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“What’s this?” Dazai asked him on that day, so long ago. “Is Slug trying to assassinate me because I became an executive before him, hm ? A tiny bomb for a tiny dog~”
Even after years have already passed, Chuuya still remembers the look on Dazai’s face when he gave him the small, black gift box. The grin cutting Dazai’s face was dripping with tease, a perfect image of mockery that would sparkle in the one visible eye even when faced with a barrel of the gun from their enemies. Chuuya remembers his jokes and feigned indifference carefully veiled over his expression, sprinkled with flakes of curiosity so well hidden away, no one else would have seen it other than him.
But there was also something else.
A single ray of genuine emotion, of light that didn’t belong in their world.
It was so out of place and faint, Chuuya didn’t actually notice it at first, not consciously. Even if he had, he wouldn’t have been able to name it; eventually, he’d tell himself that back then, Dazai looked like a child holding a precious toy in his grasp. Almost innocent, if not for the blood neither of them would ever wash off from their hands. Chuuya didn’t know what he was looking at because, back then, he was the same: a child walking the path of an adult.
A path they both chose, but neither truly wanted.
A path they thought they chose for themselves.
Ever since becoming an executive, Dazai would act high and mighty around Chuuya, all on purpose. He would show off and carry himself as if he was an actual adult, someone more important than he actually was, someone who knows better and someone who can and will command others as he wishes.
Someone who did exactly that.
It was one of the reasons Chuuya had gotten what was resting in that small, simple box on Dazai’s palm. A somewhat mocking in itself but also a genuinely congratulatory gift, worth three months of Chuuya’s pay just because if it were any less, it would have given Dazai an opportunity to flaunt his position and how much better he’s getting paid.
A wrist watch.
Nothing fancy and overly decorative, but a simple, silver one.
Like the ones all of those adults that Dazai played to be one of, would wear.
“If I actually tried to assassinate you,” Chuuya scoffed at the time, turning away from Dazai to hide the smallest curl of his lips at the sight of that dark, usually emotionless eye sparkling so brightly in the dim light, “you wouldn’t see it coming, shithead. And just so we’re clear, you would have never become an executive if it wasn’t for me and Corruption, so you’re welcome .”
“Ah, someone is being a sore loser again~”
In hindsight, he kind of did act like that, but only because Dazai was acting like a spoiled brat and flaunting every little thing right into Chuuya’s face without any provocation whatsoever.
Yet, that day, there was a smile behind the grin.
A child behind the executive.
“Whatever,” Chuuya muttered. “Do with it whatever you want.”
And again, Dazai did.
He wore the watch over the bandages and never spared Chuuya from comments about it, teasing the redhead about how he must admire and look up to him so much, to be giving him such extravagant gifts. Sometimes, it would almost make Chuuya regret he had gotten it for him, but whenever that thought crossed his mind, he would remember the shadow of a timid smile on Dazai’s lips.
Or what he thought was one.
Because now, over five years later, Chuuya finds himself thinking he may have misread it all along. The Demon Prodigy is gone, the bandages don’t hide Dazai’s face from the world anymore, and the watch…
It’s not there anymore.
Figured, Chuuya thinks the first time he sees Dazai’s wrists with only the bandages covering them. It’s a memory of the past, a reminder of Dazai’s mafia days that he has made sure to keep a secret from even his coworkers. Chuuya wouldn’t be surprised if it got dumped in some old pit, together with everything else Dazai used to own.
Or better, if Dazai had left it in his car and bombed the watch along with it when he left. It would suit his style, for sure.
It’s a reasonable conclusion.
Traitors don’t look back and they certainly don’t wear gifts from their enemies.
And it does not sting, not at all. Three months worth of pay wasn’t even that much. Whatever.
Other than the scarce joint missions when it’s absolutely necessary for the future of Yokohama and its safety, Chuuya has no need, or intention, to stay around Dazai. What he doesn’t see, can’t remind him of the stupid ideas his younger self would get. He can’t act more grumpy than usual if Dazai isn’t there to induce it, or see Chuuya’s face to begin with.
