Archive of Our Own

It would be incorrect to say that Dazai Osamu fell for Nakahara Chuuya. 

Falling simply wasn’t dramatic enough. 

The expression “falling in love” implied something humdrum, somewhat crackling but non-threatening.
Loving Chuuya was everything but that: it was ghastly, sudden, and probably deadly.

‘Crashing into love’ would have been more accurate.

He had tripped over his feet for Chuuya, falling ill with need, sinking deeper into the man’s quicksands with every lesson on trust Chuuya taught him. 

None of that had changed as they grew older.

However, after four years of separation, Dazai had discovered two unfamiliar facets of his partner.

First, he had discovered domesticity.
The lazy kisses in bed, the baths together; how, in the early morning, the golden light of a dawning sun bounced against the white walls of Chuuya’s penthouse. He’d learned how the air in the apartment filled with the fragrant whiff of freshly ground coffee beans. How every morning the executive rolled out of bed and filtered his espresso and took his morning shower. 

The second lesson, not any less impressive, was that Chuuya had grown mellow with the years. 

In the Port Mafia dungeon, Dazai had expected to find a thick-skinned, ruined man risen from the ashes of the partner he’d left behind. Russet hair, sapphire eyes, abs for every day on the calendar and a certain propensity to end their arguments by pinning Dazai to a wall and kissing him fiercely until they both forgot the reason for the argument in the first place. He expected a dog. A fighter scarred by one too many betrayals.
And he thought — he was certain — Chuuya hated him.

How wrong he was.

Much to his relief, his presence didn’t dictate Chuuya’s happiness.

(Was he allowed to be hurt by that discovery? He was the one who left, after all.)

No, Chuuya did not need him. He’d grown into a gorgeous executive with a wine cellar, a large group of friends, and a steady routine that included powering through thirty minutes of jogging and a hundred reps every morning. For fun. Shirtless.
It was practically a wet dream coming alive. 

Most of all, Chuuya was still the beating heart of Double Black. 
Dazai had always been hollow, and Chuuya was his core; he flourished like the summer garden at the borders of the locus terribilis that was Dazai’s mind. 

And during those four years Chuuya might have learned to live without Dazai, yet — by either an uncanny display of mercy or a grandiose act of stupidity — the executive still wanted him back. 

What did most surely not change, though, was Chuuya’s zealousness to throw himself head-first into work in the morning.

"Don't you ever take a break, Slug?" Dazai leaned against the kitchen counter of Chuuya’s penthouse, watching the man juggle his phone, an unlabeled folder and a half-eaten piece of toast. He had already changed for work, much to Dazai’s whining and attempts to drag him back to bed. 

Frowning, Chuuya gave him the Stare of Disappointment. Its aggressiveness was quite ruined by the bedhead, though. "Some of us actually work. Not that you'd understand the concept."

“But we‘ve just woken up~”

Chuuya growled. “We fucked, had a shower and I made breakfast. That’s hardly just woken up.”

"I just believe no one should be checking their work emails before eight.” 

“Now you’re just being overdramatic.”

“I worry about your work-life balance. And Chuuya should pay more attention to his smart, very loving, fantastic partner, by the way," Dazai mused, sauntering over to steal a bite of Chuuya's toast.
He could never stomach a full meal, his body rejecting every piece of food as if trying to starve itself, and the bites he stole from Chuuya’s plate always felt easier to digest. "Mori-san sure knows he can take advantage of his little perfect soldier. It’s kind of sad how Chuuya doesn’t have time for anything but work~"

"Oi. I’m not a perfect soldier, you dumbass." Chuuya snatched the toast back, not before Dazai managed to take another sizable bite. "And get your own breakfast.”

Aware of the lack of bite in the man’s barking, Dazai flashed him a shit-eating grin and launched himself forward, this time aiming for Chuuya's phone. He snatched the object out of his partner’s grip easily enough.

He couldn’t have a silly phone distracting his pet Slug while they bickered, now, could he? It was their hard-earned, precious playtime.

Never mind that Dazai had invited himself into Chuuya’s penthouse the night before, and the one before that, and stayed over waiting to be kicked out. That never happened.
It still amazed him that Chuuya would let anyone (and Dazai especially) take anything from him so easily, as if there wasn’t the very realistic possibility that it could be used against him. Dazai was a gambler, eager to make love to fortune and disgrace alike, but Chuuya allowed every roll of dice to destroy him. He’d always been too good for his own safety. A good villain. 

And lately, their relationship had been — well, ‘casually steamy’ was one way to call it. Intimate, too, in all the ways that terrified Dazai but he was too addicted to give up.

They were more than friends, yet less than lovers.

Now, Dazai took note of the fact that Chuuya didn't attempt to rescue his phone and simply magicked another smartphone from his slacks’ pocket.

