corrects him again. “After that, all traces of The
Tainted One have been removed from all records. Even though you were picked up by the Port
Mafia, you didn’t exist in their records until you were eighteen. Even though you were part of the
well-known soukoku, your existence was completely hidden.”

“Because I was a liability.”

Dostoevsky smiles at him with something approaching benevolence. “Because you were Dazai
Osamu’s weakness.”

“—that can’t be.”

“If nobody knew about you, if nobody knew about your strength, if nobody knew you were
important, then you couldn’t be hurt. Such a romantic notion, isn’t it? It can almost drive one to
madness.”

“You’re lying. This is all just a bluff, just—just a steaming pile of bullshit.”

“Well, that’s true.” Dostoevsky shrugs like he didn’t just drop all this information upon Chuuya’s
unprepared hands. “It’d be great if there was a way for you to find out the truth, wouldn’t it?”

“Pfffft, so this is just a ploy to rile me up into helping you escape from here?”

“Tell me – do I still remind you of Dazai Osamu?”

Suddenly, there’s an odd sound, like the walls are being scraped against industry-grade sandpaper.
The overhead lights dance again, a dizzying disco that irritates Chuuya. He feels like he’s about to
throw up – it’d be great if he can hurl right into Dostoevsky’s shoes. Chuuya tells himself that it
doesn’t matter—that the reasons don’t matter, because in the end, Dazai decided to lie to him over
and over again. Chuuya tells himself that and hates Sakaguchi and Dostoevsky so much that he
could scream.

Hates Dazai so much that he could only see red.

“You can give me your answer next time.” Dostoevsky’s smile looks almost deranged, satisfaction
and victory and promise all etched in that serene background. “We’ll see each other again, I’m
certain of that, Nakahara Chuuya.”

Above all, he hates himself so much for never being able to hate Dazai enough to erase the
temptation to accept Dostoevsky’s offer.

Fyodor Dostoevsky’s smile and laugher – acid bubbles over a placid field of ice – rings inside
Chuuya’s mind.

★★★

[May 27]

Chuuya’s beyond exhausted from all the travelling – even though he used a private chopper from
one of Mori-san’s connections that brought him from Dostoevsky’s current prison in Korsakov to
the nearest airport. It’s rare to have direct flights from Sakhalin Island directly to Tokyo, so he’s at
least thankful that there’d be less transfers and less jetlag.

He’s among the last ones to disembark when they finally land on Narita, a briefcase in hand along
with his travel suitcase. Most of his other things – suits, bigger souvenirs and some presents from
John – will be shipped separately so that they don’t get crushed and wrinkled.

Come to think of it, he’s not sure if the others are already aware that he’s alive and kicking? The
thought of sending a group message still feels a bit strange – it feels weird to just, out of nowhere,
send a message about his whereabouts? Also, he’s half-expecting Dazai to have blown up already
so everyone probably knows already?

Just to be safe, he slinks towards the shops that sell imported chocolates. It’s not like his trips were
for pleasure, but it also feels wrong to come back empty-handed… And chocolates are generally
loved by everyone he knows, so it should be a good choice since his head is too heavy to think
specific preferences at the moment.

Chuuya’s signing for his purchases as the cashier bags the chocolate boxes, when there’s a sudden
sigh from the cashier in front of him. She looks fairly young and impressionable – the starry-eyed
look making it easy to guess what’s about to happen next.
“It’s just like you, Chuuya.”

Despite Chuuya already sort-of expecting it, he still feels the slightest lick of surprise, to the point
that he fumbles with the pen as he returns it to the slack hands of the besotted cashier. After all,
Chuuya’s spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about Dazai during his trip, no thanks to the
revelations from Sakaguchi and Dostoevsky.

“Stop stalking me,” Chuuya says in response, leaving the chocolates on the counter for the
moment, turning around to face Dazai.

“Yakutia Airlines, Seat 3B, arrival time 13:50,” Dazai rattles the facts about his flight as though it
isn’t creepy and a breach of so many fucking laws to hack the websites of different Russian
airlines. “And you’ll think about buying smaller souvenirs so you’ll drop by the most expensive
store that sells imported chocolate so that there’s less people and zero queue.”

Chuuya rolls his eyes so hard they almost feel like they’re going to tumble out of his face. “Yeah,
whatever, so I’m that predictable.”

“It’s part of your charm.” Dazai says this as he looks at Chuuya like—like he’s an even more
expensive chocolate, one of those gold-dusted chocolate balls. Like Dazai would like to devour him
whole. “…Mori-san told me that you got locked in with that Demon.”

“Of course, you two gossip like kids, why am I not surprised?”

“Hmm, that’s rich, coming from Chuuya?” Dazai taps a finger against his lips, acting as though
he’s having trouble remembering his next set of words, when Chuuya knows it’s a big, fat lie. “I’m
pretty sure that you talked about me with Ango-kun.”

“And Sakaguchi told you that?”

“There’s no need – I know Ango-kun is a meddlesome person.” Dazai doesn’t look amused by
that, not in the least. “He probably warned you off from me, ne?”

It’s actually the opposite, but Chuuya doesn’t find satisfaction in catching Dazai on his incorrect
predictions. Sin begets sin and evil expects evil, after all.

“I don’t need warnings from anyone to know you’re bad news.” Chuuya takes great care not to
cross his arms over his chest, so as not to appear defensive. “I’ve known that since the first time
I’ve met you.”

“…and yet, you still stayed with me.”

“And yet, I stayed.”

Even when you left.

Dazai sighs, like he’s infinitely tired, even more exhausted than Chuuya. It isn’t immediately
obvious, given that on the surface, he always looks so calm and collected, like it’s simply effortless
to exist in this world. But there are dark circles under his eyes, lines of fatigue drawn over his
cheeks, heavy weights taut around the droop of his shoulders.

Dazai probably went overboard in trying to find him and fretting about him.

“I’m not your responsibility, you know.” Chuuya’s not someone that needs protection or hovering,
certainly not from someone who can’t even get his own life in order. He’s not someone to be a part
of some checklist, not someone to be accomplished and accomplished well. He may be a monster
or a human being or something else entirely, but he isn’t some burden that Dazai must bear.

“We’re partners,” Dazai says with so much conviction, that Chuuya almost believes it, this time.

But he shakes his head, because there’s a difference.

“We’ve never been partners.”

Because partnerships imply equality. And they’ve been standing on wildly different worlds ever
since the beginning.

“Chuuya—”

And Dazai is speechless, breath cut off there, like he’s being gutted right in front of Chuuya’s eyes.

Chuuya looks at Dazai, really looks at him, at the man who has no sense of propriety that he stalks
someone’s flight details, that he corners someone in some really cramped chocolate store so that he
can’t run away without knocking down a couple of displays. At the man who hunted down the
people that made his childhood hell, at the cost of hurting Chuuya more. At the man who has
apparently wrapped him in cotton and locked him inside a box, so that nobody else can even know
of his existence, not knowing that he’s suffocating inside. At the man who apparently loves him
back – has loved him back – since before he even understood what love was.

And because Chuuya is looking at Dazai, he sees it.

A particular shine.

A particular glint of a gun’s barrel.

It’s a cramped area, hardly any space to run away.

For a moment, Chuuya is reminded of his final date with John.

—“Why did you decide to stay in The Guild when moneybags left? If you hated it so much, why did
you decide to rebuild it?” —

Back then, his failure to notice that there was a sniper trained on John. Back then, his thinking that
he lacked sufficient instincts for bloodlust and danger. Back then, his misunderstanding about
Dazai’s motives.

Right now—

He sees it, a man standing in the middle of a relatively-spacious corridor, given the hour of the day
and the price range of the shops around. A man wearing a wig so that most of his face is practically
covered by hair. A man confidently training a gun at the back of Dazai’s head.

Right now—

He sees it, in crystal-clear quality. Sees the possible trajectories of the shot if it’s deflected, sees
the damage that it could do to the shop and to the innocent civilian inside, sees the fact that he’s
short enough that it will be dead-center to his forehead if he takes Dazai’s place. Sees a future of
Dazai slumped on the ground, head bleeding.

Rejects it.
—“Why are you training to be the Port Mafia’s Boss when your partner left you?” —

Right now—

—“Whether you decide to join me or not, Abilities will return to this world, Nakahara Chuuya.”—

It’s not even a decision.

Facts, laws, theories.

Truth.

He cannot bear to have Dazai die.

It’s a simple fact.

Opposites attract.

It’s a simple law.

Based on the statements that Dostoevsky had made and the haste with which everyone else acted
regarding his demands—

It’s a simple theory.

And then, at the last split-second, the gun’s trajectory shifts, so that it’s instead pointed straight at
Chuuya’s forehead and if Chuuya moves, it will either hit Dazai or the cashier behind him instead.
So Chuuya freezes on the spot instead.

It’s not even a decision.

But before anyone else can react, there’s a bullet leaving the barrel and then—

There’s Dazai crossing the distance between them, lightning-quick despite being a fucking
weakling compared to Chuuya.

Dazai’s heavy, knocked unconscious, slumped over Chuuya, bleeding all over Chuuya’s clothes.

And after that, it’s chaos.

Chuuya moves before his mind can even catch up to his body. He doesn’t even have the time to say
the usual chant out loud, his left hand quickly tugging the glove away from his right, exposing his
palm under the bright, fluorescent lights.

O acquaintances, grantors of dark disgrace, do not wake me again!

I will endure my solitude, arms seeming already useless.

Right now—

—“Why are you training to be the Port Mafia’s Boss when your partner left you?” —

Monster or not, disqualified as a human being or not, normal or not—

Not being with Dazai is infinitely more painful than getting hurt by Dazai.

Nakahara Chuuya is in love with Dazai Osamu.

 Since back then,
Right now,
Always.

Corruption’s whispers about disgrace turn to screams of rage.

Monster or not, disqualified as a human being or not, normal or not—

Chuuya can’t simply stand by seeing Dazai get hurt.

“Let him pay for disgracing us—he can’t disgrace us—don’t let him touch it—we will not be held
back, we will not be disgraced any longer—”

once I believed
love poems were foolish
yet now I do nothing
but dream about love

Chapter End Notes

thank you for reading!!!

now, before you all have me arrested, pls make sure that i have my laptop w/me in my
jail cell so i can write the next chap by next week LOL please let me know what you
think :)

references!

• the Truth Ability User has always been part of the plan, so i'm happy to know that
it’s actually canon asdfghjkl
• Spider’s Thread reference because (a) it’s a very interesting imagery; (b) it’s a short
story written by IRL Akutagawa; (c) and IRL Akutagawa was inspired to write this
after reading IRL Fyodor’s The Brothers Karamazov
• sound of person’s laughter telling you about the person’s personality is a quote ©
IRL Fyodor’s Crime and Punishment… along w/the smiling/laughing no matter
what’s happening (as they say, you can’t spell slaughter without laughter… but that’s
not a Fyodor quote;;;;;)
• ‘Grantors of dark disgrace…’ © Sheep Song; ‘Love poems…’ © Exhaustion; both by
IRL Chuuya
• Yakutia Airlines actually don’t have flights from Yuzhno-Sakhalinsk to Narita on
May 27, 2018 (sold out, I think) but for the sake of making it a smoother trip for
Chuuya (and the timeline holding without bursting my sanity…) let’s just assume that
there is an available flight on that day okay hahahaha
 Chapter 21
Chapter Summary

• Fyodor escapes from prison & meets Chuuya in Yokohama

• Dazai's marriage proposal to Chuuya
• Chuuya's response

it's 6,666 words but i promise it's a chapter befitting White Day! ♥

Chapter Notes

• hello there again! thank you for dropping by!!! ahhhh, i really am sorry for my delay
in replying to comments & for the delay in posting;;;; i got distracted by the Dead
Apple/LNs.... but at least i have something now! this chapter marks the official end of
all the Angst. the fyodor plotline will be resolved and dazai finally gets to propose to
chuuya properly... enough of my blathering though, onward to the chapter!!! ♥♥♥

See the end of the chapter for more notes

★★★

[May 27]

The most annoying thing about all of this isn’t even the fact that he’s surely been had. No, the most
irritating thing about this is the fact that he’s still very much exhausted and still very much
jetlagged and now he’s very much imprisoned. His clothes feel heavy with dirt and grime. Going
from a wedding teeming with celebrities to a prison teeming with evil to an airplane teeming with
weary businessmen to a prison teeming with criminals… his past two days have certainly been
wild. He hasn’t been able to take a shower or freshen up, at least.

He had to resort to calling Sakaguchi to get him to move his manipulative ass and bail him out
here. Of course, he could have called Hirotsu-san or Ane-san, but Sakaguchi is a direct line to the
government so he’s simply cutting out the middleman.

He’s not worried about Dazai. Sure, he’s bleeding out from a gunshot wound, but there’s the
airport medical services…

Oh, who the fuck is he kidding, of course he’s fucking irritated about not being able to make sure
that the stupid bandage bastard doesn’t welcome death from gunshot wound with open arms.

To be honest, Chuuya’s not entirely sure what it means, to have been able to call upon Corruption
at will. Abilities should have been completely erased from this world… did that mean that
Dostoevsky had actually started with his plan even though he’s still in prison? Plus, to call it ‘at
will’ is a bit… It didn’t feel like willpower. It felt more like an utterly absurd truth – the fact that
he couldn’t allow anyone to live after daring to hurt Dazai.

Chuuya sighs and looks down at his gloved hands, hoping for answers. Of course, they’re just
gloves, so nothing comes forth. He shifts, sitting more comfortably on the very uncomfortable steel
bunk bed. There’s only one bunk bed in a room holding ten prisoners, but all the other prisoners
are huddling together on the opposite end of the tiny cell, as though they’re being pushed back by
some invisible forcefield surrounding Chuuya. Normally, he’d be the slightest bit offended by that
kind of treatment (he doesn’t look mean or scary, does he?!), but having more space as he tries to
ponder what’s happening is definitely welcome.

There are Public Endangerment charges against him for using Corruption in public. Since the
removal of Abilities have become known, all sorts of public destruction are treated in the same
playing field, after all…

Chuuya sighs again.

This really sucks.

★★★

[May 28]

“You could have been much faster,” Chuuya complains, but it sounds half-hearted. He’s just really
glad to be out of prison that he even doesn’t feel that angered upon seeing Sakaguchi’s mug.
“You’re really pushing for that stereotype about government workers, aren’t you?”

Sakaguchi smiles, a little teasing. “Did you want to try the solitary? We can still drop by there
before we leave.”

“I’ll kick your glasses and where will you be?”

Before Sakaguchi can respond (probably something about having spare glasses anyway), Hirotsu-
san coughs, as respectfully as possible when he’s holding a handkerchief over his nose. “It took
quite some time because of some complications.”

“Great, just what I wanted to hear.”

Sakaguchi doesn’t even have the decency to look apologetic over ruining his day before it even
properly starts. “The Rats had successfully broken Fyodor Dostoevsky out of prison yesterday.”

“WHAT.” Chuuya’s hands are lifting Sakaguchi by his collar before he even knows it. “That’s—!
That’s not just some complication—!”

“We… managed… to recapture him…”

“WHAT.”

“We managed to recapture him.”

“I heard you the first time,” Chuuya spits out, dropping Sakaguchi to the prison’s long hallway
lined by cells. “Lead with that next time, will you?!”

“The point is we’ll prevent a next time.”

“Don’t be a smartass.”

Hirotsu-san interrupts again, with a louder cough and a more pointed-slash-disapproving look at
Chuuya’s state. “We’re going to cooperate with other… organizations so we can ensure that the
subsequent transfers for Dostoevsky don’t have any other close calls.”

Sakaguchi recovers, adjusts his collar and his glasses, so that said glasses are practically glinting at
Chuuya when he speaks. “We also have to make sure that Dostoevsky doesn’t have any moles
working for him.”

Chuuya snarls, thinking about the shower he needs since two days ago, thinking about the fact that
he still hasn’t ascertained with his own eyes that Dazai’s going to be just fine. “You better make
sure you know what you’re talking about before you say your next words.”

“Shortly after you’ve spoken with Dostoevsky—in privacy, if I may add—you have regained some
use of an Ability, which is supposedly impossible.” Sakaguchi’s glasses are still glinting. “Isn’t it
such a great coincidence that Dostoevsky is also involved in the plan to return Abilities to this
world? Isn’t it such a great coincidence that at the same time that you had activated your Ability,
The Rats had managed to break Dostoevsky out, almost as though your Ability’s activation was a
signal? Isn’t it such a great coincidence that Dazai-kun got incapacitated at the same time?”

Chuuya breathes in deep.

“If you’re accusing me of being a mole for that Russian fucker, you better have solid evidence, not
just coincidences.” Chuuya breathes in again, then decides: fuck this. “Also, you think I planned
for that bandage asshole to get shot?”

Before he can even grasp the reins of his body, Chuuya’s already kicking Sakaguchi, the impact
making Sakaguchi fly to the other end of the prison’s hallway.

“I don’t give a crap if you want to insult me,” Chuuya doesn’t even know why he’s revealing this
much, but it’s spilling out from him, years of emotions that he hasn’t been ever able to properly
control. If this is what happens to him when Dazai gets shot, he’s going to do his best to make sure
that bastard doesn’t ever get so much as a papercut ever. It doesn’t bode well for his sanity. “But
don’t you ever insult my feelings for that asshole.”

There’s silence, for a beat.

Then clapping and jeering from the other prisoners who have been paying rapt attention to the
drama. Then laughter from Sakaguchi, even though it sounds faint and gurgly. Then… giggling?

Chuuya slowly turns so he can glare at Hirotsu-san. More importantly, at the phone that Hirotsu-
san is holding, which is suspiciously tilted so that it’s recording Chuuya properly.

“…I didn’t think this day would come,” Hirotsu-san says, without remorse whatsoever. “After all
those years of complaints and whining from Dazai-kun, I’ll be finally released from my duty.”

Chuuya sighs, exhausted once again. There’s no winning against Hirotsu-san, is there?

“Just make sure he doesn’t know about this,” Chuuya makes some vague gesture around himself,
towards Sakaguchi’s still-slumped-against-the-wall form. “I’d rather be the one to tell him, face-to-
fist.”

Hirotsu-san’s lips twitch, before he bows his head. “As you say, Boss.”

★★★

[May 29]

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re the gunshot wound victim here.”

Chuuya sits up straighter in the plastic chair that has been permanently dragged to Dazai’s bedside.
His laptop is half on the bed, his two phones are on the bedside table. Dazai’s IV stand is on the
other side of his bed. Near the IV stand is a bigger table, a small fridge tucked underneath it.
Chuuya’s seated so that he’s facing Dazai’s still-unconscious mug, sunshine spilling from the
bulletproof window behind him. A couple of steps beside the door is the closet, where Chuuya’s
travel suitcase is. Near the closet, there’s another door that leads to the bathroom with shower. It’s
almost like any of Chuuya’s hotel rooms when he’s out of the country for a mission, the only
difference is that there’s only one bed and there’s an unconscious idiot in it.

“Yosano-san.” Chuuya closes his laptop and places it on top of the bedside table, arranges it so that
his two phones lie on top of it. “Thank you for visiting. Would you like something to eat or drink,
perhaps?”

“Pffft, a gentleman bocchan even now, huh?” Yosano drops a couple of books on the bigger table,
follows it up by opening the fridge and placing a bottle of wine inside. “I can stay for three hours
today, help babysit when Ranpo-kun and Poe-kun visit.”

Chuuya laughs a little bit. “I’m sure this offer isn’t because you want to help me consume the wine
you brought.”

Yosano waves a hand. “We can properly get drunk once that guy wakes up.”

“Doctor’s orders?”

“I would give you doctor’s orders, but there’s no cure for lovesickness.”

“…Hirotsu-san?”

“Everyone already knew,” Yosano says, a little kindly. “But we won’t tell him, don’t worry.”

“I thought everyone already knew?”

Yosano laughs, in that graceful and implacable way of hers. It’s sort of nice, to see that there’s
someone unfettered by all the things happening around Yokohama and beyond. “He hasn’t
received that face-to-fist confession yet, has he?”

“So it’s Hirotsu-san—!!!”

★★★
[June 16]

Chuuya traces veins, imaginary and otherwise, on Dazai’s right hand. There’s barely a twitch there,
but there’s some kind of warmth, some stirrings of a pulse. It’s something that he’s been prone to
doing for the past couple of weeks of practically living in the hospital suite offered by the
government.

It rankles at him – still, even though they’ve been here for weeks now – that they’re under the eye
of a couple of suits and who-knows-who-else. But Dazai’s an important resource when it comes to
developing plans that can go toe-to-toe with Dostoevsky’s – and an even more important resource
if Abilities would indeed be returned to the world.

And Chuuya—

He’d like to say that he’s here solely because he’s invested in Dazai’s well-being, but that would
be a lie. He’s here mostly because it’d be an even bigger pain in the ass getting tailed around by
those who suspect him to be an accomplice to Dostoevsky.

After all, on top of Sakaguchi’s teasing jibes from the last time they saw each other, Dostoevsky’s
apparently been not cooperative in providing actual useful information. Oh, he provides
information all right. But they most lead to nowhere. Dostoevsky apparently has been murmuring
his name at random intervals, even while he’s supposedly asleep.

Chuuya knows that Dostoevsky’s faking it. If Dostoevsky is even 1% like Dazai, he’s definitely
faking it. He’s not sure about the end goal – annoy Chuuya into joining his faction? Just take
Chuuya out of the picture? But it definitely can’t be anything good.

At least, while he’s here, watching over Dazai’s unconscious form, he can have some control over
the people he interacts with. He doesn’t accept visitors that he hasn’t spoken with before. He’s not
about to be turned into some goddamn puppet by some fucker who doesn’t even know him.
Having it done by Dazai before is enough.

(And if Corruption gets activated again, if Corruption escapes his will, if Corruption ends up
eroding him—isn’t it better if he’s far away from anyone he could hurt? Yes, but isn’t it much
better if he’s able to be with Dazai before the end? It’s all jumbled and messy thoughts and
Corruption doesn’t whisper to him again, but it feels like it’s just there, simmering underneath the
surface of his consciousness, like it’s just waiting for that one moment so it can spill out of his
fingers, pour out of his mouth, leak out of his eyes. He’s ready for it. He’s ready to face Corruption
again, even if Dazai is sleeping the sleep of someone who had been shot a poison bullet whose
antidote is still being developed.)

In the mornings and afternoons, there’s a steady stream of visitors that are there for both Dazai and
Chuuya. There’s a couple of books that get added to the slowly-tilting pile, of different genres,
because the contributors have wildly different tastes. The fridge is always full of different desserts
from Kyouka and Lucy. There’s always an overflow of snacks and biscuits from Kyusaku and
Elise. There’s always warm, home-cooked meals from Akutagawa and Atsushi, even though more
than half the time, the actual cooks were Higuchi and/or Gin. There’s a terrifyingly huge smart TV
set installed thanks to the Fitzgeralds. There’s always a fresh set of clothes and toiletries because of
Ane-san and Hirotsu-san. Kunikida, Yosano and Tachihara have some sort of shifting schedule to
ensure that there are babysitters and peacemakers available should Motojirou and Ranpo visit at
the same time. Poe brings Karl to visit, sometimes at the same time Atsushi brings in his cat.
In the evenings, when it’s only him and Dazai inside this room, Chuuya removes his gloves and
holds Dazai’s hand, skin-to-skin contact that helps ground him. He thinks of all the things that
happened between them, of all the things that happened to him because of Dazai, of all the times
that his heart has been futilely caught inside his blood-and-flesh-and-bone, when all it wanted was
to flow into Dazai.

Thinks of the video games, the breakfasts, the useless knickknacks, the unpublished poems, the
chores effortlessly divided, the warmth amidst a life-long winter, the steady tick-tock of his tell-
tale heart that knows nothing aside from one thing and one thing only, the scent of apples, the
splash of red, the gentle caresses, the sound of his name in the other’s singsong, the taste of home.

Thinks of Dazai being the poison apple that he can’t help but wanting to know, to covet, to taste—
the gravity that has once pulled it down, the gravity that solidifies their attraction.

Thinks of his desire to be normal, to be accepted.

Thinks of Atsushi and his effortless way of sneaking into people’s hearts; thinks of Akutagawa and
how he’s so like the senpai that he has admired for so long; thinks of Kunikida who embodies
order against chaos; thinks of Fitzgerald and his flashy suits; thinks of John and his compromise
and his unfettered love.

Thinks of Kyouka and her desire to bask in the light; thinks of Lucy and her strength to put her
beloved’s happiness above all; thinks of Higuchi and her earnest honesty; thinks of Gin and her
strength to stand with her own feet; thinks of Naomi and her distaste of hiding her love; thinks of
Yosano and her grace under pressure; thinks of Motojirou and his relentless pursuit of tangible
truth; thinks of Ranpo and his unhindered view of the world; thinks of Poe and his unwavering
feelings.

Thinks of Tachihara—who surely deserve better than someone who doesn’t even notice his
feelings until now.

Thinks of Ane-san—who had provided him with the kind of love that he hasn’t really received
from his blood family. Thinks of Hirotsu-san—who had always looked after them tirelessly. Thinks
of Mori-san—who had shown him leadership and how to take hold of the things that he wants.

Thinks of Corruption and the blood on his hands.

Thinks of Sakaguchi and the things that Dazai had never said.

Thinks of OdaSaku and the past that he can’t compete with—the past that he shouldn’t compete
with.

Thinks of Fyodor—who is threatening to break all of this fragile peace.

Chuuya thinks of Chuuya, of Dazai, of Chuuya-and-Dazai.

The cloying scent of ripened apples, the arterial spray of their love bleeding into their everyday
life, the touches and the kisses that are so light but carry the weight of years of emotions, the sound
of their laughter promising forever, the taste of home.

Chuuya holds Dazai’s hand with his right hand, just as his left hand picks up the phone when it
rings.

He could stay here, by Dazai’s side, wait until tomorrow rolls into another tomorrow into another,
into another—
“I’ll be there. Book my flight.”

But he will not.

The doctors and the people surrounding him—they have their responsibilities. And he has his.
Bearing the suspicious glances, bearing the possibility that he isn’t the first one to see Dazai wake
up, bearing his feelings for just a little bit longer.

“I’ll make sure that damn Dostoevsky gets to his permanent prison.”

★★★

[June 19]

Chuuya hasn’t screamed in frustration since he was a teenager, but now seems like a good time to
start doing it. But he’s here, practically rooted in place, mouth is just gaping uselessly, because
he’s just arrived, just been pardoned out of prison (again—can’t they get it into their skulls that
he’d rather die a thousand times than help Dostoevsky?!), the same prison that Dostoevsky should
still be in.

“If you’re about to ask a rhetorical question, let me posit a rhetorical answer: I am here because
you wished it so.”

Fyodor Dostoevsky should be locked up—he was in prison just yesterday, Chuuya was there—he
shouldn’t be here—but here he is, standing in the middle of the apartment that belongs to Chuuya
by name, but has been so infested and infected by Dazai that it reeks, it makes him reel and makes
him sick—and Dostoevsky shouldn’t be here.

Hours away from the special underground cell engineered to hold a certain person permanently—
Fyodor Dostoevsky is here.

“So this is your home? Very… quaint. ”

Dostoevsky looks around, June’s summer not deterring him from wearing his winter outfit, hands
gloved and fur coat around his person. It’s the same sort of outfit he wore when he was originally
imprisoned. It fits him so well, the prisoner’s uniform a far cry from this walking, breathing
wasteland.

Chuuya’s just arrived (and he shouldn’t even be here, because this is home, but also not, because
this is where Dazai has lied so many times to him and Chuuya still—) and he hasn’t even had a
chance to arrange his armful of mail—and Dostoevsky’s walking towards his coffee table, gloved
hands easily tearing through the package he’s received, uncaringly dropping the contents back to
the table.

And in a way so different—yet so similar—to the way Dazai’s presence in his apartment feels,
Chuuya’s throat goes dry and sticky at once, a lump that’s impossible to swallow, once he sees the
contents of the package.

It’s just two small, insignificant things.

Dazai’s old phone and old pendant.

He’s not—

Dostoevsky makes a curious humming sound though his eyes remain hollow and blank, curiosity
for curiosity’s sake, as he pries open the pendant. It fails, the thick gloves making it difficult, so he
simply chucks the pendant hard enough at the table—and for a guy who claims to have a weak
physical constitution, it’s a pretty solid throw—and Chuuya can only watch, frozen in his place, as
the pendant cracks and locks of reddish-brown hair spills out, leaving only a familiar picture inside
—

“Have you thought about my offer?” Dostoevsky doesn’t look like he minds that his conversation
partner is struck speechless by the fact that there’s an escaped criminal in his living room.

And Chuuya tries to make his mouth work, tries to answer, tries to deny, tries to accept, tries to do
something, anything. Instead, Chuuya hears a hiss that wells up from deep inside his heart.

“Let him pay for disgracing us—he can’t disgrace us—don’t let him touch it—we will not be held
back, we will not be disgraced any longer—”

“I do not understand why you do not wish to assist me.” Dostoevsky continues, seemingly
unbothered by the fact that black and red are pumping into Chuuya’s veins. “It is to your benefit,
after all.”

