Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Once upon a time, all the planets and the fates

And the stars aligned.

You and I ended up at the same room

At the same time.

Yosano:

There’s a bar I’ve been meaning to try out

It’s called Lupin. Been around for a while, but I never went in.

Wanna come with? Kunikida will be there too as DD

Lupin… now that’s a name he hasn’t heard in a while. Memories flashed within Dazai’s mind, a script of bygone times.

Bygone friends, too.

Even so, he’d been a frequent companion to Yosano’s bar adventures. She might be suspicious if he turned it down. 

Only if Kunikida is paying!

The summer sunset brought a soft breeze with it, Dazai absentmindedly humming a soft tune as he retraced steps from years prior until he reached his destination. 

Yosano and Kunikida had already arrived, the former flagging him down while the latter stood with his arms crossed. Dazai prepared himself for a lecture.

“You’re late,” Kunikida stated gruffly, his posture terribly stiff for someone about to enter a bar, of all places. “It’s 7:08, and we agreed to meet at 7:00.” 

“Let’s be real here. For him, 8 minutes is impressive,” Yosano waved Kunikida off, opening the door before glancing back at them. “Let’s head in.” 

Dazai made sure to stick his tongue out at the other man as he followed, blissfully drinking in the sputtering noises behind him. He scanned the interior as he took a seat beside Yosano at the counter, Kunikida taking one on her other side. Nothing had changed. The tables were the same, along with the chairs, lighting, and relatively low number of customers. 

At least the bartender is different. That certainly will make this night easier. 

The bartender in question came over, wiping a cup dry as he politely greeted them. “Welcome to Lupin. What can I get for you three?”

“Give me your finest red wine.”

“I’ll just have water, please.”

“And for you, sir?” The bartender turned to Dazai, one hand already reaching toward a wine glass for Yosano. 

A wave of deja vu washed over him, causing him to hesitate. Dazai played off his pause as him thinking, resting a hand on his chin thoughtfully. “A whiskey on the rocks, please,” is what he settled for. 

The bartender nodded. “Coming right up.” 

“And here I thought you were going to get something different for once,” Yosano nudged Dazai playfully. “Don’t you get tired of whiskey?”

Dazai laughed off her statement as their drinks arrived, smirking. “Oh, Yosano, if you want to talk repetition, just look at him,” he gestured over to Kunikida, who was pointedly ignoring Dazai. “Always getting water, never joining the fun. What a sad life.” 

He raised his glass to his lips, breathing in the sweet vanilla and cinnamon notes before taking a sip. 

Kunikida huffed. “Someone has to make sure you two don’t drink yourself to your deaths.” 

The night went on unceremoniously, the three talking about their latest shoots and upcoming scheduled ones. While photographers usually have private businesses, the Artisan Photography Association provides a connection between different photographers with different areas of expertise, making it commercially effective while also providing more accessibility of resources and staff. 

“The model I worked with was simply exquisite,” Yosano sighed. “I never get tired of how women look covered in blood,” she swirled her red wine with a dreamy look on her face.

Yosano specializes in darker and more sensual concepts, focusing mostly on portraiture. Like Dazai, she’d been a model in the PMMA when she was younger, though she quickly made her name as a photographer in the APA with her dramatic, sultry style of photography.

Dazai and Kunikida exchanged glances from across the counter, the latter unable to hide his grimace. “I take it the shoot went well, then?” he asked uneasily. 

“Oh, absolutely,” she clasped her hands together, her mind set back in the past. “Kouyou is always a pleasure to be with.”

“A pleasure to be with, you say?” Dazai wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. He received a smack on the shoulder in response as Kunikida began sputtering in the background.

“Dazai, that is incredibly inappropriate and unprofessional!” he scolded Dazai, adjusting his glasses to compose himself. “Either way,” he cleared this throat. “It sounds like you had a much better experience than I did.” 

“Aw, did Kunikida scare away another client with his overbearing attitude?” Dazai cooed, resting his chin on his hand. 

The man in question crossed his arms. “Of course not. It’s just that the shoot could’ve gone much faster if the model wouldn’t keep suggesting new ideas.” 

“Yes, yes, of course. How dare they,” Dazai rolled his eyes.

Kunikida specializes in abstract and impressionist photography, working to stretch the boundaries of what can be done with a camera, lighting techniques, and digital manipulation. Out of the members, he’s the most experimental due to the nature of his style. 

It’s just a shame that he’s so stiff when it comes to the photo process, having planned out every pose and composition with little wiggle room. 

As for Dazai…

“What about you, then?” Kunikida fired back. “How was your shoot?” 

“What shoot?” Dazai blinked at him innocently. 

“Exactly. When was the last time you’ve taken on a project?” 

Dazai’s lips stretched into a grin. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“You-”

“Oi, Dazai. Is that you?” A foreign voice sounded from the entrance. When he turned, he saw a familiar face framed by fiery red hair. 

Nakahara Chuuya, one of Japan’s top models. Coincidentally, they’d also frequently interacted back in high school. Up until four years ago, at least.

Dazai attempted to hide his surprise with a mask of indifference, ignoring his friends’ whispers behind him. “You have the wrong person,” he said, watching him approach out the corner of his eye as he took a sip of his drink. 

Chuuya stood by the seat to his right, huffing. “I only know one waste of bandages with that fish face, Mackerel.” 

“You wound me, Slug,” Dazai pouted. They lost contact four years ago, but it was easy to slip back to their old routine. “I’m going to spread rumors that the famous model Nakahara Chuuya was a high school bully.” 

“Speak for yourself, famous photographer,” Chuuya crossed his arms. 

Dazai Osamu. Former model of the Port Mafia Modeling Agency turned photographer at the age of 20, more than two years ago. Photographers aren’t usually in the public eye, but with his past as a popular teen model backing him up along with his all-rounded nature of his skills, not specializing in any one style, his photography managed to strongly resonate with the public while making him highly sought after in the industry. 

Any time he picks up a request, he never disappoints. Due to the other two portrait photographers being more conceptual, Dazai fills the gaps with the more generalized portrait shoots. His masterful use of lighting and compositions manage to highlight every model’s strength, his usage of props and dynamic angles making it so no picture is boring. 

It also happens that his first muse is standing in front of him now. 

He felt Chuuya scanning him up and down before pausing, his eyes narrowing.

Dazai’s grin only stretched wider. “What’s wrong, Chibi?” 

“Stand up,” Chuuya gritted out. “Now.” 

With all the grace he could muster, Dazai swept himself out of his seat to stand at his full height, eyes full of glee as his suspicions were confirmed. 

Chuuya now stood just below his shoulder level, having not grown an inch. Not only did Dazai grow taller, but it also meant Chuuya had to lift his head higher. 

“You’re joking,” Chuuya breathed, his hands clenching into fists. “How the fuck did your shitty beanpole ass grow taller?” He slammed a fist onto Dazai’s chest. 

The punch sent the air out of Dazai’s lungs, turning his cackles into wheezing. “I’m just surprised you’re the same height. I didn’t know Port Mafia took chibis like you. They must’ve been getting desperate,” he shot back, his hand placed confidently on his hip.

“Keep talking like that, and I’ll make you shorter myself.”

“What’s that? Is there a noisy little fly in the room?” Dazai cupped his ear, looking around the room.

A light cough from behind Dazai interrupted their banter, sending them both back to reality. Kunikida’s eyes were wide, his mouth agape while Yosano quietly watched with a bemused expression, a hint of a smile on her lips. 

Heaving a heavy sigh, Dazai sat down, Chuuya following suit as he muttered under his breath, slinging his black trench coat over the chair. Dazai watched with a sparkle of interest as the bartender approached Chuuya and how with a single glance, he simply nodded and poured a glass of red wine, placing it in front of the redhead.

He took the moment to observe Chuuya. Despite seeing him frequently on advertisements and magazine covers, it’s always different seeing a model in person, and while he would never say it aloud, Chuuya definitely aged well. 

The baby fat of his cheeks was just about gone, his face slimmed into a more structured shape. His hair was slightly longer, swept over one shoulder. The burgundy dress shirt hugged his toned frame nicely, tucked into form fitting black slacks. The only thing that didn’t change was that hat – a tacky, yet signature piece to his appearance. 

Chuuya looked… good. Dazai’s gaze scanned back upwards to his gloved hands, then up to his face, going from his eyes to resting on his lips. Suddenly feeling his heartbeat quicken, Dazai turned back to his drink, downing it like a shot right when the man next to him turned to face the others at the counter. He felt piercing blue eyes flicking between him and the glass as he slowed his heart rate, but he said nothing.

Instead, he engaged with the other photographers, waving at them. ”Yosano-san, Kunikida-san,” he greeted them. “You two work with this guy?” Chuuya pointed at Dazai. 

“Unfortunately,” Kunikida lamented, rubbing the area between his eyes in exasperation.

“The three of us are part of the Artisan Photography Association, so yes,” Yosano explained. 

Chuuya’s gaze flitted between the three of them, a smile splitting his face. “I’m sorry for your loss, then.” 

Dazai let out a strangled sound. “Sorry for their-” he clenched his chest dramatically. “I can’t take this slander anymore. Yosano, save me!”

The woman shrugged. “You take on maybe one shoot every month at most, and the only reason why you’re still alive and employed is from how much people are willing to pay you,” she points out. “If it were anyone else, they’d call that a scam.”

“It certainly sounds like a scam,” Chuuya remarks, deadpanned, glaring at Dazai. “Might as well ask someone else to be the photographer. It’ll be cheaper and less headache inducing.”

“Hey, if we’re talking headache inducing, just look at Kunikida over there,” Dazai pointed a thumb back towards him, grinning. “He has a track record of being insufferable to his models with his ideas.” 

“I told you, my ideas-” Kunikida was about to protest, only to get nudged by Yosano, who was staring at the scene in front of them with great interest. 

Chuuya mirrored his grin, crossing his arms. “You say that, but in the couple times I’ve worked with him, his planning only made the shoot incredibly smooth and quick.” 

“I could’ve done better,” Dazai pouted, turning his nose up petulantly. “Chuuya should do a shoot with me instead. I can’t believe you worked with these two but not me!”

“I can. If you weren’t so lazy, you might’ve been able to,” Kunikida muttered under his breath, Yosano stifling her laughter. Dazai pointedly decided to ignore that statement, keeping his attention on Chuuya. 

“I remember your photos from high school,” the redhead turned away, nursing his wine. “They were… nothing special,” he stated, though his voice slightly wavered near the end.

Of course, Dazai was going to exploit that.

“Nothing special, you say? Chuuya, Chuuya, must you be so mean to me? I thought you said you loved them,” Dazai whined, leaning back in his seat and closing his eyes, his previous pout returning. “And here I thought we had something special going on back then.”

“Something special?” Yosano echoed, her eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“It’s not like that!” Chuuya quickly retorted, the tips of his ears reddening at the suggestion. Before Dazai could make another remark, he earned another slap on his shoulder in warning. 

Dazai rubbed the area with a soft whimper. Seriously, can’t his shoulders get a break tonight? “See? Chuuya’s such a brute,” he complained, his pout only deepening. 

“Oh, please. I didn’t even hit you that hard.” 

“Did too!”

“Gods, you’re still such a baby with pain,” he lifted a hand as if to reach over, but decided otherwise, folding his hand in his lap. 

Dazai’s voice reached a higher octave, his tone petulant. “Chuuya remembered, but still did it?”

Chuuya paused, briefly spacing out before swiveling back to face forward, taking a long drink out of his glass. “Tch, of course I remembered.”

A silence befell the bar, Kunikida finally having enough and excusing himself to the restroom while Yosano called the bartender over for a refill. There was a slight electricity in the air, most prominently surrounding the two men currently avoiding each other’s gazes. 

Yosano cleared her throat. “So, you two went to high school together?” She attempts to strike up another conversation. 

Chuuya nodded. “Yeah. Don’t know what happened, but we ended up having multiple shared classes each year as well,” he rolled his eyes. 

“The counselors knew that Chuuya couldn’t handle being in a class without me,” Dazai teased. 

“As if! You took advanced physics just to mess with me in our last year! And you know what?” He turned to Yosano, pointing an accusatory finger at Dazai. “Despite coming to class late every day, not caring about the subjects, and never studying, he was top of the class! It’s not fair!” 

“Chuuya is just jealous of my great intellect,” Dazai smirked, swirling the glass in his hand. “That’s what happens when you have the brain capacity of a slug.” 

“I was second in the class below you, the fuck do you mea-”

“What’s that? Chibi’s willingly admitting he is worse than me?” Dazai rested his arm on the back of his chair, peering down at Chuuya. 

Chuuya’s face contorted into an uncharacteristic pout. “It’s just a fact,” he muttered, abruptly ending the argument and directing his attention back to Yosano, who was now scanning Dazai with suspicion in her eyes. “Anyway, I was stuck with this insufferable bastard for a few years.” 

“And you never mentioned you two were friends?” Yosano poked Dazai’s shoulder in the spot Chuuya hurt earlier. 

“I wouldn’t really call it friends-” Dazai started.

“Dazai...” her tone reeked of disappointment as he evaded the question.

“What? It’s true!”

