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It was humiliating—
Chuuya was a ferocious, scary mafioso, for god’s sake.
He did not need to be at the dentist.
Sure, his jaw had been aching for days. Sure, he’d nearly decked a lower-ranking member just for chewing gum too loud. And fine, maybe he hadn’t eaten anything solid in almost a week. But this? This was beneath him.
Especially when it wasn’t even some shadowy, underground, black-market back-alley mafia dentist—no. This was a normal dentist's office. With a waiting room. With magazines. With children.
He’d had to go undercover, for god’s sake. Hoodie up, sunglasses on indoors like some hungover college dropout. He sat under fluorescent lights trying not to punch the receptionist while the sound of a dental drill buzzed behind the door and some kid cried because they didn’t want to brush their teeth.
And now?
Now he wasn’t even sure where he was anymore.
He was slumped in a chair in Mori’s office, mouth packed with cotton and gauze, cheeks swollen, eyes unfocused, and definitely still high as a kite. Someone had apparently dumped him here post-op like a mail delivery from hell.
Mori was speaking to him—maybe—but it was all a blur. His voice sounded like it was coming from the bottom of a fish tank. Chuuya blinked slowly, trying to will the room to stop tilting.
And then, as if the universe hadn’t already cursed him enough for one day, the office door creaked open.
“You wanted to see me, Mori?”
That voice.
Even through the haze, Chuuya’s spine tried to straighten. It failed. Dazai strolled in like he owned the place—long coat swishing, face full of disinterest—until his eyes landed on Chuuya. Then he stopped.
And blinked.
And grinned.
Wide. Unholy.
“Oh my god,” Dazai breathed, eyes sparkling with wicked amusement as he took in the image of Chuuya, slack-jawed and puffy-faced, tissues stuffed in his mouth like an off-brand hamster.
“Is the slug high?”
He sounded utterly delighted.
Mori sighed—long-suffering, like a parent watching two kids beat each other with pool noodles in a grocery store aisle. He laced his fingers together, elbows on his desk.
“I need you to watch him for me,” he said flatly as he picked up a file “Make sure he doesn’t do anything.”
Dazai’s grin somehow widened. “Oh, this is the best thing that’s happened to me all week.”
“No it isn’t,” Mori said without looking up from the file he was reviewing. “I sent you a corpse that woke up mid-autopsy yesterday.”
“Yes, but this is funnier.”
Chuuya groaned low in his throat, like a dying animal, and made a vague swiping motion toward Dazai. It was unclear if he was trying to hit him or simply trying to remain upright.
“You’re not even gonna argue, are you?” Dazai crouched in front of him with mock concern, chin resting on a hand like a schoolgirl gossiping in homeroom. “You look like a punch-drunk guinea pig. A very angry punch-drunk guinea pig.”
Chuuya tried to speak. What came out sounded like, “F’ck y— ‘m gonna kill y’.” The gauze turned the threat into something that could’ve been a declaration of love if Dazai were any more delusional.
“Aw,” Dazai said sweetly. “Love you too, babe.”
Mori cleared his throat.
“Dazai.”
Dazai straightened up reluctantly, all faux innocence. “Yes, boss?”
“I’m being very serious. Keep him under control. He’s already threatened to fight the dental hygienist, walked into three walls, and tried to pull a scalpel off my desk because, quote, ‘he wanted to carve the pain out of his own face.’”
“I stand by that,” Chuuya mumbled around the gauze, blinking one eye at a time like his brain was buffering.
“I’m sure you do,” Mori said dryly. “Now get him out of my office before he throws up on the rug. That’s genuine Persian.”
“C’mon, Chuuya,” Dazai said cheerfully, looping an arm around his shoulders and hauling him to his feet like a wet laundry bag full of curses and regrets. “Let’s get you back to your room before you bite anyone important.”
Chuuya staggered forward, boots scuffing against the tile as he leaned heavily on Dazai. “Gonna… kill y’ in sleep…”
“Oh, I’d like to see you try, tiny.”
