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1. Sixteen
“Do you know the tale from Norse mythology that is the main contributor to mistletoe’s romantic associations?”
Dazai stares at Chuuya owlishly, eyes huge, dark, and terrifyingly unblinking. His chin rests on his palms, and his elbows on the desk Chuuya sits at, working on his report. It’s snowing outside. December’s cold is a perfect one – not unbearable yet, just right, the kind of cold that doesn’t stop you from going outside, the kind of cold that gives you excuses to snuggle closer to someone you love, laugh at them because ears, nose and cheeks are turning pink, and share warm glances as you wrap your scarf tighter around your neck.
December’s cold is also about Christmas, about couples, about fried chicken, cake, illuminations and, for some, about mistletoe. People kiss under the mistletoe, they say. Not a lot in Japan, but who cares? Dazai is a cultured sixteen-year-old teenager. Christmas is white, red, and green, whereas his life has always been a black and white movie – Christmas is not for him perhaps, neither are mistletoes, neither are kisses, but.
Amidst the blood and the void, he found something he wanted.
“So, the story goes with Odin’s son Baldur who was prophesied to die, so his mother Frigg, the goddess of love, she went to all the animals and the plants of the natural world to make them promise not to harm her son, but she forgot the mistletoe! And so Loki the god of mischief made an arrow with it to kill Baldur…”
Chuuya hums without really listening to Dazai’s rambling. He’s pretty, Chuuya. He’s got lots of people fawning over him, even in the Port Mafia where everyone should be looking away because they are definitely too old for him. Dazai buried a boisterous grunt last month because of it – he was talking about filthy things to do to the gravity manipulator, and Dazai merely did his duty by relieving the Port Mafia from such a useless and disgusting insect. Such bad taste anyway, Dazai had thought; some more braincells would have made him realise how unattractive the slug really is.
Or so he used to say.
“… But some say the gods resurrected Baldur from the dead, and Frigg was so overjoyed that she declared mistletoe a symbol of love and vowed to kiss those who passed beneath it. Hence… Chuuuuuya.”
“What?”
Chuuya lifts his head, and Dazai does his best to pout with a dark gaze. Chuuya is unfazed, though, as he is too much with him when he should not – for Dazai is called the Demon Prodigy, mafia black blood in the doll corpse of a child, and people fear him. Chuuya – pretty Chuuya, unfairly pretty Chuuya – dares clicking his tongue at him.
“I’m working, you damn waste of bandages. Who cares about your mistletoe origin story?”
“Should have known that Chibi’s brain was too tiny to be knowledgeable about anything non-work related,” Dazai huffs with a vexed frown.
“Shut up, bastard. What’s your deal with mistletoe anyway? Wanna kiss someone or something?”
And, oh, if only he knew.
Being children in the mafia is living the dark movie normal people see at the cinema; it’s watching the spectators as if they are a movie themselves, when in reality, they only had something everyone should have had – a childhood. Dazai is a child whose childhood has been killed in the womb – as such, he never craved something he never had and never saw as meaningful anyway; that is, until Chuuya came along.
Chuuya is a child too. A fiery one, a stormy one – he burns and he’s beautiful, and perhaps Dazai just doesn’t like other people noticing it, because Chuuya is the first toy he’s ever wanted to snatch away. His dog, he snarls. His. It’s somewhat cruel that the first tantrum he threw in sixteen years of existence is rejected so harshly by the object of his desires itself.
Now he’s sixteen, he buried a guy lusting over Chuuya last month and then realised that perhaps he, too, wanted a taste of those fire lips.
“And what if I want to kiss someone?” Dazai provokes.
“Then go ahead,” Chuuya immediately retorts with a deadpan tone.
“I bet Chuuya never kissed someone before.”
A vein pulses on Chuuya’s temple and Dazai smirks, satisfied to finally get a reaction out of him. He’s calm and collected, Chuuya. He’s sweet, responsible, too loyal and too caring for someone with blood on his hands. He’s been robbed of his childhood too—yet when they’re together, Dazai likes to think that being sixteen is nothing more than that, and that for once they’re doing something right.
“Piss off, mackerel! My love life is none of your business.”
“See? So predictable. Tiny little virgin.”
Chuuya slams his fist on the desk and points an angry finger – still holding a pen – at him.
“You are a virgin too, bastard!”
“Maybe I’m not.”
“You so are.”
Chuuya grumbles and goes back to his report. Dazai can only frown, displeased, and he ends up leaving with a specific idea in mind. He wants to kiss Chuuya – not because he’s in love or some sappy thing of the sort, mind you; the slug just has some weird and undeniable effect on people – and as such, he shall do it, because a thing so simple should be no big deal for him to obtain. Kissing under the mistletoe is not sappy—it’s tricky. It originated from the intervention of the god of mischief. Therefore, planning to kiss someone under it does not make him sappy but mischievous.
Dazai nods to himself as he calculates everything that he needs to do. He’s sixteen and he has a plan.
_
Thanks to Kouyou, the Port Mafia is having a Christmas party. Dazai may or may not have helped Kouyou to think of that, but it’s not his fault that she’s too easy to read and that mentioning Chuuya experiencing normal things always does the trick for her.
The plan is perfect.
The rented place is big, people love losing themselves in the normalcy they either left behind them or never got to know in the first place, and isolating Chuuya from the crowd shouldn’t be very hard. In one adjacent room where drinks are stored, Dazai places a mistletoe – his ally, his weapon, and perhaps a piece of his heart, because the selfish desire that boils within him is too emotional for what he’s used to. Again, though—this is not love. Attraction at the very best. Definitely attraction only, and mostly curiosity.
“The drinks?”
“Mh-mh.”
“That’s where you stole this bottle?”
“Sure did.”
“… And there’s a Petrus, you said?”
“Not sure they’re gonna open it, though.”
