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It was half past midnight when Dazai heard the first knock.
More like a thud, really. A weak, inconsistent thud-thud... thud, like someone trying to knock with their forehead instead of their fist. He frowned from the safety of his bed, book resting on his chest, its corners digging slightly into his ribs. The cheap dorm room heater hummed in the background, casting a low warmth over the quiet.
He didn’t move. Just listened.
Then came the voice—slurred, muffled through the door and soaked in regret.
“Daaaazaiiii...”
Dazai groaned, flipping the page without reading a word. “Nope.”
Another thud, followed by the sound of someone lightly bumping into the doorframe. “Dazaiiiii—open the stupid door, 's cold—”
He rolled out of bed with the kind of dramatic sigh that belonged in a soap opera, dragging his feet across the tiny dorm floor to the door. His socks made a soft shff-shff against the floorboards. “You better be bleeding out or proposing.”
He opened it. And there was Chuuya.
Mascara slightly smudged. Hair windswept like he’d walked a mile in the wind backwards. Cheeks flushed red from either the alcohol or the wind—or both. He smelled like whiskey and regret and the lingering scent of leather and cigarettes. His jacket was buttoned wrong. His hat was missing.
“Hi,” he said with a goofy little hiccup. “Missed me?”
“Oh my god,” Dazai muttered, already pulling him inside by the sleeve before anyone saw. “You’re so drunk.”
“Not drunk,” Chuuya protested, trying to shove Dazai with absolutely no strength behind it. “‘M... jus’... emotionally liquid.”
“You smell like a distillery threw up on you.”
“Thank you,” Chuuya said earnestly, then giggled.
Dazai closed the door and deadbolted it. The ADA would not be happy if one of Yokohama’s most wanted criminals came sauntering into the detective agency dorms just to cuddle his ex-partner and throw up on his rug.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
Chuuya pouted. His eyes looked glassy and a little too bright in the low light. “Didn’t know where else t’ go... Yer bed’s warmer.”
Dazai turned slowly, already regretting every decision of the last five minutes. “Excuse me?”
“Shut up,” Chuuya whined, flopping onto Dazai’s bed like a sack of bricks. “’S cold. 'S lonely. Jus’ lemme... Lemme stay, 'kay?”
Dazai pinched the bridge of his nose. He didn’t want to let him stay. He shouldn’t let him stay. But Chuuya was curling into his blanket like a kicked puppy, face buried in the pillow, shoes still on, and—
He sighed again. “Alright. But you’re drinking water first.”
Chuuya groaned into the pillow. “Water’s a scam. Fake hydration. Lies of th’ bourgeoisie.”
“You’re literally slurring Marxist nonsense,” Dazai said, already grabbing a bottle and forcing it into his hand. “Drink it or I start reciting the ADA handbook from memory. Footnotes included.”
Chuuya whined louder, but he drank.
Ten minutes later, he was sitting on the floor in Dazai’s shirt (which was way too big on him and Dazai was not thinking about how cute he looked in it, absolutely not), with wet hair from a quick sobering shower and a second bottle of water in his lap. He was dramatically shivering even though the room was warm, blanket draped over his head like a very soggy ghost.
“You made me wet,” he grumbled. “Yer so mean t’ me...”
“You smelled like a bar floor and you tried to pee in my closet, Chuuya.”
“Was lookin’ for the toilet!”
“That’s the broom cupboard.”
“...Oh.”
Silence.
Chuuya pulled the sleeves over his hands and sniffled, face scrunching up. He wasn’t crying, not really. But his lip quivered like he could if Dazai looked at him the wrong way.
Dazai’s teasing tone vanished. He crouched down next to him, brows furrowed, eyes scanning his face. “Hey. What’s wrong.”
“Don’ wanna go home,” Chuuya mumbled. “Boss’s mad. Said I made a mess of the raid. Said I was reckless. Said—said I was lucky t’ be alive. Ain’t luck.”
His voice cracked.
Dazai’s stomach twisted. “It’s not,” he said quietly. “It’s you. You’re still the best field agent they’ve got.”
Chuuya scoffed. “Yeah? Tell that to the bruise on m’ spine.”
He leaned sideways until his head bonked against Dazai’s shoulder.
And stayed there.
The weight of him—warm, trembling, tired—pressed against Dazai like he belonged there. And maybe he did. Maybe he always had.
“Missed you, y’know,” Chuuya said after a pause. “Even when I didn’t wanna.”
Dazai’s throat tightened. His fingers curled against his knees. He stared ahead, then slowly raised a hand to card through Chuuya’s damp hair, brushing the fringe from his eyes.
“I know.”
“Why’d you leave?” Chuuya asked, voice small. “Why’d you make it so hard to forget you?”
Dazai stared at the floor. The air felt too still. His pulse thudded, loud and aching in his ears.
“Because I’m selfish,” he admitted, barely louder than a whisper. “Because I didn’t want you to follow me. Because... I was scared if you did, I’d never leave.”
Chuuya didn’t say anything.
Then—“Y’r so dumb,” he slurred. “Could’a asked. ‘Hey, Chuuya, wanna come with me?’ I’da said yes.”
“You would’ve regretted it.”
“No,” he said fiercely. “Woulda regretted lettin’ you leave.”
His breath hitched. Dazai realized with a soft jolt that Chuuya was crying.
“Aw, hell—no, don’t do that,” he muttered, panic in his chest as he pulled Chuuya closer. “Come here—hey, hey, don’t cry—”
“Not cryin’,” Chuuya sniffled into his neck. “Just... sad-liquid-leakin’. Shut up.”
Dazai pressed a kiss to his hair before he could think better of it. The strands were still a little damp, sticking to his lips.
They stayed like that for a long time. The clock ticked past 1AM. The water bottle tipped sideways. Chuuya’s breathing evened out against his skin, slower, deeper. His lashes fluttered once, then stilled.
Then—
“...Can I sleep here?” Chuuya mumbled, voice scratchy.
Dazai hesitated.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah, you can.”
“Lemme—lemme be little spoon,” he whined, already crawling into bed and dragging the blanket with him.
Dazai raised a brow. “You always wanna be little spoon.”
“Yeah. ‘Cause ‘m shorter. Law of physics. Don’ argue with science.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And cute,” Chuuya added sleepily. “Can’t forget cute.”
Dazai huffed out a soft laugh and slid in behind him, pulling the blanket over them both. His arms curled instinctively around Chuuya’s waist.
Chuuya immediately wriggled back into his chest like a heat-seeking missile, legs tangling with Dazai’s under the covers.
“Warm,” he mumbled happily.
Dazai buried his face in Chuuya’s shoulder. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
“’M so cute,” Chuuya said, practically melting into the mattress. “Cuter than you. Yer a scrungly rat man.”
“I’m the reason you’re not shivering on a park bench right now.”
“Yer still a scrungly rat man.”
“Go to sleep.”
“’Kay... Love you...”
Dazai froze.
Chuuya was already snoring.
He stared at the ceiling for a long, long time, arms wrapped around the one person he swore he’d never get close to again. And maybe it was the late hour, or the quiet hum of the heater, or the stupid soft way Chuuya’s hair tickled his chin—but Dazai whispered it back anyway.
“I love you too.”