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Chuuya curses gravity for the first time in his life as he struggles against the weight dragging his eyelids down.
He blinks a few times, forcing his back up straight. He stands on plush carpet in a wide, sweeping room on the top floor of the mafia’s headquarters, and Chuuya squints at the moon when the clock strikes a little past midnight.
“Is that all?” Mori asks, face impassive as he looks up from a truly intimidating stack of papers.
“Yeah,” Chuuya replies, nodding. “We disposed of the bodies already.”
His entire body aches with the distinct fatigue of too much fighting and not enough sleep that has grown alarmingly familiar in recent weeks. Discreetly, he rolls his wrist a few times behind his back and bites down a groan when he feels some of the tension ease out of his joints.
“Hm,” Mori replies thoughtfully, tapping his chin. “Alright, you are dismissed.”
Chuuya sighs in relief. “Thanks, boss.”
“Oh, Chuuya-kun,” The older cuts in, eyes lighting up and sparkling with an odd expression he can’t quite place. “Take the day off tomorrow.”
Chuuya stares.
“A day off?” he echoes, blinking slowly.
The mafia doesn’t take days off. They don’t get vacations, or breaks, or rest—he’s doesn’t need to be a genius to know that’s not exactly how underground crime works. Chuuya can’t think of a single goddamn day in the past two years that he’s ever taken a day off. His brows draw together in confusion.
“Yes,” Mori repeats with a chuckle, but it sounds like an order this time. “A day off. Do with it as you please.” And right as Chuuya is opening his mouth to ask why, Mori perks up and says, “Ah, I instructed Dazai-kun to take the day off as well.” He smiles serenely. “So you two may spend it together, if you’d like.”
Chuuya’s eye twitches.
“No thanks,” he mutters. Truthfully, Chuuya would probably stab himself to death than spend a second longer than he has to with Dazai, but he wrestles down his more colorful choices of insults in favor of offering Mori a forced smile and a slight bow. “I’ll take the day off,” he confirms, before straightening up again and heading towards the door. And then, reflexively, “I’ll see you tomorrow, bo—”
Mori raises a brow.
“Day after tomorrow,” Chuuya corrects weakly. He hasn’t even fucking walked out the office yet and everything is already starting to feel distinctly out of place. Mori just nods, looking immensely satisfied.
“Good night, Chuuya-kun.”
+
Chuuya wakes to the smell of burnt toast.
Extremely, extremely burnt toast.
“Oh my fucking God,” Chuuya groans aloud, turning over in his bed and shutting his eyes with as much force as he can. Maybe, maybe if he tries hard enough, he can pretend this is just a bad dream.
But then a loud clanging rings out in his apartment—the distinct sound of silverware dropping—and Chuuya lets out an impressive string of cursing before he pushes himself upright onto the bed and takes a deep breath in.
“GET THE FUCK OUT!” He screeches loudly in the direction of the kitchen. Chuuya throws the covers off and immediately starts hunting around for something to wear, volume raising exponentially. “Dazai, I swear to God if you broke something, I’m going to bury you alive and set you on fire and cut off all your fucking fingers and shove them up your fucking ass so you can’t—”
“Ah,” Dazai chirps, sticking his head into the doorframe. “Rise and shine, chibi.”
He grins, smoothly dodging the pillow Chuuya chucks at his head, before slipping away and back into the kitchen.
“I hate you,” Chuuya seethes, keeping his voice loud so he can make sure Dazai hears him. He tugs on a thin shirt and a pair of shorts aggressively, and then doesn’t even bother to make the bed as he stomps out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. “I just replaced the lock last week and you fucking—”
“But Chuuya’s locks are just so fun to pick,” Dazai interrupts him, eyes sparkling.
Chuuya kicks him in the shin—at the place he knows Dazai got shot a few weeks ago—and relishes briefly in the beautiful groan of pain that reaches his ears. But then his eyes flit to the blackened pieces of toast and he feels irritation prickle under his skin again. “How the hell do you mess up toast,” he scowls, pushing past Dazai to examine the poor pieces of bread.
“Chuuya,” Dazai whispers, leaning in. “I saw all the milk in your fridge. Do you really think—”
Chuuya kicks him again. “Shut up,” he says, face hot.
And then, sighing, he shoves Dazai aside and starts making an actual, edible breakfast instead of whatever the hell Dazai had been doing before he woke up. It’s useless to try and kick Dazai out—God knows he’s tried, so he just mutters angrily to himself under his breath as he scrambles some eggs and watches in annoyance as Dazai pokes around in his fridge and wanders through the living room and purposefully does not offer to help at all.
“Okay,” he says forcefully, slamming down the plate of eggs and toast on the table so hard it shakes. Dazai reaches for his chopsticks but Chuuya slaps his hand away, glaring at him. “Spill.”
Dazai cocks his head, blinking far too innocently up at him. “Whatever do you mean?”
“Don’t play dumb,” Chuuya shoots back, as he pulls out a chair and takes a seat. He points his chopsticks accusatorially at Dazai. “We both have days off today for the first time in forever, but instead of staying at home you’re here.” He narrows his eyes, reaching out and batting Dazai’s wandering hand away again. “You want something. Spill.”
“Am I not allowed to eat?” Dazai asks mildly, pressing his lips together in disappointment. Chuuya takes an aggressive bite of his toast and chews on it, not taking his eyes off of Dazai.
“You’re not answering the question,” he replies pointedly.
“Chuuya,” Dazai pouts, eyes going annoyingly wide. “Maybe I just wanted to see you on my day off!”
“Fuck off,” Chuuya replies automatically, kicking Dazai under the table. “Don’t you have any other—”
He blinks.
Friends, he was about to say. Except—they’re not friends. Definitely not friends.
But Chuuya doesn’t really know what they are, these days. He purses his lips and stares down at the eggs on his plate. They just kill people together and argue a lot and fight constantly and bleed all over each other.
Except Dazai also regularly breaks into his apartment and sometimes they watch movies together and maybe Chuuya makes food for them when he feels like it and one night Dazai had leaned over and kissed him and Chuuya’s brain almost short-circuited but he kissed back, and they never talk about it, ever, but they’ve kissed three more times since then—no, Chuuya is not keeping track—and one time they messed around in Chuuya’s bathroom and that had ended up with Dazai’s hands shoved down the front of his pants and Chuuya—
But they’re not friends.
“Don’t you have any other people to bother,” he mutters finally, stabbing viciously at his breakfast.
“Chuuya’s the most fun to bother though,” Dazai replies instantly, smiling brightly.
Chuuya narrows his eyes. “Answer the question, dipshit.”
Dazai just hums, eyes twinkling as he watches Chuuya eat. And it gets fucking uncomfortable after a minute of Dazai just staring at him, so Chuuya grumbles and shoves some food in Dazai’s direction and decidedly ignores the smirk on Dazai’s face.
They eat in silence for a few minutes, while Chuuya looks at Dazai suspiciously and tries to piece together exactly why the other is here. He’s dressed surprisingly casually, coat and tie abandoned in favor of unbuttoning the top of his shirt and rolling up the sleeves so the bandages on his forearms are in sight. But it’s also the middle of July, and hot as hell, Chuuya notes solemnly, when he feels the sun shine into the windows of his apartment, so he doesn’t know if Dazai is dressed for something in particular, or just to stave off the heat.
Dazai didn’t bring anything special with him, either. At least not that Chuuya can see. Aside from maybe a wallet and phone in his pocket as usual and whatever the fuck he uses to pick all of Chuuya’s locks.
“Are you going to stare at me forever?” Dazai asks in amusement, voice bringing Chuuya out of his thoughts.
“Are you going to tell me why you’re here?” Chuuya counters, raising a brow.
Dazai purses his lips and stares at him. Chuuya holds his gaze in defiance, lips twisting in frustration as he tries and fails to read the dark pits of Dazai’s eyes.
“I want to investigate something,” he says finally. Chuuya squints at him.
“Investigate,” Chuuya repeats incredulously. “It’s our only day off in, like, two years—and you want to investigate—”
“I have a hunch,” Dazai cuts him off, shrugging. He leans back and his eyes are dark, calculating. “It could be important.”
Chuuya gives him a blank look. “Well, I’m not coming,” he mutters. “Go bother someone else, asshole.”
“But Chuuya,” Dazai whines again. “You’re so much fun to bother!”
“I’ll fucking kill—
“What,” Dazai drawls, eyes shining. “Scared?”
It’s bait. It’s so obviously bait. But—as Chuuya looks around the empty, dull confines of his apartment—he doesn’t really know what to do with his day off. As much as he’d always thought he wanted to, something about laying on the couch all day and playing games, or watching TV, or reading—sounds wrong.
Every other day is filled with something, at least. Whether it be the comforting monotony of paperwork, the rush of combat practice with Kouyou, the strategic planning of smuggling routes, the thrill of stopping bullets—it’s something. And it’s only been less than thirty minutes since his so-called day off has started, but already a thrumming feeling of restlessness is pushing through his veins and pulsing underneath his skin.
And truthfully, Chuuya probably lost the moment he woke up to Dazai burning fucking toast in his apartment.
“Who?” Chuuya snaps. “You’re the one that’s fucking scared.” He stands up abruptly, turning around to head back to his room to change into actual clothes. “C’mon, shithead,” he calls to Dazai. “Eat faster. Let’s go.”
He pointedly pretends not to see the smile on Dazai’s face as he stomps away.
+
Chuuya blinks. Once, then twice. Then three times, for good measure.
Vendors of shaved ice and ice cream stretch across his left side, while kids clamor at the goldfish scooping stall nearby. Children dragging at the hands of exasperated parents, along with countless ragtag swarms of teenagers, have packed the place to the brim. Lights are strung up everywhere over the little stands, sweeping across the space and filling up his vision as far as he can see. They’re turned off, given that it’s the middle of the day, but it seems like by the time night falls they’ll probably light his eyes on fire. Distantly, the sound of a group of girls giggling nearby filters into his ear.
“We’re investigating a festival?” Chuuya asks in confusion, tilting his head up to stare at Dazai.
“Carnival,” Dazai corrects him overly cheerfully, eyes darting around to take in the sight. His gaze drifts down to meet Chuuya’s eyes and he raises a brow. “What?”
“Nothing,” Chuuya snaps immediately, turning away.
He’s never been to a carnival, festival, fair—whatever, before. It feels distinctly like walking into a dream, seeing people carry around stuffed animals they’ve won from some sort of game, hearing unfiltered laughter bounce around as children chase each other across the venue, smelling the crisp tang of what he thinks is red bean, or maybe taro.
Chuuya gave up hopes of ever coming to one of these things a long, long time ago.
“Oh, has Chuuya never been to one before?” Dazai drawls, eyes sparkling.
“Have you?” Chuuya shoots back incredulously, pushing down the tangled mess of embarrassment and age-old longing in his stomach. And then, so he doesn’t have to hear Dazai’s answer, he asks, “What are we even investigating?”
“Well,” Dazai muses. “That’s what we’re going to find out.”
“The hell,” Chuuya mumbles. “I swear to God if you don’t even know—”
“Chuuya,” Dazai sighs dramatically. “Don’t you trust me?”
Chuuya grinds his teeth in frustration. Dazai probably throws this exact question at him around ten fucking times a week, like it’s his favorite thing to ask. Like it’s the only phrase he knows.
Like he doesn’t already know the answer.
“No,” Chuuya says immediately. “Who would trust your ugly, lanky, stupid—”
“Oh,” Dazai says happily, focus lost and already turning around and ignoring him. “Let’s go over there.” He starts walking purposefully, and Chuuya just glares at his back but follows him cautiously anyways.
