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Entering Chuuya’s apartment for the first time after leaving the mafia was an experience. There was no sinking feeling, no gut-wrenching disgust, not even the twisted sort of masochistic nostalgia he had felt the first time he walked past a port mafia owned shell company for the first time. All of that was replaced by a sense of normalcy. A familiarity so calm that it became abnormal, because even when he spent most of his time there as a teenager, it had never felt anywhere near to home. Even the most important moments, the rare exchanges of vulnerability, the crazy laughter and the screams always came with a disturbing sort of you’re-being-watched feeling. It wasn’t that it had disappeared, but simply that Dazai didn’t care.
Rationally speaking, being there was riskier than it had even been before. He of all people knew exactly how cruelly traitors were treated, and he wasn’t naive enough to believe the ADA would be able to do anything were he to go in mafia territory, despite what his coworkers would have thought if they knew he was there. Yet, he almost felt at peace. There was no risk of Mori deciding to destroy the fragile balance they had when they were alone, of a conversation going dangerously close to destroying their relationship because they disagreed on some fundamental level about their respective work, of being caught closer than they should ever have been given how they always insisted they loathed each other.
There was no risk, because there wasn’t anything to lose between them anymore.
Everything was exactly how Dazai remembered it, even up to the half painted coat rack he had offered Chuuya on his seventeenth birthday (except for the fact it had clearly been broken in half, more than once and in a way that couldn’t have been accidental before being glued back together. The lines and the holes in the giraffe pattern didn’t leave any doubt about how violently it had been broken, nor how gently it had been pieced back together). He couldn’t help but notice the absence of the ugly bright red wig he had put on it, saying “Every hat rack needs their matching coat rack”. That wasn’t new though.
What was new was the lack of dirty dishes, the fancy vine in the (almost fancier) overhead cabinet, the blanket on the coach that hid the rips they made in it along the year (even if it was mostly done on one drunken night where Dazai bet Chuuya couldn’t rip through it with his teeth. Cleaning the mess had been hell, and sewing it back together one of his best memories), and, most of all, the doors being closed. While Chuuya cared more about the cleanliness and organisation of his flat than Dazai ever had, it was so spotless it almost looked like it wasn’t lived in. The perpetual mess made by both of them was never to be seen, the lights passing by the once opened doors weren’t intertwined on the floor anymore.
All of it was dull, and polished, and so Chuuya, and so far from the boy he once knew. Everything was the same and so different than he could ever imagine. He hadn’t yet built up the courage to peek inside the bathroom or the bedroom. Dazai was never one to care for blasphemy, but something about the doors being closed felt sacred in a way he couldn’t explain. It was like a spell had allowed him to bask in the past, and opening them would break it, bring him back to the present and everything he hadn’t seen of Chuuya’s life without him.
And then Chuuya had entered.
They hadn’t seen each other for two years, five months, three weeks and four days. It wasn’t something he just knew, he counted before coming there in case Chuuya did actually keep count.
The first thing Dazai thought after not seeing him for those two years, five months, three weeks and four days was also the first thing he said to Chuuya after the same amount of time.
“Your hair is longer.”
Chuuya looked stuck right between murderous rage, you-almost-gave-me-a-heart-attack and thinking he was hallucinating. So many emotions passed on his face one could have seen the entirety of human history on it.
All of it settled in a cold “Hair grows.” even when you’re not here to see it stayed implied.
Chuuya had become more mature. Teenager him would have screamed, thrown something (probably non-lethal), hit him, slammed the door, anything. Dazai was prepared for that. What he wasn’t prepared for was Chuuya taking his coat off and going to the open kitchen to get a glass of water as if he didn’t exist. It wasn’t wrong of him. He would tell himself and anyone who would dare ask, to want the familiar part of his ex partner back.
“Playing girl again?” was the way he asked for familiarity.
There it was, boiling in his eyes, the quiet betrayal and anger that was building up until it exploded into a god of carnage. Except it didn’t. Chuuya’s voice didn’t even waver for a second when he said “Too afraid to be one to be yourself? Oh sorry, I forgot you don’t have a sense of self.”