Corruption hisses louder, grantors of dark disgrace unimpressed with the lack of bloodshed.
Chuuya grits his teeth, tries to keep it at bay. “It’s hardly any citizen’s benefit to aid and abet a
terrorist.”

“It is disheartening to hear you lump yourself amongst the normal citizens of Yokohama, no matter
how interesting they could be.”

Chuuya removes the gloves on his right hand, fixing his fighting stance to something less beastly,
something more human.

“It is wonderful though, to see you attempt to reign over your Ability.” Dostoevsky’s eyes are
bright with his praise, even though his lips are nearly black with evil intentions. “However, you
should take care to rein it in. It might cause poor Dazai-kun to never wake up, after all.”

Before Chuuya can retort to that, demand clarification, snarl at the threat—Dostoevsky continues:
“Now, why don’t we take a stroll around Yokohama? I haven’t had the chance to properly enjoy
this city’s tourist spots. Won’t you indulge this request of mine, O Tainted One?”

★★★

“Isn’t this nice?”

Chuuya grits his teeth as he gestures with his free hand towards the queue outside MUTEKIROU.
“That’s the best French restaurant in Yokohama.”

There’s a tug on his left arm, as though to physically prevent him from losing himself in the crowd.
Fyodor Dostoevsky is strolling with him across all the romantic spots in Yokohama, a list handily
provided by the internet. Of course, the action that looks sweet and harmless to an outsider is
actually a warning to Chuuya, the gun pressed against his stomach hidden by their clothes and their
uncharacteristic closeness.

“I think we’ll have more fun passing on food for now, hmm?”

“Right.”

Chuuya has been allowed to make one phone call before he got whisked away on this ‘date’. It was
a tough choice, to pick the one person who would calmly and logically make a decision as to how
to track Chuuya down and prevent Dostoevsky’s plans. Normally, it’d be Dazai, but given that the
bastard’s still unconscious… Mori-san is probably still in the plane back to Yokohama, given that
he stayed later than Chuuya in Hokkaido.

No.

He trusts Kunikida.

He’d be able to make everyone cooperate, without letting himself be swept away by emotions.

Chuuya’s not afraid of getting shot, but he’s not certain that he can control Corruption when he’s
dying from bloodloss… and if it’s true, that Dazai’s involved in removing the Abilities before…
Chuuya can’t risk it. He’ll play along, until they all get a clearer picture of this plan.

“Should we go to Chinatown next?”

“Aren’t you laying it on a little thick?”

“It is good to enjoy these kinds of dates.”

Chuuya rolls his eyes, as the two of them start to walk towards Chinatown, passing by a couple of
shoppers who giggle at them. “You don’t look half-bad, I’m sure you could get dates without the
threat of a gun.”

“But will I be able to get Nakahara Chuuya on a date that way?” Dostoevsky’s tone sounds only
the slightest bit curious. “I don’t think so. Maybe I should join the Port Mafia and then betray you,
no?”

“Ah, now I know why you need a gun for your dates.” Chuuya tries not to let the rage take hold of
him, as the two of them stroll like lovers who can’t bear to be apart. “Your humor is in bad taste,
demon.”

“I would think my humor is better than Dazai-kun’s.”

“So you admit that it’s shitty?”

“It’s the same kind of humor that would chop off a beloved’s hair then have it as a keepsake, after
a betrayal orchestrated by one’s own hands.”

“…still in bad taste.”

“Tell me, did you find it romantic? That he has been keeping a lock of your hair close to his heart
all along?”

“I found it unhygienic.” Chuuya aims for airiness in his tone. “I wasn’t exactly fresh from the bath
when he took it from me.”

“You do find it romantic,” Dostoevsky declares, as bland as the announcement of checkmate.

“Since you do remember when it was taken from you.”

“Given that I’m far from the usual age for senility…” Chuuya tries to shrug, but the pressure on his
left elbow tightens. Ah, so he can’t move that much then, huh. “And it was a pretty memorable
day, too.”

Despite the fact that it’s a Tuesday, the Motomachi Shopping Street is pretty busy. Chuuya presses
himself closer to Dostoevsky’s side. He might be irritated (biggest understatement of the year and
it’s not even halfway over) by getting forced to stroll around with a terrorist, but it’s even worse if
he somehow manages to lose track of the demon.

But eventually, they manage to reach Chinatown without additional mishaps. Chuuya dutifully
points out the different shrines, preventing himself from retorting about how everything he says is
on the website that Dostoevsky checks every now and then anyway.

Of course, he knows that going on this… ‘date’ has its uses. He’s being paraded around as an
accomplice to Dostoevsky. Even if Kunikida is able to dispel any suspicions about him, it could
still affect the split-second judgment of whoever will be sent to tail him and apprehend
Dostoevsky.

…he has to buy some time.

“Let’s go to the Sankeien Garden next.”

“…Oh? You’re showing interest in this rendezvous?” Dostoevsky’s smiling, like he’s pleased.
“Did you finally realize that you need to stall for time?”

Chuuya grits his teeth again. “There’s an 800-year-old legendary love story there. It’s the epitome
of romance.”

“I’m afraid that’s not the type of romance I’m interested in.”

“And by that you mean…?”

“Let’s go to the Yokohama Marine Tower instead.”

Disbelief and incredulity colors Chuuya’s face. “—?! You?! W-Why are we going there?!”

“The travel guide says that the tower has a 100% success rate when it comes to proposals.”

“You plan to—?!” Chuuya blinks a couple of times. Dostoevsky’s half-dragging him towards the
Marine Tower. “I’m not going to accept!”

“Is that so? It’d be a pity to sully the landmark’s record.”

“I’m not gonna agree just because of a damn record!”

“That is fine.” Dostoevsky’s smile is still in that pleased curve. “If you reject me, I’ll simply push
you off the Tower.”

“—?!”

“And then, Corruption would surely activate.” Dostoevsky’s tone starts to turn a little dreamy, like
he’s enjoying this grim fairytale. “It would certainly be enough to tax Dazai-kun, no? It could be
your gift to him – the double-suicide with someone beautiful that he’s always wanted.”
“And if that bandage bastard croaks, all the Abilities in the world will return?”

“Exactly.” Dostoevsky’s dreamy tone gains an almost-feverish longing in it. “And then I can go
ahead and punish Ability users their sins.”

“…Why even bring back Abilities to begin with, if you hate it so much?”

“Ah. But just because the Abilities are not able to be activated by their owners, doesn’t mean that
the users’ sins have been absolved, no? Dazai-kun’s efforts in helping seal Abilities is simply
turning a blind eye to the root of the problem.”

“And your problem is that Ability Users are evil?”

“Ability Users must be punished for their sins,” Dostoevsky corrects, the jut of the barrel pressing
even harsher against Chuuya’s stomach.

“And you’re the best judge for that, huh?”

“Of course. I am Crime and Punishment, after all.”

★★★

“Oh, isn’t this such a wonderful surprise,” Dostoevsky says, like he’s discussing about how water
is wet. “Looks like we have an additional witness to my proposal, hmm?”

It’s—

Not a wonderful surprise at all.

Dazai—

Dazai, the absolute fucking bastard of a madman, is there. He’s tied up, a noose around his neck,
ready to be tightened. He still has some bandages around his torso, around his head. He looks like
he’s death warmed over. He’s here.

He definitely snuck in to be here, definitely not under Kunikida or anyone’s orders, ahead of the
rescue team, because he’s Dazai who is always one step ahead.

There’s a guy behind him, someone wearing a mask. The guy is holding onto a mouse-shaped
device, a red blinking light on it. The guy waves at Dostoevsky, which is acknowledged by a
shallow nod.

Without the need to hide the gun in-between their linked arms, Dostoevsky points the gun at his
temple instead. Chuuya keeps his breathing shallow, even as the masked guy comes closer and ties
his hands with rope. Chuuya waits until the guy takes a step away before he tries to wiggle his
fingers, tests the give of the restraints. It’s going to hurt a lot, but he can get free. He carefully
doesn’t look at Dazai.

“Nakahara Chuuya, will you listen to my proposal?”

“You mean all that talk earlier wasn’t enough?” Chuuya shrugs – or at least, tries to look like he’s
shrugging. He loosens the restraints a little bit more. He carefully doesn’t look behind him, at the
100 meters of free-fall if he does indeed get shoved off the tower.

“The other witness aside from Dazai-kun is the Ability User I had promised. His Ability is to
detect truths. Now, will you join me?”

It’s a choice.

It definitely doesn’t feel like one—damned if you do, damned if you don’t—but it’s a choice
nevertheless.

It feels heavy, cloying and poisonous. Like his entire lifetime is narrowed down to this point in
time, to this very moment. Like all the other choices he has made, he has failed to make, he has
neglected to make—like all of them will cease to matter as long as he gets this one right.

Chuuya swallows and looks at the man across him, at the man who has a similar noose wrapped
around his neck. He needs, wants, to get this right.

In between them, there’s the demon and the man promised to him. A Faustian contract—and now,
it’s endgame. The one thing Chuuya needs so badly so that he can deal with Dazai on a fair, even
ground, as partners. The promise of guaranteed honesty—it’s something that Chuuya needs
(needed) so badly.

“…no way in hell.”

“Is that so?” Dostoevsky doesn’t sound surprised at all. “It is disappointing, but I do not make
jokes.”

Chuuya tries to shrug again, but Dostoevsky’s ally is approaching him, pinning a ticking bomb on
his chest. There’s something odd about it, shaped like a mouse, an arrhythmic ticking.
Dostoevsky’s ally moves away from him and the ledge separating Chuuya from certain death. The
ticking sound beeps regularly, but—oh. It doesn’t match the slower rhythm of the beat against
Chuuya’s chest. He resolves not to look at Dazai or at anywhere else.

“Ne, Chuuya.”

Dazai being Dazai, without a care about interrupting life-changing decisions, calls out to him. And
Chuuya being Chuuya, a fool in love with a bastard, actually looks up and acknowledges the other
hostage.

Dazai wriggles in place, making it seem that he’s futilely trying to break free of his restraints. But
Chuuya knows that Dazai’s been free since five minutes ago.

There’s just a couple of meters between them.

If Chuuya chooses to, there could be the same gap between their hearts.

In his mind’s eye, he remembers the words spoken a while back:

“There are nooses everywhere. There’s a ticking bomb strapped to the unfortunate spouse. The
ceremony’s held at a skyscraper about to fall down. Meteors will rain down on Earth as
punishment for allowing such idiotic thing to happen.”

“I plan to be a plague on your side, until you’re thirty, until we’re both old men who can’t walk
properly.” Dazai smiles at him, ignoring the sarcastic warning by their captor about making sure
they can’t walk at all if they continue to misbehave. “I’ll take care of you even if you suck at
thanking me properly.”

And Chuuya can only stand there, with his own hands secretly unbound, waiting for the right
moment, his heartbeat thudding in his ears.

“For as long as you want me to be… I’ll be whoever you want me to be.”

Dazai’s smile is—

It’s both accepting and resigned, both hopeful and desperate.

It’s a sort of honesty that Chuuya doubts any Ability can ascertain.

“Will you marry me, Chuuya?”

Chuuya swallows and—

—his heartbeat drums to the beat of the bomb’s timer ticking down near his chest—

—O expectations, stale and dismal airs, leave, leave this body of mine! —

—As one, as partners, as two people who have never stopped being intertwined, Dazai and Chuuya
break free of their restraints, reach for each other and jump.

—O acquaintances, grantors of dark disgrace, do not wake me again!—

And Chuuya chooses, his first real choice, his first choice made solely for himself, because of
himself, for what he himself wants and needs.

As two bodies fall from Yokohama Marine Tower, two others look on from above, attempting to
trigger a bomb that has been deactivated already. As two bodies fall from Yokohama Marine
Tower—

Dazai has his just-freed arms wrapped around Chuuya—

And Chuuya’s own arms are wrapped around his choice—

And Chuuya’s own answer of forever is swallowed by the rush of adrenaline and free-fall,
underscored by Corruption’s own silence of forever.

★★★

“I told you they’d be fine and lovey-dovey!” Edogawa Ranpo’s voice is the first thing Chuuya
hears from his afterlife. He keeps his eyes closed, not fully prepared to face hell yet. “Why didn’t
you listen to me? I told youuuuuuu!”

Poe’s voice is next, that combination of awestruck and fond: “That’s right, Ranpo-kun.”

“We couldn’t have just left them behind!” Kunikida’s voice sounds harried, like he’s the one who
actually jumped off a hundred meters down the Yokohama Marine Tower with an absolute
madman. “And now, they’re not moving. Are they dead?”
There’s a cellphone ringing. Kunikida picks it up immediately. “How is it? Did you capture
Dostoevsky? Did everything go well? Did—”

Atsushi’s voice, excitement clear even over the phone’s loudspeaker. “YES, IT’S OK!!! DID YOU
SEE IF THEY KISSED ALL THE WAY DOWN?!”

There are sounds of squabbling, before Akutagawa says a loud, embarrassed ‘Atsushi!’, which
presumably ended Atsushi’s life prematurely, because it’s Akutagawa who’s on the loudspeaker
after. “Mission has been accomplished. Mori-san had called and advised that he, Fukuzawa-san and
Sakaguchi-san had apprehended the members of the Rats hiding in Hokkaido.”

Throughout it all, Chuuya keeps his eyes squeezed shut, his right ear pressed over the steady beat
of Dazai’s heart. Dazai cushioned his fall; both of their falls cushioned by the heavy-duty
trampoline that Dazai had somehow prepared in-between Chuuya going up the Tower with Fyodor
and their subsequent fall.

“They’re not moving!” Kunikida again.

“Come on, Kunikida-kun, use your head a little, obviously they’re still reeling from the Suspension
Bridge Effect and are probably hiding the fact that they’re aroused—”

“WE ARE NOT!” Chuuya yells, sitting up abruptly. He keeps his eyes closed though, still
unwilling to see anything yet in this new life of his.

Ranpo’s voice is smug. “See, they’re just fine.”

“Let’s… come on, let’s give them some privacy…” Poe’s voice is muffled, but there’s some
noises of assent, with Atsushi’s yelling from the background, until there’s nothing much left, aside
from the pounding of Chuuya’s heart and the steady breathing from the guy underneath him.

“…They’re gone.” Chuuya sighs, then adjusts his position, so that his knees are caging Dazai’s
hips, his body bent over Dazai. He can’t allow any of them running away from this conversation,
after all. “I should start.”

Dazai doesn’t say anything, so Chuuya continues. His hands move so that one of it is on top of
Dazai’s heart, while the other is loosely cupping the curve of Dazai’s neck. Not to strangle Dazai,
but to feel the other’s pulse. They have no need of the Ability User who can detect truth, this way.

“You—”

I love you.

I love you so fucking much.

I love you so much that I feel like I’m going to die if I stop.

I love you—the you who can see the corruption and accepts me anyway—even before I met you.

“You—”

I love you, he practices in his mind.

“You’re a fucking bastard.” Chuuya exhales, then continues. “You’re selfish, manipulative, a waste
of bandage, a demon, a goddamn prodigy, a traitor, a guy who does his own thing without caring if
people get hurt, too petty, too childish, zero design sense, condescending, annoying, hogs all the
blankets, too clingy, clingier than an octopus, doesn’t have self-control when it comes to gossiping,
worse than a goddamn terrorist, you—you—you—you’re one hell of a goddamn fucking asshole,
you know?”

Dazai doesn’t respond, but his breath hitches slightly, his heartbeat going faster. Or is that
Chuuya’s? It doesn’t matter, does it? Dazai doesn’t respond, but Chuuya thinks he knows why.
Knows why.

“You have all these plans and strategies and you don’t trust me, not anyone, sometimes not even
yourself. And it’s annoying as fucking hell. How the hell am I supposed to be a good partner to
you, if you don’t… And then—and then, you! You leave me behind in the Port Mafia when it’s
your fucking fault to begin with that I’m there?! How inconsiderate can you be?!”

Chuuya’s punching Dazai’s heart, but Dazai doesn’t protest or stop him. It almost feels like he’s
crying, but he can’t be. He still has so many things he has to say, after all.

“And then—you, you waltz into my life again, letting me date everyone else while you’re just
what, pouting in the background?! Casually moving in with me?! Without telling me?! You think I
enjoyed thinking about being with someone else other than you?! You’re such an inconsiderate
asshole!”

Chuuya’s other hand is tugging at Dazai’s hair, almost out of his own will. “And I find out you’re
the one who fucking cut off my hair, did you know how mortifying that was?! Did you know how
many hangovers I got because of you?! And I find out that you’ve been basically stalking me and
acting like some fucked-up silent protector?! Why won’t you trust that I’m strong enough to stand
for myself?! If you wanted to keep an eye on me, you could have just not left me behind, you
fucker! Or you know, you could have just taken me with you! Or better yet, why not just tell me
your plans?! Do you think I’m narrow-minded enough to stop you from wanting to give your life
meaning?! I may not be as pure as that Oda, but I still would have understood!”

Ah. It’s no good. He’s going to cry, isn’t he?

Dazai’s hands, both of them, rise to cup his cheeks, thumb poised under his eyes, as though he’s
saying that he’s ready to accept his tears. It’s fucking irritating.

“You’re the actual worst,” Chuuya finally breathes out, spent. But he takes another deep breath,
because he can’t run away. “You’re the actual worst and I love you.”

“…Chuuya.”

Chuuya shivers. He’s expecting that his name is going to be the first word Dazai will utter, but to
have it become reality is still a bit mind-wrecking.

“Chuuya. Chuuya. Chuuya.”

“What,” he says, feeling his face flush. “Don’t just repeat my name, you asshole.”

“I love you, Chuuya.”

“Urgh, that’s not what I—”

“Does this mean that you agree to marry me?”

Chuuya feels his cheeks burn even more, but he wrenches his eyes open, Dazai’s face the first
thing he sees after that fall. He looks like a mess, really, still a bit pale and blotchy. But it’s a view
 greater than some billion-dollar masterpiece. A view for Chuuya alone.

“Did your brain cells get obliterated by the fall? Weren’t you listening to me? I told you—pffft.”

Dazai tugs Chuuya down forcefully to his chest, trapping him there. It’s a new cage of sorts, but
this time, Chuuya’s voluntarily handing the key to Dazai.

A love that is not normal. A love between people who are not normal. An extraordinary type of
love.

Chuuya can’t wait to experience it.

Chapter End Notes

they FINALLY reached this stage after 84 years (&105k words later);;;;;; well, it's not
completely smooth from here on out, because even though they're engaged, dazai still
has to work on making it up to chuuya.... but we finally reached this stage i'm not
crying T_____T

references/symbolism stuff here!

Itinerary for Fyodor/Chuuya’s… “date”
Yokohama Marine Tower boasts a 100% success rate for proposals ;)
My guess for this fic’s Fyodor’s Crime and Punishment is discussed @ ch15
Suspension Bridge Effect!
June 19 = Dazai’s birthday

see you next water time! i'm super excited for the fuwafuwa domestic soukoku again
i;m---
 Chapter 22
Chapter Summary

+ dazai & chuuya's first day as engaged dorks

Chapter Notes

+ thank you, thank you, thank you for tuning in!!!!! ♥ ♥ ♥ i'm a donut who's super
slow at replying to comments, but they're all dear to my heart, thank you so much for
all of your love and support for this fic!!!! ♥ ♥ ♥ i hope you enjoy this next arc,
which should be full of sweetness and humor and just soukoku being domestic and
adorable as they build their lives as Actually In A Relationship Dorks together. thank
you very much ahhh ilu all ♥ ♥ ♥

+ this chapter in particular is dedicated to my dearest Gab (advance happy birthday &
tysm for everything!!!) & chomra (ganbatte to your exams!!!!!!!!!).

+ even though they don't read this, thanks to kei & jullia for helping me brainstorm
about date ideas/first kiss ideas hahahaha ilu ♥

+ now, to the fic!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Chuuya wakes up and stretches—tries to, anyway. He only manages to open his eyes and wriggle
his toes, but further movement is arrested by the sight that greets him: Dazai smiling softly at him
—like he’s irreplaceably precious, like he’s a gem that will only be mined once in every ten
thousand years, like he’s going to disappear the moment they cease contact with each other.

It’s an entirely new type of desperation, but it’s also softened by the fact that both of them know
that they’re committed to making this work. Or at least, that’s what Chuuya supposes must have
happened in-between now and him opening his eyes to a whole new world and an entirely new life
yesterday, then practically crashing head-first to the remains of his apartment and slightly-dusty
bed.

He’s not too surprised or shaken to realize that he’s practically nestled into the warmth of Dazai’s
body, an arm wrapped around him like he’s being bundled in so much affection, his own blanket
tucked near his neck, too much warmth and coziness in one setting.

The curtains are drawn; his view of his bedside table’s clock is blocked by Dazai reclining against
the headboard with his phone in hand. Brown hair looks soft and mildly wet from a shower, the
scent of apples and the warmth making him think of apple pies. With the way the blanket is drawn
over Dazai’s body – oh, they’re sharing the blanket – he’s able to see the navy blue robe loose
around Dazai’s chest, no bandages peeking out from the space above the topmost button. Long,
oversized sleeves nearly cover Dazai’s fingers as he focuses the phone’s camera at Chuuya’s face.
He looks comfortable and sleepy. Looking at Dazai, surrounded by Chuuya’s things, by the dim
glow of his bedside lamp, even in such an imperfect setting, dust motes floating about—the sight
makes him feel boneless, sated. Nevertheless, it’s also enough to quickly rouse his heartbeat from
its sleepy state.

“Good morning, Chuuya.”

Dazai says it so simply, like it’s absolutely normal for the two of them to wake up cuddling in bed,
like it’s normal for him to spend god-knows-how-many minutes watching him sleep.

Chuuya’s cheeks burn where they’re pressed against Dazai’s thigh, and they burn even more when
Dazai reaches down and tucks a stray lock of hair behind his ear, before following that movement
and leaning down as well, pressing feather-light kisses to trace his hairline from his ear to his
forehead.

They’re… moving forward. Dazai’s fingers are warm from his shower as they cradle Chuuya’s
face, points of contact that tell Chuuya a number of things, ranging from apologies to confessions.
Chuuya still has a long list of misgivings, but—like this, being together with Dazai like this, is
almost enough to make him forget every single one of their still-unresolved problems.

He can have this, right…? It’s okay to want this, right…?

Chuuya doesn’t quite realize that he’s biting his lips as his mind starts to reboot as well, becoming
aware of things in the world aside from cuddling with Dazai and exchanging soft nuzzles with each
other. At least, he doesn’t quite realize it until he feels Dazai pressing his index finger against the
fullness of his bottom lip, pressing against the edge of his teeth until he stops biting it. Chuuya’s
cheeks burn even more, if it’s possible, when he meets Dazai’s eyes, at point-blank range.

Bending down like that must hurt like hell for Dazai’s spine, so Chuuya slides upwards, his right
hand lightly pushing back at Dazai’s shoulders so that Dazai’s back to leaning back against the
headboard, Chuuya following the shape of his body by swinging a leg over so that he’s seated
securely over Dazai’s lap instead, the blanket bunched in-between their chests.

“…you too, Dazai.”

Chuuya’s left hand traces the smile on Dazai’s face, feeling it widen instead of disappearing, feels
the soft ridges from the other’s lips. The muted lighting plus the apple-cinnamon smell makes him
feel both hungry and satiated at the same time; he squirms as his stomach flip-flops upon feeling
Dazai’s arms wrap around his waist so that they’re locked in tight together, their clothes, the bed,
the world practically melting into nothingness.

“…The taste of honey in the air, nothing substantial but enough to eat & live from.”

Chuuya feels his own lips twitch, the gravity between their hearts feeling less like a drowning
suffocation and more like oxygen that he needs to exist.

“I told you time and time again: stop messing around with my poems,” is what Chuuya replies to
the quote that Dazai has shamelessly stolen from his poem collection.

“I’ve long memorized them,” Dazai confesses, rather shamelessly still, as he bestows soft kisses on
each of Chuuya’s exposed fingertips. Then, a beat. “…I think I’m going to sick from all this dust,
Chuuya.”

And there, in the first morning after their new life begins, surrounded by dust as Chuuya’s
apartment hasn’t been cleaned in months, wrapped in messy blankets, crumpled bedsheets and each
other’s limbs, trying not to sneeze and wheeze, chuckling about the situation they’re in—it’s there
that Chuuya feels that everything will be alright between them.

☆☆☆

It’s almost as if they’re really starting over. Chuuya scrunches his nose at the sputtering water
pressure for his shower, but it more-or-less manages to see him through his entire bathroom routine
without being interrupted by Dazai waltzing into his personal space. When Chuuya comes out of
his bath, a damp towel draped around his neck to catch the wet droplets from his hair, it’s to the
smell of his favored Guatemalan coffee and heated cream-cheese bagels.

Dazai’s pouring orange juice to a glass, but he stops halfway, leaves them on the counter, before
meeting Chuuya so that he can tug Chuuya closer by the ends of the damp towel, their legs
bumping together. Dazai then combs through Chuuya’s still-messy hair using his fingers, fluffing
his hair up—it’s too sweet, that Chuuya feels his throat choke a bit. Of course, it isn’t the first (or
even hundredth time) that they’ve been close like this, but it’s the first day of the rest of their lives,
of the two of them being this close while knowing and understanding what they really mean to
each other.

Dazai then tugs at the longest portion of Chuuya’s hair, pulls it forward so that he’s kissing the tips
of the red-brown locks, whisper a shameless “…Itadakimasu.”

“You are so not eating my hair.”

Dazai’s eyes light up, brighter than the morning sun streaming to the room. “I would rather eat
something else, Chuuya.”

“You—!” Chuuya rolls his eyes and tries, half-heartedly, to untangle himself from Dazai’s
embrace. “We’re supposed to be busy today, stop saying such things!”

“So if we weren’t busy then…”

It’s strange to talk about such things so overtly, but Chuuya gulps and nods, before collapsing
forward against Dazai’s chest, hiding his burning face. It’s a comfort to find out that Dazai will
catch him, even if it’s incredibly embarrassing.

“I could always just ditch them,” Dazai murmurs to the top of his head. “I don’t even like Mori-san,
after all.”

“Be responsible, idiot.” Chuuya rolls his eyes and punches Dazai’s chest lightly. “It’s your job,
right? And think of it as your wedding gift to them.”

“I still can’t believe that they’re getting married before us…”

“They’ve known each other for decades,” Chuuya reminds him, even though it’s a statement that
applies to them too. “And they’ve planned the wedding for a longer time.”

“Mori-san just wanted to upstage me…”

“I’m pretty sure you ranked fairly low on his priorities when picking the wedding date,” Chuuya
comments with a laugh, peeking up to see Dazai’s pout. He leans up, almost on his tiptoes (okay
fine, he really is on his tiptoes), and rubs Dazai’s pout away using his forehead. “Stop pouting
already.”

“Mm, only if it means I get to kiss Chuuya’s forehead lots.”

“You’re already doing it…”

“Mm, but I kind of want to see if Yuri-chan’s recommended breakfast pastries are half as good as
Chuuya…”

“How is she, by the way?” It’s been ages since Chuuya’s seen the nosey cashier from the nearby
coffee shop, after all.

“She’s been asking for updates about our love life, actually.”

“Is that why you’ve been taking pictures of me earlier?!”

“Chuuya – do you think I’ll be so easily satisfied by pictures?” Dazai says the word ‘pictures’ like
they’re some low-level trash. “Of course I took HD-videos!”

“What is so fun about videos of my sleeping face?!”

“Ah, is Chuuya interested to know?” Dazai moves their entangled bodies closer to the dining table,
where Dazai’s phone is. “We could watch the videos together as our movie night!”

“…the videos are long enough to last an entire night?”

“…no.”

“Fuck.” Chuuya squints at the flush on the bridge of Dazai’s nose, feels his belly flutter with
ravenous butterflies. “It’s longer than one night?! Do I even want to know?!”

“If Chuuya really wants to know…”

“…we’re going to be honest with each other, right?”

Not just when it comes to questionable hobbies, not just when it comes to their feelings for one
another.

“Total recording length of Chuuya’s sleeping face is at 158 hours, 43 minutes, and 19 seconds—”

“Noooo, I don’t want to hear it anymore!”

☆☆☆

Breakfast over, Chuuya watches Dazai’s back as he washes the dishes dutifully, like he’s some sort
of househusband—no, no, no, it’s not the right time to think of such things! It’s—it’s kind of
exciting though, to feel free and unhindered in thinking about spending every morning like this,
with Dazai doting upon him, spoiling him with light touches that manage to be equally binding as
heavy chains.

But mornings all must end to give way to the rest of the day, so Chuuya absent-mindedly plays
with the contents of the décor salad on their dining table (Dazai seems to have added a couple more
to the mix – some keychains, marbles, fridge magnets) while his other hand scrolls through his
phone for mail and daily reminders.

It’s… surprisingly empty though?

He double-checks his internet connection and refreshes all of his apps, but it’s still showing him a
free day.
There’s a mild flick against the furrow in his forehead, before Dazai’s fingers that smell faintly of
dishwashing liquid rub at the spot. “I asked Hirotsu-san to give you some rest.”

“Taking over my leave schedule, again?”

Dazai shrugs, not denying it at all. “You’re going to be busy with fixing your living arrangements,
right?”

