Chapter Text
The moment Chuuya enters his apartment, he knows something's off.
His security system didn't send him any notifications, but he's well aware that a capable thief could override it if they put their mind to it, no matter how expensive it was. It's not that. It's the way his doormat has shifted several inches to the right. Chuuya has by no means an eidetic memory, but noticing small details, especially ones that don't fit, is part of the job.
Of course, there are also the shoes that are a big giveaway. As far as he remembers, he didn't buy a new pair of doc martens, let alone throw them halfway across his hallway.
It's at this point that Chuuya wonders what kind of burglar is stupid enough to leave his shoes behind. And why the hell would they escape barefooted?
Several steps and a turn into his bedroom later, he discovers that the shoes weren't exactly left behind.
The thief...
Chuuya enters his room, and sure enough, there's an actual person in his bed. Sleeping. Snoring, even.
The thief is still here.
...
Throughout his seven years in the mafia, Chuuya has never encountered an adversary as bizarre as this: taking a nap in the middle of enemy territory.
He hesitates, though just for a moment of utter bewilderment, before jumping into action. Is this some sort of twisted strategy to catch him off guard? Chuuya takes one look at the intruder — male, late teens or very early twenties, bandages all over his body — and lets out a puzzled breath. No way in hell, is this is something serious to deal with. Right?
Only way to find out, he thinks. Even if the boy looks like a harmless kitten that wandered into the wrong home, Chuuya still wants a peaceful rest of the night after dealing with bothersome foreigners the whole day. There's still blood under his nails. He needs a fucking shower, not this.
"Oi. You," he says, shaking the guy's shoulder. "Wake up!"
For a moment, nothing happens. Then the stranger lets out a low whine, his breath reeking like an alcohol dispenser, and buries his face in the sheets, hugging one of Chuuya's spare pillows to his chest.
Wow.
Chuuya lets out a sigh. This is mildly infuriating. He had plans for today. Cook something nice, catch up on the drama he's been watching and maybe jerk off. It's been a while, damn it. None of these plans included dealing with a stranger in his bed.
It's not like this is an actual issue. Chuuya's a damn mafia executive, for fuck's sake. One call, and the kid will find himself in one of their dungeons, spilling every last secret. Hell, Chuuya could make him beg to answer one of his questions himself in less than one minute, but… something tells him that if Chuuya were to throw him out in the middle of the night, this drunk and vulnerable, he wouldn't come out of it whole.
Of all people, Chuuya knows best what happens to unconscious people alone at night. A part of him that has remained steadfast despite all the bloody chapters in his life refuses to look away and let it happen to someone else.
So he grabs a chair and a book and sits down a few feet away. If the poor drunk so much as moves the wrong way, Chuuya will know.
In a way, he's thankful for this intrusion — aside from the plans that got ransacked — because he finally catches up on the book he's been reading for months now. Chuuya has just reached the final epic battle between the werewolves in the story when he feels the stranger stir with a slight groan. It takes a few seconds of yawning, stretching, and blinking before he ever so slowly opens his eyes. A pair of dark, wide doe eyes come to stare at him.
"This... isn't my dorm."
Chuuya snaps the book shut. "No shit."
"Where…" The kid trails off with a shake of his head before sitting up. "Who are you?"
"The owner of the apartment you broke into."
That takes a good moment to register before he scratches the back of his bandaged neck. "Heh. Funny."
"Not at all," Chuuya replies. "If this was anyone else, they could have shot you on sight. Or called the cops."
"Well, why didn't you?"
That's a good question. Aside from the fact that Chuuya's a freaking mafia executive and working with the authorities principally goes against every single of his principles, he has no reason for sparing this moron's life and waiting for him to wake up instead of tossing him out. Maybe Kouyou's right and he is too fond of strays. He has never been able to drive past a soggy, scrawny kitten on the road. He supposes this isn't any different, even if today's kitten happens to be a lanky kid with a shock of chocolate brown hair and a snoopy hoodie.
"I'm asking the questions here," Chuuya says, moving toward the bed. He cocks his head to the side. "Your name."
"... Dazai."
"Why'd you break into my flat, Dazai?"
"You see, I was at this bar where I had a drink, then another, and quite a few more, I guess. After that, I don't really remember much, so it's as much as a mystery to me as it is to you, chibi-san."
