Work Text:
16
“Your brain is so small, I figured you could learn some new words beyond ‘fuck’ and ‘shit’,” Dazai remarked, launching a book in Chuuya’s direction. He had been lounging on a couch in the Port Mafia headquarters, flipping through the file for an upcoming mission when he stopped the book just inches away from the side of his head without even glancing up.
“The fuck are you on about, shitty bastard?” he barked, and almost cursed again at his use of expletives, which only served to prove Dazai’s point. Abandoning the case file in his lap, he plucked the novel from where it floated in the air surrounded by a soft red glow.
“This is exactly what I mean,” the other boy said wistfully, shaking his head in mock disappointment with a mournful frown. “Such an itty-bitty vocabulary for an itty-bitty brain in an itty-bitty body. It’s tragic, really.”
“I don’t need your phony charity and shitty-ass book.” He flipped through the pages passively.
“I really think you do,” Dazai insisted in a sing-songy tone with a grin as he passed the other. He was practically prancing with how much of a bounce in his step he had, his smugness childishly exaggerated for the sole purpose of annoying the hell out of Chuuya.
“Ya know,” the ginger called before Dazai left the room, “this is a pretty fucking shitty birthday gift.”
“Oh, is it your birthday?” He placed a hand over his mouth, covering a silent gasp, “I didn’t even know!” And with the most innocent of smiles and a shrug, he left the room.
And Chuuya sighed, because of course Dazai knew it was his birthday. Dazai knew everyone’s names, birthdays, place of residence, blood type, social security number… and secrets they didn’t even know about themselves.
So the question was: is this a genuine birthday gift?
His first assumption is that it wasn’t, because it was Dazai fucking Osamu . Dazai, who constantly teased him for his height and headstrong nature. Dazai, who called him his dog. Dazai, who made it his mission to aggravate Chuuya on a daily basis. Their relationship was based in taunts and jabs and pranks — so why would this be a serious gift? A book of all things?
But then Chuuya noticed the state of the book. The spine was cracked, gold ridges slightly worn. There was an unidentifiable stain on the back cover that slightly darkened the green fabric. Upon surveying the pages, it appeared as if multiple had been previously dog-eared and then flattened out again. Crumbs were wedged into the cracks between pages, as well. It dawned on Chuuya that not only was this book secondhand, but that Dazai had probably been the one to have previously read it.
Since when did Dazai read books other than that stupid suicide guide he always carried around with him? Upon further thought, Chuuya realized he had never seen his partner reading, though perhaps that was because most of their interactions happened at work. Surely Dazai had time off from mafia business on occasion… and apparently he used this time to read.
This made sense, he supposed, for as much as he despised Dazai’s disgusting craftiness, he respected it, too. He was an extremely intelligent and cunning individual, not to mention disturbingly creative when coming up with plans. He wouldn’t deny that the other boy was the brains of Double Black, constantly strategizing and planning their next move, always directing Chuuya towards success on a mission. So, it was actually pretty logical that such a brilliant mind indulged in reading novels in his free time.
The plot of this book lined right up with Dazai’s frightening cunning, as well. A murder mystery so complex that it took Chuuya over a month to finish the three-hundred page novel.
He would never admit it out loud, but the story was incredibly intriguing, and as he read it he found himself thinking about it during work, too. Then, he had to read it again, recognizing clues that implicated the culprit along the way, details so miniscule that any reader would have missed them the first time through.
He made sure that Dazai was never around when he was reading, but for some reason he suspected his partner knew just how much he was enjoying it even though he never brought it up again.
18
“Rise and shine, birthday boy!” Something hard hit Chuuya’s head, which did not really help the migraine that had settled in his skull the night before. Cracking his eyes open, he found himself in his own room in his own apartment, but with a certain annoying mackerel standing at the side of his bed.
“What’re—” he tried to sit up, but hot-white pain caused him to groan and collapse back onto his mattress. In his initial grogginess, he had figured his headache was due to a hangover, but no, this pain was exclusive to mornings after using Corruption, not after drinking an entire bottle of wine. As he thought about it more, his memories of the night prior slowly came forth and he remembered the mission Mori had sent him and Dazai on.