Chuuya looks around the apartment that has seen the two of them through the rollercoaster of their
newfound relationship. It feels unthinkable to leave it behind, but just like all the homes that
Chuuya has found and left during his life, he ends up with Dazai every single time anyway, that it
feels like his actual home lies with Dazai anyway.

…Oh.

…Oh.

…Oh.

So that’s—

Chuuya blinks and sees Dazai’s face blurred.

He blinks again, twice, thrice, in quick succession, but the blurriness is still there. His eyes feel hot,
burning embers, but it’s nothing compared to the way his veins are singed, with affection drugging
him on overdrive.

“Eh?! Chuuya—why are you crying?! What—did I do something—I’ll make them pay, wait, is
this because I asked Hirotsu-san to give you a day-off? I’m sorry, Chuuya, let me call him and
cancel—oh, now you’re laughing while crying, you look cute, wait, no, I’m getting distracted, ah,
Chuuya, your tears, I’m—”

Seeing and hearing and witnessing Dazai panic like this, with no lives at stake, just the two of them
acting like idiots in front of each other—it makes tears well up in Chuuya’s eyes even more. He
reaches up both hands, so that he’s holding onto Dazai’s hands that are frantically wiping the tears
off his cheeks. It’s been a long, long journey, but—

“I’m home, Dazai.”

A sight he’s never seen before.

Dazai’s eyes being equally blurry, as he replies, with a boyish grin that looks so innocently in love.

“Welcome back, Chuuya.”

Chuuya’s heart pounds, like it’s trying to burst out of his ribs and meld with Dazai’s, and it feels
like the moment, for him to finally feel the same lips that have hurt and loved him in almost equal
measures against his own mouth that have also hurt and loved Dazai in equally unbearable measure
—

But of course, Chuuya’s phone chimes like an alarm, a declaration of war. He remembers placing
his phone on mute, with the only person who’s not blocked in his notifications being his Boss.

With an almost-apologetic smile, Chuuya smiles and dips his head a bit, before stating the
obvious. “Mori-san must have been trying to contact you non-stop.”
“I blocked his number for a reason,” Dazai complains. “He really is sabotaging me.”

“Maybe you should have answered his calls earlier.”

“And miss my chance to be lovey-dovey with Chuuya?! No way!”

With flushed cheeks still with some tear-tracks, Chuuya says, “…we still have lots of chances in
the future.”

Dazai blinks, before his entire expression becomes serious. “I really should ditch them.”

“Do your job.”

“Chuuya’s so strict… So you’ll be setting up your new place?”

“Since we’re… you know… I was actually expecting that we’ll look for a new home together?”

“I really am ditching them.”

“Putting Dostoevsky behind bars for real is more important,” Chuuya tries to be as stern as
possible, but even he knows it’s a lost cause, given that he’s getting lightheaded from all the
blushing. “And making sure that Abilities are gone forever… those are very important jobs.”

“I’d rather do Chuuya—”

“Shut your mouth.”

“Ah, feisty.” Dazai knocks their foreheads together, his arms sliding downward so that he’s loosely
holding Chuuya. “We can schedule house-hunting next week?”

“Okay.” Chuuya hums as he returns Dazai’s loose embrace, rubbing at the shirt over his bent back.
“Also, don’t even try to pretend that you haven’t started marking down places.”

“…I have ten places on short-list.”

“I don’t care how well you know my tastes—”

“—we’ll start from scratch and look together, I know.”

“…I don’t want to waste the short-list. We can look at them first.”

Relationships and compromise go hand-in-hand, after all.

“Chuuya’s spoiling me. I really am lucky.”

“Luck has nothing to do with it,” Chuuya says, because luck is nothing in the face of the things
they’ve experienced, both together and apart. “It’s just because I love you.”

There’s a silence, Dazai’s limbs stiffening.

“O-Oi, don’t tell me you got a stroke from that, you overdramatic asshole!”

Still silence, and Chuuya tries to look up and witness Dazai’s face, but Dazai’s hold is stiff and
unrelenting and Chuuya can only see a brilliant red, before he’s being squeezed tight, too tight.

“I take it back, I just said it because you need to get going unless you want to be dragged from here
via a helicopter, let me go—”
“Nuh-uh, no takebacks!”

“Urgh, let me go—”

“Never!”

“I can’t fucking breathe—”

“I love Chuuya so much, he’s so cute, so adorable, the most beautiful, so much—”

“Can’t… breathe…”

Dazai finally lets him go, a little bit, eyes shining and cheeks suffused with red. “Then, maybe you
can live with Atsushi-kun in the meantime?”

“You want me to disturb their just-moved-in-together honeymoon phase?”

“It would be fun to tease them every now and then!”

“You mean you want to punish them?”

“I know you want to, too~~~♪”

“…you’re evil.”

“As long as you love me!”

“Geh.”

“I love Chuuya, after all!”

“Shut up.”

“The most!”

“ASDFGHJKL—!”

☆☆☆

“…So that’s why I’m here.”

Atsushi blinks at him.

“So you’re here because if you can’t get laid, then neither can I?”

“THAT’S NOT—!!!” Chuuya blinks, then, frowns at Atsushi seated in front of him. “…You got
laid already?!”

“Chuuya-san, I’ve been sleeping with Ryuu ever since he cooked breakfast for me while wearing
nothing but… an… apron…”

Chuuya rolls his eyes as he rummages through the first-aid kit that he packed with him. It’s a good
thing he always maintains a packed first-aid kit, because he has a feeling he’ll be going through
bandages and gauze wraps and tissues a lot during his one-week stay with Atsushi. He dabs a
sterile tissue against Atsushi’s nosebleed.

Though…

“I can’t believe it… I haven’t even kissed Dazai yet…”

He isn’t worried at all – that he, Nakahara Chuuya, 26 years old, still hasn’t had his first kiss. It’s
not like it’s a must, right? Plenty of people have gone through their lives without being kissed. It’s
not a cause for concern. Even if Atsushi and Akutagawa have apparently been sleeping together for
months already…

“You’re blushing just thinking about it though,” Atsushi sasses like the not-so-secretly
disrespectful little shit that he is. “Why don’t you just wait for Dazai-san to take your virgin lips on
your wedding night?”

“That’s—!”

“You’re even more embarrassed than Ryuu… are you sure you guys are really part of the Port
Mafia?”

“Do you want the full dossier detailing our kills?”

“Ryuu has already shared his with me.” Atsushi sounds inordinately smug while sporting a
bleeding nose, a superpower that’s apparently granted to thirsty idiots who get laid on a regular
basis. “One kiss per crime that he’s done.”

“Disgusting.”

“Don’t tell me that you’re not planning to have Dazai-san do something like that to you.”

“I don’t—plus, that bastard’s crimes are practically never-ending!”

“Must make for a wild honeymoon, huh?”

“You—!!!” Despite his words, Chuuya dutifully writes down a list of dating ideas and locations
that he wants to do with Dazai. Of course, the list started out as something like – Wedding Gift
Ideas for Mori-san’s upcoming wedding with Fukuzawa-san, but they got distracted by actively not
thinking about those two being in any situation that borders more-than-platonic. “Have you always
been this shameless?”

“It’s because Ryuu is so easily embarrassed… I have to say what I want in a very straightforward
manner.”

“That fucking Dazai is influencing you the wrong way.”

“No offense, Chuuya-san, but if I moved at your pace, I wouldn’t get to Ryuu’s pants until we’re
forty.” Atsushi flips the page in the magazine that he got from Gin, who got it from Higuchi, who
claimed that she got it from her sister. “And I don’t want to be like Fukuzawa-san and Mori-san. At
all.”

“I take full offense on that!”

“Yes, so please don’t tell Dazai-san about it, he’s going to make my life hell.”

“I’ll make your life hell, you little shit—!”

“Chuuya-san, you’re still dabbing your tissue at my nose, you’re definitely not about to make my
life hell.”

“Summer isn’t good for nosebleeds, you don’t have regeneration anymore!”

“Exactly my point.”

“Are you going to be like this the entire time I’m here?”

Atsushi laughs at him. “If you’d rather me talk non-stop about Ryuu…”

“I’m fine with this, thanks.” Chuuya pats at Atsushi’s nose, satisfied that no further blood seems to
be dripping down from his nose. “Plus, he didn’t have to leave.”

“If Ryuu is here, we’d definitely end up making love every night. And before going to work. And
—”

Chuuya thumps his head against the desk and his notes. “This is all Dazai’s bad influence, isn’t
it…”

“All I’m saying is that, I don’t really want to let Chuuya-san hear about Ryuu being cute. Or have
Chuuya-san accidentally stumble upon Ryuu after his bath.”

“And you think Akutagawa’s safe if he’s living with Gin and her roommate?”

“Higuchi-chan’s losing all of her blood from staring at Gin-chan’s beauty, apparently.”

“So her weakness is the Akutagawa family genes, huh.”

“And if Higuchi-chan got too thirsty, Kyouka-chan said that it’s fine if Ryuu lives with them for a
bit.”

“Akutagawa under Ane-san’s care? Do you want him to die?”

“They promised to send me pictures if he gets to be all dolled up in courtesan make-up…”

“You really are a better fit for Dazai’s subordinate.”

Atsushi frowns for a moment, before his expression smoothens out. “And Ryuu’s been saying that
he thinks that you’d make a really wonderful Boss.”

A beat.

“…you asked him to move out for a bit because you’re jealous of me?” Chuuya blinks, then bops
Atsushi’s forehead, as though it’s enough to right his head. “Are you an idiot?!”

“Buuuuut, he hasn’t praised anyone like that! Not even Dazai-san! Or me!”

“You’re impossible.” Chuuya bops Atsushi’s forehead again. “You’re the only one who hears his
cute noises right?! That should tell you something!”

“That I should lock him up in a soundproof room?”

Chuuya flicks Atsushi’s forehead hard enough that he’s knocked backwards.

“An idiot of the greatest level…”

“I don’t want to hear that from Chuuya-san, of all people…”

“And what does that mean, huh, jinko?”

“It means, chibikko, that you’re super dense!”

“Don’t call me that!”

“Don’t call me jinko!”

“Don’t tell me that’s his petname for you?!”

“S-S-So what?! It’s hot!”

“An idiot!”

“Person with shit taste in men!”

“Men?! I only like Dazai!”

“Gaaaaaaaah, that’s too sweet, I can’t believe you’d say it out loud—!”

“Ha?! Your text messages about Akutagawa are barely literate! You’ve got it worse!”

“If you’ve seen Ryuu in an apron, I’m sure you’d have the same reaction!”

“I doubt it! Plus, if you’ve seen Dazai demolish an entire organization by just bossing people
around—”

“Ha?! You doubt it?! Are you denying the cuteness of Ryuu in an apron?!”

“Why would I want to screw him senseless if I see him in an apron? I’m not in love with him!”

“But Ryuu, in an, apron, best, I—”

“…you’ve got a nosebleed. Again.”

“Plus, that means that you’ve thirsted for Dazai-san since then? Really?”

“Don’t look at me with pity, damn it!”

“You really should just kiss Dazai-san and be done with all the weird sexual tension.”

“Just…what are we even talking about, we haven’t gone further in our list for Mori-san’s
wedding.”

Atsushi looks down at their meager list (it’s empty) for gift ideas.

“…Let’s try harder…”

“First person to bring up their significant other has to treat the other to dinner?”

“You’re on, Chuuya-san!”

☆☆☆
A suggested trip to Yamaguchi – the hometown where Chuuya’s mother’s family used to live, the
ancient home that’s been burned down like a setting sun laid to rest – is equal sorts surprising and
expected. It’s part of Dazai’s plans to make everything up to Chuuya, Chuuya knows that. It’s part
of Dazai paying homage to a traditional sort of courtship, where one asks for the family’s
permission for their child’s hand in marriage.

Chuuya stands in Yokohama Port, watching Dazai tinker with the controls of the boat that he has
somehow managed to pilfer from Sakaguchi, because apparently it’s great to try to travel by water
during summer. Yamaguchi is nearly 12 hours away, after all, if one drives; even longer if one
sails, but they’re slated to travel over the weekend.

At least, that’s Dazai’s plan.

It’s raining though, bursts of summer rain, and the weather forecast for the weekend looks bleak.
Still, Chuuya stands there, an umbrella over his head as he watches Dazai try to calculate if they
can make it out alive if they force their sailing plans.

Fifteen more minutes, before Dazai steps away from the boat and into the space of Chuuya’s
umbrella.

“Looks like a lovey-dovey cruise isn’t in the cards for now…”

“It’s fine.” Chuuya shrugs as he pats Dazai’s cheeks to rid them of the raindrops. He’s been
wearing his gloves less and less, even when he’s outside; he catches glimpse of the scars on his
hands and he doesn’t flinch. “We don’t need to ask permission from them.”

“Are you sure?”

“We can visit them…” Or rather, the remains of the destroyed home, their unmarked graves. “But
we don’t need to ask permission. I’m with you and I’ll be with you based on my will.”

“I had thought that you’d be more traditional…”

“If you really need to ask permission from my family… ask yourself.”

Dazai squeezes him tight, causing Chuuya to lose grip on the umbrella, exposing the two of them
to the rain that’s steadily growing heavier.

“…Chuuya says the most romantic things.”

“You didn’t let me finish,” Chuuya whispers directly to Dazai’s ear, because his voice is getting
drowned by the heavy beat of the rain. “Ask yourself, as well as Ane-san, Hirotsu-san and Mori-
san. And—”

“Your entire harem, I get it.”

“Why would you include Mori-san on my harem, are you nuts?!”

“Why are you not protesting about Hirotsu-san or Kouyou-anesan?!”

“Are we really going to argue about that in the rain?!”

“Ah. We have something more important to do, ne?”

Chuuya rolls his eyes, feels raindrops cling to his eyelashes. He’s getting thoroughly soaked, but it
still feels blissfully warm inside Dazai’s embrace. It defies logic and common sense. “Like get the
hell out of here, I don’t want to get a cold.”

“Before that…” Dazai says, before smoothly sliding away from Chuuya, only to kneel down on
the dirty ground. “I have a question that only Chuuya can answer.”

Chuuya’s vision is blurred from the heavy rain, but there’s no mistaking the intensity and intention
in Dazai’s figure. He can barely manage a nod, realizing that Dazai must have planned to do this
while they’re in Yamaguchi, probably while they’re standing on top of the graves of the people
that rejected Chuuya. Because of the rain, Dazai’s doing this now, in the place where their paths
first crossed.

“When I saw you back then, I wasn’t expecting to see a unique, unexpected miracle – finding
someone that I’ll love so much, beyond how much I hated the world and my life and the thing that
I have become. When you had called me a rotten apple back then, when you had endured
everything and flourished under everything the world could throw at you, when you were too drunk
to get your ass in place but you looked at me and called me your home—”

Dostoevsky might have broken Dazai’s pendant, but right here, in front of Chuuya, is the only
proof of devotion he should need.

—A simple band made from the golden ingots they managed to retrieve from The Setting Sun;
reste près de moi et ne t'en vas pas, j'ai peur de te perdre inside the band in tiny but unmistakable
inscription.

“For as long as you want me to be, I’ll be whoever you want me to be, Chuuya.” Dazai presses a
kiss to the engagement ring, before taking hold of Chuuya’s left hand, sliding the ring home. “Stay
close to me and never leave, Chuuya. For the rest of our lives, let us be each other’s homes.”

The summer rain continues to pour and Chuuya shivers, but not from the cold.

“…you didn’t even give me a chance to answer.”

“Eh?! But Chuuya—”

“Give me your ring,” Chuuya orders, tugging Dazai up so that they’ll be both standing on equal
ground. Dazai hands over a similar ring, with the same inscription in it. Chuuya whispers his words
against the ring, feeling the cool metal against his lips. “Dazai Osamu. We’ve always had the keys
to each other, we were just too stupid to see it. And you were too much of an ass to appreciate it.
But—I love you anyway. And since I’ve loved you even when you were a pain in the ass, you
shouldn’t be worried that I wouldn’t be able to keep on loving you when you’re trying to make
amends, you dummy.”

With those words, Chuuya then finds Dazai’s left ring finger and slides the ring in.

Only—

“Fuck, stop shaking, damn it!”

“Eh?! Isn’t it Chuuya who’s shaking?!”

“Stop trembling, I can’t put the ring in!”

“You’re the one who’s—”

They’re both shaking – from the cold and from their proposal – and Chuuya sighs, and reaches up,
stands on his tiptoes, so he can kiss Dazai, because damn it, he’s waited for so long and there’s no
better moment to make him realize again and again that he’s really in love with this idiot, than
failing to give him his engagement ring.

Dazai seems to have read his mind, like always, but because they’re both shivering, Chuuya’s lips
land on the bow on Dazai’s upper lip first, so they adjust, the rainwater practically sizzling on their
skin as they press their lips properly together, years upon years of longing burning inside them,
Chuuya licking off some of the liquid from Dazai’s mouth. Chuuya licks at Dazai’s lips again,
enjoying the lightning-hot pricks of pleasure that run up and down his spine at the action, both of
his hands sliding up so that he can bury them in Dazai’s messy hair, so that he can tilt Dazai’s head
downward and make the angle easier on his toes. Dazai’s arms are vice-like around his waist, one
of Dazai’s hands landing on Chuuya’s ass; Chuuya jumps so that his legs are around Dazai’s
skinny hips instead, the two of them swaying, dizzy and drunk in love, under the rain.

Chuuya’s ring snags against Dazai’s hair and the two of them breathlessly laugh into each other’s
mouths, before Dazai’s skinny-ass capacity is maxed out and the two of them end up falling to the
ground, Chuuya rolling them mid-air so that he gets the brunt of their fall, Dazai’s hand flying out
so that he’s covering the back Chuuya’s head.

“Ah… That does hurt.”

“…Why haven’t we kissed before this?” Dazai asks, almost in wonder, kissing Chuuya every other
word.

“We’re idiots,” Chuuya replies, welcoming Dazai’s weight practically blanketing him, despite the
fact that the ground is really wet, hard and dirty.

“We’re idiots who’ll get a cold soon.”

Chuuya laughs in response, before tugging at Dazai’s left hand – more specifically, at the ring
finger that now has a band of gold around it.

“So Chuuya’s first kiss is because he wants to distract me?”

“Are you actually complaining, you ass?”

“No,” Dazai says, dropping another kiss against Chuuya’s lips. “I just wish you distracted me like
this before.”

Chuuya smiles, feels Dazai smudge his smile with butterfly kisses. “Shameless ass. We have lots
of time in the future.”

“…Really shameless. Should I report you guys for public indecency?”

Chuuya blinks as he feels the raindrops cease battering his face. There’s Akutagawa above,
holding an umbrella over him. Atsushi, the one who interrupted their moment, is beside him, with
an umbrella of his own.

“Dazai-san asked us to record the entire thing.” Akutagawa’s expression is like a kid who’s trying
to get out of punishment by throwing others under the bus instead.

“…Of course, he did.”

Dazai laughs, presses his face against Chuuya’s neck. “I told you, Chuuya, videos are important!”
 Chuuya ends up laughing as well, even though he’s starting to feel the cold seep in.

“…I really am in love with you, aren’t I, Osamu?”

A beat.

“...Ah. Dazai-san’s KO’d.”

Chapter End Notes

+ “The taste of honey in the air, nothing substantial but enough to eat & live from.” is
from Never to Return © Nakahara Chuuya
+ first scene of this chap is callback to ch9
+ sskk moving in together + fukumori getting married in june are from ch14
+ skk first meeting in the port harbor is from ch16
+ dazai's engagement plans (that didn’t come true, at least not 100%) are from ch18
+ “reste près de moi et ne t'en vas pas, j'ai peur de te perdre” = “stay close to me and
never leave, i'm afraid to lose you”

+ thanks again for reading & see you next water time! :D♥
 end of main story
Chapter Summary

"home is where the heart is" CH23 is now up!

+ chuuya has lunch with kunikida & yosano & manages to unwittingly seduce a
random NPC
+ dazai & chuuya meet with the Ability User that can detect the truth
+ dazai offers up the proof of his love

Chapter Notes

it took so long, but this chapter marks the end of the main story! there are still some
chapters to be posted, which is basically one long epilogue… but the main plot is
done! thank you so much to everyone who’s read, commented, theorized, laughed and
cried over this fic – truly, without you guys, this fic reaching this point wouldn’t have
been possible.

thanks again & i hope you enjoy! ♥

See the end of the chapter for more notes

People crying in front of Chuuya is not exactly unheard of.

It’s not something he’s terribly comfortable with—which is why he very rarely makes an
appearance to the torture chambers, unless the target is someone who’s been confirmed to be a
battle-hardened criminal who’d need force to be pried open. Or, like that one time when there’s
news that Dazai’s been captured back by the Port Mafia.

In any case, he can’t exactly claim that he’s an expert in how to deal with such scenarios, which
makes his current situation… very awkward.

“Uh,” he tries to cut into the near-hysterical tears of the person in front of him, who’s still
clutching at his left hand.

He’s been trying to cut back on wearing gloves when there are other people aside from himself or
Dazai who could see the scars on his hands. And no, it’s not just because it’s quite nice to look at
his left hand and see the engagement ring directly.

But, he congratulates himself for his earlier decision to wear gloves today. After all, he’s already
dreading the chaos that Dazai will unleash once he learns of this: some other man holding his hand.

“Thank you for paying off Dazai-san’s tab,” the other eventually manages to say through his
empathic sobs, once his emotions have subsided some. “I just… I didn’t think I’d live to see the
day.”

Awkward situation aside, he can understand where this guy is coming from. So he doesn’t punch
him across the room, and merely offers what he hopes is a casual shrug. “You’re welcome. There’s
no need to worry about it.”

And then, because Chuuya knows what kind of creature he’s dealing with, he adds, a current of
embarrassment underlining his statement, “If… In the future, you can just… uhh, that is, you can
add it to my tab instead.”

He charitably doesn’t say anything like, if that shitty Dazai claims he doesn’t have any money to
pay for his meals, I’m gonna punch him myself, that lying miserly cheapskate.

“You really are such an upstanding man,” Kunikida tells him with a beleaguered sigh. “I hope that
being Dazai’s partner doesn’t end with your bankruptcy.”

Before Chuuya can retort that his bank account is (a) jumpstarted by Dazai way back then to begin
with, and (b) is definitely large enough to not worry about long-running restaurant tabs, Yosano
drags them both towards a table so they can get started on their lunch.

With a shake of her head, she says, “Please don’t say something like ‘what’s mine is his’. That is
too sweet a sentiment at this early hour.”

“Is it too early for drinks then?” He asks lightly and hopes that he manages to divert her attention
away from the fact that he flushes pink from her teasing.

A harried Kunikida’s “we’re just on lunch break, we can’t drink, Yosano-sensei!” is overridden by
her suggestion to hit a nearby wine bar for their dessert.

While the two Agency members are debating whether wine qualifies as a dessert (something that
he votes ‘yes’ to, by the way), he busies himself with checking his phone.

There’s email from earlier today from Sakaguchi, informing him that the government investigators
are done with his apartment. He’s grumbled about it plenty—this is why bureaucracy is fucking
stupid—but he can understand why they’d need to scour it over and ensure that Dostoevsky didn’t
end up leaving any goodbye gifts in the building.

(Atsushi’s also grumbled over it plenty, because he lived with him in the duration of the
investigation, but he’s 1000% certain it’s just a case of blue balls. Especially since the grumbling
has tapered off after he has succumbed to the puppy-eyes and booked them a lavish hotel suite.
Something that resulted in Atsushi glowing like a disco ball the morning after.

…No, he isn’t appalled at how their subordinates are way ahead of them when it comes to
relationship development, damn it.)

His email is filled with the usual things that he’s cc’d to, regarding Port Mafia reports and such, but
there’s one important email about his request for a meeting with Boss Mori regarding his position.

It’s… a big decision, he’s sure, and he wants to make sure he talks with everyone pertinent in his
life before he proceeds. Not just Dazai, even if he’s a big chunk of it.

The rest of his notifications is peppered with Dazai’s nonsense. About how Fukuzawa’s scarf
suspiciously looks like the one Boss wears regularly. About how the ink of his pen is blue, but not
as vividly blue as Chuuya’s eyes. About how his hands feel so empty now that there’s no Chuuya
within grabbing distance.
All of these taper off over the past two hours. That is, after he reminds the mackerel that he’s
supposed to pay attention to an important meeting, unless he wants Dostoevsky to escape and
‘visit’ him again. With that kind of powerful incentive, Dazai has ceased in spamming his phone
with random commentary.

“You are absolutely hopeless,” Yosano declares, pointing her chopsticks towards his face,
interrupting his back-reading of the 108 messages that Dazai has sent to him today.

(And then re-reading them. And then saving them. It’s only so he can build his database of
ammunition against the other man, in case he’d ever deny being this insufferably sappy in the
future.)

She waves the chopsticks like she’s imagining sawing off the blush from his cheeks. “I really can’t
wait until you become the new Boss of the Port Mafia. We’d be able to easily bully you by plying
you with text messages from Dazai-kun, hmm?”

“Give it a few more months,” Chuuya says, because he knows that Boss would want to ensure that
everything is smoothened out before he passes the reins.

He waves the chopsticks away from him, texting the fish back with a ‘having lunch now with your
best coworkers’ with his other hand. Hopefully, that gives Dazai additional incentive to behave
seriously with the meeting that he has regarding Dostoevsky’s investigation—since this message
means that he’s near the Agency and ready to pick him up after that meeting is over.

They’re starting their house-hunting later this afternoon, after all, and he’s the tiniest bit excited
about it.

“Oh,” Kunikida sounds relieved. “After a few months, you suppose the honeymoon period will
end? Dazai will finally stop traumatizing everyone? He’ll finally stop skipping into the office
while singing pop songs?”

On one hand, he’s filled with a burst of warmth at that silly fish’s apparent display of overt
happiness. On another hand, he’s fairly sure that Dazai is exaggerating it just to mess with his
coworkers. Also—

“I… am not sure when the honeymoon period will end?” They’re the customers of this restaurant,
but Chuuya feels like his face has been converted to a deep fryer with how hot it is. “We haven’t
even…” His tongue trips over his words, a roadblock in the form of embarrassment and excitement
colliding. “W-W-We’re not even m-m-married yet?”

The moment that sentence leaves his mouth, he ends up needing fifteen minutes to recover from
being so tongue-tied. He ignores the teasing from the other two as he hurries to the bathroom so he
can splash water on his face to help calm himself. He has to stop himself from sending a text
barrage to Dazai to blame him for this.

Once he returns to their table, Kunikida groans about how Dazai would surely be insufferable for
at least a year. Maybe two. On top of this, he also has to deal with seeing Fukuzawa navigate
video-chatting software so he can spend his lunchtime planning that upcoming Hawaiian-themed
wedding with Mori. The horrors are never-ending.

Everyone takes a moment to tacitly scrub the memory of the incoming horror story of the two
organization’s bosses marrying each other.

Once recovered, Yosano and Chuuya team up to remind him that he’s already dealt with being
partnered with the mackerel for a few years now, so he should have already built resistance to
migraines. That, or a thicker stomach lining so he’d stop having cramps from the hyper-acidic
stress of dealing with such an annoying person.

Speaking of stomachs… the restaurant owner personally serves their table with lunch. Chuuya’s
order of donburi is practically overflowing with toppings, blatant favoritism (or something like it)
in display.

“It’s on the house,” the owner tells them with great feeling, starry-eyed as he stares at Chuuya.

He half-wants to tell him that this is bad business sense, giving away food. Then he remembers the
thick wad of bills he’s had to take out of his wallet to compensate the poor guy for Dazai’s years-
long tab with interest covered. Ah, this owner can afford to splurge a bit.

“We really should have lunch more often,” Yosano tells him, laughing as she tucks in to her food,
also with a little bit extra compared to the usual.

“We’re going to be traveling a bit for the next few weeks.” He’s inordinately pleased with the fact
that he can say ‘we’ when it comes to their plans, secure in the fact that it’s really a solid ‘we’, this
time. “After that, I should have some free time?”

Their trip to Yamaguchi has been pushed back a bit to make way for apartment-hunting and the
recent bout of stormy weather. Their compromise is that this trip is based on Dazai’s arrangements,
as part of his desire to pay homage to a more traditional way of courtship and being in a
relationship. The next trip they’ll have will be based on his own arrangements, a promise of a
future solid inside his gut.

She smirks at him, breaking through his bubble of fuzzy feelings. “Sure. It’s fun seeing you
unknowingly attract all these lovestruck men. Ah, even old restaurant owners aren’t immune.”

“I don’t—! He’s just—!” He sputters, choking on his rice. “He’s just grateful that the stupid tab is
paid off!”

Chopsticks clicking towards him as though to clap for him. “It’s alright, your obliviousness is part
of your charm.”

“Urgh, that’s not true at all,” he protests, unable to say much for his defense. With a weak roll of
eyes, he tries a, “You can even ask Dazai, damn it!”

Yosano and Kunikida blink in tandem, disbelief blatantly dripping from their dropped jaws. “Dazai
is the first person who’d say that you are incredibly oblivious,” she says after several moments of
bewilderment.

