Chapter Text
It starts from their first meeting.
Chuuya understands the theory, the rationality, the logic behind it. Dazai’s Ability requires physical touch and Dazai’s shitty personality requires him always having the upper hand—which could be interpreted as him touching Chuuya as much as possible.
“Did you know?” Dazai asks with a candid expression on his face, like he’s merely commenting about the overcast clouds. “The back of one’s neck is a danger point for most animals. Having it touched means that the animal is in danger.”
“Stop calling me a dog,” Chuuya cuts off that train of thought before it can bloom.
Just the other week, Dazai barged into his mission—just as Chuuya’s about to land the finishing blow to his target. The result is that Chuuya ends up socking Dazai in the face, the target ends up running away and managing to hide himself for two days, and Chuuya’s saddled with reparations and more importantly, having to deal with a whiny-ass baby who nursed a black eye for three full days. And Dazai barging into the mission is because Chuuya stomped on and crushed the dog whistle that Dazai stashed inside his pants’ pocket.
All in all, it was pretty annoying, as all things that involve Dazai tend to be.
Chuuya actually hates touch. He has an inkling that that is the main reason as to why Dazai does it. Dazai deserves a master’s degree in pissing Chuuya off, after all.
Touch is such a human thing. Rimbaud’s words are one thing, but sometimes, Chuuya thinks of the power that’s coiled inside him, poised and ready to erupt the moment he drops his guard. His Ability works on all things he’s in contact with—touching others means that he’s able to hurt and destroy them. The things that he’s able to touch are also the same things that he can crush. He’s confident in his self-control, but sometimes, sometimes, the slivers of insecurity and doubt slither in. And so, he tries to avoid touch, as much as possible.
Keeps his hands in his pockets, keeps his fingers tucked away in gloves. Keeps himself as the epicenter of a gravity wall, an ever-present barrier that separates him from others.
Avoids touch, as much as possible.
But then, through a rollercoaster of events, he ends up being partnered with the shittiest partner in the entire world. And so he ends up with having to deal with increased blood pressure, frequent migraines and a stinky mackerel.
And this stinky mackerel likes to clamp his fingers around Chuuya’s neck.
Before, it just brings pure annoyance.
Because Dazai’s a bastard who thinks that he can get the upper hand over Chuuya if he can cancel Chuuya’s Ability, as though he can go toe to toe with Chuuya in a world where it’s pure physical prowess pitted against each other.
It cancels out For The Tainted Sorrow but it doesn’t matter at all.
Chuuya can still beat Dazai black and blue. And then suffer afterwards, because Dazai may not be able to return the physical damage tenfold, he’s able to torture Chuuya using a variety of underhanded ways (truly awful caterwauling at odd hours of the night directly against Chuuya’s ear, all of Chuuya’s clothes suddenly disappearing the moment he comes out of his bath, his shoes’ soles being replaced with thumbtacks, his shampoo getting mixed with disgusting hair dyes—Dazai’s especially fond of having Chuuya end up with temporarily-dyed hair the same color as his, very disgusting indeed.)
So Chuuya grows used to the annoyance.
And then Dazai starts doing it even when Chuuya’s Ability isn’t activated to begin with.
Sometimes, it’s when the two of them are walking back from their mission.
“Why are we walking?” Dazai complains like the brat that he is, height has nothing to do with shitty personalities, okay?! “With just one press of a button, a car can pick us up!”
“Feel free to get a chauffeur,” Chuuya retorts. “You’re such a lazy asshole.”
Dazai scrunches his nose at that. “And then Mori-san will lecture me about leaving you behind? I’ll pass.”
“It’s not like you listen to Boss, anyway.” It’s not like Dazai needs to. Chuuya can see the similarities between them, can see the fact that Boss Mori’s train of thought can be easily tracked by Dazai. Plus, everyone treats Dazai as the heir-apparent to the Port Mafia anyway, so it’s not like he has a reason to be a reasonable human being. Chuuya makes shooing motions with his hands, just short of outright touching Dazai’s elbow to shove him towards the street. It’s not like there’s a lot of traffic at five in the morning, the worst thing that could happen is Dazai whining even more. “Now, go and scram, I want to take my time enjoying my walk.”
The air in Yokohama is different in the early mornings, sunlight streaking like many shooting stars across the leftover darkness of the night. Simply walking around, relatively aimlessly, not burdened by thoughts of needing to be in the heart of things so that he’s easily made aware of any enemies—it’s a luxury. It’s a luxury to be able to just appreciate his surroundings.
Unfortunately, his surroundings include a certain mackerel bastard.
Dazai’s facial expression is annoying as usual. It’s all repressed emotions, not that Dazai is doing a great job of suppressing his displeasure from radiating outwards. And Dazai’s hand shoots out and pinches the skin at the side of Chuuya’s neck.
Practice, divine self-control, and the terrible premonition that he’d be forced to babysit Dazai if he ends up breaking his ribs again—they’re the only reasons why Chuuya doesn’t grab that skinny arm and break it into countless pieces before throwing them to the trashcan where Dazai belongs.