There turns out to be a small stall selling what looks like—charms? Bracelets? Charm bracelets?—nestled near the front of the festival grounds. Thick, woven strands of red and black threads line the display, with elegantly carved words on sleek wooden blocks strung together. Chuuya forgets about Dazai for a moment, blinking in surprise as he runs a finger over a charm that has the kanji for courage and bravery engraved onto it.
It’s beautiful.
“Oh my,” comes a pleasant voice above him. “Your hair is beautiful.”
Chuuya whips his head up so fast he almost breaks his neck. Wincing slightly, he blinks up at a middle-aged woman smiling warmly at him, comfort and ease seeping into the edges of her mouth. She tilts her head when she notices his attention.
“Uh,” He says intelligently.
Chuuya watches out of the corner of his eye as Dazai abandons whatever he was looking at in favor of walking back towards him. “Sorry,” the lady says, laughing quietly. “I didn’t mean to scare you. It’s been a while since I’ve seen hair like yours.”
“Oh,” Chuuya replies dumbly. He bows slightly, awkwardly. “Thank you.”
The woman’s eyes soften. “What’s your—”
“Chuuya,” Dazai interrupts loudly. “Look, I found one for you.” Slightly disoriented, Chuuya turns his attention away from the woman only to be greeted with Dazai shoving a charm in his face, with the bold, black outlines of the word growth inscribed on the wood. The weird calm that had settled over him vanishes in an instant.
“I’m gonna murder—”
“Get it! Because you still need to grow!”
“Literally do you ever shut up—”
A tinkling laugh cuts both of them off, and Chuuya blinks up at the woman again. She has a hand over her mouth, amusement dancing in her eyes. “It’s more in alignment with the idea of spiritual growth,” she explains after a moment, dropping her hand and offering both of them another smile. “Not necessarily physical.”
“But Chuuya is so short,” Dazai whines. Chuuya halfheartedly elbows Dazai in the stomach, grinning when he hears a grunt. The woman just smiles again, before turning back towards him.
“Chuuya-kun,” she says. “Is your hair color natural?”
“Oh,” Chuuya replies in surprise. “Um, yeah.”
She hums. “It really is a lovely color,” she murmurs, and Chuuya feels his face go warm for some inexplicable reason. It had been too hot to wear a hat today, with all the sweat and grime that would’ve accumulated as a result, so he had opted to just leave his hair out in the open. And he knows his hair isn’t the most common color, but still—having someone, a stranger compliment it—
“Do both your parents have the same color as well?” She asks curiously.
Chuuya’s stomach drops.
“I—”
“Oba-san!” Dazai cuts in. He points towards the opposite end of the stand with a pleasant, unassuming smile on his face. “I think those customers need help.”
The woman turns around at the same time that Chuuya peeks over her and sees a couple standing on the other side, brows furrowed as they look back and forth between two bracelets in what looks like complete confusion. “Oh dear,” she says, with an exasperated smile on her face. “Looks like you’re right, boy. You two have fun, then.” And then she’s off, drifting towards the couple.
Chuuya stares blankly down at his hands for a moment. What would he have told her? A simple yes sure sounds a whole lot better than I don’t even fucking know if I have parents, but dishonesty is something that sits ugly and heavy on his tongue.
“Chuuya,” Dazai sings loudly into his ear. “Don’t think too much, your brain can’t handle it.” The warmth of his breath washes over his skin and Chuuya jolts at their proximity, cursing under his breath as pushes Dazai away from him, heart jumping lightly.
“Shut up,” he mumbles, before he casts a searching look up at the other. Dazai isn’t looking at him, just hums and seems to be staring at something else in the distance, and Chuuya’s eyes linger on the curve of his jaw and the faint cut on his cheek that he still remembers from a mission six days ago.
A strange thanks lingers at the tip of his tongue. To Dazai. For interrupting him, for stepping in, for being stupidly, frustratingly perceptive even when he doesn’t have to, doesn’t need to. When Chuuya doesn’t want him to.
Chuuya slaps him instead.
“Ow,” Dazai grumbles. “Hat rack is so violent today.”
Chuuya rolls his eyes. “I’m not even wearing a hat today, dumbass.”
“Hm,” Dazai replies, lips quirking. He leans over and rests an elbow on top of Chuuya’s head. “Still the right height, though.”
Chuuya glares up at him. Fucking Dazai and his fucking growth spurt. Him touting a difference of five centimeters was already a headache to deal with, but now, at the bright and tender age of seventeen, twenty centimeters is truly, truly a fucking nightmare. Chuuya swats his elbow away aggressively, opting instead to move and look at some of the other charms on display.
Dazai doesn’t say anything else, but he follows a few steps behind and Chuuya tries not to focus on the odd comfort of having him nearby. A strange brush of black catches his attention and Chuuya’s brows draw together as he picks up another charm and stares at the wood engraving looking back up at him. The kanji is complex, lines intersecting everywhere and unfolding in a way that’s both graceful and terrifying.
Chuuya can’t read it.
The realization knocks the breath out of his lungs and leaves an uneasy, desperate kind of panic that winds tight around his neck like it’s trying to choke him. He can’t read it. It’s just a single word. In Japanese. But he can’t read it.
It’s a painful, scathing reminder that he’s never gone to school before, that he’s never sat in a classroom with a textbook in front of him, and it fucking hurts. Even with all the books he had stolen throughout the years in Suribachi, all the documents he had spent hours poring over in the mafia—a tiny, single word engraved on wood hits him like a slap to the face.
“Oh?” Comes Dazai’s obnoxious voice. Chuuya feels him peek over his shoulder. “What,” Dazai says, with a smirk. “Can Chuuya not read?”
He’s already expecting the anger that boils under his skin, but this—the overwhelming wave of shame that crashes over him—this is new.
“Hellooo,” Dazai calls, tapping his shoulder. “Earth to Chuuya.”
“Whatever,” Chuuya finally forces out, voice quiet and low and flat and wrong in a way that sounds foreign, even to him. He turns on his heel and keeps his eyes glued ahead as he tries to push past Dazai. “Let’s go.”
“Chuuya.” Fingers wrap around his wrist.
He tries to shake it off. “Let go of me, you fucking—”
“Chuuya,” Dazai murmurs again, yanking him around forcefully. Chuuya stumbles at the action, cursing under his breath, before a hand on his chin forces his head upwards and the pain in his chest freezes for a moment.
His eyes lock with Dazai’s, the other’s hand infuriatingly steady against his face, and Chuuya blinks rapidly for a moment, off-balance, as he feels painfully naked under the full brunt of Dazai’s stare. Something in the other’s eyes flashes, and he drops the hand under Chuuya’s chin but not the one on his arm.
“Let go of me,” Chuuya mutters, glaring at a point on Dazai’s shirt. Everything hurts all of a sudden: his chin, like it’s been burned by Dazai’s touch, his chest, his head, his heart.
“Melancholy,” Dazai says, and Chuuya forces himself to look up. Dazai stares down at him with a kind of intensity that makes his toes squirm. “Melancholy,” he repeats. “It’s a type of sadness or depression.”
The word, Chuuya realizes belatedly. He’s talking about the word Chuuya couldn’t read. Anger and embarrassment and shame alike burn hot against the back of his neck and he just blinks a few times up at Dazai.
“Okay,” he finally replies. He swallows harshly. “Fine. Whatever.”
They stand like that for a long moment, Dazai’s hand wrapped tight around his wrist as Chuuya tears his eyes away from Dazai’s and opts to look somewhere in the distance instead. Chuuya can’t read Dazai’s face, but he can tell there wasn’t a single trace of pity in his eyes, the knowledge of which burns bright and hot in his chest.
Good. The thought of anyone pitying him makes him sick. The idea that Dazai probably knows that—knows that Chuuya doesn’t like getting pitied—makes something in stomach churn, but he can’t be bothered to examine it further.
“I hate you,” Chuuya mumbles finally, after the pain in his chest eases slightly and he remembers to breathe again.
Dazai just hums, poking his cheek a few times. “Feeling’s mutual, chibi.” And then before Chuuya can even look up at him, he’s tugging Chuuya in a different direction, fingers still gripping his arm.
“Where are we going now?” Chuuya mutters under his breath, even as he lets Dazai drag him forward.
The fanfare and buzz of the carnival has faded by now, if he’s being honest. After being essentially slapped in the face twice by reminders that he’s not normal, that the life he’s living isn’t exactly clean and neat and sweet like maybe all the other teenagers that are here, with parents to come home to and schoolwork to finish. His eyes linger over some of the passing stalls in mild interest, but it’s hard to forget the spinning void of disappointment swelling in his chest.
“Goldfish,” Dazai replies cryptically.
“Goldfish?” Chuuya repeats in confusion. “The game where you try to scoop them up?” Dazai just hums in response and Chuuya rolls his eyes. “Why the fuck are we going there?”
“What,” Dazai taunts, giving him a challenging look. “Chuuya doesn’t think he can win?”
Chuuya stares back. “Win what? Against you? ‘Course I can beat you, it’s goldfish, what do you think—”
“Oh?” comes Dazai’s stupid, stupid voice. He lets go of Chuuya’s arm and carefully, purposefully, raises a brow. “Is that a bet?”
The pain in his heart is foreign, but this—this is familiar. The rush of indignance that flushes under his skin and the thrumming of adrenaline that spikes in his blood. The way everything in the world seems to narrow down to the arch of Dazai’s brow and the frustratingly smug expression splattered across his face.
Chuuya narrows his eyes. “Oh,” he says. “You’re fucking on.”
+
“Toga-san,” Dazai sings, with a shit-eating grin on his face. “How many goldfish did I catch?”
The young man in charge of the game blinks down at the paper he’d been keeping tally marks on. He huffs out a short laugh, shaking his head, before he smiles and says, “Twenty-six.”
Chuuya freezes.
“And,” Dazai drawls, eyes flitting over to sparkle obnoxiously at Chuuya. “How many did Chuuya catch?”
Toga’s gaze lifts to lock with Chuuya’s and he gives a small, apologetic bow of the head. “Chuuya-kun caught twenty-five.”
“No way,” Chuuya hisses, marching over as Dazai throws his scooper away and laughs in unadulterated glee. “There is no way you beat me.”
“Chuuya,” Dazai sings again, voice annoyingly high and stretched out. “Guess who won the bet!”
“Oh my god,” Chuuya mutters, hands coming up to cover his face. “I hate you so fucking much.”
Toga laughs, bringing Chuuya’s attention briefly away from what is probably his impending death. The older boy grins down at them, eyes shining thoughtfully. “You guys are really good friends, huh?”
“Who the fuck—”
“I would never—”
Chuuya glares at Dazai, staring down at dark brown eyes with irritation, before he finally breaks away and lets out a groan. “Whatever,” he mutters finally. “Let’s just get this over with.”
Dazai claps his hands together with a sharp glint in his eyes that makes Chuuya briefly consider bolting, but Dazai, the fucker, just grabs his arm as if he can read Chuuya’s mind and shoots a bright smile up at the other boy.
“Thank you, Toga-san!” He cheers, moving to stand up.
“Thank you,” Chuuya echoes, bowing slightly. But, because he can’t help himself, he narrows his eyes and drops his voice purposefully. “Are you sure he didn’t cheat? Like, a hundred percent—”
Toga bursts out laughing. “I’m pretty sure, Chuuya-kun. We were both watching him the whole time, after all.”
Chuuya clicks his tongue in disappointment.