Chuuya hums. He doesn’t react more, only bickers a bit with Dazai, but the taunt has been thrown and Dazai knows it works: Chuuya’s brain is racing as he ponders over what to do, and Dazai made sure to let slip this information once Chuuya had had a drink already, so he’d give in to his desires slightly more easily. Everything goes according to plan, and Dazai’s lips curl into a roguish grin when he catches Chuuya discreetly straying away from the party.
Good dog, he purrs in his mind.
He follows quietly. It’s easy, really; he’ll just barge in, look scandalized to find Chuuya here, tease him, notice the mistletoe, tease him more and rile him up enough for Chuuya to fulfil the tradition out of pride. He knows how to trigger him, how to manipulate the Chibi’s thoughts and actions – sure, Chuuya may be unexpectedly surprising at times, but their souls are strangely attuned, and, as such, Dazai understands him perfectly more often than not.
“Chuuya, you in there?”
Dazai freezes. The door yanks open before he can go in, and he hurries closer, watching in a mix of shock and disgust Chuuya stuttering then grumbling when he notices Albatross. Flashy blond hair, ridiculous sunglasses, dumb smile and pathetic outfit—this loud mouth doesn’t have a lot for him, and Dazai would have continued to be perfectly indifferent towards his uninteresting character had he not stolen the place that should currently be his.
“Stealing wines, bad boy?”
“Shut up, I was just… looking.”
“Hehe, sure. Mh? Who put a mistletoe here?
“Ha?”
“Aw, Chuuya, were you waiting for someone to kiss you?”
“Ha?! Why would I do that, idiot?”
Dazai huffs as he continues looking through the doorway. He cannot believe his perfect plan is being ruined by a guy that wears sunglasses indoors.
“Aaaw Chuuya, we’re under the mistletoe, let’s kiss!”
“You reek of alcohol you drunk little—”
Lips meet lips, in a second that stretches into an eternity for the boy hidden behind the door. Dazai’s eyes widen and he abruptly flees the party. His heart feels like a rock, heavy and painfully sinking in his chest, and his jaw quickly starts hurting with how tight it is. He’s frowning and he’s mad. How dare this guy ruin his perfect plan? If that worked with him, then it would have definitely worked with Dazai too. It’s unfair – so, so unfair.
The next week, Chuuya talks to him about how Albatross seems to have been cursed, because he keeps getting bullied in original and terrible ways. Dazai hums indifferently in response.
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2. Seventeen
His seventeenth Christmas is a white Christmas. Yokohama’s streets sleep under snowy blankets, the whole city being wrapped in lights, gloves, scarves and hot food. Dazai is a Port Mafia executive and being seventeen has never felt more wrong.
“Here you are, bastard.”
Dazai doesn’t move when a glowing red figure smoothly lands on his left and sits beside him on the building’s edge. Chuuya has grown calmer. The Flags’ death taints his days and nights and wears him out when no one looks. It’s a pain Dazai will probably never understand, but his partner is his partner for a reason, and they are each other’s safe person when they need silent companionship – because who would better understand their demons than the one who witnessed them?
“It’s Christmas,” Chuuya says.
“Yup. Not giving you any gifts, but you can still beg.”
“As if, mackerel. Are you planning to jump off this building to celebrate?”
“Would you like me to?”
“Yeah. Drop dead.”
“Then no can help,” Dazai sighs dramatically. “I said I wouldn’t give you any gift, so I can’t do that.”
He lets his head fall on Chuuya’s shoulder, and the latter groans but doesn’t push him away. As Dazai watches the perfect white engulfing their city, he thinks back to their last Christmas, and more specifically to his lame and failed attempt to kiss Chuuya under the mistletoe. A year has passed since then, and no opportunity to kiss Chuuya has presented itself. Not one he took at the very least.
He abruptly lifts his head, suddenly full of adrenaline and motivation: that’s it. That’s how this Christmas can be good. This time—This time, he’ll succeed, and he’ll kiss Chuuya under the mistletoe. They’ve grown closer. They know each other.
(And Dazai may be in love, after all.)
“What’s up with you suddenly?” Chuuya asks with a faint chuckle.
“Chibi,” Dazai declares, chin held high as he watches over Yokohama, “I’ve taken an important decision.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely.”
“Alright.” Even without looking at him, Dazai knows that Chuuya is rolling his eyes. “I’m not included in it, right?”
“It’s a secret.”
“Figures. Bastard.”
Dazai grins obnoxiously from ear to ear, his single eye glimmering as he looks at Chuuya. His partner looks ethereal right now, faint smile lighting up a freckled red face, blue eyes like two shining gems, and Dazai wants to kiss him here and there, but he holds back. Under the mistletoe, he keeps thinking; he’ll kiss him under the mistletoe.
Perhaps he’s a bit sappy after all.
_
As they get out of the bar and stroll in the direction of Chuuya’s apartment, Dazai squeezes the tiny mistletoe he put in his pocket. Next to him, Chuuya is staggering, as slow as the slug he is. His cheeks are a lovely shade of pink thanks to the alcohol he drank, and Dazai has never been more grateful that Chuuya’s a lightweight. It serves his scheme perfectly.
“Chuuuuuya,” he singsongs playfully. “You look stupid.”
“Shut up,” Chuuya grumbles. “You look stupider.”
“That’s the best response you could come up with?”
Chuuya tries to punch him in the shoulder and Dazai smoothly dodges— Chuuya stumbles forward and almost falls face flat on the ground, but his partner grabs his arm and pulls him back up. The ungrateful brat huffs without thanking him – perhaps that’s a comeback for all the times he’s been a brat, but admitting as much certainly won’t ever happen.
They continue to walk on half-melted snow, and little snowflakes start falling – Dazai sticks his tongue out to taste them and Chuuya calls him gross; Dazai then steals his hat and runs away from him, but it’s more so he can see Chuuya’s hair covered in small snowflakes than anything else. Despite his drunkenness, Chuuya manages to use his ability and jumps on him—too strongly, though: they both fall miserably on the ground, dirty snow under them, fresh one falling on them. Chuuya is on him, and when Dazai opens his eyes to look at him, his breath gets stuck in his throat.