“I’m not tiny,” Chuuya slurred indignantly, but the effect was ruined by the tissue trying to escape his mouth.
They made it halfway down the hallway before Chuuya paused, staring at the floor with profound intensity.
Dazai stopped too. “What? Did you drop something?”
“…Why’s the ground movin’.”
Dazai blinked. “It’s… it’s not.”
“It is. It’s breathin’.”
“Okay, yeah, you’re done for today.” Dazai hoisted him up more firmly, practically dragging him. “You’re going to bed, and if you try to fight me, I’m sedating you again.”
“’D rather die.”
“Already working on it.”
As they turned the corner, Chuuya slumped sideways and muttered something soft and completely incomprehensible.
“…What was that?” Dazai asked, actually curious.
Chuuya looked up at him blearily, eyes bloodshot and pupils uneven.
“…Still not as bad as the Nemo thing.”
Dazai paused.
Then burst into laughter so loud it echoed down the corridor.
“Wait—wait, you had to watch Finding Nemo at the dentist?”
“Sh’d’ve let me die…”
“Chuuya.”
“Should’ve let me die, Dazai.”
Dazai didn’t even try to hide the way he was beaming as he half-dragged, half-guided Chuuya down the hall. It was rare that the universe delivered such exquisite gifts. Rarer still that those gifts were puffy-faced, drugged-up mafiosos slurring death threats like drunk poetry.
“You know,” Dazai said conversationally, “this might be your new aesthetic. Puffy. Disoriented. Mildly rabid. Very avant-garde.”
Chuuya made a noise that sounded like “g’fuck y—” and then tripped over nothing, landing with a thud against the wall. He stared at it, betrayed.
“You good?” Dazai asked, cheerfully unhelpful.
“…Wall moved.”
“Mm, yeah. Happens. Especially to people with gauze for brains.”
Chuuya tried to flip him off, but only managed to raise his pinky.
It was beautiful.
By the time they reached the elevator, Dazai was basically a walking crutch and Chuuya was a malfunctioning Roomba, bumping gently into walls and people with vague, mumbled threats.
The elevator dinged.
They stepped in.
Chuuya leaned heavily against the wall and sighed like the weight of existence itself was just too much.
“Still with me?” Dazai asked, eyeing him.
Chuuya blinked slowly. “You ever think… we’re all just teeth in the mouth of time…”
Dazai stared. “No, but you clearly have.”
“I bit time,” Chuuya said. “Didn’t bite back. Coward.”
“Okay, philosopher slug,” Dazai said, snorting. “Let’s maybe save the metaphysics until after the drugs wear off.”
The elevator doors opened.
Chuuya didn’t move.
Dazai stared at him. “We… have to get out.”
“Floor’s vibrating.”
“It’s not.”
“Is. It’s whispering.”
Dazai sighed and grabbed him under the arms like hauling a misbehaving toddler. “You’re lucky you’re cute when you’re like this.”
“I’m always cute,” Chuuya muttered, offended. “I’m a menace. A style icon.”
“You’re a fashion disaster who just drooled on my coat.”
Chuuya looked down. “...Worth it.”
Eventually, they made it back to his room. Dazai opened the door, fully expecting Chuuya to collapse inside and sleep for a thousand years.
He did not.
Instead, Chuuya marched—stumbled—directly past the couch and made for the minibar.
Dazai blinked. “Excuse me, what are you doing?”
Chuuya was already fumbling with the bottles. “Need a drink.”
“You’re on painkillers!”
“And?”
“You’re going to die.”
Chuuya turned, swaying dangerously. “You said that like it’s a problem.”
“No. Nope.” Dazai swooped in, yanked the whiskey out of his hands, and put it on the highest shelf. “This is exactly how you ended up crying on the roof with a bottle of champagne and threatening to marry the moon.”
Chuuya’s expression twisted into something that was probably meant to be threatening, but was too puffy and unfocused to land. “Moon gets me.”
