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“Get the fuck out,” Chuuya sighs out, rubbing his face with his hands.
Dazai beams. “You’re looking exceptionally ugly today, Chuuya.”
Chuuya glares at him. Mostly because he knows Dazai is right—he knows he looks like shit, as he always does after hard missions. Partly because Dazai is standing happily on Chuuya’s apartment balcony like he’s been living there his entire life.
“What do you want,” he snaps. “If you’re going to play another stupid mind game—”
“Chuuya,” Dazai says, looking affronted. “It’s not my fault your tiny brain can’t process normal conversation.”
Chuuya’s hand closes around the hilt of his knife, hidden up his sleeve. But Dazai’s eyes flit to the movement immediately, and he just grins. Chuuya swears under his breath and lets his arm fall down to his side. The clock on his wall reads a bright 2:37 am, and Chuuya really, really does not have the capacity to deal with Dazai’s cryptic bullshit.
Circles. That’s all they talk in nowadays: fucking circles.
“God, please,” Chuuya says emphatically. His gaze flits upward to the sky in a half-assed prayer. “Please just fucking die already.”
Dazai huffs, and Chuuya hates that he can hear the smile without even looking. “Oh Chuuya,” Dazai drawls, his voice grating over Chuuya’s skin like sandpaper. A prickle of irritation snakes its way up Chuuya’s neck but he forces himself to stay silent, looking stubbornly out onto the city lights. “You know I’d want nothing more than to die. Are you—” A dramatic pause. “Are you wishing me well?”
“Like hell,” Chuuya snaps back, glaring at the skyline. “I hope every stupid plan of yours goes wrong, and that you fail miserably and never get anywhere, and—
“Chuuya,” Dazai cuts in. The uncharacteristic calm of his voice has Chuuya turning around in confusion against his better judgement, but when he catches Dazai’s eyes they’re fucking twinkling. “Are you saying you want me to stay alive?”
Chuuya has never wanted to throttle someone more in his life.
“I don’t give a damn,” Chuuya says, words hot and false on the tip of his tongue. Because he refuses to give Dazai the satisfaction of catching him off guard. “Dead or alive, as long as I don’t have to see your ugly face I’m happy.” A moment of blissful silence stretches between them, and Chuuya almost lets the tension drop from his shoulders where he’s hunched over on the railing, but he makes the mistake, again, of looking at Dazai.
“Cut it out,” Chuuya grits between his teeth. “Stop trying to fucking—read me, or whatever. I know that face.”
Dazai blinks, and a sparkle of amusement replaces the blank, calculating stare in a manner of seconds. Chuuya vaguely feels like throwing up. “Don’t flatter yourself,” he replies cheerfully. “As if anyone wants to read you.”
Chuuya gnaws on the inside of his cheek for a while. Thinking. “Stop fucking lying,” he settles on finally, because he’s too tired to come up with anything better.
“I never lie,” Dazai says immediately. His eyes are dark. “That’s more your thing.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Chuuya hisses. God, his head hurts. “I hate you.”
“Exhibit A,” Dazai murmurs quietly, and Chuuya freezes. When he takes a breath in again, the cold air hits his lungs like a splash of hot water and it fucking burns. Jaw clenched, he raises his head to look at Dazai and is greeted with an infuriatingly calm stare. Knowing. Thoughtful. Relaxed, as if Chuuya couldn’t very well kick his legs out from under him and have Dazai pinned against the floor with a knife to his throat in the blink of an eye.
Dazai may have been the more strategic one in the partnership, but damn if Chuuya is going to let him play his stupid mind games any longer.
“Yeah?” He presses lightly. Nonchalantly. He looks at Dazai again and holds his stare down, pressing his hands tight against the railing so Dazai doesn’t see them shake. “If it’s not hate then what is it?”
Silence. Dazai doesn’t flinch, or falter—Chuuya doesn’t think he’s ever seen Dazai falter in his entire life—but his eyes narrow for the shortest of seconds before they return to normal and the heat of satisfaction shouldn’t burn as good as it does in Chuuya’s gut, dangerous and fiery.