Unbelievable. 
What was he, the phone monster? The paperwork god? Arahabaki (Capitalism’s version)?

He huffed. Chuuya was too busy scrolling to mind him.

“Chuuya’s mean,” he declared.

“You know what’s mean? That people keep sending me emails about your messes.”

"Boo! It’s not healthy to work outside of office hours, Slug." 

"Yeah, guess what— some of us have responsibilities, unlike your careless ass," Chuuya retorted, crunching on another bite of toast as he subtly eyed Dazai, waiting. Asking without words. If he wanted another bite, he could take it.
Chuuya was allowing him time to decide if he could stomach another bite. He purposefully left a corner of his toast slice untouched in case Dazai changed his mind.

By this point, Dazai had gotten a little shy of desperate. He plopped on the grey chair in front of Chuuya — a ridiculously expensive designer piece, like most of the executive’s penthouse —  and huffed again, full-lungs and dramatic, his eyes roaming across the man’s focused expression. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say Chuuya is just jealous of my, and I quote, carefree ass. An ass you like very much, for the record."

“Sure, ‘Samu. I’m terribly jealous of your meager paycheck and ratty dorm.” Some more disingenuous, smug scrolling. “Nothing I hate more than waking up in a penthouse every damn morning." 

“You know, money doesn't make happiness.”

“But it sure pays for our dates, huh.”

Dazai’s bottom lip jutted out. Very funny. 

Ignoring his scowl, Chuuya clicked his tongue and quickly punched in a message. If he’d wanted to put any effort into it, Dazai could have deciphered the text just by reading Chuuya’s hands and expression. Then, the executive checked the time on the phone and groaned. He stood, the chair screeching as he pushed it back. "I'm going to be late. Ya lazy Mackerel-ass better get to the Agency too.”

Humming, Dazai stole the remaining toast and stuffed it in his mouth. He mused about telling Chuuya about the differences from his old life, about how no one at the Agency would wait for him to get to work. He wasn’t Mori's successor — he wasn't his next boss, his diamond in the rough, his heir —  anymore. 
As far as the Agency was concerned, Dazai was just another employee. Ranpo was probably too busy tricking Poe into buying him a full stash of snacks, and Kunikida had everything Agency-related under control. Everyone liked his presence, but there was a subtle yet quintessential difference between being indispensable and being helpful. A lot fewer anxiety triggers, too.

Plastering a fake smile on his face as he munched on the bread, stomach threatening to knot at the refusal of nutriment, he wondered if Chuuya grasped how liberating his new life felt. He was no one's investment, no one's prodigy. He was free. Free to die, to mess up, to disappear and disappoint. It felt kind of amazing.

"Yes, mum," he still said mockingly, giving a half-hearted salute — which prompted Chuuya to roll his eyes. He did that so often, and with such pathos, that Dazai wondered how he didn’t get a headache every time.

“Fuck me,” Chuuya said, “you’re insufferable.”

“My, Chibi, on the breakfast table? How naughty."

Chuuya rolled his eyes again and, despite a subtle smile, he hummed a half-hearted, "You're lucky you're cute." 

Now, Dazai did not know if he was cute, yet his chest warmed up all the same.
He’d been called handsome in many strangers’ beds, sharp-witted and unreachable, during his twenty-three years of life. He’d been admired like one admires a painting, a beautiful blade. He’d cut — and he’d allowed himself to be cut just as deeply in return — over this lie called beauty.

And, in the entire world, Chuuya was the only one who had glanced at his demons and still called them pretty.

"I’ll see Chuuya this afternoon?" he murmured, his heart drumming in his chest when Chuuya circumnavigated the round kitchen table and walked to him, petting his hair. He combed a hand through Dazai’s curls and leaned in to fix his bolo tie — he handled him carefully, Chuuya, as if Dazai was one stitch away from coming undone. He’d never get used to how Chuuya looked at him. The ‘ you make this world worth my time’ kind of eyes. Tiny proofs of everyday tenderness. 

"I can’t today, I’m sorry,” Chuuya said. “I’ve got some work to sort.”

And there it was. The lie. Daze could almost taste the alien bitterness of it on his tongue. "Chuuya doesn’t really have to work,” he nudged.

"I do, actually. I'm busy." 

“You said the same last week.”

A non-committal hum. “Did I?”

“What are you doing?” Dazai tried to push, though his curiosity was met with a huff.

“Just some stuff — paperwork, mainly, the usual shit. Nothing interesting, or you’d know about it already.” 

“Hm’m.” 

“What is this, Mackerel? An interrogation?”

Gnawing at the inside of his cheek, Dazai caved in and allowed Chuuya to leave a quick peck on his temple before the mafioso headed to the genkan to grab his coat and hat, slipping into his shoes. 