You’re beautiful, his heart stutters.
He’s seventeen and the boy he loves lays on top of him. Chuuya has ocean-blue eyes veiled by inebriation, a cute nose painted pink by the cold, freckled cheeks and ears in the same state, and fire hair glittered by snowflakes. He’s all the things a painter could ask for, he’s seventeen too, he’s drunk, and he stole Dazai’s heart.
“You look dumb,” he giggles as he rests his chin on Dazai’s chest.
Seems like he forgot his stupid hat. Dazai lets it fall on the ground, then he awkwardly shoves his hand into his pocket to grab his mistletoe, never breaking eye contact with Chuuya. He hopes his partner won’t put his ear on his chest – he’s unable to control his heartbeat at the moment, and the embarrassment of letting Chuuya hear that is a death too painful to accept.
“Chuuya,” he whispers with glistening eyes and red cheeks himself. “Look up.”
Chuuya does, blinking dumbly, all cute and stupid with how drunk he is. He squints his eyes; then they widen when he recognizes the thing that Dazai hangs above their heads.
“Mistletoe,” he murmurs.
“Yeah.” Dazai’s heart is roaring in his chest. Winter feels like summer all of sudden – snow melts around them, flowers blossom and love is a spring painting. “So you know what that means, right?”
“Mmh…”
“It means you have to—”
Dazai’s breath hitches and he hiccups when he feels a gloved hand caressing his cheek. There’s soon the tip of a nose against his, a warm breath on his lips, and perhaps he’s dreaming after all—no, his plan worked, that’s all; of course his plan worked, when did his plans ever fail? Chuuya is close, Chuuya looks at him, Chuuya is about to kiss him, and this time being seventeen has never felt more right. He licks his lips in anxious anticipation. The hand holding the mistletoe is slightly shaking and his entire face is burning up.
Kiss me, kiss me, he begs in his mind, I want to kiss you.
“Dazai…”
Chuuya collapses in the crook of his neck.
Huh. What.
Dazai blinks stupidly. What? He feels a warm breath on his neck, just a bit above his collarbones; there’s hair in his mouth and he soon hears a soft snore purring against his skin. What the fuck. Chuuya… Did Chuuya just pass out on him? Was he this drunk already? Couldn’t he have done so a bit later, for fuck’s sake? Dazai lets out a loud whine and aggressively hugs Chuuya, kicking his feet and rolling on the snow with his stupid, stupid partner who won’t even wake up from this.
“I hate you, Chibi! I really, really hate you!” he complains, still as red as a tomato.
He lands on top of Chuuya and watches him sleep ridiculously on the dirty snow, red hair splashed on brownish white, freckles popping out beneath a frozen blush, mouth half-open with a bit of drool coming out. Dazai leans in. The mistletoe was above them—he should have the right to do this, right?
… Right.
It’s no fun if Chuuya is asleep. He wants to be kissed back. He wants to be held, he wants to meet Chuuya’s blue gaze, he wants to feel his face be cupped gently while they kiss warmly. Chuuya ruined all the fun by passing out like that.
“You’re the worst, slug,” he murmurs defeatedly before getting up.
As a payback, he leaves Chuuya passed out in the snow and goes home without him – the only thing he did was put him on the side to prevent any choking accident in case Chuuya pukes. He gets yelled at the day after, but in his book, Chuuya deserved it.
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3. Eighteen
It doesn’t snow this year. The lack of snow makes Christmas slightly more tolerable, for it seems a little less magical, a little less nostalgic, and although Dazai doesn’t think the universe is taking pity on him – it never does –, his heart feels a tiny bit grateful.
Christmas is red, white, and green, and Dazai has never felt more black and white only.
Hidden away, far from the home that never was one, far from the family he never considered as such, life is dull, hollow and slow. Finding his way into the light is a painful process. He hates pain, but he made a promise – one he intends to keep for once. Defecting from the Port Mafia is a choice he’ll never regret. And Christmas was never a celebration particularly important in the mafia, hence why missing it makes no sense.
But he’s sappier than he thought, and Christmas holds a special place in his memories of a first love that never bloomed.
I wonder what Chuuya’s up to.
Perhaps he’s working, like the dumb workaholic he is. Perhaps he’s with his subordinates, buying them drinks despite being a minor. Perhaps he’s with Kouyou, celebrating the event that is familial in other countries with the one he considers an older sister. Perhaps he has a date…
Dazai sighs loudly and bumps his forehead against the window of the place he’s staying at. The sun sets way too early, it rains way too much with no snow in sight, and the sky is covered by dark clouds that just make Yokohama look gloomy and sad. Yet there are the traditional illuminations dangling all over the town, artificial lights for artificial joy, and Dazai despises all those ants enjoying it when he’s here, stuck with his thoughts, stuck with his everlasting loneliness, stuck with a future he didn’t even want at first.
He's eighteen, it’s Christmas, and he misses Chuuya.
_
Finding his former partner, the one he abandoned some months before, is far too easy in Dazai’s opinion and the Chibi should really start being more careful. He doesn’t find it in himself to really be annoyed, though, for he found Chuuya quickly thanks to that. There he is, the feared gravity manipulator, half of Double Black: drowning in a big coat and a knitted scarf, hat on his head and hands gloved, he’s in Tokyo sipping mulled wine in the Hibiya Christmas market.
He looks warm.
By his side, Kouyou is elegantly covered from head to toe too, and she’s drinking mulled wine alongside her protégé, walking with him among a crowd of dreamers and normal citizens. Dazai blends into the background as he follows them, heart heavy in his chest. Chuuya looks okay, he thinks. Maybe. He seems a bit tired. A bit out of it. He looks like he’s drinking himself to sleep rather than to stay awake. He’s never learned how to rest, Chuuya. Always fighting, always bottling up, always working. He’s a mess. In some regards, they’re not so different.