Until he is.
Until for some odd reason — quite unlike the usual, stoic bastard, if Chuuya can say so — Dazai gets drunk one night. Not the tipsy, swaying from side to side kind, but actually, nearly passed out drunk.
And, of course, the one that has to suffer through it is—
Bzzt! Bzzt! Bzzt!
Bzzt! Bzzt!
Bzzt!
It’s 2AM already and Chuuya has been trying to get some sleep since he finished work earlier than usual. “Trying” being the crucial part, because his phone has been going off for almost an hour now, over and over and over again.
Eight times Dazai called him.
Eight times Chuuya hung up on him.
Eight times asking to pick him up and eight refusals.
Yet, it’s like Dazai doesn’t understand what “no” means, or that enemies shouldn’t be picking each other up from bars when one of them can’t walk anymore. Yet, Chuuya doesn’t put his phone on silent. He can’t.
What if there’s an actual emergency?
What if he’s needed somewhere?
He has never blocked Dazai’s number in the four years after his defection — because, you know, reasons and shit — but now the bastard isn’t getting a clue at all, and Chuuya’s nerves are about to snap if the constant buzzing doesn’t stop. Right. Now.
Bzzt! Bzzt! Bzzt!
Bzzt—!
“Fucking Hell, Dazai!” Chuuya hisses, shooting up on the bed and nearly crushing his phone in his grip. “ Fine! But if I get there and your shitty ass is nowhere to be found, I’ll personally pay every establishment in Yokohama to ban you from even entering!”
Beep!
“ Fuck, ” Chuuya half–sighs and half–groans as he throws the duvet off of himself and slides from the bed, the call already disconnecting — but his phone doesn’t light up anymore. “Where in the world are stupid Agency people when you need them? What a joke.”
Fortunately for everyone involved, including the bar owner, when Chuuya gets to the place Dazai’s calls were connecting from, the brunet is still there. In body, at least, because Chuuya wouldn’t dare say his mind is anywhere in this world anymore.
He’s sitting at the empty bar, partially having slid off the stool and with one foot on the floor to keep himself from falling. He’s slumped over the countertop, head turned to rest his cheek on one forearm, while the other is stretched out and hangs from the other side and onto the bar area. Not only that, but he’s drooling onto the surface; his hair is a mess even more than before and his clothes are wrinkled all over, his shirt untucked on one side.
That’s the thing with Dazai.
He only gets drunk once in a blue Moon, or even less than that, but when he does, it’s worse than anyone else Chuuya has ever seen. He’s not the type to look for a fight so it’s not like he’s risking getting killed because of it, but he’s such a pain to take care of.
Rolling his eyes, Chuuya steps into the establishment, feeling warmer air wash over his body. He picked whatever clothes were at an arm’s length in his closet: simple jeans, an old t–shirt and a leather jacket he wears on his days off. It’s enough during the day but it’s already autumn and the nights get colder and colder with each passing day.
“Dazai,” Chuuya calls out.
Nothing.
“Oi, Dazai.”
Nothing. Again.
Sigh. “Did this drunkard pay already?” Chuuya asks the bartender, fully expecting to be forced to cover Dazai’s bill as well. He wouldn’t even mind anymore, he pities the man for having to put up with Dazai’s yearly drunken shenanigans.
However, just as Chuuya is about to take his wallet out, the man speaks, and he does so with a kind smile and a warm look in his eyes.
“He did.”
Even more surprisingly, the bartender doesn’t sound angry, or exasperated. He’s calm and his voice threads suspiciously close to fondness — maybe he’s used to customers embarrassing themselves like that. Who knows?
“Oh. Okay then.”
(Or maybe he’s heard so much about that “short redhead boy,” he can’t help but smile now that he can see why the troublesome customer would talk about him for hours.)
Chuuya knows better than to ask how much Dazai actually had to drink, he prefers not to feel disturbed by that knowledge. He steps closer to the slumbering drunkard and pokes his back instead, nudging him awake.
