Chapter Text
One week, then two, then three passed by with no change in Chuuya’s condition.
Some days Dazai would read to him – poetry if the man was feeling generous, or trashy novels if he felt like trying to annoy the other into wakefulness. Other days, he would sit quietly by his husband’s side, holding his hand, and silently begging him to open his eyes and look up at him. On those days he would occasionally find himself rambling about everything and nothing at all. Anything that came into his mind and the strange, convoluted pathways his thoughts took to get from one point to another.
Yosano had come by to check on him after the first couple of days, but with the mafia combing the city for them, it was likely the ADA would be placed under surveillance and further contact wouldn’t be safe. She confirmed that Chuuya was in full health, and nothing was technically wrong with him – at least as far as his body was concerned. The mind is a delicate thing, and his needed time to recover.
Under the cover of deep darkness, wrapped in a black overcoat, Dazai carried Chuuya out of their safe house that night. Unwilling to risk discovery after Yosano’s visit, he abandoned their current haven in favor of another further from both the Mafia and the Agency with less risk of discovery.
And so… a month crawled by with an aching slowness.
~•~
Something was different today. Once again, the strange sensation of waking without waking consumed Chuuya, but instead of being encompassed with darkness, he felt as though he was bathing in a soft red glow.
A gentle hum – with a melody vaguely reminiscent of Dazai’s made-up “Double Suicide” song – reached his ears.
The soft noise came to a sudden halt as if interrupted by the voice that followed it.
“Ah! Here’s where we left off yesterday. ‘Abroad, namely among some of the first industrialized nations such as Great Britain, the United States, Germany, and France, drinking metal-plating solutions is an extremely popular and effective method of suicide. The easy access of these chemicals to industrial painters led to its unique popularity in these countries, however, it is far from a peaceful or painless end. The solutions consumed work by dissolving the drinker’s internal organs over the course of several hours. This is an agonizing process and leads to an excruciatingly slow death.’[1]
“What a horrible sounding method of suicide, chibi, worse than that metal barrel method we read about yesterday. Imagine hoping for a peaceful end by drinking a nice little concoction, only to spend the next several hours writhing in agony. Terrible. Truly terrible.”
Dazai’s cheerful tone contrasted starkly with his detailed recounting of the method as well as its horrible repercussions. But such was par for the course to Dazai’s husband of seven years, and this was hardly the most disturbing suicidal method he’d heard the other describe with much more enthusiasm and excitement.
The ramblings near his side (brightly comparing the benefits and drawbacks of metal-plating solutions to poisonous mushrooms – apparently mushrooms are perfect if only one is able to find the proper type) faded to a soft murmur before Chuuya’s conscious drifted away into darkness once more.
–
When Chuuya returned to awareness again, it was to the sound of complete silence other than the soft beeping of the heart monitor.
Except it wasn’t, quite.
Soft, barely audible breathing was just loud enough for him to detect if he listened carefully. Dazai had fallen asleep again. Chuuya could feel his husband’s fingers clasped around his left hand, and a slight tingling sensation in his arm. His mackerel was using it as a pillow, and it seemed to have fallen asleep. He could feel the tickle of the man’s hair against his skin.
How he longed to run his fingers through those dark curls again! How long had Chuuya been asleep? Had Dazai’s hair grown out at all? Was it very long? He needed a picture of that if it was the case. Maybe he could convince the other to grow it out for a while after everything was back to normal.
Chuuya’s chest felt tight as the ache to touch and comfort his husband consumed his whole body.
He could remember clearly how it felt. To run his fingers through the other’s hair, to scratch his scalp with his nails, to tug lightly on a handful when he needed Dazai to stop cuddling and let him get out of bed in the morning.
Dazai didn’t care for his hair as particularly as Chuuya did his own, so it was always a touch rough and not as soft as it could be if the idiot used better shampoo and admitted that conditioner was necessary.
He loved the feel of it. He loved to bury his fingers in those curls and stroke his partner’s head. To gently pet, and stroke, and caress, and love…
Something soft brushed his right hand. It was warm, a little ticklish, and so, so familiar.
“Mmm… Chuuya?” Dazai’s voice was rough with sleep, not fully awake. Just like he sounded when the insomnia was particularly bad and Chuuya had to leave for an early morning shift.
“Chuuya?” The repeated use of his name this time was delivered in an urgent tone, so hopeful, and now very awake.