“He’d say a lot of shitty things,” Chuuya gripes in an undertone, before raising his voice, “I meant
that he’d be the first person to protest about obliviousness being ‘charming’!”

After all, one of the more childish (not adorable, okay! just immature!) aspects of Dazai’s
personality is his tendency to want things to happen at the pace that he wants, never mind common
sense and natural order. So, Chuuya’s refusal to simply swoon back to his arms like an idiot is
definitely not something he’d find charming, right?

“…Right,” Yosano says, unconvinced.

Chuuya feels himself blushing, because he too, is unconvinced by this train of thought. A singsong
of ‘I’d find any and all aspects of you ‘charming’, chibikko’ rattles inside his head. It’s
unmistakably in his mackerel’s voice and his face flushes further.

And then, his brain catches up to the ‘his mackerel’ part, and he feels steam rushing out of his ears.
Damn it, they’ve already kissed! Why is he suddenly feeling so embarrassed by his own thoughts!!
This is unbearable, and definitely Dazai’s fault—!!!

“Do me a favor, will you?” Kunikida eventually says, ignoring his mental breakdown right there
over his food, busy with rubbing one hand at his forehead. “If you’re going to talk to Dazai about
this, make sure you aren’t someplace public. The Agency’s reputation can only take so much
public indecency complaints.”

Filled with jittery energy from lunch, Chuuya finds himself pacing across the entire length of the
Agency’s waiting room reserved for their clients.

It doesn’t help his heart in calming down when Dazai texts him an innocuous, ‘can’t wait to see
you’. Now that Abilities are temporarily (?) back in this world, he ends up nearly exploding his
phone from immense gravitational pressure. It’s so bad, that he doesn’t even feel all that annoyed
when the text is followed up with a, ‘ah, that is, if I can see a shrimp like you~’

Terrible, is what it is.

Especially terrible is the way that his ribs move like the sudden clashing of tectonic plates, causing
a mini-apocalypse of breathlessness, the moment that Dazai appears by the doorway. He has no
proof, but he’s certain that it’s been planned for maximum effect, the way dappled sunlight slants
just right over the other’s face, making his eyes glow with a warmth that could rival a volcanic
eruption.

As if seeing Chuuya there, waiting for him, is enough to thaw and move the coldest and sturdiest
of glaciers. The empty, callous coldness from way back then—they’ve been melted entirely. The
molten warmth rushes towards him, bringing with it a long-limbed mackerel who embraces and
kisses him so passionately that it’s almost as if they’ve been torn apart by a warzone and have only
reunited now.

The other’s signature scent of apples, mellower by the end of the day, coupled with the smell of
raindrops clinging over the other’s clothes. A gentle blanket that wraps all over him from inside-
out, the jitters from earlier fizzling out into nothingness. Dazai rubs their noses together, before
dropping a tiny kiss there, as if he’s reluctant to part.

Like this, he doesn’t even notice the strain in his neck and his toes from stretching up to meet the
other halfway. Not until Dazai rubs his nape with his palm, that is. There’s a certain feeling of
intent there, so he squints up at him and asks, “Is there something wrong?”

“Nothing wrong per se, but…”

“Out with it, shitty mackerel.” This way of address would be more believable if his arms aren’t
wrapped around the other’s waist.

“…The Ability User with the power to determine the truth.”

Full of halting hesitation, but Chuuya understands him anyway. “Is he finally cleared to talk to
others?” Then, he looks at the curl of the other’s lips. Sighs, and leans up to kiss the uncertainty
away. They’re supposed to start apartment hunting today, but that can be postponed a bit to make
room for this. “So, this is the arrangement you made in exchange for working hard today, huh?”
As one of the captured members of the Rats, there’s no way that he’ll be allowed contact with just
anyone. Right now, with Abilities back and reawakened, it would be a golden opportunity to let
that Ability User show off his skill.

And for the two of them, who have hidden so much from each other and from themselves—

“We don’t have to see him,” Dazai hedges, the words awkward on his tongue. Someone who’s
always at least ten steps ahead, with hundreds of plans with differing forks prepared. And now,
he’s letting go of that control, handing him the reins instead. It’s impossible to not be moved, even
the slightest bit.

“Might as well,” he says lightly. “You actually did your job well today, so positive reinforcement
should work.”

“You’re trying to hint that I’m a dog?” He’s smiling anyway, relief obvious.

“Pfft. You’re worse than a dog, what are you even talking about?”

They bicker a lot as always, their words bouncing all over the corridors and the sidewalk as they
walk hand-in-hand. Chuuya’s thankful that his hat has a brim, so he can tilt it downwards and
cover up his face when his heartbeat stutters as their fingers interlace in public.

“With how much you’re blushing, one would think that I’m doing something very naughty to you.”

“Shut the hell up, you’re also blushing, damn it!”

Shameless as always, “If you can see that I’m blushing, that just proves that your eyes are on me
the entire time.”

“No, it just means that you’re blushing so badly I can see it even on my peripheral vision!”

“Oh, congratulations on the new word, chibikko.”

“I’m gonna kick your ass,” he threatens, though his method involves squeezing the other’s hand
tight enough to hinder circulation. Something that Dazai obviously delights from.

They grab an early dinner, squeezing together in one bench of a noodle stall so that their pants
don’t get too splashed when the rain suddenly bursts midway their meal. It doesn’t really work to
save the hem of their pants. But it does work in scaring off all other customers, seeing two grown
men test out alternative furniture ideas in the form of using Dazai as a chair while in public.

Chuuya grumbles to himself, when Dazai beams at him—more than enough sunshine in the rainy
day—the moment that he opens his wallet and pays the stall owner enough compensation for the
lost business.

“It does feel good being spoiled like this,” so sighs the mackerel as they lean against each other at
the back of a taxi.

They had their meal early so they have time to go to the government facility where the Truth
Ability User is currently detained. After-hours rendezvous at a building that doesn’t look like a
prison at all. It would probably raise more eyebrows if they show up with Port Mafia-provided
limousine; it’s raining intermittently so walking there is not a very attractive option.

It isn’t too far away, so they arrive quickly.

Security measures have been arranged so that the floor to where their target is detained can only be
accessed if they make a roundtrip up and down the building. Dim lighting all over the hallways,
the place radiating the aura of an upright business that’s only open on normal operating hours.

In the silence of the elevator slowly bringing them upwards, Chuuya says, “Since you do know that
I’m willing to spoil you, even though you’re such an asshole…” A squeeze to the other’s hand as
Dazai turns to face him fully, “…then you should also know that it means that I consider you the
most important, right?”

Like this, it’s almost as if the engagement ring burns a line over his finger. But it’s nothing
compared to the way Dazai looks at him, incinerating him on the spot.

“I know,” hushed in the tiny space between them. “It’s the same for me too, Chuuya.”

A sigh. “Then you should know how I feel about you martyring yourself.”

Something that he’s kept at the back of his head ever since before. How is it possible for Abilities
to be completely silenced in this world? Something that can be inherited, something that can be
synthesized, something that can be completely fantastical. There’s only one sure way to make sure
that they don’t appear, when there are multiple means of it appearing.

That is: simply to nullify everything as they surface.

And as proven time and time again, Dazai’s ‘No Longer Human’ is without peer when it comes to
nullification. The only one of its kind. And so, for a world without Abilities to exist, it has to be a
method that requires Dazai’s full cooperation.

From the way the other freezes, his read on the situation hits bullseye.

An improvement to how they’ve operated before, Dazai visibly wrestles with himself as he decides
on explaining himself instead of simply distracting Chuuya from pursuing the truth.

And it’s definitely true, raw and open for anyone to prod, when he admits, “I wanted it to be my
offering to you.” A deep breath, even though the syllables shake in his mouth, “A means of sealing
Corruption away completely.”

Without Abilities, it also means that the mass of darkness inside of him will be silenced forever.

…Really, what a dumbass his mackerel is.

He shakes along with him, so he wraps one arm over the other’s waist and pushes them together
against one elevator wall. Somewhere above them, it dings as they reach the top floor, before it
goes down smoothly.

“I thought about it a lot,” he admits against the dizzying heartbeat. “Without this Ability, without
my past, without all of that pain…” A tremor that is shared by the two of them. “Then I’d never
have made it here to Yokohama.”

Back then, drifting in a sea of darkness, without certainty, without a buoy.

And at the end of it, he finds one boy shrouded in so much darkness, shining down at him under
the moonlight.

Said boy is now a beanpole, hand big enough that one touch over his face is enough to make him
tilt his head up, a translucent bridge between their eyes forming quickly. He’s not crying, but he
feels something well up inside him anyway.

“Without all of that, I’d never have been able to meet Ane-san, to meet Boss, to meet everyone in
the Port Mafia, the Agency, even Prof Glasses, and—”

He stalls, enumerating the name of every single person that he knows, even as Dazai’s hand over
his face shakes from anticipation, from jealousy, from both.

“—without everything that has happened to me, good and bad, then I wouldn’t have been able to
know the rest of my life.” For the sake of seeing a boyish grin bloom on this person’s face, he
pushes past the instinctive desire to pepper his words with barbs. “Without all of that, I wouldn’t
have been able to discover happiness amidst all the uncertainty and despair.”

His eyes and his lungs burn.

Not just simply meeting each other. Not just simply being partnered together. Not just simply
reading the information on each other’s files.

Understanding him.
Forgiving him.
Loving him.
Despite everything.
Because of everything.

If he didn’t have the power and the burden of his Ability, he wouldn’t be able to take this route that
led him to this moment.

“Without going through all of that, I wouldn’t have been able to know and love you, shitty Dazai.”

And so, he doesn’t want this dumbass mackerel of his to risk himself in the name of doing him a
favor that he doesn’t wish for to begin with.

Dazai’s hand slips from his face, smearing wetness over his cheek. He opens his mouth, about to
tease the other man for sweating so badly. But Dazai is nothing but an opportunist, so he simply
lets his hand slide down and over the back of his neck, dragging him upwards for a kiss full of
emotions that words aren’t able to encapsulate within the confines of their syllables.

“You’re the actual worst, and yet, you’re still somehow the best and only one for me,” is a
complaint that’s sliced in between their lips. Chuuya pulls away slightly so he can say the next
words with all of his solid conviction, “So anyone who’d dare to harm you? I’m kicking their ass.
Even if it’s you yourself.”

They’ve gone through too much for him to ever relinquish his hold on the other man.

Helplessly charmed, eyes bright. “…Chuuya, you really do say the most romantic of things.”

“Compared to you, who only knows to talk shit?”

Dazai shakes his head, then leans down to kiss his forehead. Gratefulness for diverting the topic,
since the elevator has already reached their destination floor and it’d probably be so uncool if they
appear in front of their target while looking so emotional.

They bicker the rest of the way to meet the target. Even as they’re subjected to security checks,
they weave their conversation in-between answering the guards’ questions. They’re marched
towards a special holding cell, guards flanking either side of them.
Chuuya rolls his eyes—he’s definitely stronger than all of them combined, it’s rather laughable to
see them try to protect him—but he doesn’t protest. At the very least, the guards don’t ask them to
separate, so they can continue holding hands. After hours of this, he has learned to roll with the
embarrassment, an internal mantra of ‘what doesn’t kill me makes me stronger’.

So what if anyone else sees that he’s being affectionate with a stupid fish? Even if they stare hard
and judge him for his poor taste, it’s not like he’s going to change his mind anymore! He’s already
made his decision and no amount of embarrassment is going to affect it!

…That’s the mindset that he brings with him, at least. But then on the last checkpoint, just-before
they could meet the Ability User, they meet a familiar face.

“Geh,” they all say in unison.

Even if he’s not facing Dazai, he knows the other is glaring daggers. The handholding evolves into
an octopus winding all over him, as though to cover him with limbs.

“Prof Glasses,” he says, the moment it’s obvious that Dazai is supremely unwilling to greet his
former drinking buddy. The other’s jealousy rearing its head once again, because he’s a dumbass.
But what does that say about him, who’s willingly chosen to be with this kind of idiot?

After acknowledging both of their presence, Sakaguchi tells him, “I dropped by because I saw a
second request to meet with the Ability User and I wanted to make sure it wasn’t due to
fraudulence.”

Frosty and testy from the mackerel, “You could have checked the logs, ne?”

In a show of solidarity for this idiot who’s stewing in jealous feelings over him talking with
someone that he’s spent some time with—even if it’s a rather tumultuous experience—Chuuya
rolls his eyes and says, “Now you’ve gotten gossip about how we’re doing.”

Sakaguchi doesn’t deny it, and simply gives them approval for the last clearance, before leaving
them.

The moment Sakaguchi is out of earshot, Dazai asks, “…So you have made prior arrangements to
meet with this Ability User as well?”

“Even before he’s been captured.” To be precise, ever since he’s heard about this person’s ability,
he’s had the desire to meet with him. A temptation more seductive than a cellar full of vintage
wine.

Especially back then, when he’s still harboring doubts.

Now, though—

The special holding cell is small and impersonal, glass all around to ensure that the prisoner can’t
hide anything from anyone’s eyes. The rat-mask from before is replaced with a clear plastic muzzle
over the other’s mouth. He looks like an average salaryman, no distinguishing facial feature.
Someone who could slip into anywhere without rousing suspicion. He’s strapped to the chair, his
hands in what seems to be special mittens and his legs strapped to the chair’s legs. His feet are dealt
with the same treatment as his hands.

“He’s been very generous with using his Ability,” Dazai says. “As soon as one starts a
conversation with him, he can respond with absolute truth.”
“So he’s been harassing the staff,” is the conclusion. The staff are responsible for the upkeep of his
prison cell and for making arrangements with all the government agencies that wish to make use of
him during this window of time when Abilities are back to their usual. If they ask him any
innocuous thing, then he can inflict his Ability on them. His hands and feet are bound so he can’t
use them to write out the truths while he’s gagged.

Most people are uncomfortable with absolute truths. It’s something that he’s come to learn deeply
over the years.

“Mm.” To the prisoner, Dazai says, “You’ve been brief about this, ne? If you answer one question
each from us, you can expect a more lenient treatment in prison.”

Chuuya doesn’t remark on this kind of exchange. He stands beside Dazai, holding his hand the
entire time. He thinks about the question that he’s long wanted to ask, that he’s long wanted to hear
the truth of.

There are truths that he knows and accepts about himself and the world. Truths that he has
internalized for a long time, truths that he has slowly come to agree with. About his strengths, his
place in this world. About his weaknesses, his sense of self-worth.

But there’s a certain truth that is impossible to have solid form, unless one employs means like a
supernatural Ability that can bypass uncertainty.

Dazai takes one half-step forward. His arm trembles all the way to Chuuya’s wrist.

A man who’s always worked with meticulous plans, lying in wait for the perfect moment, rushes to
ask, as if he’s afraid that he’ll lose heart if he stalls, “Am I capable of giving this person beside me,
Nakahara Chuuya, happiness, for the rest of our lives?”

…Oh.

He doesn’t care for what anyone else might say or think. He goes and hugs this stupid beanpole.
The rush of blood in his ears, the sound of the other’s heartbeat, the thousands of thoughts between
them—they all melt with the raspy reply from the Ability User.

Perhaps it’s ironic, that he doesn’t even bother listening to the actual content of the response.
Perhaps this is what it means to be faced with an absolute truth.

The question that he’s long wanted to ask—

—Despite everything, are they capable of giving happiness to each other?

Back then, Dazai once said—

“A leap of faith is how someone in love acts. Faith doesn’t need evidence that a person is worthy
of love. There wouldn’t be evidence enough to justify a commitment to love. There would never be
evidence, but faith means that you make the commitment anyway. One has to doubt the available
evidence, then choose to believe it, despite it being not enough.”

Back then—the two of them hurting each other in all the ways that matter, in all the ways that slice
deeply.

And now, Dazai who used to lecture him with Kierkegaard’s principles about the leap of faith,
about not needing solid evidence for love, is giving him this.

An absolute truth, an evidence that cannot be denied.

 And now, the him who used to need something tangible that he can believe in, not bothering to
listen to the Ability User’s reply.

Right now, within his grasp—

From this moment onwards, the only thing he needs to listen to, that they both need to listen to, is
the sound of both their hearts.

They may have postponed the beginning of their apartment hunting to tomorrow, but right now,
this he knows: home is where the heart is, and perhaps even before they’ve met each other, they
already are each other’s home.

-
chapter 23, end

Chapter End Notes

thanks for reading till the end!

i’ve also mentioned this on the revised chapter 1 notes, but while this marks the end of
the main story, ch24-31 is an extended epilogue that will be posted over the course of
the next few months! it will feature their apartment hunting, morifuku wedding, their
own wedding, their honeymoon trip, dazai's backstory, etc :P
 after-story #1
Chapter Summary

dazai and chuuya start looking for a new home & they start to go further than kissing
—unfortunately (?) they only succeed with one of the two. for now.

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Rain during summer makes everything sticky. Rain during summer mornings paints an additional
layer of mist over the surroundings. A lazy sort of embrace between the earth and the sky.

Right now, it’s sticky and misty in ways that aren’t related to the rain outside. Or maybe it is
related, the atmosphere making the octopus in his bed very active.

This activity comes in the form of hands actively wandering up and down his back, the way that
they’re huddled together making him feel like he’s surrounded by eight limbs. A talkative, sentient
octopus, who’s murmuring a lot of sweet nothings against his hairline.

It’s strange to see the other man be so awake at an early time, and just like before, it usually heralds
something that would cause him a headache. A physical one: because Dazai occasionally peppers
his words against his forehead with kisses and light bites. A more metaphorical one: owing to the
contents of Dazai’s ‘sweet nothings’.

“One of the apartments is located near a secluded nature park. If we live there, later on we can try
sneaking into the park at night and doing all sorts of things.”

“The apartment that’s within walking distance to the Marine Park… there’s a private beach that’s
not part of the park, it’d be nice to try skinny dipping there at night…”

“The one up north has a lot of dark alleys, it should be interesting to see—”

Chuuya really can’t take more of this. He headbutts the other’s chin to stop him from talking. “Tell
me, are we looking for a new home or ways on how we could bring shame upon our respective
organizations?”

Also, while he’s not alien to the concept of s-s-sex being part of a relationship, as well as the fact
that Dazai definitely isn’t some overly-chaste person—it’s still… still… still kind of, urgh, he
doesn’t even know how to phrase it properly!

He’s embarrassed but also very excited?! He’s about to combust from hearing about Dazai’s
various plans of where they could do it in the future, but he’s also very curious as to how that
would even work, given that they haven’t even really done anything beyond kissing?!

Is he supposed to get some advice from others?! Ane-san definitely would have a lot of advice for
him, but he might not make it alive out of the tea room! How embarrassing is it to ask someone’s
older sister figure about these things?

People he could trust to not tease him while also giving reliable information are likely to be virgins
too, so he can’t exactly ask Kunikida or Tachihara about it. People that he knows are experienced
—how he got such knowledge is irrelevant—well… He’s sure that Atsushi would gladly give him
a lot of pointers, but that is a kind of shame that’s on an entirely different planet altogether.

Asking Dazai himself…

His face explodes.

“Fufufu. Are you imagining it, Chuuya?”

“The kind of judging stares we’ll get? I certainly am.”

He definitely can’t ask Dazai about this, damn it! At least, not until he gets his bearings under
control. It would be so uncool if he ends up stuttering or tripping over his words if he does end up
asking him directly, urgh.

Even though… even though… it’d be kind of nice, as a show of trust, to just openly let Dazai
handle everything about that aspect… Damn it, he could feel himself blushing even more, he’s too
old for this! He shouldn’t be getting so shy about such things! He’s a mafioso, for fuck’s sake!

“Then maybe I should help your imagination a little bit,” Dazai suggests, sounding utterly calm.

When their lips meet, the veneer of the other’s calm is immediately torn apart. The other’s entire
body is practically vibrating against his, heartbeat on overdrive. It’s far from their first kiss, but
each one still elicits a tingling sensation from the top of his head, all the way to his toes. The
octopus transformation is more evident now, Dazai’s hands wriggling all over the place, as if he
wants to touch everywhere at once, and his physical body is unable to keep up with the thousand
desires in his head.

It really is so ridiculous. “I’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs, the syllables licked out of his
mouth. With the two of them side by side, the strain on their necks is slightly less, since they don’t
have to fight against natural gravity as they make up for their height difference. This means that
they’re able to do this longer, and with less restraint.

He anchors them together with his right arm looped on top of Dazai’s shoulderblade, the tips of his
fingers rubbing the other’s nape. With his resolve to wear gloves less, this means that it’s their bare
skin touching together.

Dazai moans as though he’s electrified by this, as if he’s the one who’s been wearing gloves for
decades, as though he’s the one who’s all sensitive.

One hand drifts towards his tailbone, rubbing at the dip of his back muscles there. It so happens
that the elastic of his pajamas rests there too, and it brings a little thrill to him, the possibility of
there being something more. He hikes his right leg up against the other’s, so he’s embracing him
tighter.

Thoughts from before, about wanting to prepare for it first—they all fade away quickly. After all,
they’ve waited so long already, there’s no point in delaying it further. They both love each other
and they both want each other, so why not—

—because there’s the outside world, is why not, apparently.

A ringing sound comes from his phone on the bedside table.

Dazai feigns deafness and continues kissing him.

The ringing sound pauses, then returns persistently.

“What if it’s important,” Chuuya grouses, and pushes Dazai by the shoulders. It can’t even be
considered as within a hundredth of his real strength, this attempt at separating them lacking any
integrity.

Dazai, because he’s a mackerel who can read him well, takes this as a sign that he acquiesces to
this ‘sudden deafness syndrome’ plan.

Unfortunately for them, whoever’s calling Chuuya is also proficient in being deaf to their desires
to be left alone to tumble together in bed.

After five minutes of this battle of wills, he really can’t take ignoring it further. The other party has
also given up, and has sent over a text message instead. Picking up his phone, he then slaps Dazai’s
shoulder to get him to stop trying to burrow against him. “Mackerel, the 5PM viewing wants to
reschedule to an early time.”

“Okay, let’s cancel that.”

“Let’s fucking not, bastard.” He rolls his eyes and flicks the other’s ear. “It’s the one with the best
location, remember?”

“And the worst timing,” comes the whining protest. “I want to roll around in bed some more!”

He also wants that too, damn it! But this is the one that he’s been looking forward to the most out
of all the prospective places they’ve lined up. And he knows that Dazai is partial to this one too,
hence both of their previous arrangement to have it seen around sunset. Right at the time where it
would feel homeliest with the neighborhood coming alive from everyone else arriving home too.

“Stop complaining already and start showering,” he says instead, pinching one cheek. “If you
behave well enough I might think of letting you drive on our way back.”

Dazai perks up at that, eyes twinkling. “Oh, now I know that Chuuya really loves me~”

“Because I’m willing to risk a vehicular accident?”

“Because you’re willing to sacrifice your car,” and then he’s kissing him, before sprinting away
from the bed, as if he’s afraid that remaining any longer will automatically cancel the offer.

“What sacrifice, as if I’m letting you do anything to it!”

…But, he feels himself smiling like an idiot anyway, so while Dazai’s in the shower, he collapses
back to bed, hugging the other’s pillow to his face.

Urgh, it’s so hopeless.

Back then, when he’d felt that suffocating weight of being in love with such an asshole, he thought
that love was meant to be like that. An offer to use up his entire self and entire life, just so he could
be worthy of having his feelings reciprocated. A desire to claw out his insides, just so he could
present something as fealty towards someone who would then rule over his heart with tight reins.

But now—that’s not exactly true anymore. He still wants to use up his entire self, but it’s for both
their happiness. He still wants to carve out a space from his insides, but it’s so the other can make
his home there, knowing that the shitty mackerel has done the same on his end.
He lets out a scream against the pillow, at how hopelessly, helplessly, happily entangled he is.

Love truly is such a formidable emotion, he can only be defeated soundly by it.

Normally, Chuuya wouldn’t be driving his car for a day trip that’s within short distances. Walking
the streets is almost-always the better choice, but not when there’s a lot of scattered thunderstorms,
more mercurial than Edogawa and Dazai’s tantrum tendencies combined. And especially not when
they’re house-hunting, wanting to make a good impression on prospective sellers.

Of course, slapping a blank cheque would probably surmount any difficulties that might arise.
However, this is the first major purchase they’re making together, with both their inputs. It’s
something that would be their first footprint in their relationship journey, something that would see
them for the rest of their lives.

It’d be preferable if it’s acquired as normally as possible, without having to pull out a “I’m
probably going to become Port Mafia’s Boss within the next few months, so you better sell it to
me” card.

“It’s like it’s going to be our baby,” Dazai offers his unnecessary commentary by the side.
Wheezing at this bout of nonsense, Chuuya almost parks them directly against the neighboring car
with the way that he suddenly swerves.

“S-S-Shut up! There’s no baby, damn it!”

With a mischievous glint in his eyes, “But you’re my baby, Chuu-Chuu~”

He shudders at that. “Get out of the car first and then I’ll run you over.”

Sensing that he’s truly disturbed by this too-cloying ‘nickname’, Dazai laughs but diverts the topic.
The moment they’re properly parked, he does leave the car first, but it’s so he can skip towards the
driver’s seat, brandishing a giant umbrella with a flourish. “I got us a very big one, so that you
don’t have to worry about getting drenched as we share.”

He twitches at the reminder of their height difference making things difficult to share an umbrella
during heavier downpours. At least, not without sacrificing one half of himself to being soaked.
“I’ve asked Kajii to make an umbrella that has a sword for a handle,” he warns, but he does mimic
his partner in wrapping an arm over his waist as they start walking towards their first appointment.

“I look forward to you using it on me,” is the earnest declaration.

They bicker a bit more as they walk, taking in the sights of this neighborhood.

Exemplifying its name, Yokohama’s Naka Ward truly is the middle point of so many things.
Geographically, it has hills, low plains, a river, reclaimed lands, part of the port area and the bay
beyond. One side of this Ward is filled with historical residences that are left over from previous
foreign occupation. Another side is dedicated to the future, with a portion of Minato Mirai 21
complex, along with the newer, popular landmarks. It serves as the middle of point of bustling
commercial and tourist areas, industrial complexes, government buildings, nature parks and
residential spaces.

The main appeal of the place that they’re about to visit is how different it is compared to
everything else.
Dazai reaches out to press the doorbell, the moment they’ve arrived by the wooden gate. It’s in one
of the older residential neighborhoods that is surrounded by parks, playgrounds and small stores.
Beyond the swathe of greenery are the ritzy commercial streets, but the park serves as a border that
seemingly keeps the rest of the city away.

Finding two-story houses complete with garden space is rare enough nowadays, especially in the
middle of a booming city. It’s very unkempt though, and the reason why the owner has suddenly
called them is because he doesn’t live in the country anymore. This viewing is slotted in-between a
business trip; soon, the owner will leave and won’t be back for a considerable amount of time.

After some pleasantries—a handshake that Dazai sighs hard about, muttering something about how
Chuuya’s able to charm even a married, workaholic middle-aged man—said man gives them the
keys and asks them to look around at their leisure. He then brings up a laptop and a phone, busying
himself with work while leaving them to explore on their own.

That works just fine. Chuuya’s still busy pinching Dazai’s waist for his complaints about his
charm. “How can you still be jealous when we’re literally about to buy a house together?!”

Lips jut out in a massive pout. “A silly chibi who cannot understand his own charm doesn’t have
any say in this matter.”

Urgh, so annoying! “There’s no charm! And even if there is, I would only use it on you!”

It’s the wrong set of words. They end up testing the sturdiness of the entrance hall’s walls, because
Dazai slams him on it, and starts climbing him like a tree.

Once he’s able to wrench his mouth away from other, he gripes out the continuation of his
previous statement, “So I could get you to do what I want! Which is for you to unhand me, damn
it, we can’t do this here!”

While the place isn’t simmering in dust or mold, it needs a lot of overhaul to keep it up-to-date with
the recent safety standards. There’s bamboo that has shot up and splintered the walkway between
the living room and dining area. The design choices are also rather dated, with too-simple furniture
that can’t host the various sundries they have collected over the years. There are some walls that
have already been half-consumed by insects and rodents. Tiles and floorboards are broken or
outright missing in several rooms.

There’s a lot of space though, and he can envision making a dedicated wine cellar in the basement,
and maybe add another floor or balcony so they can do some stargazing on clear nights. They walk
out to the garden. It’ss filled with the remains of plants that have been dehydrated for years,
something that was probably a fountain if built properly, a rotting tree.

It’s expensive for its dilapidated state, and it will need a lot of paperwork, refurbishing, renovation
and subsequent upkeep. There’s only the two of them and they’re both not the type to enjoy having
other people—even if they’re professional hired help—in their private spaces. Maintenance and
cleaning will have to be done by them, on top of their jobs that could get quite busy, especially
with dealing with the aftermath of what’s happened and his impending promotion as the next Boss.

It would probably be very hilarious for other organizations to discover that Port Mafia’s Boss is
living in such a quaint, idyllic place instead of some ritzy, futuristic penthouse suite.

Chuuya can see the two of them in this house, rebuilding it together.

“We can decide after we’ve seen the rest of the places,” Dazai tells him, hushed, as if anything
louder will disturb the fragile peace of this house. The tremble of his fingers as they hold hands—it
says so much about how he feels about this place though.