Chuuya shook his head, running a hand over his face. “It’s fine. It’s not like we talked after our last year anyway,” he said bitterly, glancing at Dazai. 

“Oh? Did Chuuya miss me?” Dazai tipped his head to the side, pushing down the uneasy feeling in his gut. 

Before Chuuya could retort, Kunikida returned to the counter, glancing between the three of them warily before sitting down. 

The reply never came. Instead, Chuuya finished his glass, a red flush high on his cheeks. Dazai watched as he pushed himself out of his seat, making his way to the restroom with a dark look on his face. 

Of course, Dazai had to follow, giving a small wave to the two photographers before strolling alongside the model. 

The restroom was empty when they entered, Dazai leaning against the door expectantly as Chuuya stopped in his tracks to face him. “Why did you disappear after we graduated?” he questioned Dazai, crossing his arms. 

“So, Chuuya really did-”

“I’m not playing your games today. Answer my fucking question,” Chuuya snapped, taking a step forward. 

Dazai took a step forward as well, their bodies mere inches from each other. “And what if I don’t?” he tipped his head, his voice losing all warmth. 

The model didn’t budge, returning his cold gaze. Suddenly, Dazai was pushed against the door, held up by his collar. “I thought you were dead, Dazai,” he gritted out, his voice quiet. A leg pushed between his knees, effectively trapping him in place. “I thought you tried one of your little tricks again and succeeded.”

“Wouldn’t that have been nice,” Dazai sneered, looking down into narrowed blue eyes. “I almost wish it happened like that,” he continued nonchalantly. 

The response he received was a punch in the face.

“You bastard!” Chuuya’s voice raised in volume as he swung again, Dazai just barely avoiding the incoming fist with a duck of his head, ignoring the stinging on his cheek. “Don’t you fucking dare say something like that!” The next swing stopped next to his head, making contact on the door. “I kept waiting for anything. A call, a text, a break into my room, anything. Anything to show you were alive.”

“And I got nothing. You never answered my calls or texts, I never saw your stupid, shitty fish face climb in through my window,” Chuuya was trembling, but his voice stayed steady. Dazai's eyes were blown wide, not expecting this turn, a hand unconsciously raising. “I...” Chuuya shook his head, his voice finally cracking. The words never came out, but Dazai understood anyway. 

Dazai looked around helplessly, a lump stuck in his throat preventing any words from being said. Instead, he did the first thing he could think of. His hand reached up to the one on his collar, taking hold of Chuuya’s wrist. Chuuya's other hand went to grasp Dazai’s free wrist in return, his head falling onto his chest in defeat as he pressed into the pulse point through the bandages, relaxing upon feeling the thrumming heartbeat. 

A familiar gesture to both of them, and Dazai’s convoluted form of an apology. Every time Dazai woke up in the hospital after one of his failed suicide attempts, Chuuya would be there, a hand clasped around his wrist to feel his heartbeat.

“Your heart’s beating fast,” Chuuya murmured into his chest, head tilted down to hide his face. 

Dazai scoffed, just as defeated. He stopped trying to control it the moment he got up from his seat. “Yours is too,” he remarks. 

“I hate you, shitty Dazai.”

“Let go of me, then.”

He didn’t let go. If anything, he pressed them closer together, eyes squeezed shut as the grip on Dazai’s wrist tightened. And Dazai let him, pulling him their bodies flush together, a small, genuine smile tugging at the edges of his lips. 

“Chuuya.”

He heard a soft hum in response. 

Dazai took a deep breath. “I’ll tell you if you want to know what happened, just...” he paused, feeling Chuuya tense. “Not now,” his tone softened. The head below him turned to the side, Chuuya’s ear resting on top of his chest where his heart is and closing his eyes. 

Just this once, he ignored the sudden moisture through his shirt, seeping in right above his bandages. They stood there in silence, content to feel the other’s presence, knowing the moment they open the door, their masks will go back up. 

When they finally return to the counter, their hands have separated, no indication of the previous events, save for Chuuya’s slightly glassy eyes. Yosano and Kunikida were deep in conversation, stopping abruptly upon seeing the two approach. 

“You two were gone for a while,” Yosano remarked, scanning them both inquisitively. “Had a lot to talk about?”

“You could say that,” the redhead stated, slinking back to his seat and signaling to the bartender, avoiding everyone’s gazes. “Another one, please.”

“What were you two talking about?” Dazai chipped in before they could ask anything else. “Kunikida had that face when you were talking. Keep making it, and you’ll get premature wrinkles,” he added, gesturing between his eyebrows. 

Kunikida pointedly ignored the last comment. “We were talking about Atsushi-kun's next project,” he explained gruffly, pushing up his glasses. “He’s still pretty new to the industry, yet he’s already doing cover pages for big magazines like Vogue,” he glared at Dazai. “You know, the one you turned down and pushed off to him?” 

“Did you say Atsushi? Is it Nakajima Atsushi?” Chuuya interjected, leaning in towards them. “I have a shoot with him for Vogue in three days.”

“Oh, so you were the model in the report?" Dazai rested his head on his hand, grimacing. 

Kunikida sighed. “It was literally written inside, if you had bothered to read, Dazai.” 

“Sorry, I don’t read unimportant stuff,” Dazai shrugged nonchalantly. 

“As Atsushi-kun’s mentor, you should know what work you’re giving him,” he lectured. 

Dazai hummed, his eyes unfocused. “Yeah, I guess Chuuya really is a piece of work.” 

“Oi, what’s that supposed to mean, Ma-” 

“Maybe I should’ve picked it up instead,” Dazai interrupted Chuuya, opening up his contacts list. “Now, Kunikida, Yosano, Slug, if you may excuse me, I must make a call,” he got out of his seat with a flourish before sauntering out of the bar, ignoring the confused glances and glares sent to his back. 

Hearing the door shut behind him, Dazai breathed in the autumn air. The sun had completely set by now, leaving the surroundings to be illuminated by the streetlights and headlights of passing cars. 

This is a terrible idea, Dazai thought, pressing Atsushi’s contact. The last times Chuuya had worked with the APA, he’d been happy to overlook the requests, discreetly putting them into Yosano and Kunikida’s requests instead. He was supposed to do the same with Atsushi this time around. 

I just need to make sure Chuuya remembers who got him into modeling, he rationalized, pressing the call button. That’s all there is to it. 

There’s no other reason.

Five rings, and the call connects. 

“Dazai-san?” Atsushi’s voice rang from the other end. “Did something happen? Do you need anything?”

“Oh, no, nothing’s wrong,” Dazai smoothly reassured him. “It’s just, you know the Vogue shoot in three days I gave you?” 

“…Yeah, what about it?”

Dazai paused, glancing at the window to catch a glimpse of the redhead. “I don’t think this is the right shoot for you,” he said carefully. 

“Really? Why?” Atsushi asked, confused. “You said it’d be a good opportunity to test my skills.” 

“Well, I’ve done some thinking, and…” Dazai shifted his weight from where he stood. “I don’t think Chuuya will display your strengths as a photographer.” 

Which is complete nonsense – Chuuya can work with just about anyone and knows what to do for every set of pictures, but Atsushi doesn’t know that. He tends to be a more passive photographer, afraid to give direct orders to the models despite knowing what he wants out of a project. 

“Oh…” the reply was quiet, dejected. 

Dazai reminds himself to get something nice for Atsushi (with Kunikida’s wallet, of course). “Fret not, my dear apprentice. In fact, I happen to know a model who’d be a perfect fit for your style,” he stated with a light tone. 

“Even better than Nakahara-san?”

“Even better than the chibi, yes.”

“Wait, do you already know Nakaha-”

Dazai cut him off. “So, you’re okay if I take the Vogue shoot in your place, right?” 

“I mean, sure, but-”

“Perfect! Could you handle the paperwork? Thanks!” He hung up abruptly, a smug grin spreading across his face. 

Oh, this is going to be so much fun.

Chapter Text

And the touch of a hand lit the fuse

Of a chain reaction of countermoves

To assess the equation of you.

Checkmate, I couldn’t lose.

It was a great day, really. 

Clear skies, the slight morning breeze, along with the picturesque falling red maple leaves littering the sidewalk. 

Dazai hummed as he strolled to the studio, hands tucked in his pockets and bag of equipment slung from his shoulder. 

It was a perfect day, and it was about to get even better as he opened the studio’s doors with a big smile, and-

“What the fuck are you doing here?” an angry voice exclaimed. 

Ah, yes, he placed his hands on his hips triumphantly, meeting Chuuya’s gaze. Music to his ears. 

“Why, I'm here to do my job,” he smirked, ignoring the curious whispers of the APA assistants around them and scanning his surroundings. The set has been mostly prepared by now, umbrella lights already set up and brown wallpaper pulled down. Chuuya stood at the edge of the set next to a familiar face. 

“Hirotsu! It’s been a while!” Dazai sang, sauntering over to them. “I see you’re stuck with Chuuya now.”

Hirotsu dipped his head politely. “Dazai-kun. It’s good to see you again. Your work after you left modeling is beautiful.”

“Why, thank you, but-”

“Where is Atsushi-kun?” Chuuya crossed his arms impatiently. “I thought he was supposed to be the photographer today.”

“There’s been a change in plans,” Dazai waved him off. “I’ll be taking over the shoot today.”

Chuuya glared at Dazai. “And it has to be you, because…?” 

Dazai fake pouted, pushing his bottom lip out. “Does Chuuya not trust in my abilities?” he asked, wiping away nonexistent tears.

“No, that’s not what I-” Chuuya raised his hands up in defeat, taking a deep breath to compose himself. “Whatever. I’m going to get changed now,” he announced before walking off to the dressing room. 

Leaving him with Hirotsu. His former manager. 

“Dazai-kun,” Hirotsu started. “The boss asked me to inform you that-”

“I don’t care about whatever offer Mori has,” Dazai interrupted him coldly. “I’m not going back to modeling, and I’m definitely not returning to the Port Mafia.” 

The older man sighed, as if he’d expected this answer. “I see,” he replied, glancing in the direction Chuuya left. “I was surprised when he assigned me to Nakahara-kun,” he began. “It was a few months after you left.” 

“Really? I’m not.” Dazai set his bag on a nearby chair, rustling through it. “He knew about Chuuya long before I left. Of course he’d want to utilize him somehow,” he added bitterly. He grabbed his camera and looked up at Hirotsu. “And you would’ve been a perfect piece in his puzzle too.” 

“You know I respect you greatly, but I must ask that you don’t speak of the boss like that,” Hirotsu said sternly. 

“What is he going to do?” Dazai’s grin turned sinister. “Force me to come back? Make the ones I care about suffer from my actions?” He let out an empty laugh, his eyes not leaving his former manager’s. “Been there, done that.” 

“Why did you take over this photoshoot after knowing Nakahara-kun would be the model, then?”

Why, indeed, the photographer mused to himself, though his cold gaze sent only one message: Drop it.

His mood now thoroughly soured, Dazai took the time to check his camera settings once more, taking the transmitter for the lights from a staff member and attaching it to the top of his camera. Hirotsu had disappeared, presumably to check up on Chuuya. 

The next few minutes went by in a blur, going between adjusting small pieces of the set to testing out the studio lights, one of the two tinted to orange as he adjusted the strength of the flash. Someone passed him a water bottle, which he gratefully accepted after turning off the model lights. While helpful during the photoshoot, they tend to make the surrounding area quite warm.

The Vogue photoshoot was going to double as a designer brand advertisement, so they decided to leave the cover photo for last. For such a big part of the magazine, the covers are incredibly simplistic, made to show off the model more than anything else. Luckily, it makes for an easy second half of a session, the furniture and other props no longer needed. 

I should check up on Chuuya, Dazai mused, heading towards the dressing room. He absentmindedly plucked an unopened water bottle and straw off a table as he went, tucking them into his jacket’s inside pocket. 

Not bothering to knock, he entered the room to find the redhead sitting by the mirror jumping at the sudden intrusion, his manager nowhere to be found. Haruno, the makeup artist, didn’t even react other than pushing his face back into position, having long gotten used to Dazai’s antics. 

How disappointing.

 “Chuuya!” he sang, sauntering over to stand behind his chair, peering into the mirror’s reflection. “Hello to you too, Haruno,” he added, winking. 

“Don’t you know how to knock?” Chuuya sighed, shifting in his seat.

Haruno tsked, tilting his head up again. “Stay still,” she ordered. “I don’t want to mess up your eyeliner.” 

“I had to make sure Chuuya didn’t drown in all the clothes given to him,” Dazai grinned, leaning on the back of his seat. “They must’ve gone through great lengths to make such microscopic outfits for my little dog.” 

Haruno had better be glad she finished his first eye, because Chuuya whipped around, seething. “The fuck did you just call me?”

“Oh, did Chuuya forget?” His eyes widened innocently. “I thought dogs always remembered their masters.” 

“You-”

“Dazai, out!” Haruno snapped, pointing her finger at the door. “We’ll be ready in five minutes, just don’t bother us anymore.” 

The photographer raised his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. Everyone’s so cold today,” he whined. Reaching into his pockets, he set the water bottle and straw onto the makeup counter next to Chuuya and left without a word. 

