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There were times when Chuuya looked at Dazai and became uncertain of what to do. He would be torn between an itching irritation and an (equally, if not more) annoying infatuation; between prying a street sign from the ground and killing that bandage roll in one solid hit—to approaching him with timid footsteps and a false sense calmness, his palms too sweaty for his liking as he fumbles to entwine their fingers and maybe mumble words of affection that Dazai hears but says sorry, what was that? to because he just wants to hear the lull of Chuuya’s voice one more time.
Today, a sunny yet bone-chilling autumn day, Chuuya mentally marks a tally under infatuation.
(He hates himself for it.)
(Then, when he sees the way Dazai’s lips curve in a content smile, he decides to cut himself some slack.)
There’s a burning in his chest as he takes in the sight of Dazai, his limbs lax and his shoulders free of tension. He looks something close to tranquil, basking in the sunlight like some sort of sleeping housecat; his chin tilted upward to catch the rays, and Chuuya thinks it’s unfair—the way his surroundings seem to freeze in time around him once his eyes focus in on Dazai like prey. Chuuya can almost feel the soles of his shoes become one with the concrete beneath his feet, and for a moment, Chuuya imagines his hands snaking up Dazai’s sides, his fingertips grazing firm back muscles as he curves them where Dazai’s shoulders and neck meet.
Chuuya feels his ears redden and suddenly he realizes it’s much harder to swallow than it was twenty-three seconds ago.
He looks away.
(But he always looks back.)
(In the back of his mind, Chuuya knows it’s inevitable, and after two years, he stopped wondering why.)
“Oh? Chuuya,” Dazai’s voice greets his ears, and if it wasn’t for the fact that he knew the bandaged man was almost twenty feet away, Chuuya would have sworn he felt the heat of Dazai’s breath against his ear. “What are you doing? Come here.”
Chuuya narrows his eyes, a retort on his tongue until he realizes Dazai is standing in the middle of the street. Hurriedly he rushes over, his grip tight on Dazai’s elbow and no, Chuuya tells himself, your heartbeat is definitely not spiking. “You idiot,” Chuuya hisses, giving the bandage roll a satisfying push (shove) onto the sidewalk (face first), to which he may or may not have had a little help from his ability. “Don’t just stand in the middle of the road. No one needs a bug on their windshield.”
Dazai hums at that as he reaches toward Chuuya, seemingly oblivious (but no, he’s never oblivious) to Chuuya’s now wide-eyes and flushed cheeks. It’s comical, Dazai thinks, the way the redhead’s face pales instantly when he wipes his dirtied hands on Chuuya’s jacket. “Well, well, Chuuya,” Dazai sing-songs as he settles back on his feet. He takes a pause to fold his arms across his chest, and another to bring an index finger to his lips in artificial thought. “I’ll admit… I had no clue you cared for me so.”
“Idiot,” is all Chuuya says.
“Ah, a wonderful term of endearment,” Dazai says, and Chuuya doesn’t try to suppress the roll of his eyes or the snort. When he looks over to Dazai, he doesn’t expect to see softness in those eyes, replaced by the usual mockery and calculated spite. The sarcasm on Chuuya’s tongue dissipates to speechlessness as the redhead finds himself rooted on the spot by that softness. “However,” Dazai continues on, inching closer so he’s able to rest his forehead against Chuuya’s—and Dazai doesn’t even mind that he has to bend to Chuuya’s height. “I prefer honey, or maybe sweetheart, okay, lover?”
Heat radiates from Chuuya’s cheeks immediately, another thing that Dazai finds comical yet achingly adorable. His smile may or may not be smug (your smile is either shit-eating or smug, no in between, Chuuya once told him), but the warmth in his chest is something else entirely. Dazai watches as Chuuya shuffles backward, the palm of his hand rubbing where their foreheads met.
“You—“
“Yes, lover?” Dazai sing-songs, and he’s almost positive the tenderness where he thinks his heart is shouldn’t be there.
If possible, Chuuya becomes redder. He narrows his eyes, his lips pursed in a thin line as he turns on his heel. “Shut up and follow along,” is all he says, and Dazai wonders if the guy would argue profusely if he pointed out that Chuuya had sounded breathless.
Dazai sighs dramatically and gives a pout although the hat-rack can’t see it. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” he calls out, a small chuckle following suit as he watches Chuuya come to a stop.
Chuuya looks over his shoulder, and he means for his glare to be menacing and fiery, but as he builds up the courage (with the help of Dazai’s stupid, stupid, stupid soft-tender-patient-pouty smile), Chuuya can feel the heat in his eyes melt like gold over an intense flame.
“Come on, s—sweetheart.”
***
Weeks later, when Dazai stumbles into their apartment reeking of blood and a back alley dumpster, Chuuya wonders if he should mark a tally under irritation.
He tries not to wonder why Dazai smells so bad.
“Looover,” Dazai calls out. A wet cough strangles his endearment. Chuuya tries not to let fear swell as a coppery scent fills his nose. “I’m home!”