So, Chuuya contents himself with simply jabbing his elbow against the flesh of Dazai’s stomach, pinpointing it with great accuracy despite the fact that Dazai’s heavy layers of clothes help muddle his form.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
Chuuya sounds pretty dangerous, if he says so himself.
Quite unfortunately for him, Dazai’s never been the type to employ common sense. And he’s also the type who’d gladly careen into any sort of danger before cooing to it, serenading it so it could kill him.
“A dog can’t go on a walk alone,” Dazai says after a few moments. His fingers are almost fever-hot against Chuuya’s skin. “So of course I’m staying!”
“I’m not a damn dog, you bandaged waste of space!” Chuuya gets the urge to bite the hand on his neck, but he’s not about to get teased by Dazai for having animal instincts, damn it. “If you’re here, you’ll just complain a lot and ruin it!”
“That’s exactly why,” Dazai returns with a very piss-poor imitation of a sagely air. Though now, the barely-repressed displeasure is gone, replaced by the not-repressed-at-all smugness at being able to thwart the small things that Chuuya enjoys, once again. “Now, chibikko, if you see a fire hydrant, make sure you don’t pee on it, okay? It’d be too embarrassing if a Port Mafia operative gets arrested because of public indecency.”
Chuuya shoves his pinky against Dazai’s bellybutton, over his shirt. He twists his finger, just enough to make it uncomfortable, but not hard enough that Dazai can fake fainting on the road and forcing Chuuya to princess-carry him. “Oi, if you call me a dog one more time, I’m gonna fucking kill you.”
“Dog, dog, chibi, chibikko~”
A twitch.
“You’re so dead!”
Chuuya ends up chasing Dazai back to the Port Mafia Headquarters, the two of them weaving in-and-out of various back-alleys and rarely-used paths.
It’s almost enough to make Chuuya forget about Dazai’s new habit.
Almost.
It’s impossible though.
Because Dazai keeps on doing it, keeps on sticking close to Chuuya.
Chuuya knows that Dazai’s doing it because of how much he hates it. Knows it, but it doesn’t make it any more manageable.
Chuuya feels sweat bead over his forehead and over his collarbones, when Dazai laughs airily during one mission report, before taking one step sideways and then draping an arm over Chuuya’s shoulders. It’s a warm bar of weight over him. Chuuya’s used to bearing all sorts of weights—some emotional, mostly physical—over his shoulders, but there’s something different now.
Their points of contact practically smolder, burning Chuuya.
“See, Mori-san, we’re such good partners, aren’t we?”
Chuuya bites back a snarling retort about how he’d rather swallow burning metal plates than be good partners with a shitty mackerel.
The mere idea of simply going up to Dazai and telling him, stop touching my neck, irks Chuuya. It’s the simplest way out of his predicament. Chuuya likes simple methods, even if Dazai turns up his nose about them, preferring convoluted logic loops. Chuuya likes simple things, but he can’t imagine that conversation going well. Of course, he could always just kill Dazai and be done with him for good, but even that feels like a trap.
“Stop touching me,” Chuuya whispers, practicing in front of his bathroom mirror. The mirror is fogged up from the heat of his previous shower. It makes it easy for Chuuya to imagine Dazai behind him, looming over him like a haunting specter—since, Dazai’s regrettably hit a growth spurt. The brief flash of annoyance over the fact that Chuuya now has to suffer a kink in his neck when he has to meet Dazai’s eyes—it’s nearly enough to distract him. He tries again, “Stop touching my neck.”
The words feel poisonous—no, that’s not quite right. They feel like sin, like they’re something to be ashamed of.
Chuuya feels his cheeks flush.
No, this isn’t going to work.
It goes on for a few more months, Dazai splitting his time between being partnered with Chuuya, being an all-around class act when it comes to being a self-important lazy fucktard, and spending time drinking at a bar when he’s still underage, the epitome of an irresponsible fuckup. Really, even tangentially thinking about Dazai makes Chuuya’s entire body hurt.
Dazai finds a dozen odd instances of touching Chuuya—fingers lingering like spiderlegs over the exposed skin of Chuuya’s wrist, fingers sliding over like soft silkworms nesting against the curve of Chuuya’s neck, fingers slithering like a snake into the dip and swell of Chuuya’s legs. Sometimes it’s within the context of a battlefield, so Chuuya doesn’t really pay attention to it, registering Dazai’s touches into his internal radar that corresponds with his battle instincts. Most of the times, it’s when there’s no discernible reason—at least, nothing solid that Chuuya can grasp, without it slipping away from his hands like a breath of smoke.
It becomes so much, that even Chuuya’s attempts to wear more layers, longer sets of clothes to minimize the amount of exposed skin—they’re not enough.
Rather, it makes the touches all the hotter, the limited points of contact between their skin driving Chuuya insane. He consoles himself with the fact that it’s an expected reaction when it comes to dealing with Dazai—he’s too much of an asshole, that he’d surely drive anyone and everyone crazy.
Dazai particularly favors pinching the skin around his neck.
“Since you’re a small dog,” Dazai drawls, “I’m merely picking you up.”
