Archive of Our Own

Chuuya stared at the notification for a moment, the shock rendering him motionless, pressing the pen he had been using into the paper until the ink pooled into a black blob. He let go of the pen and grabbed his cell phone.

Kouyou injured, the text read, the words only truly processing as his body sprung into motion, standing abruptly from his desk and its paperwork, and making a beeline for the door.

Mori was a man of many mysteries, most of which Chuuya was not privy to, even after years of working with him. It was normal for his text messages to be vague, even cryptic. Sometimes, he texted Chuuya over trivial matters, most frequently begging him to entertain Elise, but at other times his messages were short and dry, aiming to get a point across quickly.

Never had he been informed over text message that somebody was injured, though. Those types of notifications usually came in the form of a phone call or were relayed through a subordinate.

These facts all ran through Chuuya’s brain in a flash as he booked it to the Port Mafia Headquarters’ infirmary, uncaring to the mafiosos he bumped shoulders with and got confused stares from on the way.

Other than Mori and Hirotsu, Kouyou had been his one constant since joining the organization, and although the woman was fully capable of protecting herself when she was in danger, the curt message from the boss had set off alarm bells in his head. Why tell me unless the injury was fatal? he couldn’t help but think, the question repeating in his head over and over and not allowing any other coherent ideas to come forth as he continued traversing the hallways.

After what seemed to be simultaneously an eternity and only a few moments, he made it to the infirmary doors and was greeted with the sight of Mori standing and speaking tersely to two men clothed in white.

“Boss,” he greeted apprehensively with a slight nod, catching the man’s attention.

Mori signaled to one of the men, gesturing to Chuuya, and followed the other through a pair of doors with hurried steps.

The doctor quickly explained to Chuuya that Kouyou had been undercover on an operation when her cover had been blown, resulting in an altercation during which she was affected by an ability that scrambled her mind, leaving her unable to defend herself. She had been shot twice in the abdomen before she was able to be extracted from the situation and was in critical condition.

Chuuya paced as the information was relayed to him, doing his best to take measured breaths and keep his emotions in check.

“Why the fuck didn’t anyone show up earlier? Why was she alone? She’s a fucking executive!” he spat, but the other man did not reply, simply watching Chuuya walk in a line, back and forth. Although he logically knew the doctor to be making the smart decision by keeping quiet and not trying to give answers or assurances he did not have, it still infuriated Chuuya to no end, the silence over and underwhelming at the same time. He clenched his fists and let them relax a few times, pressing crescents into his palms with his fingernails, focusing on that pinching sensation.

Eventually, Mori appeared once again from those double doors, and Chuuya stopped dead in his tracks. The man wore a small smile, and Chuuya felt every muscle in his body relax.

“She’s stabilized,” the boss said simply, and Chuuya nodded, releasing a shaky sigh.

“Good,” he said what felt like a beat too late. Then, “Can I see her?”

“She’s asleep,” he said simply but beckoned Chuuya to follow him back through the metal doors, leading him through white, sterile hallways and into a white, sterile room. He hated the infirmary, how its walls seemed to close in on him, how it always smelled of antiseptic that he knew covered the scent of blood and death.

He stood at the threshold of the door, not taking a step closer as he watched Kouyou sleep. The sheets were pulled up to her collarbone, and he could see some nasty bruises blossoming on her jaw, the black and blue in stark contrast to her sickly pale skin. Her hair was not in its typical updo but pulled back into a low ponytail, her bangs splayed messily across her face, still damp with sweat.

The sight made Chuuya’s stomach churn, and he regretted having sushi for lunch, suddenly feeling the urge to expel it. He kept a straight face, though, and repressed the sensation to the best of his ability. Mori was hovering behind him.

“She’s stabilized?” he asked, although he was fully aware he was repeating what Mori had communicated earlier.

“Yes. She’ll need to rest and heal, but she will be alright.”

“Good,” he said, turning and walking past Mori, not meeting his eyes. “I’m goin’ back to work.”

Mori did not protest, humming his acknowledgment as Chuuya turned on his heel and made for the door.

He left the infirmary, the frustration and distress pumping adrenaline through his veins slowly numbing, as if someone had syringed morphine into his heart. His steps were quick and measured as he made his way back to the office, head tilted down and letting his subconscious familiarity with the building carry him as his mind reeled.

Eventually, he made it back and sat down at his desk once more, staring at the document in front of him. It hit him then that something felt completely and utterly wrong in his body, like the world around him was fuzzy.