"Hah?"
"You're so small," Dazai says with a grin. "Like a chibi."
Chuuya hasn't been called small in ages. The people at the port mafia are too familiar with his skills and ability to ever utter the words small and Chuuya in the same sentence. And this brat right here….
"You really should be careful with your words."
"Or what? Chibi will pummel me?" Shrugging, Dazai wiggles out of bed and rises to his feet. Chuuya's scowls deepens into a glare when the kid ends up an entire head taller than him. "Who are you anyway?" Dazai eyes the room with too much curiosity. "You didn't call the cops, so there must be something wrong with you too."
"There's nothing wrong with me, you oversized brat —"
"Hmm, I beg to differ. Who in their right mind would let a stranger sleep in their bed? Are you a creep? Or are you just so lonely you're willing to host anyone that walks in here?"
Chuuya's knuckles itch to give him a good beating, but he didn't spend years working on his anger issues to lose his composure because of some kid with a big mouth. Dazai is nothing compared to the guys he has to deal with on the daily. This is child's play.
He takes a step towards Dazai, whipping out the dagger underneath his vest so fast that the pest has no time to react before he ends up pinned to the wall. "I was being considerate when I let you stay here," Chuuya says calmly, "but you're awake now and my kindness isn't limitless. So either you piss off or —"
"Or you're going to stab me with this knife?" Dazai asks. His eyes dance with something crazily close to marvel — a paradox of a reaction considering his breath hitches. "Ohhh, this is even more fun than I hoped it would be."
Than he hoped…?
"The fuck do you mean?" This wasn't an accident after all? He has no weapons on him though, and he doesn't seem to be from any of the enemy organizations that Chuuya's aware of. Who exactly is this guy?
"Don't hurt yourself trying to think so hard," Dazai says with a tsk. "Sometimes, when I'm bored, I drink a little and let the alcohol take me wherever it wants. Most of the time, I end up on the side of the street or in a trash can, but I think I finally got lucky!"
What a deranged worm of a human being. Chuuya scowls. "Don't you have friends who take you home when you're trashed?"
"Oh, I drink alone."
"Why would you do that?"
"Why does the sun only shine during the day? Why do we need air to breathe? Why does anyone do anything?" Dazai sings and edges forward until the blade of the knife brushes the gauze covering his neck. He meets Chuuya's hard stare with a raised brow.
Sighing, Chuuya swings the knife back into his pocket, watching the idiot smile with satisfaction and take another nosy look around his surroundings. Even if this frankly ridiculous and absurd story is made up and Dazai turns out to be an enemy in disguise, after all, Chuuya will have no issue taking out this guy. Dazai might be foolishly fearless, and a touch masochistic, but he'll never defeat Chuuya in combat. He has yet to meet someone that can.
"So, what is your name, chibikko?"
He rolls his eyes. "That's none of your damn business."
"Well, I woke up in your bed, so I think I deserve to know, no?"
"No."
Dazai gives him a dramatic pout before walking — no, staggering over to his shelf on the other side of the room. He must still be drunk, though that doesn't deter him from shamelessly snooping around.
Jesus christ.
"Hey —"
"Ehhh, what's this? A court of thorns and roses?" Dazai asks, flipping the book open. "Isn't this the one where elves have sex all the t—"
"Gimme that—!" Chuuya rips the book out of his inquisitive fingers and puts it back on the shelf, leveling a glare at Dazai. "It's not elves, it's faes, and again, none of your fucking business."
"Raunchy."
"Yes, and?" Chuuya grabs a fistful of Dazai's collar and pushes him towards the door. "C'mon, let's go. You're overstaying your welcome—"
"Ah, but I'm still drunk," Dazai sputters, grabbing the doorframes. "You wouldn't let a poor drunk student walk home all on his own, would you?"
Chuuya fishes out his car keys from his pocket and lets them dangle between his fingers. "I'll drive you home."
"Oh, I must have forgotten to mention it. I'm homeless!"
"Stop fucking stalling," Chuuya snaps and goes for Dazai's pocket, successfully grabbing something that feels like a wallet, feeling his whole body go taut like like a violin.
