Chapter Text
Even after that fateful night with Chuya, the sessions with Mori don’t stop.
Mori had long ago stopped using the excuse of ‘punishment’ after a mission. He stopped giving some fleeting ‘reason’ for the things he did to Dazai up in that office.
Some ‘sessions’ were easier to recover from than others, but there was bound to be another bad one soon.
And of course it was after a solo mission.
Mori wasn’t stupid enough to try and keep him after a partnered mission, maybe the old boss had started to suspect, but it didn’t matter.
Chuya was his , not Mori’s, but his .
I’d kill him for you, if you asked.
He had Chuya’s loyalty. He had Chuya’s care. He was Chuya’s family.
Not Mori.
And knowing that made it easier some nights—knowing that he had a way out , knowing he had somewhere (with someone) to go.
But none of those things tended to matter during a really bad secession.
They all fell away in the face of the kind of pain that that fucking doc liked to inflict.
At least after this ‘session’ he could sort of walk.
(He’s lying to himself.)
He sends a quick text to Chuya, not trusting his voice not to break on a call.
And then, before he can second guess himself, he sends one more to his chibi.
bad one
It’s the least he can do, considering Chuya does the brunt of the work in terms of getting Dazai to recover . He should at least have a warning.
Cause it’s not pretty.
And it doesn’t leave Dazai in a state of mind that’s particularly pretty either.
What they have, it’s not quite a routine, but something similar, something fluid.
Chuya parks, usually keeping the car on, but today he switches it off—his seatbelt is already off and he’s poised to get out and help Dazai into the car.
He’s just waiting for a signal, one that Dazai doesn’t give it, so Chuya stays put.
There are always eyes watching, and Dazai can not afford such a blatant show of weakness outside of the safety of Chuya’s spaces.
It’d be a blow to him, sure, but it'd be a mark on Chuya too, who already has a reputation for being soft just because he cares about his subordinates.
(The only people that start those rumors or believe them are those that have never seen Chuya in a fight, either in the training rooms or the battlefield.
Chuya’s care doesn’t diminish the violence he dwells in or the things he’s capable of.
They’re naive—but even if it’s just talk there’s still weight to it.
So Dazai grits his teeth and bears the pain until he can collapse into the passenger seat.)
Chuya doesn’t ask, and Dazai doesn’t tell.
It’s better this way, takes less of a toll on the both of them—even though he knows Chuya would listen, knows Chuya could handle it and not lash out (even if a part of Dazai wants him to—).
It’s better this way, because Dazai will break if anyone knows, even Chuya.
(He knows Chuya has more than a vague idea of what goes on up there in that office, but he doesn’t know the details, the procedures .
But even what he already knows is too much).
Maybe one day when he’s stopped being weak —
“Don’t do that.” Chuya says barely above a whisper, cutting off his thoughts, eyes still on the road.
He must be able to feel Dazai’s gaze on his cheek.
“I know you’re thinking dumb, stupid thoughts.” Now his eyes flicker off the road for a second to look at Dazai.
The weight of his gaze leaves just as quickly as it came, but Dazai keeps watching him.
Chuya’s driving leisurely with one hand on the top of the steering wheel.
It’s then that Dazai notices that Chuya’s elbow and forearm are resting on the center console, hand laying open palm up—an invitation.
(Mori had his hands tied up today—not cuffs or chains or something he could hold onto and break out of, no. Just the same fucking leather cuffs they used to use to attach psyche patients to the bed. A buckle he couldn’t reach, and nothing to grasp or to hold on to—)
He slides his hand into Chuya’s, lacing their fingers togethers.
It’s a lifeline.
If Chuya knows it, he doesn’t show it. He just squeezes Dazai’s hand.
And Dazai squeezes back.
They’re heading back to Chuya’s as they always do. Even with all the shortcuts and semi-illegal vehicular maneuvers, the path home has become familiar.
Chuya opens the car door for him, holding his hand out in case Dazai wants to take it.
It’s second nature for Chuya to help him up, not always realizing the strength he’s sharing—all but yanking him out of the passenger seat onto his own two feet.
Some days he doesn’t take his hand, can’t bear the thought, let alone the feeling , of being touched.
Today isn’t one of those days where he needs help standing up, but it is one of those days that he just wants to hold Chuya’s hand because he can , because he’s allowed to.
So he does.
And he doesn’t let go.
Not in the elevator, not as Chuya unlocks his door with one hand.
