Chapter Text
"…And that is, in few words, the reason why Dazai Osamu's entire literary career can be considered a byproduct of the many scandals that crossed — and will keep crossing — his life."
[Nakahara Chuuya; OM0514 - International Publishing]
"Why are we here again?"
"So Chuuya can whore himself out to an old man."
Chuuya shouldered his best friend, flustered. "Shut the fuck up, Albatross."
Apparently, Nakahara Chuuya needed better friends.
A better roommate, for starters. He'd lived with Albatross for the entireness of his college years and didn't particularly enjoy the idea of finding another alpha flatmate in the perspective of a (very attainable) Ph.D after his Master’s Degree. However, the redhead was also ready to admit that certain incidents couldn't be helped — for example, Albatross being casually pushed off the stairs of Lupin for being a dick. Maybe he could crash with Piano Man and Lippmann upstairs.
For the record, he was not whoring himself out.
He was… scouting for opportunities outside his comfort zone and, most importantly, outside university grounds. In a world calibrated for everybody else, for the powerful and the rich, for the alpha and the beta, the likes of him had to find shortcuts.
"I hope they have good whisky," Lippmann hummed, tapping his index to his lipstick-glossy lip as he looked around.
Chuuya twisted his nose, stalking down Lupin's wooden stairs. "It's the best bar in Ginza," he pointed out.
"And the most overpriced," Albatross said. "The Old World worked just fine, didn't it?"
"The Old World doesn't have what Lupin has."
Albatross clicked his tongue, tugging his hands in his baggy pants.
"Literary legacy, we know,” he said, irony ringing in his comment. “You only told us three hundred times.”
Lippman tilted his head towards the other alpha. "Well.That and rich people, ‘Tross."
“Oh, right. That’s why we’re here.”
Chuuya pretended to ignore them.
Lupin was cozy — which might have been a polite way to say small, but Chuuya was too enamored with the bar and its history to leave space for judgment. Two words described the place: flat and dark. A string of stools with puffy red seats framed the bar's counter, leather and dark brass that blended with the deep brown of the decor.
Even the spirits — an entire wall of liquors towering behind the two bartenders — seemed to blend together in a calming shade of brown.
It was quiet. It was nice.
"I'm falling asleep already," Albatross said, jumping off the last step.
"No one invited you," Chuuya growled.
"I invited myself."
With a dramatic roll of his eyes, Chuuya let the matter go. By Albatross’s side, Lippmann shrugged. He scanned the basement bar, his lips pursed in a way that Chuuya had learned to recognize as not impressed.
"This is it?" he asked.
Yep. Definitely not impressed.
"It's not that bad, I promise," Chuuya said.
Albatross nodded, lifting his sunglasses over his head. "It doesn't reek of piss and hormones like the club from last week, at least."
"Told ya it was a cool place."
"Cool," Lippmann repeated slowly. “Cool is a… generous way to put it.”
To be fair, Lupin was worlds apart from the fancy clubs that matched Lippmann's taste.
The post-war architecture and the jazz soundtrack clashed rather spectacularly with the Hollywood glam and posh crowd that Lippmann favored. However, Chuuya liked the sticky scent of liquor and wood that filled his nostrils, and the deep reddish-brown of the bar's counter.
A bartender in a black-and-crimson uniform nodded at them as the group sauntered into the room, looking for a place to sit. Chuuya barely managed to reply with a smile that Albatross pointed an elbow between his ribs, making the redhead wince.
"Oya, is that him?"
Chuuya turned in the direction Albatross was pointing to, grabbing his friend’s arm. He held his breath.
It couldn't be him, not so soon. Still, his heart had started drumming in his ribcage as his eyes scanned the room and the empty tables, landing on a figure curled over a glass filled with a red drink, and— and he relaxed.
His shoulders hunched as he let out a breath.
"That's Sakaguchi," he murmured.
Albatross frowned. "Looks boring."
"He's a writer, my friend," Lippmann commented, amiably, as if his best friend wasn't kind of a writer as well. As if Sakaguchi couldn't hear. He waltzed towards the counter, turning his back to Sakaguchi's table. "And not even of the entertaining kind, right? Unlike Chuuya's little crush." Chuuya rolled his eyes, but Lippmann smiled — a genuine smile, eyes shining. "I'm teasing you, love. Come on, we all need a drink."