Why would you lie to me? Lingered on the tip of his tongue.
In hindsight, he could have asked his partner to explain. He meant to ask. But, by the time he decided to question his partner about what kind of work he might possibly have outside of his executive tasks, Chuuya had already disappeared out of the door.

Once the lock clicked shut, Dazai stared at the empty chair. That was new. Chuuya had just lied to his face.
Why did his own dog lie to him so shamelessly, when he had no reason to? Was it on Mori’s orders? Their organizations had been on friendly terms since Meursault. 

Dazai had slept in Chuuya’s bed almost every night since they had defeated Fyodor and escaped prison more or less unscathed thanks to the power of friendship. 

…Except Dazai did not fuck his friends, and he definitely fucked Chuuya. The power of situationship, then.

He waited a few minutes, then threw his trench coat over his shoulders and slipped out of the penthouse. Walking to work would make him late — Chuuya’s penthouse wasn’t anywhere close to Motomachi Street — but he'd be caught dead before he’d take a stuffed train to work. He was suicidal, not stupid. 

Besides, walking to the Agency calmed him: along the way, he’d be able to observe the world. He could breathe in the city he loved so much. And, come evening, in the emptiness of his mind, he could tell Odasaku about all the wonders he’d witnessed during the day.

On the way, he texted Kouyou. Unsurprisingly, Chuuya had no tea time scheduled with her until the following weekend.
Hirotsu knew nothing of the executive’s movements, either. 

By the time he’d slipped into the green elevator of the Agency's building, stopped for a tea at the Cafe Uzumaki (on the house) and sauntered to the Agency’s front door, Dazai had long decided that something had to be done about Chuuya’s little secret. 

He was part of the unbeatable Detective Agency, after all, the guardians of the innocents and saviors of Yokohama. Discovery was their area of expertise. Mysteries were their specialty.

And it was high time to investigate.

—

When Dazai arrived at the Agency, he had unkempt curls and a determined bounce in his steps. 

As he plummeted to his desk, his mind was still occupied with thoughts of why Chuuya would lie to him. A quick hack into the Port Mafia database — after all, he had designed the security system — confirmed that the executive wasn’t working in the afternoon.
What could his dog possibly be hiding? 

What—

“Dazai! You. Are. Two. Goddamn. Hours. Late.”

—As expected.  
Kunikida was hollering at him about punctuality (as a self-diagnosed genius, Dazai liked to think he'd soared above the outdated concept of clocking in on time), Ranpo was perched on his desk eating chocolate and the space was way too lively for Dazai's taste. 
Suddenly, he felt the urge to rush right out of the door and play tag on the highway just to escape the torture of working for the next ten hours.

"Kunikida-kun~ Stressed so early in the morning?" 

He could hear the blood vessels popping in the man's neck. "It's almost eleven, you thankless fucker?!" 

Whistling a tune under his breath, Dazai flashed his colleague a smile and ignored the screeching. Instead, he opened his laptop and googled a quick ‘why is my dog lying’. Annoyingly, most of his desktop research didn't consider the option of a talking dog.
Fifteen minutes of useless research later, he had almost resolved that he deserved another break (maybe a coffee, this time, on Kunikida’s tab) when Atsushi tapped him on the shoulder.

"Dazai-san..?”

He glanced at the boy sitting next to him, cocking his head to the side. “Oh, Atsushi. Good morning.”

“Is everything alright? You seem busier than usual.”

Dazai grinned, pulling himself from his thoughts as he slowly removed his hands from the keyboard and turned to face his mentee. It might be useful to pick someone’s brain on the matter. "Aw, are you worried about me~?”

Bless his soul, the boy nodded. “Actually, yes. Whenever you work for real, something bad is bound to happen.” 

Oh. 

“You’re not wrong,” he mumbled. “But this time it’s just an interesting secret I have stumbled upon, that's all."

"A secret?"

Before Dazai could respond, a balled-up, purple piece of paper flew in their direction; he dodged, allowing the ball to land straight on Kunikida’s desk. As he distinguished the silver-and-purple wrapper of the package of an imported chocolate brand, Dazai could feel the heat radiating from Kunikida's body, and the nervous tension in the way a blood vessel swelled on his temple. Sometimes, he wondered if they weren't collectively pushing Kunikida down the route of early retirement.

“You lot are loud,” a gleeful voice came from the desk next to the window. Ranpo was smiling. "But this surely sounds like a job for the great Armed Detective Agency.”

Ranpo-san is the loudest, Dazai thought.

Kunikida cleared his voice. “For once, I agree. What secret, Dazai? Is it another enemy organization?”

