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“You shouldn’t drink that,” they tell him.
Well.
Technically, it’s more Akutagawa and Atsushi combining two halves of an idea to complete a single thought. This habit of finishing each other’s sentences has been a fairly new development in their relationship, and no one the office can really tell when the two-way street of death threats mutated into passive-aggressive half-jokes sprinkled with rare displays of actually agreeing with one another.
They call it teamwork. Dazai calls it sabotage.
There’s just something inherently wrong with having the two of them tell him what not to do, especially considering the fact that the communal brain cell they share leads to chaos most of the time. Case in point: just last week the two pulled off a supposedly unintended jewellery heist in the midst of a search and rescue case. The particular incident involved two separate underground arms dealing, freeing (and taming) a carnival bear, and driving around the city with reckless abandon.
Dazai was impressed beyond reason but that doesn't mean he’ll start taking advice from them any time soon.
Besides, when did they fully listen to Dazai anyway? Walk them through Plan A to E and somewhere along the way one of them will decide to skip straight ahead to Plan F. Tailor fit an escape route so neither of them get injured in the process and what would greet him back at their base? Akutagawa bleeding from a stab wound on the abdomen or Atsushi getting a mental status exam because of a concussion, is what.
Naturally, Dazai pointedly ignores Atsushi’s “you shouldn’t” and puts singular focus on Akutagawa’s “drink that.”
Fruity sweetness explodes in his mouth. The drink is thick, sticky, and warm. Even warmer when it settles in his chest rather than his stomach.
Cue the horrified sounds coming from beside him. Another aborted “You really shouldn’t…” from Atsushi.
And Dazai is anything but a sucker. A life with no half measures, or so he’s trying to live by. He takes up the challenge and empties the entire glass with delight.
“Whatever you do,” Akutagawa starts, “don’t look…”
Dazai doesn’t bother to listen to whatever Atsushi was meant to add to that sentence.
Instead, his attention turns to the Chuuya. He looks mildly annoyed, but he always is, especially when he’s in the confines of the Agency’s office. It’s as if he’s always itching to leave and quite literally run to his rathole in the center of Yokohama, except that he respects the president enough to mind his manners.
Chuuya’s eyes find Dazai’s, and there’s a surprised look on his face when he sees that Dazai is already looking at him.
Magnetic, as they always have been. Always will be. It’s a universal truth he can’t deny and it makes it so easy to ignore the horrified Seriously? Akutagawa exhales under his breath.
“Look who’s actually still here,” says Chuuya.
And it should be offensive. Dazai should probably say something to defend his honor and make a show of being a hardworking white-collar employee.
Except there are two piles of paperwork sitting idly on top of his desk, the same pile he’s been ignoring for days, and the only time he ever willingly stayed behind beyond office hours was when he was quite literally trapped because of a downpour.
It’s sunny outside and there’s a spare umbrella he keeps by the doorway in case it happens again but Chuuya was still doing his routine debriefing session with the president and wouldn’t it be rude to just leave without saying anything, especially when they’d been paired together for the job?
There’d been lessons learned, words unsaid—it only takes a pebble to form ripples on the surface of a lake. Redemption starts small, or so they say.
He could say, I’m here.
He doesn’t.
“Well.” Pebble. “Of course I still am.”
Would Chuuya understand what he would mean by that?
Chuuya knowingly touches the tourniquet Dazai had fashioned out of pieces of fabric from his shirt, the bloodstain now dry and rough. He nods a small acknowledgement, a ripple on the lake.
“Whatever. I’m leaving.” A practiced sneer on Chuuya’s face in an attempt to intimidate the room at large.
“Finally. I’ll see you soon!”
“No, you won’t.” Yet he leaves with a miniscule salute right at Dazai’s general direction.
There aren’t any room for goodbye’s anymore. They hadn’t said one in a while and the warmth he feels in his chest blooms like flowers in spring.
The door closes. A moment of uninterrupted silence follows.
And then, absolute fucking chaos.