“I’m going to fucking kill you,” Chuuya threatens back, as always. Surely, his death threats won’t lose their potency even if he’s said them a thousand times. After all, Dazai touching him for so many times only makes things even more difficult to deal with. Repeating attacks will surely wear the enemy down—it’s one of things that he’s learned from Dazai’s unrepentant desire to monologue and listen to his shitty voice.
So, Chuuya has to resort to other measures.
He times it so that he’s passing by the apparel shop when Dazai’s dead to the world—during an afternoon nap in the height of summer. It’s too hot and sticky outside, the sun practically pressing down on the top of Chuuya’s hat. If even someone like Chuuya is affected, Dazai would surely rather stab himself somewhere painful but non-fatal, before willingly rolling away from his airconditioned room.
If Chuuya’s lucky, by the time that he kicks the door to Dazai’s bedroom to drag his slacker partner for their mission in the evening, Dazai’s still spread-eagled on the carpeted floor, all limp noodle limbs like a dehydrated balloon that’s been left out for too long. Summer is one of Dazai’s more formidable enemies, especially since he insists on wearing his disgusting bandages and full suit, preferring to be baked alive by his clothes rather than succumbing to common sense.
(Once:
“It’s not like your lackeys would dare to disobey you if you appeared without your overcoat.” Even as Chuuya says this, he’s using gravity to make the fan’s blades spin faster. No, scratch that, he’s using gravity to make the blades of six fans suspended on top of Dazai’s dead fish sprawl. Chuuya’s practiced fine-tuning his Ability over the past eight years—if someone were to tell his eight-year-old self that he’d be mastering gravity control so he can help fan a stupid asshole back to life, he’d probably end up punching that person to the bottom of Yokohama Bay. Still, that’s where he’s at, kneeling centimeters away from Dazai, and watching over his partner who’s collapsed from the heat wave.
If this goes on for longer, Chuuya has to think about using gravity to extract water from the surroundings, compressing the air around the water—and then making ice spears from it that he can use to stab Dazai for giving him this much trouble. Trouble, that he could have avoided if only Dazai actually agreed to go on this mission—in the middle of summer, right at noontime, without his full dark overlord regalia.
“Plus, it’s not like it actually suits you,” Chuuya says. Dazai lying prone like a beached whale is practically a handwritten invitation for Chuuya to disparage him without having to deal with Dazai’s stupid voice retorting back. So, Chuuya continues, “You’re still a brat even if you pretend to be an adult. Only an idiot will look at you and think that you’re a formidable fortress.”
Dazai opens an eye.
Dazai fainted in the middle of the street, and Chuuya’s had to make do with dragging his unconscious body to some back-alley that leads to an empty house that has a fairly spacious—and more importantly: unfenced garden. There’s a tall tree that offers a tiny shaded respite from direct sunlight, but the air sizzles around them still. Sizzling, like it’s lighting Chuuya’s blood directly on fire, especially around his thighs, where he’s dragged Dazai’s head to rest against.
And now, Dazai’s eye is open, laser-like focus honing in on Chuuya’s gaze.
Several moments pass by, before Dazai’s face relaxes.
It’s unfathomable—should be unfathomable.
Dazai’s entire shtick is being a conceited asshole because he’s paranoid enough to suspect evil to happen in every corner of the world. Because of it, Dazai never completely relaxes. Chuuya’s not into spouting off probabilities and percentages like a pretentious asshole (he still thinks that Dazai pulls the numbers out of his ass most of the time) but he’s pretty sure that the probability of Dazai completely relaxing is as impossible as Dazai completely giving up suicides.
Still, it’s right in front of him.
The tense lines by Dazai’s jaw, by his brow bone—they disappear, practically melting off like an ice cube left in the middle of an asphalt road in a 40-degree summer.
Chuuya feels like he’s being burnt alive.
“I don’t need them to think that I am a fortress.” Dazai’s words are soft, like he’s teetering in the edge of a fairytale and a dream. “They can look at you instead.”
Chuuya… doesn’t know how to answer that.
Maybe he isn’t supposed to, so he simply hums and carefully avoids letting his fingers think about trying to pull at Dazai’s hair to see if his MSG-ridden diet is doing their damage by making his hair easier to pluck.)
…Chuuya’s digressing.
Point is, Dazai hates summer, so Chuuya is free to buy what he needs before Dazai can even think to moan pitifully about sunlight being out to get him.
So Chuuya sneaks into an apparel store—something that specializes in belts and chokers.
Chuuya knows that Dazai likes to hack into his phone and his laptop practically 24/7, so he didn’t dare to search anything there. He’s going in blind, but he has an idea of what he wants. Leather that’s soft enough against his skin that it won’t chafe, wide enough that it can hide a good portion of his skin from direct skin contact with Dazai, thin enough that he can still breathe easy.
The purchase takes shorter than expected, and Chuuya wears it on his walk back.
And maybe that’s a mistake, because Dazai takes one look at him as soon as he steps into his room, and declares, with a smile woven with a spider’s poisonous grace:
“I’m so glad you finally decided to be my dog.”