It wasn’t the turning of his stomach caused by anxiety, nor was it the familiar stress-induced tension in his muscles, he just felt off. He looked down at his hands, clenching them again so his nails dug into his skin, and he felt the pain of it, but he somehow felt that the sensation was fake.

Brows furrowing, he shook his head, clenching his fists a few more times and only having the same odd feeling that the pinch was not real despite the fact that he could physically feel it.

He figured that this feeling was a stress response to the situation, but the unfamiliarity of the sensation was throwing him off. His coworkers and friends getting injured wasn’t an uncommon occurrence in this line of work, but he had never reacted this way before. Despite his discomfort, he’d told Mori he was returning to work, and intended to carry out his responsibilities. He was still capable of completing the tasks at hand, after all. So he dabbed white-out on the blob of ink he’d accidentally let bleed onto the document earlier and set to work.

It was all muscle memory — he was carrying on as usual, but he also wasn’t. There were moments when he completely forgot that he was doing the paperwork, but he continued to write and sort, nonetheless, like he had been put in autopilot mode.

At some point, a firm knock sounded against his door, and he beckoned the person in. It was Hirotsu, hands clasped behind his back and keeping his distance, remaining near the door once he had closed it shut behind him.

He brought up Kouyou, having known that Chuuya had been informed about her situation. Chuuya said something about being glad that her condition was stabilized, though it had been a bit jarring to see her in that state, all things expected of him to say. Hirotsu lingered for a few moments after replying, as if he was anticipating something else, probably one of Chuuya’s characteristic outbursts, but when nothing came, he bid Chuuya farewell and stepped out of the office.

Having been sufficiently distracted from his work, Chuuya stood from his desk, intending to pace his office as he sometimes did when he had been sitting for an extended period of time. When he stood, though, it was as if reality glitched, and even though he was fully aware of the fact that he was standing, he still felt as if he was sitting. He imagined that if he had dreams, this is what they would feel like — almost real, but not quite.

Confused by the odd sensation (or, lack thereof), he checked his watch, wondering how much longer he was obligated to stay. While he was typically perfectly content to continue working even past when he was expected to, the not-rightness in his body made him feel uneasy and he didn’t want anyone else to see him, lest they pick up on his condition. Luckily for him, time seemed to have passed quicker than anticipated, and it was appropriate for him to head home at this point, so he quickly shrugged on his coat, leaving his office and heading for the parking garage beneath the building’s foundations.

Only half-aware of the world around him, he managed to ride his (Albatross’) motorcycle home, though the memory of it was a bit cloudy, as if another entity had taken over and driven him through Yokohoma and brought him up to his penthouse. Sitting on the floor of his living room, he stripped his gloves and pressed his hands into the soft carpet, trying to focus on the texture of it, but this didn’t seem to help. The fuzziness of the rug felt the same as his perception of reality.

Increasingly worried and uncomfortable with the situation and yet so numb to anything, Chuuya didn’t quite know what to do. He hated the detachment he was feeling, the alienation from everything around him— from himself— and it was messing with his head. The only way he could find fit to describe it was that he did not feel real — he did not feel like a person.

Arahabaki was the only thought running through his mind, the realization hitting him like a ton of bricks. He could perceive his surroundings, but it was as if there was a layer of glass between him and reality, and although he could control his actions now, he felt so utterly disconnected from his body that he wasn’t convinced it was going to last.

Was the god dwelling within him taking advantage of his emotional vulnerability, pushing forward and trying to force its control over him?

He robotically pulled out his phone and punched out a text message. Usually, he’d find shame in this action, in calling upon someone for help, but in this situation, there was only one person who could quell the thing that he felt was taking over his body and would soon consume his mind, and he couldn’t find it in himself to be embarrassed at that moment.

And if Dazai could nullify his goddamn ability, then he was going to call on him.

Maybe it was two minutes, or maybe it was twenty, but after some amount of time Chuuya heard a knock on his door, and he looked up, though it still felt like his head was still tilted down at the ground.

“Come in,” he called through lips that weren’t his own.

“If you were using Corruption this building would be in shambles, you know,” Dazai said bluntly upon entering, flicking on the light and taking in the sight of Chuuya sitting on the floor. He saw the other man give him a quick once-over and even registered the slight scrunching of his features.

“It’s not that— but it has to be Arahabaki,” he said, reaching a hand out. It felt like a mannequin’s. “Just get rid of it.”