Chuuya’s eyes blinked open slowly, only to shut again at the bright light pouring in through the window.
He groaned gently.
The fingers of his right hand – with more confidence this time – buried themselves deeper into Dazai’s thick hair.
“Hey,” his voice was breathy, raspy, and his throat felt too raw, too dry; it hurt slightly to speak.
“Oh my god, Chuuya… you’re… you’re awake!”
“Shhh…” talking was difficult and he couldn’t quite manage more than a few words. “The light… water…” In exhaustion, Chuuya’s hand dropped from Dazai’s head and lay still across his middle.
Dazai understood immediately as he always did. He jumped up (no sooner was he gone then Chuuya missed the warmth of the man’s hand in his) and drew the curtain partially closed lessening the sharp light filling the room and falling across Chuuya.
“Can you sit up at all?”
Chuuya hummed, noncommittally, and Dazai’s arm slid behind his shoulders to help him up. A cool glass was gently pressed to his lips, and Chuuya took a small sip. The cold water washed around his mouth tasting heavenly and he swallowed, relishing the soothing sensation it provided to his throat. He took another sip. And another larger one.
“Easy, chibi, you’ll drown.” The fondness in Dazai’s voice was downright disgusting. Chuuya loved it.
“Shitty Dazai,” was the only response he would dignify that with. He might as well have said I love you with the amount of affection that saturated his tone.
It was a touch easier to speak now and Chuuya once again opened his eyes.
Dazai’s own eyes had dark bags under them which – while almost always present – were more prominent than usual. His hair was wildly unruly, and his expression was so openly happy and bright it almost felt more blinding than the light pouring in the window not two minutes earlier.
Chuuya didn’t think he’d seen him this much unadulterated joy on the other’s face since their wedding. Impulsively, he reached up to touch his cheek, barely ghosting his fingers across the skin.
“Hi.”
“Hi.” Dazai leaned into the touch till Chuuya hand was fully cupping his face. “Am I dreaming? This is definitely how many of my dreams have started.”
His voice hitched slightly at the end of the statement and Chuuya wondered if – prone to nightmares as the man was - Dazai’s dreams had ended as pleasantly as they’d apparently begun.
“No,” Chuuya whispered, conspiratorially, “I’m pretty sure it’s real. I don’t dream, you know, so it’s unlikely.”
Once again, too tired to hold his arm up, Chuuya’s hand dropped back into his lap. Dazai took the opportunity to wrap his own arms tightly around him and press his face into his shoulder.
“I missed you.”
Chuuya leaned his head against the other’s and hummed in acknowledgment.
“I missed you too.”
They sat like that, relaxed and relishing the proximity and quiet intimacy, for a long moment before Chuuya was too tired to remain sitting up.
When Dazai attempted to pull away, the redhead patted the pillow beside him, scooting over to make room. The man was more than happy to settle next to him, wrapping his arms around Chuuya who deemed Dazai’s chest as a preferable choice of pillow and sighed contentedly.
“Clingy slug.” I love you.
“Lanky beanpole.” I love you.
The last thing Chuuya felt before falling into a deep sleep was that of a gentle kissed pressed into his hair.
He smiled softly as he slept, and he did not dream.
–
The fading light that slipped through the cracks in the curtains indicated it was some hours later when Chuuya woke again, warm and comfortable, still incased in Dazai’s arms. He yawned and then burrowed his face into the other’s chest, breathing his scent deeply.
“Silly dog, are you using your canine powers of smell to see if it’s really me?”
“Fuck off.” His voice was muffled, lacking any real heat.
“How does Chuuya feel?”
The man in question paused for a moment, taking inventory of himself and his newly returned faculties.
“Tired,” he concluded. “Tired and thirsty.”
Dazai reached for the glass of water, maneuvering Chuuya into a position to help him drink.
“Any pain?”
“No, nothing.” He sipped the water slowly, enjoying again the happy sensation of it wetting his dry mouth and throat. “How long has it been?”
“You slept for about five hours.”
“Osamu. You know that’s not what I meant.” He tried to catch Dazai’s eyes, but the other evaded him carefully.
“It’s…” the man hesitated a moment before continuing, “it’s been about a month. Maybe a few days longer.”
They sat in silence for a while as Chuuya processed this information.