Not as Dazai flings his shoes off and lets his coat slide from his shoulders onto the floor.
Not as Chuya leads him through the dark apartment.
He only lets go once they’re in Chuya’s bathroom; Dazai begins undressing to get himself into the shower while Chuya sets up his fancy little (absolutely fucking massive) bath for him.
Because yeah , Chuya has a western styled bathroom with a shower and a separate standing tub that has little golden talons for feet .
Boogie motherfucker.
(Dazai loves this bathroom).
Except getting himself into the shower is proving harder than it should be; his hands are shaking trying to undo the buttons of his shirt.
(He’s not cold, no his nerves are shot .)
He’s struggling and he hates this. (Can’t stand to not be in control, let alone of his own body.
He can control his own fucking heartbeat for crying outloud, but now he can’t control his own hands . Most days he’s steady enough to pick locks with eyes closed and hands pinned beneath him.
But right now? He can’t even undo a button . It’s fucking infuritating— )
But Chuya’s got him, slowly taking over, helping him out of his clothes and bandages.
Dazai lets his hands drop to his sides, watching him.
He holds his gaze—fingers gliding along the myriad of fabrics blindly.
If Chuya is shocked by the lack of blood or new injuries, he doesn’t mention it
(No, the wounds from today are beneath his skin.
Bruises, sure, fried nerves and things far worse —)
It’s only recently, very recently, that he’s stopped hiding his scars from Chuya.
He’s seen them. All of them
He doesn’t regret it. It makes this easier.
(It makes it easier too, to be .
To have someone that knows , to have someone that understands .)
But there’s always still that insidious part of Dazai’s mind that wonders if Chuya hates him because of it, wonders if Chuya finds them ugly (finds him ugly).
(Most days it’s easy to block those thoughts out.
But most days is not all days.)
He’s efficient in the shower; scrubbing himself down so he can just sit in the bath.
(His legs are going to start shaking soon from all standing—it was a rough mission even before Mori put his fucking hands on him —
He’s just tired is all.)
The bath is ready for him when he gets out, and because Chuya knows how much Dazai hates having to see the injuries on the lower parts of his body, Chuya’s added one of those colorful, flower smelling things into the water that turns it all bluish green.
It makes the water feel thicker and weirdly softer on his skin, almost like a blanket (almost like his bandages).
Chuya’s doing lord knows what around him in the bathroom, busying himself with tasks so as to not seem like he’s hovering .
(Even if it’s something Dazai doesn’t mind, something Dazai might actually need .
He likes this side of Chuya—even when it gets to be too much.
He wants Chuya near him, no matter when, no matter how…he just wants… )
“Does Chuya no longer want to kiss me, now that he sees how disgusting I am?” He means for it to come off as a joke, but his tone falls flat.
He realizes then, that those are the first words he’s spoken since Chuya picked him up.
Chuya watches him, something indiscernible passing over his features.
“That’s not why I’m not kissing you.” He says evenly (trying hard , to keep the words even).
Dazai stares back.
He’s tired, he’s not thinking straight, not filtering his words.
“But Chuya still thinks I’m disgusting.”
He sees the rage flash in his eyes, sees the way it surges through the composure that Chuya has been trying so hard to keep.
“Don’t you dare put words in my mouth. The things he does are not your fault, and the things he’s done to you do not make you disgusting. You survived, that makes you strong, Osamu. He’s the one that’s vile .” He all but spits .
With a breath that anger recedes to a far off simmer.
“Do you want me to kiss you?” Chuya says, voice soft again.
“I always want Chuya to kiss me.” He says petulantly, but Chuya levels him a look, the look he gives when he wants a real answer.
“I—not on the lips, but yes.” He slides further down into the water, hiding his embarrassment by blowing bubbles on the water’s surface. Chuya smiles softly, leaning down to kiss him on the temple. Twice .
“You want me to do your hair?”
Dazai looks up at him through his lashes, nodding.
Obviously he wants Chuya to wash his hair. He purposefully didn’t wash it during his pre-bath shower for that exact reason.
He’s sure Chuya must notice his little schemes from time to time, but he never says so. He just indulges him.
It makes Dazai want to smile. He probably would, if he remembered how.
(It’s easy to forget how to move all those facial muscles naturally. Only that odd Cheshire smile, that crude imitation of Mori’s, seems ingrained in him.
Sometimes when he’s around Chuya or Odasaku for long enough, a real smile comes back to him.
It’s harder though, after a bad session with Mori.