“Okay,” he agrees, equally hushed and excited about exploring other places together.

The next places that they go to are all from Dazai’s side of the list.

“Your choices really are…” He can’t help but let out helpless laughter, pinching the inside of the
other’s forearm. “Why is it so ridiculously tailored for me?!”

There really is no other word for it.

Four more places, all penthouse suites this time. All within a stone’s throw away from wine shops
and clothing shops. All within five minutes of a classy bar that caters the wealthier clientele. All
with laundry shops at the lower floors, on top of having their own laundry room.

“Because Chuuya hates doing the laundry,” is the other’s explanation, an almost-pleased look on
his face, as if he’s awaiting praise for this observation.

“You’re such an idiot,” he tells him sincerely, smothering his disbelieving chuckles against the
other’s shirt buttons. He does give him his version of praise, petting his flanks over his clothes. It
could be considered a belly rub if he’s an actual dog, not just some bandaged approximation of one.

“Unless you want me to be a full-time house-husband instead?”

He snorts at the concept. “Not afraid that the novelty will wear off eventually?”

Not as an insult any homemakers, but rather a consideration for the other’s never-quiet mind.
Household chores can be tiring and time-consuming, but they’re a far cry from hundred-step
strategies involving dozens of players.

“If it’s for the sake of transforming your shirts into more interesting colors?” A hum. “Or for the
sake of welcoming you back with a ‘do you want me or me or me?’ question?”

An unbiased assessment, “You’d be the worst house-husband ever.”

Unfortunately, the mental image paints itself all too vividly. He could just see it, the setting sun
slanting just-so over the mischief on the other’s face. The clear intent to cause him a heart attack
right as he enters the threshold to their home. Probably complete with a gaudy costume… No, an
even deadlier combination would be that of a simple apron over a simple shirt and shorts, a lack of
bandages because it’s only the two of them around.

Dazai’s fingers parade like ants all over his sides, tickling him slightly. Immense satisfaction still
obvious. “Mm, but these choices are pretty nice, aren’t they?”

The latest place they’re in is less than five minutes away from Yokohama Station. A newly-built
skyscraper that’s one of the tallest buildings in the entire city. It’s full of luxurious amenities;
certain facilities are reserved for top-floor residents. There’s a helipad too, as the building is
tailored for the ultra-rich and powerful.

The unit they’re in includes a balcony that faces Yokohama Bay’s glittering waters, Cosmo Clock
on Minato Mirai 21 telling them that it’s three in the afternoon now.
Chuuya appreciates the view with one eye, more than half his face remaining buried against Dazai.
They’re swaying along with the steady beats of raindrops.

“We can move in tomorrow here,” Dazai murmurs on top of his hat.

It’s very convenient, as if his mackerel has already ensured everything ahead of time. He savors the
feeling, tastes it in his tongue along with the scent of apples that waft into his nose. Before, he’s
always the one accommodating whatever darned whim the other thinks of. Now…

“There are still some places that we’re supposed to see over the next few days.”

“Okay,” Dazai agrees, and takes his hand.

The following day, both of them have to deal with things at work, so they’ve set up the next few
apartment viewings to the day after. Chuuya’s end finishes quicker, but he catches Akutagawa in
the elevator. One hand on the younger man’s wrist, he texts Dazai that he still has additional work
to do.

“I do not require a chaperone for something so inane as a visit to the clinic,” Akutagawa insists.

He teases, “I haven’t even been promoted yet and you’re already trying out how to rebel?”

Not that Akutagawa would ever really go against his words. He really is a good kid, in the end.
He’ll grumble a lot, but he’d still follow his orders. Even if it’s for something as silly as letting him
sit with him at the waiting room at a mafia-affiliated clinic, for his regular lung check-up.

Even though they are mafioso, they do know how to follow queueing rules, so they obediently sit
and wait for their turn. As a testament to the other’s growth—and a definite influence from his
chatterbox partner—Akutagawa actually starts some small talk. Chuuya feels like wiping invisible
tears of joy, but that would probably make the other sulk, so he clamps down on the urge.

“Jinko says that he wants to pay me back for all of our expenses.”

“Are you trying to make me jealous that your partner has a concept of shame when it comes to
mooching off money?”

Akutagawa doesn’t bristle automatically anymore at insults targeted towards Dazai. Once again, he
feels like wiping off invisible tears of joy. And then, invisible tears of distress, because he could
practically hear Atsushi’s narration at the back of his head, about his Very Hard Work in getting
Akutagawa to develop in this direction.

…For a brief moment, Chuuya considers asking Akutagawa for advice about sex, but then he’s
pretty sure Atsushi will never let him live it down, once he hears about it. And given how whipped
Akutagawa has become, he definitely will hear about it. Plus, he’s the senpai in this relationship,
it’s a different level of embarrassment to have this kind of talk.

“He is a fool,” is said with a shake of the head, but there’s obvious fondness anyway.

“With Atsushi’s measly salary, it’s going to take an entire lifetime of paying back.”

At that, Akutagawa smiles.

Something inside his chest unclenches. Ah, his kouhai are also living in peace and happiness.
“Your new place must be very good and surrounded by parks,” he ends up blurting out. “Health is
very important, okay?”

Someplace surrounded by healthy things, so they get to stay together longer.

After the clinic visit, Chuuya sends Akutagawa off, then goes on his own to a certain place.

It’s still rather rainy, but he walks there this time. His phone doesn’t have another message from
Dazai aside from his last, “Okie~~~ Make sure to miss me lots, okay~~~”

The slow walk allows him to appreciate the neighborhood better. Several streets away, there’s a
small Buddhist temple. Several rows of convenience stores and markets. Playgrounds, a basketball
court. He marvels at how the dichotomy is so stark here, peaceful seclusion on one side, and on
another side of the park, there’s the road leading to Chinatown, to Motomachi, to the main tourist
attractions and central business district.

And then, he marvels at how things have always worked between them.

“Ah, can this be considered as destiny?” Dazai asks, from where he’s in front of that first house
they’ve looked at. They still haven’t given an answer to any of the places they’ve canvassed, citing
the need for time to consider things carefully.

Perhaps there’s no need for it, really.

Maybe it’s love at first sight.

He smiles as he stands beside his mackerel, watching the other pick the lock without shame
whatsoever in doing it in broad daylight. “You didn’t put a tracker on me to check where I was
going?”

“Akutagawa-kun only told me that you nagged at him like a chibi motherhen.”

“So you mean Akutagawa told Atsushi and Atsushi gossiped about it to you.” He rolls his eyes at
the other’s antics. “You were supposed to do some work, but you just ended up slacking off and
gossiping, didn’t you.” It’s not a question.

Without any scruples about selling out his co-conspirators, “Ranpo-san also joined in.”

“Sometimes, I really pity Kunikida in being stuck with you lot of slackers.”

“Oh, he joined too.” With that, the two of them join forces in breaking the law, holding hands
while trespassing in this house without letting the owner know.

He raises an eyebrow. “However did you guys blackmail him into neglecting his schedule?”

“We were discussing what gifts to bring for Fukuzawa-san and Mori-san’s wedding.”

“Ah.” He shudders as he remembers Ane-san’s grave expression on her fourth unfruitful shopping
trip, because she also is at a loss on what to get them. She seems to be wrestling with the concept
of witnessing Boss act… weirder than usual.

“I suggested a bomb, by the way.”

“You’re picking a fight with the mafia?”

“I’m being a hero,” Dazai insists. The two of them circle the garden, their footsteps leaving muddy
 imprints due to the downpour. “Nobody deserves to see that atrocity of a wedding.”

He shudders again. Elise is surprisingly on-board with the idea, which means that it’s going to
come to fruition, no matter what happens. “I could bring tinted eyeglasses for everyone,” he offers
uncertainly. A Hawaiian-themed wedding. He’s also not sure how to persuade Boss out of it. He
doesn’t even know how to bring the topic up without losing his mind.

Dazai raises their joined hands as he draws invisible plans over the air. “A mini-pond, a vegetable
garden, entrance to your wine cellar basement.”

“If you try to drown yourself in that pond, I’m kicking you to death.”

Their linked hands sweep to the side. “A big tree so we can make a treehouse.”

“What is this ‘we’ that you’re talking about?” Knowing the other’s physical abilities, it will just be
him barking orders and him carrying out the actions.

“Chuuya,” is said very seriously. “If you build something while shirtless, it will be very hard work
for me to survive without nosebleeding to death. That counts as a massive contribution, okay?”

“A massive pervert is what you are,” he huffs.

“But I belong to you, so it’s still my win.”

The rain starts pouring harder and muffles his answer, but both of them know the truth anyway.

-
to be continued;

Chapter End Notes

thanks for reading till the end! comments would be really great ♥♥♥

+ as always, all locations mentioned/described in this fic are real~~~ (except for the
actual houses lol)
+ next chapter: FukuMori wedding! …everyone finds an excuse to not be in
Yokohama while this happens; soukoku visit Chuuya’s birthplace and they begin to
track down the movements of his long-dead father;
+ next chapter: on or before july 31! hope to see you next part too ♥♥♥
 after-story #2
Chapter Summary

+ this chapter: FukuMori Hawaiian-themed wedding! …everyone finds an excuse to

not be in Yokohama while this happens; soukoku visit Chuuya’s birthplace and they
begin to track down the movements of his long-dead father;

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Time crawls closer to a certain day of doom.

Final Boss Showdown music pings from their consoles as they’re wedged tightly together while
seated on the floor. They’ve originally started this dungeon level while on the couch, but even
though they’re technically on the same team in this game, they still pushed and shoved each other a
lot.

A new multiplayer game developed by Fitzgerald’s ventures to the gaming industry. John roped a
bunch of them to help out as beta testers. Since it’s played in pairs, it has also become some sort of
a couples’ tournament.

By tacit understanding, nobody dares to invite the couple that’s effortlessly slaughtering them by
virtue of sending them email reminders, decked out in full brightly-colored glory, about the
wedding that’s happening tomorrow evening. Backdrop is going to be the sun setting on
Yokohama Bay, but Chuuya has a feeling that it’s going to feel more like the sun giving up on the
city.

…But it’s okay. He respects Boss and his choice in a husband. He also respects Elise and her
design choices, as well as her hold over the two men. He will continue respect them even though he
and Dazai are going to be stealthily leaving the city tomorrow so they can be far away from the
chaos.

As one of the best men for the wedding, Kunikida has already sacrificed himself, his last known
appearance a few hours ago as he accompanies Fukuzawa for some last-minute fitting. If the guy
who’s a stickler for punctuality and plans has perished from a clothes fitting, there’s not much hope
for the actual ceremony tomorrow.

Dazai hooks his chin over his left shoulder, limbs long enough that he can embrace Chuuya in his
arms with enough room for him to maneuver his own console. He considers praising the game
developers for making the game easy enough to control even when in this position—but that would
entail actually admitting to being this clingy.

His mackerel, who has zero compunctions in admitting his clinginess, even brags over to the voice
chat. “You should all just surrender. I’m powered by having a chibi in my arms, you see?”

“Yes, you’ve mentioned it only a dozen times, Dazai-san,” is Atsushi’s snippy remark from over
the line, which is echoed by Edogawa and Higuchi. No sound comes from the strange group made
of Ane-san, Kyouka, Lucy, Yosano… and Kajii.

“Did Ane-san cut Kajii down,” he wonders, a bit worried. To Dazai, he asks, “If this strange love
triangle comes to blows, the Agency’s going to take responsibility, right?”

Kajii’s interest in Yosano is obvious, but whether it’s the kind of interest that involves brewing
lemons or something that’s on a more romantic angle still remains to be seen. On the other hand,
Yosano’s recent interest in tea, ikebana, and coincidentally appearing at teahouses under the
mafia’s control… is also something that needs further investigation.

“You really can’t help being a worrywart, huh?” A kiss to his earlobe. To prevent him from
obsessively checking his phone and sending furtive messages asking for signs of life from that
strange congregation, his phone is resting inside Dazai’s pocket. “And being a gossip too.”

A roll of his eyes. “And who’s the one who made the bet whether sparks will fly between
Kunikida and Sakaguchi during the wedding?”

“You took that bet too,” Dazai points out.

“But only because you insisted, damn it!”

While they’re busy bickering with each other, the other teams take that time to sneak past their
score. In a blink, the Atsushi-Akutagawa team take first place, followed by the Gin-Higuchi team.

Much like an evil overlord, Dazai lets out a, “Fufufu, did you think that you can defeat us? We
were just giving you hope, only to snatch it away!”

Chuuya rolls his eyes again, before apologizing to the voice chat. “Feel free to run this idiot over
the next time you see him, he just can’t help being such a brat.”

Everything related to paperwork and finances have already been taken care of when it comes to
their new home. They just need to wait for things to be processed—he refuses to use his ‘influence’
to put pressure on the bureaucratic side to hasten things up when it comes to the ownership
transfer.

His friends—or rather, their friends—are mostly doing well. Even if that strange thing with Kajii-
Yosano-Ane-san triangle makes him a bit worried. Even if they’re planning on skipping town so
they can avoid being on ground zero for what could possibly the most absurd wedding ceremony
known to mankind.

Things are going so well that it almost makes him wonder if this is all just a lotus-scented dream.
And then, one day, he will wake up, eighteen and surrounded by shards of a broken life. Or that he
will wake up, eight and drowning alone at sea, with only an unfeeling moon for company.

—And then Dazai pouts at him, for his not-very-honest words. “Chuuya, I can’t believe that you
still haven’t learned that being so stingy is going to make you shrink! Haven’t you noticed that
you’ve become smaller recently?”

“Haaa?!”

“Oh, that’s just because you’ve been fitting so well in my arms,” comes the quip full of
satisfaction. The pout gets smudged against his mouth, as Dazai ignores the groans of everyone in
the voice chat, and kisses him.
A warm, solid weight beside him, all around him. The scent of apples, of truth given solid form.

Right now, things are very good indeed.

“This is bad,” Chuuya mutters into his coffee, not even the comfort of it being his favored
Guatemalan blend easing the frown on his face. “I didn’t think that they’d actually do this…”

“Fufufu, there’s no need to worry.” One arm looped around his shoulders. Dazai then reaches out
to rub the side of his mouth using his thumb, as if to forcibly change the downturn of his lips. “I
have predicted this. It’s fine to proceed with the current route that we’re on.”

The current situation: Boss has mobilized what seems to be the entire mafia payroll in order to set
up ‘checkpoints’ on the roads. Ostensibly because he’s gotten wind of his favorite protégé’s plan to
hightail it out of Yokohama on his wedding day.

In order to avoid being assigned a mission to hunt Dazai down, Chuuya’s phone is oh-so-
conveniently shut off, with the fake excuse of getting dropped into the bathtub.

He respects his Boss, he really does. He just finds it hard to accept having to bear witness to
transforming the helipad atop Port Mafia’s headquarters into a fake sandy beach. Because they
want a casual beach wedding while also having an uninterrupted view of the Yokohama skyline at
sunset. Seeing his Boss in flower-printed shorts is bad enough, to see that kind of attire while in
close proximity with work is just too much.

Worse, it’s a buy-one-get-one deal. So, he’ll have to look at two fully-grown men doing this.

Clearly, the only way he can retain his sanity is to get the fuck out of the city.

“Better back this confidence up,” he grumbles, but lets himself be coaxed into smiling a bit. “Or
else, I’m kicking your ass right into the train tracks.”

Dazai’s plan is to subvert expectations. According to him, everyone knows that Chuuya would
never willingly choose public transportation for long trips, not if driving is an option. “Plus,
everyone knows that I’ll grant whatever my chibikko wishes,” he explains with a beleaguered sigh,
as if the real reason isn’t because his finances are shit, so he’ll have little choice but to follow the
money trail.

“I want you to stop bringing up my height each and every time, damn it!”

“Ah. But your height is so perfect for me to use you as a chin-rest.” Without any fear whatsoever
that Chuuya’s going to throw his cup of coffee right into his face for this kind of annoying
sentence. And then, reading his mind, a lofty, “Nope, you’re not going to throw your coffee at me.
It’s your favorite coffee, after all.”

Before he can respond to that, an additional, “And I’m your favorite person.” A smile that has no
business making him feel so gooey in the middle of a train station, at an hour when there are
countless people milling around. And yet, here he is, struck speechless by the softness of the
other’s look.

“—Please don’t start making out in the middle of the train station,” breaks into their two-person
world. “It’s going to attract a lot of attention and then how can we escape?”

Chuuya turns to see a mid-yawn Atsushi, propped up against an Akutagawa who gives both of
them a respectful nod. From several meters behind the two sleepy men, he sees Gin’s shadow flit
past, with Higuchi and Tachihara in tow. He smells the scent of Ane-san’s new perfume, distilled
with bamboo water, and it’s so out of place in the train station that he’s nearly struck dizzy from it.
And then, the realization that Ane-san is actually taking public transport makes him take a half-
step back

By the time he recovers from that blow to the psyche, it’s to hear Atsushi and Dazai snip at each
other. Atsushi’s a lot crankier in the mornings, especially if it means having to wake up early and
disturb the sleep schedule that he’s been establishing for both him and Akutagawa.

Supposedly for the sake of Akutagawa’s continued good health, but Chuuya hates himself for
knowing that there are certainly ulterior motives involved. It’s not even him being perverted or
anything, it’s all thanks (not!) to Atsushi oversharing via text.

Worried that this will end up as a commotion between two brats, Chuuya bodily pulls Dazai away,
much to the mackerel’s delight. “Why are you squealing at being manhandled in public,” he asks,
not really wanting an answer.

“At being manhandled by my chibi in public,” is the airy correction.

“Utterly shameless.”

“Fufufu, I’d happily listen to all of your scolding, but we’re going to miss the bullet train if you
keep on flirting with me, you know?”

“I, I, I wasn’t flirting!” They’re already engaged and they’re about to own a home together, but the
thought of being accused of flirting with this fish is still too much!

A pat to his cheek as they weave through the corridors, moving towards the platform for the
Tokaido-Sanyo Shinkansen.

Today’s trip to Yamaguchi is estimated to take nearly six hours, so missing one train isn’t
advisable. Taking that into consideration, he only grumbles a bit more before he clamps down on
the urge to bicker more. He’s been made aware that the two of them have this tendency to lose
track of their environment once they get into the spirit of bantering, after all.

Thankfully, there are no further incidents until they board the train heading south. They don’t run
into any of the others fleeing Yokohama—they’re all likely on the train heading for Haneda
Airport instead.

“Mori-san probably has people stationed there,” Dazai says with a snicker. “He has some
connections with several groups in Tokyo, after all.”

His lips twitch. “And you didn’t think to warn them?”

One hand solemnly on his chest as if he’s making an oath, “It’s every person for himself in this
time of great calamity.”

“Stop acting so noble when you’re saying such annoying things!”

The carriage they’re in is mostly empty, but Chuuya still pinches Dazai’s mouth when the other
starts making trouble not even fifteen minutes into their journey. He also vetoes the suggestions of
making use of the private smoking room.

“It’s the best place to get hot and bothered, right,” Dazai whines, forwardness at this kind of
overture growing bolder each day.

He can only sputter a, “Shut the fuck up,” and then shove a biscuit right into the other’s mouth.

They don’t have a lot on them. Casual clothes in thin, breathable cotton given that summer is in
full swing. Southern cities are known for being extremely humid and rainy during this season, so
traveling light makes things easier for them.

Especially since part of Dazai’s plan is to go around the many shrines in the area, the hills and
mountains surrounded by shrines varying in popularity and in deities worshipped. Fitting of an area
that’s literally called the ‘entrance to the mountain’, mountains form a distant backdrop of the
place as they alight from the train.

They grab Kawara soba for lunch, immediately trying out the local specialty, despite Dazai making
faces at the green tea noodles used.

“Eat up, because I’m not carrying you if you get tired from the itinerary you made,” he warns,
lightly bopping the other’s thigh using the sole foldable umbrella that they have. Traveling ‘lightly’
means that they only have that one umbrella and their respective phones and wallets on them. Even
if they end up delaying their return to Yokohama and staying overnight here, everything can be
taken care of by the contents of his bank account anyway.

Dazai reasons, “If I’m too full, then I wouldn’t be able to move much.”

“I really am not going to carry you,” he insists, because this kind of situation needs to be nipped on
the bud.

They visit four local shrines after lunch. So far, they’ve avoided the big tourist spots, keeping to
those that are well-maintained but still unable to shrug off the flow of time. A lot of trees keep the
roads cool, even if Dazai flops about after the fourth one, sticking close to him and insisting on
drinking water off his neck.

“Incorrigible,” Chuuya declares, but he looks left and right anyway. Sighs in relief when there’s
nobody around to witness this embarrassment, before he drinks a small mouthful from the water
bottle they bought, and shares it with the dying fish.

It should be cooling. Plain water is plain water, but it somehow becomes so sticky and hot. It takes
him several moments before he can wrench his mouth away from the mackerel who chases after
him immediately.

To his horror, he ends up with his back pressed down on the wooden bench, Dazai’s weight
plastered on top of him. No, that’s not exactly the horrifying part. The terrible thing is due to the
fact that someone coughs several times in succession, before telling them stiffly to not desecrate the
shrine. He supposes that being covered by the mackerel’s weight at least allows him to hide his
face and let Dazai receive all of the judgmental staring.

Things are really not going well, damn it.

After several minutes of attempting to give the other cold shoulder, he gives in. With a hard shove
to the other’s chest, he hisses, “Stop trying to eat my hair!”

“Oh, so that’s what breaks your silence, huh.” A finger twirls the long lock of hair on his left.
“Mm, it really is beautiful hair though.”
“S, Stop trying to change the subject!” It’s one thing to do self-care and maintenance so he’ll look
presentable, but it’s another thing entirely for this mackerel to praise him so straightforwardly!
He’s going to get goosebumps in summer!

One last rub to his locks, before Dazai’s expression smoothens into something graver. “Mm, we
can talk about what we’ll say to those people’s graves instead.”

Despite their previous agreement that there’s no need to ask permission from his long-dead family,
they’re still here anyway. A sign of closure, a sign of being able to move on by facing the past
unflinchingly. Plus, Dazai’s insistence on obtaining a couple of things from his origin to be
included in their new home’s décor. Not to treat them as something to be enshrined or entombed,
but as something to be acknowledged as having been part of his journey. Of their journey.

A part of him wants to insist on doing the same for Dazai’s end. To him, the mackerel has existed
only starting from that moment in the pier, darkness bathed in moonlight. But he hasn’t arrived at
the world a fully-formed beanpole-sized bastard, so he must have his beginnings too.

A chibi-sized Dazai… he kind of wants to see it.

It’s with those thoughts in mind that they drop by the most famous landmark of this city. Rurikoji,
a temple designed as a five-storied pagoda hailed as one of the country’s national treasure. Kozen
Park acts as its temple grounds, filled with trees and well-manicured green bushes lining up stone
pathways. A little bit beyond Kozen Park are castle ruins and other historical sites, but that’s not
the history that they plan to visit today.

Instead, they traverse a stone pavement path towards a famous, historical burial site. Each of their
steps over the stone echo with a faint mimicry of birdsong. It’s an infamous anti-stealth mechanism
that’s been employed in several historical buildings, the ‘nightingale floors’, a path that would
create noise if not crossed in a certain manner.

“We should install something like this floor in our new home,” Dazai suggests as they continue
along the path. “That way, anyone who dares disturb our lovey-doveyness can’t sneak up on us and
steal a peek at your embarrassed look!”

He thwaps the other’s arm. “There’s literally nobody who would sneak up on me just to see my
face!” With another whack, he adds, “Aside from you, stupid fish.” He mulls it over for a few
seconds. “On second thought, let’s have that installed. All around my study, so you can’t sneak up
on me.”

As expected of an incurable idiot, that only makes Dazai perk up more. “It’d be like the olden
days! A treasure hunt full of traps before I can catch my treasure!”

“T, Treasure! There’s no treasure!”

They bicker a bit more, until they reach the famous burial grounds for the Mori Clan, the rulers of
this region during the Edo Period. They stare at the plaques for a moment before they shudder at
the reminder. At nearly four in the afternoon, the wedding that they’ve ran away from is about to
begin.

“Do you think Boss is a descendant of this clan?”

A famous samurai clan that has made waves during the Sengoku Era and has ruled this region for
several hundreds of years… If Boss is really a descendant of this clan… that would be really
awesome? And also frightening, especially when he thinks about the rigid etiquette imposed on
such noble families, and then juxtapose that with the glimpse he had of his Boss’s wedding attire
today.

Hawaiian-themed outfits really clashes hard against the samurai aesthetic.

Their discussion of Boss Mori’s possible genealogy accompanies them as they go past the edge of
the burial grounds, and into a pebbled clearing surrounded by ginkgo trees and red pine trees.

Several blackened hiltless blades are erected there to serve as unmarked gravestones, arranged like
crushed spines of a fallen monster. He looks at the overwhelming sense of drama that the area
exudes and sighs. “You actually made this sort of arrangement for them?”

Back then, he’s been overwhelmed by the sense of betrayal. Of having been thrown away yet again
by the people who share the same blood as him. They’ve already abandoned him way back in
France, only for him to drift back to Japan in a journey that he can’t even remember much now,
aside from the sense of it being filled with shadows and blood. And then, they’ve sold his
information to an enemy organization, all in the name of felling a monster that they can’t
understand.

Back then, Dazai had hurt him so much and made him believe that the other never had any feelings
for him aside from wanting to use a convenient tool.

But looking at this graveyard, Dazai’s one last way of spiting and spitting at the family who had
hurt him so much—

Perhaps, back then, even before he’s realized his own feelings, even before he’s made the resolve
to confess his love, Dazai has already—

Summer in Yamaguchi is hot and humid, but it’s not sweat that wets his eyes right now. It’s not the
sun that makes his insides melt. He clutches Dazai’s hand hard enough to break it, and it’s
reciprocated by a grip that bruises him all the way to his marrows.

His entire being aches, as he feels, more than sees, beyond the blur of unshed tears, the way Dazai
steps down on one of the blades, as if to drive it in further.

“I am not asking for permission from any of you,” Dazai says, utterly resolute, so cold that it’s
burning hot. “I am telling you, that no matter what happens, no matter what it takes, I will make
Chuuya happy.” A grip that doesn’t slide off even with how sweaty their palms get. “I have already
stolen him away from all of you a long time ago and he will be mine forever.”

A possessive conviction that cannot be swayed even by the other’s halting steps towards being
more like a considerate human being.

“I’m not asking for permission either,” he says with a voice that feels like it’s been sandpapered.
“I’m telling you that I will be the most ordinary extraordinary—and the most extraordinary
ordinary—human being. Even with the power inside of me, because of the power inside of me.”

And just like before, when he’s been faced with his mother and her own conviction that he’s a
monster wearing a human mask, that he’s someone who has seduced Dazai into thinking that he’s
normal despite being far from it—

“I have an idiot mackerel who is worse than an octopus, a dog and a slug combined.”

Surrounded by red pines, trees that are said to symbolize fidelity and fortitude. A breeze wafts into
the clearing, but it doesn’t cool off the warmth that he feels.
Their hands are joined with palms pressed, ten fingers interlocked. 恋人繋ぎ. A lovers’ link. The
two of them irrevocably connected and bound together, for the rest of their lives.

“We will live together, with each day spent in making each other happy.”

A promise in this leftover battlefield long-fought, as they move towards their future.

The sun starts to creep downwards, as if unwilling to stay out longer if it means having to witness
the shenanigans happening in Yokohama.

Dazai’s phone is somehow connected to a livestream of the wedding. A quick glance shows that
the only ones left, aside from the two men getting married, are Elise and Kyusaku. The two are
decked in lovely flower printed outfits, but kids look cute no matter what they wear. Despite his
great respect for his Boss and for the silver swordsman, he cannot bring himself to be that
charitable when regarding their outfits.

Apparently, it’s all according to plan.

“Fukuzawa-dono gets easily embarrassed because he's rather shy, you see,” Boss calmly explains
to his silent—likely to be petrified—livestream audience. He adjusts the maroon scarf over his
neck, one end looped around his groom’s wrist. “So, our wedding could only happen like this.”

In Chuuya’s mind, doing something like this is bound to cause someone more embarrassment.
Also, he’s seen the silver swordsman in action, and shy isn’t even scratching the top one million
words he could use to describe the other man.

“As expected of Mori-san,” Dazai nods along like this actually is in the same universe as ‘making
sense’.

…Yup, he’s fine with not fully understanding the way these guys’ brains work.

“Don’t worry,” his mackerel kneads his right temple by knocking their heads together. Like a giant,
bandaged cat who’s rubbing his cheek against him. “I’m recording this so you can watch it slowly
later.”

He’s honestly grateful for that, because he doesn’t actually want to miss such an important
moment. He just needs… a lot of fortitude to deal with seeing certain things. Maybe with a lot of
alcohol.

They visit shrines and various shops near the Xavier Church. Almost as if it’s a beacon for all
foreign tourists, the shops around this area are more decidedly Western-themed.

“Catholic weddings have this theme of having the bride wear four different things during her
wedding day,” Dazai starts to lecture as they mill around the area, window-shopping and snacking
all the way. “Something old, something new, something blue and something borrowed.”