“A full month…” he wasn’t really surprised. It’d clearly been a long time as he drifted between conscious awareness and total darkness. “I remember I was working on a mission with some gang, but it’s all very fuzzy.” He squeezed his eyes shut, wincing lightly at a sharp, stabbing behind them. “I think there was an argument about something, and I had an issue to discuss with Mori. What happened after that? I can’t… I can’t really remember.”
Chuuya opened his eyes again and glanced at Dazai’s face once more. The other looked grave and troubled.
“Chuuya shouldn’t worry about that now,” he huffed. “Chibi brains shouldn’t try thinking so hard when they just woke up.”
Rolling his eyes hard at that, Chuuya let it drop. They would have plenty of time later to discuss it. And discuss it they certainly would.
“Were you here the whole time?” Chuuya was sure he already knew the answer but asked anyways.
“Of course, where else would I be?”
“Have you slept at all this last month anywhere other than that chair over there?”
Dazai refused to answer or meet his eyes. It was answer enough.
“Did you at least sleep while I napped just now?”
Dazai huffed, irritably, and then sighed, defeated.
“I was scared…” he whispered.
“Of what?”
“That Chuuya wouldn’t wake back up again.”
Oh. Well, shit.
Dazai’s shoulders had slumped, and he folded in on himself slightly as though hiding from his own vulnerability or perhaps Chuuya’s nonexistent judgment.
That just wouldn’t do.
Careful of the wires and IV still attached to his arm, Chuuya pushed Dazai back down and shuffled half on top of him, leaning his weight on his elbow next to Dazai’s head. With the same hand he gently scratched the other’s scalp comfortingly.
“It’s okay now, Osamu,” he breathed, their noses almost touching. “I’m alright. I’m safe, I feel fine. I won’t leave you, alright?”
Dazai closed his eyes for a moment – as though that could hide the overwhelming emotions that filled them or stop the single tear that seeped out of one of the corners only to disappear into his hair.
Unable to quite reach it to wipe away the tear, he settled with kissing the corner of his eye gently, kissing away the moisture left behind along the side of his face until Chuuya’s lips tasted salty and Dazai’s eyes had opened again. Between each kiss he whispered reassurances and gentle promises (I’m alright. We’re okay. I’m alive. I’m awake. We’ll be alright. I love you.).
With renewed energy and purpose, Dazai guided Chuuya off him, reversing their positions. Chuuya’s flaming hair spread out behind him so prettily on the pillow and Dazai once again found himself breathless at the mere sight of his husband.
“I should be the one to comfort Chuuya,” he stroked the red bangs out of the man’s face. “He’s the one that’s been sick. Not me.”
Chuuya huffed a quiet chuckle. Dazai relished the puff of warm air against his lips, hovering not more than an inch above the man’s mouth.
“Since you had to play the role of prince charming this time,” Chuuya murmured, “perhaps you should comfort Sleeping Beauty in the way he deserves, no?”
“Perhaps you’re right.”
Dazai needed no further encouragement to cross the short distance between their lips and kiss him. It was a soft kiss, slow and gentle. Their lips moved in tandem, without rushing in the slightest. But it was somehow just as heated as the most desperate or lust-filled kiss they had ever shared. Like a dam holding back a mighty river, they could both feel the desire, the desperation, the love, the pain, the worry, the need, the unspoken words, the inexpressible emotions, and the shear unbridled passion held back behind those two pairs of closed lips.
Dazai’s hand slipped around Chuuya’s waist and beneath his shirt simply out of a need to feel him closer. To feel his skin. To feel his warmth. To know he was alive and awake and there. Chuuya gasped lightly at the sudden feeling against his skin, lips parting, and Dazai took the opportunity to deepen the kiss. His hand at Chuuya’s waist slipped further around him, fitting perfectly at the small of his back. He used the leverage afforded him there to press their bodies impossibly closer. They breathed against each other’s mouths as though the air in the other’s lungs was all they needed to survive.
“Osamu,” breathed into a mouth.
“Chuuya,” traded back in return.
“My darling,” someone whispered.
“My love,” someone replied.
It was some time before they both found themselves lying once more side-by-side, Dazai’s head tucked against Chuuya’s collarbone, his ear pressed against his chest listening for his heartbeat (alive, alive, alive, alive…).
“You know,” Chuuya poked insistingly, “I’d really love to get this IV out and maybe even eat something and sleep in a real bed tonight. Where are we by the way?”
Grumbling complaints and pouting, Dazai didn’t answer for a moment as he disentangled himself from Chuuya’s embrace to begin unhooking and disconnecting the medical equipment.