Well, in a way… messing with the Port Mafia was part of their work, right? Technically, it was 'another enemy organization'. Dazai let out a theatrical sigh, stretching over his keyboard. "I suppose so,” he mumbled.

“It’s about Mr. Fancy Hat, isn’t it?”

“Ugh. Not everything is about Chuuya,” he said. Like a liar. 

"So he’s been busy, huh,” Ranpo continued, ignoring his input, “And you want to find out what he's been up to.”

Dazai's lips twitched into a grimace; when Ranpo said it like that, he made him sound clingy. Which was not the case. No, sir: he was merely a curious person who had too much energy and a lot of stimuli, and thus needed to focus it on productive endeavors — such as annoying his partner, or unveiling all the Port Mafia's dirty secrets. "And let me guess: Ranpo-san already figured everything out.” 

“Of course, I did. I’m the best detective in the world.” 

“Well, then you might just tell me what it is.” 

Ranpo grinned. “No way. Actually, Yosano—" he called out, craning his neck in the infirmary's direction. "Get us some popcorn. This is going to be fun."

As expected, Yosano peeked out from the door that separated the main body of the Agency’s office to the infirmary and in-house clinic, raising a dark eyebrow in their direction. Her white lab coat was stained with a crimson liquid Dazai refused to inquire about, and her butterfly pin gleamed under the morning sun. "Oh, are we having a movie night? But it’s early morning.” 

Dazai’s cheeks hurt from how widely he grinned as Kunikida grumbled a: “It’s eleven, for heaven's sake,” under his breath. The man was never going to win.

"Dazai-kun is stalking the Port Mafia."

Yosano grinned. "Is it about Nakahara?” she asked, mischief kindling her voice. 

On cue, Dazai groaned. 
He wondered if he should have been offended that everyone insisted on cramming him with Chuuya (and not in a kinky way, unfortunately) prior to any context given (they were usually right). 

Aside from Mori’s delusions, Dazai had discovered in horror that the President didn’t even try to avoid partnering him up with the Slug anymore.
No more ‘we don’t join forces with the enemy’ or 'we won't stoop at the mafia's level;'. Oh, no. After the success at Meursault, he and Chuuya unofficially became a special unit in their own right: ‘Yokohama’s ultimate weapon,’ ‘the Agency and Port Mafia’s united front’ and — Dazai’s personal favorite — ‘Soukoku (here we go again)’.
He slumped in his chair, a dramatic sigh escaping his lips. "You all act like I'm obsessed with the slug. If the Mafia has an unknown source of traffic, we should know about it.”

“With all due respect, Dazai-san,” Atsushi chimed in by his side, “you don’t sound like you care about new Port Mafia activity unless Chuuya-san is involved.” 

WOW. Betrayed under his own roof? In his own workspace? 

"Atsushi-kun! It’s for the good of the Agency—”

“That’s a lie, obviously,” Ranpo said. 

“—Besides, if my dearest chibi partner is doing something secret, I must know everything about it.”

Clearing his voice, Kunikida pushed his glasses up his nose. “Are we going to ignore that your so-called partner is a high-ranking enemy executive? Befriending anyone in the Port Mafia would equal being friends with the Antichrist. Besides, this is someone who belongs to another organization. A criminal one, I shall add, that tried to kill several of our members."

Dazai beamed. “All water under the bridge, now," he chirped, Kunikida gave him a deadpan stare. “It’s just Chuuya.”

If he were being honest, it had always been just Chuuya: the partner, the boy he grew up with, the man he woke up next to almost every morning, caught in a casual sex-and-cuddles-and-takeaway-every-weekend partnership that had become a regular part of Dazai's life. The boy who changed his life when they were both fifteen.
The person he trusted above organizations and above loyalty itself. Chuuya was so much more than just an enemy executive.

Atsushi sighed and fumbled with the documents on his table. “Just try not to anger Chuuya-san and get killed, please?"

"Who, me?" Dazai's eyes widened with mock horror as he pointed at himself. "I would never die at the hands of a Slug. Besides, if Chuuya wants to kill me, he has to catch me first — which is not going to happen in a million years, with those short leggies." Or so he hoped, at least. He dutifully ignored the perplexed eyes staring at him — and avoided Ranpo’s Cheshire grin which, alone, called out all his dirties secrets. Yes, he would have enjoyed dying at the hands of his former partner; No, the rest of his colleagues didn't need to know that. “The point is, Chuuya has been acting suspiciously. And he lied to me, so I intend to find out why. If my dog is going places, as his owner I need to know what he’s up to. With whatever means necessary.”

“And that is a restraining order waiting to happen,” Yosano chimed in, though the perspective seemed to excite her. 

"If Nakahara hasn't filed one in the past seven years, I think we're fine," Kunikida said.