Chuuya scoffed and followed him. Lippmann was… not wrong.
Sakaguchi Ango wasn't the most outspoken literary figure amidst the contemporary academic elite, so to speak. His few public appearances and even fewer interviews painted the picture of an introverted alpha, the kind that acted only just shy of ashamed of his second gender.
A meek man born into a harsh role.
The three settled on the stools at the counter, with Chuuya climbing onto the seat not without some difficulty. He safely tucked himself between his friends, Lippmann on the right and ‘Tross on the left, the same way he always did when he was drinking with alphas around. Albatross grinned in his direction while Lippmann ordered for all of them.
Chuuya tried not to cringe too visibly, sneaking a glance in Sakaguchi's direction.
Alpha got rights to order for their omegas, therefore their group of friends took turns ordering for Chuuya. It was just the way things were — under the assumption that omegas needed to be protected.
People tended to jump to conclusions, in that sense.
Fighting that conception seemed useless, so Chuuya had stopped wasting energy trying to antagonize the system. He and the Flags had been kicked out of clubs for not conforming and, at the end of the day, no one cared about what omegas had to say.
Lupin was not a gender-coded place, but it was known to host the alpha-only circle of famous writers. Kobayashi, who'd been Chuuya's favorite professor until he retired in Osaka to work on his latest novel, Ishiguro, Murasaki, Oda— literally every influential person in contemporary literature.
...Though Chuuya started to wonder if they'd picked the right night.
At the other end of the bar, Sakaguchi kept petting a glass of tomato juice and nothing about it screamed, 'I'm one of the most influential writers in the country.' Nothing about him seemed extraordinary as he sat alone and brooding in a corner.
If anything, it made the others in his circle seem— unreal.
For a moment, the legendary writers who called Lupin their home appeared like mythological creatures: they didn't really exist out of books and the occasional tabloid column. Which was pretty stupid to think, Chuuya considered, given the fact that he met Sakunosuke Oda earlier that week.
They even exchanged a few words after Oda's guest lecture. The Alpha had given out a soft snort reading Chuuya's analysis, and he was definitely real and the omega was more-than-definitely overthinking. He tried to relax and focus on his friends. He needed to keep his cool if he wanted to find the courage to sneak his way into the most prominent literary circles. God, even just talking to his favorite writers would have been worth his trouble.
He didn't have many shots, though.
Popping by Lupin often would have become very creepy very fast, especially for an unclaimed omega by a biker alpha and another who acted as if he could catch a bad case of scabies just by touching the glass.
He needed tonight to go well.
"Chuuya." Albatross kicked his ankle unceremoniously. "Wake up."
"Huh?"
"You're staring at Doc Glasses."
"Shit," Chuuya hissed under his breath, turning fast to face the bar.
"And your wine is here, my love." Lippmann slid a glass filled to the brim with red liquid in front of the omega. The wine wobbled in the glass, satisfyingly thick and shining crimson under the bar's dim light. "Drink up. For the nerves."
Chuuya scowled, one hand petting the glass almost protectively. "I'm not nervous."
"Yeah, love. You're not nervous."
"I swear."
"Be patient," Lippmann said. "It’s going to be fine. They'll be here soon."
Chuuya flashed him a grateful grin.
With a voice so full and reassuring and an actual emotional intelligence — unlike most alphas; hell, unlike every shitty guy Chuuya had dated — Lippman was the backbone of the Flags. He was their beating, bleeding heart. Albatross, however—
"Again, how are we so sure Chuuya's guy will be here?"
Albatross embodied chaotic neutral, and Chuuya wanted to punch his stupid face sometimes. Affectionately.
Chuuya shrugged absently. "Reddit."
It was a rumor.
However, during his guest lecture in Chuuya's class, Oda had mentioned that the infamous Buraiha circle liked to meet up at Lupin bar — "Such a cliché, right?" The alpha's dark blue eyes had gleamed with mirth, "But I promise you, once you enter, it's another universe." — every Thursday evening. That was his window.
"Maybe he has a fever."
"Albatross, darling, can you please stop jinxing it?"
"I'm just saying." Albatross shrugged. "Oh… wait, maybe he's on his rut. That would be entertaining, with our little snack here."
Chuuya shivered at the possibility, disgust creeping up his arms. He wanted to kickstart his publishing career and possibly be signed by a literary agency, get his name out there for real, not to get raped.