He caught sight of Hirotsu talking to one of the assistants by the extra props but paid him no mind. Best case scenario: he won’t have to talk to him again today. To kill the time, Dazai whipped out his phone, checking his messages and socials. Turns out that Yosano finished editing her session with Kouyou, posting the results and tagging the model. 

Scrolling through the pictures, he gave a quiet hum of approval. Leave it to Yosano to create photos that send chills down your spine. 

Footsteps signaled someone approaching behind him. “Is that Kouyou’s last photoshoot?” Chuuya peered over from his side curiously. “She looks... terrifying,” he grimaced. “A good, very sexy terrifying, but terrifying nonetheless.”

“That’s Yosano’s work for you,” Dazai said with a small laugh. “I thought you worked with her before?”

Chuuya pursed his lips. “Well, yes, but it wasn’t nearly as dramatic as her other works,” he responded. “I think she went easy on me since I don’t usually do...” he cleared his throat, gesturing to his phone. “That.”

Well, if he didn’t have enough posing ideas for Chuuya already, he definitely gained a few now. He could almost see it now, Chuuya posed at the edge of a sofa under a red gelled light, black dress shirt half unbuttoned and slightly off one shoulder, eyes half lidded and directed towards the camera with a seductive smile, and-

That is not what they were doing right now. Dazai ignored the heat rushing to his face, opting to beckon Chuuya over to the set, making sure he stayed at least a step ahead of the model. “Let’s get started!” Dazai clapped his hands together, picking his camera up from the nearby table. 

The photoshoot begins. Chuuya is seated in a maroon, velvet armchair slightly angled towards the camera, his elbow resting on the matching round table next to him. The set was incredibly warm toned, with the brown wallpaper and furniture accentuating his fiery hair and complimenting his blue eyes. 

Following the theme, he was dressed in a mostly brown ensemble, an elaborate blazer embroidered with gold and pink flower accents draped over a white dress shirt and black tie being the star of the show. For added contrast of the tones, gold accented black gloves were fitted over his hands. 

His makeup was kept relatively simple, black winged eyeliner accentuating his eyes and a red tint added to the center of his lips, giving them a slightly pouted look. 

The orange strobe light was situated to the right behind Chuuya, the model light casting a glow around his frame. An uncolored light stood by a crouched Dazai, the white light hitting his cheekbone.

Dazai peered into the viewfinder, eyes narrowed in focus. “Hold your position, but cross your right leg over your left. Your left hand can stay in your lap,” he ordered. Chuuya complied without any complaint, his head tipping slightly to the side as he peered into the camera. 

The photographer hummed in approval, taking a few snaps at slightly different angles, and then gestured at Chuuya to continue. 

The minutes after that went by in a blur as Chuuya immediately started changing his poses, moving only one or two points at a time. Apart from the sound of the shutter and the lights setting off, it was completely silent, the two moving in a dance of their own as everyone stood by and watched. 

Occasionally, Dazai would lift a hand for a position to be held if he saw one he particularly liked, but they quickly moved back into the flow afterwards, the model’s movements becoming freer and looser with every shot. 

At one point, the chair was shifted to face the table, both of Chuuya’s arms propped on it and gloved hands lightly clasped together as he leaned in, the glow of orange flashing through the spaces from Dazai’s hastily barked instructions to the assistants. 

Dazai paused after a shot, meeting the model’s gaze. He was completely in his role, his eyes striking and lips slightly parted. 

This synchrony of movements, the fluidity in which they moved together… he hasn’t experienced this in years. He broke their gaze, pointing it towards the camera below him instead. 

“Are we done?” Chuuya asked, noting the lowered camera. The photographer didn’t register the question, staying completely silent. “…Dazai?” The sound of movement pulled him out of his stupor as Chuuya leaned towards him inquisitively. 

When he looked up again, he saw the redhead staring at him, a head rested on his palm. “Are we done?” he asked again, his lips curving into a small smirk. 

Suddenly feeling a little vulnerable, Dazai flashed one of his own, playfully lifting his camera for one more picture of an unsuspecting Chuuya, relishing in how his expression contorted into one of surprise. “For now,” he breathed, pushing himself up to his feet and turning to everyone else. “Alright, let’s take 10! Could we take the table out of the frame and prepare another orange light too?” 

Immediately, Haruno had Chuuya beckoned to the side for some quick touch-ups, handing him the water bottle from before. The rest of the crew worked quickly to resituate the set, removing the table but keeping the chair, adjusting it so it was right at the center. 

Meanwhile, Dazai took the time to sift through the photos, mentally noting which ones were the most promising. As goes with all photoshoots, there were some duds, be it from the timing of the shutter or the lights not going off, but he kept them anyways. 

He especially liked the ones where he caught Chuuya at the wrong time. They'll be a great addition to his folder from years ago. 

Eventually, he made it back to the final photo, and he couldn’t hold back the laugh, his eyes glimmering in amusement. The way he was slightly straightened up in alarm, his eyes wide and mouth open, the hint of the previous smirk still there. 

Now, this was his favorite photo. Screw the rest of the past twenty minutes, this one was his favorite. 

“Oi, what’s so funny?” Chuuya walked up to him, arms crossed. The suit jacket from earlier was now worn properly, arms through the sleeves and jacket secured at his front. 

Not bothering to hide his grin, he turned the preview towards the model. “Chuuya looks adorable here!” he beamed. 

“Wh-” he sputtered, turning away with a hand over his mouth and... was he blushing? 

The Nakahara Chuuya, Japan’s most famous model, was blushing from his words. 

Oh, today is the best day of his life. 

Dazai’s grin stretched even wider. “I bet everyone would love it if this ended up as one of the final pictures,” he teased, waving his camera around. 

“Don’t you fucking dare!” Chuuya whipped around, pointing a finger at him. 

“But-”

“No.”

“Chibi...” Dazai pouted, pushing his bottom lip out. 

“Don’t,” Chuuya’s eyes narrowed.

“You look so cute!”

“I will end you right here.”

“I’m just saying, you really live up to your name!” Dazai’s façade began to break, his pout dissipating into a lighter expression as their eyes met. 

Two heartbeats, and the air was lit with a series of laughter from both ends, Dazai curling in on himself while Chuuya hid his own behind a gloved hand. Curious whispers from the assistants could be heard, but that wasn’t anything new. They've been doing it all day. 

And quite frankly, Dazai was enjoying the air of mystery brought with the two of them. 

The laughter subsided, Dazai wiping away a tear from his eyes with the back of his hand. When he looked up again, Chuuya was closer, standing by his side and mirroring his stance. 

Immediately, Dazai lowered the camera, handing it to the model so he could see the screen. 

Together, they went through the photos once more, occasionally stopping to make a small jab at the other person or observe a picture more closely, their heads gradually moving closer towards each other. 

Dazai watched his reactions, taking in the minute details of his face changing with every image. A small part of the lips, a furrow in his brow, the way his eyes lit up when he saw a picture he liked.

How eventually, once they reached the end again, his lips had been pressed into a smile. 

For a moment, everything fell away, and they were up on a rooftop again, standing together and sifting through their pictures during the sunset after school. They were on the beach, precariously holding the camera above the incoming waves as they sat on the shore. 

From Chuuya’s faraway look, no longer focused on the camera, Dazai wonders if he was thinking of that too. 

“Nakahara-kun, Dazai-kun,” Hirotsu approached them, head slightly dipped in apology. “I apologize for the interruption, but it’s been nearly fifteen minutes. We should continue the photoshoot.” 

It was then when they realized how close they had gotten, their arms slightly brushing. Chuuya just about jolted away from the photographer, taking a couple steps away as they returned to the present, their respective masks slipping back on.

Dazai pushed past his old manager, flashing everyone a lazy smile – the definition of indifference. “Alright, let’s get back to it.” He reached towards his side instinctively, only to be met with empty air. 

A loud sigh resounded behind the photographer; a weight being pressed into his hand. “Forgot something?” Chuuya smirked, only letting go once he was sure the camera wouldn’t be dropped. 

Dazai could only gape as the model continued walking without another word, stopping to sit down in the set’s armchair. 

“It seems you live up to your own name too, Mackerel,” Chuuya called, crossing his legs and leaning forward, smug. “Close that damn mouth of yours before something flies in.”

“You slug! You stinky, slimy, slug!” Dazai fumed, taking his own position by the light. “Dogs should give items back to their owner when asked for it!”

“Except, you didn’t ask,” Chuuya pointed out, amusement glimmering in his gaze. “Never took you as the forgetful type.” 

Dazai straightened up, his grip on the camera slightly tightening. “Just you wait,” he began, holding his camera up threateningly. “I’m going to get the most ridiculous pictures of you now!” 

“Dazai…” Hirotsu warned, cutting through their banter. 

The photographer shot him an unimpressed glare. “Fine, fine,” he sighed. “Shall we?” His gaze met Chuuya’s, a silent challenge. 

Chuuya only responded with a sinister smirk, readying himself for instructions. 

“This’ll be a quick round. Go back to the starting position of the previous round and we’ll take it from there.” 

“Like this?” Chuuya shifted himself into position, leaning an elbow on the armrest. 

Dazai scanned the scene, his eyes narrowed as he pinpointed the issue. “Hm… try a wider stance? Maybe rest your head on your propped arm and rest your other elbow on the other armrest?”

Chuuya complied, also shifting his right leg so it rested atop his left thigh, creating a balance in the angles. Rather than resting his head on the back of his left hand, he moved it so it was slightly above his chin, brushing his bottom lip. 

The photographer went to quickly adjust the lights, the now three light setup consisting of two orange and one white light. Each of the orange lights were positioned to the sides of the set for a subtle glow, the uncolored light now the only one connected to the camera’s flash. 

In the end, the pictures went by quickly, only taking a few minutes once all the lights were sufficiently positioned. 

Dazai watched from the side as Chuuya received some quick touch ups while the crew was taking care of the set, adjusting the height of the lights and taking out the chair so the area was left empty.

If you had told teenage Dazai that years later, he’d be behind the camera for good and still photographing Chuuya, he might’ve laughed in your face or walked away. Or both. 

Despite him throwing himself into today’s session, there’s this surrealism that comes with seeing him get pulled to the side by a chiding Haruno as she powdered any places where the lights have messed with the makeup. 

The surrealism that comes with doing something he swore to himself he’d never do again. 

“Dazai. Everything is ready now,” Haruno called from where she stood. 

Dazai lifted a hand in acknowledgement before returning to the set. Magazine covers tend to be rather simplistic in the setting, usually consisting of only the model and occasionally a seat. The star of the cover should be the model, and luckily for Dazai, his current model will make it an easy task. 

However, something in the air had changed overtime. Everyone could feel it – the way the air seemed to electrify every time their gazes met, with every gesture shared between them. By now, it was suffocating, yet for the duo, it only seemed to tame their behavior. 

Everything fell away as they silently went through the motions, starting with full body shots, relying on each other’s body language to gauge what the other was thinking. Every once in a while, the model would pause, holding his position to allow the photographer to come closer. 

It was a dance to a song only they knew. 

Once the photoshoot drew to a close, Dazai was putting his camera away when a voice interrupted him.

“Oi, Dazai!” Chuuya made his way over, phone in hand.

Dazai eyed it curiously but said nothing, waiting for the redhead to speak. 

“I realized we never exchanged contact information after meeting at Lupin the other day,” he explained. “I’ve had your old number, but you never answered anything, so you probably got a new number, right?”

“...Oh,” Dazai breathed, looking at the phone blankly. 

“What do you mean, oh?” Chuuya turned away, the tips of his ears slightly reddened. 

“Chuuya’s asking for my number?” Dazai smirked, plucking the phone out of his grasp to type in his number before handing it back. “I’m flattered.”

“I just want to make sure you-” Chuuya read the phone number, his jaw slightly dropping. “Huh? This is the same number!” 

Dazai grinned haughtily. “Of course, it is. I never changed it.”

“So, all the calls and voicemails I sent... you just ignored them?” Chuuya asked incredulously. Dazai could almost see the smoke coming out of his ears. 

The photographer shrugged. “I wouldn’t say I ignored them,” he drawled. 

“You’re impossible,” Chuuya sighed, too tired to deal with his antics. “Whatever, I shouldn’t have expected anything else,” he muttered. 

“No, you shouldn’t have,” is what Dazai wanted to reply, but the response got stuck in his throat.

“Hey, Dazai,” Chuuya looked up at him, his hands tightly clasped together. “This was... fun. Felt like old times, y’know?” 

And no, his heart was not spiraling out of control because of how soft the man in front of him said those words, because the photographer has to keep up appearances. “Aw, is the chibi getting all sentimental?” he teased, crossing his arms. 

“Never mind, then,” Chuuya whipped around, gesturing for Hirotsu to go with him. “Fuck you and your photography, shitty Dazai!” he called back. 

“I’m sure you’d love to, pipsqueak!” 

Chuuya flipped him off in response as he walked out of the studio, laughter ringing from both ends. 

“Why did you take over this photoshoot after knowing Nakahara-kun would be the model?” Hirotsu’s question from earlier rang in his mind. 

Admittedly, Dazai didn’t have an answer at that time, but looking at the model’s retreating frame, some started to formulate. 