(Which is a tragedy, because Dazai would never wish Chuuya to be like him.
He’s not, and yet he is. In hindsight, perhaps it was unavoidable—perhaps that is part of why Dazai fell in love in the first place.
They used to look perfect when standing side by side.)
“Are you feeling better?” Kouyou asks once they distanced themselves a bit from the crowd.
Dazai discreetly comes closer, hidden like a shadow. He listens – drinks the words of a conversation he cannot have.
“Yeah, I guess,” Chuuya sighs. “Mulled wine is great.”
“You like it, I’d guessed as much.” Kouyou offers him a warm and slightly teasing smile. “Are you still feeling melancholic?”
Chuuya chuckles and sips a bit more of his mulled wine. Each time he breathes, a little frozen cloud escapes his lips. Dazai remembers that every winter, he dreamt each time he saw that to swallow it in a kiss.
“A bit. I don’t know. This Christmas feels a bit lonely, somehow.”
“Well, the two last ones, you were partying, were you not?”
“True enough.”
“Why didn’t you do it again this year?”
“Huh… I guess I…” Chuuya looks away, embarrassed. “I guess I just had no one to go with.”
Kouyou gives him a compassionate look and Dazai clenches his fists in the shadows. No can do though: he’s selfish, hence hearing that makes him happy. Chuuya is alone? Good, his heart chants. That means he has no date, no love, nothing that would kill Dazai with jealousy. So that’s good. He’s selfish and doesn’t care. It can’t hurt Chuuya anymore, anyway.
“You could meet new people,” Kouyou offers him with a careful tone.
“And do what? Drink champagne with strangers? Exchange presents, kiss under the mistletoe?”
Kiss under the mistletoe. Dazai tries to ignore how much it stings. One day maybe, he muses wistfully; one day maybe he’ll be able to kiss Chuuya under the mistletoe. Not now for sure, but who knows what will happen in this future he chose to have in the light? Perhaps Chuuya can even join him one day. That would be nice.
“This Christmas is for us, lad, I’m not asking you to exchange gifts or kiss anyone under any mistletoe. Who kisses under the mistletoe here anyway?”
“You’d be surprised.”
“… Do you want to kiss someone under a mistletoe? That’s unexpectedly cute of you, Chuuya.”
“I didn’t say that, gosh.”
Chuuya frowns hard and turns redder, and Dazai is frustrated to be so far away, to not be able to devour this sight up close while the urge to bite those cheeks overwhelms him. Not his fault once again, though – it’s always Chuuya’s fault anyway, this time too, because who told him to be so cute? Sinners will sin, always, and Chuuya is one. A sinful beauty.
(Curse him, he really is sappy, dammit.)
“Mistletoes are just a Christmas thing,” Chuuya mumbles. “Well, they became one anyway.”
“Mmh. A lovely thing indeed. I wonder where it comes from.”
“… Well, don’t know about Christmas, but I know this Nordic tale…”
Empty glass of mulled wine in hand, heavy coat and scarf, red cheeks, and frozen steam coming out of his mouth, Chuuya begins narrating the Baldur’s tale Dazai told him about when they were sixteen. He listened, Dazai realises. It’s surprising, and yet it’s not at the same time, because it’s Chuuya, and of course Chuuya would be the type to do that. Dazai’s heart flutters in his chest, so light, so happy that it becomes painful – for this is all in the past and he can’t have that anymore. He’s a boy in love with another boy; he’s in the light watching from the shadows, while Chuuya’s in the dark, shining like the sun. Fate can be twisted. Chuuya would have looked way nicer than him in the light.
Hearing Chuuya talk about mistletoes reminds Dazai of his failed attempts, of the kiss that never was, of the love that never bloomed. As he watches Chuuya talk, Dazai imagines them kissing under a mistletoe, and he relishes in this phantasm for a moment – it’s his Christmas present to himself, he thinks.
“… and yeah, that’s it,” Chuuya ends with a small smile, the one that makes you want to hug him.
Kouyou does hug him indeed, and Dazai lowers his head because he can’t. He hears Chuuya’s laugh chiming and that’s enough. It’s okay for now. But one day, he promises to himself as he disappears before Chuuya notices him, one day it will happen – their kiss under the mistletoe.
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4. Twenty
There’s something a bit magical in decorating your first Christmas tree at an age you were supposed to be dead.
“Where’s the star?”
“I want to be the one who puts the star!”
“You’re too short, Ranpo.”
“Lift me up then.”
“Who started eating the cookies?!”
“Oops.”
“Ranpo, you again?”
Dazai watches them all uncomfortably. They look like a family, although he’s not exactly sure what a family looks like. He hopes that is what it looks like, though. All chit-chatting, fond banter, mundane interactions, and the love that breathes through it all.
They are called the Armed Detective Agency, and they kind of adopted him, he guesses.
Outside, small snowflakes fall but melt immediately when they touch the ground. It’s not a white Christmas, but it’s close enough. Amidst the garlands, the cookies, and the themed socks, Dazai struggles to realise that it’s a group where he now has a place, but he supposes that this is what the light looks like: it’s people who seek to do good, to bring smiles onto others’ faces and warmth to their hearts; it’s people who give to Christmas its magic.
“Dazai, do you want to be the one who puts the star at the top of the tree? You’re tall enough to do it.”
“But I wanted to!”
“You ate the cookies, Ranpo, so no,” Yosano snorts at him.
“Unfair punishment. Santa doesn’t exist anyway, the cookies are for us.”
“Too bad you started without permission. Dazai! You coming?”
Dazai blinks and quickly lifts his head, still awkward. He arrived here very recently. He’s finding his marks – his people too, maybe—hopefully.
“Huh, yeah.”