"Don't even joke about that," he grunted.
The only idea — the fact that his alpha friends still joked about that, fully aware of the possible consequences — had bile clawing up his throat, burning the interior of his mouth.
Albatross's face darkened, his smile winked out for a moment.
"Sorry," he murmured. "I’m sorry, that was stupid.” Chuuya shrugged, shooting him a timid smile. “Anyway. What do we even do when he gets here?"
"We say hi, of course," Lippmann said.
The redhead’s blood ran cold. "No!"
"…No, love?"
"No," he repeated, hiding his blush in a generous sip of wine. “I don’t know. Let me think about it, ok?”
Truth was, Chuuya had no idea what to do.
He was seriously going to need more alcohol before he'd be able to face the situation with dignity. After that, once he'd been appropriately drunk, everything was possible.
In the best case scenario, the omega managed to collect enough bravery to greet Oda and ask a renewed literature giant if he remembered him, the what's-his-name publishing student from Tokyo University.
With any luck, he'd get nervous before asking to be introduced to Oda's friends, and no one would ever hear about that time a stupid omega tried to ask the Buraiha members to read his works. Christ, what a clown.
"What's the guy's name again?"
"Oda?"
Albatross puffed his cheeks in disappointment. "No, no. The other one."
As for the worst-case scenario, it had a name.
It was—
"Dazai. The founder of the literary price and the scholarship?" Lippmann's voice almost caused Chuuya to jump out of his skin. He felt like the alpha had screamed that goddamn name for the whole city to hear. "My, 'Tross, you're ignorant."
Chugging down the rest of his wine in one go, Chuuya flagged down the barista waving his empty glass. He definitely needed to be drunker than this.
Albatross could chuckle all he wanted, the omega wasn't going to ruin himself and his publishing future sober. Lipmann patted his back before Chuuya had the chance to back down and propose to get the fuck out of Lupin before he'd single-handedly destroy his future.
"You'll be fine, love. You're a great improviser; you'll find an excuse."
"He's a terrible improviser," Albatross said, taking a sip of his beer. "You both are. Especially when you're drunk."
"Because you've been enormously helpful, hm?"
The alpha shrugged at Lippmann's remark, his blonde braid waving on his back. "Never said I was gonna help."
Chuuya scoffed, closing his eyes.
God, why.
He loved the Flags, he really did, but then they started bantering and, without Piano Man to keep them in check, they'd argue like children. He didn't have the energy to ask them to stop. He barely found it in himself to murmur a 'thank you' while the bartender refilled his wine.
They probably looked like a band of creepers, or groupies.
Surely Sakaguchi had realized they were odd, new, and texted his friends not to stop by, telling them to go somewhere else. Surely, Chuuya had been panicking all night over a fantasy that was never going to happen, and—
"Ango〜!"
Shit.
Apparently not.
Chuuya's brain barely registered the chattering, the names tossed in the conversation: Odasaku-san, Dazai-kun. Nice to see you here. I saved you a spot.
In person, Dazai Osamu's voice sounded exactly like Chuuya had imagined it and, yet, nothing like it. His entire body stiffened, and his hand clutched around the refilled glass. Next to him, to his horror, Lippmann whistled under his breath.
"I take that back," he murmured, "This place's great."
Despite himself Chuuya chuckled, a little strangled.
Oda was beautiful, but it wasn't a secret that Dazai was charming — unfairly so, for a man who also had wealth and a whip-sharp brain and the literary skills of God himself.
However, the redhead didn't expect him to appear… familiar. His unique scent mixed cotton, bourbon, and new paper. It clamped down the scent of every other alpha in the room, tuning them out, isolating Chuuya into a safe corner and draping him. A hug, an invisible blanket.
A safe space Chuuya had never really looked for, the kind of home that finds you when the time's right. And yet, his looks were far from the most impressive thing about Dazai Osamu.
Even from far away, even without knowing him, it seemed clear that he wasn't a happy man.
Chuuya breathed out after what seemed a lifetime, pretending to focus on his drink and hating how both his friends kept stealing glances at the two men who had reached Ango's table.
"Chuuya, you have my permission to whore yourself out to those guys," Albatross whispered, tilting his glass in a mute toast.
Again.