And yeah, now it was his eighteenth birthday. Fantastic.
“Why’re you still here?” Chuuya grumbled, closing his eyes again against the harsh sunlight coming in through his window. He heard footsteps and the sound of fabric moving, and he could tell the room got darker from behind his eyelids.
“Had to make sure you didn’t stop breathing in the middle of the night or something,” the other boy informed cheerily. “Plus, if you had died, I would’ve forged your will so that you gave everything to your dear partner!”
“And no one would’ve believed it,” he shot back, opening his eyes just so he could glare at the other. Wait, did Dazai shut the curtains?
“How beautifully tragic it would have been if Chuuya had died on his birthday!” Dazai mused dramatically, ignoring Chuuya’s comment. Then, he stopped, placing a contemplative hand on his chin. “Actually, dying on one’s birthday isn’t an awful way to go out….”
“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” the smaller boy groaned loudly, “this is definitely my worst birthday ever, spending it with you.” He tried to sit up again, slowly this time, and though he winced at the pain as he rose, Chuuya ultimately succeeded. Upon doing so, he noticed that in Dazai’s left hand he held a book, which is what likely hit him on the head to wake him up earlier. “You do realize you just admitted you know when my birthday is, dumbass,” he informed with a raised brow, remembering how the other had feigned ignorance every year prior.
“I have no clue what you’re talking about.” If not for Dazai’s small yet mischievous smile, Chuuya might have believed those sugary-sweet words.
“I’m too beat to argue about this right now,” he remarked, rolling his eyes. Dazai let out a dramatic gasp at the admission, rushing to his partner’s side.
“Too tired to argue with me?! Is Chuuya feeling okay? You must be on the very brink of death!” he exclaimed, suddenly fawning over his weakened partner, poking and prodding at him in all the spots he knew would hurt.
“Shut the fuck up, asshole,” he bit out, swatting the other’s hand away with what little strength he still retained. With a victorious smirk Dazai took a step away, but not before dropping the book he had been holding into Chuuya’s lap. Much like the ones so generously donated to him the past two years, it came without a dust jacket, the cover blank and slightly worn. He guessed that like the previous ones, it was also a hand-me-down.
“I’m making tea, you should have some,” Dazai said, leaving the room before Chuuya could properly react to the gift.
“Yeah, sure, go ahead, feel free to use my kettle in my apartment to drink my tea,” he called to the other as he flipped through the pages idly.
From what he could gather, this story was a story about a depressed man who became a murderer (sounded like someone he knew). The main character had everything he could want in life, but devolved to a serial killer, elaborately completing each slaughter so as not to be caught. It was the reverse of a murder mystery, the killer being pursued by law enforcement and the finest local detective. The man was caught eventually, ultimately sentenced to death.
He didn’t even fully realize that he had begun properly reading the book, absorbed by the author’s exemplary writing, until a cup of tea was placed on the nightstand beside him. Chuuya quickly slammed the novel shut.
“Oh, so he can read!” Dazai teased with a light chuckle before taking a sip from his own mug. Chuuya didn’t doubt that he had chosen the fanciest, most expensive tea he owned. “Such a talented puppy, I’ve trained you so well!”
“I’d bite you if I wasn’t incapacitated,” he grunted, narrowing his eyes in an attempt to intimidate despite his quite pathetic state of weakness. If the bastard was going to call him a dog, he might as well be a feral one.
“How primitive, you really could stand to read more, you should be thankful I donated you something so thoughtful!”
“Fuck off,” he threw the book at his partner with all the strength he could muster and the other evaded it with ease, a far too amused smile on his thin lips. Mockingly, Dazai tsked at him.
“Just as I said: primitive. You really should think of solutions beyond violence, slug.”
“Says you, Demon Prodigy,” he retorted, and the other boy simply shrugged, a silent understanding that while Chuuya was more of a hothead, Dazai likely had more blood on his hands.
