Archive of Our Own ^beta

There’s a plane flying overhead.

Chuuya watches the familiar shape cut through the sky, small and white and quick all at once, leaving a trail of puffy whites against blue. The sight makes his heart feel suffocated, stretched, like it’s about to be cut in half, and he’s so caught up in the barbed remnants of a memory he barely realizes the truck has rumbled slowly to a stop until there’s a pointed cough beside him and he blinks, straightening up and looking out the window.

"Sorry, dude," the man says gruffly, shooting him an apologetic smile. "I'll have to drop you off here. Think that works?"

It doesn't, but Chuuya knows the question is rhetorical.

"Yeah," he manages casually, shrugging. He heaves his bag over his shoulder as he hops out the truck quickly and slams the door behind him. "Thanks."

"Have fun with the rest of your hitchhiking!" The man shoots him a wide grin as he speeds away. "Don't die!"

A mild bout of irritation races up his spine, but Chuuya bites back a retort and just nods stiffly in response. The truck dwindles out of sight until it’s just a small, dark speck in the distance, driving away without a care in the world.

Chuuya sighs. Shit.

He looks around warily. The problem is that the he isn’t in the middle of nowhere, actually. The problem is that the poor guy had been so nice he actually exited the highway and dropped him right smack along a row of fast-food joints, amidst a buzz of people and noise. The problem is that Chuuya has no idea how the hell he’s supposed to get another ride when everyone here looks like they work a 9 to 5 and isn’t a truck driver that’s willing to pick him up and drive him to wherever they’re going with no questions asked.

His stomach makes a noise, breaking him out of his thoughts, and Chuuya pulls a face. Figures.

He weighs his options carefully as he scans the joints near him. It’s all fast-food, mostly. He gnaws at his lip, trying to think of how he can manage to find another ride while also grabbing something quick to eat.

His eyes drift over. There’s a gas station positioned across the street. A small one, that has a decent sized store and a moderate number of cars flowing in and out of it. Chuuya makes up his mind and darts quickly across the street, ignoring a few stares for jaywalking, and his mind is already spinning as he takes quick strides towards the station.

It’s only when he swings the door open that he realizes how hot it is outside. The cool, air-conditioned breeze of the gas station store sweeps over his neck and he pulls a little at his sweat-sticky shirt. He takes off his hat, grimacing slightly when he runs a hand through damp hair.

Chuuya ends up buying a blissfully cold bottle of iced tea and a red bean bun he figures will last him a few hours. The girl at the counter eyes the duffle bag on his shoulders with the slightest hint of confusion, before her eyes slide away easily and she just sends him off with the typical have a nice day.

Chuuya feels antsy, being near so many people.

It’s rare that he’s recognized. But it has happened before, a few times. And the fact that no one has stared at him a second too long or tilted their heads with that do I know you curiosity should make him feel at ease, but it only leaves him feeling more jumpy, more flighty.

With a quiet sigh, he leans against the side of the store, putting his hat back on to shield himself from the sun, and watches.

He watches the cars, but he watches the people more carefully. Trying to piece together whether or not they work down the street at the big office building, or if they’re university students, of if they’re the right brand of person that won’t be alarmed if he asks to hitch a ride.

There are too many damn people in suits. Chuuya heaves another sigh, taking a break from his people-watching by pulling out his phone and pretending to be occupied. Just in the off chance anyone has taken notice of him, and finds it suspicious that he’s been staring for a prolonged period of time. He looks down with a frown.

Going on his phone is silly, really, when he’s deleted all his contacts.

Chuuya stares at the no new notifications sign for a minute, chest tight, before he unlocks it anyways and opens the weather app for lack of anything to do. He taps at the little sun icon, skimming briefly through the description of almost no wind and clear skies.

Today’s conditions would be perfect for flying. He sighs aloud.

“Need a ride?”

Chuuya looks up from his phone, startling.

Dark brown hair and even darker eyes greet him abruptly. A man around his age stands in front of him with a casual smile, seeming far too comfortable. Something twinkles bright in his gaze as he looks at Chuuya, an expression of clear amusement painted across his features.

But what catches his attention is the way the man’s arms are almost completely wrapped in bandages underneath the thin t-shirt he’s wearing. Strips of white go from his wrists all the way up to his biceps where they disappear under the shirt sleeve. They seem to go across his chest too, creeping up visibly onto his neck. And despite the heat, the stranger appears completely, utterly unbothered by the wrapping of gauze all over his body.  

Chuuya stares at him for a long moment, blinking. Wonders briefly if the heat has gotten to him to the point where he’s started hallucinating. “Sorry?”

“A ride, chibi.” The man’s grin widens and he tilts his head. “Are your ears working?”

Chuuya bristles immediately. “Who the hell are you calling—"

He pauses, biting down on his tongue and cutting himself off when he registers the offer.

He looks up carefully at the man, taking in curious eyes and an air of odd, out-of-place nonchalance. The gears in his brain kickstart into action. “Why would I accept a ride from a stranger?” He asks coolly, pocketing his phone and leaning back against the wall.  

“I'm not a rapist, or a murderer, I promise.” The man tucks his hands into his pockets casually.

Chuuya squints at him. “That's exactly what a rapist or a murderer would say.”

The stranger just grins at him and shrugs. “You can believe what you want. The offer still stands.”

“And why are you offering a ride to me, of all people?”

That earns him a raised brow. “Really?” The man asks. He sounds bored. Something about his voice grates on Chuuya’s nerves and he just narrows his eyes.

“Really,” Chuuya says.

The stranger pauses for a minute, eyes sweeping across Chuuya’s face. And then he shrugs again. “You’ve been leaning against the side of the store for almost fifteen minutes. You didn’t come here to get gas—because the attendants usually finish in under ten minutes. If you just came here for a quick break, you’d have stayed inside where the AC is on, or in your car. When I offered you a ride your first response wasn’t to deny the fact that you needed one, but rather to ask why you should accept. Not to mention you’re carrying a duffle bag and you’ve clearly been observing the people driving in and out.” He flashes a wry smile. “It’s pretty obvious you’re looking for a ride with no questions asked, chibi.”

He tilts his head, eyes bright in amusement. “Am I wrong?”

Chuuya stares at him. He schools his face into impassivity, keeping the surprise and frustration and tiniest pinch of fear behind a mask of nonchalance as his mind races desperately in attempts to regain control of the situation.

“You think you’re a detective or something?” He shoots back, purposefully ignoring the man’s question.

The stranger’s eyes just sparkle infuriatingly. “Maybe I am a detective,” he says, grinning. And then his eyes scan Chuuya’s face, before he just shrugs again. “It's your choice, at the end of the day. You might die of heatstroke, you know.”

He smiles far too innocently. Chuuya presses his lips together as he thinks.

He knows the man is right, unfortunately. Regardless of how odd he is, the stranger doesn’t seem dangerous, and Chuuya trusts his gut judgement. It had been hard enough getting a ride from the previous man, and the chances of finding another person willing to take him in without asking anything are slim to none.

The man is throwing him a lifeline.

“Fuck,” he mutters finally.

The man breaks out into a grin. “Is that a yes?”

“What’s in it for you?” Chuuya shoots back instead of answering.

That, oddly enough, makes the stranger hesitate. Chuuya lifts his brows in mild surprise, watching as something seems to flicker in the man’s eyes. For a moment, he looks like he’s not present in the moment, trapped in a memory a lifetime away. An odd, thoughtful look crosses his face, before he blinks down at Chuuya and it vanishes immediately.

“Let’s call it consolation,” he says finally, giving him an aggravating wink. 

Chuuya stares at him. “That doesn’t make any fucking sense.” The man’s eyes twinkle again, and he opens his mouth as if to reply, but Chuuya just cuts him off with a pointed stare. “Whatever. You better be a good driver.”

The stranger smirks. “I’m definitely better than you, I can tell that already.”

Chuuya stares at him in shock for a moment, before annoyance blooms instantly in his stomach. “The hell? I’m definitely better than your—oi.” The man has already spun around and started walking away from him, ignoring his words. “Where are you going?”

The whirling of car keys catches his attention. “Chop chop,” he says, grinning back at him. “We don't have all day, chibi.”

Chuuya narrows his eyes as he follows the taller towards the small parking lot on the side. “Stop calling me that, asshole.”

“Dazai,” the stranger says simply when they get to the car.

Chuuya pauses, before he looks at Dazai carefully. It’s rare that people introduce themselves without their full names. They’re strangers, admittedly, but it’s still unexpected all the same. Especially given the fact that they’ll probably be stuck together in close quarters for a few hours. The last man he had hitched a ride from had cheerfully blabbered on and on about his daughter and his wife—uncaring that Chuuya didn’t share as much. Everything about Dazai seems mysterious, from his bandages to his eyes to his name. It makes him feel like Dazai is hiding something.

But then again, Chuuya can’t blame him. He’s doing the same thing, after all.

“Chuuya,” he replies evenly, holding Dazai’s gaze.

Dazai lifts his brow. “First name basis already?”

Chuuya narrows his eyes. “Nice try. I’m not telling you my full name.”

Dazai’s eyes glint in interest, not bothering to deny the accusation. He stares at Chuuya for another moment, seemingly thinking as he searches his face for something, gaze roaming slowly. Impatience flutters in Chuuya’s stomach.

“Chop chop,” Chuuya cuts in pointedly, mimicking his voice. “We don't have all day, bastard.”

Dazai rolls his eyes. The car unlocks with a soft click and Chuuya pulls the door open easily, about to slide into the passenger seat when Dazai speaks again. “Chuuya, just one thing.”

The way his name sounds on Dazai’s tongue leaves a sour taste in his mouth. Chuuya pauses, still standing with his hand on the door as he looks warily up at the other. “What.”

Dazai's eyes linger on the top of his head for a brief moment before they snap back to his face, and something twinkles bright in his gaze. His lips quirk upwards, and suddenly an inexplicable flash of irritation races up Chuuya's spine, and a deep, visceral feeling of annoyance spreads hot in his gut.

"Take off that ugly hat, will you?"

"You are so fucking annoying—"

"If Chuuya had even a semblance of a music taste—"

"—literally nothing wrong with American pop—"

"—can't even understand English with your tiny brain—"

"—just 'cause you have bandages for brains—"

"—makes sense because you're so tiny—"

“Shut up!” Chuuya all but screeches loudly, throwing his hands up in the air.  

Dazai pauses, lips twitching, and Chuuya just takes a deep breath inwards before pinching his nose and looking down. “God,” Chuuya mutters finally. “Just. Shut up."

Dazai grins, and then leans over and switches the radio station again.

Chuuya bites back a complaint and settles back into his seat, crossing his arms as he glares out the window. He tries to push away the stewing irritation under his skin, boiling hot and blistery from the moment Dazai had insulted his hat and a headache had blossomed in his brain. “I regret this,” he mutters darkly, for the fifth time.

“The exit is right there, hatrack.” Dazai nods toward to the door. “Feel free to leave at any time.”

Chuuya grits his teeth. As if he could go anywhere else. Especially not as they’re hurtling down the highway.

Dazai snickers into the silence.

Chuuya ignores him in favor of returning to his thoughts. He props an elbow against the door and rests his cheek on his fist, eyes sliding over discreetly to the other as he drives. Dazai keeps his eyes on the road, expression relaxed as he navigates, and Chuuya tries to think. Tries to piece together the information he has about Dazai so far.  

When he had chanced a look earlier into the backseat of the car the only things he had seen were an overstuffed backpack, an extra pair of shoes, and—hilariously—a half-empty bottle of sake. Nothing less, nothing more. He hadn’t asked Dazai where they were headed, and Dazai hadn’t mentioned a destination, either. Chuuya purses his lips as he stares at Dazai out the corner of his eyes.

“Nosy,” Dazai murmurs. 

Chuuya blinks, straightening up immediately. “Wha—I didn’t—”

“Curious?”

Chuuya stares at Dazai in disbelief. The other still isn’t looking at him, but the corners of his lips are twitching knowingly.

Annoyance rushes through him, before finally he huffs and asks, “How old are you?”

Dazai raises a brow. “Are we playing twenty-one questions now?”

“Better than that stupid word game.” Chuuya rolls his eyes.

Dazai grins, eyes sliding over to his. “Chuuya’s just mad he lost because his brain couldn’t—”

“You fucking cheated, asshole.”

Dazai’s eyes dance with amusement, before they turn back to the highway in front of him. Chuuya huffs.

He’s not going to answer the question, then.

Chuuya presses his lips together and looks back out the window, letting his thoughts scatter. That’s fine, he supposes. If Dazai had sprung the same question on him he probably would’ve refused as well. But it’s the odd fact that Dazai hasn’t actually asked anything personal about him that throws him off. He’s only been stuck in the car with him for a few hours, but he knows enough by now to confidently conclude that not only is he singlehandedly the most obnoxious person Chuuya has ever met, but he’s also eerily smart, scarily perceptive, and something in his eyes makes Chuuya feel a bit like he’s being dissected at times, even if Dazai doesn’t say anything aloud.

The world whips by around them, streaks of trees and cars blending together hazily in his vision. Chuuya stares blankly out the window at the scene the setting sun paints. Orange and pink brush over the view, and he lifts his eyes to look up at the sky. There’s a plane that’s just taken off, slowly gaining altitude in the sky. The sight makes Chuuya’s stomach churn.

He turns away. “Do you know what city we’re in?”

Dazai hums. “We just crossed the border for Sendai.”

Chuuya just nods in response, thinking. That’s pretty far north from Yokohama, already. The knowledge makes some of the tension in his chest ease ever so slightly, leaving him feeling a bit less suffocated, a bit less uneasy. He turns his head around to ask him another question, lips parting.

Dazai’s stomach makes a noise, suddenly.

The sound is so unexpected that Chuuya blinks for a moment in surprise, before his face splits into a wide grin. “Someone’s hungry.”

Dazai’s mouth pulls together in something that looks dangerously close to a pout. Chuuya just snickers a little, while the other huffs in response. “There’s a motel in a couple of miles we can check into. There’s a convenience store near it that we can purchase food from, too.”

Chuuya pauses. “A motel?”

“Yes, Chuuya, a motel. It’s a place where people can stay overnight an—”

“I know what a motel is, asshole.” Chuuya purses his lips before looking up at Dazai. “I just didn’t…”

He trails off. Didn’t think that Dazai would offer to let Chuuya stay the night. Would offer to give a ride tomorrow, as well. Wouldn’t just drop him off somewhere.

Dazai barely seems bothered at the silence. He just grins and shrugs. “It’s your choice. I can drop you in the dumpster, if you’d like. You’re so short no one would see you, anyways.”

Chuuya glares at him. “Would it kill you to be serious for literally one second?”

“I’m never anything but serious,” Dazai says earnestly. He dodges Chuuya’s half-hearted slap with a grin. “It’s rude to attack someone while they’re driving, Chuuya.”

Chuuya narrows his eyes at him but retracts his hand, stopping to think. Is it safe to stay with a stranger he’s only known for three hours in a motel room? All the signs in his head are pointing towards decidedly not, but—Chuuya doesn’t have anywhere else to go, really. He’d spent the first week sleeping in empty parking lots, hiding out in train stations, pushing his luck day in and day out. A motel, though. The prospect of a shower is almost too hard to resist.

“Motels have showers, you know.”

Chuuya grunts. “It’s really fucking creepy how you keep doing that.”

Dazai looks at him innocently. “Do what?”

“Read my mind.” Chuuya narrows his eyes. “Are you actually a detective?”

“Maybe I’m just a genius.”

Chuuya snorts loudly. “You fucking wish.”

Dazai ignores him, humming. “Motels also have a bed, and pillows, and blankets. And air conditioning.” He tilts his head, lips twitching. “And free coffee, occasionally.”

“Coffee’s never free in motels,” Chuuya says, squinting.

“If they don’t catch you it is,” Dazai replies with a grin.

Chuuya snorts. He considers the list Dazai is running through his mind, thoughts drifting traitorously towards the warmth of a real bed and the chance to wash off all the grime and filth on his body.  His eyes slide towards Dazai as something clicks.

“You’ve been doing this for a while,” he realizes aloud.

Dazai pauses, so slight that Chuuya almost thinks he’s imagined it, before it’s gone and he just shrugs easily, “So have you.”

Silence settles over them for a moment. Chuuya bites down on the inside of his cheek as he looks at Dazai carefully, the other staring dutifully out on the road as he drives.