Chuuya doesn’t mean to stomp (run) through the apartment, really—he struggles with himself internally to blame it on that (god damn idiot dickhead asshole waste of oxygen) bandage roll, the very one and the same who left Chuuya to carry all their groceries back to the apartment. Of course, lady lucky gave him the cold shoulder as it started pouring down rain halfway back.
(His hurried footsteps have nothing to do with the loud thud he heard in front of the door.)
(His wide eyes and the sweat on the back of his neck have nothing to do with the wet coughing, the metallic scent that’s so thick in the air he tastes it in the back of his throat.)
(The spike of his heartbeat has nothing to do with the way Dazai calls out, lover, lover, I’m home.)
(Chuuya struggles to decide where the tally should actually be going.)
“Dazai,” Chuuya hisses frantically, wide-eyed and there’s a million things he wants to say; ranging from what the ever loving fuck, you’re bleeding and coughing all over the floor to shitfuckohmygod, are you okay, Dazai, what happened, did they even know who they were messing with—
“Lover,” Dazai sing-songs, his laugh wet and gargled. “I got in a fight!”
“No,” Chuuya says immediately, ignoring the heat in his cheeks and his hands are definitely not shaking as he hoists Dazai up with the help of his ability. He doesn’t think about the warmth of Dazai’s blood seeping into his clothes, or the way Dazai allow himself to be weak in the moment, letting Chuuya support his weight. “Got in a fight, my ass. What the hell ever.”
“Alright, so maybe—“ a coughing fit here, audible splatters of blood on the floor, “—maybe I let them beat me up.”
“Why? Do you want to die?”Chuuya asks, and then: “Don’t answer that. Don’t even talk.”
Dazai laughs, all too hearty and carefree for his current situation, and when Chuuya mentions that as he settles him gently on the bed, Dazai all but laughs once more. The redhead doesn’t suppress the roll of his eyes as he turns toward the bathroom, and he doesn’t have a chance to try to suppress the hitch in his breathing when Dazai’s fingers circle his wrist.
“Where are you going?” Dazai asks, and Chuuya can’t help but think that he seems small and vulnerable in the moment, although that’s a ridiculous assumption.
“I need to clean you.”
“My very own sponge bath from Chuuya,” Dazai sighs dreamily, and Chuuya has to remind himself that the idiot is seriously injured and anymore hits could kill the guy. He opens his mouth to tell the bandage roll to shut the hell up, don’t move don’t speak, reserve your strength, but the little circles Dazai’s tracing on the inside of his wrist has his warnings trickling away to an afterthought. “Do be gentle with me, Chuuya.”
There’s another burning sensation in his chest as he takes in Dazai’s words. Chuuya hums, and when he feels his eyes growing softer, he doesn’t fight it—even though he can see the slight sliver of light peeking from Dazai’s eyelids. Chuuya thinks it’s strange: this sensation, the softness he feels deep within himself and the very same softness that he sometimes catches Dazai looking at him with.
He tries not to think about it too hard.
“Dazai,” Chuuya says instead, and he hates how breathless he sounds.
“Who?” is Dazai’s weak reply.
The redhead snorts, rolls his eyes and really, he isn’t sure where the tally should go this time around. Chuuya places his free hand atop Dazai’s on his wrist, ignoring the flicker of loneliness as he places Dazai’s hand on the bed. “Sweetheart,” Chuuya says, and he isn’t sure what possesses him to bend at the waist, to place his forehead against Dazai’s. He feels the other stiffen only for a moment before relaxing once more, seemingly melting into the mattress.
“It has a nice ring to it,” Dazai breathes, his laugh weak. “Doesn’t it, lover?”
Chuuya ignores the scent of blood as he nods, and the tickle against his skin where their hair mingles brings him a strange sense of comfort. “Yeah,” he says, mentally marking a tally under infatuation as well as mentally kicking himself. “It has a nice ring to it.”
***
O grantors of dark disgrace—
Like this, Chuuya can’t feel anything, yet there’s an itching on his skin that refuses to quit.
There is no irritation or infatuation; no sense of time nor light to catch his eye. His body grows lighter, yet there’s a certain power lingering in his bones and his mind draws a blank but he can still feel it reeling. Chuuya feels stuck in time yet it’s as though the clock is plummeting forward into the future without him being aware.
Chuuya barely hears the soft scratch of his gloves hitting the dirt.
—do not wake me again.
The ground cracks beneath his feet and the air yields to the palms of his hands, the flicks of his fingers. He’s powerful and mighty, mindless and unaware. His skin darkens as if he’s rotting, and his breathing stutters as oxygen thins out; his eyes are blank and colorless and his lips are parted but no sound escapes.
He feels nothing yet the strain is already taking toll on his body; blood drips from his ears and floods his mouth.
Raw power escapes the palms of his hands—one, two, three balls of pure nothingness eat up and destroy his opponent, and Chuuya doesn’t register that his enemy is defeated. He raises his hand, a sickeningly wet laugh escaping parted lips as destruction settles in his bones as if they were home. He doesn’t take in the smell of copper or the distinct scent of spilt guts and charred bone.