“Oh my god.” Dazai grabbed his shoulders and turned him around. “Sit. Down. Before you fall into another dimension.”
Chuuya sat.
Then immediately tried to stand again.
Dazai shoved him back.
“I need to punch something,” Chuuya said, voice raw with frustration and gauze. “Or scream. Or both. Or—shit, where’s my hat?”
“You don’t get your hat back until you stop trying to fistfight the furniture.”
Chuuya glared at him. “That lamp was leering.”
“That lamp is inanimate.”
“So are corpses,” Chuuya muttered darkly.
Dazai paused. “…Okay, fair.”
There was a long silence, broken only by Chuuya aggressively picking at the gauze in his mouth like it had personally offended him.
“D’you ever think about killin’ me?” he mumbled, not looking up.
Dazai tilted his head. “That’s a sudden turn.”
“Just—like. Ever wanna snap my neck. Real quick.”
“Sure,” Dazai said casually. “All the time.”
Chuuya nodded. “Cool.”
More silence.
“…You ever think about not killin’ me?” Chuuya asked a beat later, and that one came out quieter.
Dazai looked at him for a long moment. “Sure,” he said again. “All the time.”
Chuuya looked suspicious of that answer, but before he could poke at it, his stomach let out a feral growl.
Dazai raised an eyebrow. “Have you eaten anything that wasn’t gauze in the last forty-eight hours?”
“…Do Jell-O shots count?”
“No.”
“Then no.”
Dazai sighed, defeated. “Right. Okay. Soup it is.”
Chuuya perked up slightly. “French onion?”
“You get miso and you’ll like it.”
“Communist.”
“Delusional feral hamster.”
Chuuya tried to kick him. Missed. Kicked the air instead.
Dazai just laughed as he walked into the kitchenette. “Don’t move,” he called. “I swear to god if I come back and you’re on the floor bleeding from trying to spar with the microwave—”
“No promises,” Chuuya muttered, but he didn’t move.
He just sat there, cheeks still puffy, mouth still full of gauze, eyes half-lidded but burning under it all with the kind of stubbornness that couldn’t be dulled even by medical-grade drugs.
He’d been humiliated. He’d been mocked. He’d hallucinated a sentient floor.
But damned if he was gonna sleep through the aftermath.
Not until he had soup.
And maybe his hat.
Dazai returned five minutes later with a steaming mug in one hand and an expression of theatrical martyrdom.
“Behold,” he said, holding it aloft like it was sacred. “Your royal soup.”
Chuuya stared at it.
Then at Dazai.
Then back at it.
“…That’s a mug.”
“You don’t get a bowl,” Dazai said flatly. “You’ll throw it at me.”
Chuuya sniffed indignantly. “Wouldn’t waste good ceramic on you.”
“You tried to beat me to death with a shoehorn last week.”
“I was provoked.”
“Uh-huh. Drink your soup.”
Chuuya squinted suspiciously at the mug, then brought it to his lips and took a sip. He paused. Swallowed.
“…This tastes like hot seaweed and sadness.”
“It’s miso. Be grateful.”
“Where’s the onion. Where’s the cheese. Where’s the joy.”
“Gone. Like your dignity.”
Chuuya growled low in his throat and took another angry sip. Dazai sat across from him on the arm of the couch, watching with a mixture of amusement and the barest flicker of concern that only someone who really knew him would notice.
“You gonna be okay?” he asked, more casually than necessary.
Chuuya looked up, scowling through puffy cheeks and drooping eyelids. “No,” he said, voice thick. “I just got my face excavated like a cursed tomb and hallucinated that the floor tried to seduce me.”
“Bit of a downgrade from your usual type, but I’m not judging.”
Chuuya gave him a flat look, then immediately winced. “Ow. Eye roll hurt.”
“Your whole existence looks like it hurts.”
Chuuya drained half the mug, then leaned back with a dramatic sigh and muttered, “You ever feel like the universe is mocking you personally?”