Was he tired of his entrepreneurial spirit to be mistaken for thirst? Definitely. Was he going to waste breath to repeat it to Albatross for the umpteenth time? Nup.
"I’m going to kill you,” Chuuya hissed, touching his lips to the glass' rim.
“I’m your best friend!”
“I’ll write you a nice eulogy.”
"Look at him. Who would guess that that ass won the Nobuko prize at 20," Lippmann said. "That's something."
Chuuya exhaled, mildly exhausted. The two bastards wanted to focus on the wrong thing? Great. He could do that. He couldn’t wait to do that, in fact. "Now do you believe me?"
Lippmann smiled at the redhead, eyes shining with mirth, and bumped their shoulders together. "My love, I always believe you."
Chuuya arched an eyebrow. His friends' laughter resounded through the bar, surging past the melancholic jazz music — almost covering the presence of everybody else in the same room.
The omega didn't know if it was because of the commotion and the voices or because of his jumpiness, but he could sense a pair of eyes carving patterns on his nape. Even past the curtains of his long red hair, the unknown stare seemed to cut paths in his skin.
He was clearly neurotic and overreacting, but what if he wasn't?
When the redhead dared to glance behind his shoulder, though, he met a pair of dark blue, familiar eyes looking right back at him.
"…Nakahara?" he heard. His heart hiccupped. "Nakahara Chuuya-kun?"
Both Albatross and Lippmann stopped.
The whole city, the entire universe seemed to halt, glaring in the direction of the omega. And Chuuya— Chuuya assumed he was about to die right there, with Oda Sakunosuke's voice still echoing in his brain.
Before he could realize it he was waving back, his head bobbing down in a polite sign of acknowledgment.
Well, damn.
"You know the kids, Odasaku?" Dazai asked, peeping out from Oda's side. Despite easily surpassing 1.80 cm, next to the man even Dazai appeared comically short.
Chuuya pursed his lips.
He still felt the alpha's gaze weighing solely on him. Amber, honey-thick, with a drop of crimson. Oda Sakunosuke closed on his broad shoulders, the bordeaux of his shirt wrinkling with the movement.
"Chuuya-kun, right?" Chuuya nodded sheepishly, his face on fire. "Nice to see you again."
God, he sounded honest.
Oda Sakunosuke was one of the most human figures Chuuya had ever met in his academic life — especially for his gender. The quintessential proof that alphas could be educators, too. The alpha turned to Dazai and Ango with a smile, sounding genuinely happy as he explained, "I was in Chuuya-kun's class last week." Chuuya's lips stretched into a smile, confirming the alpha's words. God, he didn't expect Oda-fucking-Sakunosuke to remember… well, him. "Do you and your friends like the place?"
Lippmann lifted his glass. "Great drinks," he said.
"The drinks are really nice here," Oda hummed.
"They sure are, until someone decides to drink soup," Dazai added, perfectly understandable even behind his fake cough. To Sakaguchi's honor, he didn't even falter — on the contrary, he gulped down some tomato juice and smacked his lips in appreciation.
Oda ignored his friend as well, blue eyes scanning the three boys. Then, he offered them a small smile. “Is it your first time here? You can join our table if you want.”
It was warm, Oda Sakunosuke, of a warmth that reminded Chuuya of a candle on winter nights.
It wasn't explosive, nor scorching hot as a fire, but it was intimate and welcoming, and it held the extraordinary ability to put people at ease.
"Definitely," Dazai crooned — low, the polar opposite of Oda's heartwarming kindness. “We don’t bite.”
A chill rippled down Chuuya's spine. He looked like a deer caught in headlights, and he hated it.
Bite. Interesting choice of words.
"It's fine," Ango chimed in from his seat. "It's going to be a nice change from Dazai-kun's usual fangirls."
Chuuya almost choked on his wine.
Lippmann casually patted him on the back, offering the group a charming smile as if to apologize for his friend's behavior as they all transferred to Ango’s table in the corner.
“Great,” Odasaku said.
Great, Chuuya echoed in his mind.
-
"Of course I remembered: the exercise we did with Chuuya-kun's class was a hard one to forget. I mentioned it to Dazai-kun already, actually." Dazai's head perked up at Oda’s comment, suddenly interested as if to say, ‘oh, it’s him,’ and Ango arched his eyebrow. "Chuuya-kun here ripped apart Dazai-kun's work quite skilfully."