Because it’s fun.

Because it’s Chuuya. 

Because it’ll be like old times. 

Because, finally, he was done playing Mori’s games. 

And maybe, just maybe, because he wished he could’ve picked up those frantic calls instead of treading the line between life and death for a week straight. 

Chapter Text

If you fail to plan, you plan to fail.

Strategy sets the scene for the tale.

I'm the wind in our free-flowing sails

And the liquor in our cocktails.

Nearly two months have passed since their first time working together, and to say the other Artisan Photography Agency’s workers are impressed with Dazai is the understatement of the century. 

Not because of his photos (though the ones from the Vogue photoshoot circulated social media platforms for a good week), and not because he finally did some work. 

No, they’re impressed because ever since that day, more requests involving Chuuya piled in, and Dazai Osamu always ended up as the photographer credited on Chuuya’s social media posts. 

They’re impressed by the determination and sheer audacity of him to pick up every request sent to the agency where Chuuya was the model and the lengths he would go to if they were initially requesting someone else. 

For example, that photoshoot for Chuuya’s designer choker and watch combo? Bought the best, most expensive wine on the market for Yosano. Turns out it wasn’t really her style, and she was going to ask him to take over, but out of the goodness of his heart (and to distract her from asking questions), he gave it to her anyway. 

Dazai did end up giving Atsushi a job suiting his strengths and watched in amusement as he and the model got along like oil and water. Akutagawa Ryuunosuke brought out sides to his pupil he’d never seen before. 

Yet, strangely, whenever he ended up in a request, even if Chuuya was there too, Atsushi would ask Dazai if he would like Chuuya’s, opting to take Akutagawa’s instead. 

It seems he took a page out of Dazai’s book in that sense too.

Most recently, he told a stubborn Kunikida that if he passed a session to Dazai, he would do all the paperwork necessary. Paperwork. Everyone thought they were hallucinating when he said that. They even checked the security cameras and kept the footage as a record of this historic moment. 

Fans even began speculating whether if there was something going on between the former model and Japan’s national treasure. After all, it’s not often you see the same photographer so consistently, and even less often to see Dazai’s work so frequently. 

Neither side confirmed nor denied anything, but the APA crew working with the two during the photoshoots can attest that there is definitely… something between them. As for what it is, they cannot answer that. 

The events always play out the same – Dazai walks in, Chuuya stares in disbelief, and then they switch between nonstop bickering and focused silence with complete synchronization. A strange tension would build around them before they went their separate ways without even a spare glance. Rinse and repeat. 

Today, however, that pattern would be broken. 

Dazai was gathering his things, ready to leave after a long day of photographing Chuuya… and waiting for him to get his makeup done.

With winter right around the corner, there was bound to be more work coming to the agency. This included product advertisements, new releases, and most likely the most time consuming of all: various abstract costume designs and makeup. In other words, a perfect time for someone as experimental as Kunikida. 

Too bad this time around, Dazai crashed the party. 

Despite not actually being needed until hours later, Dazai arrived at the studio when Chuuya’s makeup began, unceremoniously dropping himself into the dressing room until the makeup artist had enough of his antics, kicking him out after not even 10 minutes. 

It took them two hours to get him ready.

This session was mostly to show off makeup and accessories from a winter collection, adorning the model in elaborate headdresses and necklaces with graphic makeup.

Streaks of white were added to Chuuya’s hair, adding to the “little snow fairy” look, as Dazai called it when he saw the result of hours of work. 

The only thing keeping Chuuya from beating him up was the memory of the unbearably long process to get everything situated. 

Luckily, getting everything off was much easier.

Dazai was pulling the door open to quietly leave when a voice called him back. 

“Oi, Mackerel!” Chuuya stalked up to the photographer, stopping a couple feet away. 

Surprised, Dazai turned around, a tease at the tip of his tongue before he saw his expression. 

On the surface, Chuuya looked completely composed, his hands in his pockets with an open posture. However, Dazai knows everything is hidden in the model’s micro-expressions, in the way his brows are slightly furrowed, how he seems to be breathing slightly deeper than normal from the rise and fall of his shoulders, to how his lips were pressed somewhere in between a grimace and a pout, eyes not completely focused on Dazai. 

Two heartbeats, and the model abruptly pushes past Dazai. “Actually, never mind. It's nothing,” he states, pulling his hat down to hide his face as he leaves. 

Dazai stared at his retreating figure, confused. His mind replayed the past fifteen seconds, attempting to connect the dots. 

Was Chuuya... flustered? Dazai wonders, leaving and briskly walking in the direction Chuuya went. He sees a flash of red round around the corner and his walk turns into a jog, one arm tucked around his duffel bag of equipment. 

He slowed himself down once the redhead was within reach, taking a few moments to get his heart rate back down. Chuuya definitely noticed his presence by now – he probably knew once Dazai started running, but he kept at his steady pace, not even glancing back. 

The late autumn sunset bathed their surroundings in an orange glow, and eventually, Dazai quickened his pace until they walked side by side. Did he have any idea where they were going? No, but he doubted Chuuya would take them somewhere dangerous, especially considering his popularity. Dazai’s too, by extension. 

It reminds him of their school days. Everything reminded him of their school days, but their silent walks to and from school were a good change of pace, considering how busy Dazai was with modeling. 

On the days where they couldn’t walk together, like when he had a session right after school, Chuuya would lead them on a detour the day after, prolonging the walk to make up for the lost time. One time, they stopped by a bridge and watched the sunset and passing boats together. 

Another time, it was snowing, and Chuuya suddenly fell behind. When Dazai turned around, the first thing he saw was a snowball flying towards his face, followed by cheerful laughter as it inevitably devolved into a snowball fight.

He woke up with a cold the next morning, and Chuuya skipped school to take care of him, feeding him soup he made while endlessly apologizing for getting him sick. He probably apologized more that day than the rest of their years together combined. 

Now, years later, Dazai still lets Chuuya take the lead, simply following him wherever he goes. It's funny, really. For someone who claims the other is their dog, they sure do follow them around a lot. 

Chuuya leads them to an elaborate apartment complex, stopping by the entrance to the reception. He looked at Dazai expectantly, his expression unreadable. 

Yeah, he was going to make Dazai speak first after leading them here. He rolled his eyes at the redhead’s stubbornness. “It’s rude to leave people hanging, you know,” he drawled, scanning the surroundings. The place was relatively tucked away from the city, allowing for more privacy.  

Chuuya huffed, crossing his arms. “It’s also rude to follow people to their homes, is it not?” he shot back, though the soft smile signified there was no bite to the statement. 

Dazai gestured to the apartment. “Is this what you wanted to ask me earlier? How scandalous of you,” he smirked. “At least take me out for dinner first.”

“You- that’s not what I meant!” Chuuya’s face heated up as he shook his head violently. “It’s just that we haven’t seen each other outside of work since we met again, and...” his voice trailed off as he furrowed his brows, thinking of how to continue. 

“There are things we need to talk about,” Dazai finished for him, the playfulness in his eyes gone. 

“You don’t have to talk about anything that happened,” Chuuya quickly reassured him before continuing. “But I thought it’d be nice to catch up, y’know?” His eyes darted to the side – a sign of nervousness, Dazai noted. 

It’s true that they’ve barely talked outside of work, save for the few messages sent to each other, but even then, it was nowhere near what they had before. 

“If you don’t want to, that’s oka-”

“Alright, let’s go,” Dazai interrupted, willing his face to stay neutral. 

Chuuya froze, not expecting that response. “Oh,” he breathed. “Okay. Um, just follow me, then,” he set off to the door, holding it open for Dazai to pass through. 

As he walked past, a slight tug on his jacket stopped him in his tracks. “And about the dinner, I'll just make it instead,” he said, his voice now silky smooth. “Sounds good?”

His throat suddenly dry, Dazai nodded. “Yeah,” he croaked, clearing his throat. “That sounds good.”

Within a few minutes, Dazai was promptly sat down at the kitchen counter – because there was no way in hell that Chuuya would let him touch any of the ingredients – and watched as the model smoothly made his way through the kitchen, collecting ingredients and chopping them with a practiced finesse. 

Without anything else to do, Dazai swiveled around in his chair, taking in his surroundings. It was a decently sized place, with two bedrooms, one bathroom, and a generous amount of space for the kitchen and living area. There was a sofa facing a television on the other side of the room, the walls lined with bookshelves and other trinkets. 

There wasn’t anything particularly grand about the place, but every item carried the essence of the owner. Dazai remembered his bedroom back then was like that too – meticulously organized while carrying his identity in the items placed around his space. It seems that it spread to the entire apartment too. 

A familiar sound brings his attention back to his (self-proclaimed) personal chef, watching as he took a tin of canned crab out of the cabinet above him. 

“What are you making?” Dazai finally asks, now sitting up straight. 

Chuuya glances behind him, amused. “Crab fried rice,” he answers before turning back to the wok, adding in the minced garlic and diced onions first.

His head tilted in curiosity. “You still keep canned crab?” he asked. Back then, he’d only use it if he knew Dazai was coming over and his guardian was out working late. 

But this was a spontaneous invitation, wasn’t it?

“It’s useful sometimes, I guess,” Chuuya responded stiffly, taking out the garlic and onions from the wok and pouring in the eggs. “Like now. I know it’ll be hard to get you to eat something without crab in it,” he continued. Despite his back being turned, he could still see the model rolling his eyes. 

“Chuuya knows me so well,” Dazai cooed, resting his head on a hand and propping an elbow on the counter. “Maybe he should quit modeling and become a maid instead.” 

“I have a sharp knife and a very hot wok, and I am not afraid to use them,” came Chuuya’s low reply, earning a chuckle on the other hand. 

“Chuuya, Chuuya, by all means-”

“On second thought, never mind,” Chuuya retracted his statement, briefly glancing back as he took out the eggs. “You’d probably enjoy that.”

With an exaggerated sigh, Dazai slumped down onto the counter. “What a killjoy,” he sighed. 

“I hope you know I can do anything I want to your food, shitty Dazai.” 

“Would it bring Chuuya joy to kill me? You wouldn’t poison me, would you?” Dazai gasped, a hand placed dramatically on his heart.

“If it makes you shut up? Absolutely.” Chuuya fired back, his attention remaining on the stove.

A string of sizzles filled the air, signifying the addition of all the ingredients back into the wok, canned crab included. Dazai perked up at the sight as his senses were filled with the savory, umami aroma of the cooking. 

Once the food was plated and set down, Dazai attempted to rein himself in, schooling his face into what he hopes is a neutral expression while drinks and utensils were set down, Chuuya taking a seat in the stool next to him. 

“Eat before it gets cold,” Chuuya ordered. “We can talk afterwards.” 

And who was Dazai to refuse? He ignored Chuuya’s watchful gaze as he took the first bite. 

Immediately, his eyes widened. 

“Is it good?” Chuuya smirked.

“It’s disgusting,” Dazai mumbled, despite already having another spoonful at the ready. 

Chuuya was already a good cook back then, but now? It almost doesn’t feel real. 

Granted, it could be partially due to how he hasn’t eaten since last night when Atsushi dragged him out to dinner, and he didn’t take the lunch provided at the studio, but this was heavenly.

When he looked back over, Chuuya was smiling to himself. 

They ate in silence, saving all their conversation for after they finished. After they’d eaten and everything was washed, Chuuya plopped down next to Dazai on the sofa, a bottle of wine in one hand and two wine glasses in the other. 

“I’m not doing this shit completely sober,” Chuuya explained, pouring a glass for each of them and handing one to Dazai, who hastily accepted, immediately taking a couple sips. 

Wine might not be Dazai’s preferred drink, but the alcohol will definitely help in this endeavor of theirs. 

“Alright, where to start?” Chuuya sighed, looking at Dazai expectantly. 

Where to start, indeed, Dazai thought, taking a moment to ponder his options. “What have you been up to?” he ended up asking. “How did you get into modeling?” 

Chuuya laughed, crossing his legs on the sofa and facing Dazai. “What? Didn't think I'd want to become a model after being your personal one for, what, three years?” 

“I thought you wanted to study physics,” Dazai remarked. 

The model hummed noncommittally. “Yeah, I did. Even started university majoring in it. But you know what happened?” He smiled to himself as he reminisced. “Remember that kid in our grade? Albatross?”

No, not really. He never paid much attention to the people around him. “Vaguely,” is what he settles on, his brows furrowing. 

“You don’t remember, don’t you?”

“Nope!” Dazai answered, popping the ‘p’ at the end. 

“Well, we ended up going to the same university and became friends,” Chuuya explained. “One day, we were walking back to our dorms when someone scouted us on the street,” he shook his head, huffing. “Can you believe that? They just saw us and asked us to become models.” 

Dazai froze. “A Port Mafia agent just randomly came up to you?” he asked, his voice low. 

“Yes? I mean, we both thought it was sketchy at first until we saw the credentials,” Chuuya tipped his head thoughtfully. “Why? Wasn’t that how the boss found you back then?”

Yes, back when the company was on the brink of collapse. They haven’t done that in years, is what Dazai wanted to tell him. Instead, he keeps his mouth shut, waving a hand for him to continue on with his story. 