Several someone’s are yelling. Dazai suspects it to be the miniature double black en pair.
A half-hearted apology that sounds more like rest in peace flies over his head. Another someone takes the bottle from his hands and slams it so hard on the table that Dazai is half-convinced it’s going to explode into shards. It thankfully doesn’t but it does summon Kunikida who looks just about ready to commit several acts of violence.
It’s his default setting, all things considered. Except the fury is directed not just at Dazai and that kicks up Akutagawa and Atsushi’s shared instinct to gear up their singular neuron.
One brain cell, two mouths.
Go figure.
“We honestly tried to tell Dazai-san,”
“Not to drink but,”
“He didn’t listen! We also tried to tell him to avoid making eye contact with anyone at all cost,”
“Obviously all our warnings fell on deaf ears. However,”
“We are very sorry,”
“Sorry that the Agency is full of irresponsible employees that just leaves a confiscated love potion out in the open,”
“Yes, sorry. Wait—”
“Very sorry that none of you have ever thought of setting up an evidence room,”
“Oh my god Akutagawa, shut up.” Faux exasperation at its finest. Atsushi turns to Kunikida with a suspicious glint in his eyes. “Well. Now that he mentioned it… Why don’t we have an evidence room?”
“Several more questions should be raised, jinko . Like why don’t they regularly give out overtime pay?”
“You get overtime pay from the mafia?!”
“Don’t sound so surprised.” No one isn’t. Toeing the line between life and death on a daily basis might as well be awarded with exceptional employee benefits. All things considered, the mafia’s recruitment pitch is admittedly seductive for an average salary man. “And unlike you, we also have dental insurance. You don’t have any form of health benefits, have you ever thought of that? We even get meal vouchers.”
Akutagawa should have just mentioned the 100% discount from all mafia-protected businesses. Dazai takes a mental note to remind him later.
In any case, Atsushi looks absolutely enamored. His eyes lit up with curiosity, disbelief, and careful consideration. Maybe all Fitzgerald had to do was offer Atsushi better employee benefits rather than go through the trouble of going head-to-head with the Agency.
Dazai has half the mind to feel impressed. Kunikida doesn’t share the sentiment and breaks a pencil in half while he uselessly demands for Akutagawa to confess how he got all that information.
Not that it’s any surprise. After all, data gathering is the most basic skill any member of the mafia should have. It’d be more embarrassing if Akutagawa didn’t know these things but that’s probably just the dusty sentiments of a former mentor stirring inside Dazai’s chest.
Besides, there’s no time for misplaced pride today. As much as he’s bursting at the seams to tell the story of how he and Chuuya started a union at seventeen just to fuck with Mori, Kouyou, and the rest of the higher council, Dazai just can’t because: “I drank a love potion?”
Silence ensues. Dazai looks at the empty glass in front of him and the tiny droplets of the glittery juice seem to mock him because of course the love potion just had to be blue.
He nearly misses the way Akutagawa and Atsushi inch themselves further away from him.
Dazai has heard about the rush of falling in love. Had read about it numerous times in the novels he devoured as a child, in the poetries he used to steal from Chuuya’s collection. Everyone claims it's as exhilarating as jumping off a cliff, a nosedive into the unknown depths of your feelings. It’s holding your breath, chest aching, heart full of bees.
He waits for something to spark or burst inside him. He drank the whole thing, didn’t he?
Any minute now.
Lightning, thunder. A downpour.
And yet, nothing.
Dazai’s heart remains in a steady rhythm. There is no grand cosmic explosion in his ribcage. The sky doesn’t open up for angels to sing an opera of love songs. No magic, no skipping hearts.
It’s calm and quiet.
Horrifyingly so.
If anything, all he gets is a quiet click. A sure sound of a door unlocking, and even if no one enters Dazai already knows who has always been at the other side. It’s knowing that all he has to do is open the door and say Yeah, yeah. Come in already, will you?
“I don’t feel any different,” Dazai says slowly. He tastes blueberries and the harrowing truth. “I don’t feel any different at all.”