Ah, shit.
Chuuya hid into his crossed arms, head against the table. Oda remembered that too.
Suddenly, the already small square table felt all the more suffocating. In silence, the redhead damned himself for his attempt to appear brilliant with Oda by focusing his exercise on destroying Dazai Osamu's entire literary career; he definitely didn't think the alpha would bring it up ever again.
Especially not in front of Dazai Osamu himself.
Dazai's lips curled up.
"Did he, now?" He hummed, turning to angle his whisky glass in a mockery of a toast. "It seems, I should watch my back from an omega."
Chuuya frowned. "Have a problem with that?"
Dazai's smile didn't falter.
"Not usually," he said. "I don't often meet ones like you who think."
There was a peculiar edge, in the way Dazai said it, that made him want to strangle the man in a sexual and I-want-you-to-shut-up way at the same time. The lines between the two instincts smeared horribly around people like Dazai.
Now, Chuuya knew he had a thing for walking red flags.
Even his entire group of friends called themselves the Flags, for Christ’s sake.
Luckily, Albatross saved him before Chuuya could say something he'd regret, either very rude or very thirsty. Maybe he’d manage both if he tried hard enough.
"Chuuya here is the only omega of his department.”
Ango blinked, eyes wide behind the round glasses. "Congratulations."
"It's not that special," Chuuya rumbled, hiding into the glass. The wine, fruity and room temperature, wetted his lips. He still had to learn how to handle praise and had a solid hunch he'd never get used to it. "It's because of the tax barriers being higher for us and everything."
"Ah, right." Lippmann nodded. "Thank you for reminding us all mortals that you also work two jobs to pay for your tuition. Weird flex, but ok."
"Shut up."
"Chuuya-kun—"
Chuuya sank deeper in the glass, hoping against hope it could hide the blush that crawled up his cheeks. He couldn’t exactly tell Oda to shut up too, though. "Chuuya's fine," he growled.
Oda nodded.
"Chuuya, you were pretty distinctive," he said, not a trace of mockery on his face. "Own up to that. And I'm certain Dazai-kun here might learn a thing or two from your analysis."
Chuuya didn't reply, too focused on gnawing at his bottom lip and ignoring Dazai's intense stare.
He imagined the alpha might want to publicly tear him to pieces for criticizing his work and, suddenly, Chuuya didn't mind if alphas looked at him like a dessert if the other option was to have one staring at him as if he was going to be murdered in his sleep.
“Chuuya’s the smart one in the Flags,” Lippmann added amiably, “though he doesn’t look like it.”
In retaliation, the omega tried to kick him under the table, hitting Albatross instead. His friend kicked him back, twice as hard. He was also sure Dazai had noticed the exchange, pursing his lips in an unreadable expression, but Lippmann acted faster, leaning forward on the table with a charming, attention-grabbing smile.
“Was our dear Chuuya here a good read, then, Oda-san?”
Oda nodded. “He got a 100 for that work, too.”
“Chuuya!” Albatross squeaked.
“Chuuya is supposed to pay for dinner every time he gets a high mark.”
“Which is all the time,” Albatross interjected. “Cheater. Pay up.”
Wrinkling his nose, Chuuya flipped him off.
He supposed the only 100 he was going to get in the future was a hundred stabs from Dazai Osamu and his wounded big-dick, alpha-male ego.
“Didn’t you call my career a byproduct of scandals?” Dazai chimed in, poison inflating every word.
Chuuya shivered but stared right back. He blinked innocently, feigning calm.
“Am I wrong?”
When Dazai’s grip around the glass stiffened, and his eyes narrowed into slits and his lips pursed, the redhead felt powerful, more powerful than he ever felt in his life.
“Wait,” Lippmann cut him off, clapping his hands. “We'll go get a refill and be right back. I can’t do this story sober.”
Chuuya let out a snort, hating the idea of moving from his hard-earned place and attract attention to himself, but Albatross's hand anchored around his forearm and practically dragged him away.
If I have to be a moving target, at least let me leave and never come back, his eyes pleaded — but, for obvious reasons, he couldn't say that to Dazai’s face. Instead, he only let out a weak sigh.
Maybe he'd try Lupin's most famous Moscow Mule. Oda-san said good things about it, and trusting him was always a smart choice.