“All the time,” Dazai said. “Then I remember I deserve it.”
Chuuya snorted, then winced again and pressed a hand to his cheek. “Ugh. I feel like a chipmunk got hit by a truck.”
“You look like one too. Minus the charm.”
Chuuya flipped him off, this time with more accuracy.
“Progress!” Dazai chirped. “Motor function restored!”
“Your face is gonna be restored to the wall if you don’t shut up.”
“Violent and poetic. Did the dentist hit your language center?”
Chuuya stared at him for a long moment, then set the mug down with care and reached into his hoodie pocket. He pulled out a crumpled note. Handed it to Dazai.
Dazai unfolded it.
In neat, angry block letters, it read:
“IF I DIE, BURY ME WITH MY BOOTS ON AND MAKE SURE DAZAI FALLS IN AFTER ME.”
“…You had this pre-written?” Dazai asked, eyebrows raised.
Chuuya shrugged. “Emergency dental visit. Thought it was the end.”
“I’m honored.”
“You should be,” Chuuya muttered. “You’re not important enough to haunt, but I’d linger, just to make your tea taste like piss for the rest of your life.”
Dazai folded the note and tucked it into his coat pocket. “Keeping this. Putting it in my will.”
Chuuya tried to stand. Dazai pushed him back down by the forehead.
“No. You’re staying right here until you’ve metabolized at least some of the fentanyl circus you’re clearly still riding.”
Chuuya scowled. “Can’t sit still. Too much energy. Need to do something.”
“No you don’t.”
“Yes I do.”
“No, you really, really don’t.”
“I’m gonna train.”
“You can’t even blink in sync.”
“I’ll shadow box.”
“You’ll shadow fall.”
Chuuya pushed himself to his feet anyway—wobbling like a baby deer—and staggered three steps before grabbing the back of a chair to steady himself.
He raised both fists.
Took a stance.
Focused.
Threw a punch.
Missed.
Spun in a circle.
Stared at the chair.
“Chair’s fast,” he muttered.
Dazai facepalmed so hard it echoed. “You’re fighting furniture again.”
“It started it!”
“Nope. That’s it. I’m locking the liquor cabinet, hiding your boots, and calling Kouyou to babysit.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
Dazai reached for his phone. “Watch me.”
Chuuya lunged. Tripped.
Landed face-first in a pile of laundry and groaned into a shirt sleeve. “I hate you.”
“Love you too,” Dazai said sweetly, already texting. “You’re going on house arrest until you’re medically less stupid.”
Chuuya didn’t reply.
He was still, cheek smushed against the floor, breathing slowly.
“Chuuya?” Dazai asked, standing over him.
Silence.
“Did you die?”
“…No.”
Another beat.
“…Still think the floor’s breathing though.”
Dazai sighed, crouched down, and patted his head. “Yeah, okay. I’m staying.”
Chuuya’s voice was muffled by cotton and fabric and about four different hangovers. “Don’t make it weird.”
“I always make it weird.”
“F’ck you.”
“You already said that.”
“I mean it this time.”
Dazai just laughed.
Chuuya was still sprawled across the laundry like an exhausted cryptid, cheek pressed to what might’ve once been a designer jacket but now definitely smelled like something that’d fought in a war. He wasn’t moving. He might never move again. This was his final resting place. Surrounded by dirty socks and existential regret.
Dazai sat cross-legged on the couch like this was all normal, texting with one hand and lazily sipping the rest of Chuuya’s soup with the other.
“So,” he said conversationally, “what’s your dental trauma ranking now? Above or below that time I pushed you into the river mid-mission?”
Chuuya stirred. Grunted.
“Above,” he said thickly. “River was cold, but didn’t try to shove tools in my face while smiling.”
“Fair,” Dazai allowed. “But to be fair, I only did that because you said my plan was stupid.”
“Your plan was stupid. It involved three pigeons, a banana, and the phrase ‘improvise dominance.’”