Dazai hesitated, doubt painting his features, but grabbed his wrist anyway. Chuuya waited for the icy cold of No Longer Human to slither through his veins and relax his muscles, but the feeling never came. It didn’t even feel like Dazai was touching him, though he could clearly see that he was.

“It’s not working,” he muttered.

“No shit, Sherlock,” Dazai countered. Chuuya didn’t care to think of a witty comeback.

“It’s not— what the fuck is happening, then?” Chuuya said, only faintly registering that Dazai was still gripping his wrist loosely, that his eyes were scanning him, that scrutinizing gaze was boring into his very soul. “I’m not— it doesn’t feel like I’m here.”

“Ah,” Dazai said quietly, letting go of Chuuya and disappearing for a moment. Chuuya’s gaze was locked on his coffee table, he couldn’t find it in himself to look away, as if the thing was hypnotizing him into having a staring contest. A moment later, Dazai returned and pressed something cold and wet into Chuuya’s palm.

“What the fuck are you—?”

“Hold it,” Dazai said, moving Chuuya’s fingers so they closed around what he now recognized as an ice cube. “Focus on the sensation.”

The defiant part of Chuuya wanted to drop the ice, but the logical side won out, knowing that Dazai probably had a reason for making him do this, one of his stupid plans. So, he zeroed in on the almost burning cold of the cube against his palm, the fingers that now tightly gripped it, as well as the sensation of the melting ice dripping down the sides of his hand. He squeezed the ice into his hand even more, pressing the freezing object into his sensitive skin.

He almost expected to see his arms and hands painted red when he stared at them, but he did not. Arahabaki was not taking over his body, was not forcing him from control. As the ice melted in his grasp, he began muttering this to himself, uncaring of Dazai’s staring as he did so.

Eventually, a towel was given to him, and he wiped his hand and arm dry, the cold water having run all over it and onto the carpet itself. He felt a bit more grounded, a bit more in control, though the unsettling feeling from earlier had not entirely departed. At the very least, his hands were his own again, enough that he registered how cold the one was and pressed it to Dazai’s only exposed skin other than his hands — his cheek.

The other man recoiled, as expected, and Chuuya let out a laugh at the reaction. It wasn’t very often that he could catch Dazai off-guard, and if he was going to allow him to see him in this state, he was going to mess with him as much as possible.

“I take it you’re feeling better, then?” Dazai grumbled like a petulant child, though his gaze was still calculating, taking in Chuuya’s expressions and movements and making deductions.

“That’s what you get for puttin’ ice in my hand,” he said with a lopsided smile. Scooting a bit so he could rest his back on his couch. He saw the gloves on the floor and decided to leave them be, pressing his hands into the carpet again and letting his fingers play with the fibers.

“I was trying to help, believe it or not!” he shot back defiantly as if the very notion of attempting to help Chuuya was something he already regretted.

“You’ve always got some ulterior motive,” Chuuya pointed out with a light snort, rolling his eyes. His actions still felt automatic to a certain degree, the typical push and pull he was used to with Dazai, but the world had come into better focus, he was more engaged than he had been prior.

“You’re the one who texted me nothing but ‘nullify it’ — what was I supposed to do? I can’t kill you myself if Corruption gets the job done.”

And that was something else that confused Chuuya. Now that he was coming back to himself, he realized that the uncomfortable detachment from his body that he had been experiencing was eerily similar to his experiences using Corruption, which is why he had become convinced that the feeling was related to Arahabaki.

Yet, Dazai hadn’t been able to nullify the feeling with his ability.

“What the fuck happened to me, Dazai?” he asked tersely, almost certain that Dazai had the answer he was seeking since he seemed to know how to handle the situation.

“You haven’t realized it yet?” he replied, tilting his head curiously. Chuuya vaguely registered the question as an insult, but there was a layer of something else to it, too. “You experienced a dissociative episode, Chuuya.”

He nodded, the explanation made some sense to him. Dissociation was a concept he was somewhat familiar with, if only because of the stories he heard and the intense nature of his line of work. He wouldn’t be surprised if Dazai himself was knowledgeable because of firsthand experience.

But that’s what didn’t make sense about this. Chuuya had been through much worse, had witnessed more disturbing scenes, and he wasn’t like Dazai one bit — so why the hell had he experienced this? Why now?

Did it matter?

“You want somethin’ to eat? I’m starving,” he said suddenly, after letting Dazai’s statement sit for a few moments. The latter let out a light huff of a laugh, probably at the incredibly un-smooth transition, but held his tongue on the matter.