They leave the goldfish scooping stand after another chorus of goodbyes and waves and confirmations that no—they do not, in fact, want to take back twenty-six bags of goldfish, before they finally walk away from the game stalls and start edging into some of the calmer, quieter parts of the fair that seem to be occupied by clothing vendors and antique sellers.
“Chuuya,” Dazai starts innocently.
“Shut up,” Chuuya groans. “I’ll fucking do whatever you want, but,” he glares at Dazai. “I still think you cheated.”
“Rude,” Dazai says, looking supremely offended. “Hat rack has no faith in me.”
“You’ve probably played it before,” Chuuya huffs, looking away from him.
Dazai doesn’t say anything in response. And Chuuya is more than happy with his silence, so he opts for looking curiously around at some of the vendors. On this side, it feels less like a carnival and more like a market of sorts. It’s dizzyingly colorful—with everything from casual straw hats and headbands to full on silk kimonos and—is that a fucking samurai sword?
“It was my first time playing too,” Dazai pouts suddenly. “Chuuya is just jealous I’m better than him.”
Chuuya almost trips in surprise, barely catching himself before he blinks and tries to continue on casually.
Huh. A weird feeling trickles into his chest at Dazai’s words. It’s oddly comforting to think that Dazai has never played the stupid goldfish game before, that—maybe, he’s never been to a festival, carnival thing before either. That maybe Chuuya isn’t normal, per se, but that Dazai isn’t either, and that they’re stumbling through this—whatever the hell this is—together. That Dazai, being the secretive manipulative asshole he is, just casually dropped a piece of personal information without batting an eye.
Chuuya almost smiles. Almost.
“Okay!” Dazai announces, grinning widely. “What should I make Chuuya do?”
“Fuck you,” Chuuya mutters, the almost-smile melting immediately into a scowl. “If you say something stupid again like be your dog—"
“Onee-san,” Dazai is saying suddenly, “Are we allowed to try these on?”
Chuuya turns around in confusion, a question on the tip of his tongue, before he blinks a few times and takes in exactly where they are. He had followed Dazai towards one of the more girly, cutesy looking stands, and it takes a moment for him to realize that he’s standing in front of a wide array of various headbands.
Cat ear headbands.
“Oh, of course!” The girl sitting behind the counter replies, smiling. “Feel free to try on as many as you’d like—we have a buy two get one free deal today, by the way!”
“Okay,” Dazai replies loudly, smiling. “Thank you!”
“Oh my God,” Chuuya mutters under his breath, trying to push down the distinct blend of annoyance and embarrassment that seems to crop up conveniently whenever Dazai is around. And only whenever Dazai is around. “I hate you so fucking mu—”
“Chuuya,” Dazai cuts in, a wide grin stretching dangerously across his face. He holds up pair of white, triangular cat ears and dangles it in front of his face. “Try this on for me.”
“I.” Chuuya forces out between his teeth. “Hate you. So. Fucking. Much.”
“Ah, sorry Chuuya,” Dazai says, raising a hand to his ear and tilting his head innocently. “I couldn’t hear you from down there. Did you say you wanted to try on more?”
“You are so—”
Pink cat ears float into his field of vision. “How about this one?” An orange one. “Or this one? No, it looks too much like your ugly hair.” A black one. “This?”
Chuuya wrenches the black headband out of Dazai’s hands with far more force than necessary, heat nearly steaming out of his ears as he glares up at Dazai.
“I hate you,” Chuuya feels the need to remind him again. “I’m going to cut your tongue out and—”
“And make me eat it, yes, yes,” Dazai talks over him, before leaning back and giving him a truly shit-eating smirk. “Chuuya still hasn’t tried it on yet.”
Chuuya glares down at the offensive accessory sitting in his hands. The black, triangular ears stare up at him tauntingly, and Chuuya can already feel heat settling over his neck at the idea of putting them on. His arms stay frozen. He’s pretty sure he’s literally physically incapable of lifting the thing up to his head, because—
“Fine,” Dazai huffs, and then suddenly his hands are empty as Dazai takes the headband away from him. And for a single, glorious second, Chuuya feels the beautiful, thrilling wave of relief course through his veins.
Dazai grins. “I’ll just put them on for you.”
“Have I told you,” Chuuya grits out, trying extremely hard to keep his voice even. “How much. I fucking hate you.”
“Mmm,” Dazai just hums absentmindedly, before stepping forward with a twinkle in his eyes.
He pauses.
And then he leans down and places a hand against Chuuya’s cheek and immediately every insult on the tip of his tongue fizzles out into nothing and Chuuya is just left with surprise and heat as Dazai stares down at him, eyes dark and fingers pressing against his face.
His gaze flickers to Chuuya’s mouth.
Blind, fumbling panic shoots up Chuuya’s veins and his thoughts scatter because there is no fucking way—they’re in broad daylight in the middle of a goddamn accessory stand in front of a bunch of onlookers at a public carnival. But then a whole new layer of elevated panic settles in when a small part of him realizes he kind of wants it to happen, wants Dazai to close the gap.
And then all of a sudden, the pressure on his cheek vanishes and the darkness in Dazai’s eyes morphs into a twinkle as Chuuya feels a telltale weight press down hard into his scalp against his hair.
“Ta-da!” Dazai announces, grinning.
Chuuya groans loudly and closes his eyes to try and wrestle his pulse back into submission. The fucking piece of shit definitely did it on purpose, the absolute asshole—
“Oh my gosh,” comes a squealing gush of noise. “He looks so cute!”
Chuuya’s eyes snap open only to come face to face with the girl behind the counter, her eyes wide with adoration as she stares at him with what looks like wonder. Embarrassment prickles at his spine and he tries to open his mouth to respond, to say he really doesn’t–
“I know,” Dazai whispers conspiratorially, eyes sparkling as he leans in closer to the girl and cups a hand over his mouth. “He does, doesn’t he?”
Chuuya opens his mouth, and closes it. Then tries to open it again, to no avail. His entire body feels warm, heat and discomfort flush against his skin, and what the hell, did Dazai just fucking call him cute—
Chuuya’s fingers creep up towards his head to grab the offensive thing, but Dazai just cheerfully slaps his fingers away with a smile. “No can do, Chuuya,” he says with a grin. “Not until I say so.”
“Ah, Chuuya-kun, is it?” the girl asks, with a bright smile. “Would you like me to take a picture of you?”
“I’d rather fucking—"
“Oh yes,” Dazai says over him, with a wide smile. A sleek, gray device is being pressed into the girl’s hands before Chuuya can even blink—Dazai’s phone. “Please do.”
“I am going to strangle you,” Chuuya mutters out, face hot.
“Chuuya-kun,” the girl calls cheerfully. “Look over here!” And Chuuya stupidly, dumbly, uselessly blinks up at the direction of the noise in surprise, before a series of clicking noises fills his ears and he feels embarrassment and anger pulse through his blood again.
“Onee-san,” he tries, as calmly as he can, forcing a smile through the strain of his teeth. “Do you think you can delete—”
“Oho!” Dazai exclaims, and Chuuya only sees a flash of movement before Dazai is grinning down at his phone. “You got so many good ones!”
“Dazai, I swear to—”
“Chuuya-kun,” the girl cuts in, a sparkle in her eye. She presses a hand to her face thoughtfully as she gives Chuuya a quick once-over. It makes him shiver for some unknown reason. “Have you ever considered cosplaying?”
Chuuya stares at her.
Dazai bursts out laughing, loud and obnoxious in the small stand as the noise echoes around the corners. And despite the flush on his face and the absolute mortification still coursing all throughout his veins, Chuuya can’t help but stare in surprise at the rare sight of Dazai laughing, guffawing—downright cackling, this fucking bastard—in a way that’s so disjointed with his usual planned, teasing smiles and malicious, taunting laughs.
Chuuya just sighs, and feels all the fight leave his body at once as he pulls of the stupid headband and places it back on the rack. “No,” he replies lightly. “Can’t say I have.”
The girl frowns. “What a shame,” she says solemnly, letting out a loud sigh. “You have such great proportions, too.” Chuuya feels himself flush again, about to open his mouth to protest, but Dazai interrupts him smoothly.
“I think it’s better to keep Chuuya all to myself,” he says, winking. And immediately, Chuuya feels a strong desire to wrap his hands around Dazai’s neck, half out of anger and half because what the fuck is he even saying.
“I can see that,” She says, humming with a smile.
“But I must say,” Dazai starts abruptly, dropping to one knee and grabbing at her hand. “You truly are a site for sore eyes yourself,” He clears his throat, before a wistful look crosses over his face. “Would you possibly be willing to commit—”
“We’ll be leaving now,” Chuuya cuts in, offering the best smile he can muster as he drags Dazai out of the stall by his collar. “Sorry for all the trouble.”
“Oh, not at all, Chuuya-kun!” The girl replies cheerfully. “Come back anytime!”
That is definitely not going to happen. Not anytime. Not ever. Not over Chuuya’s cold, dead body. And not over Dazai’s dead body either, which Chuuya very much hopes he can get the pleasure of stepping on soon.
“You.” He snaps, as soon as they walk out of range. He holds out a hand. “Phone. Now.”
“Oh,” Dazai says, lips quirking upward and mirth flickering across his eyes. “Absolutely not.”
Chuuya holds his stare for a long moment. They could easily break out into a fight if they wanted to. Chuuya still managed to strap four knives to his body despite only wearing a light jacket and pants, and he’s positive Dazai has something hidden up his sleeve, knowing him.
But they’re in public.
Chuuya narrows his eyes for a second, considering.
“I’ll delete them,” Dazai cuts in, shrugging. “At the end of today.” Chuuya looks into his eyes and tries to pull out the deceptive, lying spark he sees, but disappointment and suspicion filter into his senses when he can’t seem to find one. He’s telling the truth.
“And what’s the catch,” Chuuya mutters.
Dazai breaks out into a grin again. “I’m sending them to Kouyou-san first.”
Chuuya purses his lips and glares at Dazai. He weighs his options. Kouyou will probably lose her shit. She’s probably going to tease him relentlessly and will definitely force him to try on God knows what other things she has stashed away, but it’s highly unlikely that she’ll spread the pictures anywhere else. She might try to call him, too, when she gets a hold of them. But still—it’s better than trying to fight and causing a huge public scene, and a weird instinct tells Chuuya that Dazai isn’t lying.
Worse case, he’ll just steal Dazai’s phone.
“Okay,” Chuuya says finally. “Deal.”
Dazai beams at him, false innocence radiating off of his body as he skips forward with a bounce in his step. “But really,” he lets out, a sliver of laughter making its way into his voice. “Chuuya, you should’ve seen your face—”
Chuuya kicks him firmly in the shin.
The sun is just barely starting to set, rolling slowly into its descent, and Dazai hums cheerfully as they turn the corner and start walking towards some of the other festivities. A low, pleasant buzz fills the air, with the murmur of conversation and the distant sound of music drifting over from the other end of the fair. Chuuya watches idly as a mother pats her baby soothingly on the back.
“Oi,” he mutters, cutting into the comfortable silence and swallowing around the foreign, fluttering feeling of uncertainty and maybe a little bit of hope. He pauses. “We’re not actually investigating anything, are we?”
“Chuuya,” Dazai replies solemnly, “I know it’s difficult to accept the fact that I’m the smart one in this partnership, but—”
“Oh, shut the fuck up,” Chuuya snaps, ignoring Dazai’s snicker.
“Chuuya,” Dazai says again, and Chuuya looks up at him warily. “Just trust me.”