However, he feels gentle fingertips curl around his wrist, and he hears what he thinks is his name in a voice that’s oddly familiar, and—
“Chuuya,” Dazai says, and there’s something in his voice that confuses Chuuya momentarily. “The enemy is down.”
The world comes back in two punches: one to his gut and the other to his chest.
“Come back, Chuuya,” Dazai says, so Chuuya does.
He collapses forward, his breathing ragged and his body shuddering. There’s a moment before he realizes he’s in Dazai’s arms and it’s Dazai’s heartbeat—steady, alive, warm—he hears in his ear. His eyes are unfocused but the smells are all he needs to know that the mission was a success.
Kill the bastards that almost killed him.
“Dazai,” Chuuya says instead, and the rumble of laughter he hears in the bandage rolls chest is a comfort that Chuuya never (always) knew he needed.
(Sleepily, almost unknowingly—but that’s just his excuse—he marks a tally underneath infatuation.)
“Lover,” Dazai sing-songs, and he imagines Chuuya rolling his eyes. When he feels shaky fingers grip at his coat, he gathers Chuuya closer to his person. “Let’s go home.”
“Yeah,” Chuuya mutters, slurred and quiet—and Dazai could have sworn he heard a sweetheart before Chuuya went completely limp in his arms.
***
Chuuya isn’t sure what to call it, isn’t sure if he even wants to think about it. He racks his brain for the word he’s looking for, but it seems fruitless when the redhead is so uncertain from the beginning.
A month after using Corruption, he looks over to Dazai and wonders what to call the feeling. There’s warmth that courses throughout his blood as he takes in Dazai’s relaxed shoulders, the way his body seems free of a suffocating weight. Dazai seems as if he’s enjoying the moment, the low murmur of other costumers and the music from the coffee shop’s radio nothing but background noise as his eyes watch the people outside the window.
Chuuya hadn’t realized he’d been staring until Dazai leans in closer, and Chuuya doesn’t miss the softness in his partner’s eyes, nor the teasing.
“What’s the matter, Chuuya?”
“Nothing,” Chuuya says, nonchalant. Mostly the truth, he muses, and busies himself with folding the decorative napkin in front of him.
“Are you trying to figure out how to confess your undying love for me?”
“Yes,” Chuuya tells him immediately, and then, fighting but losing the battle of rising heat in his cheeks: “Wait, what? No. I’m not. Don’t be stupid.”
Dazai hums, a content smile (read: smirk) on his lips as his eyes look Chuuya up and down. Pink ears and flushed cheeks: check; wide shifty eyes: check—Dazai’s full attention on the hat rack in front of him: check; his chest swelling with warmth, what he only realized was infatuation days prior: check.
“Idiot,” Chuuya’s still rambling, but the heat behind his words seems to travel to his face instead. Desperately, he hopes no other soul in the shop they’re in hears them. His hands are shaky fists on the table top, and he contemplates running out of the shop like a bat out of hell. “Stupid. Suicidal maniac, bandage roll, asshole. I can’t believe you’d even think that.”
“Oh?” Dazai hums, a pout on his lips as he rests his chin in his hand. “I was thinking it, though.”
“Oh, of course,” Chuuya scoffs with a roll of his eyes. “You were—wait,” he interrupts himself, and Dazai thinks it’s comical, the way Chuuya’s face pales only to bloom with color as the words register. “You—I, what—Dazai—?“
“Speechless, lover?” Dazai hums in question, his smile gentle but Chuuya can sense a cat-like mischief in it. “I was really thinking about it. My suicidal ways don’t seem to make you swoon—“ he ignores Chuuya’s well, obviously in favor of continuing on “—so I was racking my brain for ways to profess my love!”
Chuuya takes his turn to hum, a foreboding sense of doubt in his stomach as Dazai takes his dramatic pause. He watches as Dazai snakes a hand toward his own, fingertips probing until his fist comes undone. Embarrassment and something so close to contentment it makes him wonder takes residence in his chest as Dazai circles his fingers in shapeless motions against his wrist.
“However, I couldn’t think of one.”
At that, Chuuya throws his head back and laughs—and laughs, and laughs; so much that other costumers turn their heads to look at them, some amused while others are annoyed. Alarmed, Dazai ducks his head a bit, trying to peer into his partner’s face. “Chuuya?”
With a snort, Chuuya’s laughter comes to a slow stop; with his free hand, he wipes at unshed tears and pats his chest as he clears his throat.
“Chuuya?”
“That’s very… like you, lover,” Chuuya says, and if Dazai hadn’t been listening so intently, he’d have missed the endearment, it was said so softly.
Dazai laughs, the upward tug of his lips effortless as he traces a heart on Chuuya’s wrist, and he looks up just in time to see the hat rack’s scowl, the flush of his face. “Isn’t it, sweetheart?”