“We’re in a safehouse. One I bought years ago when I was still in hiding from the Mafia. I never used it till now, but also never got around to selling it. It came in handy.”
“That would explain why I don’t recognize it. Are we still in Yokohama?”
“More or less. We’re a couple miles outside the city.”
“I suppose there was a reason to use one of our safehouses instead of any of the mafia- or agency-owned clinics.”
Dazai hesitated.
“Yes, there was.” He paused what he was doing long enough to clasp Chuuya’s hand between both of his own and press a kiss to the back of it, looking back up at Chuuya’s troubled face. “I promise we’ll talk about it more, just… let’s wait till you’re feeling stronger, okay? You were in a coma for a month, surely a day or so of recovery won’t kill you?”
Chuuya sighed, impatient, but relented. If the events that led to him spending a month in a coma were as bad as Dazai seemed to think they were, then his mackerel was right – he should recover a bit more. Thanks to his normally accelerated healing, it wouldn't take long anyways.
“Well, in that case,” Chuuya smiled up at his husband who was switching off the last of the equipment and shoving miscellaneous items out of his way. “Is there any decent food in this house? I could really use something to eat right now.”
~•~
Two hours later – after some tolerable warmed canned soup was consumed (Chuuya ensured both parties ate their fill) and the dirty dishes were thrown into the sink for tomorrow’s them to deal with – found them curled around each other in the master bedroom, Chuuya drifting away quickly and Dazai eventually following him. Despite Chuuya’s reassurance, he was still (as illogical as it may be) afraid Chuuya wouldn’t open his eyes again. More than once throughout the night, he found himself feeling for Chuuya’s warm body in the bed next to him, still there, still breathing, heart still beating.
Pale morning light peaked through the curtains, illuminating a pair of amber eyes and causing red hair to glow in the morning light.
His husband was so beautiful. It had been so long since he had been able to wake up with the chibi in his arms like this, nestled in his embrace. He’d missed it. He missed counting the freckles peppering his nose and mapping constellations, missed feeling the smaller man’s quiet breath ghosting across his chest, missed his warmth.
His husband’s sleeping face still caused a small pang of anxiety to ripple through him, but he pushed it aside for the moment. His slug needed sleep – he would wake up again soon enough.
Some hours later, Chuuya shifted slightly in his arms, nuzzling deeper into the man’s embrace. He sighed contentedly causing Dazai to smile.
Seemingly out of nowhere, Chuuya pinched his side.
“I can feel your stupid grin, idiot.”
“But Chuuuuyaaa,” Dazai pouted. “Is that any way to treat your prince charming?”
“You’d make a hell of a shitty prince, mackerel.”
“Well slugs shouldn’t be princesses either, so I guess that makes us even.”
Chuuya chuckled at that, opening his eyes to press a soft kiss against the other’s lips.
“Hi.”
“Hey, chibi.”
They just sat like that for a moment, basking in each other’s presence. After a while, Chuuya shuffled himself into a sitting position, leaning back against the headboard of their bed. Dazai felt his stomach clench at the thought of the inevitable conversation that surely was about to take place.
He opted for petulance instead.
“Chibiiiii,” he whined, wrapping himself around Chuuya’s middle and burying his face into the man’s stomach. “Where are you going? It’s warm down here, how dare you leave your owner like that, bad dog!”
Chuuya just looked down at him, eyebrow raised, clearly unimpressed and fully aware of what Dazai was doing. The man in question groaned internally. Perhaps it wasn’t to be avoided.
“Dazai, we have things we need to discuss.”
“But the slug needs time to recover! Too much thinking will stunt his growth.”
“Shut up, I’m fine but we can’t keep putting this off! You said I was out for a month, and we’re currently sitting in a safehouse outside of Yokohama. I haven’t checked into work for over a month, Dazai. I mean, does Mori even know where I am? I don’t want this to get any worse than it already is.”
Dazai stiffened at the mention of Mori and the mafia – clearly Chuuya didn’t remember the events leading to his injuries. Chuuya groaned.
“He doesn’t know does he.”
Dazai didn’t answer.
“Fuck. I’ve been MIA for the past month? This is not going to go over well. How the hell am I going to explain this shit?”
“Slug, I don’t think any explaining is going to change anything.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
No response.
“Bastard, what the hell does that mean?”