There’s something different about his expression, something Chuuya can’t quite put a name to, but it looks a little brighter, a little softer, a little less cold-blooded-murderer than usual, and Chuuya just finds himself pressing his lips together in resignation and turning his head away so he won’t have to think too hard about what it means.
“Asshole,” he mutters. “Whatever.” And then a bright sign in the distance catches his attention and an inkling of mischief sneaks under his skin and tugs ever so slightly on his nerves. Without warning, he wraps his hand around Dazai’s wrist and gracelessly yanks the other towards his intended direction.
Dazai yelps. “Chuuya,” he whines. “Why are you—”
“There,” Chuuya says, pointing at the sign. “Let’s investigate.”
Dazai blinks at the sign, and then turns back towards Chuuya with a brow raised. “Chuuya wants to investigate cotton candy?”
Chuuya ignores the condescension in favor of staring straight back at Dazai with his chin tilted up in defiance and his head tilted. “Problem?”
It’s not easy to catch Dazai off guard, if ever, but something about the way Dazai blinks and his lips part for just a fraction of a second before he slips back into composure makes something distinctly akin to victory boil hot under Chuuya’s skin.
The corners of Dazai’s mouth quirk upwards. “Not at all,” he says, before bowing exaggeratedly and extending an arm. “After you.”
+
“Oh dear, what in the heavens happened to you, young man?”
The woman behind the cotton candy stand looks oddly out of place at the carnival, quite a bit older and looking rather grandmother-ish, but Chuuya can’t help but bite back a snort as she clicks her tongue and shakes her head in response to all the bandages on Dazai’s skin.
“Don’t worry, obaa-san!” Dazai chirps out cheerfully. “I fell down the stairs a few days ago, you see.”
“Don’t call me obaa-san,” the woman hisses, looking scandalized. “Ami-san is fine.” And then, before either of them can say anything, she taps at the bandage under Dazai’s eye. “And this?”
Chuuya had barely stopped the knife in time, its blade dragging lightly across Dazai’s cheek before it clattered to the floor. “Oh,” Dazai says, tilting his head. “My cat scratched me.”
Ami raises a brow. “And your shin?” She asks incredulously.
“Ami-san, there’s nothing wrong with my shin,” Dazai replies, blinking innocently. Ami just narrows her eyes.
“Don’t think you can fool me, boy,” she huffs out, giving him a piercing look. “I can tell by the way you walk. Something happened with your right shin.”
Something alright, Chuuya almost snorts. The bullet had torn into his skin two and half weeks ago, a rare instance where Chuuya has been too overwhelmed by the enemy to control its trajectory before it had hit Dazai. “Right,” Dazai just winks. “I sprained it in my soccer match last month.”
Chuuya rolls his eyes when Ami isn’t looking at him. The lying, the covering up—the fact that Dazai is hiding bullet wounds and knife scars with something as stupid as cats and soccer matches almost makes him laugh out loud. He doesn’t think the distinct, foreign sense of normalcy could ever—is ever going to, really—settle over their skin with the same ease that fighting and killing does.
“Hm.” Ami hums. And then she’s turning a critical eye to Chuuya. “And you?”
“Me?” Chuuya asks in surprise. “I’m not injured.”
“You two think I’m stupid just because I’m old,” Ami sighs out, shaking her head. “Really, kids these days.”
“I’m—I’m really not injured, though,” Chuuya replies blankly, blinking up at the woman.
“Ami-san,” Dazai whispers. “Do you think Chuuya has less injuries than me because he’s shorter? I mean, I guess he doesn’t have to worry about bumping into—”
“God, do you ever shut—”
“Oh,” Ami cuts in thoughtfully, seemingly unphased by their bickering. Something sharpens in her eye as she gives Chuuya a full-body look over, and it makes Chuuya squirm despite himself. “You’re not injured, I suppose, but you, mister, have some sort of pain seeping all over your body.” She frowns. “That’s quite dangerous. It seems as though it’s eating away at you. Corrupting you, almost.”
Chuuya freezes.
A chill shoots up his spine at Ami’s words and his brows draw together. Corrupting you, he hears, the eerily specific description cutting into his skin. He swallows, looking discretely out the corner of his eye at Dazai. He’s gone still, no visible traces of tension, but Chuuya can tell he’s on guard as well. Subconsciously, his hand creeps towards the knife strapped to his chest.
“Ami-san,” Dazai cuts in far too cheerfully. “Do you have an Ability?”
Ami snorts immediately. “Don’t be ridiculous, kid. If I had an Ability I wouldn’t be doing something as boring as selling cotton candy to brats.” She eyes the two of them suspiciously. “Now are you two going to stand there all day, or are you going to buy something?”
Chuuya glances at Dazai again. Dazai catches his eye and then, after a few seconds, he just shakes his head.
So she’s not lying, then. Chuuya raises a brow and drops the hand creeping towards a knife. Interesting.
“Which flavor does Ami-san recommend?” Dazai asks, suspicion gone and a casual, sing-song cheer back in his voice.
Ami squints at them. “We only sell one flavor here, kid.” She sighs. “I’ll just get you two a regular size each.”
After they hand over some cash and promise to, in Ami’s words, sit still and don’t even think about touching anything, they settle behind the screen and watch as she gets to work. And Chuuya has seen a lot of things in his lifetime. Things that seventeen-year-olds should not be seeing. Things like bloodied, battered corpses, things like buckets full of fingernails, things like bullets embedded in people’s tongues.
But this, this is something else entirely.
Ami lets out a loud, barking laugh, that makes Chuuya jolt. “Are you sure you two are seventeen?” She says, amusement dancing in her eyes. “You look like it’s your first time seeing someone make cotton candy.”
Chuuya bites down on his lip. Dazai is noticeably silent as well. Ami’s eyes widen and Chuuya can see the exact moment the realization crashes down on her.
“Goodness gracious,” she mutters, still twirling the stick around while talking to them. The strands of sugar puff up and swirl around magically and Chuuya distinctly feels as though nothing is ever going to surprise him anymore, after seeing how cotton candy is made. “You two must be locking yourselves up in cram school everyday.” She raises a brow at them. “It’s important to have fun sometimes, you know. Not everything is about school.”
Chuuya swallows a lump in his throat. Something burns hot in his lungs, the same kind of smoky fire that licked at his skin when the woman had asked about his parents, when the kanji for melancholy had stared imposingly back at him, when he had thought about the stupid, silly, things kids did at seventeen that he never got to do. The burning of tired, worn-out want, desire, childish hope that he never managed to quash even in all his time with the Sheep and in the mafia.
“Oh, don’t worry, Ami-san,” Dazai says, giving her a grave, serious look. “We barely go to school at all.”
Chuuya snorts, and the burn eases.
“I just make Chuuya do all my reports,” Dazai continues on, grinning. And Chuuya blinks in confusion for a moment, because what kind of reports—
“I hate you,” Chuuya mutters. “They’re supposed to be joint reports, you piece of shit.”
“Language, child,” Ami chides, shaking her head. And something about the grandmotherly gesture and her disappointed tone remind him so much of Kouyou it makes Chuuya duck his head in embarrassment. She huffs. “Well, I suppose it’s good that you two aren’t staying too late at school.” She lowers her voice, gesturing for them to lean in. “There’s been reports going around lately that a lot of young teenage boys have been kidnapped on their way back from cram school, especially around the bridge where it’s dark.” Ami raises her eyes to give them a sharp, serious look. “You two best be careful out there.”
“Of course,” Dazai replies earnestly, nodding along. “We’ll be extra careful, Ami-san.”
It takes all Chuuya has not to laugh.
The so-called kidnapper had been a high-level Ability user, killing and assuming the bodies of teenage boys to blend in and commit increasingly severe forms of theft around the city. And then the idiot had gone and tried to steal a crate from one of the mafia’s cargo ships, and Mori had caught notice sometime last week and then, well—
Chuuya had held the man down while Dazai sliced his neck open.
“I’m sure they’ll catch him soon,” Chuuya adds in, because he can’t help it. Dazai raises a brow at him, lips twitching, and Chuuya just bites down a smile in response. It feels kind of like their own silly secret, and the thought of it makes warmth fluttering weirdly throughout his body.
They leave with a cheerful wave to Ami and two sticks of cotton candy between them. A group of children race quickly past them and Chuuya fumbles for a second, almost dropping his share, before Dazai’s hand shoots out to steady it against his fingers. His hand lingers against Chuuya’s for far too long, surprisingly warm and soft, before Chuuya blinks and swats his hand away, scowling and turning away.
“Don’t touch me,” he mutters, taking an aggressive bite of the cotton candy. The taste of sugar pleasantly sticks to the roof of his mouth, and he hums. “Asshole,” he adds on absentmindedly.
“Chuuya,” Dazai sighs, shaking his head. “Is that any way for a dog to act?”
Chuuya just rolls his eyes. He steals some of Dazai’s cotton candy, because he can, and grins when the other casts him an offended look. “Okay, shitty mackerel.” He looks pointedly up at Dazai. “What else should we investigate?”
Dazai’s eyes glitter back at him, dark and amused, and it’s moments like these Chuuya wonders what exactly the hell they are. Because they’re not friends—they’re definitely not friends. But this: walking around a carnival, buying food, playing games—it feels an awful lot like what friends would do. It also feels an awful lot like a poorly attempted stab at normalcy, but Chuuya pushes the thought aside for now.
Dazai’s hand tugs at his wrist, pulling him gently towards a small tent that says Palm Readings. They stand outside the door flap for a second, and Chuuya just raises an unimpressed brow up at him.
“Problem?” Dazai echoes, smirking down at him.
Chuuya narrows his eyes. “Not at all,” he huffs out, turning towards the sign so he can read it better. Palm Readings, it says proudly. Learn secrets about yourself and your future! Chuuya stares at it for a moment, before he looks back up at Dazai. “Sounds fishy,” he announces. “Let’s investigate.”
He turns sharply on his heel to head into the tent, just so he doesn’t have to see Dazai’s reaction to the heat of embarrassment settling on his cheeks. The sound of rustling fabric is the only noise that indicates Dazai is behind him, and they only walk a short distance before they’re greeted with the sight of a young woman cloaked in black, staring owlishly up at them.
“Welcome!” She cries out loudly, voice booming in the small space. “Are you two boys ready to have your palms read? To have your fortunes told? To have your lives utterly, irreparably, altered?”
“Um,” Chuuya says.
“If you do not do as I say,” she pushes on, tone shifting dangerously. “You will reap the consequences by paying with the blood of your kin, and I will not hesitate to kill all that is dear to you.”
Dazai leans down, lips brushing against Chuuya’s ear as he murmurs, “Reminds me of Akutagawa-kun.”
Chuuya chokes on air, biting down so hard on his lips he almost draws blood, as he forces down a laugh and elbows Dazai pointedly in the stomach. Dazai just grins, before he takes his eyes off of Chuuya and slides his focus back to the girl. “We come in peace,” he announces calmly, a smile still ghosting over his lips.
The girl blinks, and then Chuuya watches in surprise as something shifts in the air and she seems to collapse in on herself. “Boo,” she says, sticking out a tongue. “Usually high schoolers are the easiest to scare.” She sighs, before lifting herself up a little and gesturing at them to come closer.
As they walk towards her, Chuuya’s eyes linger on her face and he notes in surprise that she looks—young. Maybe only slightly older than them. Regardless, she offers them a sunny smile, drastically different from the threatening aura that had greeted them. “Name’s Riko,” she says, shrugging. “I promise I’m not scary.”
Dazai tilts his head. “And what about ‘if you do not do as I say?’”
“Oh, that,” Riko says, rolling her eyes. “Just pay.”