“Sure,” he said, shrugging nonchalantly, and while part of Chuuya hated himself, knowing that both of them knew Dazai was Ietting him do this, giving him this power because of how insecure he currently felt, he stood up anyway.

He wasn’t hungry — or rather, he still wasn’t cognizant enough to register the feeling of hunger in his body, the barrier between himself and reality still steadily melting away. Even so, he made his way to the kitchen, hell-bent on preparing food, because it was something to focus on other than his fragile mental state or the fact that he had called on Dazai of all people to deal with it.

“You want a drink or somethin’?” he offered to Dazai, whose eyes had been following him around the kitchen as he gathered ingredients as if he were a lab rat in an experiment. “Or are ya just gonna stand there like a weirdo and watch me cook?”

“How very generous of you to offer!” Dazai exclaimed, perching himself on the counter and grinning widely. “Perhaps I should help you through emotional crises more often.”

“Keep talkin’ like that and I’ll change my mind,” he threatened, but still poured him a glass of whiskey. He hesitated briefly before retrieving another glass and pouring some for himself, as well.

“Since when do you drink whiskey?” Dazai inquired as Chuuya handed him his drink, leaning forward a little with genuine earnestness.

“Since I’ve had to keep it in my apartment for a certain fiending fish-face,” Chuuya said after taking a sip from his own cup. The slight burn of the alcohol in his throat was a welcome sensation, familiar and warm. “If I’m gonna buy this shit, I might as well drink it from time to time.”

Dazai hummed, apparently finding the explanation acceptable enough to keep his mouth shut. A few minutes of silence lapsed once more as Chuuya began adding pre-cooked rice to a pan on the stovetop, slightly wary of the fact that the other was still watching him like a hawk as he moved them around with chopsticks. He knew it was just Dazai doing what he typically did — overanalyzing, overthinking every aspect of every interaction — calculating, predicting, dissecting.

He was like Mori that way — even Kouyou, to an extent.

Again, he saw her in that hospital bed, deathly pale, only her head peeking out from under the sterile, white sheets that hid whatever had happened to her body. Had she been bleeding out when she arrived?

Chuuya hated the human imagination for the things it could sear into his mind, as if he hadn’t seen enough of his friends actually die.

“Chuuya, you know how to cook, don’t you?”

He hated how sharp his inhale was.

“Shut the fuck up,” he muttered, looking down at the pan. The cooking oil was sizzling loudly, which had become slightly stuck to the metal from not being moved. “You’re one to talk.”

“At least I know to stir ingredients so they don’t burn,” Dazai remarked.

“Shut up.” His stirring became aggressive.

“What’d rice ever do to you?”

“Stop fuckin’ looking at me like that!” he snapped, not even bothering to cast a glance at the other man, who he could hardly see out of the periphery, still seated on the counter.

“The rice?” Dazai questioned innocently, shifting a little to look at the contents of the pan. “It doesn’t have eyes, so I don’t think—”

“You, asshole!” he snarled, finally turning to him, locking eyes. “You know I’m talkin’ about you!”

Dazai held his gaze, ankles crossed together, forearms resting on his thighs, both hands cradling his glass. He seemed entirely unbothered by the outburst, an innocently blank expression plastered onto his face. After a few seconds of staring each other down, he tilted his head slightly.

“I’m just looking at you.”

“No, you’re analyzing me,” he shot back, keeping eye contact for a moment longer before turning back to the stove. “I know I called ya here, but— just—” he huffed, shaking his head, “don’t fuckin’ look at me like I’m somethin’ to be solved.” A beat. “Or pitied.”

Dazai let out a light snort, earning a glare in response. “I don’t pity you. Never have.”

“Then why the hell are you here?” he asked, glaring at the pan in front of him, at the sizzling of the cooking oil. “And don’t say it was about Corruption — you knew damn well that wasn’t what was goin’ on.”

“That’s not entirely true, I was ninety-seven percent sure it wasn’t that, but there’s still that three percent.” A beat. “I still had to check.”

“Okay, well you’ve got your gold fuckin’ star for bein’ such a good samaritan,” Chuuya all but growled, continuing to stir the contents of the pan aggresively, uncaring about the splashback of the hot oil. “You can leave now.”

Dazai took a sip of his drink, his tongue poking out for a second to lick the moisture from his lips. “I don’t want to, though,” he remarked with a shrug.

