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Contrary to popular belief, Nakahara Chuuya is not always a loud drunk. It may be hard to believe but some nights, amidst the chatter of other patrons, from where he sits by the bar he remains quiets. He takes a sip of his wine contently and orders for another bottle when he is done with the first. And the bartender complies because Chuuya, despite the pink dusting his cheeks, the red that crawls up to his ears, the haze that already clouds his eyes, remains seated on the bar stool like he could not hurt a single fly.
The bartender would even dare say that under the yellow lights, Chuuya looks ethereal.
But the point is, Chuuya does not always demand for another round of drinks with a booming voice, does not always start bar fights with stupid men who should have known better than underestimate a mafia executive. Some nights, Chuuya just sits on the bar stool, slumps on the counter with impossible grace, goes cross-eyed from staring at his empty glass while he silently wonders why is my glass empty? The confusion sparks in his eyes and the bartender, already half smitten by the pliant kitten in his territory, refills the glass and enjoys the look of pleasant surprise that livens Chuuya’s flushed face.
So, slumped on the counter with a small smile on his lips and an unfocused look in his eyes is how Dazai finds him. Chuuya does not even bat an eye when he takes the empty seat by his side, too awed at the magic of his drink getting refilled after wishing it in his head. He does not notice Dazai until the brunet, too, copies the way he has draped himself over the bar counter. Chuuya’s eyes slowly tears away from the glass of wine with a slow blink, and then he is finally looking at Dazai.
He does not say anything, not even to yell at the other to stop smiling like that. Instead, Dazai scoots closer when Chuuya raises a hand to reach out, moves closer until his cheek touches Chuuya’s fingertips. They remain like that for a while and he lets Chuuya’s fingers dance across his face, boop his nose and lightly poke his forehead until a spark breaks through the intoxicated haze in Chuuya’s eyes.
“You’re real.” The redhead realizes, a finger lingering at the corner of Dazai’s lips.
“Of course I am. Ah, chibi’s too drunk he thinks he’s seeing things.”
The teasing easily flies over Chuuya’s head like he has heard nothing. After tracing patterns against Dazai’s cheek, the redhead’s attention goes back to his half-finished wine. He straightens up just a bit, enough for him to drink without choking. Chuuya empties his glass out and automatically, expectantly looks at the bartender with an outstretched arm, the glass on his hand, wordlessly asking for a refill. His blue eyes are glossed over by a child-like innocence that compels the poor man to fill Chuuya’s glass to the brim, but Dazai stops him with a look.
The detective pulls Chuuya’s arm back, takes the glass from his hold, and evenly stares right back at Chuuya’s confused face like he is completely unaffected by the way the smaller man looks like he is about to cry.
“That’s enough now, Chuuya. It’s time to go home.”
“Home?”
“Yes.” Dazai’s hand swims for the wallet tucked inside Chuuya’s coat and fishes out a couple of bills.
“Why? What time is it?”
“Time for you to go home, chibi.”
“Home?” Chuuya asks and Dazai chuckles. Instead of answering, he stands up and tugs the other off the stool. The mafioso stumbles a bit and he latches on to Dazai’s arm to steady himself. Any other day and Chuuya would have twisted said arm in odd angles behind Dazai’s back. For tonight, he grips it and presses on it, probably wondering in his head why Dazai’s arm feels like a noodle, and he looks at Dazai like he is waiting for another set of instructions.
It almost makes Dazai want to laugh and cry at the same time.
“Can you walk?” Dazai asks. Chuuya looks down at his feet, confirming that they are there, attached to his legs, and then nods. “Alright, hat rack, let’s go.”
Dazai holds his hand the entire way if only to prevent Chuuya from suddenly activating his ability to float off somewhere, someplace Dazai cannot reach him. It is also to prevent the man from changing the earth’s gravity with no warning and send unknowing pedestrians to their knees. Dazai’s seen it happen before so yes, all this hand holding is for entirely reasonable reasons.
He holds Chuuya’s hand, his own bandaged palm against the other’s glove-covered ones. The heat still seeps through the covers and it helps keep the chill of the night at bay, prevents Dazai from shivering under his tan coat. He hums his favorite suicide song to fill the silence between them, because Chuuya will ask him stupid questions that make absolutely no sense from time to time and then he will suddenly remain quiet, questions locked away in his own head as he tries to search for answers on his own. The expressions on his face are quite amusing though.
Then Chuuya suddenly stops walking, attention caught again by something. Ten minutes ago, the chibi’s attempted to fight their shadows because ‘Dazai, someone’s following us Dazai!.’ Five minutes ago, he tries to run after a stray calico cat and ‘no, chibi, that’s not Natsume-sensei!’ Two minutes ago he insisted on digging through a pile of dingy trash bags in some alleyway because ‘I swear to fucking god D-Dazai! I saw something sparkly and I-I need to know—something sparkly Dazai!’
