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Chuuya's skin felt too tight, like he might've ripped it if he moved too fast.
He blamed it on the dirty cheap wine.
No one would pay attention to them in that small downtown bar, fine, but this time the Agency had chosen a place where even the most expensive wine tasted like public bathroom water. A low blow, even for them.
The painfully familiar kind of low blow. The kind Chuuya knew by heart, because it had been tailored for him a long, long time ago.
That's why he hadn't been too surprised when Kunikida had shown up late, covered in feathers and god knows what sticky substance with Dazai in his trail, strolling happily along like an overexcited puppy.
When the menace saw Chuuya sitting next to Kouyou at the corner table, his dark eyes lit up. «Oh, look what the cat brought in!»
Chuuya grimaced.
He'd just wanted to participate in the peace treaty with the agency. Just to be involved, to do his job as an executive, to reinstate that he could be the brains just as well as the brawl, something the Agency didn't seem to have quite grasped. Kouyou and Mori had agreed without argument— no personal involvement, no unfinished business or unresolved tensions that might've undermined the negotiations, no objections were raised at all. Now he saw why.
He'd been brought along as a squeaky ball to keep Dazai occupied while Kunikida and Kouyou talked business. When Dazai sat down in front of him, Kouyou wore an expression that could've been either pity or amusement, and her polite greeting showed no hint of surprise.
Before Chuuya could even think to protest Dazai was polishing his shoes on the leg of his pants, and Chuuya's kick would've broken the bastard's ankle- had he not dodged so Chuuya hit the leg of the chair hard enough it cracked. If Kunikida and Kouyou heard the noise, they didn't make note of it as they began the negotiations.
«I will drown you,» Chuuya hissed as greeting to his former partner, grasping his glass of rede wine.
By all response, Dazai set his hand right on Chuuya's around the glass. For a long, long moment, he kept it there, warm and still, fingertips brushing the uncovered skin between Chuuya's glove and his sleeve.
Chuuya felt the rage build up. He pulled away like a kid whose palm had been licked and Dazai simply took the glass, pulled out Kunikida's green Stanley cup and poured water in it. He then proceeded to announce that the wine was watery, which he seemed to think was hilarious, and ordered himself a whisky.
He was already drunk. Chuuya could not prove it, he didn't even know how he knew it, but there was something in his movements, the out of tune, cheery note in his former partner's voice that called to mind cheap alcohol by the bottle and soft drugs snuck out of the infirmary.
Still, he looked at Chuuya like a cat with its paw on the mouse's tail. High on power, if nothing else.
Chuuya glared right back. There was no winning this. But he was not about to give up and let Dazai torture him, either.
The paw lifted off his tail. Dazai put on his best shit-eating grin and inserted himself in the conversation that had started between Kunikida and Kouyou, professional as ever, pointing out the economic advantages of the treaty.
There it was, the difference between him and Chuuya: Dazai was a distraction, but he was not distracted. He had one ear following the discussion and the other tracking Chuuya, hoping to hear him whine, one eye on the contract being briefed and one on Chuuya's reddening cheeks.
Despite his efforts, Chuuya wasn't like that. He could not tune Dazai's smirk out, or the newfound shine in his eyes, or the way he sat just a little too close to Kunikida, how he messed with the man's ponytail just like he once did with Chuuya when he'd just started to grow his hair out.
Chuuya could pretend not to miss it— bandaged hands reaching, pulling, tickling, poking. Holding, those few seconds between him waking up from unconsciousness and Dazai realizing. In fact, he didn't miss it at all.
Some night, though, when the city was too quiet…
Dazai's leg was rubbing against his own again. Too close, too warm, too present, familiar, known. No matter how hard Chuuya tried to get rid of it, that seemed to be the bastard's strategy for the night: to be touching him at all times.
Chuuya would not let it bother him. He could keep a cool head even with Dazai playing one-sided footsie under the table.
He tried to comment what Kunikida was saying about honesty and all sorts of values of the Agency.
A warm knee stroked way closer to his inner tight, making him yelp and curse under his breath, no doubt music to Dazai's finely-tuned ear. When he tried to get revenge with a kick in the nuts Dazai dodged to the side, face angelic as ever while Chuuya was moments away from strangling him.
«Dazai,» said Kunikida, offering Chuuya and apologetic look, the look of a man who had been in that position before and would be many times in the near future, and despite everything Chuuya hated the thought. «Either behave or I will personally kick you out of this restaurant.»
Dazai had eyes like a puppy. He knew that, and it was infuriating how often he used them, on everyone he came across. «Oh, Kunikida-kun-kun, I am hardly doing anything. It's not my fault I have legs for days and Chuuya can't contain himse-»
Chuuya grabbed Dazai's wrist and stuck his fork straight through the bastard's sleeve into the table.
«Oops,» he growled, glaring daggers in Dazai's stupid round eyes. «I missed.»
Kouyou did not reprimand him, nor did Kunikida acknowledge the threat to a member of the Agency. That was Chuuya's role tonight, after all: shutting him up. Dazai was taken aback for a moment, then just smiled: Chuuya wasn't sure how, but he could tell simply by the look on his face that the man's heart was beating faster. Or maybe it was his own heart.