Chuuya didn’t know what to say to that.

He knew that he was lashing out, that Dazai, for once, didn’t fully deserve to be on the receiving end of his ire. He had come, he had helped, he had seen Chuuya in a vulnerable state, and was now making sure he was okay like the goody-two-shoes he was pretending to be nowadays.

The thing was, it didn’t really seem like he was pretending right now.

“I need ya to move,” he grumbled, breathing out his frustration in the form of a sigh and lightly hitting Dazai’s thigh. He was blocking the spice drawer from where he was perched on the counter.

“You could ask nicely.”

“Or I could kick your ass.”

Dazai shifted to his right to allow Chuuya access to the drawer, but made a show of it, rolling his eyes and huffing as he did.

An uncharacteristic silence sat between the two once more as Chuuya added the spices and some sauces, the pleasant aroma of the food starting to fill the kitchen. With that smell, it seemed his body finally was able to recognize just how hungry he was, prompting him to also realize how long it had been since he had last eaten.

“You wanna be useful?” he asked Dazai, glancing at the other man briefly to see him swinging his feet a little, holding his empty glass. “There’s a bag of frozen vegetables and another one with chicken in the freezer. Get them for me and I’ll refill your drink as payment.”

“Ugh, bribing me into doing chores,” Dazai lamented but placed his glass on the counter next to him and hopped off the countertop, walking behind Chuuya to the refrigerator-freezer.

“Well, you wouldn’t do ‘em if I didn’t,” Chuuya pointed out as Dazai shuffled through the contents of the freezer.

“And you would’ve refilled my glass regardless,” he countered, producing two plastic bags and shutting the freezer door. “You said it yourself, you keep it around for me.” He placed the bag next to Chuuya and reached past him for the whiskey bottle.

“So what? You got that shit out of the goodness of your heart?”

“Of course not,” Dazai remarked with a laugh, pouring his drink and then topping off Chuuya’s half-empty glass. “You’re making enough food for two people, aren’t you?”

He elected not to reply to that comment, the silence only confirming the statement. Instead, he focused on said food, adding in the vegetables. In his efforts, though, his wrist made contact with the edge of the pan, the burning hot metal causing him to jerk his hand back.

“Shit,” he grumbled, looking at his right wrist. Luckily, there was no visible mark, just a small red blotch, but he rubbed at his skin anyway, soothing it from being burned.

His thumb brushed over a grayish dot in his skin. Pencil graphite.

“You know,” Dazai said, appearing at his side and looking down at his arm, “I know where most of your scars come from, but not this one.” He gently took Chuuya’s wrist and grazed the mark with his own thumb. His hands were cold, but Chuuya didn’t flinch, it was almost grounding, like the ice cube. “You’ve had it as long as I’ve known you. What’s its story?”

“I don’t remember,” Chuuya said, and it was technically the truth. He didn’t remember the incident itself, but he knew the origin of the scar. “It’s always just been there.”

Dazai’s simple hum as a response suggested that he didn’t believe Chuuya, but the latter didn’t say anything. He was still holding Chuuya’s wrist, letting his thumb skim over his skin, the texture of his other scars, injuries from various points of his life. He felt no desire to pull away — at least, not until he thought about it.

Because then he was thinking about it, the physical contact that was so rare to him. Kouyou’s hand on his shoulder or squeezing his hand, graceful yet firm. Mori’s strong handshake, usually paired with a genuine smile. Elise’s small hand tugging at his pant leg. Albatross’ tendency to hang off his shoulders or jab at him playfully.

And Dazai’s touch, always cold but never unpleasant. A healing balm after the flame, the chaos, the fury that was Corruption. Usually, a hand wrapped around his wrist, or cradling his head gently in his lap as he groaned and coughed. Stability. Consistency.

He pulled his arm from Dazai’s grasp, stepping away from him and picking up the chopsticks to stir the contents of the pan.

“Just— defrost the chicken. It’s already cooked, put it in the microwave,” he said, not looking up. He knew he was deflecting, and knew that Dazai saw right through him, but he also knew that Dazai wasn’t going to open that can of worms that had been sealed shut for so many years now. They had toyed with the idea of peeling back the lid on multiple occasions, of finding out whether the can was filled with corpses, or whether something alive was to be salvaged, but they had never gone through with it, choosing ignorance instead.

“Aye aye, captain,” Dazai said a bit sarcastically, but with slight amusement, though Chuuya could feel that scrutinizing gaze on the side of his head for a few seconds before he actually followed his instructions.