It’s hard to be , after any session with Mori.)
Chuya’s fingers feel divine in his hair, blunt nails scratching at his scalp, sending shivers down his spine.
His hands leave far too soon, even if Chuya was scrubbing for a while .
(Maybe he can convince Chuya to do his hair every time. That—that would be nice ..)
He helps him wash the suds from his hair, and the conditioner too.
“I’ll leave ya to finish up, yeah?”
He waits for Dazai’s nod before standing from the stool beside the bath, kissing him on the apple of cheek just before he leaves.
Even if he likes Chuya’s doting, he does his best to try not to hover .
He watches Chuya shut the door behind him, waits for his footsteps to recede as he moves towards the living room.
He sighs, slipping down until it’s just his face above the water.
He tracks the grooves in the ceiling, following them with his gaze.
He shuts his eyes.
(He’s tired—tired of it all .)
He sinks beneath the surface, forcing the air out from his lungs.
( I’d kill him for you, if you asked me too )
He keeps breathing out, keeps sinking until his spine is flat on the bottom of the tub, his head too, against the porcelain.
(He could let the warm, sweet water fill his lungs.
It could all end, here and now.
( He could end it)
He could sleep forever, never be in pain again.
( I’d kill him for you… )
Or he could fight it.
(Could fight him , with Chuya by his side and—)
But Dazai’s weak, he’s not strong like Chuya.
(But Chuya is his —)
He’s so tired, and wouldn't be lovely to just sleep.
Wouldn’t it be lovely if it all stopped.
It could be over now, he could sleep now …)
He bolts up out of the water, chest heaving, gripping the edges of the tub.
(Fucking pussy .
Can’t live, can’t die—can’t do anything right. Can’t fucking follow through on anything and commit . Not even to death.
Pathetic .)
He pulls out the drain as he rises from the tub, doing his best not to get water everywhere on his way out.
He dries off, not bothering to dry his hair with anything more than a towel. (He might actually lose it if he has to have a loud ass hair dryer next to his ear to do something the quiet air can do for him.)
He forgoes bandages for now, otherwise getting dressed for going the fuck to bed.
He wants nothing more than to sleep, the exhaustion a leaden weight on his limbs, but he hesitates at the foot of Chuya’s bed, knowing that the silence of the bedroom will haunt him.
Instead he follows his partner out into the living room, flopping onto the couch.
The sound of Chuya’s movements fill the space—he’s doing paperwork, cleaning up, cooking. It’s clatter and noise and it’s all that Dazai needs to slip into light dreamless sleep. Maybe it feels more like resting with his eyes closed rather than sleeping, but it’s something , and he’ll take it.
———
The grogginess of sleep recedes in waves, taking its time.
It’s around the fourth time he wakes that his eyes actually stay open; Chuya’s busying himself in the kitchen, cooking for the both of them.
He sits up, swinging his legs off the edge of the couch.
Stars swarm his vision and the room swims and whoops—
He should not be trying to get up that quickly.
He blinks it away, steadying himself with a hand on the back of the couch.
He looks towards Chuya, and his heart swells.
He’s just looking at him—just the mere sight of his partner makes him sick with this feeling of adoration.
He’s so fucking beautiful, just standing there and cooking in their kitchen.
He cares for him so much—and these moments of proximity mean too—it all means so much to him it physically hurts .
This love in his chest is so overwhelming sometimes he feels like he can’t breathe .
He never thought he could ever feel an emotion, something so human , as deeply as this.
(Chuya is his .
Chuya has offered and Dazai can be free .
Damn the fall-out, they’ll handle it.
Damn it all, Dazai wants this.
He wants it all …)
“ Okay. ” Dazai mumbles to himself.
He knows what he wants.
(What he needs. )
His footsteps are silent as he pads his way over towards Chuya.
He comes up behind him, snaking his arms around his waist, resting his chin on the shorter man’s shoulder. He has to hunch over a little now that age has exacerbated their height difference, but he doesn’t care.
(He loves him.)
He sighs into the side of Chuya’s neck.
“I want you to do it.” He says with more confidence, more surety than he has.
He’s glad he’s doing this with Chuya’s back turned to him—he can’t bear to see his expression—doesn’t know what he’d do if it was disappointed —can’t fathom how he’d go on living if Chuya said he’d changed his mind— no. No, Chuya wouldn’t do that.
Chuya stills, and Dazai feels as the ripple of tension passes through him, starting from his shoulders and moving down his body. He sheds it just as quickly, not letting it settle.