Chuuya raised a brow inquisitively, but continued. “Well, we made some friends after joining. We call ourselves The Flags,” he laughs to himself. “You know Lippmann, right? He's one of them.” 

All Dazai could do was stare at him, unimpressed. “What is it with you and obnoxiously named friend groups?” he sighed. “First The Sheep, and now The Flags? Why do they even have names?” 

“In my defense, I was not the one who chose either of those names. And the people in The Flags are miles better than The Sheep,” Chuuya pointed out. 

“Anything is better than The Sheep.” 

“You were jealous that I was spending time after school with them; don’t even go there.”

“...just continue your little story.”

Chuuya grins. “After a couple months of small jobs and schooling, I booked my first major role on the front of a magazine. The Elle one. Have you seen it?” 

“Unfortunately, yes,” Dazai sighed, downing his glass and reaching for more. “The lighting was completely off for the outfit they gave you,” he complained, settling back in his respective corner.

“Oh, shut the fuck up,” Chuuya groaned. “You were hiding away at that time; you have no right to complain.”

“I could’ve done better.”

“Then it’s a good thing you’re a photographer now, is it not?” Chuuya fired back before continuing. “Either way, I found myself enjoying modeling, so I dropped out so I could do it full time by my second year,” he finished.

“What did Adam think about that?” Dazai asked, curious.

At the mention of his guardian, he straightened up a little. “He was concerned, of course,” Chuuya began. “But in the end, he trusted me to make that decision. He was called back to work in the UK last year, but we still see each other during holidays,” he explained, a soft smile on his face. 

“That’s good,” Dazai remarked, his tone softening. Despite his initial reservations, Adam was incredibly welcoming to Dazai and treated him like one of his own when he came over. Mori may have given him a home and an opportunity to go to school, but it was under Chuuya’s roof where he felt at peace. 

Chuuya swirled the wine around in his glass, avoiding his gaze. “I think he’d be happy to see you again.” 

“You haven’t told him?”

He shrugs. “I’ve been waiting.”

“For what?”

“For this,” Chuuya tilts his glass towards Dazai, a red flush from the wine starting to tint his cheeks. “He was there after your little escapade, and it wasn’t pretty. I'd rather not bring you up immediately, for all of our sakes.” 

And, just like that, Dazai is reminded of why this conversation was even happening. He falls silent, unable to think of anything to say. 

Distantly, he hears a cup being placed down. Dazai glanced at the wine glass and back at the person in front of him. “Not having anymore?”

“I don’t want to get too carried away,” Chuuya muttered. “I don’t want to forget anything.” He laced his ungloved fingers together. “Y’know, back then, I always wondered what it’d be like to model with you,” he confessed quietly. “After you left, I just wished I could’ve modeled with you once.”

Dazai's throat clenched up. He should laugh it off, say “Of course, you would!” but all he could do was stare at the man in front of him. 

“...Dazai?” Chuuya called out to him hesitantly. 

“Do you want to know what happened?” Dazai grits out before he can think otherwise. 

Chuuya's head lifts in alarm. “You don’t have to-”

“It’s a yes or no question, Chibi,” he interrupts him, the coil in his stomach tightening. 

Three heartbeats, and then a nod. “Yeah, I do,” Chuuya admits. 

Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath in, and began. 

It was a week after they graduated from high school.

Dazai stood at the center of a bridge, looking into Yokohama Bay, recalling the conversation he had with Mori that morning. 

“Now that you’ve graduated, you should expect more jobs coming your way. No more slacking off when the public’s eyes are on you,” Mori stated, his eyes narrowing. “And no more talking to that redhead or that other model.” 

Dazai had protested, asking why that was even necessary. 

He'd gotten a blank stare, as if the reason was such an obvious thing. “Why?” he had scoffed. “Because I won’t have you tarnishing the Port Mafia’s reputation with your bad decisions. Everything you do will be monitored, and every one of your actions will reflect on everyone around you, including those you associate with.” 

“Everything I do will be monitored?” Dazai laughed bitterly. “You already monitor me. You think I never noticed?” 

“Someone has to make sure you’re not up to no good, Dazai,” Mori said, eerily calm. “Don’t want anything to happen to that boy either, right? Or that model?” 

“You leave them out of this!” Dazai snapped, his patience completely frayed. 

“You fail to acknowledge the power you hold, Dazai,” Mori lectures him, ignoring his outburst. “All of Japan’s eyes are on the country’s teen model, now fresh out of high school and with the opportunity to do more. Your actions could crush everyone around you with that level of scrutiny.”

Dazai gazed out to the waves, scoffing.

Power? As if. 

If he were to continue, he’d become nothing but a plaything for Mori. Nothing but a puppet with its strings pulled by their master. 

Mori was right about one thing, though. Dazai would be highly monitored by the public once he does his first activity post-graduation. Everyone around him would be burdened from their association with him. 

Not only would Dazai be destroyed, so would everyone else. 

He can already see it. The rigorous schedules, the drugs for weight loss Mori mentioned a couple months back that he wanted to get Dazai on, the feeling of eyes on him everywhere he walked. 

It was relatively easy to walk the streets without a cover for now, but the Port Mafia definitely had a hand in it, keeping his whereabouts out of tabloids. 

All of that will be gone. 

Everything he had, and everything he wanted, would be gone. 

The fresh cut under his bandaged wrist tingles. Dazai presses a hand on it, feeling his heartbeat. 

It's disgusting. The heartbeat, that is. If he continues, he’ll have to feel that while knowing he is simply a shell of who he used to be. No longer human, all fragments of himself washed away. 

As if taunting him, his pulse almost felt stronger. 

He knew this would happen eventually. With every month that passed, every new bit of news or tasks Mori has for him, he has felt that emptiness inside of him grow stronger. 

He's sick of it. And quite frankly, done with it. 

Slowly, he steps up onto the ledge, pulling himself up the fence of the bridge until he stood on top. 

“Please,” Dazai whispers to the air. “Let this be the time.” 

He gazes at the full moon, tears running down his cheeks. “I can’t do this anymore.” he begs. To whom, he doesn’t know. Anyone who will listen. The moon, the stars, the sea. 

They say that in the few moments before suicide is attempted, the person will regret it. Realize that they don’t want to die. If they wake up, they’re relieved. If they die, they die scared. 

That's never been the case for Dazai. Every time he woke up, the emptiness grew tenfold. 

And now...

“Let me go,” he pleads. “Please, let me go,” he repeats. 

Dazai takes in a deep breath, turning his back to face the water. 

“I can’t do this anymore.”

He tilts his head back. 

“I’m just... so tired.”

He falls.

“It's a bit rude, isn’t it?” Dazai laughed bitterly. “I even asked politely, and I still lived.”

Chuuya stared back at him in disbelief. “The fuck are you even saying?” he breathed, his eyes glimmering with unshed tears.

“Too soon?”

“...Just continue, you idiot.” 

The first thing Dazai sees are bright lights. 

The first thing he hears is the sound of distant voices and footsteps outside a closed door. 

The first thing he feels is the sharp pain in his ribs. Which could only mean one thing. 

It didn’t work. He failed. Again. 

If he had it his way, he’d take everything stuck inside him out and try again. However, as it went all the other times he ended up in a hospital from his attempts, he was strapped down to the bed.

“You’re finally awake,” someone next to him says, relieved. 

He turns his head, confused. That wasn’t Chuuya’s voice. That wasn’t Odasaku’s either. “Ango?” he exclaimed, his voice a little hoarse from lack of use. 

He’s usually never here alone, always accompanying Oda when he visits instead. Dazai noticed all the needles and tubes stuck inside him, frowning. “What happened?” he asked, his gaze following the tubes to where it hooked up to various machines. 

“You were in a coma for a week,” Ango replied quietly. “Two fractured ribs from CPR, a dislocated leg, and mild hypothermia,” he listed off the conditions. “The nurse can explain better – I’ll call them in.”

Before Dazai could say otherwise, he was gone, a nurse coming in to check up on him, taking off the restraints during the process. A heavy feeling in his chest grew as tests were run on him. 

Something wasn’t right. 

“Excuse me, what hospital is this?” Dazai asked the nurse. 

They blinked, not expecting that question. “This isn’t Yokohama City Hospital, if that’s what you were thinking,” they answered, capping the blood vial being held. “The Port Mafia’s CEO owns a hospital too, remember? This is his.” 

Dazai’s heart sank. Of course, it is. This hospital prioritizes the agency’s models, though that’s generally unknown by the public. 

This means he was saved by another model who knows him.

This also means Chuuya cannot find him this time. 

Dazai’s brown furrowed in thought, but nodded at the nurse anyway in thanks. 

Once he was alone again, he noticed the vase full of flowers on the nightstand, along with a letter. White chrysanthemums, he noticed, stifling a laugh upon feeling the pain in his ribs. How ironic. 

He reached for the letter, opening it. It was Oda’s handwriting on the front.

Dazai’s heart dropped upon reading the contents. 

Dazai,

If you are reading this letter, I’m assuming you’re finally out of that coma. I’m glad. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you that quiet before. 

All jokes aside, there is something I want to tell you before I go. 

Leave modeling. Not just the Port Mafia Modeling Agency, leave modeling as a whole. 

You’ve been brought in at too young of an age and have suffered the consequences of it. Leave the spotlight for a while. It’s torn you down for long enough.

In fact, I think a photography career would suit you quite nicely. I’ve always wondered why you haven’t tried pursuing it despite your passion for it. I’ve never seen you as happy as when you talk about your photoshoots with your friend. Chuuya, was it? 

I hope you get to do more together. I wish I could see your future work too, maybe even be in front of your camera one day. 

But it’s been too long. My orphanage is gone. CPS found the drugs Mori gave me and took away the kids. I don’t know where they are now. Every day is even more of a struggle. I can’t eat, and some nights, I can’t even sleep. 

It’s quite hypocritical, isn’t it? For me to do what I prevented you from doing? I hope you can forgive this selfish decision of mine, Dazai. Please, don’t be too harsh with Ango either. He did the best he could. He’ll answer all of your questions, and I've asked him to do me one last favor. Be sure to ask him about it.

And please, take care of yourself. You have a bright future ahead of you. Don’t waste it in the modeling industry.

Thank you for being by my side, Dazai. 

And… I’m sorry. Please do not blame yourself for what you’re about to learn. 

Your friend,
- Odasaku

A corner of the letter crumpled under Dazai’s grip; his eyes wide as he reread the contents. 

Is this some kind of sick joke? Where is he? What drugs? Since when? Thousands of questions ran through his brain. His surroundings seemed to be closing in on him, rendering him trapped. 

As if on cue, Ango enters the room once more, freezing in his tracks upon seeing the letter in Dazai’s hand. 

“Where’s Odasaku?” Dazai gritted his teeth, eyes not leaving the paper. 

“Dazai…” Ango breathed, taking a seat by the bed. 

“Where is he?” he asked again, glancing up to his friend in desperation. 

It was at that moment when he saw the dark circles, the red, swollen lining of his eyes behind the glasses. 

The silence only confirmed his deepest fears. “No,” Dazai whispered, his hand starting to shake. “Ango, please don’t tell me-”

“I’m sorry, Dazai,” Ango hung his head, both of his hands balled into fists. “I couldn’t get there fast enough.” 

The letter falls onto his lap as Dazai leans back into the pillows, waiting to wake up from this nightmare. 

There’s no way. He was doing well when he last saw him just last week. 

A soft call of his name brought him back to reality. Dazai was trembling. The heart rate monitor sped up accordingly, a blatant portrayal of his emotions. 

“How?” Dazai managed to grit out, still not completely present. 

A pause, and then a sigh. “Overdose,” Ango replied quietly. “I went to check up on him after I heard about the kids, but by the time I got there…” he shook his head, composing himself before he could get sucked back into the memory. 

Ango pulls out a letter of his own from his jacket. “The only thing left of him was this letter on the counter, addressed to me.” 

Dazai sat back up, ignoring the protest of his ribs. He’s gone completely numb by this point anyway. “Was he the one who found me?” 

Ango nodded. “Yes, we both found you. Oda dragged you out and performed CPR while I called for help.” 

“But, how?” Dazai asked, confused. “I didn’t have my phone with me. There’s no way you could’ve tracked me.” 

The way Ango hesitated sent chills down his spine, realization dawning on him. “You were the one tracking me,” Dazai stated, his voice dropping dangerously low. 

“Dazai, I can explain-”

“Explain what? It was you all this time!” Dazai accused, eyes narrowing. 

“I was doing my job!”

“I trusted you!”

“I didn’t have any other choice!” Ango’s voice rose in volume as he attempted to reason with Dazai.

Dazai’s vision started to blur, eyes set ablaze. “Didn’t have any other choice? No other choice but to report my whereabouts and relationships like some sort of pawn?” he spat out the last word. 

“We’re all pawns in this game of his,” Ango said. “You, me, and even Oda. Him most of all.”

“What does Odasaku have to do with this?”

“He has everything to do with this, Dazai,” he answered, his volume lowering to a more controlled level. “I still can’t believe he never told you anything.”

Dazai's eyes widened, a chill setting in his bones. “Told me what?” he asked tentatively. 