Bandaged, weird, annoying, too perceptive for his own good. Around his age. Nothing but a bag, some shoes, and alcohol in his car. Doesn’t go on his phone often. Driving for hours on end with no destination in mind, no plan to follow. Deflects personal questions and doesn’t ask any either. Has been sleeping in motels for a while. Eyes are dark, unreadable at times, like they’re holding secrets that burn into his soul.  

“Okay,” Chuuya says finally. “Motel.”

Dazai quirks a brow. “That was fast.”

Chuuya hesitates, before he turns to look out the window and leans back in his seat. His heart hurts, suddenly. “Maybe we’re in the same boat,” he murmurs.

A long pause stretches between them. Chuuya stares steadily out the window, not turning back to look at the other. He can feel Dazai’s eyes trained on him, piercing and heavy and pointed from afar.  

“And what boat is that?”

Chuuya just sighs, resting his chin against his palm. “Figure it out yourself, genius.”

Chuuya steps back into the motel room carrying a plastic bag filled with instant ramen, a handful of rice balls, and two refreshingly iced water bottles.

He blinks for a moment at the emptiness in front of his eyes, before the sound of water running tells him Dazai is in the shower and hasn’t magically disappeared in the span of twenty minutes. Chuuya sets the bag down on the table and takes off his hat, placing it on the TV stand. He shrugs his jacket off quickly and then he’s all but collapsing on the bed, groaning loudly when his face hits the mattress.

Chuuya lets himself relax into the comfort of the blankets for a moment. If only for a second, it feels like all the aches and pains and worries carved into his body have miraculously disappeared. He closes his eyes, sighing as he takes in the scent of fabric spray and detergent.

A dim buzzing noise pulls him out of his daze.

He turns his cheek to the side, blinking in confusion. The buzzing noise continues incessantly, starting to grate ever so slightly on his nerves, and Chuuya pushes himself upright from the bed, frowning. His eyes sweep around the room briefly before it lands on Dazai’s phone laying on the other bed, vibrating with the clear pattern of an incoming call.

Chuuya stares at it for a moment. The screen lights up systematically, flashing.

It’s a foreign sight, almost—seeing a phone call. After deleting and blocking all his contacts a week ago, the telltale vibration makes something ugly, something painful seep into his chest.

When the buzzing stops, Chuuya hesitates before curiosity gets the better of him. The water is still audibly running, but he looks carefully around the room anyways, as if someone will catch him and scold him for so obviously invading Dazai’s privacy. And then he steps carefully off of his bed and walks over to where the phone is sitting face-up, swallowing as he presses lightly at the power button.

The screen lights up. There are three missed calls from a Sakaguchi Ango, all spaced one hour apart.

Chuuya blinks at it for a moment before he steps away again, heart pounding oddly in his chest. He falls back clumsily on his own bed, face-up this time as he stares at the ceiling and thinks.

His thoughts don’t travel very far, though, because the gentle click of a door opening pulls at his attention and he blinks at the disruption.

“Someone seems comfortable.”

Chuuya rolls his eyes, pushing himself up on the bed to snap back at Dazai.

But the words die in his throat when they land on Dazai’s arms, bare of bandages as he towels his hair casually.

The scars are faded, but they’re still visible, noticeable, undeniable across his forearms and Chuuya’s heart clenches violently in his chest. Dazai catches his eye in the small mirror he’s standing in front of, eyes not betraying anything as he holds Chuuya’s gaze quietly. Chuuya wishes blindly for a quirk of a brow of an impish lift of the lips, but the only thing he gets is a calm, steady gaze, and somehow that only makes it all the worse.

Swallowing, Chuuya manages to force out, “Your phone was ringing.”

Dazai just hums in response, dropping his gaze as he continues to dry his hair, but he doesn’t move to retrieve his phone at all. Chuuya hesitates, still perched awkwardly on the bed. His limbs feel frozen.

“Is Chuuya going to stare at me all day?” Dazai asks, clearly amused. “I may be easy on the eyes but—"

Chuuya swats out a hand. Dazai ducks easily with a slight grin. Reflexive annoyance kicks in and Chuuya just stands up, pushing down the unease in his stomach and giving him an unimpressed stare.  

“Maybe I’m a model,” Dazai adds, grinning. “Have you considered that?”

Chuuya rolls his eyes and bends down to grab his change of clothes from his bag. “In your dreams, maybe.” He pulls out a thin sleep shirt along with a pair of loose shorts and new underwear before he straightens up again and determinedly walks past Dazai towards the bathroom, eyes not lingering on his arms.

“Don’t drown in there, chibi. The water might wash you away!”

Chuuya flips him off, closing the bathroom door on the sound of Dazai’s laughter, loud and carefree in the motel room.

As he strips off his sweaty clothes and steps under the refreshing spray of water, Chuuya sighs a little at the feeling of tension easing in his body. His chin drops down as he washes his hair thoroughly, mind wandering back to the scars on Dazai’s arms.

It’s yet another piece that just adds to the confusion. Dark eyes, cheerful grin. Three missed calls that have gone purposefully unanswered. Arms littered with painful evidence of unspoken suffering.

Chuuya shakes his head firmly, not latching onto that train of thought as he turns the water off and steps out again. His mind feels heavy, but still clearer than it’s been in a few days, and he stares sightlessly at his reflection in the mirror as he pulls on his clothes robotically.

Maybe it’s because now he has something else to focus on that isn’t his own rabbit hole of memories.

When Chuuya steps out of the bathroom, feeling significantly cleaner and fresher than he has in a while, his eyes fall on Dazai. The other is sitting on the floor, holding a bitten-into rice ball and staring blankly at the wall.

Chuuya squints. “You’re so weird, you know that.”

Dazai blinks and tilts his gaze towards him, lips already twitching. “And you’re so short.” His eyes twinkle with amusement before they sweep over his body quickly and Chuuya blinks a little at the feeling of Dazai’s stare on his bare legs.

Chuuya offers him a glare in response to the jibe. He plops down next to Dazai on the floor, and grabs a rice ball, staring at him carefully as he takes a bite. “Did you get back to that call?” He asks casually.

Dazai’s face splits into a grin immediately. “Chuuya would make an awful detective.”

Heat creeps up on the back of Chuuya’s neck as he clamps down on his tongue, scowling. Dazai snickers in response, taking another cheerful bite and pointedly not answering the question. Chuuya’s gaze gets drawn to the movement, and then he’s staring at scarred arms again, obvious and blaring in his vision. Undeniable, unavoidable.  

“You’re not being very subtle, you know.”

Chuuya raises his eyes only to be greeted with Dazai’s amused expression, brown eyes bright as he stares at him. It knocks him off balance for a moment, feeling the full force of the other’s gaze. His eyes are sparkling, light, no visible traces of discomfort or pain, and it only makes the scars infinitely more confusing. Chuuya pulls his eyes away awkwardly. “Sorry,” he mutters.

It goes quiet for a moment, before Dazai lets out a quiet laugh. Chuuya draws his eyes back up to meet a thoughtful, quiet gaze. “You’re not good at letting things go, hatrack.”

Chuuya blinks. The statement is so unexpected he doesn’t even bristle at the nickname.

He thinks of gravity pulling him down, panic slithering up his throat. He thinks of radio silence over a headset. He thinks of blood, too much blood. Of silence, of pain. He thinks of crawling out of fallen debris and the ruins of a plane, and he thinks of shame, anger, despair, curling in his gut all at once.

We’ll miss you, he hears Kouyou say. Be careful, Chuuya.

“Yeah,” Chuuya mutters, taking another bite. “Stop reading my damn mind.”

Nakahara-san, a panicked voice is saying. Nakahara-san, we’re losing—

He’s falling, plummeting through the air. His ears tremble with the rush of gravity and the blood-curdling stab of passengers screaming. His hands are gripping so hard on the control column his fingers are going numb, feet pressing desperately on the rudder petals, but nothing is working, nothing is coming, nothing is right, nothing. Everything. His body jerks. Kaji is slumped unconscious next to him in his seat. The plane continues to fall.

Darkness, blood, aching.

Your license is going to be revoked, Hirotsu says, looking at him in pity. I’m sorry.

His whole body hurts.

You killed my daughter, someone is yelling at him. You killed her, you—

His knee, it feels broken. Is it broken?

Nakahara’s always liked wine. You don’t think he’d ever drink on—

Fuck. He’s crying.

Ane-san, he’s saying, eyes sliding shut in resignation. I can’t.

Someone screams.

Pain shoots through his leg and Chuuya jolts awake abruptly, wide-eyed and sitting upright on the bed, heart racing out his chest. The lingering, phantom heat of fire flickers all over his skin and it takes a moment to register the loud sound in the room that’s coming from his own mouth, chest heaving as his breath comes in short spurts.

His gaze lands on dark brown eyes and he jumps, hands scrabbling as they pull at the blankets.

“Chuuya,” Dazai starts.

“I’m fine,” Chuuya snaps immediately. His pulse crackles under his skin. “It’s—I’m fine,” he repeats, staring down at his hands. His voice is hoarse.

Dazai pauses. “You—”

“I’m fine,” Chuuya mutters again. The panic, anger, pain, fizzles away when he looks up. Dazai is sitting on the edge of his bed, hovering awkwardly near him, and the sight is so strange it almost makes him laugh. The ball of nerves in his stomach eases, ever so slightly. “Really,” he adds.

There’s a long pause. Chuuya just stares blankly into Dazai’s eyes, not quite seeing as his mind grapples with the remnants of his dream.

“Alright, then,” Dazai murmurs finally, pushing himself up and off the bed. Chuuya watches as he walks back over to his bed on the other side, lifting the blanket and climbing back in.

“Sorry,” Chuuya says, and it comes out almost a whisper. “If I woke you up.”

There’s another beat of silence, before Dazai just says quietly, “Don’t worry about it. Good night, Chuuya.”

“’Night,” he mumbles, laying back down.

He stares at the ceiling for hours, trying to drown out the sound of screaming with Dazai’s soft, quiet breathing as it evens out.

“You drool in your sleep.”

Chuuya whips his head around, glaring. “I do not.”

Dazai’s brows quirk as he wraps the bandages around his arm, still looking at Chuuya. “You very much do, chibi. Like a dog.”

“I’m not—” Chuuya grits his teeth. “It’s just because I haven’t slept in a real bed in a while,” he mutters finally, refocusing his attention on tying his shoes.

Dazai grins. “Like a dog,” he repeats.

Chuuya grumbles under his breath as he knots the laces and stands up. “Whatever. Hurry up. I’m driving today.”

“So impatient,” Dazai shoots back. He finishes wrapping the last of the bandage, though, pushing himself up and off the chair to sling his bag over his shoulders.

Chuuya watches him for a moment, eyes lingering on the bandages and then back on his face. The other is still his annoying, too-cheerful self, but there’s been no mention of last night. Relief twists itself into his stomach. If anything, talking about it would’ve only made the ache in his chest grow even more, made it harder to keep up the steady stream of banter they have, insults flying back and forth in an odd, strangely comforting way.

“Chuuya’s staring again,” Dazai sings.

Chuuya makes a face at him, before turning around to open the door. “Hurry up, idiot.”

They make their way down and out towards Dazai’s car, the sun bouncing off the gray surface and into Chuuya’s eyes. He winces momentarily, throwing his bag into the backseat as Dazai does the same. A quick unlocking of the doors, and then Chuuya is sliding into the driver’s seat, adjusting the position and setting his hand atop the steering wheel.

“Chuuya,” Dazai mutters besides him. “This car was not cheap.”

Chuuya slides his eyes towards him, brows raising at the obvious warning. “I’m definitely a better driver than you, asshole.”

There’s a beat of silence, before Dazai says, voice just slightly strained, “I don’t have insurance anymore.”

“Great,” Chuuya replies, the corner of his mouth lifting upwards. He files the detail into the back of his mind to think about later. But for now, he just grins wide and shifts the gear into drive, holding Dazai’s gaze in wicked determination. “Neither do I.”

Dazai losing his composure, Chuuya learns, is one of the funniest things he’s ever seen in his entire life.

Dazai’s hand shooting up to grab at the handlebar, fingers gripping so hard his knuckles turn white. Dazai leaning back in his seat whenever Chuuya switches lanes. Dazai going blissfully, thankfully, silent for once without any annoying interjections.

“Chuuya.”

“Mhmmm.”

“We are going to get pulled over.” His voice is tight.

Chuuya’s eyes slide over to him. “Scaredy-cat.”

Dazai’s lips press together. “I should drive next.”

“When’s next.”

“Preferably soon,” Dazai mutters.

Chuuya rolls his eyes in response as he presses down purposefully on the gas. Dazai’s fingers clench around the handlebar again and he just grins, letting the thrum of power flow under his hands as they grip the steering wheel. It feels good, and it feels alive. And it might not be the same as flying a plane, but the adrenaline is definitely still there, the control pliant in his hands.

Dazai hums. “You’re in a good mood.”

Chuuya pauses, taking a short moment to process the words. Energy crackles under his skin, flowing into his blood and making his heart race. It’s hot today, the sun already shining bright and warm in through the windows even at ten in the morning, but he can’t manage to scrounge up as much irritation for the sweat on his neck as he usually does.

When he chances a look at Dazai, the other just looks at him quietly, eyes thoughtful.

“Yeah,” Chuuya says, grinning. “And you’re not going to ruin it, asshole.”

He guns the engine, and Dazai yelps in response.

The days drift by.

They drive. They bicker. They sightsee. They drive again. Bicker some more. Chuuya pushes, and Dazai pushes back. Chuuya prods, and Dazai gives him ridiculous answers. Dazai never asks, and Chuuya doesn’t reveal. They eat ramen, rice balls, cheap convenience store snacks. Dazai claims Chuuya’s driving is getting worse. Chuuya says it’s fucking phenomenal. The heat of the summer sweeps through the car, pushing their aimless journey around, and they drive all over Japan. Up and down and right and left and looping around through twists and turns.

Still—Chuuya misses piloting like he misses breathing.

He misses the control under his fingertips. The texture of his gloves. He misses the heady rush of power in the cockpit. He misses defying gravity, fighting wind, battling turbulence. He even misses his ears popping. He misses everything, anything, all of it—the memories swirling around in his mind.

He stares idly at his bare hands as he tunes out the sound of the radio. Something stupid is playing again, courtesy of Dazai ‘winning’ yet another round of arguments over which channel they should settle for. Chuuya lets his gaze slide from his fingers to Dazai’s face, the other looking out in front of him calmly as he drives.

"Daydreaming?" Dazai’s obnoxious voice interrupts.

Chuuya bites down an insult and just tilts his head, considering. "Trying to figure out what job you had," he says honestly, because he doesn't really have anything to lose.

Dazai doesn't seem surprised in the slightest. If anything, something akin to amusement sparks in his eyes. "What if I never had a job?"

Chuuya rolls his eyes. "A college student doesn't have the money or time to run away, and someone who’s unemployed wouldn't be able to buy this kind of car." He pauses, drumming his fingers on his thigh. "And you wake up naturally early like you're used to it. So," he levels Dazai with a stare. "You had a job." 

"Trying to be the detective, now?" Dazai parrots annoyingly back at him. But there's the faintest, slightest flicker of a smile across Dazai's lips, and a semblance of satisfaction blooms oddly in Chuuya's chest.

"Damn straight," he mutters in response.

“I told you,” Dazai quirks a brow. “Model, remember?”

“You also told me crown prince, wizard, and mafia boss, asshole.”

Dazai just grins, and keeps driving.

He exits the highway eventually, taking them to a roadside rest stop with water fountains and bathrooms and a small, blissfully air-conditioned store that’s selling a few snacks and water bottles. Chuuya jumps at the chance, already digging out his worn-out wallet. He raises a questioning brow at Dazai.

The other just shakes his head slightly, heading out the car towards the bathroom. “I’ll meet you outside.”

Chuuya makes a small noise of affirmation before he turns and walks towards the little store, feeling the heat of the afternoon sun beat down on his back. He chances a few curious looks around, eyes lingering on a handful of weary travelers and seasoned truck drivers dawdling in the parking lot.

Pulling open the door and stepping in, he heaves a sigh of relief at the cool air that hits his skin. He peruses through the aisles quickly, gaze settling a little longingly at the liquor section before he just grabs a refrigerated water bottle and strides towards the counter, setting it down firmly.