Dazai grinned. "Trust me, he tried."

"...Why do you think Chuuya-san is lying?" Atsushi asked.

"He’s keeping secrets; he told me he’s working this afternoon, but I checked his schedule and he’s taken time off. Repeatedly. That has happened a few times in the past months, actually, although I never noticed before today. Now, knowing Chuuya, it’s probably something ridiculous that’s worth being caught on camera for future blackmail." Dazai's eyes sparkled with excitement as he clapped. "Besides, it's the Port Mafia we're talking about. So, being the committed detective I am, I have just decided it's my duty to follow him and see what evil the Slug is up to. I must, for the sake of Yokohama's peace."

...And for his own peace of mind.

He couldn't believe Chuuya would keep secrets.

Ranpo tossed a pink gummy bear into his mouth. "Just don't get caught. You know how Mr Fancy Hat can get."

Oh, Dazai knew exactly how his firecracker of a partner could get.
That was what made the whole thing entertaining and worthy of his attention: getting caught was half the fun, with Chuuya’s punishments.

If all went according to The Plan™, he could achieve the ultimate combo of ridiculing Chuuya and dying painlessly in one go. Or ending up handcuffed to Chuuya’s bed for a week. Either way, it seemed like a win/win situation to him. 

—

For a week, he kept an eye on Chuuya. He meticulously prepared for war, implanting a bug in the executive’s hat and waiting for the propitious moment.

He finally followed Chuuya one day after work, checking the man’s movements on a GPS as he headed out of the Port Mafia towers and, after that, out of Mafia territory. 

Only then did Dazai take a cab to the location. His curiosity grew as he realized that nothing in Chuuya’s actions was predictable. It just didn’t add up. Anything important about his partner, Dazai had always known before anyone else. Even before Ane-san, and certainly before Mori.
Every new hobby, every sport, every mission that occupied Chuuya’s time — Dazai had been there. Now, though, not even his Ph.D. in Chibi Science could explain the situation, nor the quaint building with a sign that read "Sunny Paws Dog Shelter."

Said Sunny Paws Dog Shelter seemed to be a reserved, perfectly legal business with a western building on the outskirts of Yokohama. 

Far from the mafia territory and well out of the old Sheep’s turf, uncharted and creepily residential (family-of-two houses for newlyweds weren’t exactly Chuuya’s speed, as far as Dazai knew), he couldn’t think of a single reason why someone like Chuuya would pull up in the area. Maybe he was meeting an informant. A drug dealer. A middle-class housewife cooking meth. His stomach churned. Maybe Chuuya was seeing someone; they were never exclusive. 

For a while, Dazai waited out of the shelter. 

He paced back and forth the road, clammy hands brushing against the fabric of his trench coat, checking Chuuya’s location from time to time. The executive still appeared to be inside the establishment. And so Dazai loitered about, glancing at the door from a distance before resolving to venture inside. 

It’d just be a quick reconnaissance mission, anyway. A ‘Hello, you know a chibi redhead Slug with an ugly hat? No? Fantastic, thought so, bye’ kind of thing.

Possibly, Chuuya had finally caved in and went to get a dog for himself: something stinky, loyal and ridiculously affectionate. It would not be that unthinkable: Chuuya was a sociable dog. A violent one, too.

The last time Dazai told him “Chibi, paw?” Chuuya punched him in the stomach. To be fair, Dazai had just stabbed him for fun. But the second he pushed the door open, entering a simple reception room covered in posters of pending adoptions and vet adverts, it became obvious that Sunny Paws Dog Shelter wasn’t a joke, or an informant, or an undercover mission. 

The executive was pictured in the photos pinned on the walls, each and every time surrounded by puppies. 

Chuuya, scratching the head of a big Doberman with pointy ears and a satin-like mane. The animal’s fur looked blood-black under the lights. Then, Chuuya and an older man smiling, petting two honey-gold Labrador puppies with floppy ears and swaying tails. Chuuya, holding a tiny reddish Pomeranian – wearing his hat, no less — that looked strikingly similar to him. 

The fact that his dog allowed another dog to wear his hat caused Dazai to halt, cheeks puffed up and jealousy bubbling in his stomach.

To make matters worse, the place smelled like canids. Ew.
It would have been a fairer judgment to take note of the floral fragrance sprayed by the air freshener in the corner, of the spacious reception area painted with the prettiest shade of basil green, and of the nice girl behind the desk, but ‘dog’ was all Dazai could think of. Dogs every-fucking-where. It was a nightmare. 

“Hello,” the young woman greeted him from behind the high reception desk – a clear, grey plastic surface peppered with more flyers for ‘friends waiting for their forever home’. “Welcome to Sunny Paws Dog Shelter! How may I help you today?”