“You know, the drugs, the diets, the excessive bookings for him,” Ango’s nose wrinkled in distaste, “It was all supposed to be a punishment. A punishment for you.”

His breath hitched. “A punishment for me?” Dazai exclaimed. 

“Every time you skipped out on a job, every time you were late, every time Mori needed something, and you couldn’t deliver, he took it out on him,” he gritted out. “And Oda, that bastard,” he broke off with an empty laugh. “He never told you, and never let me tell you either. Not until now, when it’s too late.” 

“He said he didn’t care what happened to him if it meant you had a little more freedom to live your life,” Ango continued, his leg tapping incessantly on the ground. “And you know what the worst part is?” He looks directly at Dazai, and he realizes that was the first time he has done so today. 

“I can’t blame him. I can’t blame you either,” he smiled bitterly. “He just wanted to protect you, and you’re just a teenager, for god’s sake. You’ve barely turned eighteen. You should be able to live your life without the constant scrutiny of the world and spend time with friends and others you care about.” A flash of guilt runs through his features as his eyes darkened. 

“I only have myself to blame. I was the one who told him you were spending time with Oda. I was the one who told him about Chuuya after you told us about your day at our meetings,” Dazai watched as he shut his eyes, almost curling in on himself. “And now, karma has befallen me. I've betrayed your trust, and he is gone forever.” 

He should scream into the abyss. Yell at Ango. Curse him out. Curse himself out, for causing Oda to suffer from his own selfish actions. Instead, he reaches for the vase, taking out a white chrysanthemum, twirling it in his hand. 

White chrysanthemums are a symbol of death. For a vase to be full of them in a hospital, of all places, was intentional. There's only one person who would’ve done this too. He looks back at the letter, all of his emotions leaving his body, leaving only exhaustion. 

“Do you think he was scared?” Dazai broke the silence, keeping his gaze fixed on the rotating petals. 

He got a questioning hum in response. 

“People say that in one's final moments before suicide, they will be scared,” Dazai explains, caressing the petals with one of his hands. “I’ve never experienced that before, though. Do you think he was scared?” 

There were a few moments of silence before a quiet “I don’t know,” was murmured. “I just hope that wherever he is now,” he starts, voice thickened with emotion. “That he’s happy. That he’s finally free.”

Having reached a conclusion regarding the storm raging within his mind, Dazai takes a deep breath, and nods. “So, what's that favor about?”

“Odasaku wanted Ango to get me out of modeling,” Dazai explained. They'd gotten closer since the story began, Chuuya’s back now against his chest, trapping Dazai’s arms that were wrapped around him with his own. “I had two years until my contract was over, so he helped me lay low until then and found me a job at the APA. I got a new apartment and a new job, and the rest is history,” he finished, staring off into the distance. 

A shuddering intake of breath brought his attention to the man in front of him. He peered over Chuuya’s shoulder, warm fondness stirring in his gut as he watched him twist away from his gaze. “Aw, is Chuuya crying for little ole me?” he cooed, pulling him closer and wiping his cheeks. “I’m surprised it took you that long,” he murmured into his ear. “You held it in for a while.”

“Shut the fuck up, I just didn’t expect things to play out like that,” Chuuya batted his hands away before freezing. “Wait, did you say you didn’t have your phone with you? Did you even see anything I sent you?” He turned to peer up at Dazai. 

“I did... eventually,” Dazai admitted. “I stayed in the hospital for a couple weeks for physical therapy. Turns out not moving for a long period of time is bad for your muscles,” he sighs, ignoring Chuuya’s unimpressed stare. “By the time I had my phone and saw the calls and messages, Ango and I already decided I couldn’t reach out to anyone,” he explained, tone turning more somber. “Especially you.”

Chuuya's expression shifted into one of realization. “He was looking for me after you left,” he realized. “That’s why that agent came up to me. And that’s why you looked so surprised when I told you,” he concluded, looking at Dazai for confirmation. 

Dazai nodded. “He thought he could draw me out and make me come back if you were there too.”

The model frowned, tensing under his hold. “So, this entire time... it was just him trying to reach you?” He drew his legs up to his chest. “Why did he keep me around, then?”

Chuuya received an incredulous look from the photographer. “Because of your popularity, of course,” Dazai answered as if that was the most obvious thing. “If there’s one benefit with public scrutiny, it’s that if something is wrong, the people will notice. Mori cannot do anything to you to get back at me,” he finished. There was probably more to it, but this will have to do for now.

It seemed to reassure Chuuya at least, with his muscles finally relaxing as he let himself fall back onto Dazai. “You say that, and yet you avoided me for so long,” he sighed, fiddling with the edges of Dazai’s sleeves. “Why?” 

He wondered that too, in the couple years since his photography career began. He wondered why every time he had the thought to reach out, every fiber of his being would scream at him to run away.

“I was scared,” Dazai quietly admits, arms tightening around Chuuya’s frame. “Not only of what might happen when Mori inevitably finds out, but also because I wasn’t sure if you’d want to see me again.” His voice grew quieter with every word until it was barely above a whisper, face slightly burning as he hid it in the crook of Chuuya’s shoulder. 

He felt a hand cup his cheek, and he leaned into it, eyes fluttering shut. “Stupid Mackerel,” Chuuya chided. “I was angry when I found out you were still around, sure, but...” Dazai’s breath hitched when his head turned to look him in the eyes. “That doesn’t mean I didn’t miss you too.”

Their faces were merely a couple inches apart as blue eyes met brown ones. If anyone moves forward, their lips will meet. Chuuya knows this, and he simply waited patiently. Dazai could feel his eyes searching his, staring into his soul. 

And, oh, he wanted to do it. So bad. Wanted to capture those lips with his, do what he wished he could’ve done years ago. But a voice in his mind told him to hold off just a little longer. Not tonight, after he just laid himself out completely bare.

So, he pulled away. Watched as Chuuya’s face morphed from one of disappointment into quiet understanding, giving him a reassuring smile as he pulled away from Dazai’s grasp, putting some space between them. Dazai felt himself reach out for a moment upon feeling the loss of warmth before drawing his arms back to rest on his lap, not trusting himself to do anything else. 

“It’s getting late,” Chuuya clears his throat, glancing at the clock and back at the photographer. It was nearly midnight. “You can sleep in the guest bedroom and use the bathroom first. I still have some of your clothes you left behind too, so I'll grab those while you shower,” he continued, both of them rising from their seats. 

“You kept my clothes?” Dazai couldn’t help but ask, surprised. 

Chuuya ignored that question, turning away, but Dazai could see the reddened tips of his ears. “There are bandages in the bottom right drawer in the bathroom. You can use those,” he continued, walking away until stopping at his bedroom door, giving Dazai a warning glance. “And don’t use up all of my hair products. They're expensive.” 

Holding his hands up innocently, Dazai shrugged, smirking. “I would never.”

Dazai lay in the guest bed, wide awake. He thinks back to the dinner with the canned crab ready at hand, the drawer stocked with bandages, and lets out an empty laugh. Not to mention the clothes that were just slightly too small on him, but in relatively good condition. 

That ugly slug planned this. 

Raising a freshly bandaged arm, he inspected it, running his free hand over the material. It was his favorite brand. Years ago, when they made a quick stop at a convenience store to buy more, Chuuya asked if there is really any difference between the brands. 

Dazai had rolled his eyes and lifted the one he was holding, going on a tangent about how itchy and stiff other ones are, and how this one was the most comfortable. He must’ve memorized the brand from that day.

A warm sensation prickled in his chest. It’s been happening more often lately, and it was a familiar feeling. 

Raising a hand to his heart, he let it beat freely, feeling the thrumming beneath his palm. 

As his body went lax, he finally accepted the thought that had plagued him since that night at Lupin. 

He’s falling in love.

Or rather, he’s falling in love again.

And from what he could tell, Chuuya reciprocates his feelings too. 

...Yeah, no sleep for him tonight. 

Heaving a heavy sigh, he pushed himself up and off the bed, quietly making his way to the kitchen, turning on the light. If he wasn’t going to get any sleep, he might as well take a closer look around. 

Occasionally glancing at Chuuya’s bedroom door, still closed, he first moved the dishes to the level above. Then the cups. And then placed the cooking utensils in an obscure drawer. 

Once he was satisfied with his work, he made his way to the living room, helping himself to the shelves of books and other trinkets. He scanned the top shelf, wrinkling his nose at the various physics textbooks. Seriously, why did he still have these even after leaving university? 

Not wanting to see those for another second, Dazai moved to the next shelf with a shudder. This shelf was a combination of books and video games, some of the latter looking familiar while others looked newer. He glanced at the consoles next to the shelf, spanning multiple generations and different brands. 

The bottom shelf is what piqued his interest, however. It was the emptiest of them all, holding only three photo albums. 

Of course, he had to look through them. He picked up the one closest to the right, quietly humming as he flipped through the pages. The pages were labeled with dates, the elaborate scrawl of Chuuya’s handwriting just about unchanged. 

This album dated back three years ago and spans to now, the pages littered with printed photos of him and the Flags, along with some vacation photos. Some were polaroids, some seemed to be prints from his phone, but all were annotated with a note. 

The last photo was a picture of Dazai, zoomed in at the window from the inside of Lupin, taken when he made his call to Atsushi. 

“Met the mackerel again. He'd better be glad he dodged my punch. I wanted to bash his face in.”

How eloquent, Dazai thought, suppressing a laugh. He glanced back at the other two albums, his smile disappearing. If this album started three years ago, then...

Steeling himself, he grabbed the album all the way to the left, sitting down on the sofa. If his suspicions are right, he’ll be here for a while. 

And, well, he was half right. 

It was from their high school times, and it did have him in it... in the sense that Dazai was the one behind the camera. 

In this photo album was every single one of the photos Dazai submitted for his photography projects with Chuuya as the model. Once he would finish editing a set of photos, he’d send the files to Chuuya for him to see. 

Unlike the other album, where the photos were most likely taken from the printer a couple feet away, these were all professionally printed, and unlike the other album, despite it still being in chronological order, all the writing seemed to be from one point in time, more reminiscent than anything else. 

There'd be four photos on each page, and then another explaining what happened that day, some sections going onto a second page. Little comments were scattered around the photos, noting his favorites and even the ones Dazai particularly liked. 

Setting it to the side, he hastily got back up to retrieve the last album, opening it next to the previous one, a coil in his gut tightening. Sure enough, this one was from back then, in the same format as the album currently being filled. 

How Chuuya managed to hide this from him back then, he didn’t know, but seeing their memories gathered into one place was certainly... something. 

Now, a good chunk consisted of the Sheep — because of course he’d keep them in — but the grand majority was undeniably pictures of Dazai. Sometimes of them together, sometimes when he’s unaware of the camera.

They never put a label on it, did they? Despite knowing how the other felt, even when not voicing them, and not being too shy with their feelings, if someone asked what they were, they’d just shrug and change the subject. 

Not friends, not quite enemies, not just academic rivals, and not lovers, because gross. 

Just Dazai and Chuuya. 

There was no particular reason, except for how at that time, it was enough. Having the other person around was enough. 

There were no pictures after Dazai’s last appearance, despite the remaining pages. It was a picture of him asleep on Chuuya’s bed, a rare moment where he was unable to stay awake until he finished studying. 

“Look who finally decided to sleep for once.”

There were a couple scribbles before the writing continued. 

“He looks peaceful like this. I'm glad.” 

Dazai’s throat started to tighten as he read those words over again. He almost didn’t want to check the date, but he tore his eyes away from the image and towards the numbers in the corner.

It was taken a week before Dazai “disappeared” from society.

Before he could look further, the sound of light footsteps stopped him. He looked up to see Chuuya walk towards him, arms crossed over his chest and as wide awake as Dazai.

“Don’t mess with my stuff,” he glared at the man currently surrounded by the two open photo albums, leaning over the sofa to see what Dazai was looking at before sighing. “Of course, you found those,” he shook his head in exasperation, though his expression was strangely calm. 

“Chuuya left them at such an accessible place – they were right there for me to see!” Dazai chirped, turning his body to face him. 

“Usually, visitors would ask to see something first. Or wait until morning,” Chuuya retorted, making his way to the other side of the sofa, eyes squinted as he got used to the light. “Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, his voice softer. 

Dazai paused before shaking his head. There was no use in saying otherwise – they've been through this situation too many times in the past.

The redhead hummed in acknowledgement, curling himself up on the sofa. “Me neither,” he said, resting his head on the cushion, eyes fixed on the photographer. 

“You have a shoot tomorrow,” Dazai pointed out, closing the photo albums and setting them on the coffee table. 

“We have a shoot tomorrow,” Chuuya corrected, tucking himself further into the corner of the sofa. 

Dazai looked at him innocently. “Really?” He tilted his head in feigned confusion. “I thought Yosano was the photographer.”

“Hah! As if,” Chuuya scoffed. “I know I'm going to see your fish face at the studio tomorrow.”

“I see the slug has finally caught on,” Dazai teased, smirking triumphantly. Then, in a more somber tone, “You kept our photos.”

Not missing a beat, Chuuya glanced at the album with Dazai’s pictures. Our photos. Not just Dazai’s, but theirs. “I did,” he replied calmly, meeting the photographer’s gaze. 