The cashier barely gives him a second glance, looking bored out of her mind as she takes the item and passes it quickly under the scanner.

“Will that be all?” She asks politely.

Chuuya nods, taking the receipt from her and stuffing it in his pocket. “Thanks.”

“Have a nice day,” she says, looking up at him to flash a small smile. Chuuya turns but her brows furrow and she tilts her head. “Ah, wait.”

Chuuya blinks in confusion, stopping in his steps.

“You look kind of familiar,” the girl starts, eyes thoughtful. “Have I—”

Panic shoots into Chuuya’s stomach. His pulse flies out his skin, clawing at his veins to break free, and he turns abruptly, blindly pushing the door open and all but running outside. His head spins.

It’s hard to breathe when he manages to get out into the sun without falling over. The heat prickles uncomfortably into his skin and pain stitches itself through past wounds. All Chuuya can hear is screaming, buzzing, silence. He loses his balance.

“Fuck,” he mutters.

He stumbles. Warm hands are gripping at his elbows, suddenly. “Chuuya.”  

“Fuck,” he says again, for a different reason. He stays in Dazai’s touch for a moment, eyes pinned to the other’s chest as he wrestles with his own breathing.

Dazai is silent, the only indication of his presence the warm press of his hands against Chuuya’s forearms and the heat radiating off his body. He doesn’t say anything—which Chuuya doesn’t know if he’s grateful for, or irritated at, given the fact that Dazai’s probably figured out Chuuya hates being seen like this. Like he’s weak, helpless, stupidly weighed down by the past.

“You’re annoying,” he mumbles.

There’s a huff of amusement. “I’m starting to think that’s just your term of endearment for me, Chuuya.”

Chuuya rolls his eyes, heartrate slowly ebbing into evenness and normalcy in his chest as he looks up. Dazai’s eyes betray nothing, dark and calm as they hold his stare quietly. Chuuya blinks a few times at their proximity, faces so close he can see dark lashes blinking back at him, brown hair catching on the sun, the slight tug of dark circles under the other’s eyes.

He’s so surprised by the obvious mark of fatigue on his face it takes him a moment to realize they’re still standing outside the store, one of Chuuya’s hands fisting at Dazai’s shirt.

He pushes Dazai away, neck just a little warm. “Asshole. Let’s go.”

The corners of Dazai’s lips twitch. “Where to?”

A plane passes by over them, leaving trails of white in the blue sky. Chuuya stares at it, unable to stop himself, and can’t be bothered by the weight of Dazai’s eyes on him, sharp and dissecting all at once.

“You always ask that for no reason,” Chuuya snorts, bringing his eyes back down.

Dazai grins. “Where to?” He repeats.

“Nowhere,” Chuuya sighs, walking towards the car. “Anywhere, somewhere. Whatever. Get in the car, idiot.”

But regardless of how good of a mask Dazai puts on—he’s only human, at the end of the day.

Chuuya catches him a few times. Stuck in a cluster of daydreams and memories as he leans back into the passenger seat. The rare times he doesn’t bother to complain about Chuuya’s driving, opting instead to stare quietly out the window. When silence settles over them and he only gives a half-hearted complaint to Chuuya’s radio station choices.

Dazai shifts a little, and Chuuya catches his eyes for a split second in the rear-view mirror, too quick for it to be covered up, too brief to truly read into the expression.

The only thing he thinks, is that Dazai’s eyes remind him of his own. Stuck. Trapped. Held back.

Chuuya leans over and turns up the volume a bit, letting the music fill up the space. His hand barely lands back on the wheel before Dazai snorts quietly. “Rock music, chibi, really?”

Chuuya glares purposefully out at the road. “Go back to your damn daydream.”

“I would, but it’s been disrupted with this awful noise you call music.”

“Not all of us want to listen to the news all the time, asshole.”

Dazai turns towards him, an impish grin on his face, and Chuuya catches the twinkle in his eyes despite not looking directly at him. He’s out of whatever weird state of daydream and thoughtfulness he was pulled into, and Chuuya doesn’t know whether to be grateful or exasperated. “Chuuya just can’t keep up politics, can he.”

Chuuya turns his eyes slightly, squinting at the obnoxious smile. “You’re so much better when you’re not talking, you know.”

“Hm.” Dazai tilts his head, lips quirking. “I sense a hidden compliment in there.”

Chuuya doesn’t bother to grace Dazai with a response, just rolling his eyes and letting the music sweep over them again. He drives without real focus, letting his eyes drift to incoming traffic, the occasional oddly colored car, a stray shoe rolling down the side of the highway.

Dazai starts talking again, bring up some weird fact about Nagoya—because that’s where they are now, apparently, Nagoya—Chuuya half listens and gives lazy responses. Wonders why the hell Dazai is a walking encyclopedia. Dazai says something about the Meiji Restoration, and Chuuya’s still squinting, scratching through his brain into his lackluster history knowledge, before Dazai cuts himself off with a murmured “Oh dear.”

Chuuya blinks. “What.”

“We may have a problem,” Dazai says, peering out the window.

Five minutes later, and it’s pouring.

“What the hell,” Chuuya spits out, fingers gripping tight on the steering wheel. Rain splashes all over the windows and the wipers go up, down, up, down. “It’s the middle of July.”

“Monsoon season does exist, you know,” Dazai replies pointedly.

“Fuck you,” he mutters, and Dazai’s already taken out his phone, tapping away. “Where’s the nearest motel?”

Dazai goes quiet as he scrolls through his phone, and Chuuya stares sightlessly at the rain, willing the knots in his chest to come undone. There’s nothing wrong with rain. He used to like the rain, even. He toys with that thought as he looks at the droplets and tries to push away the screaming, the pain, the bloodied edge of a memory carving itself into his skin. His fingers clench on the wheel. He used to like the rain.

“You done yet?” he snaps, restless.

“Take the next exit.”

Chuuya’s head whips around in disbelief. “That close?”

Dazai isn’t looking at him, his head ducked down to focus on his phone. “I’ll drive,” he says simply.

The breath catches in Chuuya’s throat. He pauses, turning back to stare out the window at the harsh, hazy twirls of wind and rain battering against the windshield. With a half-swallowed curse—at the weather, at Dazai for being annoyingly perceptive, at himself—he stays silent as he looks over his shoulder and merges, heading towards the nearest exit. He doesn’t even bother arguing.

Chuuya pulls into the half-full parking lot of a coffeeshop a few moments later, parking the car and sighing as the sound of the rain only grows and grows. It doesn’t look like it’s going to stop anytime soon.

“Shit,” he realizes. “I don’t have an umbrella.”

Dazai raises a brow. “It’ll only take a few seconds.”

Chuuya glares at him. “Do you have an umbrella?”

Dazai pauses, before shaking his head. Chuuya just sighs. “Fine, whatever.” He reaches for the handle of the door. “I’m running.”

He watches as Dazai lifts a hand to settle on his own door handle and they make eye contact, briefly, before Chuuya throws the door open and jumps out the car into the downpour.

He’s soaked through immediately. Swearing under his breath and raising a useless hand to steady his hat, he ducks his head and all but runs around the front of the car, heading towards the passenger seat in a blind fumble, eager for the familiar warmth and dryness.

He slams into a warm body instead. “What the hell—”

“Oops,” Dazai chirps above him, and then a handful of rainwater is being thrown in his face.

Chuuya jolts, gaping up at him as droplets slide down his cheeks. Dazai’s grinning, looking utterly uncaring of the rain beating down on the both of them, hair slick against his head. Shock and cold and wetness race up Chuuya’s body and he blinks, mouth open stupidly, trying to think as the rain assaults his face.

And then Dazai swipes his hat off his head, lips quirking.

“You piece of—"

Chuuya reaches, Dazai ducks, and then they’re off.

Chuuya runs after him, chasing the other around the car as he dangles the hat high above him, snickers echoing loud in the space between them. The rain doesn’t let up, cascading all over his shoulders and seeping into his hair. Chuuya cups his hands to let the water pool between his fingers before flinging it bodily at Dazai, lips twitching despite himself when it sprays all over his face and the other blinks in surprise.

Some of the people in the cafe are watching them through the window, he realizes a beat too late. The observation makes him pause and that’s all it takes for Dazai to clap loudly in front of his face, water pelting his nose and making him jump. Chuuya curses, throwing out a hand and barely missing the other as he takes off again.

His clothes are soaked. His hair’s a mess. His socks squelch unpleasantly in his shoes. Chuuya might be smiling the most he has in weeks.

Dazai’s fast, but Chuuya’s faster. He catches up to the taller in a manner of seconds, hand stretched out to grab at his hat before Dazai stops abruptly and Chuuya barely has time to react, barreling straight into the other’s back. He makes a vague noise of pain.

The hand that grabs his arm and keeps him from falling is shaky. Dazai’s laughing, he realizes. “Easy there, chibi.”

“I hate you,” Chuuya mutters, steadying himself on his feet. He grabs his hat easily out of Dazai’s free hand, the other not resisting, and tucks it under his armpit immediately, trying pointedly to ignore its soppy state.

“Again,” Dazai sings over his head. “I’m beginning to think that’s your secret way of confessing you love me.”

Chuuya looks up. The smile on Dazai’s face spans wide and easy across his face, stretching almost ear to ear. His cheeks are just slightly pink from exertion, rosy against the pale of his skin as his hair sticks unflatteringly close to his head, dripping wet as rain sloshes over him. And despite the downpour, Dazai’s eyes are bright, shining as he looks back down at Chuuya, seeming all too unbothered by his own state of disarray.

His fingers are still wrapped around Chuuya’s wrist, warm and wet and firm.

The realization makes Chuuya’s breath catch in his throat, inexplicably. He swallows it down after a moment, still holding Dazai’s gaze. “If I get sick I’m killing you in your sleep,” he manages.

Dazai tilts his head, grinning. “A tempting offer.”

He’s warm. He hasn’t stepped back yet. Chuuya doesn’t move to push him away. The rain feels like background noise as he stares up at the other.

“If you get sick, I’m dumping your ass at the motel and stealing the car.”

“What if we both get sick?” Dazai prompts, eyes bright in amusement.

Chuuya looks away from him, refusing to let the itch of a smile show. His heart feels light. “Then I’ll kill you and take the car, asshole.”

Dazai laughs against him, the sound warm and carefree and tickling his ear. He lets go of Chuuya’s arm, stepping away, and the rain feels all the more uncomfortable. Something like disappointment crawls into his stomach and he slaps it away immediately.  

Chuuya makes a face as they walk quietly back towards the car, stepping around puddles and feeling water drip down his skin, seeping into every nook and cranny of his body. He pulls the car door open, climbing into the passenger seat as Dazai settles behind the steering wheel. The seats are soaked immediately, and Chuuya just wrinkles his nose again.

“All set?” Dazai teases, after Chuuya buckles his seatbelt in.

Chuuya runs his fingers over the brim of his hat, sitting wet and limp in his lap. He thinks carefully for a long moment. “Not yet.”

Dazai blinks, tilting his head in confusion.

Chuuya pauses for effect, then shoots his hands out and wrings the water from his hat straight down into Dazai’s lap.

“I’m sorry, sir, but we have a lot more guests than usual due to the storm.” The woman’s eyes are wide. “There’s only single-bed rooms available, does that work for you two?”

Chuuya’s fingers stop drumming against the front counter. Dazai’s eyes slide towards his, raising a brow in question. He blinks, and then nods once.

“That works fine,” Dazai says to the receptionist, smiling lightly.

She beams back at him. “Great.” A quick exchange of a card, some shuffling, and then she’s pressing the key into Dazai’s palm. “Room 102.”

“Thank you,” Chuuya pipes up politely. She smiles at him warmly, dipping her head slightly in a bow at the both of them.

When she straightens again, her lips quirk ever so slightly and Chuuya feels her gaze trail over their appearances. “Hope you two rest well, the rain must have really gotten to you guys.”

“It certainly did,” Dazai replies, letting out an exaggerated sigh. Chuuya rolls his eyes and just thanks the receptionist again, already turning on his heel to find their room. 

He almost, almost flops down on the bed as soon as they enter. The water that’s still dripping from his hair stops him just in time, and he shoots a look at Dazai. “I’m showering first,” Chuuya grumbles.

Dazai raises a brow. “And what makes you think that?”

Chuuya glares at him. “I’m fucking showering first.”

The corners of Dazai’s lips twitch, but he just turns away to set down his bag, not arguing again, and Chuuya lets out a small huff of satisfaction. He heaves his duffel onto a nearby chair and unzips it, rummaging around for a change of clothes. Dazai’s voice drifts over again. “I hope chibi doesn’t kick in his sleep.”

Chuuya rolls his eyes. “I’d kick you even if I wasn’t sleeping.”

“Not that it’d do much, I’m sure.” Dazai blinks innocently. “With such short legs.”

Chuuya’s hands pause in his movement, familiar irritation weaving its way under his skin, before he raises a head and aims a pointed look at Dazai from across the room. “I have our dinner in this bag and I’ll gladly eat your share, asshole.”

Dazai’s eyes just shine in amusement. “What’s for dinner?”

“Ramen,” Chuuya mutters. He takes the pre-packaged paper bowl out of his bag and flings one of them at Dazai. He catches it easily and Chuuya clicks his tongue in disappointment. “What else?”

He goes back to pushing around his bag, making a mental note to drive them to a laundromat soon to get some of the questionably balled up pieces of clothing he has thoroughly washed and sorted out. He flips through the rest of his few belongings, fingers lingering over his old gloves. The sight distracts him for so long it’s only when he shakes himself out of a memory does he register how silent the room has grown.

He blinks up in confusion. Dazai’s staring down at the ramen like he’s never seen it before.

Chuuya squints. “Don’t tell me you read nutrition labels for fun.”

Dazai draws his gaze up, seemingly registering his presence again. There’s a slight pause, before he just shrugs. “I didn’t realize you bought the flavored version.”

Chuuya tilts his head. “Do you not like curry?”

“Curry’s fine,” Dazai says easily, setting the packet down on the bed. Chuuya watches as he starts peeling off his soaked bandages, hardly bothered by the familiar sight anymore.

There’s an odd look in his eyes. Chuuya presses his lips together, staring for a moment as Dazai moves around the room nonchalantly, hanging his jacket up to dry. Nothing looks wrong—but something feels off.

Distantly, he wonders when he’d started being able to see through the masks.  

Dazai catches his gaze. His eyes don’t make any sense. Chuuya stands there with his arms hanging uselessly by his side. “Are you sure?” He asks, because he can’t help it.

Dazai pauses. His voice is cold when he says, “Trying to be a detective again?”

Chuuya bites down on his tongue in a mixture of anger and frustration. He watches carefully from afar as Dazai places his phone on his bed, barely glancing at it—he never does—and bends over to start taking off his shoes. He doesn’t even make a joke about Chuuya staring. He’s definitely off. Something squeezes at Chuuya’s heart and he exhales quietly.  

“Nevermind,” he mutters finally.

Dazai looks up at him, tilting his head. “Nevermind what?”

Chuuya hesitates, before dropping his gaze back down to the ramen packet. There’s a strange weight in his chest he can’t quite place. Familiarity, empathy, longing, maybe. “You can shower first.”

The rain is heavy. On and off and unpredictable and risky and there’s thunder, too, because the weather deities evidently hold some sort of grudge against him. They could drive, but Dazai doesn’t trust him to not land them in an accident, and Chuuya doesn’t trust him to not annoy him into landing them in an accident.

So they stay. Chuuya steals an umbrella he finds in the lobby. Dazai insists he should hold it because he’s taller. Chuuya hits him on the face with it and does absolutely everything he can to make sure Dazai gets more soaked than he does. They make short trips to the convenience store. Chuuya buys a magazine before he starts clawing his eyes out of boredom. Dazai, predictably, makes fun of it. 

And then on the third night, Chuuya dreams.

It’s terrible because it never changes. It’s terrible because instead of jerking awake and sitting upright so fast his head spins, his eyes open quietly and he lays paralyzed by fear, by pain so visceral he’s pinned to the bed, staring up at the dark ceiling. It’s terrible because this time when he wakes up it’s not panic that plagues his blood, but resignation, submission—defeat.

It is also terrible because Dazai’s hand is resting firmly on his arm.

Chuuya closes his eyes. Breathes out slowly. When the memories of the crash fade a little and he trusts the tears to not fall out, he mumbles, “I hate you.”