He puts the cutting knife down and turns in his hold to look at Dazai.
He doesn’t move, he keeps his arms around his waist.
(He wishes he never needed to let go.)
He must pass whatever test of scrutiny Chuya’s eyes subject him to, because arms drape over the back of his neck, returning the embrace (as if they’re just a young couple, slow dancing in the kitchen (and god how he wishes that’s all there was to their life—this domestic bliss, these snatches of normalcy and youth)).
“Is there a particular way you want me to do it?” Chuya says evenly, looking up at Dazai with that soft expression in his eyes.
Dazai nods.
This kind of question, he can answer with ease—he’s fantasized about it endlessly, afterall.
“Slit his throat. I want him to know it’s you.”
“Okay.” Chuya nods, a barely there smile at the corner of his mouth, that glimmering tenderness in his eyes.
“Do you want to be there for it?”
There’s a silence as Dazai tries to come up with something, but he can’t .
“I—I don’t know.”
“That’s fine—I’ll let you think on it,” Chuya raises himself on his toes to kiss Dazai on the underside of his jaw.
“Until then, I’ve gotta go in for an assignment in about an hour.”
“I don’t want to be alone.” Dazai cuts in a little too quickly. Even though he keeps his voice even, he knows he sounds pathetic and needy , but Chuya just smiles ruefully. He forgets, sometimes, that it’s okay to give himself away when he’s with Chuya.
Chuya’s thumb rubs soothing across his cheek.
“I can drop you off at Lupin, on my way in. Even if Sakunosuke and doc-glasses aren’t there, there’s the bartender and maybe even that cat.”
“You mean Sensei?” Chuya hums in assent, turning back around to finish cooking their meal.
“If you’re going to Lupin I needya to be ready ten. We’ll eat and then we’ll go.”
He kisses Chuya fleetingly on the cheek before scurrying to get dressed, something in him eased .
———
The bar is all but desolate when Chuya drops him off—there’s nothing but the soft jazz music to keep him company, but he doesn’t mind in the slightest.
Sensei is the first to join him, jumping up onto the stool beside him, meowing.
He returns the greeting.
The bartender appears soon enough, serving him his usual whisky on the rocks.
He knows it’ll be a long while before either Odasaku or Ango will show up, so he pulls out one of the books he fit into the inner pocket of his suit. The one he decides on is one of Chuya’s favorite collections of poems. He obviously snagged it off the shelf just before leaving, of which Chuya was none the wiser.
The two older men show up eventually, and the drinks begin to go quickly now that Dazai’s got company.
Time flows by amidst their laughter and conversation, none of them noticing, none of them quite caring about the swirling of the hands on the grandfather clock.
There’s nothing quite like these moments of ease among friends; Dazai wouldn’t trade this mere instant for the world.
The whiskey burns in the loveliest, smokiest of ways. He’s not drunk anymore, just pleasantly buzzed, his face slightly sore from what must be a smile on his face.
His phone buzzes in his pocket. It can’t be anyone else but Chuya; he’s got everyone else on his phone silenced.
Finished early .
He stares at the glowing words on the screen for a moment.
(He doesn’t want to leave just yet. He wants to stay right here with friends, like he’s normal.
He wants —)
Still at Lupin
Come join
And Chuya knows that Dazai doesn’t make offers like this for nothing.
K. Be there in 15.
“Chuya’s coming!”
“To pick you up?” Ango asks, trying to keep the hope out of his voice that that is the nature of Nakahara-san’s arrival and not anything else.
“Nope! He’s gonna stay for a bit!” Odasaku raises a brow while Ango shrinks a bit into his seat.
Neither of them know , per se, the nature of their relationship. He knows Odasaku has a hunch , and that Ango is probably a bit of a ways from putting it together, still thinking that they hate each other. And on top of that, Ango is a little scared of Chuya after that one time the executive chewed him out in the archives.
The door creaks open not long after. Chuya walks down the steps, he’s in his usual hat, but he’s wearing a black sweatshirt with equally black cargo pants and a black leather jacket.
It’s not the get-up he left their apartment in; mission probably got bloodier than intended, forcing him to change. The leather jacket clearly isn’t particularly ideal in this rain, but Chuya doesn't seem to care.
Once he’s at the base of the stairs, he makes his way to the bar, nodding to the two older men. He comes up on Dazai’s left side, who’s actively reaching his arm out to the executive, beckoning him over.