“Everything was written at once.”

“It was within a couple days, but yes.”

“Why?” Dazai breathed, his hand beside him clenching into a fist. 

The answer he got was achingly honest. “Because I missed you.”

He said it so casually, his hands resting on his lap. It wasn’t exactly a confession, or even an accusation. It was just a statement. 

“Because I missed you.”

Those words repeated in Dazai’s head, a slight burning sensation coming from behind his eyes. He's heard them before, but it never failed to catch him off guard. He rips away his gaze, choosing to look at the albums instead as he takes in a shuddering, deep breath. 

This type of honesty was a rare occurrence between them. Tonight, there were no masks behind their words. It was terrifying, yet terribly addicting.  

He barely registers the sound of movement beside him until there’s a warmth over his clenched hand. When he turns, he sees Chuuya next to him, one hand over his fist and the other softly caressing his wrist, where his pulse is. 

His mind has gone completely blank, because how could he be so stupid? To ignore him for so long, and to ignore how every one of their interactions makes him feel so alive.

Chuuya mourned him. He preserved their memories together, in both picture and writing so he’d never forget their time together.

And Dazai... does he even deserve it? Always teetering between life and death, always looking for some way to-

Oh.

He can’t remember the last time he thought of suicide. While his attempts have significantly decreased in frequency since he joined the APA, the thoughts never relented.

They never stopped... until recently, that is.

Well, that’s a weird feeling. 

But... I think I can get used to it.

“I can hear the gears in your head turning,” Chuuya teased, slowly unfurling Dazai’s hand. Two fingers pressed into his pulse, a grounding sensation. 

Sadly, that means Chuuya can feel how quickly his heart is beating. 

Thankfully, he says nothing, simply waiting for a response. 

“I’m sorry,” escapes Dazai’s lips, just above a whisper. His gaze rests on the page of writing beside the set of photos. 

Chuuya follows his gaze, a tired exhale brushing against his neck. When did he get so close? “You had your reasons. I know that now.”

“You shouldn’t have had to-”

“That doesn't matter. I still did,” Chuuya firmly cuts him off. Dazai feels his gaze burning into him as he continues. “And I don’t care that it took four years to see you again either. I'm just glad that...” his voice falters, and there’s a sudden weight on his shoulder. 

Dazai turns to see a head of red hair, his face not visible from the way he angled it. “Chuuya?” he whispers, not moving an inch. 

There's a pained chuckle, and when he raises his head, his eyes are shining. “You’d better not do pull that shit again, or I'll boot your ass across Yokohama Bay,” he threatens, lightly punching Dazai’s shoulder. “Got it, Mackerel?” 

Dazai clasps the hand on his shoulder with his free one, thumb running over the equally fast pulse. “I wouldn’t even dream of it, Slug,” he responds, back to his cheerful tone, but the tenderness in his eyes betrays the honesty behind the statement. 

Chuuya hums, satisfied. Then, he stands, pulling Dazai up with him. The photo albums are left on the coffee table as Dazai is led past the guest bedroom and into an unfamiliar one, the kitchen lights being turned off on the way. The grip is loose, barely even wrapped around his wrists, a message that Dazai could break free at any moment. He doesn’t. 

He follows Chuuya to the bed and under the covers, the two of them instinctively situating themselves in the same way as years ago, when Dazai would come crawling in through the bedroom window on nights he couldn’t sleep. 

They lay facing each other, one of their hands still linked. It only takes a couple minutes for them to decide it isn’t enough, and they move closer until they’re only a couple inches apart. And then once more until they’re embracing, arms wrapped around each other’s bodies. 

“This okay?” Chuuya asks quietly, as if any louder sound would ruin the atmosphere. 

Dazai buries his nose into Chuuya’s hair, a small sound of affirmation escaping him. 

“G’night, Mackerel,” Chuuya murmurs, his voice slurring as he drifts off. 

It's just not fair, the way he can make his heart clench and wring the most genuine smiles out of him. How he makes him feel so at peace, quieting his restless mind with a single touch. They’ll need to talk about this tomorrow, but for now, Dazai presses a soft kiss onto his head, lingering for a couple seconds. 

“Night, Slug,” he whispers, closing his eyes. 

Yeah, he could get used to this too.

Chapter Text

This is the first time I've felt the need to confess  

And I swear, I’m only cryptic and  

Machiavellian ‘cause I care  

For the majority of his life, sleep evaded Dazai. Usually, the only times he slept was when his body’s need for rest overpowered the insomnia. Though it has gotten better in recent years, it’s still rare for him to sleep easily. 

However, on the few occasions where he does, he sleeps. He falls into a deep slumber and waking up is a more tedious task than what should be possible. 

This was one of those mornings.  

Dazai’s first thought upon waking was that it’s warm. 

The second was that he’s alone. 

The down blanket was tucked around his body, cocooning him in a gentle hold. Groggily, he reached out to the space in front of him. It was still warm. Chuuya must’ve left not too long ago. 

Squinting, he glanced out the window. Dawn has not quite broken yet. If he had to guess, it was probably 6:45. Before his alarm, and thus, way too early.  

Okay . Dazai absentmindedly pulled Chuuya’s pillow down, hugging it to his chest and breathing in the familiar scent of his shampoo. Back to sleep for me .  

His eyes fluttered shut once more, his breathing slowing as he drifted back to a light sleep. It felt like heaven – the way he was tucked in on all sides and how the pillow’s lingering warmth and scent blanketed his senses as he pressed his face into it.  

The click of a door opening nearly went unnoticed, but he didn’t move a muscle. Not when he heard a soft sigh, and not when he felt a dip in the bed.  

A hand brushes his forehead, sweeping the hair out of his eyes. It moved down to the pillow, pulling it away from his nose. Dazai whines upon feeling the cool air on his face, pulling it back and hugging it closer.  

He heard a huff of laughter. “Don’t suffocate yourself on my pillow, you idiot,” Chuuya chided. Pouting, Dazai finally opened a single eye to glare at the one interrupting his slumber before stifling a gasp.  

A god must’ve descended, because there’s no way a regular person could be that beautiful. Maybe he’s secretly the son of Aphrodite, and this is how he revealed it. 

Chuuya was bent above him, arms still braced on the bed. He seemed to be fresh out of the shower, judging by his damp hair and how he was only in sweatpants, leaving his entire top half bare with rivulets of water lingering on his toned chest.  

All Dazai could do was stare in awe and track a single droplet running from his neck to his collarbone and further down. 

“Pretty,” he murmured to himself. 

“What?” Chuuya asked, amused.   

Maybe his half-asleep stupor is affecting his judgement more than he thought, because Dazai pulled the covers higher to hide his reddening face. “Chuuya’s pretty,” he repeats, peeking from above the pillow. “Really, really pretty.” 

He hears laughter. Why is he laughing? His pout hidden behind the pillow deepens.  

“Why, thank you,” Chuuya snorted, eyes scrunched up from laughter. “Say that one more time, will you? I’d love to show it to you later.” 

“Chuuya’s so mean to me,” Dazai whined. “He even left me all alone this morning.” 

“Because I know you hate being woken up after a good rest, dimwit,” Chuuya sighed. The bed dipped a little as he sat down, eyes searching Dazai’s disoriented ones. 

“You’re not supposed to leave the morning after you sleep with someone for the first time.”  

“Wh- did you have to phrase it like that?” he stuttered, smacking Dazai’s side. “And this was not our first time either!” 

“First time in three years, Chibi.” Dazai rubbed his stinging hip. “ Three whole years .” 

“And whose fault was that, huh?” 

Dazai didn’t reply, his eyelids drooping as he attempted to go back to sleep. 

“Oi, no more sleeping. It's time to get up!” Chuuya nudged the body next to him, but to no avail.  

“Ten more minutes,” Dazai pleaded, screwing his eyes completely shut.  

“You- ugh, fine.” The warmth beside him is gone, along with the weight. “You’re pathetic, you know that, right? Get up in ten minutes or I’m waking you up again.” 

In the background, he could hear faint shuffling, the pull of a closet door, and then a final click followed by the soft, muffled whirr of a blow dryer.

Content, Dazai drifted off again, letting the weight of the down blanket make him one with the bed. 

Until it didn’t. 

Cold air blasted his skin as the covers were ripped away, eliciting a strangled yelp. It hadn’t even been ten minutes yet. “What was that for?” Dazai protested, glaring at the blanket thief. 

Chuuya returned his glare unsympathetically. “That’s for rearranging my entire fucking kitchen in the dead of night, you bastard,” he shot back, crossing his arms. 

Oh. He forgot he did that. “What? Chibi’s too short to reach the top shelf?” Dazai taunted, begrudgingly sitting up in bed. 

“Who puts the pans on the very top shelf?” Chuuya ignored his jeering comment. “And where the hell did you put the utensils?” 

Dazai put a finger to his lip, smug. “It’s a secret.” 

“Keep this up, and the session today will be missing a photographer,” the model threatened. “Now, get your pretty little ass up and out of my bed before I drag you off.”  

“Chuuya thinks my ass is pretty?” Dazai grinned, feeling his gaze sweep over his disheveled state.  

“Only at the right angle,” Chuuya responded before turning away, pausing at the door. “I’m making breakfast. It should be done in fifteen minutes, so hurry up,” he said, leaving Dazai to his own devices, muttering to himself on the way out. 

Heaving out a sigh, Dazai begrudgingly hauled himself off the bed, barely sparing the window another glance as he trudged to the bathroom.  

It’s the start of another day.  

And… it feels okay.  

Not long after, Dazai emerged from the bathroom, adjusting the bandages around his wrist as he made his way to the kitchen. The umami scent of miso soup wafted in the air, accompanied with the slight sweetness of freshly steamed rice and eggs. 

Chuuya’s voice filled the room as well, despite it being low in volume. When he came into view, he was perched over the counter, back facing Dazai. “Call me back when you see this. This matter’s urgent,” he said, ending the voicemail and straightening up. “Fuck,” he swore under his breath. The photographer quietly watched the slow rise and fall of his chest as his head tilted up towards the ceiling, eyes screwed shut.  

Unable to stay silent a moment longer, Dazai announced his presence. “Does Chuuya usually eat before his sessions?” he asked cheerfully, eyes twinkling as the model jumped.  

“What?” Chuuya breathed, his body relaxing from its defensive stance upon seeing Dazai.  

“You made breakfast,” Dazai gestured towards the plated food on the counter. “You’re eating now?” he asked again, head tilting in curiosity. 

The model raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? I’m fucking hungry. I'm not going to wait,” he responded slowly, watching Dazai carefully. “Now, sit down and eat before the food gets cold,” he ordered, grabbing some eggs before pushing the plate towards the other. 

A coil tightened in Dazai’s gut as he obliged, glancing between Chuuya and the food. “And they’re okay with that?” he pressed, not touching the food in front of him just yet. 

“If I don’t eat, any physical changes will be the least of their worries,” Chuuya grumbled. “And it’s not like I'm taking my shirt off today,” he adds before pausing, glancing at Dazai warily. “I’m not, right?” 

Dazai stamped down all of his immediate responses, shrugging instead. “Not that I know of,” he replied.  

“Alright,” Chuuya nodded, but paused upon seeing Dazai’s untouched plate and stiff expression. “You’re not referring to the team,” he states, laying down his utensils and leaning back in his seat.  

“Whatever do you mean?” Dazai’s smile tightened, receiving a frown in response. 

“This is about Mori, isn’t it?” Chuuya crossed his arms. “You didn’t eat before your sessions?” 

Having his question flipped back to himself, Dazai shrugged again. “Wasn’t allowed to,” he said nonchalantly.  

He felt Chuuya’s eyes burning through him, stripping away all of his armor. “You were pretty young, though,” Chuuya acknowledged, raising his bowl of soup to his lips. “How long? Twelve hours?”

The response was immediate. “Forty-eight, actually,” Dazai corrected him.  

Chuuya spluttered, nearly choking on the soup as he registered the answer. “Forty-eight-” he coughed, snatching the napkin offered to him. “He made you starve for two days?” he exclaimed, seething with anger.  

All Dazai could do was continue smiling, letting that familiar hollowness return. “It was like that since I started. I got used to it,” he mentioned.  

“But you started when you were eight... and you’d have a session about three times a week,” Chuuya protested, his voice starting to rise in volume. “How did you even do that? What was even the point?” 

“Water. Supplements. Drugs,” Dazai rattled off a list, counting them on his fingers. “As for the point, probably control,” he scowled. “That’s how he operated back then.” 

Chuuya's eyes widened. “Drugs?” 

The photographer sighed. “They decreased my appetite,” he explained, pushing around the rice in his bowl. “Made everything taste disgusting too,” he added, his nose wrinkling at the memory. Every food became so bitter and felt like sand down his throat.  

And, oh, Chuuya’s reaction was priceless. He looked like he was about to bang his head against the table. “What the actual fuck,” he breathed, turning away in favor of putting his head in his hands. “So, every time you ate at my place...”  

“Wasn’t allowed to,” Dazai finished cheerfully. “Couldn’t taste anything either.” 

“And you never mentioned it to me? Mori never noticed?” Chuuya stared at Dazai incredulously.  