There’s a quiet hum in response, and the hand doesn’t move. Chuuya doesn’t know if he wants it to move. “You respond better to touch than to words.”

That makes Chuuya crack an eye open. He hadn’t expected a response, for Dazai to talk about it at all, to breach the subject. His pulse is still stuttering unevenly in his chest, and he weighs his words carefully, uncertain of where the conversation is heading. He opts for sarcasm. “What am I, a research subject?”

The hand retracts. “Short, red hair, terrible temper, did I mention short—”

Chuuya swats a hand out blindly, hoping he lands on something. It’s too high, but his fist lands somewhere on the side of Dazai’s shoulder and that makes him blink a few times, before he rolls around and pushes himself up a little, resting on his stomach and settling his weight on his elbows. Dazai is sitting up against the headboard, he realizes, as his eyes adjust to the darkness. With his phone in his lap. “Did you even sleep,” Chuuya mutters.  

Dazai pauses. “I will,” he says finally.

Chuuya squints at him, before he just flops back down with a sigh, eyes fluttering closed again. He presses his face into the pillow, pushing away the fragments of his dream and trying to focus on the feeling of sheets beneath him, the sound of rain quietly falling outside, the force of his own breathing.

Dazai’s hand lands on his shoulder again and he tenses for a moment, before his body decides it’s too tired to protest and he doesn’t bother saying anything in response.

It’s blissfully quiet for a long moment, as Chuuya feels his pulse tamper down and settle under the surface of his skin again. Dazai’s fingers linger warm and steady on his sleeve, heat bleeding under the fabric and seeping into his veins. The hand drifts to his head, slowly.

“Stop fucking petting me,” he mumbles into the pillow.

Dazai’s fingers don’t relent. “Just like a dog,” he hears Dazai whisper, laughter evident in his voice.

Chuuya pushes himself up again, knocking Dazai’s hands away as he glares at him. “Do you sleep at all?” 

“Maybe I’m a vampire.”

Chuuya rolls his eyes so hard he almost loses his vision. “Right.” Curiosity getting the best of him, he props himself up further and tries to peek at Dazai’s phone. “What were you even doing?”

Dazai shifts away from him unsubtly, angling the phone ever so slightly towards himself. “Playing a game.”

Liar, Chuuya thinks. “What game,” he mumbles. His eyelids are starting to droop again.

“Nothing your tiny brain could understand,” Dazai replies easily. Chuuya makes a face, before a yawn stops the sharp response from tumbling out of his mouth. Dazai turns the phone toward him again and Chuuya leans towards it sleepily, watching as the other taps and swipes across the screen.

It goes silent again. Chuuya watches bright colors dance across his phone. It’s some sort of generic matching game that Dazai is bizarrely good at—little sparks and explosion lighting up all over as he makes combo after combo. He doesn’t say anything, just lets Chuuya watch in bleary silence as gravity toys with his eyelids.  

Somewhere along the way after Dazai clears the fourth level, Chuuya’s head slumps back down on the pillow and fatigue crashes over his body again.

He’s laying closer to Dazai than usual. So close he can feel him breathing, can feel his arm moving minutely as he continues with the stupid game. It feels comfortable, and safe, and okay—everything it’s never like in Chuuya’s dreams and everything it shouldn’t be from a stranger he met at a gas station two weeks ago.

The last thing he registers before sleep takes over his consciousness is the familiar warmth of a hand against his shoulder. His heart does a funny little tumble in his chest.

Oh, Chuuya thinks faintly as he drifts off. Shit.

“Your favorite food is canned crab? Are you serious?”

"I find it very satisfying."

Laughter spills out of Chuuya's chest. "You are so weird," he says, still snorting. Dazai shoots him an exaggeratedly offended look and somehow, something childish bubbles inexplicably in his stomach. Chuuya sticks out his tongue in response.

Dazai scoffs, turning his eyes back to the road before replying, "Says the one who prefers wine over food." 

"I never said that," Chuuya grumbles. "I just said I like wine." When Dazai opens his mouth again to retort, Chuuya just cuts him off. “Fine. Favorite color?”

A quirk of the brow. “Really chose the most interesting question.”

Chuuya shoots him a look. “These are the only questions I ask that you’ll answer honestly, asshole.”

“Chuuya, I don’t think this is how twenty-one questions works.”

Chuuya throws his hands up in the air. “If we play that damn word game again—”

“Shiritori is a perfectly good—”

“—going to literally throw you out the car.” Chuuya finishes, glaring out the window.

Dazai huffs. Chuuya lets his eyes drift over to the other as he drives, watching quietly as the sun washes down on Dazai’s face, shadows dragging across the slope of his face and light filtering into his eyes. His lashes flutter long and dark against his skin as he blinks calmly out at the road. A speeding car whizzes by and Dazai’s fingers tense for a brief moment before they unfurl easily against the staring wheel.

“I’m flattered, but Chuuya’s staring is quite distracting, you know.”

Chuuya tears his eyes away violently. “You fucking wish,” he mutters, neck warm as he pointedly keeps his gaze out the window.

Dazai just hums. Peaceful silence lingers between them for a moment, and Chuuya chances a look up at the sky. It’s getting dark fast, shadows creeping up behind the trees, and he feels the car shift as Dazai merges towards the right, heading towards the next exit.

“Why do you like your hat so much?”

Chuuya blinks. “What?”

He turns to look at Dazai. The other is still looking out onto the road but the edges of his lips are lifting up, ever-so-slightly. “Twenty-one questions, chibi, keep up.”

“Oh, now you wanna play,” he grumbles under his breath. When Dazai’s lips just twitch again, he sighs and lets his fingers drum lightly on his thigh. “Someone…important gave it to me, I guess. And they pushed me towards the right path when I was a little lost. So,” he sighs. “It means a lot to me.”

It’s terribly, hilariously, painfully vague, but Dazai doesn’t comment. There’s just a slight nod and a thoughtful purse of the lips, and the small gesture along with the thankful lack of further prodding makes something warm seep into Chuuya’s chest.

Chuuya clears his throat awkwardly. “What’s your deal with the matchbox? You don’t smoke.”

Dazai goes quiet for a moment. The buzz of traffic around them filters slowly into the car, filling up the silence, and for a second Chuuya’s chest tightens uncomfortably, unsure of if he’s crossed a line.

Finally, Dazai just gives a small, slight smile, still looking out at the road. “Something along the lines of your story.”

It’s just as vague, just as ambiguous. But an odd, tickling feeling sweeps into Chuuya’s stomach and every instinct in his body wraps around it protectively, as if to keep a tight hold of Dazai’s words so no one else can hear. The warmth in his body makes him grimace, before he finally mutters, “This is weird.”

Dazai’s lips quirk. “You did suggest the game, you know.”

“It feels like we’re bonding.”  

“And what’s wrong with that?” Dazai replies immediately, shooting him a far too stretched out grin.  

Chuuya shudders down to his soul. “We’re not fucking bonding, asshole.” Dazai eyes twinkle, ever so slightly, and warning bells immediately flare in Chuuya’s mind. He shoots a glare at Dazai, hoping the other can feel the force of his eyes. “No. Don’t even start.”

“Chuuya,” Dazai gasps dramatically. “You wound me! After all we’ve been through?”

“God,” Chuuya groans, dropping his head back in his seat. The makings of a headache worm itself into his brain. “Please shut up.”

“Is this any way to treat someone who saved you from your death?”

“You didn’t save me, piece of shit. I should’ve never gotten in your stupid car in—”

“After we’ve travelled the country, after we’ve braved a storm, after we’ve slept in the same bed—"

“Stop saying it like that!” Chuuya all but screeches. He barely stops himself from throwing a fist and settles instead for crossing his arms and glaring out the window, face burning. “You’re so fucking annoying. And we haven’t even gone through the whole country yet, dumbass.”

“Oh?” Chuuya hates that he can hear the smirk without even looking. “So Chuuya does want to travel the whole country together?”

Chuuya bites down on his tongue. He doesn’t exactly have anywhere else to go.

“Whatever,” he mutters finally, embarrassment prickling up his spine. “As long as I get to drive.”

Dazai hums in obvious amusement but doesn’t respond. A pleasant silence settles over them once again as Chuuya leans his head against the window and watches the cars whiz by, dots of color in his vision accompanied by the familiar rumble of the car beneath his shoulder.  

His eyes stay trained on the scenery as the vehicle shifts towards the exit, Dazai slowly decelerating on the ramp as they make their way off the highway and into the local streets of Okayama. Chuuya wonders distantly how many times he’s flown over this city, how many times he’d only been able to see it from up above, specks of grey and green drowned out by the blue of the sky.

When they finally pull into the sparse parking lot of their motel for the night, Chuuya hops out the passenger seat immediately, raising his arms high above his head to stretch out the fatigue of sitting for far too long.

He opens the door to the backseat, bending slightly to fetch his bag from where it’s lodged on the floor of the car. When he straightens up again, Dazai is looking at him with an odd expression over the top of the car, and Chuuya’s hand stops before he reaches to close the door again. “What.”

Dazai tilts his head. “Isn’t it my turn to ask a question?”

“Oh.” Chuuya blinks a little in confusion. Were they still playing? “Okay, shoot.”

“Do you dream about the crash?”

Chuuya’s blood turns to ice. “What?"

There’s a long pause as Dazai stares at him, eyes unreadable. The silence wrangles Chuuya’s lungs, wrenching them out of his chest and clawing at his heart and all he can think is no, no, no—

“Nakahara Chuuya,” Dazai says finally, like he’s reading from a news article. “Second-youngest pilot in Japan’s history.”

Chuuya sees red for a long moment, before pain and anger and betrayal alike slam into his chest all at once and he closes the door so hard Dazai jerks. “You knew? What the hell. Did you think it was fucking funny? Seeing me—”

“Chuuya—”

“Fuck,” Chuuya spits out, hands shaking. He looks away from Dazai. “I hate you. I fucking—”

Trusted you, he almost says.

“Fuck,” he repeats angrily, turning and storming past the car. He feels a warmth wrap around his arm and he’s forced to lift his gaze to meet dark brown eyes again. The panic, the hurt in his mind clouds his senses, and he doesn’t even bother trying to read Dazai’s expression. “I don’t even know who the fuck you are,” he snaps, shaking Dazai’s arm off and turning around abruptly. 

He walks as fast as his feet will take him, uncaring of the destination, of his unfamiliarity with the surroundings, uncaring of everything.

Dazai doesn’t try to grab him again, and Chuuya doesn’t bother with a backwards glance.

Dazai, Chuuya learns, is not a common surname.

He learns this when in a blind, bitter fit of frustration he pulls out his phone from where he’s seated outside on a bench near the convenience store and stupidly types the name into the search bar.

Dazai Osamu. Familiar dark brown eyes and messy hair greets him. Child prodigy, he reads immediately. He almost laughs out loud. The asshole has his own damn Wikipedia page.

(Chuuya has one, too. It’s better. Definitely better.)

But curiosity manages to temporarily take over the rage boiling under his skin, interest quelling the knowing tell of angry tears behind his eyes, and so he scrolls through the page under the night sky, squinting at the words in hopes that it’ll soothe the tightness in his chest.

A child prodigy who graduated university early. Excels in all fields. Who works in laboratory research for a YPM Pharma based in Yokohama that he’s distantly heard of a few times before.

Chuuya’s brows draw together as he pieces the information together. Stable job, solid career choice, nothing to indicate his obnoxious grin in a small Fukushima gas station, all twinkling mischief and bright cheer as he had offered Chuuya a ride. Nothing to indicate motel hopping for weeks on end with only a backpack and some shoes.

He chases the facts that are given to him like they’re a lifeline and he types out the pharmaceutical company’s name into the search bar, pressing down firmly as he waits for the results.

Explosion, his screen says immediately. Sabotage. Chuuya frowns as he clicks on the news article and skims through it quickly. It’s a short one, with an odd story he doesn’t recall ever seeing on the news before. A YPM lab being blown up, leading to some sort of important data being lost. The attack being uncovered and traced back to a rival company. Charges filed—charges for involuntary manslaughter.  

Chuuya stares in shock, and taps into another article. His brain is bursting with the onslaught of information, reeling from knowing next to nothing about Dazai to the rapid, unpleasant uncovering of whatever this tangle is.

They hadn’t meant to, he reads. No one was supposed to be in the lab, then. The explosion had resulted in the unexpected killing of a lab technician who had gone in to check up on some equipment. Chuuya files the name away for further research, and then turns his phone off with a sigh as he leans back against the bench and stares up at the night sky.

It still doesn’t make sense, why Dazai would just walk away. Even if the lab was destroyed, such a big pharmaceutical company surely could’ve just offered him the same job at a different location, couldn’t they?

The anger’s dulled, by now. But it still burns warm and steady in his stomach and Chuuya hears Dazai’s voice over and over again like a ghost that won’t go away, saying Nakahara Chuuya. Chuuya’s lips twist and he kicks harshly at a rock on the ground, watching it tumble away in fear. What an asshole.  

An asshole who gave him a ride when he was heat-worn and desperate, made him smile occasionally, helped him fall asleep. Stole his hat in the rain and ran around like a child until they were both soaked to the core. Squeaks like a baby when Chuuya accelerates too fast. Has warm hands, sometimes.  

He kicks at the ground again, frowning. What an asshole.

“Hey! Mr. Fancy Hat!” The voice cuts into his thoughts and Chuuya blinks up, bewildered.

“Mr. Fancy Hat,” a boy—man? is saying loudly. He waves his hand eagerly in Chuuya’s face, bright green eyes staring at him insistently. “Hey, do you know how to take the bus?”

Chuuya stares at him for a long moment. “No?” He says finally, his voice coming out hoarse. He clears his throat, shaking off his thoughts. “No, I don’t. I’m not from here, sorry.”

The boy frowns. “Oh, you were in a car. Can I get a ride?”

Confusion seeps into Chuuya’s skin. “How did you know—what? I don’t—it wasn’t my car. I can’t give you a ride.”

“Hm.” The boy leans in suddenly, and Chuuya draws back, startled. “Lover’s quarrel. You’re not very bright, are you, Mr. Fancy Hat?”

Chuuya’s eye twitches as irritation races up his spine. “The hell?” He tries to shove the other away from him but the boy dodges easily, flipping gracefully around and settling down on the bench next to him. Chuuya narrows his eyes, scowling. “Who are you calling not bright? And it’s not a fucking lover’s quarrel,” he finishes, muttering under his breath.

The boy just lets out a loud, annoyed sigh. “Do you have any candy?”

Chuuya stares at him blankly.

“Candy, mister, did you hear me?”

This night is going down as one of the strangest nights of his life, Chuuya thinks bleakly, as he unzips his bag quietly and rummages around. After a few seconds, he pulls out a small unopened packet of gummies and presents it to the other awkwardly.

The boy beams and snatches it away immediately. “I guess I’ll help you,” he says, shrugging.

“I don’t need—"

“Oh.” His face is too close again, eyes peering into Chuuya’s face. “It’s the worst kind. And I thought you were the idiot.”

Chuuya bristles. “The hell are you—”

“Really,” he repeats, wrinkling his nose as he stares at Chuuya. “The worst kind.”

Chuuya doesn’t have a single clue as to what he’s saying. A vague sense of déjà vu washes over him when he snaps, “You think you’re a detective or something?”

“Oh!” The boy perks up. “You’re right about that one! Maybe you aren’t so bad, after all.”

Chuuya drags his hands down his face in exasperation, mind foggy as it tries to wrap around whoever this candy-loving detective boy is, while a small part is still caught up in the tangled web of information he’s learned about Dazai. He lets out a small groan.

“Can you call?” The detective asks, swinging his legs idly. “To ask for a ride?”

“No,” Chuuya mutters, unsure of why he’s even bothering to engage. “I don’t have—"

His protest is cut off with the loud rumble of a bus making its way up the street they’re on. He watches the boy’s eyes go childishly wide as his lips part in surprise, and then in a flash he’s leaping up off the bench and dashing towards the vehicle.

“Wha—hey!” Chuuya stands up indignantly. “The candy!”

The vehicle slows to a standstill at what must be the bus stop a few feet away. The detective raises a foot and heaves himself up and onto the platform in one smooth motion, before turning around and yelling back. “Just call, mister! You don’t have anywhere else to go anyways!”