He flashes a bright smile and comes closer, easily putting the star at the top of the tree. Yosano and Ranpo start falsely bickering again, like brother and sister; Kunikida is speaking to president Fukuzawa; Haruno is counting some decorations… They are all so lively, so Christmas-themed, and they put the colours in his monochromatic life’s movie. He feels like he made the right decision when they’re by his side.
Though someone is kind of missing.
_
The ADA’s dorms are small but practical enough, especially when coming back from a Christmas party that continued until almost 3 AM. They ate loads of fried chicken and tons of different cakes, they drank alcohol – perhaps a bit too much to be honest –, they sang and danced to Christmas songs, they played games and they dressed up with stupid accessories bought at a Don Quijote. When Dazai collapses on his bed, he’s exhausted, drunk, and happy.
Yet he still doesn’t fall asleep and instead stares at the ceiling like there are stars to observe there. Stars, constellations—freckles. Stars, sky—blue eyes. He sighs deeply and shuts his eyes, rubbing his face with both of his hands to wipe away memories that’d do him no good. Perhaps he would have succeeded had his phone not started ringing at the same time, mockingly showing off the name ‘Slug’ on the screen. He should have seen it coming. Life is never kind to him for too long.
“Shut up,” Dazai tells his phone.
Like a middle finger, his phone starts ringing a second time.
“Urgh…”
Dazai rolls in his bed and puts his pillow over his head, ignoring his phone until it stops ringing. Chuuya, Chuuya, Chuuya, his heart whines painfully, Chuuya is calling. Right now, Chuuya is abroad – in Korea, to be precise. Dazai keeps tracks of him, after all. He sometimes calls him with burner phones to listen to his voice, hangs up as soon as he gets to hear it. Chuuya probably knows that it’s him. That’s probably why he never calls except when he’s drunk, because sober Chuuya knows Dazai won’t answer. What does drunk Chuuya hope for exactly by being so insistent every time?
(Dazai loves drunk Chuuya, though. He loves hearing drunk voice messages and imagining his flushed cheeks, thinking about how, even that inebriated, Chuuya thought of him and called him.)
His phone stops ringing after four calls. Dazai waits a little more, just to be sure. Then he hears it: the notification sound of a voice message. Immediately, he turns around in his bed to grab his phone and turns on the screen, staring with pinched lips and sparkling eyes at the notification. It’s long, Dazai muses with a stupid grin when he sees that the voice message is almost three minutes long. He hurries to click on it.
“You f’cking piss me off, m’ckerel,” Chuuya starts, mumbling his words like the stupid slug he is. “Am in Seoul… right now… huh. Where are you? Ha? Where… the fuck are you…”
Dazai’s heart clenches in his chest, and he struggles to take a deep breath. Even years and countries – even time and space apart, his heart still mourns the kiss he never shared with Chuuya. Hearing his voice during Christmas is a thorny reminder of that. But if he doesn’t get to kiss Chuuya under the mistletoe, he hopes no one else does.
(The Albatross incident is erased from his memories for self-care reasons, however ironic it may sound.)
“At least you’re not dead, ya fucker,” Chuuya continues to insult him. “Ya wouldn’t deserve it. Huh. Y’know what? I hope… you live a long fucking life. ‘til you’re old, and grey, and wrinkled, and all that shit… Hope you die of old age. Would serve you right, huh.”
Dazai smiles at his phone unbelievably fondly. His eyes burn a bit. Chuuya, stupid Chuuya—didn’t he use to say he would be the one to kill him?
“Christmas sucks,” Chuuya sighs. “’s not fun getting drunk alone.”
“Why do you drink alone then, stupid?” Dazai whispers at his phone, as if he’d ever wish for Chuuya to drink with someone other than him.
He hugs his blanket as he keeps listening to Chuuya’s rambling.
“Ya should talk when you call from those… fucking burner phones,” Chuuya grumbles. “You fucking selfish bastard. I wanna… I wanna hear your voice too.”
Chuuya’s voice breaks at that, and Dazai feels his jaw tightening as he grips his phone harder. Don’t cry, he begs. If Chuuya cries he’ll have to stop listening because he cannot bear it, but he doesn’t want to. He wants to keep hearing him – again and again, over and over.
“Haaa… I hate you so damn much, I swear… I swear. Ya hear me mackerel? I hope your Christmas sucks. That you got no gifts, no cakes, and no… no mistletoe. Gonna… shit, gonna kill you if you did.”
Chuuya mumbles some unintelligible words as Dazai bites his cheeks until he feels the iron taste of blood in his mouth. It’s funny how Chuuya talked about mistletoes. Does he remember his experiences with them? He probably remembers his stupid mistake with Albatross at age sixteen. Perhaps he has some recollection of their fall in the snow and almost kiss at age seventeen, although Dazai kind of hopes he doesn’t. Dazai personally remembers the conversation Chuuya had with Kouyou at age eighteen, but maybe Chuuya forgot.
A lot of mistletoe for a lot of failures. Now Chuuya is abroad, they talk through missed calls and little hints, Dazai is getting used to the light, and they might feel strangely close despite the distance, but kissing under a mistletoe is out of the question. If Dazai is honest with himself, he’ll probably never be able to do it in the end. Kind of a lame conclusion to a chain of lame attempts.
“Wish you were here,” Chuuya whispers between two insults on the phone.
A great moment of weakness, surely. Dazai smiles sadly.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
5. Twenty-two
The night of December 24th is called a peaceful night. As he roams through illuminated streets, Dazai thinks that it is somehow all the more peaceful now that the truce between the ADA and the Port Mafia has been established. The ADA is throwing a party, like every year, and perhaps Dazai will join them later. But this year has been rich in a lot of ways, and he felt like walking a bit in those estranged Christmas-themed streets instead.
Amidst all the illuminations, some red hair under a tacky hat shines brighter than any other colour.