"That's quite blunt for a first date! I don't even know your n—"
"Dazai Osamu," Chuuya reads aloud when he's put some distance between them, glad that his name, at least, wasn't a lie, "5 Chome-11-18 Hiyoshi, Kohoku Ward. Doesn't sound homeless to me."
"Rude!"
"Don't fucking care. I had a long day and need some sleep, so move it."
For the first time today, Dazai looks annoyed as he scrunches up his nose and lets out a little grumble. He finally moves, though, so that's something.
Chuuya steers him towards his door, making sure the idiot doesn't get to see much of the rest of his apartment. Dazai might be only a poor student, but if someone saw him come out of a mafia executive's flat, they will draw dangerous assumptions, and as annoying as he is, Chuuya doesn't want him to suffer unnecessary pain because he ended up at the wrong place because of a stupid drunken mistake.
In his hallway, Chuuya grabs one of his hats and unceremoniously drops it on Dazai's head.
"No, thanks." Dazai's hand flies up to it. "I'd rather not look ugly."
"It's cold outside," Chuuya lies, opening the door. "Thank me later."
Stepping out into the stairwell, Dazai gives him a look. "You know, Rhysand turns out to be Feyre's mate, and in the end, they defeat the king of hybern; Rhysand almost dies —"
Chuuya frowns at this stream of random information. Then it shifts into a laugh. "You idiot, I read the fucking books. You can't spoil me."
"Fine. It was worth a try," Dazai mutters.
They reach the car, but Dazai stays silent, not even uttering one word about Chuuya's car — which is a beauty. It's probably for the best anyway. Chuuya slides behind the wheel, turns the key, and delights in the purr that resonates through the silence.
Knowing Yokohama's streets in and out, it's neither a difficult nor a long ride to Dazai's place, the car flying past crowded nightclubs and neon city lights at every corner.
When Chuuya stops at a side curb, he feels Dazai's eyes finally turn to him once again. He meets his stare. "I still don't know your name," Dazai says quietly.
He lets out a long sigh. "Chuuya." That's all he can give.
"Chuuya," Dazai repeats, tasting the letters on his tongue before nodding and slipping out of the car without another word. Chuuya expected another stupid comment about his height or maybe an insult, but he figures this strange exit is another one of his quirks; Dazai merely's full of surprises. After he makes sure Dazai safely disappears inside the building, he puts his car playlist on shuffle and pulls back into the street, heading straight home.
The next day of work drags. Not only did Chuuya go to bed three hours later than usual, messing up his whole schedule, but once he finally changed his sheets and slipped under the fresh blankets, sleep did not fucking come. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw that expression on Dazai's face, so adamant about not going back to his own flat. It was weird. Well, the whole experience was, but Chuuya works in the mafia, so he's pretty familiar with unusual things. There was just something very... off with that guy.
Dazai, a faint voice in his head whispers. His name is Dazai.
So he arrives at the headquarters with three cups of coffee keeping him standing, heading straight for his office, but of course, Kajii intercepts him and loudly talks about what he was up to last night, ignoring the fact that Chuuya doesn't fucking care. The paperwork keeps him busy for a while, but eventually, his mind starts wandering off again, returning to those copper-red eyes over and over. He has a meeting in the fight ring Port Mafia owns later that night, keeping up appearances and talking numbers. Then he promptly gets summoned to take care of a situation at the docks that takes way more time than it should.
So when he finally opens the door to his apartment, he's looking forward to a big glass of wine, maybe ordering some take-out and reading, except —
Except his security system is clearly shut off.
Chuuya stills in the darkness of his hallway and lets the door fall shut behind him. Getting broken in two days in a row? That can't be a coincidence. Slowly he passes the corridor and comes to a halt in his living room, staring at the couch.
"Chuuya."
"Dazai?" he asks. "What are you doing here?" Again?
Grinning sweetly, Dazai lifts his hand, showing him a pair of reading glasses. "I accidentally left those here yesterday. Oopsie. So naturally, I had to get them!"
"Naturally," Chuuya echoes, too tired to even be upset about this. "Doesn't explain why you stayed here waiting for me, though."
"Oh, that. You see, I have this theory —"
"Hang on, I need wine for this," Chuuya cuts in and pours himself a glass on the other side of the room while Dazai remains on the couch, sitting there like it's something he does every day. "What fucking theory did you come up with then? I'm all ears."