Chuuya grins at that. They pay, watching as Riko diligently counts the bills and places them in a little box by her feet, before she beams brightly up at them and motions for them to sit down. “Alright boys,” she huffs, crossing her arms. Who wants to go first?”
Chuuya glances over at Dazai. The other just shoots him an amused smirk, lips twitching, and Chuuya narrows his eyes in response. “I can,” he says finally, laying his hand out flat on the table. Riko nods and gingerly lifts his palm to her eyes.
“Wow,” she mutters immediately, lifting a brow. “You have really soft hands.” Dazai barks out a laugh from beside him and Chuuya bristles, embarrassment prickling at the nape of his neck.
“Okay, let’s see,” Riko continues, eyes narrowing as she stares at Chuuya’s palm. Her fingers prod gently at his skin, and Chuuya feels oddly nervous for some reason, even though he’s ninety-eight percent sure Riko is just a university student desperate for money. “Hm,” she says after a moment. Riko’s eyes flicker back up to Chuuya. “Your fate line is pretty even, which means your life is mostly going to stay on the course you expect it to, but,” she tilts her head thoughtfully. “There’s a break in the middle, which means something might happen.”
Chuuya frowns.
“Oh, not necessarily bad!” Riko chimes in immediately. “It just means something unexpected will occur a little later.” She gives Chuuya a shrug. “We can’t say if it’s good or bad. That’s just life.” Her fingers tap at the heel of his palm. “Your head line tells me that your ambitions will mostly be straightforward, so that’s good.” She pauses. “Usually that means a heavy commitment to work but,” she wrinkles her nose. “You guys are too young to work, so, honestly, I’m not sure what that means right now.”
“Oh, I can’t imagine working,” Dazai says innocently, and Chuuya almost bangs his head against the table.
Riko raises a brow. “Oh trust me,” she says. “You guys don’t want to start working.” And then she goes back to Chuuya’s hand and says some other things about his life and goals and courage that mostly go over his head, and then finally she’s smiling and patting his hand and shifting over to grasp at Dazai’s palm, peering curiously.
She purses her lips, looking up at Dazai, and then her eyes flicker—oddly enough—over to Chuuya for a second before they go away just as quickly. “I don’t want to be mean,” she starts hesitantly. “But your heart line is a mess.”
Chuuya snorts. Dazai shoots him a hurt look, lips pulled into a pout as he leans forward towards Riko.
“And what exactly does that mean?” He presses, voice calm. Something flickers in his eyes though, that tells Chuuya he’s more interested than he’s letting on and he raises a brow as he stares at the slope of Dazai’s nose.
“Well,” Riko starts, tilting her head. She narrows his eyes down at Dazai’s hand, pursing her lips. “The heart line supposedly tells you about friendship, romance, and commitment. I can’t really say exactly what your line means, but…” She trails off, lips still twisted. Riko sighs and raises a solemn hand to pat Dazai’s shoulder. “You should be careful, bud.”
Something weird tingles in Chuuya’s fingers at the mention of romance. Briefly, he glances over at Dazai and blinks in surprise when he finds the other already looking at him. Dazai raises a brow in question and Chuuya just presses his lips together and turns away, ears warm. It’d be a lie to call whatever they have romance. The thought alone almost makes him laugh out loud. It’s not friendship, and it’s not romance, and it’s definitely not commitment. It’s just some unnamable, untouchable trace in the air that is all Dazai’s fucking fault for kissing him that one night. Chuuya grinds down on his teeth in frustration.
And then Riko’s voice cuts in again, dragging his attention back to the reading.
Apparently, Chuuya learns with no small amount of amusement, all of Dazai’s so-called lines happen to be nothing short of catastrophic. They step out of the tent a few moments later with a quick wave at Riko, and Chuuya stretches as they step back into the sunlight.
The sun is dipping lower in the sky now, faint hues of orange and pink dancing across his vision. Chuuya takes a moment to take in the view, before he turns up to Dazai and grins.
“Dazai Osamu,” he draws out, smirking. “A fucking mess.”
“Nakahara Chuuya,” Dazai shoots back immediately, eyes narrowed. “An ugly hatrack.”
Chuuya ignores him in favor of sighing as he rolls out some of the tension in his wrists. “It’s nice to know you’re going be a mess one day,” he says, shrugging. He smirks. “I look forward to seeing it.”
Dazai just scoffs. “There will be no such day,” he says. And then, with a wiggling eyebrow, “Just like there will be no such day when you will ever be taller than—”
“I can and I will murder you in your sleep—”
“Chuuya,” Dazai murmurs suddenly, voice dropping exponentially. “There’s a gun.”
Chuuya freezes.
He stiffens immediately at the implication and swallows slowly. Adrenaline creeps up into his blood as his hand itches to grab a knife but he keeps his posture relaxed, composed, as he slowly sweeps his eyes around.
“Where,” he mutters under his breath.
“To your left,” Dazai replies calmly, and Chuuya turns slowly, steadily towards his left side and raises his gaze to lock eyes with—
“Pah!” A little boy yells out, holding a toy rifle unsteadily in his hand as he aims at wooden targets. “Pah! Pah! Pew! Pow!”
“Dazai,” Chuuya grits out, irritation stewing underneath his skin.
“Chuuya?” Dazai replies innocently.
Chuuya turns around and punches him in the ribs.
+
“Chuuya,” Dazai murmurs menacingly under his breath. “No cheating.”
Chuuya just hums and takes aim at the targets again, cleanly clearing the entire row. “I’m not cheating,” he says back easily, raising a brow. “Just admit I’m better than you, bastard.”
Dazai narrows his eyes in response and then a bandaged hand is drifting up to rest lightly on his neck and Chuuya shouldn’t be as proud as he is when he barely even flinches and raises the gun again to clear a row of six targets.
“Tch,” Dazai grumbles.
“Told you I wasn’t cheating,” Chuuya shoots back, rolling his eyes. “As if I need my Ability for something like this.” He watches as Dazai clears off another row of targets in rapid succession and narrows his eyes. Because Dazai definitely isn’t bad, if he’s being honest. Chuuya is just barely, ever-so-slightly better at him. And yeah, it’s a rare victory that he wants to relish in—being better than Dazai.
A fresh batch of targets pops up again, and just as Chuuya raises a steady arm to aim his gun again, Dazai’s hand on the back of his neck shifts and then the pressure of Dazai’s fingernail scrapes across the curve of his jaw and Chuuya jerks so hard he drops the gun completely.
“Oh my,” Dazai says, shaking his head with an infuriatingly knowing grin on his face. “Number one martial artist dropping his gun?”
“You,” Chuuya seethes, pushing Dazai’s hand away forcefully. “Fucking cheater.” His heart hammers unevenly in his chest from a messy blend of anger and the feeling of Dazai’s touch on his face, burning hot against his skin.
Dazai just grins again, eyes bright as he raises his own gun, and fine, Chuuya thinks stubbornly. Two can play at that game.
Chuuya waits until the last possible second, keeping as innocuously still as possible, before he sees Dazai’s finger curl around the trigger and his hand shoots up, lightning fast, to brush against Dazai’s ear.
Tragically, Dazai doesn’t drop the gun. But he does miss the first target completely, plastic pellet firing off a good six feet to the left, and Chuuya snickers as the feeling of satisfaction rushes through his veins. Dazai just presses his lips together and pointedly doesn’t say anything, clearing off the rest of the wooden targets with ease.
“You two really are something else,” comes an amused voice. The man behind the counter smiles. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen teenagers as good as you.”
“We have a lot of practice,” Dazai tells him seriously, as he proceeds to finish another row. Chuuya holds back a snort.
“Video games, huh,” the man just sighs, shaking his head. “You guys shouldn’t spend so much time on those.” He pauses, before raising a brow. “You two have already beat the highest level, so you can pick from one of the big ones up there.” He gestures to the wide array of—frankly terrifyingly large—stuffed animals hung up on the stand.
Chuuya blinks up warily at the enormous teddy bear. “I think we’re fine,” he manages politely, adding a smile. “Thank you, though.”
“Chuuya’s just scared because all the big ones are bigger than him,” Dazai says, smiling like an angel.
“I’m taller than that, shithead,” he hisses out in anger, eyes raising to glance up at the bear again. And then his eyes narrow, because wait—
“Mister!” Dazai calls out loudly. “How tall are those big ones up there?”
The man blinks, tilting his head to the side. “How tall? You mean how long? I think the biggest one we have goes up to 155 centimeters,” he says thoughtfully.
“I fucking told you—
“Oh, but if you stretch it,” the man continues. “I’m pretty sure it’s over 160.”
Chuuya’s mouth snaps shut abruptly. Irritation and embarrassment slither up his throat as he raises his eyes to glare at the stupid teddy bear hanging from the ceiling. “Shut up,” he snaps at Dazai, without the other even saying anything. “Just. Shut up.”
“Chuuya,” Dazai grins. “I didn’t even say—”
“You two should at least take one of the small ones, though,” the man cuts in, smiling apologetically. “Just one. I’d feel bad if you two walked away from here without anything.” Chuuya blinks in surprise as the man takes out a big box of miniature plushies and lifts up a couple for them to see.
“The frogs are pretty popular,” he’s saying, dangling up a little green animal. “The octopus too. Oh,” he pulls up a small, tan-colored puppy. “A dog? If you like those?”
“We’ll take those,” Dazai answers immediately, smiling bright and sunny and God, Chuuya has never wanted to hit someone more in his life.
“Of course,” the man replies with a grin. He pulls out two mini, identical puppy plushies and slides them towards Dazai and Chuuya, beaming. “Here you go.”
“Look, Chuuya,” Dazai snickers, and Chuuya can already feel a headache coming on. Dazai holds up the puppy and flicks it, making the thing spin around in the air. “It’s you,” he sighs out. “A dog!”
Chuuya grabs his own puppy angrily off the counter and looks at it, its stupidly wide eyes staring back up at him, and his fists clench as he briefly runs through a list of all the ways he can strangle Dazai in public without actually strangling Dazai in public. He opens his mouth, scowling, before a sudden tap on his shoulder has him turning around in confusion.
“Ah, sorry to bother!” A girl around his age with long, brown hair smiles at him.
“Oh,” Chuuya lets out awkwardly, and then he clears his throat, blinking rapidly. “Hi?”
“Hi!” The girl beams at him. She’s wearing a high school uniform, Chuuya notes belatedly, his eyes catching on the bright red ribbon on her chest and the short sleeves of her top. “My name is Yasuko,” she says, with a warm smile.
Chuuya has no idea where this is going. He just nods once, before tilting his head and saying, “I’m Chuuya.” Beside him, Dazai has gone suspiciously silent, leaning back and watching the exchange with an undecipherable expression. Chuuya shifts slightly in his seat at the counter, neck prickling with unease.
“Chuuya-kun,” Yasuko tries on her tongue, before flashing him a grin with something like mischief dancing in her eyes. “Sorry to bother, again, but one of my friends saw you shooting and she thought you were cute! So,” the corners of Yasuko’s lips quirk upwards, and then she’s holding out a small slip of paper. “Here’s her number, if you’re interested.”
Chuuya stares blankly at the piece of paper.
“Her name is Ueno,” Yasuko adds on, jabbing her finger at a point in the distance. “That’s her, Takako Ueno.” Chuuya follows her finger numbly to find the smiling face of a pretty girl with short black hair waving at him, cheeks pink. Dumbly, he raises a hand and waves weakly in return.