He always looked up to Oda, even as a teenager.
The man — an up-and-coming student aiming for the Noma Prize at the time — had been one of Chuuya's first real reads, and one of his favorites ever. If Oda said he should own up to his merits, maybe he was right.
Maybe the omega could loosen up and stop making a fool of himself around writers he worshipped. That way, he might find the nerve to ask Dazai to not murder him and maybe read his poems. Maybe—
"Oh, Chuuya...?"
The omega halted.
Dazai's voice had stopped him physically, an embrace keeping him still, like a hand encircling his wrist. Even from a distance, the alpha's smell and presence engulfed everything around them — it couldn't be normal, yet it was happening. Whatever it was, Chuuya didn't want it to stop.
He turned to face Dazai.
"Yeah?"
"I'm going outside for a smoke." The alpha offered him a smile so sharp Chuuya feared it'd nick at him, open his flesh and expose his beating heart. "Care to keep me company?" He grinned. "I'm curious to hear what you found so scandalous in my career."
Swallowing dry, Chuuya forced out a nod.
Even if he would want to say no (and how could he?), there was a note in Dazai's timbre that made it impossible to refuse him anything.
It rang with the low, husky notes of a sweet threat.
Chuuya didn't recognize why, but a part of him reacted to it instinctively, leaning into the sound, wishing it could foreshadow something else; something more.
In silence, Chuuya waited for Dazai to slip back into his dark coat, then followed him up the stairs and into the night.
He didn't think the weather was cold enough to warrant a jacket, yet everybody knew that Dazai had this— attachment to the mid-thigh black coat he always wore like a uniform or a shield. It had become one of the writer's signature traits, almost as famous as the bittersweet titles of his short novels.
The alpha kept the door open for him and Chuuya shivered, supposing it’d be a great moment for Dazai to stab him in the back and kill him for being a judgmental little bitch.
Instead, the late summer air slapped him awake.
-
It occupied a quiet side alley, Lupin.
Few knew about the meeting place and those who did, those who might have enjoyed the Showa-inspired design and the strong drinks, were often kept away by the alpha clientele.
At least, that definitely kept the omegas away.
Dazai halted as soon as they stepped into the street.
His head whipped to the darkest corner of the alley, his entire body turning rigid. Chuuya stopped a few steps behind the man, craning his neck to glance in the direction where the alpha was looking. The silence was eerie enough to send a shiver down the redhead’s spine.
"Are you alright?"
Dazai winced.
"Yes.” He exhaled. Deeply, in and out; again, in. “Yes.” Out. “I thought I saw someone."
Chuuya snorted. "Ain't it a little too early for hallucinations?"
…Well.
Albatross would have said that it was never too early for hallucinations, but that was before Chuuya put a veto on Albatross's little mushroom cultivation in their shared living room.
Dazai shook his head, slipping a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from his coat’s pocket.
"I have many ghosts following me around, Chuuya-kun." He smiled — venomously sweet, eyes tainted with a drop of rusty red under the soft, cold halo of the street lamps.
Chuuya rolled his eyes.
"Sure, that's not lame at all.”
Daza didn’t reply, too preoccupied with bringing the cigarette to his lips to light it up.
God, Chuuya had forgotten how stupidly cocky alphas acted all the time — especially if they had a queue of beta and omega outside their house. Especially if they looked like this, and gained enough money to assure their mate the economic stability society required.
The omega guessed he always hoped that someone with the power to bend universes and break the human's soul apart with words alone would be… different. More sensitive. He ought to guess again, apparently.
Dazai snickered and passed him the cigarette.
"Don't you believe in ghosts?"
"I have worse things to worry about," the omega said, wrapping his lips around the cigarette. He didn't like the playful edge in Dazai's tone — he didn't understand if the man was laughing with him or at him. "Ghosts 'ain't real."
Dazai looked at him for a moment, almost waiting for him to change his mind, but then sighed and drove the second cigarette to his lips.
He glided the pack back into his pocket, then cupped his palm around the flame to light the cigarette's slightly crooked tip. At least to himself, Chuuya admitted that he followed the process with a little too much interest.
(It wasn't his fault that Dazai had such sexy fingers.
It didn’t mean anything, though. He always liked nice hands in a man.)
"We could have shared," he offered.