And then the doors close with a loud rush of noise and the bus is off.

As it passes by, he waves cheerfully at Chuuya with his mouth stuffed full of gummies, and Chuuya watches in stunned silence as the bus fades into a dark speck in the distance and he’s left alone with his thoughts again, tumbling down on top of him with a weight so heavy he practically falls back onto the bench.

He tries to fight the obvious fact looming over his head for a minute, gritting his teeth and kicking at the ground again.

But eventually, he slumps in defeat and gives in to the undeniable argument that Chuuya really doesn’t have anywhere else to go.

His mind wanders back to annoying winks and taunting laughter. To unreadable gazes and a confusing past. To bright eyes and a warm presence. To a hand resting atop his head as he had struggled with sharp, painful memories—firm and not mocking, not pitying. Never pitying.

Asshole, Chuuya thinks again, with no heat. He leans his head back and stares blankly up at the stars for a moment, thinking. He can probably find his way back to the motel; he hadn’t walked very far. Finding the room number, though—Chuuya bites his lip. Go around knocking on every door? Camp out overnight near the car? Ask the front desk like some sort of stalker?

Can you call? The boy had asked. As if it were that simple. I don’t have his number, Chuuya almost replied. I don’t have anyone’s numbers.

Deleted, blocked, for his own good, for their own good, he had decided, the day he heaved a duffle bag over his shoulder and stepped out his apartment. Idly, Chuuya taps on his contacts app and waits for it to load so he can stare at the oddly comforting blank display.

Chuuya almost throws his phone across the street.

Taking a deep breath in, he brings his phone closer to his face to stare at the single contact entered.

Dazai Osamu ＼(￣▽￣)／

Chuuya looks at the name for a long moment, everything from anger and frustration to resignation and exasperation bubbling beneath his skin. He doesn’t even know how Dazai got into his phone, when he put his contact information in, why he put the stupid emoji next to his name.

Why he put his first name in, too—like he wasn’t trying to hide from Chuuya anymore. Like Chuuya could’ve searched him up at any time.  

Chuuya calls the number and brings the phone up to his ear, breath coming out in little puffs as the temperature drops. His hands are cold, trembling slightly, but the warmth in his stomach flutters and races all over his body as it stretches across his skin.

"You're a piece of shit," he says as soon as the line connects.

There’s a slight pause, before a loud, warm laugh just sounds in response. "One-two-nine, chibi."

Chuuya hangs up and stares at his phone for a moment, feeling the traces of Dazai's laughter prickle against his ear. It trickles down his spine and creeps under his skin and it tightens his grip, ever so slightly, before he grunts and pushes himself up onto his feet, stretching slightly and rolling out his ankles.

He tucks his phone into his pocket. Bending down to quickly retie his shoe, he straightens up again and turns around to head back towards the motel with a small, resigned sigh.

The door to room 129 swings open before he even knocks on it.

Dazai's hair is damp, a loose shirt hanging off his chest as he stares down at Chuuya with a light, far too obnoxious smile playing over his lips.

"You're still a piece of shit," Chuuya gets in, before he can say anything. 

The smile widens momentarily on Dazai's face, before it seems to slip away a little and Dazai tilts his head, eyes darkening. "You did your research," he replies instead. 

Chuuya hesitates. Child prodigy, he sees. Explosion.

"Asshole," he wisely opts to say, shoving past Dazai to walk into the room. He barely holds back a sigh. There’s only one bed. Of course.

"Yes, yes," comes the wry response behind him. "I've missed you too."

"Is that wine?" Chuuya asks in disbelief, ignoring him in favor of staring at the bottle sitting atop the table. He whirls around to stare at Dazai, heart jumping in his chest.

Dazai shrugs, hands casually stuck in his pockets. "There was a cheap liquor store nearby."

"This is a shitty apology," Chuuya says, a smile already tugging helplessly at his lips.

"I happen to like wine myself, too, you know. Chuuya shouldn't assume everything is about him."

"So fucking shitty," Chuuya repeats, grinning. He shoves at Dazai, pushing him aside. "Get out of my face. I'm gonna go shower."

He sets his bag down on the bed, already digging through the depths to pull out his sleep clothes. The silence that settles over the room makes him pause momentarily, before he pointedly continues to rummage through his belongings and stays with his back facing the other. Dazai’s eyes burn hot against his back and the weight of his stare starts to cut uncomfortably into Chuuya’s skin. He all but hears when Dazai opens his mouth.  

"Chuuya," he starts.

"Nope," Chuuya replies immediately, skin crawling. He keeps his eyes down. "I'm too tired for this conversation."

He hears Dazai pause. Chuuya doesn’t lift his gaze from his bag, forcing his eyes away from the other. The quiet thins out slowly, turning away from the uncomfortable, stifling brand it was before. It eventually eases back towards the familiar, peaceful silence he’s used to, and Chuuya lets out a tiny exhale as he zips his bag closed and begins to step towards the shower.   

“Should I save Chuuya’s contact name as chibi? Or hatrack?”

Chuuya hurls a sock at him and pointedly ignores the laughter as he closes the bathroom door loudly behind him.

“Sakaguchi Ango.”

Dazai raises a brow. "Is this how we're going to play it?"

No reaction. Chuuya pauses, racking his brain for some other name—the dead lab technician—before he tries, “Oda Sakunosuke.”

Silence, then Chuuya spots the slightest shift of Dazai's fingers on the wheel and he thinks, got you—

"Ozaki Kouyou," Dazai says. 

Chuuya flinches so hard he chokes. "How the hell—" he stops, heart racing, head spinning, eyes wide at the other. "Whatever," he mutters after a moment. "Fuck you."

Kouyou’s gentle smile burns behind his eyes with a pain that scorches off the skin of his eyelids and claws into his chest. The ghost of her arms wrapped around him at eight years old, welcoming him into a new home. The chill he had felt as he had said goodbye just a few weeks ago.

"Fuck you," Chuuya mumbles again, settling back into his seat. The heat of almost-tears threatens his eyes and he feels stupid, childish, like he's fifteen again, the phantom touch of Kouoyou's fingers against his hair.

The mention of Kouyou was dirty, painful, drudging up reminders of the life he left behind. Pulling and poking at old wounds. He thinks to the subtle shift of Dazai's fingers and wonders, suddenly, if the mention of Oda had made Dazai feel the same way. 

"Sorry," Chuuya mutters finally, looking out the window. His face feels hot. "You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."    

Silence pools into the space between them again. Chuuya tries to drown his thoughts in it, submerging them and pushing them down until the breath leaves his chest, but they rise up again like obstinate bubbles, bursting at the surface and coming back to prick at his mind.

“What do you know?” Dazai asks quietly.

Chuuya blinks in surprise, turning his head abruptly to stare at the other. He stays stupidly wide-eyed for a moment, before the silence starts to grow slightly tenuous and Chuuya just swallows, realizing with sharp clarity that Dazai’s not closing himself off for once.

So he sits up a little straighter, clears his throat, and starts talking.

Dazai stays admirably, unsurprisingly calm throughout the whole ordeal, nothing but his usual blinks and glances and blank expressions as Chuuya rattles off the details he had gained about his job, the company, the explosion, the death, the charges. Chuuya tries carefully to split his attention between pulling at the seams of his memory and observing the minute changes in the grip of Dazai’s fingers on the steering wheel, but the amount of energy it takes makes his head spin in distress and he gives up halfway through, opting instead to let his mouth run freely.  

Dazai goes silent for a long moment after he finishes. Chuuya lets him, heart clenching uncertainly in his chest with the knowledge that he’s clearly toeing at some sort of boundary that might just crumble to dust soon.

Finally, the tension visibly dissipates from Dazai’s shoulders, and Chuuya watches in bleak surprise as his expression seems to give away to a kind of deep-rooted exhaustion, weariness, that looks truer than anything he’s ever seen, and that pierces into his soul almost as much as the words coming out of Dazai’s mouth. “My… boss sent Odasaku to the lab that night with the knowledge that it was going to be attacked.”

It takes a moment for Chuuya to reconcile Odasaku with the Oda Sakunosuke he read about, but when the pieces slide together his eyes go wide. “What the fuck?”

Dazai smiles joylessly, before he continues, “He had prior knowledge of the attack and stored the data elsewhere so it wouldn’t be jeopardized, though the public would believe it to have been destroyed. He knew setting our rival up for something as severe as legal manslaughter charges would cripple them beyond repair, more so than sabotage. And now that he’s eliminated YPM’s main competitor,” a small shrug. “The company is effectively on its way to a monopoly.”   

Chuuya mind struggles for a long while to wrap itself around all the jagged edges of Dazai’s words. The cruel, sick points that have already stabbed themselves into his chest simply from hearing about it. He can’t even imagine the state of Dazai’s own heart. Odasaku, he hears, and Chuuya says quietly, almost afraid to break the silence, “You loved him.”

Dazai visibly pauses at that, blinking a few times. His lips press together in an uncharacteristic display of surprise, and if it had been any other moment Chuuya would’ve reveled in managing to catch him off guard, but instead he just sits and watches curiously. His stomach is in knots.  

“I suppose I did,” Dazai murmurs. Uncertainty dances along the edges of his words, as if he’s admitting the statement for the first time. His tongue sits between his teeth like he can’t quite get the rest of his statement out. And then his eyes slide abruptly towards Chuuya for the first time since they started this God-awful conversation and Chuuya all but jumps at the attention. Dazai’s eyes flicker away after a short moment. “Not in the way you’re thinking, hatrack.”

Chuuya blinks, the smallest pinch of embarrassment settling over his skin. He clears his throat awkwardly, looking back out the window. “So you left because—”

“I had no reason to stay,” Dazai says calmly.

Chuuya lets the vague statement sink in, before he gnaws on his lips hesitantly. “Who’s Sakaguchi?”

There’s a wide, noticeable stretch of silence. Chuuya waits with bated breath; and when it breaks, Dazai’s voice is unexpectedly, sharply cold. “I’m not quite sure of that either, chibi.”

There are layers and folds to that statement that Chuuya can’t quite navigate at the moment, but somehow the ambiguity of the words clicks in his mind. Betrayal, hesitation, hidden truths. A quiet, burning sort of anguish. Lost connections.

Chuuya swallows, looking down at his hands. “Well,” he sighs finally. “You already know my deal. The crash, it—it killed fifty-eight people. My memory is,” he heaves out a breath. “It’s spotty, so I don’t remember some of it. I was on the news for a while, and then rumors started spreading, and I…”

His heart clenches abruptly. Chuuya’s eyes catch on a passing car and he takes a slow breath in as he fumbles with his words. “Anyways, my license got revoked. I—everything I did my whole life was to be a pilot. I just—everyone I fucking knew was through flight school, or training, or the airline, and,” Chuuya looks up, the knots in his stomach tightening painfully, “Fuck, everything just reminds me flying. I had to leave. It just—there’s—"

“There’s nothing left for you anymore,” Dazai cuts in quietly.

There’s no cruelty, no laughter in his voice. It’s spoken like a simple, undeniable fact.

The truth of the statement slices clean through the skin above his heart. “Yeah,” Chuuya murmurs, turning back to look at Dazai. The weight of his words rings achingly true for the both of them. He can trace it in the darkness of Dazai’s eyes, the set of his mouth, the tired, worn silence between them.

Everything has been laid out in the open now—the ugly, wretched, unrelenting ghosts of the past. And for the first time since he hopped into Dazai’s car in a worn-down gas station all those weeks ago, the small space inside the vehicle feels unbearably, unnaturally suffocating. 

"This is fucking depressing," Chuuya mutters finally. He leans over to switch the channel from the monotonous news station Dazai had insisted on back to the obnoxiously happy lilt of American pop, ironically singing don’t you give up, nah nah nah, don’t you give up—

With a flick of the wrist, he cranks the volume up immediately and sits back, letting it wash over them.

For once, Dazai doesn't object.

“Aomori?”

Dazai’s eyes are bright. “Have you ever been?”

“No?” Chuuya blinks at him in confusion. “I mean, I’ve flown there before, but that doesn’t really count. Why?”

“Great,” Dazai chirps. And then he switches lanes abruptly, pulling towards the left side of the highway, speeding up instantly like he never does. The sky is slowly fading to black outside, with the telltale slivers of darkness creeping up and snatching the sunlight away—the typical indicator for them to find a motel for the night.

Chuuya narrows his eyes. “Dazai,” he starts. “Where are we going.”

The other hums, catching his gaze in the rear-view mirror with a cryptic smile. “You’ll see.”

Chuuya stares at him for another long moment, trying to latch onto a hint aside from the sparkle in his eyes but Dazai’s face stays stubbornly turned towards the road. After a beat of silence, Chuuya just huffs and sits back in his seat, watching the last few minutes of the sunset tick by along to the beat of a soft, familiar folk song playing on the radio.

Eventually, Chuuya watches in curiosity as Dazai exits the highway and pulls them into a crowded parking lot bustling with people. Kids with parents, groups of teenagers, couples, a few elderly women. Expressions of excitement and childish joy lighting up the faces of the crowd. Dazai doesn’t say a word as he steps out the car, and Chuuya follows suit, questions stewing beneath his skin.

He turns to Dazai, raising a brow. “Are you gonna tell me where we are, now?”

“Lake Towada,” Dazai answers simply, lips curving upwards. Chuuya squints at the lack of further explanation, huffing as he sweeps his eyes across the space to try and make sense of what he’s seeing. There does seem to be a large body of water nearby, the bright, artificial lights bouncing off its surface and filling up the night air. A few kids are running past them, yelling loudly about ice cream and shaved ice.

“You’ve been here before,” Chuuya tries, brows pulled together.

Dazai shakes his head easily. “I’ve only heard of it.”  

Chuuya pauses, looking around briefly again. The lake is a beautiful sight even from a distance, water rippling and folding delicately. Everywhere throughout the park, footsteps and laughter and the warm hum of the atmosphere creeps in under his clothes and tugs at his heart, ever so slightly. He looks back to Dazai, the question of why lingering at the cusp of his tongue.

Amusement is evident in Dazai’s eyes. “What?”

“Nothing,” Chuuya mutters, heart tumbling in his chest a little. He shakes his thoughts off quickly. Might as well just go with it. His eyes drift to a stand a few feet away and he’s already walking ahead, calling back to the other with a grin. “I’m getting ice cream, asshole.”

He thinks he sees the flicker of a smile on Dazai’s face before he turns back around.

Dazai falls in step behind him, following as Chuuya makes his way over to the little ice cream stand in the corner. The pleasant buzz of conversation from all around them wraps around Chuuya’s chest, unexpectedly comfortable, and a slight smile finds its way onto his face.

He buys a standard vanilla soft-serve, taking the cone with a murmured thanks and a dip of the head, before stepping aside. Dazai buys chocolate, because he’s disgusting, and Chuuya makes sure to let him know with a wrinkled nose and a click of the tongue. Dazai just narrows his eyes in return, and takes a pointed lick. Chuuya shudders.

They make their way slowly over towards the emptier side of the park, like they have all the time in the world. Maybe they do. People are littered sporadically around the area, some standing, some sitting, all turned towards where the lake is sitting a good distance away, light scattering off the water and filling the space with an unearthly, mesmerizing blue glow. Dazai manages to snag an empty bench, sitting down gingerly, and Chuuya follows suit without thinking, plopping down with a small huff.

A peaceful quiet pours gently over them, dripping slowly down the edges of Chuuya’s skin. They sit like that for a moment. Taking small licks of their ice cream, staring out at the lake, watching the occasional child run by in shrieking laughter. Despite the hour, the heat of summer still permeates heavy into the air, and Chuuya finds himself feeling just slightly warm. His hands, his neck, his heart. The water glimmers, almost in anticipation.

“Should be starting soon,” Dazai murmurs.

Chuuya blinks in confusion, turning to look at him. “What should be star—”

A loud, booming noise cuts him off.

Chuuya whips his head back towards the lake just in time to see fireworks flying high above his head. The splotches of color rupture the sky, greens and reds and blues dancing against the darkness of the night, and his head spins, ever so slightly, as he stares wide-eyed at the light exploding before him. Another round shoots up into the air, and there are murmured noises of awe and appreciation around them, quiet wows and did you see that and mom, look!

A strange, swirling puddle of warmth splashes in Chuuya’s stomach as he takes everything in. The sights, the sounds, the crackling energy in the atmosphere. It feels—right. More comfortable, more peaceful than he’s felt in a long while.