“Dazai,” he tries again. “Get up already before I decide to leave. I’m not carrying you out of here.”
It’ll stay a mystery whether Dazai has been faking it all along, or if Chuuya actually managed to poke him awake, but the brunet’s eyes squeeze tighter, then blink half–open as he squints to focus his vision. It doesn’t seem like he can see much and he’s definitely still drunk, but at least has enough strength to pull himself up.
“Chu…u…ya…?”
“Who else, you bandaged ass? Come on, you’re being a hindrance.”
Because it is the middle of the night and because Chuuya drove to the other side of the city to pick him up — why couldn’t Dazai pick a bar closer to where they both actually live? — Chuuya will pretend he has never been the one to fall asleep at the bar after drinking too much. The right to hypocrisy is the privilege of being the one to pick up another drunkard, even if it’s merely a momentary prize.
Of course, Dazai cannot, for the love of anything, stand straight, let alone walk.
Chuuya lends him a shoulder, draping Dazai’s arm around his neck and keeping him from falling as he guides them both to the car. The brunet keeps dragging his feet and stumbling over the steps but eventually, he’s seated on the passenger seat, looking like he’s starting to sober up at least a little bit.
He isn’t.
Not with how strongly Chuuya can smell whiskey on him.
It’s just the night air cooling his head enough to fade off any remnants of sleep from his eyelids, but he’s still very much drunk and not in his right head.
Chuuya doesn't need him to be sober, all he wants is for the ride back to be calm and easy, so that he can get back and sleep . He doesn’t say anything and only focuses on the road ahead, and similarly, Dazai’s hazed gaze stays on the views outside the window as his head sways with every turn the car makes.
He’s uncharacteristically calm.
That is, until he brings one hand up to his chest to pat himself.
From the corner of his eyes, Chuuya notices the moment something shifts in his ex–partner. He sees him freeze, how his eyes widen so far back, it must hurt, and how much clearer they appear all of a sudden, more aware. It’s strange but decoding a drunkard’s mind is a futile exercise; Dazai isn’t hurt, so there’s no need to—
“Go back,” Dazai says, so quietly, Chuuya almost misses it.
He wishes he did, because what in the world does Dazai even mean by that? They’re already half a city across from the bar, turning around now would make the entire night unnecessarily longer than it already is.
“Hah?” Frowning, Chuuya keeps driving. “ No ? What the hell?”
If only it were that easy, though.
Just like with his persistent calls before, Dazai does not show any sign of giving up. To make things worse, it seems like he’s willing to do literally anything but listen to Chuuya. “Go back,” he mumbles again, already fumbling with his seatbelt to unfasten it. “I have to go back.”
It’s a matter of habit. Chuuya never actually locks car doors when he’s driving because during the missions, he ends up having to jump out of nearly every vehicle he drives in one way or the other. Which means that if Dazai tries it, he’ll—
“We have to go back!”
And, oh, he’s absolutely thinking about the same thing, even when drunk.
“Oi, Dazai! Stop it! Just—!”
Chuuya hits the brakes and locks the doors just as Dazai is about to force them open. The car comes to a stop in the middle of the street with a loud screech, both of them shoved forward with the sudden force. Chuuya still has his seatbelt on but Dazai doesn’t — the only reason he isn’t smashing his head on the dashboard is Chuuya’s hand flat on his chest and pushing him back in his seat.
It’s an instinct to save him.
Another habit Chuuya doesn’t actually control.
Because Dazai deserves a punch for that stunt just now.
“What the fuck?!” Chuuya snaps at him, glaring at a half–out–of–it brunet, who only now shakes himself of the shock. “You asked me to pick you up, Dazai, and I did! I’m getting your ass back to that sorry excuse of a dorm when I could just leave you there by yourself! We’re not—!”
“Turn around,” Dazai cuts him off, breathing out every word like it’s suffocating him. It’s as if he isn't hearing a word Chuuya is saying. “ Go back. ”
The way he is now, is even worse than his usual, annoying asshole self. That Dazai gets under Chuuya’s skin but he’s fairly easy to deal with, but this? Chuuya has no idea what has gotten into him all of a sudden.
