After everything that happened in Meursault and Yokohama, before they could finally go home and their paths split apart once more—Dazai would have to lie low with Sigma for a while—Chuuya lingered in the bathroom doorway.
They were hiding out in a rundown motel, waiting for Mafia to send reinforcements.
Dazai glanced up from a ridiculous book he'd found lying around and arched a brow.
Chuuya hesitated. He scratched the back of his neck and looked away. His cheeks burned.
Something soft flickered across Dazai's face. Fondness, tinged with sorrow. With a long sigh, he tossed the book aside and motioned toward the bed.
"Come on, stupid slug. Spit it out."
The smile froze, not because of the request itself. It was unusual now, but once it had been commonplace, back when they were partners in the Mafia.
No, it was the sadness dimming Chuuya's steady gaze that made something crack inside him.
Chuuya only cut his hair when he was mourning.
To carry the weight of loss a little longer.
His throat tightened around all the things he couldn't bring himself to say, all the words that remained lodged somewhere deep inside him regardless.
Chuuya crossed the room and sat down in front of him.
Close, but not close enough.
He wasn't that kid anymore—the one who used to sit between Dazai's knees in dingy apartment bathrooms, face streaked with tears, clutching a pair of cheap scissors.
Carefully, Dazai gathered his hair back. His fingers brushed the nape of Chuuya's neck.
Chuuya shivered. Or maybe Dazai did.
He couldn't see his face, he couldn't meet his eyes, but when the first lock of hair fell, Dazai felt the weight of Chuuya's grief settle somewhere beneath his ribs.
"You can't get mad if I butcher it," he said lightly.
The joke landed flat beneath the ache in his voice.
"I'll cut your balls off if you do."
Some things, at least, never changed.
When they were done, Chuuya immediately started looking around for a mirror. Dazai hated that his broken leg kept him rooted where he sat.
He hated that he couldn't cross the room, he couldn't wrap his arms around Chuuya's waist.
He couldn't pull him close and hold him there.
"Chibi," he called, forcing a grin back onto his face, "you owe me a box of strawberry Pocky."
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