"Well," Dazai starts, "first off, something I already mentioned. Every sane person would immediately call the authorities if they encountered a stranger in their bed, yes? You're neither creepy nor lonely from what I've seen — though the smutty books say something different. You're quite handsome and confident, too, so I doubt you have much trouble getting people into your bed. That either means you don't like the authorities, which — fair enough: neither do I. Or you have something to hide. That brings us to the next point: you had a knife. And it wasn't only a prop. You knew how to use it."
"Many people know how to use a fucking knife," Chuuya huffs. "What's your damn point?"
"My point is that you came home pretty late on top of that. You weren't intoxicated. In fact, you wore business attire like you came from work. In the middle of the night. You wore a coat, dark clothes, and even a hat!"
Chuuya narrows his eyes.
"You also seem to be well-off. A wine collection. A penthouse in the middle of the city all for yourself. Fancy car..."
The hand around the wine glass clenches ever so slightly.
"... oh, and one other thing," Dazai says nonchalantly, shrugging. "Your name. Chuuya Nakahara, right? The mafioso."
"Who are you?"
"Dazai Osamu."
"Yes, I got that. Who do you work for?"
"Fukuzawa. Owner of a coffee shop, a few blocks away from my dorm." He winks. "Our pastries are to die for. You should come by and try them someday."
Chuuya ran a background check on him just earlier today. Dazai's telling the truth. But it might be a disguise. And only people involved in the underworld would recognize Chuuya's name, let alone know of his fucking ability.
Dazai has to be something more.
"I'm smart," Dazai provides. "That's all there is to know, Chuuya."
Taking a big gulp of his glass, Chuuya lets his next course of action run through his head. Maybe Dazai's, in fact, just smart, but that doesn't make it any less dangerous for him to be here and construct such ridiculously correct theories. Then again, keeping him close might be safer, too... for both of them.
"You shouldn't say such stupid things in public," Chuuya finally replies, not denying or confirming anything. Granted, Port Mafia has been out in public more often in the last few years, but that doesn't mean it's okay to talk about it to strangers. It's an organization that's supposed to operate in the shadows. They don't walk among civilians in the daylight.
"Eh, I just told you. I'm smart," Dazai says with an exasperated expression on his face. "We're not in public. We're in an apartment that's most likely more secured than ninety percent of the buildings in the city."
"Speaking of, how'd you get in, anyway?"
"I'm good at lockpicking."
"Anything else you're talented in?"
"You haven't unlocked that level of our relationship yet."
Chuuya rolls his eyes and leans back against his bar. "So you have this absurd theory, and instead of running to the cops, you come back and tell me about it? You have a death wish or something?"
"Mmm. I have to admit, getting murdered by a mafia executive would be glorious, even though I would prefer a double suicide with a beautiful woman."
"I think you should break into the office of a therapist next time. You clearly need it."
"Therapists and me don't get along, so hard pass."
That's hardly surprising. "Well, whatever you were looking for here, you won't find it either. You should leave and forget that this ever happened."
Dazai cocks his head. "Is that your way of showing concern for me?"
"It's a warning."
"Adorable."
"You're the most irritating person I've ever met."
"And you have probably met lots of them!"
"Damn right."
"See, I consider that an achievement."
"Yeah, no, that's not something to be proud of," Chuuya mutters. His stomach makes an unflattering noise, and he realizes that this stupid kid has crossed his plans for the night yet again. Seriously. It looks like it might take a while to get rid of him again, so Chuuya takes out his phone to, at least, order food for later.
"Who are you calling?" Dazai asks. "One of your people to take care of me?"
Chuuya throws him a look of irritation. "I just might kill you myself if continue t—"
"-ello, Kyoukarou here?"
Cutting himself off, Chuuya sucks in a vexed breath and rattles of his usual order, deliberately ignoring Dazai's curious expression following him the entire time. When he's done, he slaps his phone on the counter with a bit too much force. "So."
"Don't worry," Dazai says. "I'm not hungry anyway."
"Didn't fucking ask." Chuuya leaves his place behind the bar and slowly crosses the distance between him and the couch, coming to a stop one feet away from where Dazai's sitting cross-legged. Chuuya crosses his arms. "What do you want here? And the truth this time."