At this point Dazai’s realizes that he’s maybe some kind of idiot, and as he stares down at the empty glass, he thinks: I’ve always been in love with him, haven’t I?
It turns out that see you soon meant see you tonight and Chuuya lied when he said no you won’t because he’s right there sitting on Dazai’s couch while reading some book pulled from one of his collections.
Dazai’s shirt is two sizes too big on him, cartoonish in the clashing pastels, and it’s unfair how Chuuya looks so at home when this is the first time he’s ever visited. It’s as if the world is punching all its ironies to fit in a 24-hour schedule.
What the fuck , Dazai thinks.
“What the fuck,” Dazai says.
Chuuya deliberately shuts the book with a theatrical slam before making his way to the kitchen, all the while monologuing about Dazai’s unjust reaction when between the two of them it’s his apartment that gets raided more often and when did I ever complain, hah, Dazai? Never!
Which is a lie of course but rather than taking the bait and falling in their favorite routine of childish banter, he instead wonders if this what their life will always look like when they get married because—
Well. If, he corrects himself halfway into digging a mental rabbithole. If they end up together, and someone at the back of his head reminds him to watch out for the intensifying effects of the love potion. It suspiciously sounds like an infuriated Kunikida.
The potion must be taking its full effect because he’s suddenly filled with indescribable cotton-soft emotions, his head filling up silly daydreams—and why didn’t he listen to his two students?—warm and sticky, honey and gold, cold blueberry-flavored soda. He didn’t even like the taste.
“Disgusting.”
“Hah?”
Ah. Right. Chuuya.
“I went through all the trouble to get you food and this is the thanks I get?”
Dazai tries to salvage the night with a sincere thank you but that too backfires and very suddenly Chuuya is coming up to invade his space, bombarding him with silly questions like Did you really hit your head hard earlier after all? and Did you at least get checked by your doctor like I told you to?
“ If I say yes, will you let me eat all the tofu?”
“They’re all yours, dumbass.”
Chuuya proceeds to prepare the table while humming along with the radio that Dazai didn’t even notice was on until now. It’s something slow and instrumental, and Dazai’s chest feels like it’s caving in. It feels good. It feels warm. It feels romantic. It feels, Dazai thinks, finally sitting on the couch and resting his head for a quiet moment, like he’s sixteen again and he’s reading all the novels and poems that describe all their great loves and the only thing he could think about are leathered hands cradling his heart.
“So,” Dazai sits up too quickly and he feels a thousand different insects buzzing in his veins. “Guess what.”
“You’re coming back to the mafia.”
“What the hell, Chuuya. What even gave you that impression?”
Chuuya seems to be delighted at catching him off-guard. He smiles triumphantly, even childish, and it’s refreshing to know that Dazai is the only one who can see this version of him. “You’ve been staring at me like you’re going to say something life changing. Or you want to strangle me. Or both. You had your thinking face.”
“I do not have a thinking face,” Dazai counters. Still, he goes along with the motions of the relaxation technique Kouyou taught him once upon a time. Loosen the jaws, scrunch the nose, and then release the tension. Tension, might he add, that was not there because he does not have a thinking face, and Chuuya is laughing at him again.
It almost sounds melodic, like Dazai had done something nice for once to be rewarded a treat. It’s also the most ridiculous thing because he never noticed how airy the syllables sounded and how dare something so simple suddenly make his heart beat mercilessly just because he realized something?
“Look,” he says. “I drank a love potion today,”
“So I heard.” Chuuya smirks mockingly then folds his hands over his chest. “How’s that going for you?”
“Absolutely horrible, as you can imagine. And it tasted disgusting when it looked so pretty! I personally think your student deliberately left it for my pupil so—wait. What?”
“Akutagawa slipped. He told me not to drop by but why the hell would I listen to him?” They at least agree on one thing. Perhaps once Dazai has completely recovered from the motifying realization of his feelings, he could ask Chuuya to team up with him to teach their respective students a lesson or two. Their unionization days are over but they might have pointers for teaching they can share with one another.