Thanks to the pervasive feeling of being dismayed at Boss Mori’s antics, Chuuya doesn’t combust
on the spot at this obvious goading.

They walk a bit further until they’re away from the busy, tourist-heavy streets. Closer to where his
old home used to be, before it got burned down to ashes.

He really shouldn’t be surprised, but his breath still catches when they stand in front of the lot. It’s
now filled with overgrown weeds, nature taking over the abandoned plot of land. There’s a
barricade surrounding it, no traces of burning—which means that it’s been erected after the fire has
razed it.

Back then, he’s been too out of it to do anything like this.

Which means that this is also part of Dazai’s arrangements.

The cold, unfeeling demon prodigy from back then, preserving this spot, confining it away from
outside influence.

“You can do with it as you wish,” Dazai tells him now, their hands linked. “The paperwork for this
piece of real estate is inside one of my secret vaults.”

When Dazai left the mafia, he left him with all of his assets. He left him with everything—
apparently even his heart. He left him with everything—except for that set of paperwork, things
that would have broken him further if he saw them back then.

“…You truly are…” He stops, unable to find the right words.

There’s no need for it though.

They slowly, quietly, walk down the street of a childhood he doesn’t remember. The setting sun
casts deep reds and oranges on their path.

On the street corner, there’s a shop that sells handwoven charms, an old lady seated on a rocking
chair by the storefront. Wrinkled hands nimbly hold knitting needles as she works on something
that could be a cozy hand warmer for the next winter.

Dazai’s feet walk a bit closer to the side, so Chuuya steers them towards the store. He gets a couple
of charms as souvenirs, plus something that could serve as a hanging container for keys.

The old lady stares unblinkingly at him for several moments as he goes up to pay for their
purchases. Her eyes bead with moisture as her gaze focuses on his hat. “…I’m glad that you look
happy now,” she murmurs as she bypasses the money that he holds out, instead grasping his wrist.
Her voice sounds far away when she adds, “Once, if my memory serves me well…”

He doesn’t struggle out of her grip. He stands there, slightly bent down, one wrist in her hold, and
the other tethered to Dazai. After several minutes, she blinks and wipes her watery eyes with her
free hand. “My apologies, young lad. You’ve reminded me so much of someone with the same hat
as yours.”

Lightly, “A good friend of yours?”

She shakes her head a bit. “I remember it vividly still. He dropped by and wanted me to weave a
charm with a certain phrase.” She looks like she’s recounting something that happened just
yesterday. “But before he could finish writing down the whole phrase, someone arrived to take him
away.”

She stares at him again, moving her gaze towards the line of his shoulders. “As he walked away, he
looked like he was carrying such a heavy load of loneliness.” She gives him a satisfied pat on the
wrist. “I’m glad that you look happy, young lad.”

“…I’m very happy,” he says, choking a bit over the words. He doesn’t look at Dazai, even when
his mackerel flirts with the old lady and asks if she still has the paper where that fedora-wearing
 guy wrote down his words.

He tries to imagine it, decades ago.

His father, the previous vessel of the disgraced god, walking here and wanting someone to weave
some charms. Wearing this same hat, how would he have looked like? He probably never returned
to this place after that moment, if that’s the last memory that this old neighbor has of him.

Before he’s been taken over by Corruption’s whispers, how would his father have felt?

It’s not something that he thought he’d need to think about ever again. A part of him has already
resigned himself to leaving such questions buried under the sands of time.

But now—

They leave the store, that fellow’s words preserved on paper now resting in Dazai’s pocket. They
walk in meandering silence, only broken when he eventually says, “…You really don’t have to do
these things, you know.”

“These things?”

“These… gifts. These amends.” His childhood has been stained with so much, that’s not something
that anyone can erase or change. “Still… thank you.”

Dazai stops them in front of a streetlight, flickering open under the encroaching blanket of
nighttime. Dying embers of sunlight makes his cheeks look ruddy with color. “Do you want to
follow his trail?”

“The past is already over.”

Two hands cradle his face. “Do you want to follow his trail?” Like this, the persuasive Port Mafia
Executive Dazai Osamu makes a reappearance, softer, gentler. “A nice sightseeing trip to France.
We can do some wine tasting there too.”

Back then, when this suggestion was put forth by a Dazai wearing a heavy black overcoat, it’s with
murder on the horizon.

Now—

“I want to,” is tucked in-between their lips, the sunset red and warm around them.

-
to be continued;

Chapter End Notes

thanks for reading till the end! comments would be really appreciated (◕▽◕✿) and
hope to see you next part!

next chapter: a trip to France, bumping into a lot of unexpected people, plus a hint of
Dazai’s past ^o^//
ps, if you follow me on twitter, you might have seen that i’m holding sort-of a survey?
about my writing style? basically: “what's the most recognizable/memorable/trademark
part of my writing to you? (if there's any lol) one that makes you go, "ah,
athina/setosdarkness wrote this"?（｡>‿‿<｡ ）
please feel free to respond in twitter or in the comments below! i’m using it for…
something wwwwwww

references!

+ red pine is the ‘prefecture tree’ for Yamaguchi; ginkgo is the ‘city tree’ for
Yamaguchi City;
+ Chuuya’s house / family graveyard here is fictional, though everything else
mentioned is based on actual locations! (yes, even the stuff about the Mori Clan)
+ 恋人繋ぎ/“koibito tsunagi” is a specific term for that specific way of hand-holding

+ a bunch of things here are referenced from chapters 15&16 (aka, the flashback
chapters)
+ in ch15/16, they had to deal with an enemy organization named Shayou/“setting
sun” and now they kiss in the sunset… wwwwww

+ a reminder that this fic was written before Cannibalism Arc / Fifteen / Storm Bringer
— as such Chuuya’s family backstory is different from canon; i wrote this with the
idea of Chuuya’s father being the previous holder of Corruption, with said father based
on Rimbaud (now that 15/SB are out, it’s funny how that works out wwwwwww)

+ “Once, if my memory serves me well...” is the first line of “A Season in Hell” ©

Arthur Rimbaud; this poem also serves as an aside/reference to his relationship with
Verlaine; imagine… subtweeting, but in poem form LOL
+ (not related to the fic, but Zelda Fitzgerald (yes, the wife of Fitz) actually worked on
translating this particular poem to English)
 after-story #3
Chapter Summary

this chapter: a trip to France; bumping into a lot of unexpected people; the identity of
chuuya's father; the thing that Dazai has been saving up on; plus a hint of Dazai’s past
^^;;

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

“I really wasn’t expecting Boss to approve of this leave,” he says, even as he’s making himself
comfortable in their first-class suite. Traveling to France takes more than a day, so no expense is
spared in ensuring that they travel comfortably.

Dazai wiggles beside him, utterly delighted that he booked the private cabin with a queen-sized
bed. The plane hasn’t even undergone takeoff, but he’s already bundled up in blankets, his arms
wrapped around Chuuya’s waist like a lifeline. It’s probably in anticipation to getting whacked
when he says, “Mm, but you used your puppy dog eyes while applying for one, who would have
been able to resist?”

He dislikes being predictable, but he does thwap the side of the other’s face. “I applied normally!
What puppy dog eyes are you talking about!”

His mackerel is already busy with muttering nonsense. “On one hand, my chibi is obviously
charming. On another hand, other people are getting charmed by him…” As if he’s making up for
the lack of straightforward honesty during their younger years, he’s now very open in verbalizing
such things.

His face flushes, even if he knows it’s a bunch of bullshit. He’ll probably never get used to it.

Plus, this lazy mackerel who’s working hard in making up for all the shitty things that he’s done to
him, even taking on the shitty things that has happened to him… “Aren’t you the one who’s going
around charming people, urgh…”

“Hmm? What was that?”

Praising this person is an invitation to be teased nonstop so he backtracks with a, “I said you’re an
idiot fish!”

“So you weren’t calling me charming?” Dazai crawls up to him, crowding him against the foamy
headboard.

“You—!!”

“Fufufu, of course there’s no way I would miss out on any sound coming out from my darling
chibi’s lips?” One thumb slowly rubs the swell of his bottom lip. With legs boxing his hips and
one arm draped around his shoulders, it’s as if Dazai is wrapping him all over with his presence.
Warm breath over his left ear, making his face grow hotter. “I haven’t paid you enough attention
back then, so I’ll have to work hard to make up for it.”
“That’s not—”

An instinctive denial, even if a part of him is pleased by the sentiment. An even bigger part of him
doesn’t want it to be purely tit-for-tat, even if he knows that it’s not exactly that. A whirlwind of
contradictions, which could pretty much be attributed to the fact that he wants everything Dazai has
to give.

Their friends have been teasing him incessantly about Dazai’s possessiveness over him, but in fact,
he’s probably so much worse. Urgh, it’s really embarrassing.

But then, Dazai whispers, “I want to,” with such heartfelt sincerity that his entire body is doused
with such warmth. “I really want to.”

As he’s thought, his mackerel can really be charming when he wants to be.

The streets of Paris are filled with the charm that boasts of being known as the city of love. The
wave of summer heat coupled with the heavy crowds of tourists—it’s good enough excuse for
Dazai to stick to him, holding him close as if a millimeter of distance is as vast as an entire galaxy.

There are splashes of color everywhere, cafés with winding queues and inviting smells. The artery
of roads seems to house dozens of street parties simultaneously, the music of humanity pulsing
along with the sounds courtesy of various street performances.

“It’d be nice to return here on a less crowded season,” Dazai mumbles as they walk as one being,
away from the bustling city center and towards the outskirts.

Less than sightseeing, their goal for this trip is more about investigation.

They walk along the streets that become emptier as they go further, to the point that his mackerel’s
clinging is less about preventing getting separated and more about simply being worse than an
octopus.

“You’ve really outdone yourself,” is what he ends up saying, the moment that their footsteps stop
in front of a fifteen-floor residential building. After all, it’s been a very long time since he’s last set
foot in this place.

He was too young when his mother had taken him away from Yamaguchi and fled to Paris, so he
didn’t have any memories of his time while in his childhood home. The furthest memory he
possesses are of the four-walled studio apartment at the fourth floor of this building.

It’s been a long, long time, and yet, somehow, everything still looks the same as before.

It should have been impossible. His first activation of Corruption happened here, all those years
ago. This building should have been erased from existence.

There really is no other word for it, other than, “You’re such an idiot.” He turns to look at Dazai
who’s looking at him with such naked adoration and open concern. “You’re such a fucking idiot,
you dumbass mackerel.”

Words aren’t enough to express his feelings, so he pounds his fists against this idiot’s chest. He’s
trembling from head to toe. “You’re so cheap and penniless and yet, you’ve spent so much in doing
something like this?!”
Restoring a building from the ground up. They’re outside now, but knowing his mackerel’s
tendencies, the insides are definitely recreated with exacting details. Dazai has never asked him
about his time here, so he must have gotten the information through other means.

There is no new-building smell wafting from it, and the occasional neighbors passing by don’t
even bat an eyelash at the building’s presence, which means that it’s been here for quite some time.

It’s not like he’s completely given up on knowing more about his past, even if just for closure’s
sake. After Dazai left the mafia, Chuuya made an inquiry about this place. At the thought of
information regarding his past losing its secure safeguard, he wanted to see if anyone else found
this place.

As such, he knows that as of that day, this should have been a condemned lot, left to rot in
abandonment. This should have been cordoned off under the supervision of the special branch of
the Paris Police Department, the branch that deals with Ability Users.

This place should have been left empty.

He had been fine with it being left empty, the door to this part of his life kept forever shut.

“You… You…” His fists hit the other’s chest with each syllable. Just like each syllable that
escapes his mouth, his punches are likewise shuttered and shaky, unmoored in the storm of
emotions that whirl inside him. He really should have known that Dazai would never be satisfied in
letting him experience a serene heartbeat. “You actually did something like this…”

He’s felt it during their visit to his family’s graveyard. He feels it so much more now, a tempest
that rearranges his insides into something almost unrecognizable.

Exasperation, affection. Anger at both himself and at Dazai, for being so stupid for so long.
Disappointment that he hasn’t been there to personally witness the decision-making that led to this.
Excitement towards their future, because if Dazai has valued him this much before when he hasn’t
even realized his own feelings, then surely, moving forward, it will be—

“Before, I just wanted to possess everything about you.” An acknowledgment of the true nature of
his feelings. It’s currently being displayed with such soft gentleness that it chafes against his heart,
but at the very core of it, it’s something incredibly possessive and greedy. “I didn’t think of it in
terms of loving or not—I just wanted to every bit about you.”

After Dazai has left the mafia, he has also left behind all of his ill-gotten wealth. It means that all
of this has been done by money that he has acquired through his own means.

The laziest, stingiest bastard in the whole world, doing something like this out of his own greed for
owning everything about him, even his past, even if there was no guarantee that they’d stand here
like this.

“You’re such an idiot,” Chuuya says, hiccupping a bit as he stops punching his chest, sinking
against the other’s body.

There’s no need to keep on knocking there. After all, he has apparently already possessed the key
since the very beginning.

As if it’s an armor made of the sturdiest of materials, the warm and fuzzy feelings keep him
upright against the onslaught of memories that walking up the stairs and corridors bring him.
He’s always thought that there was nothing but bad memories regarding this place, but with Dazai
beside him, he’s able to dredge up things that aren’t completely horrible.

“One time, I bumped against this wall.”

“I first had a donut while walking up these stairs.”
“There was a neighborhood event for Halloween and I had candy for the first time…”

Of course, given that Dazai is also a terrible person deep down, he responds to his reminiscing with
an exaggerated sigh of, “Ah, the chibi being even more chibi.”

When they arrive inside the fourth room on the fourth floor of this building, Chuuya’s been
expecting going a bit insane, actually. It’s here that he first activated Corruption, in response to
seeing his mother be hurt, and becoming hurt irrevocably in return.

The place has been rendered back to life as faithfully as possible. The fridge, the bed, the closet full
of costumes for his mother’s work in a back-alley theater, as well as her side job.

Dazai sighs. There’s no disguising the dark undercurrent of his tone when he says, “I would have
loved to offer you their heads on a plate.”

“There’s no need for Salome reenactment.” Their fingers and their lives are tightly intertwined. It’s
not because he suddenly has grown compunctions about crime—but there’s no need to go down the
slippery downward spiral.

They circle the rebuilt studio apartment. Loftily, “If I promise to give you the whole world, will
you dance for me and only me?”

A bunch of flimsy dresses hang on the cabinet. They don’t smell freshly washed; their texture
rough against his fingertips. The most intricate one is the costume that’s used for a low-budget
production of Salome, particularly the part for the Dance of the Seven Veils.

He quips, “You can’t afford it.”

“I’ve spent all of my money buying this place.” Coquettish movements as he rubs against him.
“You should reward me, Chuuya.”

He knows that it’s the other’s way to lighten the situation, so he doesn’t elbow him too hard in
response. He keeps it light, but his mackerel crumples hard against him anyway. “You really do
say the most shameless of things, huh.”

“Shameless would be me saying that I would have given everything to be here when you first
activated Corruption.” These words are dragged against his earlobe, a hint of teeth in both the
sentiment and the physicality of it. Arms wrap around his waist, over his shoulders. An attempt at a
full-body bind. “Or during that boat ride that brought you to me.”

“That’s not shamelessness,” he whispers as he anchors himself against the other’s body in turn.
“That’s just futility, dumbass.”

If they had met earlier, would things have changed? Probably. Probably not. It could mean meeting
his heart earlier. It could mean crushing his heart earlier. But those things don’t matter at all. Not
anymore.

They’re here to know more about his past and his origins, for the sake of knowledge and closure,
not vengeance or anything else. Not to erase or remake it.
But then, Dazai kisses him against the wall right beside the window, warm sunlight streaming into
the sterile room that holds a lot of gloom. A slow drip of sweetness to counteract the bitterness that
has been kept here for so long.

“By the way, Chuuya,” is smudged against his kiss-swollen lips many minutes later. His toes and
his neck are numb from the stretch. “There’s no one who’s using this building, so you can make a
lot of sounds, you know?”

His mind and his limbs are still stuck in a slushy, jellified state. It takes him several moments to
piece together just what his mackerel is talking about, but the moment he does, he’s electrified on
the spot. His tongue, sore and tingly from being sucked so hard earlier, is all tied up when he tries
and fails to form a solid sentence, “I don’t—! You—!!” And in the end, he trembles as he says,
“We didn’t prepare anything—!!!”

Laughter rumbles inside Dazai’s chest. “Oho? So you’re considering it?” A fond look more
scorching than the summer heat. A sweaty palm cups his cheek.

At this teasing, he hisses and bites the base of the other’s thumb. He’s probably going to combust
on the spot, but he still does his best to push out a, “O-Of course, I am! Isn’t it normal to want to…
to…”

More laughter, but it’s now openly tinged with greed. “I’ll make several plans and you get to pick
which one you like best?”

“We’re really discussing it here and now?!” Also, what is up with this?! Is this shitty mackerel of
his really going to make him… order a special s-s-s-s-s-sex service?!

“Isn’t it fine?” Despite the other’s calm façade, there’s no hiding the swell of his heartbeat and the
clamminess of his palm. The obvious excitement in his gaze. “The next time you think about this
place, you’ll only remember this moment.”

“You—!!!”

In the end, he explodes in this room again, but this time it’s not accompanied by tendrils of black,
and all of the screams are him scolding his fiancé for his shameless tactics.

After taking a lot of pictures of the place and locking it up again, they buy a bunch of food and
climb up the concrete rooftop of the building. The heat has ebbed a bit as the sun starts to sink in
the horizon, tinting the skyline with oranges and reds.

In the distance, they could see the flashing lights of an outdoor concert taking place at an open-air
park. The view of the Eiffel Tower is blocked by several taller buildings, but it doesn’t feel like a
loss at all. Annoyingly enough, Chuuya’s eyes are stuck staring at Dazai who’s goading him to
handfeed him so he can use his hands to hug him while searching up things on his phone.

“Since your father is the previous host of Corruption, there’s no doubt that the Ability-related
agency here has some details on what happened back then.”

Back then, the Ability War must have been in full swing. Acceptance of Ability Users isn’t
something that’s widespread before. Given the witch hunt that happened… “It’s definitely been
covered up.”

“Mm, but you see, aren’t we special envoys? They’ll have to treat us very diplomatically, yes?”
Suddenly, Dazai’s insistence on being more involved with the things regarding the clean-up for
Dostoevsky’s plans make a lot more sense. His throat grows dry as if he’s just swallowed a whole
baguette in one go.

“…You’ve been planning this for so long.” The feeling of everything simply being a single-person
chess match performed by his mackerel. The feeling of being touched that there’s someone in the
world who’s placed him in the center of their thoughts for such a long time.

Because of his involvement in keeping the world safe, other agencies will be hard-pressed to not
give him some face if he inquires on a bunch of things, no matter how unsavory.

“My darling is a very influential man, so of course I have to do my best to match him!” A short
pause as he takes a deep breath to ramp up his boasting to the rooftop that’s empty save for the two
of them. A two-person world of their own making. “Of course, he’s also an oblivious airhead
who’s too short and short-tempered, but he’s still the very best in my eyes!”

It feels like it’s been forever since he’s thought that finding a nice, proper romance requires being
an excellent boyfriend-material. That he needs to hit perfect marks on gentlemanliness, on
athleticism, on finances, on proficiency with as many fields as possible.

And then, there’s this person.

Someone who would enjoy him being helpless as much as he’d enjoy him at the height of power.
Someone who’d climb him regardless of his clothing. Someone who’d want to keep him as a
treasure, even if he’s covered in mud.

A gigantic idiot who happens to be in love with him.

He clears his throat. “It’s better if we just use that influence instead of being too involved with the
investigation.” They don’t need to be the ones who’d personally oversee each step of this research.

“Oh? Chuuya’s advocating being lazy and letting others do the work?”

“I don’t want to focus too much on the past,” and he feels it ring true. “There are other things that
require our attention.”

Their home is waiting for them to renovate it. Taking care of this building here and the lot in
Yamaguchi. Finally watching the video of that Hawaiian-themed wedding. Helping Atsushi and
Akutagawa with their own wedding. Getting to the bottom of the gossip about the love triangle
involving Ane-san. Winning that bet regarding Sakaguchi and Kunikida’s possible love-life.
Meeting up with John for that double date that he’s been hinting on not wanting to go to at all.

There are so many other things in their present and future that await them.

…Of course, he should have known that Dazai and having soft, heartfelt realizations don’t ever
mix.

Dazai stares at him, before nodding in full solemnity. “I understand, Chuuya.” He cups his cheeks
with such careful touch, as if he’s worried it will shatter the moment if he applies the littlest bit of
force. And then, with the subtlety of a jackhammer against a glass window, “You want us to focus
on having a lot of sex, I absolutely understand.”

“YOU UNDERSTOOD NOTHING—!!!”

-
They wake up early the following day, watching the sunrise as they drag the bed so that it’s right
under the window. Dazai yawns against his ear, spending the entire time looking at him and
claiming that his way of watching the sunrise is unmatchable.

They’ve made an appointment with the city’s police department to track records regarding his
father, plus launch an investigation regarding the ‘ability witch hunts’ from before—but that’s not
until late afternoon. In the spirit of enjoying the Parisian atmosphere, they stroll around the city
while looking for a cozy café that serves breakfast.

The café that they’ve chosen is rustic and homely, the wide window offering a view to the interior
made of mismatched loveseats and décor. The breads and pastries on display look very enticing.
There are several desserts with an array of plump fruits sitting atop some cream. The scent of
freshly-brewed coffee topped with liqueur welcomes the customers as soon as they enter.

Poe and Alcott are already seated in one four-seater table, a bunch of papers occupying the two
other seats with them. Chuuya blinks. He doesn’t see Karl around. That’s probably more surprising
than seeing these two together in another country.

Dazai doesn’t even seem to notice the two’s presence, his eyes already sparkling at the number of
desserts that he plans on insisting to be handfed to him. “Chuuya, would you prefer to lick off
strawberry or raspberry crème from me?”

“How about my preference for you to stop being so embarrassing in public?”

“Getting to tease my cutie-patootie hunny-bunny is part of the perks of being a married man, you
know?”

He goes green at the extra-saccharine nickname, then red at the latter part of the sentence. “W-
We’re not m-m-m-m-married yet!”

A brazen grin as Dazai clasps both his hands together. “So, it’s express permission for me to tease
you a lot once we do get married?”

“S-Shut up! It isn’t!” He doesn’t use even an inch of his strength in trying to wriggle out of the
other’s hold. In fact, he even buries his face into the other’s chest, ostensibly so he doesn’t have to
face the general public after this performance.

Thankfully, Poe and Alcott are very tactful people who don’t even bother interrupting their not-
flirtation-routine until they’re both convinced that they wouldn’t suddenly start making out right
then and there.

They don’t share tables, but Chuuya waves a hand at the owner to stop him from attempting to help
him move the nearest table so that they’re at least side-by-side. He uses his Ability, and from the
lack of reaction from the owner, it seems as if the years have mellowed down the anti-Ability
Users sentiment here. He can’t help the smile that floats up his face.

“Ah, my darling is so charming and now he’s flashing a smile at that poor guy…” From the ugly
grimace on Dazai’s face, the owner’s fate is really quite poor, to attract a mackerel’s ire.

He pinches the meat inside the other’s elbow. “This is just how my face looks, damn it!”

“I know!” A massive sigh. “It’s my burden to bear, having to deal with people being charmed left
and right…”

“Stop being so dramatic and idiotic,” he says with the air of someone who doesn’t think that it’s
feasible.

Still, with how much his mackerel has done for him recently, he’s a little bit more forgiving. And
maybe he’s the teensiest, tiniest bit excited in wanting to show off their relationship. With that in
mind, he doesn’t take the other seat and instead waits until Dazai is seated so he can sit atop his
lap. The chair isn’t wide enough for two people, but when has soukoku ever succumbed to such
restraints?

Dazai lets out an appreciative moan right against his cheek, then uses both arms to squeeze him
tight against him. And because he’s a childish bastard through and through, he even lets out a
victorious huff towards the owner’s direction. Never mind the fact that the owner has his back
towards them, busy as he is with preparing their orders.

Thankfully, Poe and Alcott are very tactful, very astute people who don’t even raise the issue of
this public display of affection. They chat over the coffee and buttered cranberry bagels, relating
their reason for being here.

“A new publishing business?” For a moment, he’s surprised. Then, he remembers that aside from
stalking Edogawa for crumbs of his affections, Poe is actually a man with substantial assets, as is
most members and ex-members of the Guild.

“We’re focusing on bringing European works to Japan at first,” Alcott explains, then shows him
the calculations and plans she has made for their budding business. “Research shows that
establishing a headquarters here in Paris would bring the most amount of benefits.”

“There used to be two men who owned a small publishing house that catered to the exact
audience,” Poe adds. “Poets, I believe. They translated works from the Continent and brought it
back to Japan…”

They chat a bit more, steering away from the business procedures and going towards souvenirs that
Poe must bring back to Ranpo once he’s back. Chuuya teases him for leaving Karl with the
detective. “You’re not afraid that he’ll eat nothing but sweets while he’s in his care?”

“B-But… Ranpo-kun said that he’ll get lonely… so he’ll treat Karl as if he’s me…”

Chuuya and Dazai exchange glances. He isn’t sure if he should pierce the other’s bubble and reveal
that it’s obvious the detective is simply teasing him.

Once their breakfast has finished transforming into brunch and they go their separate ways, he lets
out a sigh as he considers wording a stern suggestion for Ranpo to finally put the poor guy out of
his misery.

“A worrywart chibi,” Dazai teases him in turn. “Plus, Ranpo-san shares his candy with Poe-kun, he
definitely likes him a lot. It’s a very smooth relationship.”

“Of course, you approve of this strange way of showing his love, why am I not surprised.”

“More importantly, Chuuya who discusses businesses and suddenly taking out a blank cheque to
help invest in said businesses…” He trails off, face blooming under the sunlight. “Maybe I should
get a fancy new job too?”

He rolls his eyes. “You just want to reenact a dramatic scene of pulling out a blank cheque.”

An enthusiastic nod. “It’s very hot.”

His initial retort is something like, “you’d say everything about me is hot”, and the sheer
confidence in that thought almost bowls him over. He ends up being tongue-tied, and that has them
ending up against an alleywall, kissing each other breathless.

They’re both flushed in the aftermath, so they duck inside several bookstores to whittle away the
time before their appointment. Inspired by the conversation with Poe and Alcott, he pokes around
for poem anthologies. There’s a wealth of them, but not a lot with translations available in
languages other than French.

He makes conversation with several bookkeepers to inquire more, French rolling out of his mouth
with ease despite not using it often. He’s happy to practice it. Dazai is also very happy listening to
him practice it, practically humping his leg as he speaks. A major embarrassment, really.

“We already have an appointment with the local police department,” he tries to explain to his
fiancé who’s impossible to reason with. “We don’t need to expedite our arrival there! That guy was
seconds away from calling the cops on us!”

Dazai employs his infamous logic skills and says, “But you sound so hot I couldn’t help myself.”

Really can’t be helped!!!

The rest of their foray into bookstores doesn’t involve conversation with bookkeepers anymore.
They scour the shelves, Dazai’s knowledge in reading French passable enough to help with the
search.

“This one has a Japanese translation,” he brings an anthology right into Chuuya’s hands. With a
grin full of ulterior motives, “Since I managed to find one for you, read it to me later?”

He huffs, but doesn’t reject the request. He buys several books, flipping through the anthology as
he waits for the cashier to check everything out. Paul Verlaine and Arthur Rimbaud. Those are the
names printed on the inside jacket. He touches the curves of the letters stating the two’s name and
feels something unfathomable swirl inside him.

Something like instinct.

When they finally make it to the police department, Chuuya sees a pair of familiar faces. He
doesn’t expect Dazai to be familiar with them though.

“You’re actually here,” Chuuya says, and exchanges brief hugs with two previous members of his
squad. They have left after his promotion, stating that they’re only satisfied with working with the
mafia if it’s directly under his command.

Dazai lets out grumbling complaints. “They’re married to each other,” Chuuya ends up hissing to
his mackerel’s ear before he can throw more temper tantrums.

Because they’re acquaintances and because there’s that pull from Dazai working for the
cooperative inter-Agency task force regarding Abilities all around the world, things pass by more
smoothly than he’s expected.

They’re led to wait inside a reception room, tables and chairs prepared for them like they’re inside
another café.

When the dossiers arrive, Chuuya isn’t all that surprised to learn that his father’s name is Arthur
Rimbaud. The previous holder of Corruption. The French government has assigned an agent to
keep close track of him and his Ability. Said agent has lost track of him when he fled to Japan, but
it’s that same agent that has managed to hunt him down in Yamaguchi and brought him back here
for his execution, the moment that the energy levels of his Ability exceeded allowable range.

“Because there was no other Ability User who could use nullification,” he murmurs as he reads
through the files. There isn’t enough information about why and how a calamity god has been
sealed upon a human being in the first place.

“Their human experimentation went haywire so they silenced everything,” is Dazai’s cold read on
the situation.

It’s not their place to judge whether it’s the right call or not. They haven’t seen the extent of his
father losing control of his Ability—they haven’t seen whether it’s enough to gamble the lives of
thousands of citizens in exchange for one.