Dazai pauses. It doesn’t surprise him: it’s been seven years since he’s known Chuuya, and for seven years he has been able to spot his partner in a crowd in a matter of milliseconds. The Port Mafia executive is wearing elegant and warm winter clothes, one of his stupid hats, and he’s looking at a shop window for—for wine, obviously. Dazai grimaces at the sight. Reuniting with Chuuya earlier this year was calmer and way more natural than anticipated—
You’re here, they both said with their eyes.
And, really, there was nothing else that really mattered.
“Wine?” he whines, making Chuuya jump and screech in surprise. “Are you so lonely that you need to drown yourself in wine for Christmas, Chibi?”
“You—” Chuuya glares at him, teeth gritted. “You’re here alone too, mackerel! Tch. Bet no one wants to tolerate your annoying ass on Christmas.”
“My, don’t be cruel, I really did try to get a double suicide for Christmas! It would have been so romantic…”
He puts a dramatic hand on his chest, crocodile tears in his eyes while Chuuya looks at him with utter disgust. Not an unusual scene.
“But, heh!” He immediately transforms, now flashing a silly smile to the redhead. “At least I got friends waiting for me to throw a party! Chuuya is aaall alone on Christmas, no one likes you!”
“Ha? I got people waiting for me, bastard! You’re the one no one likes, waste of bandages!”
“Heartless Chibi, saying such mean things to me on such a day…”
“You—You fucking started!”
They bicker like pre-schoolers with a familiarity that is achingly comforting. Somehow, although he wasn’t entirely sure they’d ever reunite one day, Dazai had always known it would go that way: time and space do not matter to them. They gave each other a piece of their souls and kept it close to their hearts. They both changed, yet they didn’t. Dazai looks at Chuuya, and it’s still his Chuuya. And perhaps it is Christmas’ magic, but Chuuya’s eyes shine a blue even brighter than usual tonight.
“So what, are you planning to buy that wine and drink alone tonight?”
“What if I want to treat myself, ha? Expensive wines are good, but you wouldn’t know a thing about it, you tasteless bastard who only eats crab.”
“Chuuya is so rude for someone who needs to treat himself because no one else would.”
“Like someone would give you any gift.”
“Of course people would. I am very much liked.”
“Yeah, right,” Chuuya snorts. “The kids you brainwashed into thinking you’re a sweet person do not count.”
“Brainwashed? Now that is especially rude, Chibi.”
Also because the kid who respects him the most is also the one who started calling him out the most too. Atsushi is way sassier than he used to be, now that he gained some confidence. This is a bit unsettling, but this is definitely not something that the likes of Chuuya need to know.
“What the fuck are you even doing here? Go bother someone else, bastard.”
“Yokohama’s streets do not belong to you, Chuuya.”
“You’re too close to me, you’re polluting the air I breathe.”
“Well, you’re hurting my eyes with your horrible fashion sense.”
“Then just piss off.”
“I might trip on you with how small you are.”
“You—” Chuuya throws a punch at him and Dazai smoothly dodges it. “Hope you do trip and die then, tch.”
“Yeah, I guess it would be infinitely better than spending Christmas with you.”
“You bet it would, I don’t want to spend Christmas with you either.”
_
It’s almost 9 PM, the sky is pitch-black with no stars visible, and there’s no snow, but the Christmas decorations almost make it look like there is now that Dazai’s head is fuzzy with alcohol. There’s muffled background noises in the distance. He focuses on the sound of his breathing, on the frozen little cloud that swirls past his lips, and when he feels a stare on him he tilts his head to the side and smiles lazily at Chuuya.
The one he still calls partner looks peaceful. His face is flushed thanks to the cold, and his eyes are veiled by drunkenness. They both are sitting on a bench, close to the sea, and two empty bottles of wine between them. Down the street, they can see the lights and animation of Yokohama’s Christmas market – it closes in an hour or so, yet there’s still a lot of people, and the faint scents of chocolate, azuki beans and mulled wine are carried by the wind. Dazai eyes the empty bottles.
“Do you want more?”
“I think that’s enough.”
“What about mulled wine?”
Chuuya watches him intensely without answering at first. His scarf hides the lower half of his face – it’s ridiculously cute, yet Dazai has to resist the urge to pull it down so he can better see Chuuya; see his full pink and freckled cheeks, see his lips reddened by the cold, although he’ll probably want to kiss them.
“Let’s go then, Chibi.”
“Ha?”
“When will you stop being such a slug? Come on!”
Chuuya grumbles and insults him back, but Dazai pays him no mind as he trots airily towards the Christmas market, humming along without checking that Chuuya follows him – he hears him loud enough to know he is anyway. The Christmas market is still bustling with life. The kids have gone back home, and only adults and couples are still gathered here, sharing banana chocolates, churros, fried chicken, hot chocolate, and mulled wine. Dazai hurries towards a booth selling this last item, ordering two before Chuuya even catches up to him.
“… Thanks,” Chuuya mumbles when Dazai gives him his cup.
“You’re welcome, doggie.”
He yelps when Chuuya kicks him behind the knees, almost making him fall over and spill all of his mulled wine. His whining goes unanswered; Chuuya resumes his walk, strolling in the alleys while sipping his mulled wine. Dazai joins him quickly.
They walk in silence, side by side, drinking their mulled wine while looking at the life surrounding them. An elderly couple is buying candles. A young one is wearing matching outfits and taking pictures in front of the big Christmas tree in the market’s centre. A little further, it looks like two teenagers are awkwardly trying to hold hands but can’t muster the courage to do it. Lots of gazes, lots of mundanities, lots of love – and, as he watches this warm and lovely painting he’s not a part of, Dazai notices it: a mistletoe spot.
His heart leaps.
Memories flood his tipsy mind like fireworks. Years of lame attempts and stupid phantasms flash in his mind, and now he’s twenty-two, he’s roaming through a Christmas market, and Chuuya is by his side again. It feels like the chance he thought he’d never have again. It feels like a sign, perhaps—a small one, a last one. He finishes his mulled wine in two gulps and grabs Chuuya’s arm.
“Chibi, let’s go this way!”
“Ha?”