“It helped that he never actually lived with me, yet he noticed eventually” Dazai laughed bitterly. “But Chuuya worked so hard to cook for little ole me,” he lamented, placing a hand on his heart dramatically. “I wasn’t going to refuse.” 

“The boss is going to have a lot of explaining to do,” Chuuya muttered, glaring down at the table. “Your eating habits are better, though,” he observed. “Last night was the first time I saw you finish your food, even if you forgot to eat the rest of the day.”  

The photographer shifted in his seat. “It’s been a process,” he said tentatively, avoiding Chuuya’s gaze. “The other photographers are helping too. The action of eating is mostly fine now, but remembering has been... slow,” Dazai winced at his own confession.  

“Oi, give yourself some credit too,” Chuuya chided, nudging him on the shoulder. “Breaking a decade long practice takes time.”  

Dazai caught Chuuya’s wrist before it retracted, lowering it between them to run his thumb along the pulse.  

Thank you , the touch seemed to say. Unable to speak, Dazai hoped his actions could portray his thoughts. Luckily, it seemed to work – it always worked with Chuuya – because the model’s gaze softened at the contact, his arm relaxing in Dazai’s grip.  

They eventually finished breakfast after Dazai finally dug into the food that had long since cooled down. He made no move to remove his grip and neither did Chuuya, only shifting so their hands could link comfortably while he switched his utensils to his left side. 

Chuuya was washing the dishes when Dazai remembered: he didn’t have any clothes for the day. When he relayed his revelation to his partner, Chuuya gestured towards the washing machine tucked away behind a door. “I washed them after I woke up,” he explained. “They should be almost dry now.”  

“Such a good little doggy,” Dazai couldn’t help but tease, basking under the glare sent his way.  

“One more dog comment and I’ll smash your face in,” Chuuya pointed a soapy spatula in his direction indignantly.  

“But you love my face!” Dazai drawled, pulling last night’s clothes out of the dryer and bundling them up. Humming quietly to himself, he ignored Chuuya’s grumbles in favor of entering the bathroom, shutting the door with a sigh. He glanced at the couple rolls of bandages that were left for him by the sink this morning. 

Might as well change them now. 

It’s muscle memory at this point. Each removed layer revealed another section of marked skin. Although faded by now, the scars made his forearms an unsettling sight. He wrapped himself back up quickly, discarding the used bandages and throwing on yesterday’s outfit without so much as a glance in the mirror.  

Right when he was about to leave, a couple bottles tucked away in the corner caught his eye. One was a red tinted bottle with pink liquid, and the other, a black tinted bottle with red liquid. They were displayed on a stand that was definitely not there last night.  

“Does Chuuya wear perfume now?” Dazai pondered to himself, gingerly picking up the red bottle and giving it a sniff. Immediately, his senses were flooded with the scent of strawberries, only for it to settle down with underlying notes of green tea, mellowing out the fragrance. The word “Tainted” was printed out in all caps with a thin font, mimicking the light, yet structured scent of the perfume.  

The black bottle, on the other hand, was the complete opposite. The scent was darker, weighed down by the hints of wine and musk in the top notes and a touch of cinnamon underneath. In a looping script, the name “Corrupted” reflected its contents. The scent was addicting, and Dazai could – begrudgingly – see why Chuuya likes it.  

The sound of an angered voice filtered through the door, pulling Dazai out of his stupor. He absentmindedly spritzed a bit of “Corrupted” on himself before heading towards the commotion.  

“No, I will not let this go!” Chuuya protested, pacing around the living room with his phone pressed against his ear. “How long did you have your eyes on me before recruiting me? Did you use me to try to get him back? Even after all you did to him?” While his voice remained steady, his free hand clenched into a fist, betraying his anger.  

Dazai perked up at his aggressiveness, pausing in his step. “ Is he... yelling at Mori?” he thought, leaning against the wall as he observed with a wistful smile. Chuuya hadn’t noticed his return yet, his back faced away from him.  

Whatever Mori said must’ve pissed him off, because Chuuya couldn’t hold back his frustrations anymore. “Protecting him? How was all that supposed to protect him?” he snapped, bracing himself on the countertop as he continued. “You were his guardian, for fuck’s sake. Everything you did was the complete opposite of protection.” 

Hearing Chuuya’s anger struck a chord within him. He’s witnessed his anger countless times – been the cause of it countless more times – and yet, Chuuya has never sounded like this. He couldn’t help but stare in awe at the model as he tore into his CEO.  

“We both know my contract doesn’t end for another year; don’t be dramatic. I’ll stay for now, but after that, I’m out,” Chuuya sighed, rubbing the area between his brows as his voice hardened. “But if I hear anything about you mistreating any models... if you lay a finger on anyone Dazai cares about, or even look at him in a way he doesn’t appreciate, my departure will be the last of your worries,” he finished, the underlying threat chilling the room.  

Chuuya turned and finally spotted Dazai leaning against the wall, mouth slightly agape. Dazai watched him gesture at the phone, walking over to listen in as the call got put on speaker.  

“Well...” Mori’s voice rang through the room, automatically sending chills down his spine. “At least I’ll have you for another year,” he said, his distaste now audible. “We still have time to create new talent to surpass you,” he sneered.  

“You can try,” Chuuya shot back, his lips curling into a sinister grin. “But you’ll find that’s simply not possible. Have a good day, Mori,” he concluded, hanging up and facing Dazai with a satisfied expression.  

Dazai stared at him, speechless. “You just yelled at Mori,” he mustered out, his eyes still widened. 

“Yeah, and?” Chuuya replied nonchalantly, placing a hand on his hip.  

“No one yells at Mori,” Dazai said weakly, his stomach churning at his sudden vulnerability.  

Chuuya huffed at his reaction, crossing his arms. “Well, Mori won’t try to get to you now. Not if I have anything to say about it,” he stated, a mildly smug smile on his face.  

He couldn’t believe what was happening. Dazai liked to think that Mori doesn’t have any effect on him anymore, however, the conditioning he went through still ran deep. Standing up to Hirotsu every photoshoot asking him to return or ignoring the occasional emails from the Port Mafia didn’t erase the uneasiness he feels every time.  

And Chuuya did the one thing he could never have done to Mori: stand up to him. Without him, the company would lose their biggest asset, so Mori must play along. Though nothing was formally written in contract, the thought of any form of retaliation is enough to dissuade him from disobeying Chuuya.  

He must’ve stared for a while, because Chuuya suddenly looked away, his cheeks tinted red. “Don’t look at me like that. You would’ve done the same for me,” he said, sneaking glances at Dazai for his reaction.  

“I don’t know if I could’ve done that,” Dazai responded with surprisingly raw honesty. Despite being fully clothed and bandaged, he felt incredibly bare. He wrapped his arms around himself, attempting to alleviate that feeling as his gaze flitted over Chuuya once more. From a photographer’s perspective, the frame was perfect. The morning sun shone through the window behind him, creating a halo effect around him.  

Chuuya seemed to notice his posture, getting closer and covering Dazai’s hands clutching his sides with his own. “You’re wearing my perfume,” he noted, changing the subject. He sounded strangely satisfied with this discovery, for reasons Dazai couldn’t place.  

His proximity caused that warm feeling to swell in his chest again, causing him to desperately steady his heartbeat, lest it betray him. “You had it displayed in the bathroom. How could I not use it?” he replied, attempting to maintain a regular breathing pattern.  

“It suits you,” Chuuya ignored his response, resting his head on his chest and inhaling the scent. Dazai’s breath hitched as Chuuya pressed their bodies closer together. It wasn’t exactly a hug, but it had the warmth of one nonetheless. “You don’t have to control it, y’know,” Chuuya remarked, his ear pressed right above his heart as he glanced up at Dazai. “Not around me.” 

“I wouldn’t want you to get the wrong idea,” Dazai deflected the comment halfheartedly, pointedly avoiding his gaze.  

“So, what’s the right idea?” Chuuya challenged, stretching himself up so he could lean closer, their faces inches apart, a mirror of their encounter last night. His mind screamed at him to back away, but his instincts kept him firmly in place.  

For all the time he could remember, he’s never had a home. A true home, where he could be comfortable and at peace. The APA tried their best, but they could never fulfill that sentiment.  

No. The closest he’s ever gotten was with the one in front of him, examining him with those gentle, ocean eyes. Dazai let out a long exhale, allowing his heartbeat to naturally quicken as he finally met Chuuya’s gaze.  

Hesitantly, he reached a hand up to cup Chuuya’s face. Dazai watched as he leaned into it, Chuuya's hand following to lightly grip his wrist, stroking his pulse point with an encouraging smile. His touch was full of tenderness and understanding, along with a hint of caution.  

That’s the Chuuya he’s always known. Kind, with an unshakable loyalty to those he cares about. Behind his outspoken exterior is a calculating mind, always observing others.  

That’s the Chuuya... who has always felt like home.  

Dazai felt what’s left of his defenses shatter as he finally confronted the realization that haunted him, along with what he couldn’t do last night.  

Placing his free hand on Chuuya’s waist, he pulled him even closer as he leaned down until their noses were almost touching, searching Chuuya's expression for any confirmation.  

“Do it,” Chuuya whispered.  

Within a single heartbeat, Dazai captured his lips with his own, burning this feeling into his memory as Chuuya responded to it, wrapping his arms around Dazai’s neck as they broke apart, cheeks flushed.  

“You’re too fucking tall,” Chuuya muttered, kicking out a barstool and shoving Dazai onto it. Too dazed to react, he allowed Chuuya to maneuver him as he wished, lowering him to be the same height. The next chance he got, he went back to kissing Chuuya, pulling him onto his lap as his kisses migrated down to his neck, leaving a trail until he got to his pulse point.  

A hand pushed his face away before he could do anything else. “Naomi could cover it up!” Dazai pouted, dramatizing it for extra effect. His expression only worsened as Chuuya laughed at his dejection. 

“She’s had more than enough of us by now. And we’re going to be late to the photoshoot if we don’t leave in the next five minutes,” Chuuya mentioned, putting some space between them as he gathered his composure.  

“I’m sure I could accomplish something in the next five minutes,” Dazai commented unabashedly, running his gaze down Chuuya’s body.  

“No. Get your things.” 

“Fine...” Dazai sighed, brushing himself off as he stood up. “You’re really missing out right now,” he drawled, shamelessly eyeing Chuuya’s rear as he walked past.  

Chuuya grabbed his arm before he could go, pulling him down slightly. “If you do good enough at the photoshoot, you can show me what i missed,” he murmured seductively into his ear, his gaze piercing as he let go, pushing Dazai towards his things with a knowing smile.  

As he grabbed his duffel bag, the significance of the past few minutes finally hit him. He froze after he stood up, processing what just happened, his free hand absentmindedly touching his lower lip, slightly swollen from their kissing session.  

“All that talk, and here you are now,” Chuuya teased, watching Dazai malfunction from the door.  

“Are we...?” His voice trailed off as he blushed at the terms in his mind.  

Boyfriends? Lovers? Partners... but in a slightly different way? A small, genuine smile spread across his face as he thought of the last one, and their history with that word.  

A hand clasped his shoulder, the touch warm and comforting as always. “Whatever you’re thinking... yes, we are,” Chuuya confirmed, peering at Dazai’s expression with a slight twinge of amusement.  

“I’m in a relationship with a Slug,” Dazai stated plainly, seemingly still in shock as every emotion, ranging from love, fear, and anticipation, coursed through him.  

He heard Chuuya bark out a laugh beside him, the sound music to his ears. “Idiot Mackerel,” Chuuya scoffed. Dazai suddenly felt himself get dragged by the arm, Chuuya pulling him towards the door. “Let’s go,” he ordered, pushing Dazai out first before following.  

At this point, Dazai had mostly recovered from his previous state, gleefully holding Chuuya’s hand as he led them to the garage to see... 

A hot pink motorcycle. Chuuya’s Instagram famous, socially beloved hot pink motorcycle.  

“No,” Dazai immediately said, backing away from the death trap.  

“What, you scared?” Chuuya smirked, handing Dazai a spare helmet.  

“That thing will kill us!” 

“Wow, so much faith in my riding,” Chuuya responded sarcastically, rolling his eyes. He pulled the motorcycle out of the parking space and got on, gesturing to the space behind him. “Get on. Just hold onto me and you’ll be fine,” he reassured Dazai, pulling his helmet on.  

Dazai sighed in resignation, adjusting his bag so it wore like a backpack and putting on his own helmet. Admittedly, the hot pink death trap felt safer once he wrapped his arms tight around Chuuya’s waist.  

“Ready?” Chuuya asked, glancing back at the photographer.  

Dazai nodded in confirmation, pressing his chest against Chuuya’s back. No matter how terrifying this seemed, he trusted Chuuya. There was an undeniable thrill as he faced the unknown, with the reassurance of safety and comfort.  

Chuuya revved up the engine, and off they went to the studio. The staff will no doubt speculate upon their arrival and passerby will likely spot them riding the obnoxiously bright vehicle. He’d be lying if he said the future didn’t make him nervous, but it’s a risk he’s willing to take.  

For the one he calls home, and his forever muse.