“I stand by it,” Dazai said proudly. “We lived, didn’t we?”
“Barely,” Chuuya muttered, attempting to sit up. He managed halfway, then sagged against the laundry pile like a tragic protagonist in a low-budget opera.
Dazai raised an eyebrow. “Need help?”
“Need a new face.”
“Eh. I like this one. Makes it easier to tell when you’re gonna punch me.”
Chuuya rolled his eyes—painfully slow, like it required actual effort—and squinted at him. “Why’re you still here?”
Dazai tilted his head. “Because you’re high, concussed, and might try to suplex the hallway. Also Mori said if you broke another intern, he’d start docking my paycheck.”
Chuuya groaned. “Don’t need a babysitter.”
“You need a priest.”
“I need whiskey.”
“You need a nap.”
“I will roundhouse kick your soul out of your body.”
Dazai clutched his chest dramatically. “Promises, promises.”
Chuuya huffed and flopped backwards, arms spread like a war casualty. He stared up at the ceiling, expression somewhere between contemplative and actively disassociating.
“…Do teeth have memory?” he asked suddenly.
Dazai blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“Like, when you chew something… do they remember it?”
“Chuuya.”
“Because I swear my molars are traumatized.”
Dazai reached down and gently bopped him on the forehead. “You’re not allowed to have thoughts anymore.”
“I have so many thoughts,” Chuuya slurred. “I’m an ocean of thoughts. A violent tide.”
“You’re a half-dead tidepool of ibuprofen and drama.”
“You’re a bitch.”
“Correct.”
There was a pause.
Chuuya tugged the crumpled laundry tighter around his shoulders like a blanket. “Dazai?”
“Hm?”
“…Can’t feel my tongue.”
Dazai gave a long-suffering sigh. “Yes. Because of the anesthetic. That’s normal.”
Chuuya’s eyes widened slightly. “What if it never comes back?”
“Then you’ll be a very tragic mime.”
Chuuya was quiet for a moment. Then:
“Would you still like me if I was a mime?”
Dazai looked at him. Really looked at him. At the way he was curled up on the floor like a dramatic housecat, bruised ego wrapped in gauze and resentment, glaring with all the dignity of a king who just got pantsed in public.
“…No,” Dazai said, deadpan. “I’d like you more.”
Chuuya snorted so hard he choked on his own spit.
He coughed, flailed weakly, then managed, “Asshole.”
“Mime,” Dazai countered.
Another long pause.
“…Can I have my hat now?”
Dazai smiled faintly. “You’ll get your hat when you’ve earned it.”
“I’m gonna remember this,” Chuuya grumbled, closing his eyes. “I’m gonna remember everything.”
“You said that last time.”
“I did remember. You stole my lighter.”
“That lighter had Hamtaro on it.”
“It was ironic!”
“Sure it was.”
Chuuya grumbled something unintelligible and tried to burrow deeper into the laundry pile like a pissed-off earthworm seeking revenge through hibernation. Dazai didn’t stop him. It was probably safer for everyone that way.
For a while, the room was quiet.
Then—
“…I hate this,” Chuuya muttered.
“Which part? The dental work? The swelling? The fact that you tried to square up with a potted plant in the lobby?”
“All of it.”
“Ah,” Dazai said thoughtfully, leaning back with his arms behind his head. “A comprehensive hatred. Impressive.”
Chuuya shifted, pressing the side of his face against a balled-up hoodie. “It’s all just—undignified. I’m supposed to be feared. Respected. Not… wheeled out of a clinic with a mouthful of cotton and a Dora the Explorer ice pack.”
Dazai snorted. “I forgot about the ice pack. God, that was glorious.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“Oh, I’m going to remind you constantly. I’m going to bring it up at staff meetings.”
“You’re the worst,” Chuuya mumbled, but his voice had lost some of its venom.
There was another lull—soft, hazy silence like the kind that settled after a thunderstorm.