“I thought I’d finally get to see you acting disgustingly in love and outrageously out of your mind but you look so normal.”
“Sorry to disappoint,” Dazai sighs dramatically.
Outrageous enough to dismantle the entire mafia’s power balance for a dethroned king, to hunt down the shadows involved in Suribachi, to collaborate with Kouyou even when he was in hiding, to ache so terribly for someone he shouldn’t want, to face a dragon, to willingly risk his life time and time again to quell a raging god, to drown, to bleed, to cry, to learn.
He has always been in love, he just didn’t know it.
Realization likewise makes its impression on Chuuya. He scrunches his nose, making Dazai shrug.
“Mm-hm. Unfortunately.”
Disbelief colors Chuuya’s face as he begins to aggressively chew on his vegetables. “So, who’s the unlucky bastard?”
Dazai watches the chili oil swirl around his soup. He dips his chopstick, liquid tension gives way, and mini tidal waves slosh around.
Outrageous enough to feel, to want, to crave, to hope .
It’s Dazai holding a pebble. “You shouldn’t speak so unkindly about yourself, Chuuya.”
“Hah?” Chuuya, the lake. “Hah?”
“Yeah. Unfortunately.”
“Fuck you mean ‘unfortunately’?!” A pause. “And—you? What?” He has long abandoned his meal and has even comically dropped his chopsticks on the floor.
“Trust me, I’m as bewildered as you are.”
He waits for the incredulous laughter or the frustrated outburst. Maybe both, if he’s lucky enough to witness Chuuya’s spectrum of emotions. A thunderstorm, hail, the sky opening up for thunder and lightning to strike.
And yet, nothing.
No boasting, just horrified acceptance.
“This can’t be happening to me,” Chuuya says quietly, almost to himself. The water ripples, ripples, ripples, then stills.
Dazai snaps a new pair of chopsticks for him, wanting to remedy the situation. Hope, he’s come to realize, had been too promising. He shouldn’t have said anything. “Oh come on, is it really that bad? It’s not like I’m trying to—hey!”
One moment they’re eating and in the next, Chuuya is pushing past him and leaves without so much as a goodbye. All he gets is the quiet quick of the door and then little else.
Dazai rolls his eyes at the theatrics. He could have just said he didn’t feel the same, or he could have at least finished his food so Dazai wouldn’t have to eat dinner alone. Chuuya isn’t so romantic, after all.
Except that maybe, he is. He just doesn’t know it himself.
Ne, Dazai. Do you want to know the secret to true love? Yosano once asked him. They’d been drinking together in a secluded bar during one of their office trips to Tokyo. Dazai couldn’t sleep, Yosano has her fair share of insomniac tendencies, and they come together with their shadows mixing like old friends. They can all bring you all sorts of jewelry, and gold, and chocolates, but someday you’ll meet someone who will learn your favorite flowers, your favorite song, your favorite food.
I hope they can afford it! Dazai had laughed.
And even if they can’t, it’ll still mean they have taken the time to know you, as no one else does.
That felt so long ago. She’d been right. Yosano always is, when it comes to matters of the heart. There’d been rubies and gold, but these cannot compare to the peonies he receives every June since mentioning how it reminded him of late summer evenings. What is the promise of pearls and diamonds to the extra sesame seeds and green onion on his marinated crab and tofu now sitting cold on his table?
Stupid, silly Chuuya.
Dazai’s footsteps are hurried, and he knows there must be an excited spring to his step.
He reaches to pick the lock but immediately stops when he hears Chuuya from the other side of the door. He’s exasperatedly fond, his voice colored with a twinge of embarrassment.
“Dazai, why are you so painstakingly predictable?”
Dazai laughs quietly and his hand shakes to twist the knob. To be known is to be loved. To be known is to be loved.
“Yeah, yeah. Stop laughing, you idiot. It’s unlocked. Come in already, will you?”
And so he does.