Dazai moves ever so slightly next to him, and Chuuya blinks rapidly, looking down at the paper and then up at Yasuko. “Um,” he tries. His voice sounds weird, distorted, foreign. “Thanks, but—” Chuuya desperately racks his brain for whatever the hell it is they say in TV shows. “I’m not interested,” he says finally, doing his best to offer a small, awkward smile. It comes out more like a grimace.
Yasuko’s face falls, but she recovers quickly and just bows her head for quick second before standing up straight again. “That’s okay,” she replies, with an easy smile. “Nice to meet you, Chuuya-kun!”
And then she’s turning around and skipping away before Chuuya can say anything else and he’s left with distinct what the fuck echoing around in his head as he watches her hair swish around. Chuuya stares down at his hands for a moment. “What the fuck,” he mumbles, feeling heat creep up into his cheeks.
It’s so—normal. A group of giggly high school girls watching two boys play a shooting game. Finding one of them cute and offering their phone number. It’s so mind-numbingly, strangely, weirdly normal, and it’s something Chuuya didn’t think would ever happen to him. He stares down at his fingers again, mind racing.
And none of those girls have any idea who he and Dazai are. No idea that Chuuya killed three men in cold blood last night. That Dazai killed six the night before. That they killed twenty-eight last week. No idea that Chuuya can stop bullets with his bare hands and could also destroy an entire city if he wanted to. Absolutely no idea that Dazai has the power to reign that in with a single touch. That they’re known as double black across Yokohama’s underworld. That they’re in the Port Mafia. That they’re not—
That they’re not normal.
“What the fuck,” Chuuya mutters aloud, again.
“Ugh,” Dazai whines loudly next to him. And just like that, Chuuya snaps out of his thoughts and glares at the lump of bandages sitting next to him. “Not fair!” Dazai declares. “Why does stupid Chuuya get confessions and not me!” He rests a hand in his chin and sighs. “Where will I find a beautiful young lady to commit double—”
“Shut up,” Chuuya cuts in, rolling his eyes and pushing Dazai’s head. “You’re just jealous she talked to me and not you,” he says smugly.
“Whatever,” Dazai huffs childishly. “She must be blind if she’s calling Chuuya cute.” Dazai wrinkles his nose. “Ugly hatrack.”
And maybe it’s because he just got confessed to. Maybe it’s because he has a sugar rush from the cotton candy. Maybe it’s because Chuuya’s been running on a weird sort of energy from the moment he started suspecting Dazai didn’t really drag him out here to actually investigate anything, that makes him swallow down the insult bubbling in his throat and instead lean back and say, as nonchalantly as he can, “You weren’t saying that when I was trying on the headband.”
Dazai’s lips part in surprise.
Victory, Chuuya notes viciously, has never felt quite so good.
It goes silent for a long moment, and Chuuya watches in amusement as weird series of expressions quickly cross over Dazai’s face, before it slips seamlessly back to his usual, calm look, and finally Dazai just presses his lips together and looks away from him.
“Chuuya shouldn’t try to be smart,” Dazai mutters darkly. “It doesn’t suit him.”
Chuuya bites back a smile.
Because sure, having a girl come up and say my friend thinks you’re cute had knocked Chuuya off balance, it had made his heart twist weirdly in embarrassment and had made his back prickle with distress. But that had been awkwardness, self-consciousness, a weird boost to his ego—that had been nothing.
But this: Watching the tips of Dazai’s ears turn the slightest, faintest shade of pink. Watching him press his lips tight together and turn away from Chuuya so he can’t see his expression. Watching the supposed cold-hearted Demon Prodigy of the Port Mafia blink a few times in rapid succession as he stares pointedly somewhere on the ground, watching him get so caught off-guard that he didn’t even try to deny the silly, stupid notion that he found Chuuya cute—
This, Chuuya thinks, heart fluttering stupidly in his chest—this feels like something.
+
Pain in his feet is a foreign feeling.
“Chuuya,” Dazai starts, amusement bleeding openly into his voice. “Are you tired?”
“You’re tired, shithead,” Chuuya shoots back, biting down on his lip as he feels the weird, strange ache of what he thinks is fatigue creeping up into his feet. At this point he probably would’ve just resorted to floating, rather than all the walking they’ve been doing, but he curses under his breath when he remembers he can’t exactly start fucking floating in public without causing a scene.
Dazai hums, before stopping abruptly in front of an empty bench and giving Chuuya a pointed look. Chuuya narrows his eyes and stomps down the weird stuttering of his heart as he huffs and takes a seat on the bench, resolutely looking away from Dazai.
“Children need rest,” Dazai says obnoxiously. He dodges Chuuya’s half-hearted kick easily with a snicker.
Chuuya just rolls his eyes and they settle into a comfortable, familiar silence, as Chuuya pops another takoyaki ball into his mouth and chews thoughtfully. The sun has almost completely disappeared by now, darkness taking over some of the remaining pastel flickers of color in the sky and his eyes linger on the bright lights of the carnival, weaving across the stands and illuminating the whole thing.
They sit quietly for a long while. The bench they chose is a little out of the way, more along the outskirts of the venue, but people still filter by occasionally and Chuuya finds himself eavesdropping on conversations more than he’d care to admit and uncovering a multitude of details about those that walk by him.
It’s all the little things—the university sweatshirts that some students are wearing, names that Chuuya isn’t familiar with but the words Tokyo and Kyoto sneaking into his vision. The group of three girls that almost stumble into him and Dazai because they’re so focused on watching a music video of some artist Chuuya has never heard about on their phones. The gang of teenagers that walk a good distance away from them but that Chuuya can still pick out floating pieces of their conversation like I can’t believe graduation is so soon and vague replies of what are your summer plans?
Normal isn’t for him. Normal is something Chuuya threw out the window the moment his life started at seven years old and he learned he could walk on ceilings and survive by stealing food through levitation. And normal isn’t something he really wants anymore, not really—not like he used to, but it still lingers maddeningly in the back of his mind, poking and prodding and trying to tear through all the seams he thought he’d sewn firmly shut.
Chuuya twists his lips in annoyance and slides his gaze to his left. His eyes flit over the slope of Dazai’s cheek and the line of his neck and he watches curiously as Dazai stares out at the people blankly. Dazai has probably never yearned for normalcy, for routine, for simplicity—he’s not the type. But then again, Chuuya thinks, as he watches Dazai’s eyes follow the trail of a young girl tugging eagerly at her father’s sleeve—no one ever really knows what Dazai is thinking anyways.
Dazai’s eyes snap to his face in a flash, something dancing in his eyes as he raises a silent brow.
“What,” Chuuya snaps, bristling under the force of the stare, feeling heat rise to his face.
“Chuuya was the one staring,” Dazai points out, lips twitching ever so slightly.
Chuuya scowls and turns away. “Staring at your ugly face,” he mutters, stabbing violently at another takoyaki ball with his toothpick. He’s halfway through bringing the food to his mouth when a bandaged arm snakes out and whisks the pick away.
His reflexes kick in despite himself and all of a sudden he’s jabbing at Dazai’s elbow and swiping the toothpick back but then Dazai—the asshole—knocks his hand away just as fast and Chuuya’s eyes narrow as he blocks a strike and bumps the takoyaki out of Dazai’s hold but then the food is falling, plummeting towards the ground and—
Dazai snickers.
“God fucking dammit, Dazai,” Chuuya mutters, as he floats the ball of fried goodness back up to chest level, barely saving it before it had touched the cement. He shoots Dazai a dark look as he maneuvers it back onto his toothpick and promptly shoves it into his mouth, glancing warily around to make sure no one had seen him magically lift takoyaki through the air. There aren’t that many people around anymore, so Chuuya lets out a small exhale of relief as he turns to maybe hit Dazai again—
“Onii-san!” A shrill, high-pitched shriek cuts in. “You made the takoyaki fly!”
Chuuya closes his eyes briefly, silently cursing Dazai to hell and back, and takes a deep breath before he opens his eyes again and is greeted with the sight of a little girl no more than six years old, staring at him in pure amazement. Her dark brown eyes sparkle with awe as she looks up at him, and something inside of Chuuya’s chest warms, ever so slightly.
“Did he, now?” Dazai asks, obvious mirth lacing his words.
“You’re bad,” the girl says loudly, looking at Dazai, and Chuuya blinks briefly in surprise. “I saw you steal his takoyaki. That wasn’t very nice.” She huffs at Dazai, and Chuuya’s shoulders shake with the strain of holding back laughter at Dazai’s blatantly scandalized expression. The girl directs her attention back to Chuuya, pout sliding into a big smile. “Onii-san, can you do that again?”
Chuuya’s eyes flicker silently to the space around them. It’s mostly empty, and the only others lingering nearby are a group of distracted parents and another man leaning against a tree, staring down at his phone. He slides his gaze to Dazai and Dazai just quirks a brow.
Grinning wordlessly, Chuuya floats his remaining three takoyaki balls into a small triangle in front of the girl, making them spin in a circle. The girl’s jaw drops in surprise and Chuuya bites back another smile.
“Wow!” She squeaks out, clasping her small hands together. Her short hair bounces along with her whole body as she stares up at Chuuya adoringly. “You can really make them fly!”
“He can make himself fly, too,” Dazai chimes in. And Chuuya’s eyes flit briefly over to him in surprise. There’s something so—unexpected about seeing Dazai talking to kids. A spark of amusement flickers in Dazai’s eyes and the edges of his smile have gone soft and Chuuya suddenly finds it hard to breathe.
“You can?” she asks wondrously. “Can I see?”
Chuuya grimaces as his mind is hit with the image of the absolute shitshow that would ensue if he suddenly floated ten feet above the ground in the middle of a public carnival. “Sorry,” he mumbles, with a weak smile. “Maybe next time.”
The girl frowns, but recovers quickly with a newfound determination in her expression. “Onii-san,” she starts seriously, looking at Chuuya. “My name is Mina. When I grow up let’s get married, okay?” She grins, puffing out her chest. “And then we can fly to the moon!”
Chuuya sputters. The sound of Dazai’s tinkling laughter filters into his ears, and Chuuya just gnaws at the inside of his cheek as his ears burn.
“You’re very ambitious, Mina-chan,” Dazai cuts in, lips curling upward.
“I don’t know what that means,” Mina replies, pouting. But then, seemingly losing interest in the word, she shifts her attention to Dazai, peering curiously up at him. “Can you fly, too?”
“Hm,” Dazai replies mysteriously, raising a brow. Without warning, his hand shoots out, resting on Chuuya’s neck, and Chuuya hisses as he scrambles to catch the three falling takoyaki balls with his plate and not his pants.
“You piece of sh—"
Mina blinks at him.
“Poop,” Chuuua ends up biting down on his tongue. “Piece of poop,” he mutters weakly, face hot.
Dazai snickers wickedly, lips twitching as he takes his hand off of Chuuya’s neck and stretches his arms behind his neck. “I can stop him from making things fly,” he offers pleasantly, looking down.
“Oh,” Mina says, squinting up at Dazai. “That doesn’t seem very helpful.”
Chuuya snorts. Even a six-year-old girl can tell Dazai is a useless waste of bandages.
“Mina-chan,” Dazai starts, an exaggerated look of offense on his face. “It’s actually very—”
“That means you can stop balloons from floating away!” Mina exclaims in delight, turning back towards Chuuya. “Onii-san, your power is so useful!”
Chuuya’s blinks a few times down at the smiling face.
Useful. Chuuya knows firsthand just how useful his Ability is. How he can stop bullets and throw them back at enemies. How he can force people to the ground, cripple them, throw them against the wall. How he can tear through metal. And some of the littler things, too—like being able to lift a heavy stack of documents, carry a crate of firearms, float himself back after a tiring mission.