Dazai ended up spending most of the day in Chuuya’s apartment, bickering with him and nagging him as he supervised his partner’s recovery. At some point he forced the bandaged bastard to go and take a shower because he couldn’t stand the stench of grime and blood that still clung to the clothing he had been wearing since the night prior (and it was also at that moment Chuuya that noticed he had woken up in clean clothes and without any dirt or dried blood on his own skin).
When his partner finally left him alone and Chuuya heard the water of the shower turn on a few rooms away, he picked up the book again from where he’d left it on the floor across the room with his ability and flipped open to where he had left off in the first chapter. Immediately he was sucked right back into the narrative, and despite his interest, as he read, exhaustion settled in his bones, tugging his eyelids shut.
He woke again later with the novel dogeared on the page he’d left off on and set on his nightstand. There was a used towel left in a lump on the floor of his room, and upon calling out with no response, it appeared the apartment was empty — Dazai had taken his shower and left.
He would disappear from the mafia a month later.
19
Chuuya had almost forgotten it was his birthday. Between being so busy as an executive that it was hard to keep track of what day it was, and the fact that he never really celebrated the occasion anyway, it simply hadn’t crossed his mind until Kouyou gifted him an expensive bottle of wine.
He thanked her for the kind gift, internally debating whether to crack it open later or to save it for a future celebration. Chuuya mulled over his options as he sorted through the files and paperwork left on his office’s desk. Just because it was his birthday didn’t mean he didn’t have work to do, unfortunately.
So, he scanned the case reports, absorbed whatever information was necessary, and discarded anything that was not of importance to him. Then, at the bottom of the small pile, a yellow envelope caught his eye.
It was a package with no address, no name, nothing written on the front. An unlabeled envelope sent to a mafia executive? That was suspicious as hell. With furrowed brows, he carefully opened it, peeking inside to see if he was being sent a bomb or some other destructive device.
All he found was a book.
He sucked in a sharp gasp, dropping the package on his desk.
“You’ve gotta be shitting me you shitty bastard,” he breathed out with a slight laugh of disbelief.
Dazai had disappeared almost a year prior, leaving no trace and no clue of where he had gone. Was he assassinated? Had he finally offed himself? No one really knew for sure. Chuuya had chosen to believe that he was still alive, but it was unclear whether this was due to pure denial or faith in his partner’s ability to evade death despite being in constant pursuit of it. Many had assumed the Demon Prodigy finally went through with taking his own life, especially since it was rumored that he had been close to a mafia member who had been killed around the time he vanished.
Either way, this book was proof that he was alive. Chuuya didn’t even need to open the text to know it was sent to him by Dazai. It was of similar quality to the books he had previously been gifted, with a worn cloth cover and wrinkled pages and given to him on April the twenty-ninth, it was undeniably from none other than Osamu Dazai.
Though he knew it was unproductive to do so while at work, he cracked open the novel, scanning the title page and table of contents.
“Of course you would, of course you would,” he grumbled, setting the book on his desk with a soft thump , and leaning back in his chair. He considered for a moment telling someone that he had confirmation that Dazai was alive, but after some deliberation, he decided against it. First, he would have to admit that for two years prior Dazai had given him books and that he took care enough to notice this trend was being continued. Secondly, it felt like the message that he was not dead was so extremely personalized because it came in the form of this specific, established birthday tradition — like it was their little secret.
All logic and loyalty told Chuuya that he should report Dazai’s survival to Mori, but something else in him stopped him from doing so. He didn’t want to think about it too hard, so he didn’t let himself, tucking the book away into his desk and disposing of the packaging.
That evening, Chuuya opened the wine from Kouyou and read the entire thing. It was clear that the novel was part of a series, the title page listing it as the third of a trilogy. Also, though the plot and characters were introduced pretty well, past scenes and events were referenced in passing as if the reader was supposed to have already known what happened. It perplexed Chuuya as to why Dazai would send him a book like this. The dark themes matched what he had been gifted previously, but on top of the book being third in a series, there were a couple of other things out of place.
