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English
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Published:
2023-12-25
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2,024
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1/1
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with a billion stolen stars

Summary:

“Let’s get married.”
“What kind of debt are you in?” A deep sigh. “I can lend you money if you ask really nicely, but nothing too outrageous, okay?”

[or: Dazai proposes marriage to Chuuya. Chuuya thinks that Dazai just desperately needs to borrow money from him.]

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Work Text:

“Let’s get married.”

That statement makes Chuuya pause, but only for a moment. The only indicator of his befuddlement is the slight wobbling of the plates on his hold, the yolks on the perfect sunny side-up trembling from his momentary loss of balance.

Thankfully, his wealth of life experience when it comes to being attacked on all fronts serves him well. He’s too used to crazy situations; a lot of those situations could be blamed on the person behind the strange statement too.

Chuuya sets down the plates in the middle of the dining table for four, often occupied by two. He reaches back to untie his apron and drape it over the back of his chair. He takes the seat opposite the mackerel who’s staring at him unblinking.

He considers taking a fortifying sip of coffee first. It’s excellent coffee, and it’d be a shame if he ends up spitting it out on the other’s face. His hands rest over his lap, far away from the temptation of using a fork to prod open the other’s head to examine his train of thought.

“What kind of debt are you in?” A deep sigh. “I can lend you money if you ask really nicely, but nothing too outrageous, okay?”

Part of his life experience is knowing what kind of battles to face. It’s not exactly running away if he picks his fights wisely. Case in point: arguing with Dazai on certain matters would only lead to his grief and annoyance, so sometimes, it’s best to operate under the assumption that he’s going to go with the flow. He doesn’t want a repeat of the Noodle Incident—or god forbid, the Shin-Yokohama Station Incident.

Dazai’s face scrunches like he’s bitten into one of Kajii’s unwanted lemon gifts. “How could I have debt nowadays? All the cafés in the city would call you the moment I go there alone.”

“Good.” He enjoys that sip of coffee. Starting a relaxing weekend with a hearty breakfast is important, and he’s not going to let a fishy presence affect his routine. “It’s best to stop the problem at the source.”

After all, he always ends up having to clean up after the mackerel’s tabs. Before, there were times when it was that poor Blond Glasses who had to deal with complaints from local businesses; as someone with a fatter paycheck and tougher stance when it comes to beating Dazai up for being too annoying, he has taken over that duty in the name of upkeeping peace in Yokohama.

“Since you’re already nagging at me like this, then you should at least have the proper title while doing so.” Dazai somehow manages to pout very convincingly while chewing on his breakfast. “You should marry me, and be known as my chibi-wife.”

That causes Chuuya to raise his eyebrows. He takes a short sniff at the other’s direction. “Did you sneak out to have a drink while I was asleep last night?”

Dazai’s harrumph is full of grievances. “And they’d just end up calling you whenever they’d see me drinking alone!”

“They’re just wizening up to your tactics of never paying the bill.” He pokes the other’s cheek with his chopsticks, ignoring the ensuing squawking. “Plus, that’s just the tradeoff of me not being able to drink in peace because they’d also always call you when they see me at a bar.”

It’s something that has him incessantly worried about Port Mafia’s security. Why must they always invite a fish into their territory whenever he wants to knock back some drinks after a long week at work? While it’s true that there’s a current arrangement between the tripartite organizations, they shouldn’t be spilling openly allowing mackerels to swim near them, potentially fishing for information, right?

…Nevertheless, any bartender working in Yokohama nowadays would know to immediately dial Chuuya’s number whenever one half of soukoku appears without the other. In Chuuya’s case, if he’s accompanied by Gramps, then Gramps would pick up his phone and then transfer the call to Dazai. Because Dazai apparently guards his contact information too well, only ever leaving Chuuya’s digits whenever someone needs to contact him.

“Isn’t that because you always end up drunkenly crying about wanting to see me?”

An immediate correction, “Wanting to see you dead.”

“So you admit to wanting to see me often? Why not admit to wanting to marry me while we’re on that topic?”

“Your selective hearing could be a sign of senility.” He transfers some crisp cabbages to Dazai’s plate, drizzling them with additional sesame sauce before Dazai could start to make a fuss about not wanting to eat vegetables. “Take a few days off this week, I’ll have us scheduled for a check-up.”

If Dazai was a cat, his ears would be flattened on the top of his head, showing off his despondence. “You should be more worried about your own brain damage, little man. You should jumping for joy, you know? Not everyone has the great fortune to be proposed to by someone like me.”

“You’re the biggest source of mental corruption here.” For the next few moments, the dining room is filled with the faint sounds of them eating Chuuya’s homecooked breakfast and drinking Dazai’s contribution of brewed coffee. Dozens of floors below them, Yokohama slowly wakes up, the din of traffic and human presence tempered down by the elevation difference.

“It’s because I’m the biggest one here,” comes the near-automatic quip, as if it’s a physical impossibility for Dazai to not make a height joke of some sort. Their continued eating is interrupted by Dazai frowning as he considers their near-empty plates. “Does this mean you’ve agreed? In a very non-romantic way?”