That was definitely a much more enthusiastic greeting than Dazai had expected. 

Maybe they were informants of the Port Mafia after all. So eager to help. So eager to test the waters and call him out on his true business. Surely no one could be that willing to work on a Wednesday, right? 

She had a bubbly openness about her, the kind of freshness of a new starter. With her doe-like eyes and fizzy smile, she reminded him of a more-centered version of Atsushi. 

Walking closer, Dazai cleared his voice.

“Well, hello,” he said – which did not sound like something he’d say in a place full of dogs. It would have been more like ‘Yep, not for me, bye.’ Alas, he forced himself to stroll to the desk feigning nonchalance. “Nice establishment you have in here, miss. A lot of…puppies, I guess. And you look beautiful today, by the way,” he added, flashing the girl the best smile in his repertoire. She looked perplexed, tilting her head to the side and addressing him with a small smile. 

“Thank you, sir. Are you looking for a dog today?”

Goodness, no. No. “Well, as a matter of fact—” He mentally shuffled between his options. “I’m looking for a friend. He can’t know I’m here, though.”

That took her aback, her hazelnut eyes widening just so. “Oh?”

“I saw him coming in here a while ago, so I thought I’d surprise him. Would you help me, lovely miss?”

“…I can try, I suppose.”

“Fantastic. His name is Chuuya? Nakahara Chuuya?”

He suspected the Slug would use a pseudonym, but that possibility evaporated as her face lit up with the brightest beam Dazai had ever seen.

“Chuuya-san?!” 

Fuck. Could she lower her voice? “Yeah,” he hummed. Her eyes shone as if he’d just announced to her that every day would be Christmas Day from now to eternity. 

“Chuuya-san is fantastic. I hope you don't mind me saying that so freely, but you are so lucky to be his friend! He’s one of our best volunteers.” Oh, Dazai thought, the concept refusing to sink in. Oh. “As a small reality, we are constantly under-staffed. These four years would have been harsh without his immense assistance. And he’s so perfect with the dogs. He’s a blessing, truly.”

Dazai’s pulse hiccuped. He thought of Chuuya — the man he’d seen in the pictures, so unguarded as he bloomed away from the Port Mafia’s darkness. He thought of the slight crook in his grin. 

Four years, she said. 

Four years. 

That explained a lot. 

He opened his mouth — mostly to thank her and escape the metaphorical battlefield without casualties — when a familiar voice reached his ears. A gruff voice that sounded like running his fingers through smooth sunlit gravel. 

"Oi, Sawamura-san, have you seen the clean bo— Dazai?! What the fuck?!"

A pair of blue eyes ogled at him, so damn clear and surprised that, for a moment, guilt squeezed Dazai’s insides. Maybe he should have asked before stalking his partner to find the truth. Maybe he’d stepped a tad too far. 

Maybe it was too late. 

For a long moment, Chuuya looked at him, opened his mouth, and then closed it again. He stood still. 

He said nothing, and all Dazai could do was take in sight of his partner’s fallen jaw and sudden immobility, no hat or coat in sight. Then, he lifted both his hands — just to signal he came in peace, in case the executive decided to settle this trespassing by throwing a knife at him. 

“Hello, Slug~”

“…”

“Chuuya-san, is this…?” The girl covered her mouth with a hand, eyes twinkling as she turned back to Dazai. “Oh my goodness— are you the famous boyfriend?!”

Dazai‘s grin faltered. 

Wait, what? 

He didn’t have time to ask what she meant, though, as Chuuya had already grabbed his wrist and dragged him away from the reception and deeper into the establishment. 

All Chuuya threw at him was a quick “Come with me,” and a withering stare, infinitely more stern than the Stare of Disappointment. Dazai followed obediently. 

As Chuuya all but shoved him into a staff room, almost tripping over his feet as Chuuya closed the door after them, Dazai’s pulse started racing. 

The first thing he noticed was a big – impossibly fluffy, like a mountain of freshly whipped cream – Samoyed with a red bow tie sitting in the room's corner. The animal woofed and swayed his tail when Chuuya walked in, but stayed put as the man threw a gentle ‘hey, buddy’ at him. Dazai’s heart decided it was a great time to jump to his throat and remain stuck there. It was a painful hiccup, a thousand butterflies ripping his guts open to break free. His silly Chibi dog was too good with other dogs – too soft. That surely wasn’t fair.

Side-eyeing the dog, Dazai hesitated on the threshold. “Is the fluffball with a bow tie friendly?”

“Don't worry, Akira is very well-behaved.” 

“Is he, now.”

“I mean it, ya jackass. He’s more polite than your Mackerel ass, but he doesn’t like to get close to humans so you’re fine.” With that, the executive flashed a smile at the dog and added, in a gentle voice that rearranged Dazai's insides, "Right, Akira? Tell this fish you're a good boy."