Chuuya protests but follows him in the end after having finished his mulled wine too. They come closer to the mistletoe spot where many couples, mostly young ones, are gathered and giggle while kissing and snapping pictures under the mistletoe. Dazai feels his cheeks growing hotter by the minute.
“Mackerel, what are we doing here?”
“… I just thought that—”
“Oh, fuck.”
Chuuya abruptly pulls his sleeve and yanks him aside, fleeing the place without any regard for how dejected Dazai looks all of a sudden. Is he that unlucky that none of his plans – usually almost flawless – to kiss Chuuya under a mistletoe works? He doesn’t think he’s asking for much.
“The boss is here with Elise,” Chuuya grumbles once they’re far enough.
“Huh?”
“You didn’t see him?” Chuuya asks, surprised. “Thought you’d notice before me, actually.”
Dazai says nothing. He didn’t. He was too focused on what to say in order to get Chuuya to go under the damn mistletoe, on what to do to trick him into giving him a kiss – just a peck would have been enough, he would have been content with it, he would have dropped this stupid, stubborn dream then. Yet once again, the universe is apparently against him.
“… Does Chuuya hate me so much that he doesn’t want Mori and Elise to see him with me?” Dazai sighs dramatically.
“Damn right,” Chuuya immediately barks back. “Anyway. Let’s go grab some fried chicken and go home.”
“Go home?” Dazai teases, nudging Chuuya as they resume walking. “Will Chuuya let me crash at his place, then?”
“Like hell I will. You’re going back to your stinky dorm, mackerel.”
“Mean. You have no concept of Christmas magic, Chuuya.”
“I bought the wine and will buy the fried chicken, I definitely do not want to hear that from you.”
“Chuuya’s wallet is my wallet.”
“I’ll kill you.”
Dazai smirks. Perhaps it’s okay, then. Perhaps despite his best efforts, he’ll never get to kiss Chuuya under the mistletoe, but perhaps it doesn’t matter in the end. What they’re sharing right now feels more precious than a kiss he would get thanks to a trick. So it’s okay: he’ll keep dreaming about it only. He’ll stop trying to go against the universe, since the latter clearly doesn’t want him to realise his little phantasm. As long as he can potentially share another Christmas like this with Chuuya, it will be worth it.
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6. Twenty-four
The night of December 24th is called a peaceful night indeed, and for his twenty-fourth December 24th, Dazai thinks this is the most peaceful he’ll ever be. He looks at the tiny Christmas tree elegantly decorated in a living room too big for an apartment where only one person – and a half – lives. It’s nothing like the chaotic one that always brightens the ADA’s office. This one is small, neat, and somehow intimate. Among the decorations are handmade mackerel and slug baubles.
Dazai hums pensively. This place is not his, but he claimed it a bit like it is, always crashing here, always making himself home. The ADA is his home now – but forever and ever, Chuuya will remain the peaceful place where he belongs, the safe haven where he can crawl to when he wants a break from reality. For Chuuya, in all their shared animosity, would always realise and welcome him when life gets too hard and unbearable. It’s an unspoken thing between them that only grew over the years, especially after their reunion over two years ago.
Now they see each other frequently, either in secret or not, and spending Christmas together has become a choice.
“You sure you don’t wanna stop by the ADA?” Chuuya asks as he enters the living room.
He’s wearing a ridiculous Christmas pullover, matching the one Dazai has – he forced Chuuya to buy them last year. The Port Mafia executive doesn’t look like one like this, and it makes Dazai smile with his eyes. Chuuya looks like Chuuya only: comfy clothes that scream domestic, hair slightly tousled after a shower, an I drink and I know things mug filled with hot chocolate in hands, and sapphire eyes shining with a softness that has no business turning Dazai’s heart into a puddle.
“I thought we’d agreed for me to stay here tonight? Does the slug want me out in the end?”
Chuuya rolls his eyes as he comes closer.
“Just thought you’d like to see them too.”
Dazai shrugs. “I’ll see them for the New Year. We’re all going to the temple.”
“Will you wear a kimono?”
“Too much of a hassle. Would Chuuya want me to wear one?”
It’s Chuuya’s turn to shrug as his cheeks turn pink, and he hurries to drink his hot chocolate. “You’d look good, I think.”
Dazai grins brightly. He thinks Chuuya would look especially good too in traditional clothes. He’d mock him for good measure only – Chuuya is always radiant whatever clothes he wears anyway, after all.
“But seriously, you should go say hi to your colleagues. You can go while I cook dinner.”
“Humpf. Just say you don’t want me around while you’re in the kitchen so I don’t disturb you.”
“That’s right. I don’t want you around while I’m in the kitchen so you don’t annoy the shit out of me and make me mess up stuff.”
Dazai gasps. “Rude, Chibi, you’re so mean!”
Chuuya rolls his eyes, but there’s a faint smile on his lips. He puts down his mug when it’s empty and stretches a bit, coming closer to ruffle Dazai’s hair and adjust his collar, even if it’s totally useless because he’s wearing a simple Christmas pullover. Dazai lets him do it anyway. He’d never say no to having Chuuya close to him like this of his own volition.
“Anyway. Go see them, alright? I’ll make dinner. Should take a bit over an hour.”
“Alriiiight,” Dazai sighs dramatically. “It better be crabs then.”
“Won’t be if you keep annoying me, bastard.”
“I am endearingly annoying.”
“And you’ll just be annoying if you continue,” Chuuya retorts, smacking his head. “Go now.”
Dazai yelps but does as he’s told – Chuuya didn’t refute the endearingly, so walking will clear his head from buzzy thoughts. Dazai keeps his ridiculous pullover on and puts on his coat, his gloves (that Chuuya forced him to buy), his shoes, then he takes one last look at Chuuya’s apartment before going out. The cold gently bites his cheeks and he lets out a long exhale just to see his frozen breath twirl in the air. He’ll be back in an hour.