“…Do I look stupid?” Chuuya asked, quietly this time. Not the kind of quiet that meant embarrassment—more the kind that meant he’d been thinking about it for a while and couldn’t make it stop.
Dazai turned his head. Really looked at him.
Puffy cheeks, half-lidded eyes, gauze still visible at the corner of his mouth, hair tousled from god-knows-what, lying in a nest of crumpled clothes like a street gremlin someone gave a credit card.
He looked ridiculous.
He looked human.
“You look like a very tired, very drugged mafia executive who’s having a rough Tuesday,” Dazai said eventually.
Chuuya scoffed. “So yes.”
“You look like someone who just survived a medieval torture session and still managed to insult three people and a ficus on the way out,” Dazai said. “So, no. Not stupid. Just…” He shrugged. “Temporarily disarmed.”
Chuuya blinked slowly. “That supposed to be comforting?”
Dazai leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “Wasn’t trying to be.”
“…Tch.”
A beat.
“…Thanks.”
Dazai cracked one eye open. “What was that?”
“Don’t make it a thing.”
“I’m absolutely making it a thing.”
“I will end you.”
“Only once you can walk in a straight line again.”
“Fuck you.”
“Love you too.”
And this time, Chuuya didn’t argue.
Dazai didn’t say anything for a while after that. Just kept sitting there, slouched into the couch cushions like a man morally opposed to proper posture, watching Chuuya quietly from the corner of his eye.
Chuuya was still curled in the laundry pile. Still looked like hell. But now his eyes were open again, staring at the ceiling like it owed him money. His jaw twitched—still swollen, still sore—and every so often he’d reach up to poke at it before remembering it hurt and swearing under his breath.
Dazai leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You’re gonna make it worse if you keep poking at it.”
Chuuya squinted at him. “And you’re gonna make my soul worse by existing, but here we are.”
“Wow.” Dazai clutched his chest. “Truly, the romance is alive.”
“Shut up.”
Dazai smirked but didn’t reply. Instead, he reached over to the coffee table, grabbed a bottle of water, and held it out.
Chuuya blinked. “…What?”
“Drink. Hydration. Revolutionary concept.”
Chuuya gave him a long, suspicious look before slowly reaching up with both hands—like the bottle might bite him—and took it. He cracked the cap with some effort and sipped. Grimaced.
“This is warm.”
“Life is suffering,” Dazai said solemnly.
Chuuya groaned and slumped further into the laundry, the bottle dangling from his hand like even that was too much effort. “I should’ve just let the tooth rot.”
“You say that now,” Dazai said, “but if you’d lost half your face to an abscess, Mori would’ve made me pay your hospital bills.”
“Then it would’ve been worth it.”
“Oh please,” Dazai said, leaning back again, voice teasing. “You love it when I take care of you.”
That got a scoff. “What part of this looks like care, Dazai?”
“I gave you soup.”
“You gave me miso in a mug.”
“Same difference.”
“It was from a packet.”
“And yet here you are—fed, watered, dramatically reclined in your own personal nest of sweaters. You should be thanking me.”
Chuuya’s face contorted like he was physically resisting the urge to launch the water bottle at Dazai’s head. “You’re lucky I’m too high to maim you properly.”
“You always say that.”
“Because you’re always asking for it.”
They lapsed into silence again, but this time it was… heavier. Not bad, exactly—just full. Loaded. Like a thread waiting to be pulled.
Dazai watched Chuuya’s hand flex slightly around the bottle. The knuckles were pale. His eyes were a little clearer now, the fog of sedation lifting just enough to let something sharp through. He wasn’t glaring anymore, though. He was just looking.
At him.
“Why’re you still here?” Chuuya asked, voice quieter than before. “Really.”
Dazai tilted his head. “Because Mori told me to.”
“Don’t bullshit me.”
Dazai didn’t answer right away.
He stood instead—slowly, deliberately—and crossed the room. Stopped just in front of Chuuya, who was watching him with the kind of tired suspicion that belonged more to back-alley ambushes than quiet apartments.