The genuine look in Dazai’s eye throws him off.
How distressed he seems.
“ Why? ” Chuuya asks through gritting teeth, gripping the wheel with one hand to stop himself from snapping at someone who isn’t even in the right state to understand what anger looks like. “You had enough to drink already. If you think I’m—”
“I left my coat.”
They’re lucky it’s the middle of the night and there are no cars driving around them.
“Your coat?” Chuuya repeats, dumbfounded as he’s trying to process the answer.
Dazai is, indeed, without it, but that’s how he looked when Chuuya picked him up. He assumed the brunet wasn’t wearing it tonight, but maybe it was somewhere on the floor…? Regardless, it’s not enough to have Chuuya turning back and depriving himself of even more sleep.
“It’s just some cheap ass shit, Dazai,” he groans, starting the car again. “No one is going to steal it. You can make the trip yourself tomorrow and get it.”
But Dazai doesn’t listen. When the doors refuse to open and the car passes another intersection away from the bar, he starts thrashing and trying to grab the steering wheel himself. Then, he’s trying to lean over Chuuya to take the driver’s seat instead, and when that doesn’t work either, he’s all but fighting for the button to open the door with the car still moving.
Chuuya manages to fend him off at first, but Dazai is persistent enough when he’s sober, and when he’s drunk? It’s impossible to explain common sense to him. Fighting a drunk ex–Demon Prodigy of the Port Mafia while trying not to crash his car proves to be too much of a pain to deal with, especially since they’re still a while from the Agency.
It’s too bothersome and dangerous.
It’s too much and Chuuya isn’t even getting paid for it, so—
“ Ugh, okay, stop it already!” Once again, the car makes a high–pitch, screeching sound when Chuuya makes a sudden U–turn in a place where he absolutely shouldn’t be doing that. “We’re going back! See? Now stay the fuck down and stop sit still for a godman second!”
As if under a spell, Dazai calms down instantly once he notices that they are, in fact, driving back to the bar. Once again, his eyes are glued to the window and the views of the sleeping city flashing on the other side, but he’s still tense. He isn’t thrashing but he’s fidgeting, impatience written all over his face and his fingers tapping his knees in quick successions.
He can only stay still for so long, though. Barely enough to stay seated while the car is moving. The very second Chuuya stops and unlocks the doors, Dazai is already stumbling out and nearly tripping on his own two feet.
Feeling a weird sense of duty, Chuuya follows after him, solely to make sure he doesn’t kill himself by falling off the stairs. Because that would be a problem for the bar, not because Chuuya cares . Of course.
The bar is completely empty now, not a single customer in sight. When Chuuya steps inside again, he gets a feeling the bartender has been trying to close up for the night already. He’s met with a quirked brow and unspoken questions, though not a single hostile comment, from the older man, and…
Indeed, Dazai’s coat is still here.
Pooling on the floor under a stool a few seats away from where Chuuya found him previously. Which isn’t much of a surprise, the brunet can’t sit still for shit when he’s drunk. Or when he’s sober, for that matter.
What is a surprise, however, is the sight of Dazai not picking it up, but throwing himself to kneel on the floor next to the dirty material instead. It’s almost frantic, the way he pats the coat as if he’s searching for something.
Because he is.
He finds it in the inside pocket that, if he ever bothered to wear the damn coat correctly, would be right over his heart. And the object Chuuya sees him hold so dearly, sees him caress gently with his fingertips as if it’s his treasure, it’s—
A watch.
The watch.
The one Chuuya got for him all those years ago, when they were still partners.
As if Dazai has already forgotten about Chuuya’s presence — and the executive’s body is frozen still at the sight in front of him, his breath caught in his throat and his heart coming to a halt — the brunet lets out a long, relieved sigh as he brings the watch to his chest.
It’s a dangerous look on Dazai, this one. Too fond, too relaxed, and…
Too honest.