For a few moments, there's only silence. Then. "I want nothing."
"You're here, though," Chuuya points out. "There must be some sort of thinking process behind it."
Dazai shrugs lightly, and the motion almost — just almost — looks... cute. Chuuya clears his throat. "Can't a person just want to hang out with their mafioso friend?"
"We're not friends. I don't even know you."
"Duh, that's because you keep trying to throw me out!"
Gritting his teeth, Chuuya makes a move to grab the bastard's wrist and drag him out of his apartment, but at that moment, a loud crack echoes through the air before the familiar sound of pouring rain resonates.
Dazai's mouth forms into an oooh.
"I don't have an umbrella."
"That's not my problem."
Dazai purses his lips. "Chibi is so cruel. You know, I get sick very easily... I might get pneumonia, and you will only ever see me again in a coffin before you know it. So cruel."
Half of his life spent in the mafia, and yet here Chuuya is, being manipulated by a fucking normie student that's good at picking locks and picking up clues.
He'd drive him again, but his food...
"As soon as it stops raining," Chuuya points at the door, "you're going to fuck off."
"Hm, sure ~"
Chuuya decides to busy himself in the meantime, tidying up his kitchen and checking to see if anything is missing in case the bastard decided to do something stupid earlier. The whole time, Dazai just watches him move around until he eventually picks up the remote of the TV and plays around with that.
When his door rings, Chuuya's grateful, not only because he's starving, but because it will give him something to do. He unpacks the food at his table, hardly surprised to see Dazai make his way over like a cat looking for something to eat.
"I thought you weren't hungry," he says, taking a scoop of rice.
Dazai kneels down to his right. "I'm not, but it's hard to carry a conversation with so much space between us."
"I said you can stay, not talk to me."
"You know, I take back what I said earlier. Your awful attitude probably makes it very hard to get anyone into your bed."
Chuuya can't help but laugh. "My attitude's perfectly fine to people that aren't annoying eighteen-year-old kids who are too bored for their own good."
"I'm twenty-one."
A piece of chicken gets stuck in Chuuya's throat, and he has to cough a few times to answer. "You sure don't fucking act like it."
"How old are you?"
"Not telling you that."
"You don't look much older — and your height's the one of a twelve-year-old — but you act like a sixty-year-old man."
"I do not!"
"Yes, you do."
"I'm twenty-one!"
"Ohhh," Dazai says, "so we're the same age."
"That doesn't mean anything."
"It means a lot."
Chuuya lets out a puff of breath and pointedly turns away, eating in silence.
"Ehhh, Chuuya."
"..."
"Chibi."
"..."
"Chibikko."
"..."
"Chuuuuuuya ~" A finger pokes his cheek, and Chuuya's forced to slap it away from his face.
"What?!"
"What's it like being in the mafia?"
"Why don't you just google it?"
"But Google isn't an actual mafioso. You are!"
"There are tons of snitches that talked about what's it like."
Dazai lets out a loud, over-dramatic sigh and puts his chin on his hand. "I guess I could try to find a mafia story in that horrid book collection of yours."
"What do you know about literature, anyways?"
"I study it, for one."
"Ah," Chuuya says with a hum. "So, that's why you're so annoying?"
Dazai's face morphs into an amused grin. "So chibi's not only stubborn but judgemental."
"I just counted one and one together, idiot." Chuuya returns to his Peking Duck, willing to ignore the bastard sabotaging his nights two days in a row. Dazai, of course, has other plans.
"How does so much food fit into such a tiny body?"
"I'm not tiny, bastard."
"You're not big either."
"Just because I'm not ten feet tall like the rest of you doesn't mean I'm tiny! I work out more than you probably have in your entire life."
"Oh? Prove it then."
Chuuya cuts himself off, raising his brows. Is Dazai trying to hit on him?
Dazai lets out a sigh and fiddles with the hem of his sweater. "Now, you should be taking off your clothes and prove me wrong, Chuuya, but I see my method of approach isn't quite working."
Wow.
"Shouldn't you.." Chuuya searches for words. "... be writing essays dissecting books or something?"
"Oh, now that you mention it. Yes. It's boring me to death, however, and I find conversing with someone that works in the mafia much more interesting."