The last few pages of the novel were ripped out, and near the end the line “people only live to save themselves” was underlined in red ink, the only annotation throughout the entire book (and yes, Chuuya checked). It struck him as odd, because though the novels Dazai previously gave to him were clearly used, they were never damaged or marked in the slightest. So why this? Why now?
He didn’t really know what to make of it.
21
Dazai sent Chuuya a book on not only his nineteenth birthday, but his twentieth, as well. It was an unspoken acknowledgement of their previous partnership and assurance that the man was alive. Of course, by Chuuya’s twenty-first birthday the confirmation of life was no longer needed, for Dazai had joined the Armed Detective Agency, something which the Port Mafia figured out very quickly. Chuuya first learned this information through the mafia head, whose calm disposition as he delivered the news was utterly haunting.
Mori was definitely pissed.
Chuuya went on his own angry (drunken) rampage later that evening, ranting to Kouyou about the “shitty bastard traitor mackerel.” He could maybe accept Dazai just dropping off the face of the earth, but not Dazai joining the enemy organization and pretending to be a fucking goody two-shoes. And though he didn’t say it out loud, it bothered him so much because he thought he knew Dazai — and him joining the agency made no fucking sense at all.
Demon Prodigy Osamu Dazai, fighting for the forces of good? If Mori hadn’t been so clearly furious about the new development, he might have thought that it was some elaborate scheme of being a double agent. This was not the case, though, and Chuuya just didn’t get it. The Dazai he knew didn’t give a shit about morals or saving others, he was selfish and manipulative, cruel and cunning. So what the hell was he playing at by joining the agency? Did he do this purely to piss off the mafia? But that didn’t quite make sense, either — he was an idiot, but he definitely wasn’t stupid.
Kouyou insisted it was no use trying to figure that man out, especially since they hadn’t spoken in two years. “People change,” she said with a displeased frown. Chuuya fumed at this, refusing to consider this, knowing she had a fair point.
Yet, when his birthday rolled around, he still read the book Dazai sent along, and just as the past two years, it came in an unlabeled package with no indication of who it was from. This year’s novel was a somber narrative of a young orphan girl who grew up barely surviving on her own. She spent her unstable life befriending and helping others before she had to inevitably leave them behind, only for her to tragically die in the end, alone.
Chuuya may or may not have teared up at the conclusion. Then he may or may not have thrown the book at the wall, not sure if he was emotional over the story or over the person who had sent it to him.
23
A book was not left on Chuuya’s desk on his twenty-third birthday.
For a second he considered that their little tradition had simply ended, but then he considered how this year was different.
Since he had turned twenty-two, he and Dazai had come in direct contact again.
He interrogated and fought Dazai when he was “captured,” and then they worked together as Double Black once more to retrieve Kyu from the Guild. Ever since then, the mafia and agency had been working together tentatively from time to time, and it became more regular for the pair to meet.
When he first saw Dazai in the dungeon he was pissed as all hell, the smug bastard the same and yet somehow undeniably different than when he had been in the mafia. Chuuya couldn’t quite pin what had changed, but something had, and it made him agitated. Their team-up against Lovecraft troubled him for the same reason, their distinctive flow returning as if Dazai had never left at all. They teased each other like before, their fighting style was cohesive as ever, and he even trusted Dazai enough to use Corruption. Still, it seemed that the former executive’s disposition had shifted during his time with the agency and it was unnerving to Chuuya.
Then, Dazai had left him alone in the field afterwards.
The memory of a birthday spent together in his apartment poked and prodded at him, he pushed it away.
Yet, from that moment forward, Dazai slowly began to infiltrate his life. He obtained Chuuya’s cell phone number and began pestering him (and it didn’t matter how many times he blocked him, Dazai always found a way around it somehow). He made it a point to cross paths with him on occasion, always taking the time to tease him for his stature or his hats. And, of course, with the truce between their organizations, they were forced to work together once or twice, though they were able to avoid using Corruption again.
So when he did not receive a book on his desk that year, he eventually came to realize that Dazai likely intended to give it to him in person — only to annoy him, of course.