It was going to be a long, long night.
Chuuya rummaged through his pockets for a cigarette, any spare cigarette that might've escaped the pack he'd just finished, least he had to actually walk onto the noisy main street and go buy some more. The alley stank of vomit and piss. Familiar like a childhood friend.
He was livid. His hand hurt. Kicked out of a dump like that, the kind of place that survived off of schoolkids with unconvincing fake IDs and exploited office workers, for punching a hole through a table tough as cardboard— that was a low he hadn't hit in a while. He could recount exactly the few times he'd been that red-faced in public, and identify a common denominator that made his search for nicotine all the more urgent.
Kunikida, Kouyou, they get to do their fucking job even when Dazai is around, he thought, going through his coat. The shitty wine had been stronger than expected— his gloved fingers slipped on the inside lining twice. He could still feel Dazai's hand on his, the point of contact on his wrist fizzling like TV static, poison ivy. He wanted to rip the patch of skin right off. He wanted to lick it like a dog until it didn't feel like Dazai anymore.
A cigarette fell onto the street from the pockets he'd turned inside out.
He looked around.
Dignity wasn't his best suit, no matter how hard he struggled to pretend: his childhood had left him with the knowledge that he would do anything to survive.
Nothing was below a person in need. Most people never had to live with it. It was a knowledge that would forever stain him: people are animals, and he was more animal than most.
No matter how dignified he could dress, move or — attempt to — talk, when no one could see, he still picked the spare cigarette off the dirty alley floor.
He lit it with shaky fingers and immediately relaxed, sliding down against the alley wall. Took a deep, satisfying drag.
Almost immediately the reason of his grievances popped out of the back door. «You don't smoke.»
Chuuya blew a puff of smoke in his face. «Your mom swallowed. Is it opposite day?»
«Mh, Chuuya's quite irritable tonight,» Dazai commented to a nearby trashcan. He seemed lucid enough, even though he'd been downing drinks all evening, to Kunikida's dismay. He inspected Chuuya's figure closely, without a doubt searching for somewhere to steal a cigarette from. «And he's smoking, which means he's either stressed out of his skin, or he's trying to scratch an itch.»
«I have no itch. Not everyone has lice past kindergarten, Dazai.»
«Unfortunately, I know your itch very well, slug.»
The back of his hand, his wrist, his knees and legs heated with the phantom of Dazai's touch. «No, you don't.» he crushed the cigarette butt against the wall and chucked it into a bin. Whatever calming effect the nicotine had, Dazai's voice was washing it away far too quickly. He needed a drink, or a bottle. «You know my stress very well. It's you.»
«I happen to think the two coincide.»
«Yeah, you're right, I do want to scratch you out of existence, since you can't be fucking bothered to do it properly.»
He turned to find Dazai one palm away from him, oddly somber.
The closeness made Chuuya's head swim. Or maybe it was the vapors of cheap alcohol coming from his partner: the booze seemed to be as strong as it was bad.
Dazai mouthed «I do», and Chuuya felt something churn in his stomach at the dark, dense, sickly bittersweet of the words, poisoned thorns wrapped all around with a twisted smile.
«No, you don't,» he said slow and steady, trying to hold his ground.
Dazai huffed, skeptical, and it hit Chuuya straight on the forehead.
Heat rushed to his cheeks. «You stink.» Like you're rotten. But disgust couldn't account for the sweat dampening his gloves.
Staring up at his partner, Chuuya started to believe he wouldn't get out of this all in one piece.
Dazai towered over him, leaning forward just for the sake of invading his personal space until their coats caught on each other and their breaths mixed.
He stared down at Chuuya with dark, unreadable eyes and a mocking grin, so contradictory and yet they both suited him so well.
So well, Chuuya just wanted to lift his head and bite those chapped lips until he drew blood. He could've bet that somehow, some part of him would've found that familiar, too.
Dazai's smile tensed.
The urging sense of danger in the back of Chuuya's mind grew louder.
«I do,» the detective repeated, no longer dripping with honey. «I know why you asked to be here with Kouyou. Why you didn't turn around or throw a fit when you saw me instead of Atsushi, why you didn't even move seats. You expected me to be here. In fact,» there was a hint of triumph in his voice. «You want me here.»
Chuuya took a step back, air caught in his lungs. «You don't know shit.»
«I actually believe I hit bullseye, my flea-ridden friend,» Dazai purred.
One step forward, and they were toe to toe again.
«You showed up tonight. You'll show up next time. You're overseeing the deal with the agency, even though Mori didn't ask you to, even though you have more important things to do. You do. I checked. You'd rather smoke in a dark alley than go straight home, because you know I'll follow you.» His voice lowered. «You miss me. And it's driving you crazy.»
Chuuya's eyes widened.
His insides froze, stomach sinking through the floor. Go fuck yourself. No, it wasn't enough to just tell him to go fuck himself, Chuuya had to chew him up and spit him back out, wreck his face, break his bones and leave him to bleed out on the cold floor where he belonged, decomposing among cigarette butts and used needles.