He doesn’t even know what he wants Dazai to say, to be honest. Doesn’t really know what to expect, aside from something that is decidedly not the truth. Because hell would probably freeze over before either he or Dazai touched whatever this was with a ten-foot pole. This being an absolute shitshow of unspoken words and emotional constipation packaged neatly into a few flimsy snapshots: Dazai’s hand firm around his wrist; I used Corruption because I trusted you; if it’s not hate then what is it?
“Your hands are shaking,” Dazai says quietly. It’s the closest thing to truth he’s said all night and Chuuya’s gloved fingers clench into fists.
“Yeah,” he snaps, but it lacks the bite he was going for. Chuuya looks away from the bottomless pits of Dazai’s eyes. “Wonder why.” He doesn’t even bother trying to hide the tired sarcasm bleeding into his words, just stares wordlessly out at Yokohama and wonders if Dazai is ever going to give him a straight answer.
Another stretch of silence, before Chuuya realizes Dazai isn’t going to say anything and he just grunts in frustration. This is a lost cause. He doesn’t know why he expected something to actually happen, when all their conversations have been like this since the day Dazai stumbled gracelessly back into his life after four years of pin-drop silence. Circles. Mazes. Mind games. Chuuya can barely read Dazai on a good day, much less in a tired, cold, post-mission fatigue.
“It’s not that cold,” Dazai says suddenly, a glint back in his eyes. “Didn’t know you were so weak to the cold, Chuuya.” Chuuya turns his head to look at him incredulously. As if his hands are shaking from the fucking cold.
The twitch in Dazai’s lips doesn’t stop, and Chuuya seethes. “I’m not fucking cold,” he forces out evenly. “I’m—” And then, because the universe truly, truly has a vendetta against him, a gust of wind hits him like a slap to his face and he shivers despite himself. Reflexively, his hand snaps up to keep his hat in place.
Dazai’s eyes follow the movement. “That ugly hat,” he sighs loudly. “I’ll never understand your attachment to that thing.”
Chuuya snaps.
He knows Dazai is baiting him, but he lunges anyways and grabs onto the lapels of his coat. Dazai doesn’t even move, just lets Chuuya drag him down to eye level as he blinks lazily and stares at him. His eyes have gone dark again. White hot anger boils over in Chuuya’s veins, because this fucking bastard. He knows exactly how much the hat means to him. And he knows damn well why Chuuya treats it like it’s made of gold.
“I fucking hate you,” he repeats, for what feels like the millionth time.
Dazai doesn’t bat an eye. “I just don’t see the appeal of sentimentality,” he drawls. And his tone is light, but his stare is burning hot against Chuuya’s face as Dazai’s gaze scorches over his eyes, cheeks, lips. Chuuya blinks a few times, hands loosening their grip on Dazai’s coat. His brows draw together in irritation as he glares at Dazai. Heat creeps up the back of his neck from a blend of anger, frustration, and the unmoving weight of Dazai’s eyes on his mouth.
Fuck this cryptic shit. “Are we still talking about my fucking hat,” Chuuya mutters.
A ghost of a smile finds its way onto Dazai’s mouth. “It’s just a hat,” he says serenely. Chuuya snorts. Of course he won’t answer the fucking question.
Dazai is still looking at him. Chuuya tears his eyes away after a few moments in favor of looking at the ground, because he can’t fucking focus with Dazai’s eyes carving out pieces of himself like they’re knives. It’s deadly quiet. And it’s cold. And Chuuya’s head has not stopped pounding but he forces himself to think. I just don’t see the appeal. Chuuya shoots daggers at the cement beneath his feet. Of sentimentality.
“Well,” he exhales slowly. He raises his head to lock eyes with Dazai again, and Chuuya wonders if Dazai can hear the rush of blood in his ears telling him danger. “Maybe you don’t see appeal, you piece of shit. But—” He swallows. Pauses. Shrugs. “I’ve always cared more than you have.”
