Chuuya didn’t think he’d ever end up here again. Not with him.

Four damn years. That’s how long it had been since their last goodbye, and yet somehow, after all the blood and betrayal, screaming matches and silence, they’d found their way back. The reunion of Soukoku was headline-worthy, but the fact that the deadly duo of Yokohama were now living like some stupid couple out of a domestic sitcom? That was straight-up surreal.

It hadn’t been easy, of course. There were arguments, accusations, and one too many nights spent with his fists clenched and jaw tight, waiting for the next sarcastic jab or bitter retort. But surprisingly, Dazai hadn’t come to fight. He came to stay. And damn it, Chuuya let him.

Now, months later, their life together was… normal. Suspiciously normal.

They didn’t label it publicly—hell no. The entire city didn’t need to know that Soukoku were secretly living together, bickering over groceries and stealing each other’s shampoo. Technically, Dazai wasn’t even supposed to be living there, but he was. He just never left.

Dazai was supposed to be home at 7pm, Chuuya around 9. That was the “agreement.” But of course, Dazai did whatever he wanted. Sometimes he got home earlier, sometimes he skipped the day entirely and just… lazed around. The bastard had no structure. But the weird thing? Chuuya didn’t mind as much as he claimed he did.

Somehow, they'd developed routines. Chuuya cooked. Dazai “helped”—which usually meant leaning against the counter with some smug look while pretending to read something intellectual, only to sneak a bite when he thought Chuuya wasn’t looking. Chuuya grumbled, but deep down, he liked it. Liked the familiarity. Liked the company. Liked him.

Chuuya wouldn’t say it out loud, of course. God forbid he actually admit he enjoyed Dazai's presence. That he liked falling asleep next to him, or that he looked forward to Dazai’s absurd comments and unsolicited advice. Or that he got pouty and restless when Dazai sat too far away on the couch.

He was clingy. He hated that about himself. Hated that he'd glance at Dazai every ten seconds like some love-struck idiot waiting for a hand on his knee or an arm draped over his shoulders. But pride was a bitch, and Chuuya had plenty of it. So instead of asking, he’d wait, suffer in silence, or just glare at Dazai until he got the damn hint.

Not that Dazai made it easy. The idiot had developed this annoying habit of giving actual compliments now. Real ones. Not backhanded, not sarcastic, just real. It was fucking terrifying.

They could be out shopping—God knows why Dazai even came along—and out of nowhere he’d pop his head into the changing room, eyes gleaming with amusement: “I like the red on you. The blue with it makes you look like a superhero from those kids’ shows.” Then he’d vanish before Chuuya could even process it. Leaving him standing there, red-faced, wondering when Dazai decided it was okay to weaponize affection.

Still, it wasn’t just Dazai being kind. Chuuya gave, too, even if he masked it behind complaints. Bought his clothes—since Dazai couldn’t be trusted to dress himself like a functional adult. Cooked meals that Dazai would barely eat but always thank him for. Replaced Dazai’s shitty lighters with expensive ones. He didn’t call it spoiling. He just did it. Because Dazai wouldn’t do it for himself, and someone had to.

And Dazai noticed more than he let on. Mention a hat once? It’d show up the next day. Say he was tired? A hot bath would be waiting. Even though Dazai made fun of bath bombs, he still lit the damn candles. He paid attention. Maybe more than anyone ever had.

It wasn’t perfect. They still argued. They still drove each other insane. But it worked.

Somehow, they worked.

And even if Chuuya still wanted to punch Dazai half the time, and Dazai still teased him like it was a sport, there was this quiet understanding between them now. This mutual choice to stay. To build something that didn’t need to be loud or showy. Something that could just… be.