The thing about the misfortune of knowing Dazai for a whole decade is that his ears have grown calluses from hearing the other’s words, abrasive in more ways than one. His body has already developed an admirable self-defense mechanism, filtering the nonsense out automatically. No system is perfect, but he has confidence in his Dazai Bullshit Filter. Thus, instead of shrieking in horror, he could mostly ignore this wave of nonsense.

Dazai continuously bringing it up is uncharacteristic of him. Especially since he’s using straightforward words that offer little cover to disguise some wordplays.

—But that’s probably just Dazai upping his game.

If there’s one thing that remains a constant about this mackerel, it’s that he’d never tire of finding ways to introduce inconveniences to his life.

“I already told you. I can lend you money if you’re really desperate, granted that you ask nicely.” Over the rim of his cup, he watches Dazai’s face curdle like spoiled milk.

A slow breath. “…You think that I’m proposing to you because I need money.”

“Is that not the case?”

“I would never turn down free money from a too-small chibi with a too-big bank account. But why would you think that the only reason someone would propose to you is because of money?” Dazai plays with the remaining food on his plate, poking at the cherry tomatoes over the small bed of greens. “Is this your way of telling me that you’re insecure about our relationship?”

Talking about feelings—beyond expressing hatred, annoyance, murderous intent and the like—has never been their strong suit. Not that it has ever been necessary. Even when they’ve only known each other for less than a week, they’ve managed to establish a strange, almost-telepathic bond where they don’t need to actually exchange words to express their thoughts. Chuuya has heard Boss describe it as if they’re one soul split into bodies—a concept that still makes him shudder, just thinking about it.

“The relationship where I lock you out of my apartment and you keep on trespassing anyway?”

Dazai is unfazed by his blithe words. “The one where you cook breakfast for me after we’ve warmed your bed together.”

“The usual one where we hate each other then.” He punctuates this conclusion by spearing one tomato and using it to block Dazai’s mouth. He pushes it against plump lips, raising his eyebrows when his pet fish blinks and exchanges a hundred insults using his gaze. Eventually, Dazai does sigh and open his mouth so he could eat it.

When he’s done chewing and swallowing, he bares his teeth at him. “The one where you nag at me about my daily nutritional intake.”

“The one where you harass Gramps into revealing my itinerary so you could stalk me and get mad about me talking to people for more than ten minutes.”

“What kind of talk would require more than ten minutes? Such things should be discussed in an email.” A huff. “It’s better for them, so they don’t have to constantly bend down to be at eye-level with you.”

“Some work is better discussed face-to-face. What if there’s some fish who’d spy on our email servers and get information from them?” He stands up first, picking up their plates so they could be washed. He ignores the mackerel slumping over the table—at least, aside from using his free hand to use the other’s scalp as a makeshift fluffy stress ball.

Moments after he starts rinsing their plates, Dazai mimics a giant leech and plasters himself against his back. His lips are warm and soft against his nape, leaving a wet trail of kisses to the back of his earlobe, to the shoulderblade exposed by the stretch of the oversized shirt he has commandeered from Dazai’s side of the closet.

“Marry me, Chuuya,” is murmured directly to his ear. “You know you want to.”

He flicks some suds towards the other’s nose. It’s not effective in chasing the fish away, but that’s probably because water is his natural habitat. “You only suggest that whenever you need something terrible from me.” Over the years, he has lost count of the many times Dazai has proposed marriage to him, only for it to turn out as some scam or another.

“Can’t I just want to marry you because I’ve gone insane and lost my sense of taste?”

“Just for my main bank account alone, I’d already be at the top of multiple Most Eligible Bachelor lists.” He sways them for a bit, using Dazai as an improvised clingy cape. “Wanting to marry me would at least be at the Top 3 of your extremely short list of sane life choices.”

“Just Top 3? What do you consider to be the Top 2?”

“I’m being generous and leaving some leeway for your future.” Just as he says this, he’s struck by an odd sense of wonder. Ten years ago, he’d never associate the word ‘future’ to the gloomy man who talks about double suicides like death is some irresistible candy.

The realization makes him pause. This time, when he wobbles to the point of compromising his grip on a sudsy plate, one warm hand clasps over his. Unfortunately, it doesn’t help his cause at all, because Dazai is trembling even harder than him.

…Thankfully, experience has already taught him to avoid porcelain plates. There have been one too many instances of Dazai disturbing his housekeeping chores, and dealing with shards on the floor is impossible when there’s someone attached to him who could nullify his attempts at cleaning by using his Ability.

He ends up dropping the plate on the sink. He also ends up turning around swiftly so he could peer at Dazai’s expression. His pet fish constantly performs melodrama for a non-existent audition, which makes instances of genuine emotion all the more satisfying to watch. Seeing him tremble in frustration is always fun. Seeing him near-tears is never boring.

Seeing him like this, cheeks splotchy with emotion, eyes shiny with a billion stolen stars—

“Let’s get married.”

One of them, both of them, say it at the same time. An engagement ten years after they’ve first met and realized that they’ve met the most troublesome guy in the world.

(And then, the engagement is promptly called off—like many times before—because they end up arguing as to who was the one who successfully proposed between the two of them.)

-
end

Notes:

thanks for reading till the end!

hope you enjoy the holidays~~ 2024 words for the upcoming 2024~~