It’s everything Dazai hides every day, always has and always will; the emotions he locks away willingly, both from his enemies and colleagues. From friends, even, and from himself.
Yet, here he is, showing that and so much more as he mumbles to himself something Chuuya doesn’t hear over the high–pitched ringing in his ears, because—
Dazai kept it?
Even though he left? Even though they’re enemies now?
It’s only when the bartender clears his throat much louder than necessary, that Chuuya is pulled back to reality abruptly. He shakes himself out of the initial shock, blinking several times as air floods his lungs again and he realises:
Dazai. On the floor. With the watch.
On the verge of passing out again.
“Oi, Dazai! Don’t you dare fall asleep on me!”
Another futile attempt, truly.
Confused, conflicted, exhausted and annoyed, Chuuya drags Dazai out of the bar for the second time this night, with the damn coat. He hauls him to the car and pushes him onto the backseat this time, fastening his seatbelt before the brunet slumps to the side and falls asleep with the watch clutched in both hands.
For all the times he’d complain about struggling with sleeping, it looks like it comes to him easy tonight. He looks like a baby, a child snoring softly while the car rocks him deeper into his dreams — a baby smelling of alcohol, that is. And quite strongly still.
The ride — the second attempt at it — goes much smoother, obviously. It’s silent and uneventful, even the traffic light playing in Chuuya’s favour. Once they arrive, Chuuya keeps grumbling and cursing under his breath about how this isn’t any of his responsibility, and yet, he drags Dazai to his pitiful dorm apartment anyway. He sits him down on the floor and takes out the old futon, then helps the brunet lie down and…
Before Chuuya closes the door behind himself, he spares Dazai one last look.
A long one.
Long and… painful, somehow.
Not sorrowful but full of melancholy that’s engraved into his very bones, singing at his core no matter how much Chuuya tries to ignore it, or how loud other cries carry their melodies.
But here isn’t his place, he knows it, and so — the door clicks, the night breeze howls, and Chuuya goes back to his own bed, in a completely different part of the city. To the apartment shrouded in shadows long and cold, even on the brightest of days, while Dazai stays where he now belongs, in a place where the shadows are never truly dark.
And Chuuya sleeps. Alone.
They both do.
***
It’s been weeks since that night and Chuuya has been doing his utmost best to avoid interacting with the Agency in any way if he can help it. He isn’t sure what kind of face he should make the next time he sees Dazai, or what to say.
Does Dazai even remember what happened?
Realistically speaking, he has to.
It’s not often that Dazai gets this drunk and he acted precisely in the way his sober self would never allow him to do, which means he had gone several times past his limits, but Chuuya highly doubts Dazai’s mind would be kind enough to let the man forget it. Unless that is the reason they haven’t met even once, because Dazai is avoiding Chuuya as well.
Because he does remember and… regrets it?
If Dazai is even capable of feeling an emotion like regret, that is.
All of those questions stack up in Chuuya’s head on top of his usual responsibilities and him processing the revelation of seeing Dazai holding onto that old gift so dearly, as if he couldn’t live without it. It made Chuuya’s head hurt in the first week, now every day it’s throbbing thanks to his damned ex–partner.
And so, Chuuya does what works best to keep him occupied:
He works.
And works, and works, and works, and ignores everything else, even his own health.
Until weeks have already passed and Chuuya finds himself in the same bar he once picked Dazai up from. Alone, the bartender polishing the glasses at the end of the bar and a third glass of wine empty in front of Chuuya.
It’s not exactly his bar of choice. He didn’t even know it existed until he was forced to act like a babysitter of an overgrown child in the middle of the night, but their wine isn’t half–bad and there’s no one to disturb his peace. What was it that drove him here of all places, when he can afford the best places in Yokohama without batting an eye?
Chuuya isn’t sure.
He doesn’t want to think about it.
He was driving back from a mission and passed by the familiar alley, and before he knew it, he was already sitting down on one of the stools. The bartender is a nice, older man, probably a bit older than Hirotsu. He seems kind and doesn’t mind Chuuya’s drunk rambling, he even offers a comment or two from time to time.