“Can I explain after we eat breakfast? You need food if you’re going to recover your strength.”
Chuuya glared down at Dazai for the evasion but relented.
“Fine, but we are discussing this.”
Having gained a few minutes reprieve from his impending doom, Dazai retreated speedily to the kitchen. As he began whipping up a simple omelet (one of the very few dishes he could cook successfully) he pondered over how exactly he was going to explain the situation to Chuuya.
It would be ideal, of course, that Chuuya simply remembered on his own that his friends and family had once more betrayed him. Dazai had no desire to be the barer of bad news and a part of him wasn’t sure the slug would actually believe him. It wouldn’t be the first time the other refused to hear him out fully where work was related. Perhaps he could just give the bare bones of the story. Lay out the basic facts, come up with some reason for them to have dropped off the grid, and let Chuuya remember the details on his own.
He was aware – of course – that this was shear cowardice. He hated the thought of this conversation, the pain he was about to inflict unwillingly on the other, and the inevitable anger that would have no outlet. He was afraid that Chuuya would blame him for the mafia’s betray and terrified that the man would resent their relationship for destroying his place among them. Worse, if he proposed Chuuya consider joining the ADA… would Chuuya think that Dazai had somehow orchestrated the situation? It wouldn’t be the first time.
Would Chuuya regret their relationship? Resent him?
Leave him?
He wasn’t sure what he would do if Chuuya decided their marriage was more trouble that it was worth – that Dazai was more trouble that he was worth.
“I can hear you thinking all the way in here, shitty Dazai. Calm down and don’t burn the eggs.” Chuuya’s voice filtering in from the other room pulled him out of his spiraling thoughts. He quickly dished up the breakfast and made his way into the living room to settle down next to his husband, unable to even begin to find enough energy to come up with his usual snarky response.
“Alright talk,” Chuuya demanded once they were settled together on the couch, and he’d begun eating. “What the fuck has been going on.”
Where to even begin.
“It was a mission.” Dazai floundered, weakly. “You were injured.”
“Clearly. How? What happened?”
The temptation to lie was strong. It wouldn’t be difficult to manipulate the situation to his liking. He could tell the slug that Mori had ordered them to lay low. Something had happened and they needed to keep out of the limelight for a while. By the time the slug knew it was a lie, it’d be too late. He’d have no option other than to stay with Dazai. Perhaps he could start working on clearing Chuuya’s record in the meantime as well. It wasn’t a bad idea – why hadn’t he thought of that already? He could have contacted Ango weeks ago to–
Chuuya’s hands wrapping around his own interrupted his thoughts.
Oh.
When had his hands started trembling?
That wasn’t good. Chuuya would know something was up. He needed to get himself under control before the whole scheme was blown.
Deep breaths. A smiling mask. Yes, there we go.
His eyes met Chuuya’s.
Fuck. Weren’t they passed this by now? They’d known each other for a decade, been married for seven years. Was he still trying to control Chuuya through his schemes?
But what if Chuuya left? Dazai wouldn’t survive that. Couldn’t risk it.
“-kerel… …Daz-… Osamu!”
Shit! Chuuya had been trying to get his attention.
“Chuuya…” it came out far more broken than he’d intended.
“It’s okay, mackerel. It’s okay. I’m right here. Whatever it is, we’ll get through it, alright?”
Chuuya’s arms wrapped around him, pulling his head down to his chest, holding him tight.
He couldn’t lie to Chuuya. Not now. Not again.
But he also couldn’t hurt him with the truth while being held so lovingly in the man’s arms. Pulling back and placing some distance between Chuuya and himself, Dazai took a deep breath and steeled his resolve. Now or never.
“It was supposed to be a simple mission,” he began. “Subdue a small upstart gang challenging the Port Mafia. But someone was tipping them off at every point. They knew things they shouldn’t – classified information. Someone was feeding it to them from high in the mafia ranks. You investigated. When there was no leak to be found, Mori blamed you. He framed you. When you went to the gang’s headquarters for a final battle, it wasn’t them waiting for you. It was–”
“Hirotsu. Tachihara.”
“Yes.”
Dazai watched as the memories slitted back into place in Chuuya’s head. The mission. The fight. The leak and the subsequent conversations with Mori. That damned ultimatum. His last-ditch effort to restore Mori’s faith in his loyalty. Hirotsu’s voice regretfully sentencing him to execution.
