Based on this prompt on Tumblr.
between the two of them, only chuuya has the literal ability (and therefore, the right) to be upside down at any given moment.
so when he opens the door to their bedroom for some much-needed break from the day's bullshit, the last thing he ever expected to see is dazai's upright form in a decidedly wrong orientation than is conventional— that is, with his bare feet stuck to the ceiling, and his bandaged hands barely touching the floor.
what the hell is this bastard doing upside down, chuuya thinks in disbelief, as he tries not to be distracted by how the loose fabric of dazai's pajamas shamelessly ride up (or, well, down) his thin torso, revealing relatively chiseled abs that horribly contrast with his visible rib cage.
what on earth have I done to deserve this, is the second thought that comes to mind, meaning it in more ways than one. fucking tease, he adds to that, as he resists with mortification the rush of blood from his head to his, well— let's not go there, nakahara, for the love of all that is good and pure and holy, goddammit.
chuuya decides right there and then to help dazai down his 180° predicament, as it were (because only he has the right to be upside down, dammit!), but dazai begins to slowly wiggle in place, until his whole body slowly descends from the ceiling, and he breaks his fall with a perfectly-executed handstand, before finally curling his body down to the floor.
he does not even want to question what is going on at this point.
chuuya makes a mental note to fix the ceiling later, where a pair of limp, flesh-toned foot socks remain glued. definitely doing that pronto, he amends, before he is thoroughly distracted to oblivion by dazai's sluggish form slowly attaching itself to him like a leech to warm-blooded flesh. already happening, in fact. he doesn't have the energy for that, he justifies to himself, but that's a goddamned lie, and he knows that.
for now, chuuya cradles dazai to himself as he slowly comes to, blinking slowly as he looks up with glossed-over eyes. "whoa, headrush," dazai mumbles, vision slowly refocusing once more.
"what the hell were you trying to do again, you stupid mackerel?" chuuya snorts.
a couple of blinks, then: "oh, chuuya? sorry about that. i was trying to force myself to think. i was very much uninspired earlier, you see."
it makes chuuya really, really, really want to facepalm, for real. the fucking absurdity.
"you're definitely not right in the head to do any thinking," he scolds, scooping dazai up into a princess carry (with some ability-enhanced cheating), then tossing him to the king-sized bed. with that done, he goes up to the ceiling himself and brusquely removes the socks stuck on there with a satisfying rip. the paint job for it later will be tedious and horrible, but that alternative is definitely better than waking up to dirty laundry stuck on his ceiling after a good night's rest. and chuuya definitely needs a lot of that shuteye right now.
"chuuya," dazai sleepily calls later as he is taking off his dress shirt and slacks, "thanks for getting me down." and that smile he gives after is fucking illegal, dammit, but it's not his place to say that.
"you did that yourself," he corrects, joining him under the covers and running his hand through dazai's mussed hair. "now shut up and go to sleep."
he does just that, and chuuya lets the sound of dazai's light breathing lull him to slumber, too. god knows how much they both need that right now, after everything.