What the bartender can’t offer, however, is the answer Chuuya seeks, be it of hope or defeat.
Slumped over the counter — but not drooling, thank you very much — and exhausted after his mission and after weeks of resurfacing memories, Chuuya doesn’t notice it when his eyes flutter shut, the alcohol buzzing in his head like a muffled lullaby.
Nor does he notice the bartender calling someone.
When someone’s arms hook under his body and lift him up from the stool, Chuuya’s instincts don’t feel the need to wake him up — he’s safe , that’s what they whisper to him. But maybe it’s better like this, because it means he’s spared from seeing that same person driving his car without asking for permission.
Maybe it’s better, because Chuuya doesn’t have to see Dazai’s expression when the brunet lays him down on the bed and brushes long strands away from his face.
Maybe, in another life, it would have been better and easier if they used words instead of silence, the same words that burn in their chests and infest their hearts like wild weeds with roots that sink deep and wrap around the most vulnerable parts. They used to understand it, the silence.
In a way, they still may.
Still do.
Come morning, Chuuya wakes up with a grimace, hangover throbbing in the back of his head — his apartment, empty. Everything is the same as any other morning, except that he’s still wearing his mission clothes and doesn’t remember actually getting back, and…
There’s one more thing:
A watch, placed on his nightstand, right next to Chuuya’s phone.
Blinking his sleep away, Chuuya feels his heart sink deeper with every passing second as he pushes himself up to sit on the bed, and with it, all sorts of emotions start to stir in his chest. The breath he takes, it’s seething with anger Chuuya thought he had already gotten over. The tremble of his fingers as he reaches for the watch is that of hopeless fear, of heartbreak that has no place in the dark.
In the mafia.
He feels stupid for letting himself hope for anything else than this when he has always known it’s the only end for people like them, but also — it’s for the better. That’s what Chuuya chants in his head. It’s better if this ends here.
Like this.
Quick and easy. No words needed.
It should have ended — actually ended, not only be put on hold — years ago. The connection between them cut and its roots burnt to a crisp, the ashes scattered into the sea, where there is no coming back from.
It’s for the better.
Why does it hurt so much deep down, then?
It’s for the better.
Why does the watch feel so heavy, so cold in Chuuya’s hand?
Why—?
“...huh?”
The brand is exactly the same, so is the model. There are small alterations but it could be that Dazai simply broke it at one point and had it repaired in the past. Except, the longer he looks down at the watch in his hand, Chuuya can’t help but frown. It’s in a good condition, suspiciously good, and as he turns it between his fingers—
For Shitty Dazai, The Annoying Mackerel
That’s what he’s supposed to see, because that’s what he had the watchsmith engrave into the back of the watch five years ago. He paid extra for the fancy font, too.
But it’s not there.
Instead, Chuuya’s eyes widen as his gaze travels over the elegantly engraved lines, something as simple as three words stealing his breath and tightening his throat on a silent choke, when—
For My Partner
It was a farewell that Chuuya reached out for but it’s a greeting that he sees before him, resting on his palm so easily, it feels unreal in its simplicity.
A greeting. A question.
A promise.
And on top of it, an annoying proof that Dazai is just as much of an allergic–to–emotions–and–talking–shit–out brat that he was in the mafia. A proof he still uses plans and trickery to make his point, never his words.
A proof he hasn’t changed that much, not where it matters.
A proof the two of them continue to be more alike than either of them would like to admit.
It’s stupid, Chuuya finds himself thinking as he enters the next joint meeting between their organisations. I hate him, he thinks when he sees and ignores Dazai, walking to his seat instead of indulging the teasing remarks about his height.
You better not mess this up again, bastard — his eyes seem to scream, when azure irises meet dark gold orbs.
A question and an answer.
A smirk for a smirk.
A watch for a watch, one held safely over one’s heart and one hidden under a black glove, where one’s humanity lies.
A shadow of the past taken into the light and a ray of love lighting up the cold night.