Oh, gosh.
He never meant to fall deeper in love with Chuuya, and yet he couldn't fight it. Taking a deep breath, he schooled his face into a mask of boredom and followed the executive inside the room.  

“Please don’t tell me you called a dog Akira because of that underwhelming movie with the red motorcycle.”

Chuuya shrugged.
“Don’t know, not my pick,” he answered, dismissing the comment before fixing his glare back on Dazai’s face – eyes narrowing, the deep blue of his irises bordering on black. “Now. Why the fuck are you here?”

“First, do I want to ask who your ‘boyfriend’ is or are you cheating on little old me with some ugly dog fanatic?” Dazai fired right back, a hooded smirk that was sure to set Chuuya off like a bomb. Just throwing kerosene to a fire waiting to happen. He’d always felt warmer when close to Chuuya’s fiery outbursts: they set ablaze the forever winter of his heart. 

As predicted, the executive gritted his teeth. He saw Chuuya’s desire to punch him in the gums as soon as the words exited his mouth; he felt it in the way he had to inhale deeply. 

“Shut up, dumbass. The staff here merely assumed I was living with someone after I complained about your inability to clean up after yourself and wash your underwear without turning my whole laundry blue.”

“Is that so,” Dazai said, smile still in place. The assumption was fair and a little bit deserved. They did behave like an old married couple. They've done so for as long as Dazai remembered. 
Not that he was ever going to tell Chuuya that much, of course. Instead, he made a show of checking his nails only to hear the little annoyed growl Chuuya let out. "By the way, what sordid business does the Port Mafia have at a dog shelter?”

"I'm not here for work, imbecile."

"Hm'm. Then what are you doing here?"

Chuuya tutted, throwing a glance at the Samoyed in the corner. “Take a wild guess.”

“Visiting your fellow mutts?”

"HA?!” 

Dazai smiled. Chuuya did ask, after all. It was his fault.

“Look, Dazai, you can stop gloating,” the redhead said, pinching his nose, sounding as if the wrong word could convince him to finally fist-fight Dazai in a parking lot. “I’ve always wanted to adopt a dog. It’s not breaking news, and it's really not that deep. I like dogs.”

“Yes, I do know that.”

“But with my lifestyle, I guessed this was the next best thing."

Dazai blinked, taken aback. "By volunteering at a shelter."

"Yeah, well, there are a lot of little guys here who need a second chance at life. I figured it wouldn’t be too different from taking in children from the streets or helping orphans via the Mori Corp-affiliated charities.” 

The man’s lips curled up as she spoke, nostalgia clouding the sky-blue irises, and another epiphany dawned on Dazai: he was falling a little harder for Chuuya with every second they spent in the room. He just knew it. 

“So you’re just helping out some civilian business,” he said.

It sounded simplistic but Chuuya nodded anyway. 

“I mean, yeah. I started a few years ago because it felt like a good way to use my time when you left, I guess. Besides, most of these little guys don’t have a home, and most of them are raised in the streets. Helping them out is kinda my thing, don’t you think?”

Dazai's expression softened, a rare moment of sincerity slipping through his many masks.

“That is...cute,” he admitted. 

Now, Chuuya was more than welcome to volunteer away. He could rescue all the strays and take them all home, for all Dazai cared. As long as it made him smile like this — as long as it made him happy.

But of course, despite all of Dazai’s changes and self-growth and attempts to improve his ways, Chuuya was still going to assume that he wanted to judge his choices and make fun of them. So, on cue, the executive always took the worst plausible interpretation and ran with it. 

“Fuck. 'F course you think it’s dumb,” he mumbled, lowering his head. His face had turned a delicate shade of peony pink, and he turned trying to conceal an otherwise obvious embarrassment. If he had his hat, he’d probably be hiding under its edge. 

Slowly, a soft smirk playing on his lips, Dazai sauntered forward, reaching out and grasping Chuuya’s hands in his. Naked, vulnerable hands. He could feel his partner whimper when he traced soothing circles on the back of his knuckles with his thumbs. 

“That is not what I've said, Slug.” He rubbed his thumb over the center of his hands. “I mean it: it’s kind. And I would expect no less of Chuuya."

"Don’t mock me, asshole."

"I'm not laughing at you, I swear. In fact, I was wondering if you'd let me stay a little longer.”

“Wh-?! You want to stay?"

“Yes.” A second of hesitation. “Well, only if you promise to stay close to protect me from those ferocious beasts." With one hand he thumbed towards the Samoyed, who tilted his big white head in confusion. The round ears twitched, and his paws tip-tapped on the spot like a very round, very fluffy kneading machine, but he didn’t move. Good boy, Dazai mused. “Like that one — the drooling snowball over there. I can’t have these slubbering dogs jumping on me.”