Now, Chuuya stops and Dazai follows his gaze up the clear skies, to the tiny stars speckled around the full moon.
“The moon,” Chuuya mutters, eyes never leaving the newest subject of his attention, “the moon looks so beautiful tonight.”
Dazai’s breath hitches.
It is not a confession, not a declaration of anything, he knows. Chuuya’s too drunk to even realize the weight those words carried for decades, spoken only in hushed voices between two people under the same pale night sky. Chuuya looks at the moon like he has been caught in a spell that can only be broken by a true love’s kiss. Under this borrowed light, Chuuya glows like a being that comes from an entirely different world, a celestial creature that deserves a seat amongst the stars, a god that Dazai has no right to touch. Yet he is holding hands with him and somewhere in between the few seconds of silently staring, his grip around the other’s hand has grown tight.
“I can take you to the moon.” Chuuya breaks the quiet. “I can take you there. Do you want to?”
He does not point out how impossible that would be, because Dazai would be cancelling his ability and really, Chuuya should know this already. Then again, there could be other ways. Chuuya’s bank account is fat enough to buy a spaceship and death by running out of oxygen seems tolerable enough for Dazai.
“Here is fine.” He says instead. Dazai tugs, a signal for Chuuya to follow and start walking again. The moon goes ignored in the background.
“You want to stay here?”
“No, Chuuya.” Not for the first time that night, Chuuya looks adorably confused and Dazai laughs at this. “I want to stay with you.”
There are three different kinds of drunk Chuuya and people are mostly acquainted with the first two: loud and angry drunk, and loud and sad drunk. The third one, this one, is the quiet and stupid drunk. Needless to say, this is Dazai’s favorite kind not only because Chuuya is being extra cute but also because the chibi is being extra stupid. And being extra stupid means that Chuuya lets himself be extra vulnerable, one that Dazai absolutely cannot allow others to see.
Chuuya stops walking again and he looks at Dazai like he could not quite believe what he has heard. It makes Dazai feel bad because he has never said it before, out loud, that he wants to be with Chuuya even if the slug actually already knows this for a fact. For a moment, with the way those blue eyes seem to dig a hole into his very soul, Dazai considers that maybe Chuuya’s sober now. The way he fumbles with words says otherwise though. Chuuya opens and closes his mouth like the goldfishes in the tank the agency’s decided to keep. It takes a while, a long while, before Chuuya finally finds what he is looking for.
“I want to stay with you too.” The redhead answers, never breaking eye contact, and it is this straightforward response that confirms Chuuya is still drunk. The fact does not make those words any less meaningful though and Dazai knows he is sporting his own faint blush with the way his heart starts to beat wildly in his chest.
“I knew it. You cannot resist my handsome face, after all.” Dazai teases but Chuuya’s only response is a yawn before moving to lie down on the ground. “Chuuya?” Dazai pulls him up. “Oi, chibi, what are you doing?”
“M’sleepy.” Chuuya answers as he rubs an eye with his finger.
“And?” He does not get an answer, just fruitless attempts at laying down that is prevented simply by Dazai’s grip on Chuuya’s hand. “You can’t sleep here.”
“Mm.”
“Slug,”
“…”
“Chuuya,” It does not look like they are going to make any progress, because Chuuya does not even seem to realize that Dazai pulling his arm is what’s stopping him from lying down completely on the road. If anything, he looks frustrated at not being able to do such a simple task when he is just a step away from achieving his much-wanted sleep.
Dazai sighs but crouches down nonetheless. He looks back at Chuuya, who in turn is looking at him again, clueless. ”I’ll carry you home.”
It is cute how he does not even need to convince the redhead to hop on his back. Chuuya gingerly wraps his arms over Dazai’s shoulders and loosely around his neck. His legs are hooked over Dazai’s arms. Whoever said that Dazai Osamu is a physically weak man clearly has never seen him carrying his other half, not that he will ever allow other people to witness such a sight. It is also not as if Chuuya will agree on riding piggyback should he be in his right state of mind.
So he does end up carrying Chuuya back at his own apartment, small and empty save for the single futon he’s laid by the window and the unorganized heap of clothes in his closet. He places the chibi down and somehow, the absence of Dazai’s warmth wakes him just enough for Dazai to ask him to follow really simple commands. Arms up! As he removes Chuuya’s vest and shirt, replacing it with his own loose ones. Eyes closed! As he wipes the other’s face with a damp towel that smells mildly of lavender from the soap that Chuuya left in his bath three weeks ago.
“…uh-zai,” Chuuya slurs, body slumping forward and face planting itself against Dazai’s chest. With a sigh, he lays Chuuya down on the futon and pulls him close so that they would fit. Dazai kisses Chuuya’s forehead and then nods to himself at a job well done.
“Here is fine.” Dazai murmurs, turning his back away from the window and at the sight of the moon. “Right here is fine.”