“Come on out, shitty Dazai,” he shouted into his apartment upon returning home that evening. Either he would be wrong about his hunch, and no one but him would know that he called out into his empty apartment, or…
“No game of hide and seek? Chuuya is no fun at all,” the other man whined, popping out from the coat closet.
“I think you’ve proved you’re pretty good at hiding,” he quipped (perhaps with a little bit of an edge), and Dazai raised a brow at the sharp comeback.
“And you’ve proved you’re quite awful at seeking.”
“Can’t be bad if I never tried.”
Well, this conversation was wandering into dangerous territory.
Dazai shrugged, then said “touché.” He tossed Chuuya a book, and the latter didn’t even need to use his ability to snatch it out of the air, preventing it from hitting him square in the face.
“Which character is gonna die this year?” he mused, for all of the books previously gifted to him feature a character who bit the dust by the end.
“Now, now, I can’t spoil it for you, can I?” the other man sang, with a mischievous grin, sauntering over to Chuuya’s kitchen. “You have whiskey?”
“I don’t remember inviting you to stay.”
“It’s all wine,” Dazai complained, ignoring the ginger’s comment and groaning loudly in exaggerated frustration. He was looking through the bottles on the counter, not even bothering to check the ones in the wine rack.
“Top cabinet, very back,” Chuuya grumbled, unsure of whether or not he should take a peek at the book gifted to him. He decided to leave it for later, Dazai didn’t need to know that he was genuinely intrigued by the stories he had gifted him over the years (though, given the other man’s perceptiveness, he had a feeling he somehow knew, regardless).
Dazai found the half-empty bottle of whiskey hidden in the very back of a cabinet Chuuya could only reach standing on the counter, humming with delight at the discovery. Within minutes both men were nursing their respective glasses of alcohol, Chuuya seated on the kitchen’s island, Dazai with his back leaned against the opposite counter.
“I hope you’re enjoying mooching alcohol off me,” Chuuya muttered dryly, rolling his eyes with an exasperated sigh. He could have easily kicked his partner out of the apartment, but he really just didn’t have it in him tonight.
“Oh, yes, absolutely,” Dazai said enthusiastically, “work at the agency doesn’t exactly pay enough for me to enjoy such fine liquor on a daily basis.”
“Sounds like you downgraded, to me.” He sipped his wine, gaze focused on the other man’s reactions, his posture, the way his lips upturned.
“I wouldn’t say so,” Dazai said after a beat of silence, the smile he wore almost wistful, and then, “I gave you that book because it doesn’t interest me anymore, by the way.” Ah, so he was switching topics, then.
“I don’t give a fuck why you gave it to me, it’s just some shitty hand-me-down anyway,” he lied, and somehow he thought that Dazai knew he was lying, too. This suspicion was confirmed by the way the other man briefly rolled his eyes.
“Your vocabulary hasn’t expanded, it seems. Have my efforts all been in vain?”
“They say that those with higher intellect curse more,” he argued back, the familiar warmth of the wine settling in his system.
“Well ‘they’ obviously haven’t met a certain crude chibi I know,” Dazai shot back with a blinding grin.
Chuuya ignored the thought that he liked how the smile looked on him.
Dazai eventually left his apartment after a couple of hours of bickering, and almost immediately Chuuya made a beeline to where he’d left the novel on the counter.
It was a shorter one this time, but still with a blank cover and creased page corners. The story was different, a love story, with the beautifully tragic ending of the man and woman comitting suicide together.
Chuuya’s initial reaction after reading this conclusion was that he wanted to strangle Dazai.
“I gave you that book because it doesn’t interest me anymore, by the way.”
Oh.
24
“If I had a nickel for every time you broke into my apartment on my birthday…” Chuuya complained upon finding Dazai sitting criss-cross on his island with a glass of whiskey and a glass of red wine already poured. His smile was small and innocent like he hadn’t known how to infiltrate places of residence (and had been using that skill) since he was fourteen years old.
To be fair, it had become fairly normal for Chuuya to return home from mafia work to find that a certain agency member had slipped into his home and helped himself to alcohol and the couch. Sometimes they would argue late into the night and other times they would simply drink and coexist.