Chuuya’s on the ground in seconds.
He chokes out a noise when his back hits the floor but before he can even get a word out Dazai is looming over him, knees bracketing his hips and pinning him down. One of his arms rests heavy against Chuuya’s chest so he can’t even sit up, goddammit. Chuuya’s hand creeps towards the knife in his back pocket but Dazai slaps his hand away and the weight of the action is enough to force him to look at Dazai again, staring angrily up into unreadable eyes.
“Exhibit B,” Dazai says, voice impossibly low. And Chuuya’s brows draw together at that, eyes squinting in confusion.
“What the fuck?” The implications of the words nestle themselves like a knife to his chest and the force of it is enough to make him stop struggling against Dazai’s weight for a second. He glares. “You think I’m lying? I’ve always been the one who cares more—don’t fucking try to tell me that you—”
Chuuya bites down so hard on his tongue he draws blood.
Dazai doesn’t say anything. The unsaid implication that you care more presses down heavily in the suffocating air between them like a deadweight, and the knots in Chuuya’s stomach untie, retie, untie. Seven and a half years of dangerous missions and overseas trips, but foreign territory has never felt quite like this.
“I don’t lie,” Dazai repeats evenly. “That’s more your thing.”
Fucking circles again. “Yeah right,” Chuuya just sighs, feeling the fight leave his body as exhaustion swoops in and tackles him with unexpected ease. He’s too tired to keep up with Dazai’s cryptic answers anymore. “You’re the biggest liar I know.”
The wind picks up again. “Not about this,” Dazai says, voice tight. And when Chuuya looks up again, really looks, whatever words he’s planning to say die in his throat because there’s something so distinctly human about the way Dazai is looking at him—as if he’s scared Chuuya is going to disappear at any moment. Dazai’s arm is loose against his chest and he doesn’t say anything when Chuuya pushes it off, pulling himself off the ground to sit crisscrossed across from Dazai.
“Shut up,” he forces out finally, heart thudding in his chest. Dazai’s expression doesn’t change, and Chuuya really doesn’t know what the hell to say in response to that. So he steels himself, embarrassment and irritation flush against the back of his neck, all-too-aware of the faint heat in his cheeks and says, looking straight at Dazai, “And stop fucking looking at my mouth, dumbass.”
Dazai grins. The fucker. And Chuuya curses the way his eyes crinkle attractively around the smile. It’s quiet when Dazai takes Chuuya’s left hand and pulls gently at the glove to reveal the pale, scarred skin underneath. Chuuya frowns despite himself, as he always does when he has to see his hands ungloved. Dazai doesn’t say anything—just brings his hand closer and slots their fingers together. And for one blissful second, Chuuya doesn’t think about anything else except Dazai’s hand in his, the edge of his grin, the want in his eyes.
“It’s never going to work,” Dazai says, not looking at him.
The world doesn’t come crashing down—not quite. The words are expected, in a sad, sort of twisted way. They barely even sting. Chuuya snorts. “No shit,” he mutters. “Of course it’s never going to fucking work.” Not even with the occasional revival of their old partnership. Not even with the temporary truce. Not even with all the amends in the world. Chuuya can’t think of a single goddamn universe where he and Dazai would ever work.
Dazai just hums at that. Chuuya looks over, trying to gauge a reaction, but all he sees is Dazai’s gaze out into the distance, soft and thoughtful.
A shift in movement. “Hey,” Dazai grins, eyes dancing as he looks over. Chuuya can already feel fond rush of irritation pulsing underneath his skin. “How long?”
Blood rushes to his face with unexpected speed and just like that, the gloomy severity vanishes. “Fuck you,” Chuuya bites out immediately, turning away from Dazai. “I’m not fucking answering that.” Embarrassment weighs hot and heavy in his veins and he stubbornly keeps his head turned even as Dazai leans in and pokes his cheek annoyingly. Chuuya slaps the hand away, cursing. His heart thuds unevenly underneath his skin.