“Oh.” Chuuya sat for a moment in shocked silence. “I remember,” he whispered. “But… I was unconscious. Hirotsu and Tachihara… how did I get out of there? Did I… did Arahabaki…”
“No, no!” Dazai quickly reassured him. “I’d suspected there was something wrong with the mission. You’d mentioned it briefly while drunk some time before. Afterwards, you were almost never home, and I… I was worried. It didn’t take much digging for me to figure out that the leak in question was undoubted through Mori’s design. I figured he was testing you somehow. But I didn’t think… I’m sorry, Chuuya, I’m sorry I didn’t realize sooner! I followed you and took up surveillance too. It wasn’t until just before you went in for the attack that I realized it was never a test. Mori had decided on your execution and the entire mission was constructed to make sure you let your guard down long enough for them to carry out his orders.
“I was across the street when you arrived. You passed out before I got to you and pulled you out. I had a car stashed nearby and Yosano met us at one of our safehouses. She was able to use her ability on you, but the brain takes time to heal after that kind of head trauma. You slept for over a month.
“I was worried, with the Port Mafia combing the city for us, that they’d put the ADA under surveillance too. Once she was sure there was nothing physically wrong with you, I hid us further outside the city. No one knows about this place. We’d be safe here – for a while anyways.”
Chuuya sat, stunned, at a loss for words. Thoughts were swirling behind his eyes, but for once, Dazai had no idea what was going on in his head. He waited.
“Why?” Chuuya croaked after several minutes had passed. “I thought he wanted to test my loyalty. I thought maybe he’d found out about us and wanted to make sure I was still dedicated. Why would he betray me? Why would they try to kill me? I don’t understand…”
Dazai hesitated a moment.
“I’m not sure, chibi.” He winced slightly at the admission. Dazai hated not knowing things. “But… I have a theory.”
“And?”
“I think, perhaps he knew about us for a while. Maybe he’d hoped I would someday come back, or perhaps he felt he could rely on me to ‘keep you in order’ so to speak. But as time went on, he realized I was never going to return to the mafia. Maybe he was afraid you would turn traitor instead and follow me. He feared your power and the loyalty you commanded within the mafia ranks. Should you decide you wanted more power, I wasn’t around to stop you; worse, maybe I’d support you. I think he grew to be every bit as afraid of you as he was of me back before I left. When he drove me out, he still needed me alive. To stop Corruption. To stop Q. I couldn’t die. But you…”
“He didn’t need me alive if I was a threat.” Chuuya’s voice was cold and broken.
“Yes.”
“I see.”
The tension in the silence that followed was painful. Dazai was relieved that Chuuya had heard him out, believed him, and remembered on his own, but it was awful to watch, in real time, as Chuuya tried to come to terms with the betrayal of his family.
Once again, the people he cared about and protected and dedicated himself to had grown to fear his power and had stabbed him in the back because of it.
Would it ever end? Could people like them ever find a home that didn’t ultimately lead to more pain and betrayal and heartbreak?
Chuuya stood, still somewhat unsteady on his feet, and began to make his way back to the bedroom. When Dazai rose to follow, Chuuya held out a hand to stop him.
“Not now, Dazai, not now. I–I think… I think I need to be alone for a while.”
Dazai sat back down on the couch as Chuuya disappeared into the room, the door gently shutting behind him.
–
The ceiling of the safehouse was incredibly ugly, Dazai decided, if not downright depressing. If they ended up staying here very long, perhaps he could convince Chuuya to paint it. Or destroy it. He wasn’t picky either way.
If he looked at the stain in the corner much longer, he was sure it would grow eyes and look back at him. Well, that would be interesting at least. A staring contest with a discolored patch of ceiling was better than the turbulent thoughts currently spinning in his head.
He continued to stare.
What would Chuuya want to do after this?
Maybe the crack on the other side of the room was the stain’s friend. Perhaps its long-lost lover. Maybe they were doomed to be on the same plain of existence but woefully unaware of how close they actually were. How sad.
Does Chuuya resent him now? Everything bad that has happened could be traced back to Dazai. Would the slug want him gone?
Having anthropomorphized the ceiling's stain and jagged crack, would painting over them be murder? Or was it kinder to put them out of their misery, condemned to exist in loneliness and longing without respite? The stain would be covered easily by the paint, but the crack might still leave a mark, even if sealed away completely. Chuuya was like that crack. And Dazai–
If Chuuya–
The sound of their bedroom door opening interrupted Dazai’s increasingly unhinged thoughts, but he found himself unable to look up at the other. It’d been over an hour at least since Chuuya had disappeared, and Dazai was unwilling to find confirmation of his worse fears in the other’s face.