“You were an overemotional idiot chibi and yet you managed to resist it on your own for so long,”
Dazai eventually adds. This time, it’s him who crowds him against his chair. “My nullification
Ability is just a bonus.”

“We’re really going to get arrested,” is what he ends up saying, helpless against the weight of the
other’s regard.

In-between the kisses, Dazai murmurs, “My fiancé is a rich man who can pay bail, so I’m not
worried at all.”

There are still some avenues of inquiry that are left behind. The source of the god inside him. That
agent that has tracked his father down. His father’s final moments. How this affects him in the long
run. Things that they could to prevent something like this from happening again.

Perhaps fortified by Dazai’s presence, he doesn’t feel all that lost or saddened by the things that
they’ve learned today. He’s always been confident in his physical power, but it’s now that he can
clearly feel the kind of strength that can be acquired and displayed through other means.

Truly the power of being part of something that can be called a ‘double’.

They sign off on the guest log, arrangements already done regarding the transfer of certain files.
Unwilling to drop their held hands, Dazai shows off his ambidexterity as he signs his name.

Chuuya stares at the log. With their names right on top of each other, it’s easy to blur the lines and
think of new combinations.

Nakahara Osamu sounds nice, but that will probably just encourage Dazai to be even more of a
lazy fish, possibly claiming being a housewife instead. It’s unlikely that he’d ever change the way
he calls the other, so Dazai Chuuya would probably be weird…? They’d both be ‘Dazai’ that
way…?

Reading his mind is one of his mackerel’s specialties, though it’s probably unnecessary, given that
he’s exploding into an overripe tomato on the spot as he keeps on thinking about these things.
Dazai leans close and says, “Don’t worry so much about it. People can differentiate between us by
saying Dazai(tall) and Dazai(small) instead.”

He twitches. “If I were you, I’d be worried about getting kicked in the shins.”
 They continue to bicker like always. At this point, it’s purely automatic, as if they have direct
access to each other’s brains. That’s why Chuuya’s mouth continues to run retorts against his
fiancé, even as he spots another acquaintance from a distance.

Why is today filled with running into so many people?!

Unlike the previous ones that they’ve met, this is one person that Chuuya doesn’t want to meet at
all. Not because he dislikes her or anything. The youngest daughter of the previous minister for the
Ministry of Education, Culture, Sports, Science and Technology.

She herself doesn’t have a lot of political clout, but she is also the last person he’s ever dated
before Dazai has started to send him the list of people that he could date. She’s the last person he’s
tried to woo without Dazai’s influence. She’s the last person before he went on that date with
Atsushi.

Knowing his fiancé’s tendency to be a ridiculous idiot when it comes to jealousy, she’s probably
going to regret getting up this morning if she ends up meeting Dazai.

Chuuya considers escape routes. She’d probably recognize him and want to talk to him. Their last
interaction was her ‘dumping’ him because he’s too good for her. If Dazai gets wind of this—

Too late.

Kaede-san is already walking towards them in brisk steps.

He’s already considering jumping Dazai right there in order to distract him and hopefully repel her.

But then, she opens her mouth and says, “Tsushima-san? What are you doing here?”

Chuuya blinks. Beside him, Dazai’s happy-go-lucky expressions grows stony.

Who the fuck is Tsushima???

She doesn’t even seem to notice his presence, focused as she is with Dazai. She continues to
babble, “Father has been looking forward to discussing the inheritance and—”

“—I’m busy with my honeymoon,” Dazai coldly cuts in. Even at his angriest, he’s rarely impolite,
but right now, he sounds very close to spitting out curses. “I’ve made myself crystal clear before. I
have no desire to join politics. If you’ll excuse us.”

Chuuya finds himself being manhandled away. He’s dazed. He’s full of disbelief when he says,
“All this while, you’re actually some rich hotshot brat?!”

-
to be continued;

Chapter End Notes

as always, thanks for reading till the end!!!

to the 7 or so people who are still reading this, i love you guys so much, thank you for
bearing with me & commenting each time＊*♡( ⁎ᵕᴗᵕ⁎ ）
next chapter: house renovation! chuuya does things while shirtless & dazai ascends to
nosebleed heaven!
 after-story #4
Chapter Summary

“It’s really admirable how shameless you can get.”

“Fufufu, did it make you fall for me a little bit more?”
“Don’t be absurd, I already maxed out my feelings for you long ago. Dumbass.”

[house renovation! chuuya does things while shirtless & dazai ascends to nosebleed
heaven!]

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

The rest of their mini-vacation to France ends with him still grappling with the revelation that
despite his massive stinginess and bad taste, Dazai is actually the embodiment of some rich hotshot
brat born with a silver spoon in his mouth.

…No wonder his tongue is also silver, full of charm and flirtation. He’s practically swallowed that
silver spoon from the get-go.

Every other rich folk in his circle have grown their wealth on their own. John wouldn’t shut up
about how his husband wouldn’t shut up about the story of how he built his stash of money. Most
of the previous Guild members are rich, true, but it isn’t to the point that they’re part of some
obscenely wealthy political dynasty. Port Mafia members are powered by crime and money
laundering, but compared to Dazai’s family…

“And yet your idea of a good fashion sense is wearing a bunch of bandages,” he shakes his head in
dismay.

Summer is about to end, so it’s imperative that they hurry to finish a lot of the outside renovations
before the soil becomes frozen by the incoming chill.

He parks his car in front of the wooden gate of their new house, a twinge in his chest as he looks at
it. Excitement, most definitely.

The insect-eaten walls have already been replaced, and the house has been inspected to match the
safety regulations of local residences. A basement has been dug through, but it’s lacking even the
first layer of paint. Simply some bare-bones renovation done ahead of time, because they still plan
on doing the rest by themselves.

There’s a temporary utility shed on one corner of the garden, where a bunch of the furniture inside
the house have been stashed. The ‘shed’ is lined with waterproof plastic on all sides, like a
mismatched towering display of the previous owner’s design tastes.

Chuuya taps his phone and transfers Kunikida enough money for the entire Agency to go on a
lunch buffet. While they’re off in France, he’s asked the other man to help supervise the safety
inspection and wall replacements. More than his belief in the other’s sense of responsibility, he
trusts that the other man wouldn’t allow the hired contractors to plant any bombs or pranks in the
walls. Chuuya did vet them, but one couldn’t be too sure when your other half is a shitty mackerel,
after all.

Of course, since there’s an ingrown mackerel glued to his side on a near-permanent basis, his
phone’s privacy is non-existent. “Eh? Why is Chuuya being so mean to me? The day that I’m not
at the office and you’re treating everyone to a lunch buffet?!”

He tilts his phone screen so Dazai can appreciate the view better and be more appalled. A snort.
“Because they worked hard while we were away?”

“I also worked hard in warding off people from flirting with you while we were away!”

“An extremely pointless and thankless job.”

Knowing the shoddy extent of the other’s physical capabilities, he doesn’t even bother asking him
to help with lugging several things from the backseat and trunk of his car. A lot of the raw
materials will be delivered separately, but they’ve also brought along some camping paraphernalia.

“It’s going to be very romantic and fun,” Dazai says with a sigh as he deigns to help out with
bringing the cooler filled with snacks and chilled crab salad. His ulterior motives are broadcasted
loud and clear. Chuuya wouldn’t be surprised if by dinnertime, all of the crab has already been
eaten by one fish.

“It’s going to have a lot of mosquitoes,” he corrects, even though he’s brought along a thin mesh
net, along with a ton of anti-mosquito coils and lotions. “And then you’d complain about the bed
not being as soft as you’re used to, and tomorrow morning you’re going to be more useless than
ever from backpain.”

A pleased hum, because he’s an idiot who now gets thrilled whenever Chuuya could predict his
antics. “Mm, but we’d be sleeping under the night sky and I’d be cuddling with the brightest star as
my pillow, so it’s a fair trade-off.”

He nearly drops the foldable barbecue grill on his feet. “Y-Y-You—! Stop f-flirting, damn it!”

“And miss out on seeing you blush so adorably? Fufufu, of course I’m going to continue!”

He has to remind himself that actually grilling the mackerel will be counterproductive. Dazai
would only enjoy seeing him worry about injuring him afterwards, and then it’d be him who’d
suffer from a bout of teasing.

They end up chasing each other all over the garden anyway, because Dazai starts composing a
shoddy song about blushing slugs on the spot.

Pipes for water and gas have already been reinstalled, along with the electrical wires rounding up
on the two floors and the basement. The kitchen is left thoroughly bare, as Chuuya wants to make
sure that it’s outfitted well.

…After all, it’s going to be the main weapon to combat the future side-effects from his mackerel’s
unhealthy eating and lifestyle during his teenage years. It needs to be well-stocked and it needs to
have a lot of locks to dissuade the idiot from experimenting with cooking a bunch of explosives.

For now, they have to make do with an outdoor kitchenette of their own making.

The infamous tacit understanding of the even-more-infamous soukoku is now being wielded for
the purpose of creation instead of destruction.
Dazai brings up a foldable corkboard, where he pins several sheets of paper that has a list of their
to-dos, schedules, and other relevant information. After which the mackerel swims into the inside
of their new house—no, new home—in order to catalog anything that they’ve missed. He airs the
rooms to chase away any lingering scents.

In the meantime, Chuuya sets up camp in their garden. First: a sturdy, waterproof tent. Next comes
the anti-mosquito measures.

The tent is on the small side, a cramped fit for two grown adults. He looks at it critically for a few
moments, before sighing and returning to the car in order to drag the extra rollable cushion that
he’s brought along. Hopefully, the extra padding would lessen the amount of whines about
backpain come tomorrow morning.

He completes setting up the ‘kitchenette’, before studying the sheets that Dazai has pinned up on
the corkboard. A lot of these things are details that they’ve already previously discussed, but
there’s a different sense to it, now that he’s reading them while they’re actually here.

It feels more real, more meaningful. He’s been to many places over the years, he’s wanted to call
so many places home, he’s had to abandon a lot of them. Now, he has a chance to build a home
using his own hands, and the whisper from the corruption inside him is non-existent.

Now, the whisper comes in the form of a fish barreling to his back, their clothes rustling together.
A coquettish complaint against his ear. “I miss Chuuya already,” is his explanation for rushing
back out, as if they’ve just been separated over four years and a continent.

“You’re worse than a clingy baby.” He’s failing to fight off a helpless smile.

“Got a lot of experience with babies, Chuu-Chuu?”

He raises his hand so he can rub the other’s cheek. If it brings their faces closer, then that’s just an
unfortunate side-effect. “Just one giant baby.”

Dazai’s arms circle his waist, fingers hooked into his belt. “If you want to call me ‘baby’, I’d be
very shy, but I won’t stop you, you know?” There is no semblance of shyness whatsoever in his
tone.

“It’s really admirable how shameless you can get.”

“Fufufu, did it make you fall for me a little bit more?” A cloying sweetness that curls over his
earlobe, piercing right through his nerves.

He’s swift to fire back, “Impossible.”

Taken aback, Dazai loosens his grip on him.

It makes it easier to push him away, but only so he could use the other’s chest as a place to hide his
face and as a convenient muffler of his words. Even so, it still rings loud and clear—

“Don’t be absurd, I already maxed out my feelings for you long ago. Dumbass.”

Come the next morning, and Chuuya has to swat the giant mosquito away so he can cook them a
hearty breakfast. There’s a lot of things to do for the day, since they’ve procrastinated quite a bit
yesterday afternoon.
Reddish-purple bites are all over his neck, arms and legs. They still feel a bit itchy now, so Chuuya
hits Dazai’s face with a slice of bread when he tries to add more to the collection.

“It’d be a crying shame if your plans fail for the first time,” he tries to dissuade the other man from
dragging him back inside the tent for more ‘practice’ for the inevitable.

He’s interested to see just what Dazai’s preparations for it are. No matter how much the other
pushes, he’s sure that this mackerel has a grand plan for it, one that doesn’t involve discomfort
while rolling above a hard ground.

“Mm, my back hurts, so you should be nicer to me.”

“I told you so, didn’t I?”

“That you did. My chibi’s getting so much better at predicting things.” Some fake sobbing.
“Evolution is happening right before my eyes.”

“I can give you front-row seat to you getting beaten up, if you want.” Instead of stuffing a fist to
the other’s mouth, he stuffs some cheesy scrambled eggs and sweet ham in-between slices of
bread. Feeds it to the mackerel with a chin hooked over his shoulder.

Through the chewing sounds, “Ah, it’s almost as sweet as my slug.”

“And if I pour coffee to your lap?” Surely, there’s a limit to the other’s flirting abilities?

Whatever that limit is, he hasn’t found it yet. Dazai simply says, “Then I’d say that it isn’t as hot as
my chibikko.”

“…I don’t want to talk to you.”

If things continue in this vein, they’d end up rolling together inside the tent, and they really need to
get started on their tasks. It’s fun to kiss a lot, sure, but it’d be even nicer to do it inside their home,
where it’s more comfortable. And that would only happen if they could get going with the many
renovation projects on their list.

A mission that destroys not enemies, but the boundaries between them. Their usual tacit
understanding means that Dazai is able to read his mind once again, so he restrains his flirting a
bit.

They quickly eat their breakfast, and he can’t help but tease the other, “You’re actually going to
work hard today?”

“I’ll take care of the marking things for the security set-up.” Dazai stretches a bit. “It’s important
that nobody gets to sneak up on this place and take illicit photos of my chibi!”

He rolls his eyes. “The only person who’d do something as idiotic as that is already living here.”

“If I do it, then it’s just me appreciating my darling, there’s nothing illicit about it.”

“That’s how you’re playing it?!”

They bicker a bit more. When they have to do their tasks on separate parts of the house, they video-
call each other, as if unable to endure extended separation of more than a half-hour. Chuuya
endures the judgmental stares that he gets from their friends who video-call him and/or drop by to
help out during their breaks.
“I’m helping out the city’s economy by buying an additional phone plan,” he insists, whenever
someone pointedly looks at his second phone that’s reserved for said mackerel-exclusive video-
calls.

Embarrassingly and amusingly enough, Dazai’s efficiency peaks at an all-time high. His tasks are
mostly focused on the inside of their house, in order to prepare it for the two of them decorating it
and filling it with furniture and various sundries. They’ll have to wait for appliances and some
specially-ordered furniture to be delivered.

In the meantime—

“I want to watch Chuuya,” is the other’s shameless insistence. He’s already made a quick
convenience store run, dragging with him two plastic bags filled with snacks and drinks. He looks
like he’s about to start a movie marathon, but the cinematic masterpiece is Chuuya hammering a
treehouse into shape.

“You’re hopeless,” is his frank assessment of the other’s priorities. “You actually rushed through
your tasks just so you could watch me?”

Sounding very righteous even though he’s talking shit, “Because you’re working hard and sweating
a lot, I think it’d be kinder to your clothes if you just take them off.”

He’s a bit flushed, but he figures that Dazai has seen it all already. And he’d be seeing it often in
the future. Plus, if the mackerel tries to suddenly jump him, he can always throw a hammer at his
skull.

With that kind of justification, he removes his shirt and balls it up so he could use it as a projectile
towards the other’s head. Dazai catches it easily, fake-swooning but with too much realistic glaze
in his gaze for it to be completely faked.

He’s already changed to shorts, because he doesn’t get cold as easily as other people. It’s more
convenient to move about in it, compared to his usual selection of tight pants.

Dazai stays silent, and with only the sound of the quiet neighborhood around him, it’s easy to sink
into a haze of focus. They’ve transplanted a couple of trees for their garden. The biggest, oldest one
in the old garden, they’ve kept—it makes for a sturdy base for a treehouse.

At first, he thought it’s just part of the other’s teasing. He’s heard about treehouses, sure, but
they’ve usually featured in stories about idyllic childhoods. It’s not something that he has an
intimate familiarity with. It’s not something that he’s ever thought he should have the right to long
for.

But it’s going to be in their home. They can do whatever they want—and if that includes building a
treehouse that they could use as their ‘base’ for playing games—or banishment for Dazai if he
becomes too annoying in bed—then it’s more than fine.

And speaking of doing whatever they want—

He chances a glance at the weirdly-quiet mackerel.

“…”
“…”
“…”
“…”
“…”
“…”

He drops the hammer on the ground, as he rushes to where the other has collapsed on the ground,
picking him up immediately. “Oi?! Shitty Dazai, what happened?!”

The mackerel looks like a crime scene: blood on his face and a hunger in his eyes that should be
considered as criminal.

“Chuuya,” he bemoans with a tinge of desperation, “I’m going to die.” For a dying fish, his hands
are way too active in groping his biceps. “Next time, try using the hammer while at a 45-degree
angle towards me.”

“How about I rearrange your limbs at a 45-degree angle instead,” he asks faintly, eager to drop the
overdramatic fish who’s suffering from a nosebleed from looking at him.

Despite these words, he looks for some tissues to help clean up the other’s face. He doesn’t know
whether to laugh or cry at the fact that Dazai did buy a whole roll during his convenience store run,
as if already predicting this outcome.

“I really am going to die.” Dazai wiggles so he can lick the sweat off his neck. “Why is even your
sweat delicious?”

Lips twitching at the other’s antics, he tries to keep a straight face and explains, “That’s because
you’re a dumbass.”

“But I have a hot darling, so that’s alright.”

“It absolutely isn’t.”

It really isn’t okay. Dazai insists on having do more tasks shirtless. Dazai’s nose insists on bleeding
each and every time.

All things considered, it’s enough of an incentive for him to work through his share of the building
tasks quicker. If only so he could stop having mini-heart attacks each time he spots injury on the
other’s face. Even if these nosebleeds are basically just a sign of the other’s braincell injury.

…It really is quite enjoyable, living together like this.

Through the tail-end of summer and the length of autumn, their home evolves from a barebones
skeleton and into something that has flesh and a beating heart.

There still are a lot of things needed to complete the inside of their home, but the hearth at their
living room and the kitchen have already been completely furnished.

Despite all of his shamelessness, Dazai actually has been fairly restrained when it comes to
requesting things regarding this place. But there is one thing that he has seriously insisted on.

“—Let’s overwrite that memory.”

Thanks to their tacit understanding, they both know what it means without need for further
elaboration.

So, he chases Dazai out of the kitchen and doesn’t video-call him while they’re on separate rooms.
For the extravagant dinner: lobster thermidor, flambéed beef steaks, sashimi platter, chili crab. For
dessert: triple chocolate cake with candles. For drinks: Petrus, Romanee-Conti and a Yamazaki
Mizunara single malt whisky.

The meal that they didn’t get to eat, for the confession that he didn’t get to complete, for the hearts
that they didn’t get to connect at that point in time.

Redoing the meal that got wasted in that shattered place, so that it will be reincarnated in this
newborn home.

He probably would have been more emotional while cooking. However, it’s hard to feel gloomy
about the past where Dazai had destroyed the tenuous bridge that linked them, when the present is
like this—

“I locked the door so you couldn’t sneak back in,” he says with a sigh, helplessly fond.

The Dazai of now has slinked past the nightingale floors and the triple locks, quietly sneaking past
all of that and is now staring at him with additional eyes in the form of phone cameras. “How could
I miss seeing you cooking for the first time in our kitchen?”

His ability to stare at something or someone without blinking is one of the many legends of the
Port Mafia. It’s considered to be such an unnerving skill, listed as yet another proof of how he truly
is a demon incarnate. Right now, the only thing it proves is how much of a perverted dumbass he
is, unwilling to miss a second of this view.

“You’re wearing a nice apron,” is pointed out while breathing heavily, a sure sign that he’s about
to have yet another nosebleed. “And you’ve folded your sleeves up to your forearms.”

He looks down at his sensible apron, the type that chefs wear in five-star restaurants. And then at
his aforementioned forearms. Sometimes, he really wonders if the other’s genius is part of a karmic
tradeoff, where he gains mental acuity in exchange for being so damn weird.

As if sensing his bewilderment, Dazai adds, “Your forearms are very sexy.” With a lovelorn sigh,
“Everything about Chuuya is very sexy.” A beat. “Even your height.”

He punts an onion squarely at the other’s forehead. “Shut the fuck up! If you’re just going to be a
nuisance, might as well help me out with the prep work!”

“I was thinking I should just participate in the taste test.” A blink. “I should lick the chef every five
minutes to see how you’re doing.”

He throws a clove of garlic at the other’s face too, laughing a bit when Dazai scrunches his nose at
that. “It really is good that you didn’t go to politics. This country would have been very doomed
with you at the helm.”

“I was planning on being a career housewife—”

“—yeah, I’d pay you to not do any of the chores, lest you explode our house, sounds like the
perfect career for you—”
“—but perhaps I should run for office instead.”

Chuuya blinks at him, confused at the sincerity in those words.

He’s never thought that Dazai would be the sort to bother about such an occupation. He knows that
government having dealings with the underground isn’t anything new, but if Dazai is m-m-married
to the Boss of the city’s largest mafia, then—
“And my first batch of reforms shall be outlawing having romantic feelings for slugs, unless
they’re me.”

“…”

“Everyday will be designated as slug appreciation day, where slugs have to be eaten by me.”

“…”

“Ah, I really am a genius. How about it, Chuuya? I think this campaign sounds good.”

He throws a pan at the other’s face. He should have known that this was nothing but nonsense,
damn it!

Perhaps the best way to rewrite that past failure is to treat it as a regular dinner this time.

He’d like to say that there’s no confession attempt like last time, but when Dazai asks him to leave
off the wine and whiskey— “I’m already intoxicated just by being with you,” in his words. It’s
already enough of a heartfelt confession that he feels drunk just listening to it.

It’s a heavy meal, even most of it has been divvied up so there’d be leftovers for the next few days.
He has also packed some for their friends, ignoring Dazai’s complaints about other people getting
to taste that special meal.

“I would think that you’d be ecstatic delivering these to them,” he points out as the two of them
shuffle towards the porch. A slow walk is the best remedy to a full stomach. “You can traumatize
them by talking about our lovey-dovey dinner.”

Dazai grins like he’s waiting for this exact turn of the conversation. “Fufufu, if you want me to
brag about our date, then I shall happily do so!”

“Tsk. As if you haven’t been planning on doing that from the get-go.”

“Mm, but it’s a different thing if I have my darling’s express permission to do it~”

Their bickering accompanies the crunch of their footsteps as they do a meandering stroll around
their garden. As they get closer to winter, nighttime stretches into daylight bit by bit. Last vestiges
of sunlight streak the sky with deep purples, the moon already looming on the horizon.

Several fruit trees line one wall of the garden. The tree house on the corner that overlooks their
parking spot, a spiral wooden ladder hugging the trunk, because Dazai’s limbs are too noodly for
rope ladders. Flower pots and bushes line the other two walls. The shed has been transformed to
something more permanent, where several tools are stashed. Beside it, a small patch is reserved for
a vegetable garden.

Several, uncounted, moments later, they end up drifting towards the small pond that they’ve made.
It’s lined with a necklace of pebbled beads and flower jewels. An ornamental pond that only has
that lining and water for now. They’d probably add some small fishes in it in the future. Dazai
would probably insist on adding slugs and snails in it, just to tease him.

Now that the water is still very clean, Chuuya slips off his slipper and dips his toes on the surface.
Ripples disturb the moon’s reflection on it. It’s surprisingly warm for an autumn night, but that’s
probably exacerbated by the fact that Dazai hugs him from behind, providing extra heat.
As if that’s not enough, Dazai starts swaying them a bit, as he says—

“I joined the Port Mafia as a means of proving to my biological family that I held no interest in
playing along as their convenient marionette.”

It’s rare to hear Dazai willingly talk about anything from beyond the point that they’ve met, so he
keeps quiet and simply watches their reflection on the water. With his toes disturbing the water
every so often, the two of them are blurred, melting together.

“I had no particular interest with work in the mafia, or with working at all.” Some grumbling about
how Mori-san works people too hard. “It wasn’t the only unscrupulous organization that I could
whittle time away in, after all. So, I actually didn’t plan on staying for too long.”

Back then, Chuuya had drifted in the turbulent seas of corruption. From France, he’d been
trafficked and subsequently shipwrecked all the way back to Yokohama. As if gravity has pulled
him to the place where his fate resides.

In a way, back then, Dazai had also drifted in the same way.

Simply floating along, until—

He’s long considered Dazai as a ‘safe entity’, someone that he’d never guard against anymore. So,
he truly is surprised when he feels the shove on his back, and he yelps as he ends up being pushed
towards the water.

“Oi—! What the fuck—!! Shitty Dazai—!!!”

It isn’t a deep pond. It’s just a little bit taller than him. Still, he’s drenched in the water from the
sudden cannonball he’s been forced to do.

He reaches out to drag Dazai by the ankles so he could make him share this experience of diving in
autumn. But when he looks up at the mackerel, he pauses, his breath caught.

Back then, he’d also looked up at the other like this.

Back then, he’d been on the verge of passing out from exhaustion. Back then, he’d given up on
hope of salvation. Back then, he’d been covered by the blood and filth of the human traffickers that
he’d destroyed under the influence of Corruption.

Back then, he’d looked up and saw a boy wrapped in black and bandages, who peered down at him
with eyes that glowed black-red under the moonshine’s shadow. A boy that said, “What a unique,
unexpected thing you are,” and ignored all of the filth that covered him.

Back then, he didn’t think that Dazai was an angel or a devil or a savior. He’d only thought that he
was a weirdo, a beautiful one, but weird all the same.

Now, Dazai kneels on the edge of the pond, leans close with outstretched arms to embrace him.
Their foreheads touch.

“I had plans to quit. But one night, I saw the sun in the water and thought that it’d be interesting to
stay a little longer to see how if it’d manage to burn bright despite being drowned in darkness.”

The things that don’t need to be said anymore.

Knowing Dazai’s personality, his meteoric rise in the ranks had been fueled by his desire to remain
 on top so he could control him.

“You’re such an asshole,” Chuuya tells him, shivering when Dazai’s eyes burn bright with an all-
encompassing desire. “An idiot too.”

They’ve seen each other at their worst and have decided that they want each other still, filth and
all.

“That was the day that I’ve fully left behind Tsushima Shuuji and became Dazai Osamu.”

Falling against him with his entire weight, Dazai hugs him tighter, the two of them sinking together
into the water.

“You are the one I want to be with whether the sun shines bright in the sky, whether there is
nothing but storms in the horizon.”

It’s impossible to drown and suffocate in such a small pond, but his lungs burn anyway. Even as
Dazai kisses him and breathes air into him, it still isn’t enough.

“No matter what happens, I will never let you go anymore, Chuuya.”

“Don’t you dare even consider it,” he threatens the moment they break past the surface. The
gentleness of the past few weeks is tucked away as they both show their fangs, soft, deadly things
circulating around them. “I’m yours and you’re mine forever now.”

When they clash again, it’s with the desire to own each other completely.

Above them, just like back then, the moon is beautiful tonight.

-
to be continued;

Chapter End Notes

…did they actually end up foregoing all plans and have sex right then and there? tune
in to the next chapter to find out HAHAHA

for now, thanks for tuning in & hope to see you next chapter~! ^o^/

ps next part will take a bit longer than the usual 3 weeks as it will fall on Q3 quarter
end (a hectic time at work) for me. i'm also thinking of simply making it a long update
to cover the rest of the chapters and have the whole story end there, so... ^^;;
 final epilogue [END]
Chapter Summary

dazai, chuuya, and finding a home.

[this chapter follows immediately from CH27.5, a standalone nsfw chapter]

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

“You may now kiss your husband—”

That’s the first thing that Chuuya hears upon retrieving his consciousness from where it’s been lost
into oblivion, after he has lost his mind over the past week.

There really is no other way to describe it other than infectious insanity. He has actually agreed to
indulge the long lists in Dazai’s 100-page notebook of things he wanted to do for their first time
having sex. And to think that there’s actually 26 of those notebooks, all dedicated to their first time.

It shouldn’t have been surprising, given how his mackerel likes plans and especially likes being a
huge pervert. Not to mention, his shamelessness, along with how long he’s apparently been longing
to do all of these things to him.

In any case, they’ve only gone through the first one and he already feels like death warmed over.

Especially since their first time happened in the pond in their garden, causing the two of them to
catch a cold immediately afterwards. Of course, that just ended up with them taking a week off
from work, in order to heal and not spread the infection, and to do all of the nurse/doctor roleplays
from that list.

…Urgh.

And speaking of feeling like death—

For a brief moment, he’s horrified that he’s been fucked so hard he somehow slept through his own
wedding. Next, he’s even more horrified because the voice is so familiar, given that it belongs to
his Boss.

He always aims to be the type of person who’d never back down from anything, but there’s a lot of
trepidation as he slowly opens his eyes to face the situation he’s in.

And then, he immediately feels a surge of—regret, exasperation, affection.

The sight that greets him is Dazai’s side-profile painted with a soft warmth from sunlight filtering
into their room. Unlike the controlled façade that he’s donned on as a demon prodigy and then as
an agency detective, this look is full of details that stray from the norm. His hair looks like
someone has exploded a bird’s nest, before hosing it down, partly fluffed-up and then there’s a part
where it sticks close to his scalp. There are sleep-lines that run down from one jaw to the exposed
collarbone.
It’s impossible to miss the fact that there are a lot of scratches, fingerprint marks, reddened patches
of skin from too much friction, and purpling hickeys on him. Not to mention, there are several
spots where there are clumps of dried come on his skin, hanging from the tips of his hair.