"Why'd you even study it if it's boring?" Chuuya asks, ignoring the other part. The conversation is a bit of an exaggeration for the thing they have going here.
Dazai glances back at him. "It was less tedious than all the other subjects." His thoughtful expression shifts into a grin then. "Maybe I should have become a mafia member like you. Could you imagine?"
Chuuya doesn't grace him with an answer, instead getting up to put the trash away, but he can't help but actually imagine this book nerd in the mafia. No. Dazai's too... he doesn't belong in a place like that. Some people are born in blood — Chuuya was — but others too easily crack under the heavy shackles of blind loyalty and the rope around their neck.
"You know," he says, "you could, at least, offer to help do the dishes if you're already here."
Dazai basically melts into a puddle at the table. "No, thanks. I would rather die."
Fighting against a grin, Chuuya beckons him over. "C'mon. This isn't free real estate here." Maybe that will make Dazai leave.
Surprisingly enough, Dazai actually stands up — or rather, he forces himself to, his shoulders hunching like he's being sent to prison instead of the sink. "One day, Chuuya will see."
"See what?"
"That you should have treated me better."
"I'm treating you perfectly fine for a kid who keeps breaking into my apartment and disturbs my nights." Chuuya hands him the sponge and turns on the water. "Here."
The realization that Dazai's bandages will become all wet and gross comes too late, when Dazai reluctantly, but without any more complaining, starts scrubbing the plates in the sink. Chuuya would have offered him gloves, but he ran out of them yesterday, and it's too late anyway. So he makes himself comfortable on the other side and dries off the dishes.
"Here," Dazai grumbles as he hands over the last fork, "you evil munchkin who exploits poor college students."
"Anyone ever tell you that you're really dramatic?"
"No. They usually say other things."
Chuuya doesn't know what that means, but he's too busy staring at the wet things around Dazai's wrist anyway. Without thinking, he reaches out, touching the gaze. "Let me give you new ones."
Dazai doesn't move. When Chuuya looks up, he realizes, Dazai doesn't even breathe. "Dazai?"
There's a harsh exhale. "Okay."
Chuuya leaves him on the couch while getting the necessary things from his first aid kit that he uses on a regular basis. Part of him is prepared to prod the guy about the bandages, but all the questions die down once he settles across from him and sees the plethora of thin, white lines running along the, now bare, skin of his arm. Chuuya has spent so much time of his life trying to survive, that seeing people who seek the literal opposite makes him bristle. Of course, it's never that easy. He has felt pain that cut so deep he'd have done anything to stop it.
Maybe Dazai has, too.
Smoothly pushing his thoughts and feelings aside, Chuuya grabs the dressings and Dazai's arm for stabilization. It's faint, but Dazai shivers, and for one brief moment, their eyes meet before Chuuya heavy-heartedly return to his work. He wraps the bandages around Dazai's skinny wrist, up to his palm, fixates it with a pin, and then does the same on the other side. When he's done, Chuuya looks out of the window.
"It stopped raining."
"Ah," Dazai hums. "I guess I have no more excuse to stay then."
It's so blunt and honest, yet it still doesn't make any sense. What is it that makes Dazai stay here so badly? They don't know each other. They're nothing but a pair of strangers who happen to be the same age.
"You don't," Chuuya says, but the words feel like lead on his tongue for the first time. Why is he feeling guilty over kicking him out all of a sudden?
Dazai gets up with a yawn and collects his bearings before sluggishly heading for the door, Chuuya right behind him. When they reach it, Dazai turns around, tilting his head. "This is goodbye then. It was nice to meet you."
"Sure. See ya, Dazai," Chuuya replies, a bit thrown off by the sudden change in his tone.
"I don't think you will," Dazai says with an adroit, little smile. "I hope you have a long life of reading smutty books and take-out dinners, and whatever it is, you mafia people do... good night, Chuuya."
And that's it. Dazai leaves, the door falling softly shut, and Chuuya just... stands there rooted to the spot. He doesn't understand the feeling in his chest. That hollow silence sounding way too loud all of a sudden. He wanted to be finally left alone, right? He wanted a night for himself without any interruptions.
But Dazai was — there was just something off about him and the entire situation, and it leaves Chuuya feeling off-kilter.