“Can I trust you not to explode my microwave?” he joked, trying to lighten the mood but still avoiding the other’s gaze.

“You’ll trust me to save you from Corruption, but not to use a microwave?”

“That’s different, plus I don’t really got a choice with that,” he groused, some bite to his words. “Either way, we both know you’re shit at cooking. I wouldn’t put it past you to fuck up usin’ a microwave.”

“Well, look at this!” Dazai said, dumping the pieces of meat into a ceramic bowl he had found in Chuuya’s cabinets and putting it into the microwave. He pressed the defrost button, set the timer for two minutes, and pressed start, hands placed triumphantly on his hips as the machine began humming. “See!”

Chuuya blinked at him.

“If ya want me to congratulate ya, it ain’t gonna happen,” he said finally after a few seconds of Dazai just standing there like a small child presenting their parent with a hand-drawn portrait. “A ten-year-old could do what you just did.”

“I know that!” Dazai rebutted indignantly, scoffing. “I’m just proving that I can use a microwave.”

“Well, it’s probably gonna take longer than two minutes for fully frozen-through meat to defrost.” He raised a brow. “So.”

“The question was whether or not I could use a microwave, that’s just—” he waved his hand around flippantly, “extra.” Dazai finally dropped his proud stance, opting to lean his backside against the counter instead. “Plus, that wasn’t included in your instructions, you just said to defrost it.”

“Sorry I didn’t explain every fuckin’ step to ya, though knowing you, maybe I shoulda,” he grumbled, though a smile was pulling at his lips. He’d never get over the fact that for all of Dazai’s ridiculous intuition, he could hardly prepare food, even after their years apart.

The microwave survived being at Dazai’s disposal, and the chicken was defrosted enough by sheer coincidence, which Dazai took to mean that he was clearly an expert at microwaving and that Chuuya was wrong about the timing. As expected, this devolved into a full-blown debate between the pair as they ate the food Chuuya had prepared, though it is noteworthy to mention that Dazai never insulted the food itself.

Eventually their conversation shifted to other topics and devolved into a debate about video games — who had won what bet, and who was better at what type of game, et cetera. It was just as competitive an argument, of course, but Chuuya didn’t miss the nostalgia imbued into it, the reflection on their younger years, a time when they were both radically different from the present, but somehow still innately the same.

“That arcade shut down, y’know,” he remarked, his plate cleared, waiting for Dazai to stop playing with the remains of his own food. “Guess console games got too popular for that crummy little place to make a profit.”

“Pity,” Dazai sighed, dropping his chopsticks, a silent declaration that he was done eating, “I’ve got so many good memories there— like you becoming my dog, of course!” Chuuya snorted, rolling his eyes. He hadn’t made a comment about that since his defection.

He hesitated slightly before speaking. “You wanna see somethin’?”

“What?”

“Just—” he rose from his seat, “just follow me.”

Dazai silently obeyed, trailing behind Chuuya as he led him out of the apartment and down the stairs into the basement of the complex. There, he navigated them through a storage area filled with the large or seasonal belongings of the other residents, locked in what almost looked like cages. At the back of the room, there sat a dusty arcade machine behind one of these storage units, and Chuuya produced the key to open it.

“You’re kidding,” Dazai said with a light scoff and a grin.

“I bought it off the arcade when it was goin’ under,” he said with a shrug. “I must’ve been twenty.”

“This is what you spend your big ol’ executive paycheck on, huh?” the other remarked, jabbing him in the side with his elbow before walking forward to inspect the machine. “Very mature.”

“Consider it an act of charity for a place I spent so much time in as a kid.” He watched Dazai run a finger over the surface of it, wiping off a layer of dust that left behind a line. “We didn’t always pay to use those things.”

“And I’m the goody-two-shoes?”

“There’s a difference between that and common decency.”

“Are you implying that I’m not commonly decent?” The question was incredulous.

Chuuya put his hand to the machine, it glowed red as his ability enveloped it. “Yes.”

At the very least, Dazai was commonly decent enough to help maneuver the machine to the elevator, through the hallway and into Chuuya’s apartment, albeit he could only do so through his words. Chuuya lost count of the number of times Dazai “offered” to help carry the thing, threatening to touch it, which would then nullify his Upon the Tainted Sorrow.

“Touch this thing and I’ll fuckin’ murder you,” he growled as they passed through the threshold of his living room.

“But suicide through being crushed beneath an arcade machine just seems so appealing!”