Dazai gave him a half-lidded smirk. "That would imply touching. You don't want me too close to you, Chuuya."
Didn't he, though?
"Yeah, right," he still said.
He also took a step away from the man for good measure. Waltzing back inside smelling too much like an alpha with Dazai's reputation wouldn't have been safe, nor smart. People might misinterpret the most innocuous interaction, even one as innocent as sharing a smoke.
People misinterpreted all the time.
But Dazai then glanced at him, almost trying to read through Chuuya's reaction, and an old quote resurfaced in the omega's mind. It was strikingly clear and, yet, blurred out by time when he tried to remember more than just that sentence.
"For someone like myself in whom the ability to trust others is so cracked and broken that I am wretchedly timid and am forever trying to read the expression on people's faces."
Chuuya always loved that passage, the peculiar way the protagonist’s charm bled into a pitiful fear of the unknown. It was supposed to describe Dazai's protagonist. Instead, Chuuya saw now that it fit the alpha with cruel precision.
"So you want to become a publisher?" Dazai asked, cutting his musing short.
Chuuya took the first drag, smoke filling his lungs as he considered how straightforward he wanted to be.
"That's just a university course. I always wanted to work with poetry."
Dazai looked at him— perhaps for the first time. Not like a juicy steak served for Tokyo’s alpha population, not like a cute little omega trying his hand at playing in a much bigger league, but like a person. A peer, even.
"You write?"
"Yeah." He shrugged, dismissive. "Sometimes."
"Do you have an email address or a phone number?"
Chuuya's heart back-flipped, though he hid his smile behind a long drag of his cigarette.
Was he kidding?
“...Why?”
“An eye for an eye, it’s only fair. If you want to share your work, of course,” Dazai said it like it meant something, like the words scribbled on a page after a nightmare meant for him as much as they meant for Chuuya. He gaped, and the alpha closed in his shoulders — almost apologetically. "I'm not an expert in poetry, but—"
"I would be honored.”
"Good," Dazai murmured. "Good. Come find me before you go, we can exchange numbers." He dragged a inhale of smoke, blissfully unaware of the storm raging in Chuuya's chest at the idea of having Dazai’s number in his phone. "Then why publishing, though? Seems a pretty roundabout way to get into poetry."
Chuuya frowned slightly.
"Poetry doesn't exactly pay rent, so I went for the next best thing."
"Publishing doesn't necessarily sound like a safe bet either," Dazai said.
It was true, but living as an omega in a world calibrated for everyone else was a fucking joke. Because, when Chuuya realized he would never become what he wanted, he decided he’d still go for the next best, ambitious alternative. Because he fell in love with books when no one else seemed willing to speak to his soul and quench his loneliness as it became clearer and clearer that not many would bother to get to know him.
But all that would have been too personal, and fuck if he wanted to appear like a loser in front of the youngest winner of the Nobuko prize in fucking history, so…
"I love books," he said. "And I'm told I'm good with people. I took my chances."
Dazai hummed around the cigarette's filter, his head bobbing side to side in agreement.
"Right. And you have your alpha boyf—”
“Friend,” Chuuya corrected him. He snapped whenever someone mistook Albatross for his boyfriend just because they lived together, but he softened while explaining, “He’s my best friend. We just live together.”
The alpha nodded, his amber eyes luminous as he took in the information. “Best friend, I apologize. Anyway, I'm guessing rent is not too terrible if you two share?"
"It's Tokyo," Chuuya shrugged. "Rent is always fucking terrible. But we're fine, and I also have some side hustles."
"Writing?"
Chuuya barked a laugh. "I fucking wish."
It came out bitter, and the redhead wished he had a non-oversharing or embarrassing way to explain his job, and why he hated it.
But how does one say, no, hey, I sleep with alphas for money, please take me seriously even if I’m a prostitute? I’m clean, I swear. How could he explain why he hated a world where he was supposed to enjoy being touched all the time, and where reality got twisted to the point people believed that a person’s only worth lied in how well he took a knot and begged to be impregnated.
He wished he could explain why he wanted to change that, at least for himself, and yet he wouldn’t find the words.
But silence settled between them like dust, and Dazai absently sprinkled off the ash from his cigarette on the pavement, and Chuuya said nothing because no alpha would ever understand.