And now, apparently, being able to stop a balloon from floating away.
“Yeah,” Chuuya replies, with a small smile. Something under his skin drips slowly, warmly, like honey. “I guess so.”
Dazai is giving him a strange look. His eyes are flickering as Chuuya catches his gaze, something oddly piercing but soft at the same time, drilling deep into his soul, and heat thrums inexplicably on Chuuya’s face as he opens his mouth to ask—
“Oh!” Mina announces, and the sound jerks Chuuya’s attention back to her. The foreign look on Dazai’s face drops in a flash, and Chuuya finds himself feeling strangely disappointed. “I know how you can be helpful!” She looks at Dazai confidently.
“Oh?” Dazai echoes, eyes dancing.
Mina points at Chuuya. “You can stop him from flying too high!”
Chuuya rolls his eyes. If only she knew of all the times the fucker had grabbed onto him and caused him to come crashing down gracelessly from the sky, falling on his ass and muttering curses under his breath. He has half a mind to tell her he can float himself down just fine, but—
“You’re right,” Dazai muses, sounding entirely too false in his thoughtfulness and sincerity. “I’ll hold his leg like a balloon!”
Chuuya whacks him on the thigh, shooting Dazai a scathing look. “You fu—"
"Onii-san," Mina interrupts again, brows furrowed and looking extremely serious. She glances at Chuuya quickly before staring back up at Dazai with a grim severity in her eyes and a tightness in her jaw. "You should hold on tight to him and never let him go."
Chuuya blinks.
"Oh, of course, Mina-chan," Dazai replies instantly, keeping his voice low and nodding his head solemnly. He puts a hand firmly over his heart. "I would do nothing less."
Dazai's eyes flit over to his and there's a twinkle of mischief and impishness and something else that makes Chuuya's heart do a fumbling, clumsy attempt at a somersault in his chest, and fuck, it's a joke—it's obviously a joke—but Chuuya can’t quite fight the flush that creeps steadily onto his face.
He bristles. “What the he—”
And then Dazai’s hand reaches out and suddenly cold fingers are folding into his and Dazai raises their joined hands to Mina’s face with a smile tickling at the edges of his lips. “See?”
“Let go,” Chuuya hisses, trying to shake his hand from Dazai’s to no avail. His skin feels like it’s burning off his body as Dazai pointedly ignores him and tightens the grip on his hand instead. “I’m gonna kill—”
“Mina!” An exasperated sigh suddenly cuts in. “I told you not to run off like that, sweetheart.”
Mina turns away from them to beam at a young, kind-faced man who can’t be older than thirty. “Daddy!” She yells excitedly, waving her arms. She thrusts out a finger to point at Chuuya. “I’m gonna marry him and we’re flying to the moon!”
Chuuya chokes on air. Dazai snorts from beside him. Her father raises a brow but seems oddly unphased as his gaze flickers to Chuuya, and then to Dazai and he offers a small, unapologetic smile. “Sorry, you two,” he says, voice soft. “Thank you for looking after her.”
Chuuya offers a weak nod in response and Mina is still rambling even as her father picks her up off the ground and offers her a seat on his shoulders. “No, Daddy, listen, he can fly!”
“I’m sure,” He replies absentmindedly. He offers the two of them a slight bow, as Mina waves happily at them. “We’ll leave you two alone now,” he says with a smile. And then his eyes flicker down to where Dazai’s hand is still on his and icy panic freezes in Chuuya’s lungs as he tries to pull away, a foreign shame curling in his stomach, but Dazai’s grip is tight and strong and unrelenting and—
Something softens in her dad’s smile. His eyes are achingly tender as he smiles again at them, gentler, quieter, and almost wistful. “You boys enjoy the rest of the carnival.”
And then he’s off, with a twinkle in his eyes that Chuuya can’t quite place and a cheerful daughter shouting a loud goodbye at them. And the ice in Chuuya’s throat melts and now all that’s left is heated confusion, and embarrassment, and a tingling feeling that shoots all the way down to the tips of his toes, and Dazai’s fingers are still folded against his, warm and cold and making absolutely no fucking sense.
“Let go,” Chuuya mutters weakly, tugging at his hand.
“Chuuya,” Dazai replies with an exaggerated frown, increasing the strength of his grip. “I can’t just let go of my balloon.”
Chuuya glares at him, still trying to yank his hand away. “Balloon my ass, fucking let go—”
“Oops!” Dazai announces cheerfully. “Wrong answer!” And then he’s tugging Chuuya up with all his strength and Chuuya stumbles as they stand up from the bench, barely straightening in time so he doesn’t crash into the taller.
“You piece of—”
“I can’t hear you from down there,” Dazai sings, and then he’s pulling Chuuya away from their little corner and back into the thrum of people and lights and music and cheer and Chuuya’s head spins a little at the overwhelming of his senses and the unmoving fixture of Dazai’s hand in his.
Chuuya spits out a series of decidedly colorful words under his breath as Dazai drags him through some of the stands before he just twists his lips in silence and stares at Dazai’s back in front of him for a long moment.
He still hasn’t let go of Chuuya’s hand.
The problem is Chuuya isn’t really sure if he wants him to anymore. Nightfall sweeps over them, the darkness of the sky clashing with the artificial light buzzing throughout the space, and no one really casts them a second a glance, too busy on chatting on eating and smiling to focus on Dazai’s hand in his, steady and grounding and terrifying all at once.
And then something catches his attention out of the corner of his eye and Chuuya pauses, squinting slightly into the distance.
Dazai stops walking when he feels Chuuya come to a standstill and he turns around with a brow raised. “What,” he grins widely. “Is Chuuya tired again?”
“I’m great,” Chuuya snaps in response, more reflexive than irritated, before he drags Dazai gracelessly towards his intended direction. He watches as Dazai follows his gaze to settle on a small stand in the corner with more hats than Chuuya has ever seen in his entire life sitting on display.
“Chibi.” Dazai says like a warning, eyes narrowing.
“Shithead.” Chuuya shoots back, glaring up at Dazai defiantly.
Dazai scoffs. “I refuse to go near such an atrocious—”
“Do whatever the fuck you want,” Chuuya cuts him off, not looking away. “I’m gonna go over there.”
Dazai looks at him for a long moment, eyes dark. Chuuya stares impassively back at him, pulse skittering beneath his skin. He’s playing a dangerous game. It’s Dazai’s choice: let go of his hand or don’t. And Chuuya knows Dazai knows exactly what Chuuya is playing at. So he just swallows down the fluttering in his stomach and keeps looking up Dazai levelly.
Dazai sighs dramatically. “My dog is so annoying—”
“Shut up,” Chuuya snaps. But something burns in his chest because Dazai’s whining is the closest thing to a concession that he’ll get. Dazai’s hand stays on his and Chuuya’s face is warm as he turns to keep walking towards the display of hats. Dazai falls into step beside him, their hands swinging a little between them, and something stutters violently in Chuuya’s chest as he swallows hard against the night air.
But then the weight against his hand vanishes immediately, and Chuuya barely processes the change before something is being placed on top of his head. He blinks. “This one makes Chuuya look extra ugly,” Dazai says solemnly, wrinkling his nose.
“You fucking—” Chuuya peeks at a nearby mirror. “I look great, asshole.” He adjusts the fedora on his head slightly, feeling the sturdy material beneath his fingers, before Dazai swipes it off his head and he curses under his breath.
“Aha,” Dazai says triumphantly, and then he feels another bout of pressure on his scalp. “Maybe chibi should change his style sometimes.”
Chuuya stares at the farmer’s hat sitting on top of his head, straw sticking out at odd angles and smushing his hair unflatteringly with the way Dazai had carelessly pressed it onto his head, and suddenly a rush of unexpected laughter is bubbling in his throat instead of irritation and he just shakes his head.
“I look stupid,” he mutters, biting down a smile. He elbows Dazai in the stomach for good measure.
“No stupider than usual,” Dazai sings, before plucking the straw hat off easily and then dumping a fucking sombrero on his head.
“I’m going to kill you,” Chuuya threatens, struggling to keep the laughter out of his voice as the ridiculously wide brim practically swallows his face. His reflection stares stupidly back at him. “Seriously.”
“Mhmm,” Dazai hums. He swipes the sombrero off and promptly switches it out in favor of a long, black witch hat, placing it atop the increasingly messy tangle of red-orange that is Chuuya’s hair. He grins obnoxiously. “Chuuya finally grew!”
“Shut up,” Chuuya snaps with no heat, lips twitching at the ridiculous thing sitting on top of his head. “I’m fucking serious.” He raises a hand to slap him but Dazai is already darting away, eyes bright and sneaky.
At some point, Dazai finds a monocle laying around, and Chuuya turns at the tap of his shoulder to see Dazai holding it solemnly to his eye, his other hand stroking at an imaginary beard on his chin, and Chuuya just rolls his eyes because that was not a good impression of Hirotsu at all, but Dazai’s eyes keep twinkling as he stares at him brightly.
And at some point, Chuuya finds the insults on the tip of his tongue losing more and more of their heat as he swats Dazai’s hands away for the hundredth time after he has the nerve to put a fucking elf hat on his head and just lets him off with a weak kick to the shin and a half-hearted threat to murder him in his sleep.
And at some point, Chuuya realizes a little too late, they’re slipping into something like foreign territory with the way Chuuya actually starts to laugh at some of the hats Dazai puts on his head and the way Dazai’s hands start to linger too long, drifting down to bump against his ear or toy with a stray strand of hair. With the way Dazai grins down at him, the smile still annoying and obnoxious but also a little brighter, and maybe a little more real than it usually is. And as Dazai’s hand brushes against his when he reaches around Chuuya to grab another stupid accessory, something jumps in Chuuya’s throat and his fingers itch and he can trace the scar on Dazai’s cheek and Chuuya no idea what the hell they’re doing.
“Oh holy fuck, your nose!” comes a loud voice, and Chuuya blinks out of his thoughts and stares in confusion at the source of the sound.
“Oh my God, Abe-kun, you’re bleeding everywhere,” a girl says, worry spiking her tone. Chuuya’s eyes settle on a trio of two boys and a girl around his age huddling near the edge of the stand, and stares a little longer than necessary at the sight of blood gushing out one of the boy’s noses.
“Dude,” the other boy cuts in solemnly. “It looks like you just fucking murdered someone.”
Chuuya looks up at Dazai despite himself, and is oddly unsurprised to find Dazai’s eyes already on him, the ghost of a smile dancing over his mouth. Chuuya bites down a grin, turning his attention back to the trio.
As if these people know a single thing about murder.
“Here, I have a handkerchief you can use,” the girl pipes up. “It’s old, so I can just throw it away.”
Dazai presses something into his hand at the same time, and Chuuya jolts at the feeling of cold fingers against his skin. He stares down at the ugly pair of sunglasses in his palm, turning his gaze back up to Dazai to try and shoot him an unimpressed look despite the amusement tugging at his lips, and Dazai just smiles innocently, hands still pressed against Chuuya’s.
“Haruko,” A boy laughs. “This handkerchief looks fucking gay.”
Chuuya jerks away from Dazai like he's been burned. The sunglasses fall uselessly to the ground with a clatter.
He swallows, pulse skyrocketing as a twisting panic settles around his stomach. It churns and it pulls and it wrenches his heart out of his chest and he realizes a beat too late that it’s fear—that he’s never felt like this in front of guns and bullets and knives but that it’s the same kind of frenzy that had electrocuted his nerves when Mina’s father had looked down at Dazai’s hand in his and a gentle smile had been the very last thing Chuuya had expected.