A lot had happened in the past year, there were times they just needed to be in each other’s presence for some semblance of normalcy.
Though “normal” when it came to Dazai and Chuuya was a tricky thing, it had evolved. What was normal for them in the present would have made Chuuya uneasy two years ago — this combination of who they were as teenagers, who they had grown into as adults over those four years apart, and who they now were together. Neither were dumb, they were well aware that it was unprecedented that they spent as much time together as they did being from opposing organizations and being former partners.
They still called each other their “partner,” despite it technically not being true
“You want a smoke?” Chuuya asked, producing a box of cigarettes from his pocket and nodding his head up. Dazai hummed in agreement and they took their drinks and tobacco to the roof. Was it technically illegal for them to be up there? Yeah, of course, but considering their track records, that didn’t really matter at all.
Chuuya lit his cigarette first, placing it between his lips, before handing one to Dazai, lighting it for him when he leaned over.
“I haven’t smoked in five years,” Dazai remarked off-handedly after taking a drag.
“You were underground then,” he observed and Dazai nodded his confirmation.
“Worst time of my life.”
Chuuya hummed in understanding, though something still smoldered in him at the reminder of his partner up and leaving without a word. You did that to yourself, Dazai, he thought passively.
Then, something else crossed his mind. He almost didn’t want to bring it up, for it would be an acknowledgement of something unspoken between them. Maybe it was the atmosphere or something (he couldn’t blame the singular sip of wine he had drank), but he decided to go for it, regardless.
“What was the deal with the book from my nineteenth?” A slight pause. “The first year after you left.” There it was, the confirmation that he had read that book all the way through and an implication that the same was true for all the others. Dazai’s eyes widened slightly at the question before he let out a humorless hah , taking in another drag from his cigarette before answering.
“That book wasn’t mine,” he said, looking out over the city, expression eerily serene, “it belonged to Oda Sakunoske.” Chuuya’s brows furrowed; he recognized the name but couldn’t quite place where he had heard it before.
Then he remembered.
“He died right before you defected,” he said, the realization quieting his voice a little. “You two were close, then.” He remembered hearing the theories surrounding the man’s passing and Dazai’s disappearance, that he’d finally gone and killed himself over it. Chuuya never believed them, not knowing Dazai to be the type of person to be so profoundly affected by an individual’s death.
But now Dazai was smiling somberly.
“He wanted to complete the ripped-out pages of that book,” he informed, swirling his drink idly, “the author himself took them out. So, he wanted to become a novelist to complete the story. He still worked for the mafia, but no longer as an assassin. Oda didn’t believe that writers should be killers.” His expression had become slightly pained, his smile more grim than peaceful. “He was fascinating. I respected him.”
There were a lot of unspoken words that hung in the air.
Dazai broke the tension by taking a book from inside his jacket and handing it over, and Chuuya didn’t even bother wondering how he had hid the volume in his coat until then.
“Happy Birthday,” Dazai said without looking him in the eye. In return for Chuuya acknowledging that he actually read the novels, Dazai admitted that they were meant as birthday gifts. He accepted the book with a nod, hesitating slightly before he opened the first few pages to scan the title and table of contents.
“Is this… a love story?” Chuuya questioned, glancing up from the cheesy title to lock eyes with Dazai. The latter shrugged. “I swear to fucking god if someone dies again.”
“I can’t spoil it for you, now can I?” he remarked with a lopsided smile.
Chuuya read the entire text by the following evening. No one died, the two men ended up together, and things weren’t perfect but they were fine as long as they had each other. It was unbelievably sappy and relatively simple compared to the dark, intellectual stories Dazai had previously given him.
He wanted to question the change, but the answer was abundantly clear. Dazai knew how to be subtle if he wanted to, and this was certainly not subtle.
Chuuya bought a bottle of whiskey on his way home that evening.
25
This year, when Chuuya returned home, he had a book pressed into his hands and a kiss pressed to his lips with a murmur of “happy birthday” from his partner.