“…Oi, what the hell,” is what comes out of him after several moments of internal debate as to
whether it’s worth it to speak up. His voice is hoarse and his throat is still a bit painful.

One week.

They haven’t left their home in a full week and all of their friends are probably never going to look
them in the eye for the rest of their life. Ane-san, Yosano and Kunikida are probably full of
disappointment towards him for failing to resist his partner’s perverted antics.

All thoughts about other people evaporate when Dazai turns to him, eyes lighting up upon seeing
that he’s awake. “Good morning, chibikko,” somehow manages to be enough of a murder weapon
with how delighted and contented he sounds.

His mackerel swims down to meet him flat on the bed, licking his kiss-swollen lips before going
for the insides of his mouth. It turns wet and filthy immediately, and he makes a face as he pushes
the other away.

…Perhaps even the strongest physical body cannot remain at optimal strength when it has spent an
entire week of strenuous exercise. Perhaps that’s why he doesn’t manage to push his fish far away.
Their foreheads are pressed together, their lips continuing to touch every so often.

He scrunches his nose. “What the hell is that smell,” he grumbles, as he shuffles a bit so he can
squint down on the rest of his body. It’s at a similarly debauched state as his partner, but instead of
being covered with red and purple, those marks are hidden under splotches of white.

“It’s the smell of domestic bliss,” Dazai claims with absolutely no shame.

Dismay can’t even hope to cover the entirety of emotions that he’s experiencing right now. “Why
the hell am I covered in come?! Didn’t we take a shower already?!”

Before he passed out earlier, he’s pretty sure that they were already soaking in the tub after rinsing
off all the washable evidence. He still vaguely remembers being lulled to sleep by Dazai’s usual
apple scent and by the other’s heartbeat as they sat together in the bath.

It’s far from the first time they’ve bathed together, but it’s the first time that they were nestled
against each other while softly kissing, all bare skin. None of his layers, none of Dazai’s bandages.
It’s a pretty nice experience, something that he wishes to repeat in increased frequency.

“You fell asleep while we were washing, right,” Dazai smiles and wiggles against him before
helping him sit up so they can both look at the contents of his phone. It’s the recording of their
leaders’ wedding, one that they’ve been putting off watching for the sake of their sanity.

A bit cautious, because that kind of smile never bodes well for him, “…I did.”

There’s no caution nor hesitation when his mackerel casually flirts, “And you looked so cute while
you were sleeping.”

“We are not doing another round,” he immediately puts a stop to it, even if he squirms when
Dazai’s arms loop around his waist and a chin hooks against his shoulder, fitting their bodies
seamlessly together.
“Mm, so after carrying you out of the tub, I thought I should keep you warm.”

The words are pressed right against his earlobe and he can’t quite focus on the phone that’s
balanced on his knees. Knees that are bruised red and green from that time on the floor… Urgh.
The recording has been paused and he has a feeling that they wouldn’t be able to watch the
wedding video this time too.

He whirls inside the makeshift cage made of unbandaged arms, hot with accusation. “And then you
—!!!”

“And then I got too excited looking at you, so I decided to have fun?” He happily takes the blame,
as if getting caught doing something as crazy as covering their lover with body fluids is something
to be proud of.

On one hand, it’s good that they’re being more communicative about each other about all sorts of
things, instead of bundling their feelings inside of their chests and never let it see the light of day.
On another hand, he really would rather not hear about such embarrassing things!

Throughout it all, Chuuya doesn’t really think to forbid Dazai from doing something so dirty as this
ever again, and really, that’s just a sign of how he truly feels.

Something that he’s starkly aware of: life goes on.

Their extended ‘sick leave’ comes to an end. As the year draws to a close, they finalize the projects
in renovating their new home. It has to be done in time, since they’re going to host a year-end
celebration that will double as their official housewarming party.

He has to fend off inquiries from Atsushi about all sorts of nasty things, because he apparently
wants to try a bunch of stuff with Akutagawa. He does his best to deflect those questions, because
he’s a responsible senior who wants to make sure that his kouhai’s health doesn’t get too battered
when it’s just recovering towards something better.

He also has to fend off pleas from Kunikida to never, ever, ever, ever let him sit on a spot that he
and Dazai have already… uh, tarnished. He’s never been able to uphold a perfect poker expression
when telling lies, after all. He doesn’t have the heart to tell the poor man that Dazai is on a mission
to make sure that they don’t miss any surface.

…Not that keeping quiet about it going to help anything.

Dazai has already opened up a blog where he just posts videos every day, and each video starts off
with him waxing poetic about how beautiful and lovely his slug is, before devolving into a gushing
boast about sex positions that they’ve tried.

Chuuya knows the video contents, because on top of being beside the mackerel during said
recordings, he always sneakily watches said videos every day. After saving a copy in an encrypted
folder in his computer, he then flags it for inappropriate content and submits a report to have the
post taken down.

Of course, the video remains online and continues to amass a group of avid masochists who wish
to sully their minds with this kind of nonsense. Each time he sneaks in his study, Dazai manages to
tiptoe past the nightingale floors that they’ve installed, as well as the extra security measures that
Chuuya has developed with Ane-san’s help.
He comforts himself with the thought that Dazai has plenty of blackmail material over the
webmaster who’d review the reports eventually, so it’s not like it would have been successful, even
if he has managed to submit the complaint.

“He always does these embarrassing things,” he complains to his friends.

Because he seems to have some sort of magnet towards traitors, none of them are sympathetic to
his cause.

Ranpo has eventually joined the usual drinking sessions, even if he’s only there to try the weirdest
cocktail mixes. Beside him, Kajii is helping make a concoction that is guaranteed to make one’s
stomach explode with lemons. “But you enjoy it too much, don’t you, Fancy Hat?”

Chuuya thinks back to the latest video, where Dazai just ended up sighing, “And then, when
Chuuya did that thing when— ahh, I think my soul left my body, ahh—” The rest of the video is
just him speechlessly combusting, face flushed as he’s internally replaying the super-risqué scene
of Chuuya yawning while scratching his stomach. A complete, ridiculous dumbass that he loves so
much.

Yeah, he does enjoy it a lot.

…As expected of a genius detective, he’s pretty good at deducing things.

Life goes on towards the goal of maintaining peace over the city that they love.

“This device has been developed with the work of many researchers,” Dazai says as he casually
rolls a black ball in his palm. “I think it’d be so nice if you’re this small, chibikko. That way,
you’re always in my hands.”

It’s a little larger than a billiard’s ball, a shimmery sheen on its surface. Upon a closer look, there’s
a layer of dark red lines over it, like there’s a capillary network on it. As if it’s a living, breathing
thing that pulses with life.

Chuuya suppresses the urge to roll his eyes when the people on the other side of the screen look
very stressed that such an important fruit of their labors is just being handled like a toy. He’s here,
not just as Dazai’s partner, but also as Port Mafia’s soon-to-be-Boss.

In particular, Prof Glasses looks like he’s suffering a stomach ulcer—oh no, that’s just his usual
look. He also looks like he’s already given up trying to talk sense into his friend, and has therefore
decided to implore him, “Please stop Dazai-kun from playing with the high-energy device,
Chuuya-kun.”

As expected of a mackerel who likes to stew in ridiculous, unnecessary jealousy, this makes Dazai
seethe in his seat. As expected of someone who has decided to not only fall in love, but also stay in
love and also dig himself even deeper into this pit, Chuuya simply holds Dazai’s other hand and
says, “Shitty Dazai, stop being more stupid than usual.”

That mollifies his fish, and the conversations continue.

Today, they’re flying over Yokohama Bay aboard an aircraft that has been developed by a new
branch of Fitzgerald’s conglomerate. A self-driving military-grade helicopter. They’re the first
passengers because they’re probably the only two people who’d be willing to do something like
this.
In Dazai’s words, “In case of engine failure, at least this way it’s guaranteed to be a lovers’
suicide?” When he whacked the other for such gloomy words, Dazai amends it to a, “Plus, having
sex while skydiving is in Notebook #249.”

This isn’t just any occasion.

The device in Dazai’s hand is a high-energy artificial construct, one that’s layered with a seal
that’s being held together by Dazai’s nullification. The moment he releases his hold on it, the
device will be unsealed and activated. The short-term goal is to drop it in a suitable abandoned
island further away from the coast, so that any emergency cases would have minimal impact on the
city.

The long-term goal is to have it act as a conduit for all Abilities in the world, as a means to
stabilize the flow of energy so that there couldn’t be one too-powerful being. There are other
specifics, but the important point is that it’s supposed to ensure that there wouldn’t be someone
who’d go berserk from their Abilities being too strong.

Whether it means that there’d be absolutely no more gods dwelling in human hosts in the future
remains to be seen, but it’s a step in the right direction.

Chuuya’s here as part of the tripartite agreement, as well as help mow down any possible enemies
that would come and disrupt them from performing this mission.

It’s soukoku’s encore.

Nobody is worried about them not being able to accomplish the mission perfectly. In fact, others
are more worried that they’d get too distracted when left alone together, that they’d end up
crashing the helicopter somewhere.

Hence, Fitzgerald volunteering this experimental aircraft and getting them to test it for him in one
go.

According to John, “Consider it our wedding gift to you two.” From the background, Francis says
something about sending over some diamonds during the actual wedding day. John winks at him
over the video call and says, “If the test is successful, we’d advertise this helicopter to those who
wish to spice up their lives in the mile-high club.”

…He really needs to get new friends, preferably those who don’t know anything about his and his
partner’s tendencies.

Especially since the moment that the final communications have been made, and the call drops,
Dazai crawls sideways and crowds him in his seat. He doesn’t even have the excuse of, “Let go of
me, I need to pilot the helicopter.”

…Thankfully, being partners for so long means that they’ve mastered the art of great timing and
multitasking.

They manage to pull away from each other just in time for their arrival at their destination. They
even have several minutes left to spare for rearranging their clothes so that they could appear
decent at his insistence. It might be a mission with just the two of them, but appearances should
still count, damn it.

Dazai manages to hold on to the ball the entire time, and his fish uses that as an excuse for getting
him to help with rebuttoning his clothes.
He arches his eyebrows, even as he steps closer and wipes him off, before zipping up his pants.
“Now, you suddenly don’t know how to do everything with just one hand?”

“Mm, my darling dog is here, so why not?”

He pats the other man over his pants, letting out an appalled snort when he feels the other twitch
under his palm. Unbelievable and insatiable. “Bold words for someone who I could castrate in two
seconds.” It’s not a particularly believable threat, but there are times when one couldn’t be too
picky.

There’s a beep from the control panel, as if even the electronics here can’t bear to listen to them
going wild at the cockpit once more. The glass screen in front of them is divided into two: one that
shows their surroundings and another filled with coordinates and other information.

The most important thing is that they’re right above the abandoned island that’s been calculated by
the radars. If everything goes well, then this would be the home for the device in Dazai’s hand, and
it would usher in a long period of peace—at least, when it comes to worrying whether someone
with Dostoevsky’s ambitions appear in the future.

The time they’ve chosen for this operation is at the wee hours of the morning. In case of any
emergencies, there’d be less people awake to see the commotion, and if an explosion happens, at
least most people are about to wake up anyway.

Chuuya’s eyesight is pretty good, even at low lighting, but he still dons on the special glasses that
has been prepared for them. He glances at his partner, who’s blinking at him profusely while
wearing his own pair of glasses.

“…You’re the one who insisted on calling me a dog, but you’re the one who looks like he’s
wagging a tail, oi.”

Dazai tilts his head, the longer tips of his fringe rustling with the motion. With a faked coquettish
look, he raises one hand and bats Chuuya’s cheek with it, as he purrs, “Meow.”

“Yeah, yeah, you look dignified enough as long as you don’t talk. Or breathe.”

They take several moments to wear the proper safety gear. Dazai gamely opens his arms so he can
inspect if the other has properly strapped himself. Of course, given that his mackerel can’t seem to
let go of any opportunity for naughtiness, most of the straps are loose. It means that Chuuya has to
invade his personal space, mutter complaints about his inability to do things properly, and fix the
gear on him.

“You really can’t just do things without giving me a headache,” he grumbles. “What’s the point of
delaying this?”

The other man suddenly being scared of jumping down is impossible. They could have just landed
on the island—or at least, lessen the distance that they have to jump down from. But Dazai has
insisted on treating this as a free skydiving experience.

Without bothering to deny the fact that he’s been deliberately delaying their mission, “Fufufu,
you’ll soon see, chibikko.”

With a click of his tongue, he slides the door open.

…Oh.
They started the mission when it’s still completely dark. Now, a sliver of sunlight breaks through
the clouds, as if to splinter the world into two, starting from the distant horizon. A deep orange and
a deeper blue brush over the sky.

A strong sea breeze blows by, bringing with it the scent of brine, and the coldness of winter. Still,
it doesn’t work on cooling the sudden heat in his cheeks when Dazai looks at him, glasses glinting
from the sunlight. One hand reaches out to lock their fingers together, as they ready to jump down.
“As expected, the sunrise can’t compare to my fairy’s beauty.”

Something throbs inside his chest.

Echoing from before, his assessment as to how a marriage with Dazai would happen—

“There are nooses everywhere. There’s a ticking bomb strapped to the unfortunate spouse. The
ceremony’s held at a skyscraper about to fall down. Meteors will rain down on Earth as
punishment for allowing such idiotic thing to happen.”

At this moment, even if a thousand meteors break through the atmosphere in an attempt to stop
them, Chuuya will just pulverize them all.

“For as long as we live,” Chuuya tells the flawed, imperfect bastard in front of him, the two of
them mimicking each other as they hold each other tight, before jumping sideways. The beautiful
sunrise is ignored in favor of keeping their eyes locked together. “I’ll be the Chuuya who’ll always
love you and keep you safe, even if you’re an asshole who deserves at least ten punches every
day.”

The air whistles loudly as they continue their descent, but he hears his partner’s words clearly
anyway, as if they’re delivered straight to his soul.

“For as long as we live, I’ll be the Dazai who’ll always love you and cling to you, even if you
become too overcome by embarrassment.”

“Your vows are so shitty,” he says earnestly, but his words are smothered by their shared laughter
as they seal their promise with a kiss, the world around them melting with warm light.

Soukoku’s missions are always accomplished perfectly, no exceptions.

After enjoying the helicopter for a bit more, flying around the bay and the city while attempting to
perform all sorts of safety violations that would have them kicked out if it’s a normal public aircraft
—they eventually land and make their reports.

Prof Glasses gives them a bemused look, especially when even Dazai seems very serious in
reporting.

“He’s just excited to end this mission and go back to slacking off,” he says, feeling a manic energy
surge through him.

The moment they’re out of the headquarters for the Special Abilities Division, they practically race
towards the nearest ward office so they can register their marriage. It happens in a whirlwind, and
he doesn’t even smack Dazai’s forearm too heavily when he somehow manages to cut the line and
have everything already prepared.

All that’s needed is affixing their signature seals.

Being emotional over paperwork is quite gauche, so he rubs his forehead and his eyes against his
mackerel’s shirt. Just like their first time sleeping together, all of the plans that they’ve made as to
how they’ll hold their wedding has all been vaporized in the face of wanting to do things as quickly
as possible.

“We could always hold a second one,” Dazai murmurs against his hairline. “A third, a fourth, a
fifth.”

“Bold words from someone who isn’t the one paying for grand ceremonies, huh.”

“Fufufu, now that we’re married,” even if the ink isn’t even completely dry yet, “the contents of
your bank account now belong to me!”

They don’t mention the fact that a good chunk of his money is due to the amount that Dazai has
transferred before he ended up leaving the mafia. Their belongings belong to each other now.

“You’re now a proud owner of hundreds of stylish hats,” he teases, chortling with laughter when
his fish makes a series of aggrieved expressions.

Dazai recovers swiftly. “If I own them, then I have the right to dispose them, yes?”

“Try it and I’ll divorce you on the spot.” It’s an empty threat and they both know it. They’ve gone
through so much for such things to dissuade them from spending a lifetime closely entwined.

Shameless as ever, “That’s just a good set-up for our second wedding.”

“You think I’ll agree to marry you again after you throw my hats away?”

“I have a secret weapon,” Dazai tells him, grinning brightly when the clerk in front of them very
politely asks them to step aside and stop holding up the queue and making everyone want to puke
from the overflowing sweetness.

He rolls his eyes, a bit mystified that he’s now grown impervious to other people’s judging looks
whenever he gets involved into some public embarrassment. There are things that have remained
the same since as long as he can remember, while there are things that have changed when it comes
to his outlook on life. At the very least, he has managed to evolve an armor, something sorely
needed when he’s married to someone so brazen.

“Let me guess, you plan on harassing me by crying in front of me 24/7.” He’s definitely going to
get annoyed into agreeing. Even during their enmity before, he’s always been a little weak to the
other’s sadness.

“I will use the power of your love for me,” Dazai declares self-righteously, even thumping his
chest a bit, as if it’s the strongest type of weapon that one should be really proud of.

“I would love for you to shut up and stop causing a public disturbance!”

And yet, he doesn’t deny it at all.

Two days are spent in ‘consummating’ their marriage. It would have gone on longer, if not for the
fact that it’s already the final day of the year and the party that they’re hosting is due in several
hours.
“You’ve actually managed to keep quiet about it,” Chuuya says while he stretches his muscles
while heating the pans. “I haven’t received any calls from our friends insisting that I change my
mind, after all.”

Winding around his body like the octopus hybrid that he is, “Fufufu, my mouth was filled with
Chuuya and my hands were busy with Chuuya.”

He idly swats the wandering hands. Especially since he’s wearing an apron over Dazai’s oversized
shirt, and nothing else. It’s a kitchen hazard, probably, but the greater danger here is that his fish
husband—husband! what the hell!—will end up distracting him so much that he does something so
uncharacteristic, such as postpone the party without any explanation.

Thankfully, food duty doesn’t solely rest on them, so he doesn’t have to cook as much to feed the
entire drove of guests later.

Atsushi has insisted on volunteering the Akutagawa with lesser eyebrows to handle a big chunk of
cooking duty, apparently so he could show off his lover’s kitchen prowess. Of course, he also
knows that it’s because the weretiger has some plans for tonight, and he wants his lover busy to
keep things a secret.

He actually isn’t privy as to what those plans are, even if he’s grown to become quite close with
Atsushi.

(Atsushi gave him a withering look and said, “If I tell you, you’re going to end up revealing it to
Dazai-san and then Dazai-san will post it in his blog. And then Ryuu would be so happy about
Dazai-san paying attention to his lovelife and I’d end up feeling a mix of jealousy and bliss at
seeing him so happy!” As expected of Dazai’s protégé, he has strange brain circuits.

He didn’t bother protesting the accusation, because the only thing that managed to escape his
mackerel’s eyes is how to properly handle their relationship, back then. Everything else is
according to his plans.

“It’s his fault for being such a gossipy genius. But it really can’t be helped, he’s an idiot who has
fun with such things” he sighed as he shook his head while thinking of his mackerel’s mind.

“No, it’s your fault for being so lovey-dovey,” Atsushi corrected him mercilessly, and so he
stopped trying to get information about this matter.)

Kyouka and Lucy are handling desserts, as the two have been bonding over attending a cooking
class recently. Everyone else will be bringing something, home-cooked or store-bought.

It makes him smile, the thought of the people in his life bringing a little something into their home.

“And now you’re busy thinking of something else,” Dazai accuses, pinching his waist before
kneading his skin over his clothes.

“I’m thinking of how happy I am,” he admits, leaning back against his husband’s chest, the spike
of the heartbeat behind him making his smile grow. “I’d be even happier if you stopped walking
around the house naked though.”

It takes Dazai several moments to recover from being touched at seeing him so happy. It satisfies
him, that he’s able to adapt faster to the sensation of being overwhelmed as to how they’re able to
reach this stage in their life.

When his mackerel recovers, he bounces back to his usual brazenness. “Isn’t it better for you to be
able to eat me quicker?”

He gestures towards the stove. “Want me to fry you up?”

They bicker as he cooks, Dazai’s extent of usefulness being an extra mouth to function as a taste-
tester. He isn’t very helpful in that aspect, because he always insists that whatever he cooks is
delicious.

“Go and call for an expedited order for the things we discussed earlier,” he eventually says, giving
a light kick to the other’s shin.

“The part where we discussed if you should wear one or two lace garters for our grand wedding
ceremony?”

“The part where we discussed how we’d traumatize our friends,” he corrects and whacks his
husband using a spatula. “Make sure that they arrive before the party starts.”

“So bossy,” but there’s no real complaint in his tone. After all, if there’s one thing that he’s learned
about the other man over the years—it’s that he actually quite enjoys having the tables turned on
him. Someone daring to order him around is bound to incite both his annoyance and interest.

With sunlight continuing to stream into their kitchen, it makes things seem even more domestic. A
big window overlooks the garden and the pond. The kitchen towels that hang on one corner are all
patterned with tiny animals. There’s a long island in the middle of the expansive area, one that’s
measured to be a little bit longer than Dazai when he lies down on it.

(He makes a mental note to not be around if Kunikida asks if they have done anything risqué on
that surface, because he doesn’t have the heart to crush his friend’s hopes.)

On the spice rack, there’s Dazai’s picture wedged alongside cumin and cinnamon. Part of his fish’s
insistence that someone spicy like him deserves to have his own spot there. Chuuya has threatened
several times to burn that photo whenever he has to grill something, but it still remains there.

Right now, Dazai sits on the counter beside him, one finger loosely resting on the crook of his
elbow, as if it’s only natural that some part of them remains connected as they do even the simplest
of things. His other hand is busy taking care of the deliveries for their gifts to be distributed later
today.

For the past several years, the gifts that he has given to others have been made with the thought of
making them happy. It seems that after years of knowing a bastard mackerel, he’s finally been
influenced to do something that’s a little more devious.

Today’s gifts are bound to make both him and Dazai entertained, after all.

Time flies swiftly.

There’s no snow in the forecast, so they open up the door that connects the dining room to the
garden outside, in order to accommodate all of their guests and not force everyone to elbow each
other. Representatives from the mafia, the agency and the government are around. Anyone who
isn’t privy to their relationships would probably suspect a clandestine meeting that would decide
the future of the city, given the important people present.

…Well, someone’s future is going to be decided alright.

“…This is…”
“Our gift to everyone,” they say at once, without needing to coordinate it. “We’d like to invite
everyone to our second wedding ceremony.”

In their guests’ hands, they each have a luxurious gift bag. Top quality bath and fragrance sets are
packed inside. More importantly, there’s an envelope that contains invitations to their second,
grander wedding ceremony. Aside from the actual invitation card, there’s a smaller card that has
Dazai’s words written in Chuuya’s calligraphy: “Please make sure to attend, we’ve included
complementary vouchers to a free session with a reputable therapist.”

It takes several moments, but most of their friends are smart and wise people who manage to read
between the lines.

Realizations such as: they’ve already gotten married without anyone knowing; they already expect
everyone will be traumatized, and they’ve kindly prepared help for their guests.

The first person to react is Atsushi, who shrieks about getting upstaged by his senpai when he has
plans for tonight. The second person immediately takes out her sword and slices the air in front of
Dazai’s nose.

Ane-san’s fury is colder than winter. “Dazai-kun, you promised me that you’d give Chuuya-kun a
proper wedding ceremony, did you not? What happened to the first wedding?”

A bit too cheerfully, “Sorry, Kouyou-san, we just couldn’t control ourselves?”

Amidst all the congratulations and complaints about not being spared by their antics, and the sight
of Dazai being lectured by Ane-san, Chuuya thinks that he’s really glad that his extraordinary life
has found such an extraordinary home.

-
-
-
-
-

Years into the future, Chuuya strides out of the headquarters, one hand in his pocket and one hand
signing some last-minute paperwork by the reception desk. The Tsushima Group has been making
trouble, trying to trip them into making a wrong move. It’s all minor inconveniences—after
knowing Dazai for years, nothing else could ruffle his feathers.

His phone buzzes. A short poem about slugs being buried in white, along with a doodle of a dog
wearing a hat. Infuriating, maddening. There’s a small line scribbled: I miss you like my lungs miss
air. Snow falls outside, but he has foregone bringing his outercoat with him. He feels incredibly
warm.

Days are getting shorter as night becomes longer during this season. He spots Akutagawa and
reminds him to bundle up before going home. The Executive nods at him, then actually deigns to
give him a pleasant, “Have a safe trip home, Chuuya-san.”

Hmm. Looks like Atsushi’s successful in training polite small talk into him.

He clocks out of work, because even being Port Mafia’s Boss requires a good work-life balance.
Plus, if he ever so much as breathes the possibility of overtime, a certain mackerel husband of his
is bound to cause some trouble.

The first and last time he’s had to work overtime due to some trouble, and the responsible group
has practically groveled in front of law enforcement, begging them to imprison them if only it
means getting away from the terrifying demon-like detective that has so much blackmail material
on them.

Oh, that’s the useful part.

The annoying part is that Dazai cried a lot of fake tears and acted like a giant baby that needed to
be pacified. Even if he knows it’s all fake… well… He’s always been weak towards the other man.
At that reminder, he consoles himself with the fact that the other man is even weaker towards him.

As such, as soon as he walks out of the building, someone bearing the scent of apples rushes
towards him, and hugs him tight. A warm embrace that layers an additional warm overcoat on his
back. Cashmere in striking red, matching with the scarf looped around Dazai’s neck.

“You took too long, so I shopped around while waiting.” The tips of Dazai’s ears are pink, so he
reaches out with both his bare hands and cups them, warming them under his fingers. “I saw this
coat and it reminded me of you. Tiny and expensive.”

“Oh, so is that why Kunikida spammed my phone looking for a wayward employee who left work
two hours ahead of schedule?” He doesn’t even bother calling the other out for stealing his card
again and using it to splurge on these things. The scarf does look good on him, plus part of being
married means being at peace with the fact that his husband enjoys buying things for him to model.

Fake sniffles, loud enough to attract passersby, “I pined for you for so long—”
“—it hasn’t even been four hours! We even had lunch together, oi!”
“—and yet you bring up the name of another man as soon as we meet. I’m so heartbroken!”

He sighs deeply. “Which crab restaurant did you book?”

“To soothe my heart, I got us a seat in that new seafood restaurant in The Intercontinental!” Of
course, it has to be somewhere really expensive.

“Fine. In exchange, you’re not allowed to sneak into my office and hide yourself under my desk
again.”

A noncommittal hum from Dazai. “Eh, sure?”

“I could see you crossing your fingers behind your back, asshole.”

“Maybe it’s a sign that you must hold my hand so I can’t do naughty things with it?”

He’d quip that putting him in handcuffs should do the trick, but they both know it’s useless. “Fine,”
he huffs. It’s been years, but there’s still that little twinge of electricity when their hands touch.
Perhaps he’s also been rendered useless by this mackerel, to feel so excited and fulfilled with even
the most mundane things. “Any more demands, shitty Dazai?”

“Each time you say that, you’re insulting yourself too, you know?”

He clicks his tongue. “We both know what I mean.”

It’s taken them a long time, but they’ve reached a point where misunderstandings each other and
hiding things from each other have become impossible. They truly do both know what they mean.

“Mm. Welcome back, Chuuya.” They’re in the middle of an intersection in a busy port city,
surrounded by millions of people who are just like them, existing and making the best out of their
 life. “I missed you.”

“Me too,” he admits. They could be anywhere, they could be doing anything. But as long as they’re
together, things will always be okay.

A commonplace happiness of being with the one they love.

“I’m home.”

—————
the end
home is where the heart is

Chapter End Notes

and it’s done—!!!

it took several years and many many rewrites, but it’s done—!!!
thanks to everyone who has joined this ride, i hope you enjoyed this, even if a lot of
things don’t fit with canon now (LOL) or with my newer writing style (?)!

many, many thanks to slug-san too for motivating me to finish this! to an-san for being
so supportive! to everyone who’s checked in on this fic! ilu all, thanks so very much!

i procrastinated in writing the last chapter since i wanted to include a lot of tiny
anecdotes about their life together, but i figured that… well, when i started writing
this, it was at a time when there wasn’t a lot of fluff or domestic soukoku (at least,
compared to the present time). so i had a lot of fluff domestic ideas, but by the time
i’ve finished this fic, i’ve already written those ideas in a bunch of other fics hahahaha
i figured there’s no need to cram them here anymore LOL

my rambling aside, i hope you had fun joining them in their long journey of finding
happiness together! this was supposed to be a oneshot, but look where it got them LOL

comments are always appreciated, i love to hear what you think!!

thanks again & hope to see you on my other works too ^o^/

+ ps, to those who’ve read The Alchemy of Love, you can think of that ball as the
original philosopher’s stone that a certain group has found LOL
+ pps, i have a huge reply backlog on this fic that built up during my hiatus, so i'll get
through it slowly.... sorry for the delay in my replies, but i always read them as soon as
they come in qqqqqq
+ feel free to check out my twitter! ^o^/

End Notes

• comments / feedback / kudos / any sort of reactions = always welcome ♥

Please drop by the archive and comment to let the author know if you enjoyed their work!