Transferring his ice cream cone to his left hand, Chuuya digs out his phone from his pocket and raises it quietly to snap a picture. And then a few more. His camera roll must be preening, to have new photos join the collection that isn’t just medical records, insurance papers, documents he couldn’t exactly leave behind.

“Should’ve known,” comes Dazai’s lilting voice. “That you’d be the sentimental type.”

“Shut up,” Chuuya mutters with no bite. He considers smacking him but pauses, and takes another picture instead.

When the fireworks fade out eventually, the sky sneaks back into darkness, receding into hiding to let the shimmering of the lake take center-stage again. People disperse with low whispers and appreciative mumbles and Dazai stands up to go toss his napkin away in a nearby trashcan, ice cream finished.

Chuuya takes an absentminded lick of his own share, shifting his arms to pull his phone down and flip through the pictures. He only gets through three of them when a sudden weight settles next to him and then Dazai is leaning over into his space to stare down at his phone with him.

Chuuya stiffens for a moment, before he forces himself to relax and continues swiping quietly through the photos. Dazai’s hair smells just like his—of course it does, they’ve been using the same shampoo for weeks. It’s the sort of bland, typical type of scent one would expect from a cheap motel, nothing too flowery, nothing too strong.

Doesn’t change the fact that it’s a pleasant smell.

Chuuya swallows and tries to refocus on the pictures. Dazai lets out a huff of laughter at some of the blurrier ones, the sound creeping into Chuuya’s chest, and Chuuya bites back the insult formed in his mind.

Murmured comments and half-hearted responses peter out eventually, and the silence that settles over them is liquid gold, running slow and unbothered and languid, encasing them in their own precious corner of existence. The pictures blend together. Time ticks by. Chuuya’s pulse crawls.

When he blinks up, Dazai’s eyes are on his mouth.

Chuuya’s throat goes dry. Dazai’s gaze catches his eyes for a split second before darting away lightning fast, all so quick he almost doesn't believe it, and Chuuya is left with his fingers gripping deathly tight on his phone as his heart leaps out his chest.

Oh, he thinks stupidly. And then a smile starts to creep its way up onto his face. Oh.

Dazai’s looking out at the scenery now. Chuuya turns away from him for a moment, twisting to tuck his phone casually back into his pocket. His hold on the ice cream cone tightens as his pulse stutters beneath his skin, and he tries to form a coherent thought in his head amidst the weight of the air around them.

"Chuuya," Dazai murmurs quietly.

He turns his head to look at Dazai, words on the tip of his tongue, and all of a sudden Dazai’s face is right there in front of him, eyes dark and breath fanning across his cheeks, and Chuuya barely gets a moment to blink, wide-eyed, before Dazai is leaning in and kissing him.

His eyes slide shut reflexively, but it's over before he can react properly—chaste and sweet and disappointingly short. When Dazai moves to pull away, he can taste the lingering traces of chocolate on his mouth, curling around his lips, heat still dancing on his skin, and then suddenly, impulsively, Chuuya is grabbing at his shirt and pulling him back in again

Dazai makes a slight noise of surprise, before his fingers wrap around Chuuya’s wrist and he's pressing back against him, surer and warmer and true.

This kiss is significantly better this time, Dazai’s mouth hot against his, and Chuuya sighs as Dazai licks into him, tasting the remnants of ice cream and summer heat on his tongue. He grabs onto Dazai’s arm, fingers itching to hold on to something, and presses deeper into the other's mouth.

Dazai makes a noise that kicks heat into his stomach and makes it flutter—stupid, fast, breathless all at once. Chuuya’s heart is racing, mind spinning as it tries to think, tries to process, evaluate what the hell they're doing—before a loud cough ring out from nearby.

They break apart immediately. Chuuya ducks his eyes from the disapproving mother and her child, his face warm. He stares resolutely at the ground, listening to them walk by and trying to gather his thoughts as they flounder around in his head.

Dazai tugs him gently to get his attention again when the pair’s steps fade off into the distance, and Chuuya looks up at him reluctantly. His eyes are bright, lips wet and pink, his cheeks flushed. Infinitely kissable. Chuuya’s heart swoops dangerously in his chest.

"Fuck,” Chuuya mumbles, still staring at him. "This is such a bad idea."

Dazai raises a brow, a smile dancing over his lips. "And getting into a stranger's car isn't?"

"Such a bad idea," Chuuya mutters.

And then he leans in again.

Five days ago, Chuuya was storming off and away from the car in a fit of rage. Now they’re making out like teenagers on a park bench in the dead heat of summer. The lake shines bright in the distance with knowing amusement. Giddiness, childish excitement, thrill, shooting through Chuuya’s veins as Dazai’s tongue slips into his mouth.

It’s a bad idea—it's definitely a bad idea: they met three weeks ago, there's a mountain of emotional baggage looming over their heads, they don't have a plan, a destination, any objectives whatsoever. They don't have anything. And now they're rushing wordlessly into whatever this is, clumsy and stupid and reckless and—

"Ice cream," Dazai murmurs against his lips.

Chuuya’s eyes fly open. "Shit shit shit." He pushes Dazai away, staring in despair at his rapidly melting ice cream, currently running down all over his hands. He shoots him a pointed glare. "This is your fault, asshole.” 

"Mm." Dazai grins at him, eyes twinkling. "How should I make it up to you?"

"Shut up," Chuuya mutters, resolutely looking away from kiss-swollen lips. His neck feels hot. "Go get napkins or something."

"Boo.” The pout in Dazai’s voice makes his lips twitch despite himself. "There’s a bathroom over there," Dazai says, standing up from the bench as he jerks his chin over and across the park. He pauses for a moment, looking down at Chuuya, before he holds out his palm. His eyes are twinkling. "Let’s go?"

“I’m not a dog,” Chuuya grumbles, squinting. But he bites back a smile as he discreetly switches his ice cream and takes the offered hand.

Dazai’s smile widens for only a fraction of a second before he yelps and pulls away. "Chuuya!" He whines. "Wrong hand!"

Chuuya snickers. "It’s what you deserve, idiot." Dazai tries to back away but Chuuya just grabs his hand firmly, purposefully pressing the stickiness of the melted ice cream against his palm.

Dazai makes a face, but doesn't try to let go.

The moment the door to their motel room swings shut behind them, Chuuya all but shoves Dazai down on the bed and swings a leg over to settle in his lap.

Dazai’s eyes are dark and glittery, but a smirk dances on his lips as his hands come to settle warm on Chuuya’s hips. "Chibi’s excited."

Chuuya rolls his eyes, sitting back a little to stare at him. "Don’t think I haven't noticed you checking me out every damn time I get out of the shower."

"Who, me?" Dazai grins.

He dodges a harmless shove from Chuuya’s hand, eyes sparkling. Chuuya just sighs a little and brings his arms up to loop around Dazai’s neck, resting flush against his shoulders as he stares down at him for a quiet moment.  

“I feel like I’m gonna regret this," he mutters, eyes tracing the curve of Dazai’s cheek.

Dazai’s lips twitch. "That seems to be a common trend around me."

“For good reason," Chuuya mumbles, staring at his mouth.  

And then Dazai’s hands slide up to his waist, and the dam breaks.

Someone leans in first because their mouths collide and then they're kissing, messily, deeply, stupidly, and Chuuya licks forcefully into his mouth and Dazai pushes back hard against him and they're both shuddering, heaving, hands roaming all over. Dazai’s fingers press into his skin and Chuuya stops thinking—about the consequences, implications, details of whatever it is they're doing—he stops thinking altogether. 

“So fucking lanky,” Chuuya grumbles, when somehow it takes forever for Dazai’s shirt to come off his body. He tugs it off finally with a grunt, throwing it carelessly on the ground and coming face to face with bright, amused eyes.

“Don’t be jealous because you're short,” Dazai taunts back, though there's a dust of pink on his face that belies his cool.

Chuuya levels him with a glare, trying to ignore the fact that he’s sitting on top of Dazai half-naked and achingly hard, heat flush across his chest. “Knew you’d be an asshole even in bed,” he mutters, rolling his eyes.

Dazai just grins, and tugs him in even closer. “Think about me in bed often, Chuuya?”

Chuuya shuts him up by shoving a hand down his pants.

They end up pressed together, Dazai panting into his ear, mouthing along his jaw, Chuuya gasping against Dazai’s collarbones, hot and slick and dizzy and good all at once, before their bodies are tensing in pleasure.

It takes a moment to come down from the high, the sounds of their breaths loud in contrast to the quiet hum of the motel room. It’s warm everywhere, their skin, hands, the air, his heart.

And then they're kissing again. Slowly, lazily, and Chuuya just sighs, limbs buzzing in satisfaction and too blissed out to do anything but bask in the afterglow. He rolls away from Dazai a little and settles into the sheets, mind sluggish.

The calm that spills over their naked chests and trickles down the dips and curves of their bodies is peaceful. Chuuya stares up at the ceiling as his heartrate drifts back into normalcy and takes a small sense of comfort in hearing Dazai’s quiet breaths coming out from beside him. It’s luxuriously unhurried, to the point of soothing, and Dazai predictably ruins it by opening his mouth.

“You miss it,” he starts, fingers trailing lightly over Chuuya’s shoulder.

Chuuya presses his face into the bed with a loud groan. “This is shit pillow talk.”

Dazai huffs out a small laugh and retracts his hand. Chuuya lifts his head up again, staring at the other as he stretches absentmindedly. His gaze lingers on his bandaged chest and then at the faded scars on his arm, and then up at the blossoming bruise on his neck. Dazai catches him and quirks a brow in response.

Chuuya turns away and curls further into the bed. "No shit I miss it," he mutters finally, not looking at Dazai.

Dazai hums in response, a hand coming back to play with his hair. Chuuya's heart hurts. His mind wanders to blue skies and weightless joy. To a pilot’s uniform and a cap. To defying gravity and fighting the wind. Poetic and brash all at once, far outside the realms of a laboratory.

He looks at Dazai again. "You don't." He says. He clears his throat. "Miss it, I mean. You don't miss it."

Dazai stays silent for a long while, eyes going dark.

Time trickles to a standstill as Chuuya's eyes linger on his face, watching as something seems to rage behind an unreadable expression. Finally, Dazai sighs quietly and murmurs, "It was never something I particularly enjoyed."

"Why'd you do it then?"

A beat of silence, before, "Why does anyone do anything?"

Chuuya stares at him for a moment in disbelief. "Does sex make you more existential or something?"

Dazai grins instantly. "We can test that theory, if you'd like."

Chuuya makes a face and stretches out a hand to slap him half-heartedly. It lands a little too close to Dazai’s hip and he moans obscenely, exaggeratedly loud, and Chuuya grabs his pillow and immediately slams it over the bastard’s mouth. He feels Dazai laughing into the pillow as he presses down, cheeks flaming.

“I hate you,” he mutters, when he finally takes the pillow off and is treated to the sight of Dazai hacking out a cough.

“Rude,” Dazai croaks, voice hoarse. “Such violent tendencies.”

Chuuya rests his chin in his hands and stares at him for a moment. “Did you know?”

“Know what?”

“Who I was? When you offered me a ride?”

Dazai pauses, eyes flickering over to him. “Yes.”

“Fucker.” Chuuya flops back on the bed, glaring at the ceiling.

The corners of Dazai’s lips twitch. “I had seen you on the news before. Such an ugly face was very memorable, you know.”

“Whatever,” Chuuya mumbles. “You suck.” 

Dazai props himself up on an elbow to look down at him. Chuuya pointedly ignores his eyes, opting to focus on the divots in the ceiling as Dazai stares in silence and seems to be running some sort of calculation over in his mind. The weight of his attention burns against Chuuya’s bare skin, vicious and comforting all at once, confusing like everything about them is.

“You don’t regret it,” Dazai says quietly, after a long moment.

Chuuya blinks up at the ceiling, turning the purposefully vague statement over in his mind. Runs his thoughts over the bumps and bruises of the words, hidden implications and secret meanings. Of learning to fly a plane, running away, taking an offer for a ride, leaning in for a kiss.

Chuuya’s slides his eyes toward him. “Shut up,” he sighs finally, pushing himself up to sit on the bed. “I hate talking about this shit.” He pinches Dazai’s arm. “Let’s clean up, shithead.”

Dazai’s shaking.

Chuuya blinks the sleep rapidly out of his eyes and stares in alarm.

He's shaking, just barely—but still shaking. The corners of his mouth are dragged down in a frown that looks like it’s succumbed to gravity for years.

Chuuya hovers over him for a moment, heart squeezing in uncertainty as he considers.

“Oi,” he mumbles. “Dazai.”

The shaking worsens. Chuuya bites back a curse and lifts a hesitant hand, pausing for only a second before he lets it rest firmly on Dazai’s shoulder. He shakes him gently—as gently as he knows—and raises the other hand to brush sweaty bangs out of the other’s face. “Dazai,” he tries again, louder.

It takes a few more tries before Dazai jolts awake, eyes snapping open as his body seems to freeze in the bed. The foreign sight of fear in his eyes is so jarring it strikes deep into Chuuya’s ribs but he only manages to blink once before it’s gone, slipping out of grasp and away from his sight.

Dazai blinks up at him. “Oh,” he mumbles, exhaustion seeping into his voice. “It’s just Chuuya.”

Chuuya bites back a response. He continues carefully with running his thumb along the creases of Dazai’s forehead, movements uncertain as he tries to gauge the expression on the other’s face. Dazai just stares back at him, unmoving. His eyes see past Chuuya, trapped in a lifetime away, a haunting of the past, and Chuuya lets him stew in silence as he keeps quiet and just presses into the warmth of his skin.

The seconds of the night roll by slowly. Dazai’s breath evens out with an ease Chuuya recognizes as practiced. He pushes down on the questions rising in his throat, pushes down firmly against Dazai’s shoulder.

Dazai pulls him in, silently. Chuuya only jolts for a split second before he’s sinking into the touch, letting himself be brought in closer. He presses his face against Dazai’s chest and listens to the rapid beating of his heart, the only indication of the beast that had chased him through his nightmare.

“You’re sweaty,” he mumbles into Dazai’s shirt.

Dazai lets out a tired laugh against him, the sound rumbling all around and trapping Chuuya in honest, bare emotion. Fingers come up to thread through Chuuya’s hair. “Sleep, Chuuya.”

He says it like an order, but Chuuya can hear the underlying plea in the words, can hear the still shaky rhythm of his pulse. Fear, of being vulnerable, of showing weakness, of appearing human, perhaps.

Ridiculous. “Twenty-one questions,” Chuuya says purposefully against Dazai’s neck, not making room for argument. “Where were you born?”

“Chibi is so noisy,” Dazai mutters into his hair. Chuuya pinches his arm and waits for a long moment, inhaling in lingering traces of soap along Dazai’s collarbones. “Kanagi,” he murmurs eventually. “What about Chuuya.”

“Yamaguchi,” Chuuya says. A pause. “I think.” Dazai stifles another soft laugh into his neck, the warmth of the noise flowing into his blood. “How tall are you?”

“One-eight-one.” He still sounds smug, even with sleep tugging at his words. “And how short is—”

“Fuck you. Favorite animal.”

Dazai yawns quietly. “This is rather one-sided.”

Chuuya pinches him again. Dazai grumbles. “Cats? Maybe?”

“Gross. Favorite movie?”

“Mm.” Dazai hums sleepily. “Don’t particularly like movies.”

Chuuya makes a face that he hopes Dazai can feel. “Who the fu—whatever. Alcohol?”

“Sake.”

A nudge. “Season?”

“…Fall.”

“Color?”

“…Blue?”

“Music?”

Dazai mumbles something unintelligible into his ear. Chuuya pauses, listening closely to Dazai’s heart as it winds down and falls into a gentle lull. His chest rises and falls with familiar regularity, breaths coming out quiet in the silence of the space between them.  

“Favorite food,” he tries.

Dazai doesn’t answer. Chuuya cranes his neck upwards to stare at closed eyes, lashes dark against skin lit up by the sliver of light creeping into their room. The wrinkle between his brow has smoothed out. His mouth has fallen back into a simple, relaxed line, the edges buoyed into the makings of an almost-smile.

Chuuya bites back a grin, and scoots a little closer to him, shutting his eyes and waiting for sleep to whisk him away.