“Chuuya,” Dazai purrs.
“No,” Chuuya snaps. “I already said—”
“Moonlight Trickery,” Dazai says, and then smiles like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
Chuuya gapes. “That wasn’t even a month in.” He tries to draw his hand away from Dazai, palm sweaty, but the other stubbornly refuses to relinquish his grip and Chuuya just sits there and positively burns. “What the hell?” He tries again, and now the embarrassment rests unyielding on his body. “That long?”
“I never lie,” Dazai huffs out. Chuuya chances a look at him and even though the other is infinitely more composed than he is, Dazai’s eyes are flitting around in an obvious pattern of uncertainty and Chuuya just sighs, feeling the warmth in his body spread down to his toes.
“Fake Flower Deceit,” he forces out finally, pointedly avoiding Dazai’s gaze.
“I win,” Dazai gloats, and Chuuya rolls his eyes.
“It’s not a fucking competition,” he points out, before being dragged back into his thoughts again. And then, before he can think better of it, “Why didn’t you ever…”
Dazai carefully, slowly, untangles his fingers from Chuuya. “It’s never going to work,” he repeats, eyes hard and unreadable as he looks at Chuuya. Right. A weight drops in Chuuya’s stomach, and—not for the first time—he wonders just how long Dazai had been planning to betray the mafia.
“Yeah,” Chuuya replies tonelessly. “Don’t tell me shit I don’t know.” The cold air of Yokohama at night prickles against his face and for a dizzying, reckless moment he almost considers reaching for Dazai’s hand again. Or something even worse. He presses his hands to his forehead and sighs heavily.
“Chuuya,” Dazai starts suddenly. Chuuya’s head snaps up to meet his gaze and Dazai has that stupidly human expression on again. His eyes are soft, more open than Chuuya has ever seen them, and his heart fucking hurts.
The shrill ring of Chuuya’s phone cuts through the moment in an instant and Chuuya swears, fingers fumbling as he pulls out the device and checks the caller ID. Even though he knows there’s only one reason he’s getting called at ass o’clock in the morning.
Dazai’s eyes flit to Mori’s name on his phone and looks at him.
“I—” Chuuya tries, words catching in his throat.
“Answer the phone,” Dazai says quietly.
His eyes stay on Chuuya, dark and shuttered off while Chuuya’s phone rings, and rings, and rings. Chuuya swallows, fingers clamping down tight around the vibrations of his phone. “Don’t fucking break into my apartment again,” he settles on finally. But his voice is weak, and his hands shake, and Chuuya has never felt more helpless in his entire life, sitting on the floor of his apartment balcony on a windy Thursday night.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Dazai scoffs easily. “You’re forgetting the fact that I hate you.”
Chuuya has four more rings before it goes to voicemail. He swallows, licking his lips, and Dazai’s eyes trace the movement with practiced ease. “Exhibit C,” Chuuya mumbles, his pulse racing like it’s trying to escape his own body.
Two more rings. Dazai smiles, wide and open and unabashed.
Chuuya picks up on the last ring, standing up and turning around to walk back into the confines of his apartment. The call is quick—a new mission. Semi-urgent. People they’ve faced before. Chuuya’s glove hits him square on the back of his head halfway through Mori’s description of the location. He closes his eyes. A few more seconds, some grunts of confirmation, and the line goes dead.
He turns back around to an empty apartment.
Chuuya picks up the glove from the floor of his apartment and tugs it on gingerly, before padding over to his balcony door. He chances a look out onto the Yokohama skyline one last time, the city lights burning bright and unrelenting against his tired eyes.
“Fuck you,” he says into the silence. Simultaneously to no one in particular and everyone in the whole world. Maybe to the cold. Maybe to God. Maybe to Mori. Maybe to a suicide-obsessed mafia traitor.
He slides the door shut.