Unexpectedly — beautifully — Chuuya laughed. A genuine, hearty sound that made Dazai's heart skip a beat. 

Or maybe it was the way Chuuya squeezed his fingers, almost absent-mindedly, almost as if he didn’t mind holding Dazai’s bloodied hands after all. They had done hideous things, those hands, and Chuuya still held them unapologetically. 

“You don’t have to ask. I’ve got you.”

“And only small ones, please?”

“Gotcha.”

His tensed shoulders relaxed just a tad. He needed to set boundaries, but Chuuya had him — they’d done a lot of wrong to each other, stabbing and car-bombing not even making the top of the list, but dismissing each other’s fears was never one of them. 

They had always been good at compromising and communicating non-verbally.

"Why, it must be my lucky day,” he purred, tone mock-serious. “Chuuya will have to protect me like a handsome Prince Charming."

The laughter Chuuya barked was boisterous and round at the edges — affectionate, just a little. “I swear none of the puppies will attack you on my watch, you big baby.”

“You never know. That’s why you’re going to be my bodyguard.”

“I could be your bodyguard. In fact, I'd be happier about babysitting your ass if you weren’t such an insufferable piece of shit.”

(In another life, maybe.)

“Lies. You would love to protect me 24/7.” 

When Chuuya groaned and flipped him off, Dazai’s grin widened. 

A part of him couldn’t wait for Chuuya to introduce him to all the dogs he liked, the ones that had kept him company in those four years. The ones in the pictures.

Another part of him wanted to see Chuuya pet them, caring, kind, basking in the adorable excitement of his partner around the animals. 

All of him, though, wanted to kiss Chuuya until they ran out of breath — until he’d find the words to explain this feeling blooming inside his chest like a spring flower. 

Suddenly Dazai recognized a certain latent desire, never truly acknowledged, to get to know a side of Chuuya he might have overlooked. To embark on an adventure, to chart those roads in Chuuya’s life that had led him far from the world of Double Black. The word unfamiliar wasn’t one Dazai would associate with his partner of seven years, but how beautifully exciting it was to learn they still could surprise each other. 

The world bored Dazai into a painful state of drowsiness, but Chuuya? He would never grow tired of Chuuya. 

So he gave a resolute tug at his partner’s wrist, ready to nudge him toward the exit. 

“Good,” he chirped. “Then make way a—“

Chuuya intercepted him, though, his feet firmly planted on the floor. He didn’t move. Instead, he tapped a naked finger over Dazai’s lips, interrupting him halfway. And his knees buckled the second the soft digit brushed against his bottom lip, silencing his mind as well as his anxious mouth. They had been talking while standing close, leaning into their own personal bubble; he didn’t even realize he’d bent to Chuuya’s level while talking, and that Chuuya had craned his neck and lifted on his tippy-toes just so. They were aligned, always had been.

“But first,” Chuuya said, “the second you get uncomfortable you must promise you’ll tell me and we'll leave together. I’m almost done anyway, so I can pick up the rest tomorrow.”

Slowly, Dazai leaned forward and closer.
His forehead brushed against Chuuya’s — the tip of his nose impossibly cold, the one of his partner’s warm and freckled. “H’m.”

“Speak up, Osamu? I need to know you’re comfortable.”

“I’m fine,” he promised. And he was. Still wearing a grin, he pulled Chuuya in for a peck on the lips. “I promise. But I'll tell Chuuya if I'm not fine anymore.” 

A sigh of relief. Another kiss. And then a gentle, almost breathy, “Good. Okay.”

“By the way… Boyfriends?”

Chuuya’s jaw set in an instant, his expression hardening as his cheeks turned the most subtle shade of pink. “Oh, fuck’s sake, don’t look so pleased with yourself,” he huffed — which actually meant ‘yes, we’re official now’ and Dazai heard it and smiled and damn, could a heart race so fast without exploding? If happiness could kill, he’d be a dead man by now. “Just don't go telling everyone ‘bout this place, alright? I have a reputation." 

Dazai chuckled. He intertwined their fingers tighter, lifting their hands to plant a kiss on the hard hills of his partner's knuckles. "Your secret's safe with me."

Besides, I kind of like this secret side of you.

Chuuya huffed but didn't pull away, letting the words linger in the space between them. “Cool. Thanks.”

“And Chuuya could adopt me. Think of it as a trial for a proper dog.” 

“Absolutely fucking not.” 

And that was the story of how Dazai Osamu — detective extraordinaire, faithful partner; a human, spectacularly, if one cared to look closely enough — lived to die another day, and to unravel another mystery.