Warmth and reassurance linger over the room. And for once, sleep retracts her claws and gifts them with a quiet, restful night.   

“This picture of you looks stupid," Chuuya says, barely holding back a snicker.

"Chuuya always looks stupid," comes Dazai's petulant reply.

Chuuya pulls a face but ignores him in favor of scrolling through the rest of the information on his phone. "Your Wikipedia page is boring. It just lists all your—hah!" He grins. "I'm older than you." 

"Only by a month," Dazai mutters, looking calmly over his shoulder as he switches lanes.

Chuuya can barely contain the glee in his voice. "Oh, so you've already stalked my page."

Dazai pauses noticeably, lips pressed together, before he says loftily, "I had to make sure I wasn't offering a ride to a serial killer, after all."

"Stalker," Chuuya repeats. Dazai frowns, not looking at him, and he just grins even harder.  

Chuuya stops wheedling him eventually, shutting off his phone and stuffing it back into his pocket as he stares outside. Dazai’s rolled down the windows just a tad, allowing the air to rush pleasantly into the car as they speed down the highway, a saving grace to the insufferable humidity affecting the weather outside. He sticks a finger out the gap, before he imagines Dazai trying to close the window on him and immediately takes it back.

By the time Dazai parks in front of the small, roadside convenience store, the air conditioning in the car has been jacked up immensely, blasts of cold smacking them across the face. Sweat still clings to their hair, and Chuuya holds back a laugh when he sees the way Dazai’s bangs are all but plastered to his forehead.

“C’mon,” he groans, smacking Dazai’s arm. “Let’s go.”

“’m staying in the car,” Dazai mumbles. “Too hot.”

Chuuya narrows his eyes. “Lazy ass. You’re coming with me.”

“No,” Dazai shoots back, already slumping back in his seat. “I went last time.”

Chuuya sighs, mind briefly running through the things they need to pick up from the store and debating quickly whether or not he can carry all of it by himself. Dazai lets out a fake snore next to him and he rolls his eyes. Mind made up, he grimaces in preparation before throwing the car door open and sliding out into the heat.

It’s suffocating. His body shrivels up. It’s already nearing sunset, and yet the heat stabs into his skin as he shakes off some of the sweat with a sigh and walks briskly towards the store. The distance between the car and the sliding doors of air-conditioned bliss feels light years apart, and when he finally steps inside, Chuuya lets out a loud sigh of relief at the wave of cold air that slams into him.

The young boy manning the counter shoots him a sunny smile, chirping out a greeting, and Chuuya just nods briefly before he gets to work grabbing snacks and pre-packaged meals and the coldest water bottles he can find. He stocks the basket up, piling item after item, until he’s satisfied and moves to begin walking over to the register.

A newspaper stand in the corner catches his eye.

Chuuya stares at it for a moment, before curiosity gets the better of him and he snags a copy, rifling through it quickly as he searches. It’s an old issue, he realizes, when he manages to find an article about the crash. He looks at it for a long moment, eyes roaming over text that is all but carved into the exterior of his heart.

The pain and anger have dwindled, though. What runs through his veins instead is a deep resignation, fatigue, exhaustion at the entire situation. It still burns, and yet at the same time—it’s almost a souvenir of sorts, tethering him to reality and holding him down. Eventually, he finds himself dropping the copy into the shopping basket after some deliberation and resuming his route to the counter, chest tight.

“Find everything okay?” The boy asks, a small smile on his lips.

Chuuya blinks. “Yeah.”

The cashier bobs his head in response, looking satisfied. “The heat is awful, isn’t it?”

The attempt at small talk catches him off guard, for an odd moment. Like a startling reminder that he’s barely held actual conversations with people other than motel receptionists and Dazai. But as he stares at the genuine shine in the boy’s eyes, bright white hair and questionably crooked bangs paired with a visibly sort of awkward, yet endearing candor, the knots in his chest ease a little. It’s refreshing, he realizes, to talk to a stranger who doesn’t know a thing about his background.

“Fucking awful,” Chuuya agrees, nodding. The boy giggles, beginning to pull the items out of the basket. “You manning the store yourself?”

The cashier lets out a loud sigh. “Yeah, no one wanted to take the shift today because they all wanted to go to the beach.” His lips slip into something like a pout.

Chuuya finds himself grinning. “Would your manager freak if you closed early?”

The boy blanches, not looking at him as he briefly counts the number of rice balls and types something into the register. “I think Kunikida-san would go into cardiac arrest.”

“That sou—”

"Chuuya!"

Chuuya raises his head in confusion, coming face to face with a familiar grin. "I thought you were waiting in the car?"

He sees the boy glance curiously at Dazai as he continues scanning the heap of items on the counter. Dazai's grin suddenly stretches wider. He pauses, sticking his hands casually in his pockets and leaning back a little.

And then he drags his eyes slowly, purposefully, up and down Chuuya's body, obvious with intention, before his gaze lands back up on Chuuya's face and he winks, saying, "Don't forget the condoms."

Dazai all but runs out the store, and Chuuya's swinging fist lands on air. 

The poor cashier's face looks like it's on fire. Chuuya curses under his breath, before he tries to contain the twitching anger in his entire body by offering the boy a forced smile.

A painfully strained silence falls over them. And because the universe hates him, there are suddenly too many damn things on the counter. The cashier pointedly avoids his gaze, dutifully scanning the onslaught of snacks and water bottles without so much a second glance at him. When he gets to the condoms, his blush deepens painfully and he fumbles with the foil as it passes under the scanner, almost dropping it on the ground.

Chuuya looks up at the ceiling, ears warm, and wishes for death.

"H-Here you go," the cashier says finally. Chuuya looks down at last and takes the plastic bag held out to him, trying to offer another tight smile.

"Thanks," he mutters, turning to head the hell out of the store.

"Have a good evening!" the boy calls awkwardly, clearly a practiced line. But then realization dawns and suddenly he's fumbling again, cheeks red, stammering, "I—I mean, well, that's—"

Chuuya holds up a hand to stop him. "It's fine," he forces out, teeth gritted. "Thanks."

He spins on his heel and walks briskly back out into the fading light of the day, heat still beating into his skin as he makes a beeline for the familiar gray car and an annoying lanky bastard leaning against its side, scrolling through his phone. 

Chuuya hurls a condom at Dazai's face. "I hate you."

Dazai catches it effortlessly and snickers, tossing it into the car through the open window. His eyes are bright, dancing with mischief, and when he opens his mouth to speak Chuuya just shoves at him again in irritation, cutting him off.

Dazai dodges, wheezing with laughter. "Think we ruined that boy's innocence?"

"You," Chuuya corrects under his breath. "Not we." He jabs a finger into Dazai's chest. "You’re a fucking menace.”

Dazai pouts. “You’re no fun, Chuuya. He was the perfect target.”

Chuuya mourns the peaceful, pleasant conversation he had been having with the cashier. “Menace,” he repeats, with more force. He shoves him aside. “Move. I’m driving.”

"Lovely," Dazai sighs under his breath, though he's already walking around to the passenger seat.

When they slide into their respective seats, Chuuya tosses the bag into Dazai’s lap, ignoring the sound of protest he makes, steadying the key in his hand and sticking it into the ignition.

“Newspaper?” Dazai asks curiously, stopping him from starting the engine.

Chuuya stills. “Oh.” He pauses, dragging his tongue between his teeth as he considers. “It mentioned the crash.” He stops for a long moment, struggling to justify the purchase even to himself. “I don’t know. Just felt like it.”

Dazai flips through the pages quietly, before his gaze lands silently back on Chuuya. His eyes are thoughtful, lacking the occasional calculating glint Chuuya sees, but they drill into his skin anyways.

Chuuya sighs, turning his gaze away. “It’s whatever. Put on your fucking seatbelt, already.”

A hand tugs him to the side and the motion is the only warning he gets before he turns and Dazai catches his lips, pressing warm and soft against him. Chuuya freezes for a second before he kisses back reflexively, eyes fluttering shut at the contact. Their mouths move slowly, unhurried, and he breathes in quietly, heat skittering gently across his skin.

Chuuya blinks at him when they pull apart. “What was that for?”

Dazai just shrugs, looking away to shuffle the items in the bag back into order. “No reason,” he says casually. But Chuuya catches the practiced air of nonchalance, the faintest sprinkle of pink over his ears, and grins.

“Is this your weird way of trying to make me feel better?”

Dazai’s eyes flicker back to his, lips quirking. “Did it work?”

Chuuya leans in again, hand dropping from where it’s gripping onto the key. “Dunno,” he says, biting back a smile. “Might have to try again.”

Dazai grins.

Chuuya combs his fingers through Dazai’s hair as he pulls him into another kiss, stomach fluttering and mind buzzing pleasantly. The sun starts to sink down in the sky and the traces of daylight slip away from the space inside the car as the lingering thoughts in Chuuya’s mind scatter out through their open windows, floating away wherever the wave of heat carries them.

And for the smallest, briefest moment, with his lips pressed against Dazai’s, his heart breaks free of a shackle or two and takes off flying into the sky—up, up, and away.

But as with even the strongest, sturdiest, most advanced airplanes—decisions are not immune to spectacular crashes.

"Who the hell are you?" Chuuya demands, eyes falling on the pale, sickly-looking boy standing in front of their motel room. His body is wrapped in a long, black coat, unexpected in the heat of the summer, and though he looks only a little younger than him, his eyes are impossibly dark, something unidentifiable swirling behind his gaze.

The boy barely flinches. He looks at Chuuya, face severe and unamused, before he tilts his head slightly and says, "I’d like to speak with Dazai-san."

Dread sinks into Chuuya's stomach immediately.

Heart racing, he leans against the doorframe casually. “Who the fuck is Dazai?"

The boy doesn't react. Instead of replying straight away, his gaze drops purposefully down to Chuuya's neck, lingering for a long, drawn-out moment.

Fuck, Chuuya thinks immediately. There's definitely a goddamn hickey on his neck.

"I'd like to speak to Dazai-san," he repeats, eyes flickering back to Chuuya and staring him down.

Chuuya crosses his arms, scowling. "Listen, brat. I don't know who the fuck you are or who the hell this Dazai—"

"Akutagawa-kun," a smooth voice behind him cuts in, falsely cheerful. "What a pleasant surprise."

Chuuya stiffens. Dazai's icy tone clearly indicates it is decidedly the furthest thing from pleasant, and he raises his head cautiously as he studies Dazai, the other ignoring him in favor of staring down at Akutagawa with his lips twisted into a fake smile and something vicious burning in his eyes. His hair is still wet from the shower.

"Dazai-san," Akutagawa says, eyes wide. "I’d like to speak to you in priv—"

"Anything you'd like to say to me can be said here or not all, Akutagawa-kun." Dazai's voice is cold, scathing, unreadable, dark, all at once, nothing like he's ever heard before. Chuuya bites down on the inside of his cheek.

Akutagawa's gaze drifts down to him again, hesitant, before he looks back at Dazai and continues, "The boss requests that you return immediately."

"Mori has no jurisdiction over my actions," Dazai replies calmly. "I believe I made that point clear." 

Akutagawa pauses, and Chuuya spots something akin to uncertainty, fear, even, before he opens his mouth again and says, "We need you to—"

"How is Gin-chan?" Dazai interrupts suddenly.

Akutagawa's entire body tenses.

Chuuya stills, feeling the tension spike immeasurably in the air. He doesn't know who the hell Gin is, or what their relationship to Akutagawa is, but even he can recognize a threat when he sees it, especially with the sharp edge of Dazai's voice and the overly casual, overly calm words. His hands itch.

Akutagawa swallows with visible difficulty. "Daz—"

"She's preparing for university exams now, isn't she?"

Chuuya watches as Akutagawa goes silent. The boy is clearly fighting some sort of battle with himself, unreadable emotion stewing behind his calm exterior as he stares back at Dazai. For a moment the electricity snapping between the two feels so private it’s almost explosive, and Chuuya considers stepping away. But Dazai catches his eye because he’s still a freakish mind reader and only offers a slight warning in his gaze before his attention is back on the boy in a flash. Chuuya resists a sigh.

“Dazai-san,” Akutagawa tries again, voice hoarse.

Abruptly, Dazai lifts a hand and settles it on the boy’s shoulder. And if Chuuya thought Akutagawa had been tense before, the way his body reacts to Dazai’s touch is somewhere frighteningly near complete paralysis. “Akutagawa-kun,” Dazai chirps. His mouth curves into a sunny smile. “It was good seeing you again. I believe you have a message to deliver.”  

The silence that follows is stifling. Chuuya eyes the tension wracking the younger’s frame, his spine stiff and eyes so dark even the traces of light in the motel corridor can’t reach them. His eyes drift over to Dazai’s profile, features deceptively relaxed as he toys with the towel around his neck.

Minutes pass. A slight shift draws Chuuya’s attention back to the boy, and Akutagawa eventually nods once, the movement looking like it pains his entire body, before he turns away and all but disappears from sight.

The door swings shut. Dazai’s hand drops from the handle and he stays standing in place for a long moment, eyes unreadable as he looks ahead of him. His back stands rigid, tightness evident in his muscles, his mouth, his gaze. No one speaks for a wide stretch of time, the quiet dwindling until it’s hanging by a flimsy thread.

Chuuya breaks the silence, sighing. “You’re kinda fucked up.”

Dazai’s eyes slide over to his face. “Only kind of?” He echoes, something like a wry smile tugging at his lips.

He sounds exhausted. Empty. Hollow, like a shell of the person he usually is. The image makes Chuuya’s stomach churn in discomfort, before Dazai’s gaze roves over his face warily, eyes strange. As if searching, prodding, for something. They stare at each other for a prolonged beat.

“Relax,” Chuuya snorts finally. “As if I’d ever be scared of your bandaged beanpole ass. You literally almost fell in the shower yesterday.”

That tugs a small smile from Dazai. He turns away from the door and makes his way quietly over to the bed, sitting down and pulling out his phone. His lips press together as he seems to fiddle with it, and Chuuya just steps towards him, watching wordlessly as his mind begins to race.   

“Mori’s the guy who killed your friend,” he says carefully. Dazai raises his head and pauses for only a brief moment before he nods in confirmation, tilting his head but staying silent otherwise. His eyes are still hard, pinned on Chuuya but pinned in a timeline a lifetime away, stuck in what Chuuya recognizes easily as a tangled web of past pains.

As Dazai pulls his gaze away to duck his head back down to his phone, clearly tinkering with something, the inklings of a burning, reckless idea creep into Chuuya’s mind. Like fire, licking hot and heavy against his skin. He swallows, eyes set on the crown of Dazai’s head.

“The—” Chuuya swallows. “That data that was so important. Mori has it, right? And you don’t care about it.”

Dazai’s hands pause in their movement. He blinks back up at Chuuya, brows furrowing. “Not particularly.”

“Do you know where it is?” Chuuya prompts.

Dazai nods once, still looking at him in suspicion as he says, “I have an idea, yes.” Chuuya can see the cogs turning and kicking in his brain, already working as they carefully piece together what Chuuya is implying, and he can barely hold back a smug expression. Having an edge over Dazai, being a step ahead for once, is downright exhilarating.

Dazai stares at him, phone now out of the picture as it lays uselessly on his lap. Chuuya holds his eyes calmly in defiance, fighting to keep his expression placid. A second passes, and then another, and the silence is deafening. He can pinpoint the exact moment that realization clicks in Dazai’s head, pieces falling into place as the browns of his eyes melts smoothly into something dark, something murky. His heart jumps erratically in his chest as he waits.

“Chuuya,” Dazai starts slowly, eyes narrowing. Warning and disbelief roll off his tongue uselessly as Chuuya pushes forward finally, unable to hold back any longer.

“Why don’t we send him a lil’ thank you gift?” He asks, grinning.

Dazai stares again, quiet. Chuuya watches him in curiosity, anticipation, excitement, as the other stays seated with his mouth closed, gaze heavy on Chuuya’s face. His pulse is skyrocketing under his skin as he tries to analyze the expression on Dazai’s face. Not surprise—because he already figured it out. Not quite rejection, either.

Chuuya goads him a smirk. “Don’t tell me you’re scared.”

There’s a long, pregnant pause, before Dazai opens his mouth at last, and Chuuya waits in anticipation to claim the sweet taste of victory.

“Chuuya,” he says finally, solemn. “I may have fallen in love with you.”