“What happened to hating pain?”

“Depends on the context,” he replied, poking his head from the other side of the machine with a smile and a wink.

“You’re disgusting,” Chuuya deadpanned.

“You’re the one whose mind is in the gutter.”

“I’ll put you in the gutter!”

The machine thumped down onto the carpet with a little more force than Chuuya intended, causing Dazai to jolt a little, though his stupid grin didn’t fall from his lips or even falter for a moment.

“Promise?”

“What does that even mean?” Chuuya’s brows furrowed as crouched next to the thing, plugging it into the wall. The screen lit up.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Dazai teased as 8-bit music began playing from the arcade machine, the title screen flashing in front of him.

“Now you’re just fuckin’ with me,” Chuuya grumbled, rolling his eyes and bumping Dazai a bit so he could stand in front of the screen, as well.

The title screen was familiar to Chuuya, an old friend he hadn’t seen in years. He had spent so much of his youth on this dumb arcade machine, whether it was against Dazai or against CPUs training to beat Dazai. And even though neither of them had touched a game like this since they were teenagers, they fell back into the old rhythm of it immediately, their time away having little to no effect on their abilities.

Chuuya’s character of choice was Dynamo Diva, a glam-rock-inspired character who dressed how his fifteen-year-old self wished he could: complete with piercings, fishnets, and a leather ensemble. She went up against Dazai’s favorite fighter, Obsidian Shade, a ninja that moved smoothly and quickly across the screen in contrast to the Diva’s clunky heels and loud colors. Obsidian Shade could set traps and had a wicked counter-attack that dealt a dreadful amount of damage that had finished off the Diva many times before, but the Diva was able to combat this by fighting from a distance, using her microphone like a whip in order to temporarily stun the ninja. Both had perfected the art of dodging the other’s specialized moves, their characters expertly jumping and moving around the screen with practiced ease.

Dazai won the first two fights, showing Chuuya absolutely no mercy and choosing the smaller stages that allowed him use of his counter more frequently. Eventually, though, he lost his momentum and Chuuya began to really zero-in on the game, his full focus on his and Dazai’s avatars and absolutely nothing else. In the third fight, he finally beat Dazai with a devastating combo, both of their health bars having been at a dangerous low. After these initial rounds, it then turned into a best of three, then five, and then seven, until Dazai finally defeated Chuuya in the seventh round and the latter grumpily requested a break for a drink, not because he was salty that he had lost or because his fingers were sore.

Chuuya grimaced at the thought of defeat as he poured out another round of gin for them both, the competitive side of him just as infuriated by the prospect of losing to Dazai as when he was a teenager. At the very least, Dazai hadn’t insulted him by letting him win, he conceded to himself, the man clearly had put his all into their matches, having triumphantly gloated about his victories and dramatically mourned his losses. If he had really felt like being cruel, Dazai could have purposefully lost after Chuuya’s earlier moment of vulnerability under the guise of making him feel better, but he had chosen not to.

Even in defeat, Chuuya is just the same as he ever was: Dazai’s worthy rival. There was something to that, even if he would never admit it aloud.

When he returned to the living room, drinks in hand, he found Dazai sprawled out on his sofa, arms and legs draped over the edge, eyes shut. He wasn’t sleeping, Chuuya knew him well enough by now to know that much, but he was likely exhausted.

“It’s so late now,” he complained, an arm thrown across his forehead. “What a pity it would be to go back home alone in the dark like this!”

Placing Dazai’s glass on the coffee table and taking a sip from his own, Chuuya scoffed, making no effort to hide the fact that he saw right through Dazai’s dramatic bullshit.

“Not my problem,” he grumbled, dropping into the armchair near him, tucking his legs up to his chest, and leaning on the armrest.

“Oh, but it is! You called me here in the first place!” he argued as if his point was obvious.

“Fuckin’ hypocrite,” Chuuya accused sardonically. “What happened to ‘I don’t wanna leave?’ You brought this on yourself, idiot.”

“I still don’t want to leave,” Dazai said, suddenly serious. “I wasn’t lying.”

“Never said ya were, just sayin’ that ya can’t complain when you’re the one that chose to stick around.” Chuuya leveled him with a deadpan glare. “If you’ve got somethin’ to ask, then you’re gonna have to ask it directly.”

Dazai narrowed his eyes, clearly not pleased with having been found out. It wasn’t often that they broke from their typical routine of communicating without actually communicating — favoring actions to pretty words — but Chuuya’s brain was too fried for that right now, the day’s events finally catching up with him physically.