Instead, Chuuya roughly knocked his arms aside from where they were resting across his chest before crawling on top of his husband and nestling his face into the other’s chest.
Something seemed to slot back into place in Dazai’s mind as Chuuya’s arms snaked round him and held him tight.
“So, what do we do now?” Chuuya’s voice was scratchy. Although not a single sound had come out of the bedroom the entire time he was in there, lingering evidence of inevitable tears remained.
“Whatever you want,” Dazai responded, his arms settling round Chuuya’s shoulders and stroking his spine comfortingly with one hand. “We have to lie low for a while, regardless. The mafia will not take lightly to your disappearance. But otherwise, anything you like. If you want him dead, I’ll bring you Mori’s head. If you want to go live in the south of France, I’ll get us tickets tomorrow.” He hesitated a moment, wondering if now was a good time to bring up the agency. Settling on his usual vague and cryptic style, he continued, “Or if you want to work… I’m sure we can work something out.”
“You mean at the agency.” Chuuya was never one to be fooled by diversions or misdirection.
“I do,” Dazai admitted, quietly. “Fukazawa would be a fool not to accept you, and with my recommendation it would be a near guarantee. But that’s not our only option, Chibi. If you don’t want it, if you want some life outside of all this – I’ll make it happen. I swear.”
“I don’t know,” Chuuya sounded miserable. “I don’t know what I want right now.”
Dazai pressed a kiss to the crown of his head, muttering quietly into his red hair.
“You don’t have to decide now. It’s okay. You can take some time to think about it.”
They sat in silence for a while after that. Dazai stroking Chuuya’s back gently, and after a few minutes began humming a simple melody quietly.
“Would you do it?” Chuuya’s voice was muffled as he barely whispered the words into Dazai’s chest.
“Hmm?”
“Would you leave the agency for me?” The words felt rushed as the spilled from the redhead’s lips, almost as though he regretted asking them the moment they were out. “Whether to kill Mori or move to France, or whatever. Would you really leave them for me?”
“In a heartbeat.”
The confidence and surety behind those three simple words clearly startled Chuuya. He lifted his head to finally meet Dazai’s eyes, searching them for something in them. Whatever it was, he seemed to find it and his eyes widened in shock.
“You really would,” he whispered, his voice filled with awe.
“Of course,” Dazai smiled at him, a small, precious thing. “I love you.”
It’s one thing to say those words, I love you, but it’s another thing entirely to promise to leave everything for someone, abandon everything he’d build, the promises he’d made to Oda, the life he’d carefully constructed for himself in the light.
“Thank you.” Chuuya pressed a kiss to the other’s lips which Dazai eagerly reciprocated. “I won’t ask you do that,” he continued, pulling away to meet the other’s eyes once more. “At least, not indefinitely. I don’t know if the agency is the place for me, but I love Yokohama and I wouldn’t take the agency from you if there was even a single other option for us.”
Tension Dazai didn’t know he was holding released and he felt himself relax slightly. He’d meant every word he’d said, but he did care for the agency – apparently more than he’d realized. Chuuya let out a soft chuckle, understanding the unspoken sentiment.
“Okay,” Dazai whispered, leaning in to kiss his husband again, murmuring against his lips, “okay.”
They lay there together till the sun sank low on the horizon and Chuuya began complaining loudly about hunger pains and mackerels who should be caring for their sick husbands. Dazai dramatically bemoaned the tragedy that was his underappreciated work caring for sleeping slugs and the two traded insults that poorly hid their unbreakable bond and unending care for each other.
Dazai felt lighter than he had in weeks. He didn’t know what Chuuya would choose in the end – though he had his suspicions – but in this moment it didn’t matter. His chibi was alive and awake and laughing from his perch on the kitchen counter while Dazai attempted to make miso soup following his instructions. And right now – that was the only thing in the world he cared about.
Footnote: Fun fact - according to the University of Oregon, Great Britain, the U.S., Japan, Germany, and France were all the leading industrial nations in 1870. What suicide methods were popular in those countries at the time or now, I do not know, and I refuse to have that question in my Google search history. No need to worry my lovely FBI agent more than they already are. [ 1 ]