_
When he returns to Chuuya’s apartment, Dazai smiles upon smelling cooked crab from the kitchen. He drops his coat and his shoes in the entrance, tosses his gloves somewhere, then happily trots towards the living room. The table is already set, some blankets are neatly folded on the couch for the Christmas movies marathon they planned to do afterwards, and new decorations are on the ceiling. Dazai squints at that.
“You’re back? Dinner is ready in like ten minutes or something,” Chuuya says as he also enters the living room. “How was it with your—”
He halts. Dazai knows Chuuya is looking at him, but he is looking at the mistletoe hanging from the ceiling, his heart full with a feeling too warm and too overwhelming. There’s a lump in his throat. He nervously plays with the hem of his pullover’s sleeves, eyes fixed on the mistletoe, thoughts derailing towards dreams and memories he had decided to leave behind. Christmas is still Christmas, mistletoes aren’t a need, and he had resolved not to care about it anymore as long as he got to spend this special day with the people he loves – be it the ADA or, more recently and because he’s lucky for once, Chuuya.
The latter remains mute for what feels like an eternity. Dazai feels his gaze on him, yet he doesn’t dare to move for a while. When he finally lowers his head to look at his former partner, Chuuya is staring intently at him, seemingly calm and unfazed. This mistletoe is obviously not a mistake, though. Chuuya would not have reacted like this otherwise.
“… I forgot Chibi doesn’t know the language of flowers,” Dazai suddenly whispers with a thin smile. “Guess you don’t know plants at all either.”
Chuuya scoffs, and something sparkles in his eyes, like he just got the answer he was waiting for. He comes closer, confident, pullover matching Dazai’s one, height perfect for a hug and lips perfect for a kiss.
“Are you stupid?”
“What is Chibi talking abou—”
He chokes on his words when Chuuya abruptly grabs him by the collar and yanks him down for a kiss. Dazai’s eyes widen, his heart explodes in a myriad of colours, fireworks pop loudly in his head, his brain short-circuits, and he almost forgets to kiss Chuuya back – but when Chuuya’s other hand slides on his nape, Dazai immediately circles his waist and kisses him with all his might. It’s a kiss that tastes like chocolate. Dazai sucks those lips like a starved man, swallows the chuckle that Chuuya lets out, and when Chuuya runs a hand through his curls and tugs at them a bit, he completely melts.
“Daz—I have to go to the kitchen,” Chuuya half-whispers, half-laughs in his mouth.
“Just a bit more…”
Dazai hugs him tighter, and Chuuya’s resistance is meek as they kiss again. Everything feels way too hot, Dazai feels way too red, but Chuuya is in his arms, Chuuya is kissing him, Chuuya is kissing him under the mistletoe, and if it’s a dream he never wants to wake up again.
“Mackerel—easy.”
Chuuya puts his hand on Dazai’s lips to keep him from kissing him again, and Dazai whimpers and pouts pathetically against it. His eyes fall on Chuuya’s red and swollen lips and his heart skips a beat. I did that, he thinks. I want to do it again, he immediately adds in his mind.
“We can continue later.”
Chuuya sounds confident when he speaks, tone steady; yet his cheeks and ears are flushed, and his eyes glisten with an emotion Dazai can’t quite pinpoint nor describe, but he just knows it’s positive and related to him. He smiles then bites Chuuya’s fingers.
“Outch! Bastard!” Chuuya smacks him, his entire face crimson now. “What was that for?!”
“I should be the one saying that. Chuuya is the one who kissed me.”
“… Well, isn’t that what we’re supposed to do under a mistletoe?” Chuuya mumbles lowly, averting his gaze.
“And why did Chuuya put a mistletoe here, hm?”
Chuuya grits his teeth and looks everywhere but in Dazai’s eyes, obviously embarrassed, and Dazai is too happy to make any comment about it. He just holds Chuuya close, relishing in their proximity, and waits for the answer.
“Didn’t…” He grumbles incoherently. Dazai quirks a brow and Chuuya repeats louder: “Didn’t you always want to do that…? Kissing under the mistletoe?”
Dazai’s pout turns shy as it’s his turn to blush.
“… You knew it?”
“You weren’t exactly subtle about it, mackerel,” Chuuya sighs. “It just… took me time to get how sincere you were about all that.”
This time, Dazai blushes to the tip of his ears and hides his face in the crook of Chuuya’s neck. He hears his former—no, just his partner chuckle and stroke his hair affectionately. It makes him melt even more in his embrace.
“You’re so mean,” he whines softly. “So mean…”
“Should I have not kissed you under the mistletoe then?”
Dazai squeezes him incredibly tight at that, making Chuuya’s breath hitch and earning him a smack on the head, but he doesn’t let go.
“No,” he whispers. “It was perfect.”
Chuuya sighs above his ear then rests his head against Dazai’s, tenderly caressing his nape, his curls, and patting his back. They stay like this a few more minutes, until Chuuya gently – though forcefully – pushes him away so he can go check on the dinner in the kitchen. Dazai follows him like a puppy and wraps himself around Chuuya from behind as soon as Chuuya halts again. They don’t speak until dinner is ready and they’re both seated at the table. When he swallows his first fork of crab, Dazai feels his eyes burning a little; on cue, Chuuya immediately puts his hand on his thigh – they always sit next to each other instead of in front of each other.
“Hey, Chuuya.”
“Hm?” the latter answers, voice peaceful, as if he was patiently waiting for Dazai to say what he has to say.
Dazai takes a deep breath. I love you, he thinks desperately. It burns his lungs and messes up his mind. When he turns his head to look at Chuuya, he cannot believe this handsome man drowning in a stupid Christmas pullover is the same boy in a suit he tried to trick into kissing him under a mistletoe at sixteen. It was eight years ago. Now they’re twenty-four and they finally belong to each other.
“Merry Christmas.”
Chuuya offers him a smile worth a lifetime of treasures.
“Merry Christmas, mackerel.”