It wasn’t even cold, simply factual. Everything from his posture to his expression was so open, so sincerely unfazed that he was impossible to read. His partner, the one who was ready to give his everything if Dazai promised to get it back afterward, the one he had trusted so much he once promised his death to him, the open book of a teenager he used to be, all of it had disappeared to be replaced by a man he didn’t know.
No word could hurt within their banter. Nothing was meant to hurt within their banter, even if it did sometimes. This was. It wasn’t even an attack, simply a reflection of what Dazai had given him. It wasn’t something the Chuuya he knew would have ever said to him, no matter how much of a hurtful bastard he was. Dazai could mock Chuuya’s gender, but Chuuya couldn’t. Chuuya could mock Dazai’s humanity, but Dazai couldn’t. There was a silent agreement, a promise never to hit twice in the same spot if the first hit wasn’t theirs. And, really, he couldn’t be mad or offended about it. He was the one to start it. He wasn’t mad or offended, simply incredulous.
“How hypocritical when we both know you wouldn’t wear a dress for the life of you,” he ended up answering in a tone akin to a challenge.
He was met with a laugh, and he breathed for the first time since he’d seen Chuuya. He knew this laugh. It was his “told you I could do it, fucker” laugh. Almost a snort in its confidence, almost a smile in its brightness, almost a laugh in the pure joy it gave Dazai. Something about it changed everything about Chuuya, like he was feeling up exactly all the space his body allowed him to, not being contained or lost in it, like he was the child he could never be, like even the stars couldn’t compete with his brightness.
“Oh Dazai,” and his tone was somewhat playful this time, “do you really think I haven’t since you’ve left? Who cares what they say, who cares what they think? I thought you were always the one to preach that.”
And if the thought of Chuuya confidently wearing a dress made Dazai feel happier than he’d been in weeks and incredibly jealous at the same time, no one needed to know.
And even if Chuuya didn’t need to know, he knew anyway, because one of them hadn’t lost their ability to be aware of the other in a way nobody else ever could.
“You should try it sometimes, it’s actually fun,” and the tone was gentle this time, almost careful.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
And Dazai was out the door, feeling more alive than he ever had despite how nothing this encounter had been compared to the all encompassing and devastating confrontation he had expected.
👗👗👗
Dazai would consider himself shameless, as would most people around him. And yet, somehow, that was almost too much. The dread and the burning joy and glaring disconnect that flooded him as he met his own gaze in Chuuya’s mirror, hairs carefully done shoulders bare (if it wasn’t for his bandages), surrounded by a sea of cerulean silk. It wasn’t something he could afford anymore, but he was sure Chuuya wouldn’t mind having paid for it. He was the instigator of all this, after all.
It was the first time he’d seen (or worn) a dress that wasn’t made for someone with breasts, and it was exhilarating. Of course, he couldn’t wear it without his binder, but none of it mattered when it made him look like that. The dysphoria he had expected had never appeared. What he felt was closer to wonder, so intense he would almost dare call it euphoria.
He looked feminine without looking womanly. He looked masculine without looking manly. He was in the delicate balance between what he thought he was and what he knew he wasn’t, a blissful and welcome androgyny. The high of it was almost breathtaking.
He was as composed as he ever was when Chuuya came in to see him lying on his bed, staring at the little dots in the ceiling (as he had so often that he could draw them by heart if he wanted to).
Chuuya could see past his composure immediately, if the smirk on his face was any indication.
“Told you. But also you can’t fucking call me hypocrite if you’re not even going out in it.”
“Did you think I didn’t plan on it? I was simply waiting for you. I forgot how slow slugs were. Dress properly too, your ridiculous hat isn’t fancy enough for the place we’re going. You can keep the choker though, it lets people know you’re still my dog.”
And if two weirdly formally dressed people ate in a run down ramen place and left a large tip that night, nobody commented on it. After all, who knew if they weren’t with the mafia or something?