Chuya goes up to him easily, letting Dazai’s outstretched arm snake its way around his waist beneath the heavy leather jacket. He worms his hand beneath the sweatshirt, for which Chuya halfheartedly glares at him, mumbling,
“Your hands are cold, asshole.” Dazai just sticks his tongue out at him.
The bartender comes over, asking if Chuya would like anything.
“Nah, I’m driving—although if you’ve got any tea I’d love some.” The bartender nods, and Chuya thanks him.
The bar is quiet aside from the crinkling of leather as he shrugs off his jacket.
Dazai doesn’t let go of him, but Chuya is used to maneuvering around his lanky ass. Once he’s shedded the heavy, somewhat damp layer, he throws his arm over Dazai’s shoulders, completing the embrace.
His tea comes in a beautiful crystalline glass, with a matching little bowl that has sugar cubes in it. He thanks the bartender, smiling as he sips the tea. It’s been a cold, wet night, and the tea warms him nicely.
(It was a fucking bloody night is what it was, the new grunts far too trigger happy and the intel way too faulty.
He handled it because he’s fucking competent but the cleanup always gets to him.
(Running around and cleaning up everyone’s messes, he doesn’t have time for his own fuck ups, barely even has time to keep himself alive .
(He’s so fucking tired)
He’s a good little dog, always heeling and following orders, always giving and giving .)
He did his job, no matter the bullshit that likes to swim his way.
He wants a day off.
That and a drink and a goddamn blunt, but there’s a fat fucking chance of any of those.
(He’s tired …)
But his bullshit doesn’t matter . There’s Dazai by his side and his cold hand on his waist and he likes this.
So he shoves all of it down, letting it settle like a stone beneath his sternum.
Dazai needs him, and Chuya wants to be by his side (would never leave if only he’d be allowed to stay).
He’s got enough of his own shit—he doesn’t need Chuya’s too.
(He’s so tired…)
So he sips the luxurious tea, leaning into Dazai’s touch, wanting… )
———
He’s looking at the bobbing ball of ice in his whiskey glass, leaning forward onto the bar, head pillowed on his arm as the hand on Chuya’s waist traces nonsensical patterns along his bare skin.
Chuya is solid and warm beside him. He’s glad he invited him, even if it is an odd melding of worlds.
But Odasaku and Ango act normal , and Dazai couldn’t ask for more.
He’s content.
‘Happy’ would be too strong of a word, but this is probably the closest thing to happiness he’d ever be able to feel.
And maybe that’s okay because this—
This is nice.
Had he not already told Chuya he wanted Mori dead, he would have in this moment.
Because—because this, he likes this. And Dazai is selfish.
He wants this to last.
He wants this to be real .
And it can never be either of those things with Mori alive.
He can’t wait for him to be dead, truly. Can’t wait for that shock to wash over his smug face when his supposed most loyal member slits his throat on Dazai’s command.
Only when he’s dead, can this feel real, can this be relished in.
But he knows he’ll never feel free, knows he’ll never truly come to believe it unless he sees it himself.
For all that he trusts Chuya—he needs to see it, feel the blood on his face and hands, watch the life leave Mori’s eyes to be able to stop looking over his shoulder, to be able to convince himself he’s free .
His eyes slip over to Chuya, watching as he sips his tea, the crease between his brow slowly falling away as he relaxes more at the bar.
Chuya’s eyes meet his, the side of his mouth relaxing into an imperceptible smile for no one but Dazai.
“I’d like to be there, when you do it.” He mumbles.
Chuya watches him for a moment longer before shifting to kiss Dazai’s temple, lingering there.
“Kay,” he mumbles into his hair.
He kisses his temple again before resting his cheek on his head.
“You just tell me when, Osamu.” The rumble of Chuya’s voice is so soft and god he fucking loves him—
Dazai nods, hyper aware of the weight of Odasaku's gaze just off of his periphery.
It’ll take time, a shit ton of planning and a decent helping of luck to pull it off, but they’ll manage.
It’ll be worth it.
Whatever it costs, whatever it takes—because he wants .
He’s selfish.
He wants to be free, he wants to stay .
( Stay in this moment with friends,
Stay here, in this moment, where he’s content .
He wants to stay by Chuya’s side—he’s finally his and he doesn’t want to let go— )
Mori’s going to die.
And if it’s the last thing he and Chuya ever do, so be it .
A sickle-like smile grows on his face, hidden behind his forearm.
Mori’s going to die .
And so the game begins.