The silence lasted long enough to be a little awkward, but eventually, Dazai spoke up again.

“Seeing as it’s so late, and I’m so tired—”

“Spit it out.”

“— I’ve decided I’m going to crash on your couch tonight.”

“Oh, have you?” Chuuya asked around the rim of his glass, taking a small sip and letting the alcohol warm his throat. “And what if I kick your ass out of my place? I wouldn’t want a smelly mackerel like you stinking up my favorite sofa, after all.”

Dazai’s lips pulled into a smile. “You wouldn’t do that, now would you? We’re partners, after all.”

“Ex-partners.”

“Well, I came, didn’t I?”

Chuuya’s lips pressed together, weighing his options. Being alone in this moment was the last thing he wanted, but above all else, Dazai was a scheming bastard, and just as he had tried his best to defeat him in an arcade game, he didn’t want to lose now either by admitting vulnerability.

But was it really losing if Chuuya got what he wanted? It was just a coincidence that Dazai would get what he wanted, as well — right?

“Fine, you can sleep on the fuckin’ couch,” he relented with a sigh, to which Dazai’s features visibly brightened. “But you’re not usin’ me as an excuse to skip out on your work tomorrow. I don’t need the Agency up my ass for holdin’ ya captive or somethin’ when you’re just bein’ a lazy ass.”

Even though his words were biting, a slight tension released from his shoulders as he watched Dazai flop back onto cushions again, his body taking up the entire couch as he settled himself in with an exaggerated sigh of contentment.

“Now, when have I ever avoided work? That’s quite the accusation to make!”

His glass of whiskey had been placed on the floor next to him for easy access, a few inches away from it rested Chuuya’s gloves, which he hardly remembered removing earlier that day. Had that really only been a few hours prior?

“At least a hundred times between the ages of fifteen and eighteen, and I highly doubt you’re any different now,” Chuuya replied as he rose from the armchair, stooping down to scoop up the gloves from the carpet, Dazai’s gaze following him — not analytical, just observant.

“I’ve changed my ways! You said it yourself — I’ve gone soft.” He was at Chuuya’s eye level as he retrieved the abandoned gloves, giving him big, brown puppy-dog eyes.

Chuuya flicked him in the forehead.

“Soft, my ass. Ya know what I meant by that, wise guy.” He stood, reveling in Dazai’s whimper of pain.

“Chuuya is cruel!” he accused grumpily, pouting like an affronted child denied ice cream.

“Well, Chuuya is lettin’ ya sleep on his couch, so maybe you should quit complainin’,” he shot back, launching a throw pillow at the other man’s head. It was dodged but elicited a yelp of annoyance from Dazai, which Chuuya considered a win.

“After all I’ve done for you, you attack me?” Dazai asked incredulously, firing the pillow right back at him.

“What else did ya expect?” Chuuya asked with slight amusement, tossing the pillow back without hostility, an end to the fight.

“Nothing less, I suppose,” Dazai whined like a melodramatic teenager, tucking the pillow behind his head and laying back, staring up at the ceiling. Chuuya rolled his eyes and crossed the living room, belatedly noticing his half-full glass of whiskey on the coffee table and silently deciding that it would be a tomorrow problem.

He knew that the moment he entered his bedroom and faced the silence of the night, his anxiety and melancholy would creep up on him and begin chewing away at his flesh, but somehow just the knowledge of another person existing on the other side of his wall made the idea a little bit more bearable. It was something he was only able to admit to himself because of the exhaustion that weighed so heavily on him now, the energy to deny it having been completely leached from him.

He stood at the threshold of his room, hesitating just a moment, listening to Dazai settle into his makeshift bed on the sofa. He turned back to the other man, and with a slight incline of the head, said, “I ain’t leavin’ you here alone in the mornin’, so you better be out by the time I’m ready to leave.” A beat. “Coffee’s in the leftmost cabinet.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dazai said with eyes closed, waving his hand idly.

“G’night, then,” he said, earning a lazy salute in response from his ex-partner.

Neither of them would likely sleep much that night, a fact that both were exceedingly aware of, but that was simply how things were in their line of work. They would wake and move on, doing what was needed and pushing forward through the following day despite the exhaustion — despite the weight they carried around with them daily.

Chuuya sighed, letting the door fall shut behind him, stepping into his moonlit bedroom and allowing the beckoning silence to embrace him.