Yelling at him wasn't nearly enough punishment for the words he'd dared to say.
Which on its own was great, because when Chuuya reached for something to yell, he found nothing.
Unfortunately he couldn't find the strength to raise his fists either.
The heels of his shoes hit the wall.
«But you know you shouldn't. It was fine when you were scratching it by punching my face in. Now that coping mechanism is gone.» Dazai continued as if listing out the given data of a particularly lengthy math problem, almost lost beneath the noise and music coming from the street. «I'll ruin that pretty little balance you created for yourself. And that terrifies you, because even then you're not sure you would turn me down.»
His grin wavered.
He braced himself on the wall with one arm, cornering Chuuya entirely. From the look of it, the alcohol was finally getting the best of him: he seemed troubled on some level, which was charming in its own way, as Chuuya could count on one hand the times he'd seen Dazai troubled.
«Well, now's your chance to prove yourself. Just tell me no, and I'll back off. Prove you have a backbone. And we'll never talk about this again.»
Chuuya's heartbeat pounded in his temples.
His fingertips tingled, he wanted to push Dazai away, deck him in the jaw but he couldn't, his body didn't respond, his mind didn't respond, he didn't want to.
Four years waiting for the chance to get Dazai's blood on his hands, four years…
The taste of it when he'd climbed out of that basement, how he'd sucked it out of his gloves when no one was looking.
He watched as Dazai's eyes lidded, as his smile faded and he inched closer.
Confusion bled through as the distance between them shortened.
«Just say it. And we'll go back in there as partners.»
His voice was kinder than ever.
«No consequences. I swear.»
I'm offering you a glass of poison, pure poison, telling you it's poison. Go on. Put it down.
Chuuya stared at his partner's lips, thin and pale and curved downwards, the scars running across them shining in the shadows, then he looked away.
He knew if there ever was a right time to punch Dazai in the face, this was it. His hands shook. But they didn't move.
He was, after all, just an animal.
Understanding took over Dazai's features, then pure sorrow, almost grieving.
He stopped just an instant too early.
Short, shaky breaths landed softly on Chuuya's lips— a voice inside him begged for more, more, more; another one screamed to fight back, get away, kill it before it kills you and he wasn't sure which one was his.
His mind cleared when Dazai spoke.
«Please,» he whispered. Voice thin, small. Sincere. Not meant to make it past the filter. «Please, Chuuya.»
A frozen instant.
Commercial pop music from the open back door. Voices, chatter- much happier people with much easier lives drinking their sorrows away in good company. Had one of those guys glanced out in the alley, seeing the pair hidden just outside the neon lights, he would've laughed and called them lucky.
How misguided.
Chuuya gritted his teeth.
But he didn't speak.
Dazai looked down at his lips first, then at the floor, reaching for something to say. For once in their life, they were both quiet. He took a shaky step back, arm falling to his side.
Gloved hands grabbed the collar of his shirt and pulled.
It only lasted enough time to think what the FUCK am I doing? before they both jerked back as if burned. Stunned, lips left slightly agape, Dazai stumbled backwards, while Chuuya's shoulders hit the wall. Shivers ran down his spine.
Dazai blinked several times. «Shit.»
Chuuya let out a murmur of agreement. He rubbed his face, an excuse to touch his lips- his mind refused to process the idea of Dazai's mouth pressed on his, skin on skin, scratchy, broken lips, the taste of cheap alcohol, and he'd seemed so fucking sincere for the first time in four years, so…
Shit.
Dazai had begged him.
Dazai wanted Chuuya to tell him no.
Dazai now looked at him, shoulders dropping, confused and lost and disappointed.
«Why,» he whispered flatly. «Why didn't you- why do you do this to yourself.»
«I-» Chuuya's mind buffered. Was there an answer? «You're the one that followed me out here.» An answer that made sense?
«To mess with you!» But he wasn't laughing. «To see what you would do! To get punched in the guts until I throw up!» Judging by the taste of his mouth, he'd already thrown up before going after Chuuya. Better not to think about it.
«Well, tough fucking luck. Next time you can just tell me no yourself.» There was no anger in it.
Chuuya took a deep breath and started to walk away. He needed a proper cigarette, or ten, he needed to sit in his kitchen and drink himself stupid. Leveling towns didn't get his heart this close to failure. «Make sure to tell Kunikida… whatever the fuck just happened, I know you want to, he'll have me on trial for sexual harassment in no time. Put the bill on my tab.» It would've been going there either way.
The salty sea air hit his face, cold as if on a winter night. All of a sudden, Chuuya was very sober and very, very stupid.
Oh, well. One of those he'd been all his life.
As he walked onto the deserted street, Dazai called after him. «But you do miss me, then.»
Chuuya looked back.
His partner stood in the dark alley, long coat grazed by the yellow light, swaying gently from side to side as if he couldn't figure out just how to split his weight in half.
A hesitant smile, cheeky, mocking. Scared. Hollow black eyes pointed on Chuuya, waiting.
«Yeah,» Chuuya said flatly. «Good joke, Osamu. You got me.»
He walked home with the taste of whisky on his tongue, not feeling anything at all.