“I dunno,” Dazai said finally, voice low. “Maybe I figured if I left, you’d do something stupid. Like try to punch the moon again. Or ice your jaw with a bag of frozen peas and no supervision.”
“…It looked like a proper ice pack.”
“You taped it to your face with medical gauze.”
“Improvising.”
“It was leaking.”
“I was desperate!”
Dazai smiled, just barely.
He crouched beside the pile of laundry, elbows resting on his knees, eyes dark and unreadable in the low light. “Or maybe,” he said slowly, “I just didn’t feel like going back to my place. Kinda quiet there, lately.”
Chuuya stared at him.
And kept staring.
“You don’t get to drop some sad existential crisis on me while I look like a diseased chipmunk,” he muttered, eyes narrowing. “That’s a war crime.”
“Would you rather I waited until your face was back to normal?”
“I’d rather you didn’t do it at all.”
“Too late.”
Dazai didn’t look away.
Neither did Chuuya.
And the space between them started to feel… strange. Not tense, exactly. Not hostile. Just—thick. Like the air had weight. Like there was something unspoken pressing between them, dragging old conversations and older glances out of the corners of the room.
Chuuya shifted.
Dazai leaned a little closer.
“Y’know,” Chuuya said after a moment, voice low and a little hoarse, “you’re really goddamn annoying.”
“I know.”
“Like, unbearable. Constant.”
“I’m aware.”
“I should’ve punched you out the second you walked into Mori’s office.”
“You still could,” Dazai said, smiling faintly. “You won’t, but you could.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
“Always tempting you.”
Chuuya’s breath hitched, just slightly.
Dazai’s eyes flicked to his lips.
Chuuya caught it. Felt it. And somehow, that was worse than all the teasing, all the bickering, all the back-and-forth they’d worn down to a ritual over the years.
“Don’t,” Chuuya said softly.
Dazai didn’t move. “Why not?”
Chuuya’s jaw clenched. His fingers tightened around the water bottle until the plastic creaked.
“Because I’m drugged out of my skull, and you’re being—” He exhaled, sharp. “You’re being weird.”
“I’m always weird,” Dazai said, voice lower now. “That’s not new.”
Chuuya opened his mouth. Closed it. Swallowed something that might’ve been another insult.
And then Dazai leaned in.
Just enough to be close. Just enough to feel his breath, warm and slow.
“You want me to stop?” he asked, quiet. Not teasing anymore. No smirk, no game. Just a question.
Chuuya didn’t answer.
Didn’t pull away, either.
Didn’t move at all, except for the way his fingers loosened. The way his breath caught again. The way his eyes—narrowed, red-rimmed, stubborn—finally softened.
“…Fuck it,” he muttered.
And then he kissed him.
Or maybe Dazai kissed him. It didn’t matter. It was messy and crooked and tasted like salt and soup and cotton-mouth and the echo of too many words they hadn’t said. But it was real. It was warm. And Chuuya didn’t shove him away.
Not even once.
When they broke apart, Dazai rested his forehead against Chuuya’s.
“You’re gonna blame the drugs later,” he said softly.
“Absolutely,” Chuuya muttered.
“Gonna threaten to kill me again.”
“Probably twice.”
Dazai grinned. “Looking forward to it.”
Chuuya closed his eyes. “You’re still a bastard.”
“You kissed me first.”
“Shut up.”
They stayed like that for a while. And for once, neither of them moved.
It was quiet.
Not the awkward kind, not tense or simmering with the threat of another punchline—but the kind that settled. That filled the room like steam rising off pavement after a storm. It was settled silence, rare and fragile, and neither of them dared breathe too loud in case it shattered.
Chuuya’s fingers had curled loosely into Dazai’s coat. He hadn’t realized when that had happened. Dazai’s hand was resting at the back of his neck, thumb brushing lightly over his skin like he didn’t even know he was doing it.
It felt… steady.
Which was terrifying.