“What the fuck?!” Chuuya splutters. His cheeks flush furiously. “You’re so—you can’t—” He gives up trying to form a coherent thought when he sees Dazai grinning widely up at him, eyes twinkling in familiar amusement, and he just cuts himself off with an exasperated sigh, face hot. “Whatever. Are you up for it or not, shithead?”

The unreadable force behind Dazai’s eyes finally glints with something bright and alive. His mouth pulls sharply into a dangerous grin, before he tilts his head, considering. “There are quite a few security parameters we need to deal with.”  

“What,” Chuuya shoots back, matching his grin with wicked precision. “Aren’t you supposed to be some kind of genius?”  

They reach Yokohama two days later, blood melting into adrenaline, nerves, and dark, ungodly anticipation that is misplaced in all the best, worst, wrong ways.

The sky is dark when they park across from an old, worn-out building. Dazai’s eyes are darker. So deep and drenched in black Chuuya can’t distinguish anger from violence from hatred. Even within the safe confines of the car, the temperature of the night drags down on his skin, desperate to freeze over every inch it can snatch. He shivers. Tries to ignore the chill by peering out the window and piecing together the identity of the building they’re about to walk into and why Dazai stares at it like he wants to wrap his fingers around the neck of its walls and choke out all the light he can find.

“The fuck is this?” He asks finally.

A mirthless grin graces him in response, just barely visible. “An old underground clinic, if you will. Let’s call it Mori’s safehouse.”  

“Right,” Chuuya sighs. He eyes the building from afar, trying and failing to spot any security cameras, gut prickling in unease because he knows there must be cameras. “Did you take care of all the security shit?”

A movement from his periphery alerts him of Dazai nodding. Chuuya pauses, thinking. He mistakenly catches Dazai’s eyes again.  

“Don’t worry, chibi,” Dazai says, all false cheer and bright tones. And then abruptly, he reaches into his bag and pulls out a blocky, metallic device, along with a smaller, slimmer tube that’s rimmed with red.

A taser. And pepper spray.

Chuuya stares at him for a second, pulse skyrocketing up through his chest and into his lungs. “How the hell—” He stops, sighing as he drags his hands over his face. “You’re fucking crazy.”

Dazai has the gall to wink at him. “I hear that’s very sexy, nowadays.”

“Disgusting,” Chuuya mutters, more in resignation than in true revulsion. “Let’s go.”

They slip quietly out of the car, Chuuya closing the door so softly it barely makes a noise. Dazai comes to stand beside him and they silently survey their surroundings, parsing out the dull details against the black of the night. Emptiness, all around them. Where their car is placed isn’t even truly a parking lot, more so a dirty slab of cement on old ground. No other person in sight. Rightfully so. 

Dazai takes the first step forward and Chuuya follows behind, eyes still flickering, combing their environment. His heartrate steps up minutely. When they reach the entrance, Dazai turns towards him but Chuuya is already tugging on his gloves and lifting a covered finger. He taps in the passcode Dazai murmurs in his ear, the brush of his breath making his skin tingle.  

The door slides open with a loud noise. Chuuya enters first this time, flicking on the light switch and staring curiously at the small space. A small, standard examination table sitting against the wall. A desk with a lamp and an old computer. Human anatomy posters plastered across his vision. A shelf of half-empty vials and bottles. The atmosphere reeks with death, life, a cold sterility that crawls beneath his skin.  

Chuuya stands guard dutifully at the entrance, watching in mild interest as Dazai waltzes over to the computer and blows a thin layer of dust off of it. The particles catch his attention as Dazai types into the ancient keyboard, each push ringing out loudly in the stilted silence of the room.

He lets his mind wander, tuning out the sound of Dazai fiddling with the device. A tittering, fumbling wave of thrill surges through his veins at the reminder that they’re actually doing this, actually breaking in and stealing data all for the purposes of tearing down a single company, a single man. His mind buzzes in heady, vicious delight.

A slight shift pulls his eyes back down. Dazai grins at him, something dangerous flashing in his eyes as he holds up a flash drive in triumph. Chuuya’s lips tug upwards in response, heart thrumming in his chest, but he just nods down to the keyboard in reminder.

Dazai powers the computer down before he wipes down the buttons with a nearby bottle of antiseptic, clean and thorough and quick. The used-up tissue along with the flash drive get stuffed into his pocket, stowed away safely, and Chuuya keeps his eyes on the taller as he walks easily back towards the entrance, coming to stand next to him.

“Done,” Dazai just says, shrugging casually. But despite the calm demeanor, the telltale sounds of a suppressed grin creep audibly into his words, and it isn’t difficult to discern the fact that he’s immensely satisfied.

Chuuya squints at him. “You sure you don’t want to, like, smash anything?”

Dazai raises a brow at him, lips twitching. “Not everyone shares your aggressive tendencies, chibi.”

“Oh, shut up,” Chuuya grumbles. Dazai chuckles and they step out of the clinic together, giving it a cursory glance and flicking off the lights as darkness encases them again.

Dark, deep thrill hums in his blood. Excitement chases his nerves and Chuuya barely resists the urge to rock back and forth on the balls of his feet, heart still racing with a job well done. From beside him, Dazai’s eyes glint under the night sky, and for a moment the silence between them lights up with electricity, crackling and dancing and spluttering with explosive energy.

Chuuya clears his throat. “Do we—"

“Hey!” A voice calls out.

Dread claws into his gut. Dazai freezes next to him, and Chuuya can all but hear his mind racing as he runs through the options. To run, to turn, to confront. Fuck, he has a taser—

“Hey,” the voice says again, closer. “You guys forgot something.”

Dazai turns around first. Chuuya follows carefully, stepping slowly until he comes face to face with a young woman who’s smiling at them. The lack of light renders it difficult to make out her features, but Chuuya manages to parse out a short, black bob of hair along with a shimmering golden pin. A small hospital badge is pinned to her shirt, and the nurse—doctor? raises both her hands lazily in a show of peace. “Relax. I’m on your side.”

“Who are you?” Dazai asks coldly. Chuuya’s pulse stutters erratically in his chest despite the woman’s calm.

“Take these,” she just says, brandishing a small stack of papers.  

“…Why,” Chuuya mutters, cautious. He eyes the woman carefully in attempts to take in more details, confusion and worry and unease swirling in the pit of his stomach.

She rolls her eyes at him. “Calm down. I’m not here to rat you guys out.”

The two of them stare at her for a long moment, the silence stretching out thick and suspicious between them. The cold air prickles at Chuuya’s skin, tugging at his hair, at his gut, and he can’t tell whether it’s in warning or in interest.

“They’re medical records,” she sighs, breaking the silence. “Kinda. If they get mysteriously lost somehow, it could be devastating for a certain doctor.” Her lips quirk. “Lots of messy lawsuit stuff. If you could get rid of them, that’d be great.”

Chuuya eyes her, curious. "That sounds illegal."

The woman grins at him wickedly. "It is illegal. Keep up, short stuff."

Dazai laughs loudly in his ear. Chuuya's face flushes despite himself but the retort dies in his mouth when he realizes he does, in fact, need to look up at the woman to talk to her.

He grunts instead, taking the papers out of her hand. "Who are you?" He tries again, wary.

"No one," she replies immediately, smirking. She tucks a careful strand of hair behind her ear, and the movement draws Chuuya's eyes to the elegant butterfly pin tucked securely between her locks. "Just another person who hates Mori Ougai's fucking guts."

Chuuya blinks in stunned silence. Beside him, he can feel Dazai grinning.

"Sensei," Dazai starts, swooning. "I must say, I may have fallen in lo—"

The woman beats Chuuya to clocking him across the head. Chuuya stares in surprise, hand still raised, and the woman just rolls her eyes, cursing under her breath before she turns back to look at Chuuya. "Your boyfriend's a handful."

"I know" Chuuya mutters under his breath, before he can think better of it.

Dazai's eyebrows shoot up immediately. Regret ignites abruptly in Chuuya's stomach, and the beginnings of a headache pulse through his brain. He looks pointedly away from Dazai and bows stiffly to the woman. "Thanks for your help. We’ll get rid of the papers."

The woman waves him off airily with a small quirk of the lips. "Good luck. I better never see you two again in my life."

Chuuya grins at her. “You can fucking count on that.” A small nod of goodbye, and then the woman is turning around and vanishing back into darkness. Chuuya drags Dazai back towards the direction where the car is parked.

He tries to flip through the records, squinting at the words with the little light his eyes can scrounge up from the lampposts, before he just gives up with a sigh. His heart still races, blood buzzing, skin tingling in adrenaline and intoxicating exhilaration. He stows the stack away, swallowing down his pulse. Dazai is uncharacteristically silent beside him, staying quiet as they reach the vehicle and pull the doors open.

"Boyfriend," Dazai whispers, as soon as they get in the car.

Chuuya shoves the papers in his face, ears warm. "Just start the damn car."

The beach is cloaked in low murmurs, whispered hums, and a cold, sweeping breeze that combs through the sand and pushes the tide towards them.  

It’s quiet. Save for a group of loitering teens smoking a good distance away, and several wandering stragglers, they walk unperturbed down the slope towards their destination, shoes abandoned in the trunk in favor of pressing worn feet against cold sand, the sensation pooling soft around his skin, his nerves, his scars. The waves recede from the shore as they approach, warning and wariness at their presence.

Chuuya squints out into pure black. “Are you sure they have bonfire pits here?”

“You have so little faith in me, Chuuya,” Dazai sings.   

Chuuya spots the pit the moment Dazai finishes speaking, and forces down the familiar rush of annoyance with gritted teeth, ignoring Dazai’s amused eyes on his face. “Whatever. Let’s go, asshole.”  

Their walking resumes, Dazai’s shoulder brushing against his, and a hazy, sluggish quiet drips over them. Anticipation prickles in every fiber of Chuuya’s being when they reach the circle of stone, charred chunks of wood standing in the center. An array of used skewers litters the edges, evidence of an earlier marshmallow roasting endeavor. 

Dazai barely needs to glance at him before Chuuya is tossing the stack of medical records into the center. He pulls out the newspapers, too—the issue picked up impulsively from the convenience store, along with a few others bought in a Miyagi gas station. Some simply for fodder, some that followed up on the crash. Some that printed out his name in dark, vile ink. The papers are poison on his skin, red hot, liquid pain. He throws them in.

He sticks his hands back into his pockets and watches as Dazai takes out his matchbox from where it’s typically hidden in his shirt. Keeps his eyes on the other even as Dazai stares for a long moment at the item, unreadable expression crashing against his face like the waves of the ocean. The moment feels private, hidden, but Dazai doesn’t turn away and Chuuya lets himself intrude.

Dazai’s lips part, and he strikes the match.

The fire dances up into the sky, brilliant against the dark. Chuuya watches quietly for a moment, oddly enraptured as heat begins to snake up his skin, before the movement of Dazai’s arm snatches his attention away.  

Dazai looks at the flash drive in his palm, and then back up at him, the light of the flames amplifying the quiet amusement in his eye.

“No,” Chuuya grumbles, aiming for threatening but falling somewhere just shy of grouchy. “We’re not throwing it in the water.”

Dazai sighs. “Burning a flash drive is bizarre, Chuuya.”

So is everything else we’re doing, Chuuya doesn’t say.  

“Throwing it in the ocean is pollution,” he snaps. “Anyways, isn’t—stop fucking laughing at me. Isn’t it made of flammable shit anyways? You’re the damn scientist here.”

Dazai hums. “Not anymore,” he says, grinning.

He tosses the flash drive in.

The flames roar to life in front of them. Loud, vibrant. Explosive. Chuuya catches sight of the blackened edges of gray paper, dark smudges against wood, hope within loss. 

The heat smothers his body with unexpected force, tickling his skin and sneaking in between his ribs to catch on his heart. The blistering warmth of it all chokes him, grounds him, knocks him off his feet all at once, and he’s rendered helpless as he stares. The low hum of the water sweeping back to kiss the shore, of distant conversation, of wind singing in his ear, fades into absolute silence against the beauty of the fire.

Chuuya’s eyes slide over to Dazai. A warm, golden glow paints over his face as he stares out at the fire, mouth relaxed and eyes clear. Free.

“Hey,” Chuuya mumbles quietly, voice barely a whisper.

When Dazai turns in response, Chuuya pulls him down into a kiss. Dazai’s mouth is soft and pliant against his, and he raises a hand to settle against soft hair as warm arms wrap solidly around his waist. He breathes in lingering lavender soap, smoky traces of a burning flame, quiet laughter, familiarity.

The fire crackles loudly, flaring in heat, and they pull apart.

"Still think this is a bad idea?" Dazai murmurs, lips quirking as he lifts a hand to brush over Chuuya’s cheek. 

Chuuya draws back to look at him for a long moment. He stares at warm, brown-gold eyes and sees fireworks, melted ice cream running down his hand. Sees fire and the scorched, ruined edges of paper. Sees the comfort of a car, the shine of a crooked smile, and sees himself, through it all.  

“The worst,” he says, biting back a grin before leaning up to kiss him again.

The fire burns on—plundering through newspapers, through data, through haunting nightmares, and through the fractured remnants of a lost life.

Memories crumble to ash.

+

“I swear,” Chuuya grumbles, squinting out the window. “We’ve driven past this exact park, like, six fucking times.”

“Chuuya sounds bored,” comes the lilting response.

Chuuya sighs, turning back around to stare at Dazai, the other’s face framed attractively by splashes of light as the sun creeps towards its peak in the sky. He lets himself stare openly, unbothered, eyes lingering on the slope of his cheek. Chuuya heaves another breath before he leans over to change the station, shooting Dazai a murderous look in warning as he flips through the music channels. “I’m bored as hell.”

He settles on a song and hums, satisfied, letting his hands drop back into his lap. Relaxation sweeps over his senses pleasantly.

"We could get married," Dazai says, shrugging.

Chuuya's heart slams to a stop. "What the fu—"

"Kidding!" Dazai cuts in, grinning obnoxiously. He takes his eyes off the road for a moment to shoot him a cheerful wink.

"I hate you," Chuuya mutters, trying desperately to bring his pulse back down. He scowls out the window. "What the hell. Who says that kind of shit."

"Our marriage would only be legal in America, anyways," Dazai sighs exaggeratedly.

Chuuya pauses. He pushes aside the stuttering in his chest for a moment, trying to discern the odd note in Dazai's voice, the strange tugging in his mind, telling him Dazai is plotting something.

His jaw goes slack when the realization hits. "No. You idiot, we are not fucking going to—"

"Ever seen a fake passport before, Chuuya?" Dazai's grin is back.

"Stop," Chuuya hisses, heat rushing to his face. "Are you insane? We're not fucking going to America, and we're not getting fucking married, asshole."

Dazai's eyes slide over to him. "Ouch," he pouts. "I suppose I should've gotten a ring first."

A garbled noise leaves Chuuya's throat, half in frustration, half in embarrassment, and he just barely stops himself from lunging for the other after he remembers Dazai is still driving and very much in control of the car. He catches sight of Dazai's lips twitching, amusement bright and visible in his eyes.

Chuuya's face feels hot. "We're not getting fucking married," he repeats.

"But Chuuya," Dazai almost whines. "We could've been the new Bonnie and Clyde."

"The hell," Chuuya mutters immediately. "You wanna rob banks?"

Dazai's eyes are back on the road now, but Chuuya watches a faint smile dancing across his lips. "Partners in a crime has a nice ring to it."

"You're delusional," Chuuya grumbles, ignoring the warm fluttering in his stomach. "Stop staying stupid shit and focus on driving, idiot."

Dazai just hums in response, gripping the steering wheel tight before turning to him, a light shining in his eyes. "Where to next, partner?"

He could be talking about anything. About the next available gas station. About the nearest motel. About the next city, next border to cross. He could be talking about driving to the nearest airport and hopping on a plane under a false identity to fly to fucking America, for all Chuuya knows.

It doesn't matter where they're going. The only two constants in his life are right here where they belong, holding him down and keeping him grounded: the faint breeze trickling in through their rolled-down windows, along with the edge of a familiar, obnoxious grin, shining bright against the darkness of everything else thrown behind them.

Two constants, one person, and no looking back. He kicks his feet up on the dashboard, letting out a loud sigh.

"Fuck if I know," Chuuya mutters finally, settling back into his seat. He lets his eyes flutter closed. "Just shut up and drive."