“Don’t say that, Abe-kun,” Haruko scolds. “I’ve told you before.”
“Yeah, yeah—”
“Chuuya,” Dazai murmurs quietly.
“Shut up,” Chuuya manages to force out, staring at a point on the floor as his heart scorches hot inside his body and he wonders distantly just how long this fire has been here. “Shut up.”
“Chuuya,” Dazai repeats, voice low. Chuuya looks up. He’s so close. Too close, too warm. Too perceptive. Too—everything, everywhere. Dazai reaches for his hand again and Chuuya pulls away in a dull panic. Hard, dark eyes stare back at him and Dazai opens his mouth like he’s going to say—
They both freeze.
The unmistakable spark of danger slices cleanly through the air and all at once, Chuuya forgets about the swirling in his chest and the lost warmth of Dazai’s hand against him and his mouth settles into a grim line as he glances back at Dazai and sees the same recognition flash in his eyes.
They’re being followed.
Dazai grabs his hand again. Chuuya flinches, the heat of anger and shame and confusion still hot on his tongue, because now is not the fucking time, but Dazai barely spares him a second glance before he’s announcing, “I’m hungry!”
“Starve to death, bastard,” Chuuya mutters. But he lets Dazai drag him out of the stand because he recognizes the dark tint in the other’s eyes that indicates he’s already planning something, gears turning in his mind.
The prickling weight of eyes on them settles uncomfortably over the edge of Chuuya’s skin, and it takes all he has to trust in whatever the hell Dazai’s scheming to not pull his hand away. Chuuya’s mind races. There aren’t any pressing threats to the mafia that they haven’t dealt with already. Neither of them has any particular personal enemies. Chuuya’s senses sharpen for a moment and his eyes narrow as he gauges the threat.
Whoever’s following them is doing so alone. And despite the discomfort spiking in his blood, Chuuya grins wickedly.
Only someone who has a death wish would try to target the two of them alone.
“Where are we going, asshole,” Chuuya lets out, voice low.
Dazai just hums, turning around to give Chuuya a cheerful smile that doesn’t reach his eyes at all. “It’s a surprise,” he says innocently.
Chuuya narrows his eyes. So they’re going to lure their stalker out, then.
He gives up trying to break his hand free of Dazai’s hold and tries to focus on the lingering threat behind them instead of the comforting pressure of Dazai’s fingers against his. Chuuya’s eyes drift across the flurry of food vendors they walk past, the pleasant smell of yakitori drifting under his nose. Slowly, the buzz of the carnival stops seeping into his senses, and the night air gradually turns still and quiet again.
It’s only when Dazai lets go of his hand that Chuuya blinks and takes in their surroundings. They’re standing in a wide expanse of empty space behind some sort of storage unit, with only the dim light of a nearby lamppost filling up his vision.
“Mister stalker-san,” Dazai sings out, the lilt in his voice rising. “You can come out now.”
Chuuya’s fingers creep discretely towards the knife strapped to his chest as they wait in silence. A moment passes, and then another, and then finally a figure steps out of the shadows and into view. Angry, brown eyes land on them, and Chuuya stares impassively at the young man standing in front of them. His body is noticeably stiff, tension practically dripping off of him.
“Who are you?” Chuuya spits out, a hand closing around the hilt of his knife.
The man just sneers, and then suddenly there’s the telltale flash of a knife and light bounces of his teeth as he smiles evilly. “Sorry to ruin your date, kids.”
And then he lunges.
It takes a grand total of two and a half seconds for Chuuya to drag him to the ground, crumpled under the weight of gravity without even moving a single inch. He raises an unimpressed brow as the man tries to thrash against the floor uselessly.
Dazai walks over and presses an oddly familiar blade to the man’s neck.
“The fuck,” Chuuya mutters. “Is that my knife?” He pats his left thigh only to find the absence of a telltale lump and he shoots Dazai a glare.
“Chuuya makes it so easy,” Dazai replies with a grin, eyes dancing.
“I’m going to rip your head—”
And then gunshots ring out in the air, loud and jolting at Chuuya’s senses as his gaze jumps over to the sudden, unexpected sight of a gun in the man’s hand, his hands shaking around his grip. It must have been hidden in his jacket.
Chuuya stops the two bullets a millimeter away from his skin with a faint thrum of amusement. “Not bad.”
“I’ll kill you two,” the man seethes, anger rolling off his body as he grinds his teeth. Dazai presses the knife closer to his skin and the man strains his neck. “I don’t care if you guys are kids.”
“Ah,” Dazai pipes up happily. “I have a request. Can you kill Chuuya first?”
“Shut the fuck up,” Chuuya scowls. “I’ll kill you.”
“But chibi can’t even reach—oh, sorry Mister. Can you stop moving for a second?”
“You guys are just teenagers,” the man spits out angrily. “I thought double black would be a lot more—”
“Who hired you?” Dazai cuts in tonelessly, listlessly.
“You two killed my sister, and I bet you guys don’t even remember,” the man continues furiously. Wrath and pain and tension burn bright in his eyes as he glares at Chuuya. “A couple of fucking teenagers murdering people in cold blood.” He snarls. “You make me sick.”
Chuuya holds his stare calmly and coolly and wonders if he knows just how often those same, tired words have been flung at him and Dazai.
And the funny thing is—they don’t even hurt. Not even remotely.
Chuuya wears killing and fighting like a second skin. Blood on his hands, from the first moment he caught sight of it, has been nothing but an emblem of pride, of power, of adrenaline. And now, buried two years in and six feet under the filth of the mafia, the only feeling Chuuya manages to dig up is complete and utter annoyance at being dragged away from the potential of more takoyaki.
“Boring,” Dazai sighs. “He’s not even a trained assassin.”
The beginnings of a protest escape the man’s throat, before Dazai is pulling him up and throwing him harshly against the concrete wall to their left. A choked noise sounds out in response, before he crumbles to the ground again.
“Chuuya,” Dazai sings knowingly, eyes sparkling.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” Chuuya mutters. “Piece of shit.”
And then he heaves in a breath, redirects the bullets still floating in mid-air, and grins.
+
The stars are just barely peeking out by the time they start heading back.
Chuuya rolls his wrists a little, feeling tension ease out of his joints. The night air is cold and quiet, settling over the two of them, and a warm feeling of relaxation washes over Chuuya as the day comes to an end.
“Boo,” Dazai says, pursing his lips. “That was no fun.”
He tucks his hands into his pockets casually as they walk down the dimly-lit sidewalk, humming absentmindedly beside him. Chuuya stares at the small stain of blood on his own hands before he raises his gaze to the cut on Dazai’s cheek and shine of his skin and hears the loud, unshakable echo of sorry to ruin your date bouncing around obnoxiously in his head. The thrill of fighting had pushed the words away, but now, without anything to distract him, they hit him like a slap to the face.
Chuuya swallows. “Oi,” he mutters finally. “We didn’t investigate shit today.”
Dazai frowns. “Chuuya,” he sighs. “Don’t you trust me?”
“Over my dead body,” Chuuya snaps. Dazai’s eyes just twinkle stupidly in response as he stays silent, and Chuuya is thrown forcefully back into his thoughts again.
Because they’re not friends. Definitely not friends. But they’re also not whatever the fuck it is people call themselves who go on a date. There’s no way.
Dazai did not fucking drag him out of his apartment to go to a carnival on a date.
Except—Dazai beat him at the stupid goldfish game. Except Dazai forced a cat ear headband on him and laughed and joked and wheezed at the red in his cheeks. Except they had tried cotton candy, had gotten their palms read, had made balls of takoyaki fall and then fly and then fall again. Except Dazai had placed hat after ridiculous hat on his head with a smile that started to seem less and less fake with every touch against his hair. Except after Mina had said to never let him go Dazai had reached for his hand and folded their fingers together, and Chuuya—
Chuuya had let him.
“You're an asshole,” Chuuya mumbles despite the silence, face hot as he swings a leg out and feels the solid weight of Dazai’s waist hooked under his ankle. Dazai grunts in pain.
“Chuuya,” Dazai pouts exaggeratedly. “That’s now how these things end.”
Chuuya stares up at him in surprise for a moment, nerves tangling in his stomach.
Dazai is still looking down at him with that stupid expression that makes irritation flare hot against his skin. Because this bastard still manages to somehow always be one step ahead of him, and a light sparkles infuriatingly in his eyes like he knows Chuuya has figured it out, knows what he’s thinking about, but Chuuya just narrows his eyes and glares at him because he’s tired of Dazai acting like he has the upper hand, like he’s better, like Chuuya’s clueless—and Chuuya’s not dumb, he knows how a stupid date ends, but—
Chuuya thinks, recklessly, impulsively—fuck it.
And then he wraps a firm hand around Dazai’s wrist and pulls him down, leaning up on his tiptoes to press his lips warm against Dazai’s cheek.
Chuuya’s face burns as he pulls away quickly, weight settling back on his heels and pulse leaping into his throat as he looks away from the other’s face. “Shut up,” he forces out before Dazai can say anything. “Walk faster. I’m tired.”
A stuffy, foreign silence settles over them. His heart thunders dangerously. Chuuya lasts an impressive seven seconds, blood rushing in his ears, before he caves and cautiously lifts his head up.
Dazai's face has turned a particularly interesting shade of red.
Chuuya’s nerves buzz with equal parts satisfaction and embarrassment and he watches as Dazai swallows visibly, opening and closing his mouth a few times before his lips just press together into a thin line. An eternity stretches between them, before Dazai speaks again, voice low.
“Chuuya,” he mumbles quietly. “No cheating.”
Butterflies, Chuuya registers fuzzily, when something in his stomach scatters messily in a thousand different directions and his heart slams violently against his chest. He flushes. “I never cheat,” he says as evenly as he can, before turning and continuing the trek home. “Asshole.” Dazai doesn’t reply, but it only takes a few seconds for him to recover and fall in step with Chuuya, walking next to him.
And this time, when Dazai takes his hand, Chuuya doesn’t pull away.
Because they're not anything, really: they just kill people and take down entire organizations on a good day and argue a lot and sometimes they kiss and maybe Chuuya caught Dazai staring at his neck once, but—well, that doesn't really mean they're anything.
"Chuuya, look!" Dazai exclaims suddenly, turning to look at him with an obnoxiously exaggerated expression of surprise. He dangles the plush puppy from the shooting game in front of his face, its ear stained a bright red. "You got blood on yourself!"
"Fuck you," Chuuya says reflexively. His own puppy is stashed safely, cleanly, comfortably, inside the pocket of his jacket. He scowls at Dazai. "I'm not giving you mine, idiot." His fingers brush against the soft fur of the toy and despite himself, he almost smiles.
And in the end, the day draws to a close like every other day: they head back with their hands dirtied, cuts on their skin, blood in their hair. Dazai’s stolen one of his knives, and Chuuya has kicked him at least five times, and exhaustion weighs down heavily on their skin. It ends like every other day, except this time Chuuya has a stupid little plushie hidden in his jacket and he can still taste the sweet edge of cotton candy on his teeth and Dazai’s hand is warm and steady against his.
Because they're not anything, really. But, Chuuya realizes, as Dazai's grip on his hand tightens when they weave through an especially narrow alleyway—it’s not like they have to be anything. They’re just two teenagers. Who might not be all that normal, per se, but they push and they pull and they fight and they don’t and they tear each other down and pick each other up and save the city and somewhere along the way, they hold hands, too.
And somehow—in spite of it all—he wouldn’t really want things any other way.