Chuuya cracked one eye open. “So,” he rasped, voice still thick and wrecked from the gauze. “That just happened.”
Dazai hummed. “Might’ve hallucinated it. You’re still pretty high.”
Chuuya narrowed his eyes. “If I hallucinated that, then my subconscious is a manipulative prick.”
“Well, yeah. That tracks.”
Chuuya groaned and shoved at Dazai’s chest—not hard, just enough to lean him back an inch. “I hate you.”
“Mm. You keep saying that. But your mouth disagrees.”
Chuuya flushed redder than the wine he wasn’t allowed to drink. “You are insufferable. I’m drugged. This doesn’t count.”
Dazai’s grin was all teeth. “So what—you gonna kiss me again later when you’re not drugged, just to even the score?”
Chuuya looked like he wanted to throw the water bottle at him and crawl into a hole. “I will destroy you.”
“I hope so.”
“Emotionally, I mean.”
“I really hope so.”
But Dazai wasn’t teasing the way he usually did. Not entirely. The glint in his eye was too soft, the edge in his voice a little too rounded. There was something cautious under the grin now. Not nervous. Not afraid. Just—delicate. Like he was trying not to push.
That was the scariest part of all.
Chuuya pushed himself upright more fully, wincing as the movement jarred his jaw. His brain still felt like a snow globe someone shook too hard, but the worst of the high was tapering off, and unfortunately that meant he had just enough clarity to realize what he’d done.
What they’d done.
He rubbed a hand over his face and muttered, “Shit.”
Dazai tilted his head. “That bad?”
“No. I mean—yes. I mean—shut up.”
“Make me.”
Chuuya gave him a look so flat it could’ve sanded wood. “Do not make me kiss you again just to prove a point.”
“I would love to be kissed out of spite.”
“You would,” Chuuya muttered, pulling a hoodie off the floor and tossing it over his head with less grace than a gremlin emerging from a trash can. “You’re disgusting.”
“You like me anyway.”
“Not true.”
“You kissed me.”
“I panicked.”
“You held onto my coat.”
“I was falling over!”
“You pulled me closer.”
“I was cold!”
Dazai just smiled, the kind of smug little smile that made Chuuya want to launch a throw pillow directly at his stupid face. So he did. Dazai caught it mid-air without even blinking.
“Wow,” he said. “Romance really is alive.”
Chuuya glared at him. Then sagged back into the couch and sighed.
The moment stretched.
“So what now?” he asked, without looking at him.
Dazai didn’t answer right away.
Instead, he stood. Quietly. Crossed the room. Not dramatic this time, not teasing—just calm. He sat beside Chuuya on the couch, shoulder to shoulder, their knees brushing. He didn’t lean in, didn’t crowd him. Just sat.
Waited.
Chuuya didn’t move away.
“…I don’t know,” Dazai said finally. “I wasn’t expecting it either.”
Chuuya let his head fall back, staring up at the ceiling. “This is the worst way to start a relationship.”
“Who said anything about a relationship?”
Chuuya glared at him. “Don’t.”
Dazai held his hands up in mock surrender. “Okay, okay. No labels. No pressure. We can just—exist.”
Chuuya grunted. “You don’t know how to exist without pressure.”
“True,” Dazai said easily. “But maybe I can learn.”
He glanced sideways, expression softening just slightly.
“And you can hit me every time I get annoying.”
“That’s every five minutes.”
“Then you’ll get very strong arms.”
Chuuya huffed, then slowly—almost reluctantly—let his head fall against Dazai’s shoulder. “You tell anyone about this, and I’ll break both your legs.”
Dazai smiled.
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
They sat like that for a long time. No talking. No teasing. Just weight and breath and silence—real silence, this time. Not waiting. Not heavy. Just there.
Eventually, Chuuya mumbled, “I still want my hat back.”
Dazai leaned his head against Chuuya’s.
“We’ll negotiate.”
There was a silence for a moment before-
“Can we bang now?”
“WHAT—“