"I must admit, Odasaku did mention you," Dazai spoke with a light shrug. Chuuya gawked. "He said you were impressive, but I didn't pay him any mind. Odasaku has a tender heart, and he gets attached. But what I see now—" His voice died off, and Chuuya waited, slightly leaning forward, tethered to Dazai by that dragged, heavy pause. “He’s right. You’re smart, Chuuya.”
Part of the redhead withered with the comment. Beyond reason, he expected something else, though he didn't even know what — he suspected that he'd be disappointed either way.
But then Dazai's lips stretched, opening into a wolfish grin. "At least for an omega."
"Well, fuck you."
…Ah.
Chuuya's eyes widened, and Dazai ogled right back.
Did he— just insult his favorite writer?
Shit. Ok. This was not planned. And he also just said he was fucking good with fucking people!
He stared, horrified, his lids hurting from how he refused to blink, searching for any trace of anger or offense on the alpha’s face— anything that could give out how in trouble he was after that stunt and the stupid, shitty analysis Oda liked so much.
Instead, Dazai laughed.
It wasn't hearty, nor rich — it was a barely kept-in chuckle that shook the man’s shoulders and curled his lips — but it still sounded unfairly attractive. It was rare, and Ane-san said there was 'an unmatched beauty in rarity'.
Chuuya's entire nervous system thawed at the sight.
"As I said, smart," Dazai said. He tossed his cigarette to the ground in a swift motion. "See you inside, o'chibi."
It took Chuuya thirty good seconds to digest the conversation. He stood alone in the alley, with the cigarette's ash raining between his index and middle fingers and the gentle early fall air shrouding him, feeling like he’d just passed some kind of test.
One of the most famous writers in modern literature wanted to read his stuff. He asked for his number. They smoked together. The echoes from Ginza reached him from far away, and Chuuya felt light and detached and underwater.
The hemmed edge of Dazai's coat had already disappeared behind the door that led to Lupin when he realized that Dazai Osamu — the Dazai Osamu — had called him short.
-
Nakahara Chuuya smelled odd.
It was sweet for a male omega: a point of vanilla, with undertones of mint and nicotine. He didn't use scent blockers, though Dazai couldn't possibly understand why an unmarked omega would risk this much.
Furthermore, the trace of his two alpha friends didn't stick on him, although it should have. It didn't protect him from other alphas. It was like the redhead was waiting for something — someone — molded exactly for him, to mark him, to counterbalance the sweetness of his scent.
It made Dazai want to know more about Chuuya — his dreams, his secrets, the suppleness of his skin, the low vibration of his purr.
Because Nakahara Chuuya appeared and acted differently than any other omega Dazai had met before, because he was fierce and funny and so beautiful it hurt the heart, and because something wasn’t right.
But that scent, the intense trail of it— that was strange, alarmingly so.
"Ghosts 'ain't real, " Chuuya had said.
Dazai took mental note of that sentence, his fingers shaking for the need of another drink and for pen and paper to scribble down a few sentences on how beauty was often paired with ingenuity.
Ghosts were indeed real. Dazai could vouch for that when Michiko's shadow followed him around, an omen looming over him no matter how sober he tried to be.
An ex-wife stalking him and a dead one haunting him, huh? Fantastic. Dazai couldn't do much when it came to his ex-wife but, clearly, his medicines weren't working properly if he still thought he saw Michiko at the corners of his peripheral view.
And he was tired of seeing her, still, after a year. He was exhausted.
When he sat back at the table next to Odasaku, chirping if his dear friends had missed him and internally thanking all the gods that Chuuya's friends had returned to the counter, Dazai found judgment clouding the faces of his best friends.
"What?"
"Dazai," Oda drawled.
"What?" he repeated, putting a hand on his heart. "Don't look at me like I'm the big bad wolf, Odasaku—!"
"You're drooling all over the table," Ango said, swamping the comment in tomato juice.
"Said the guy who is drinking a soup."
"For the last time, tomato juice is a perfectly respectable drink."
Dazai pouted boyishly.
"A soup," he repeated, earning back just a slightly exhausted sigh. "And if you must know, Chuuya-kun is kinda interesting and a poet. Mine is an absolutely pure academic interest."
Oh, he wished.
He wished he didn't notice a pull dragging him to Nakahara Chuuya the moment they, unfortunately, landed at Lupin in the same moment, at the same time. He wished his body didn’t resonate with Chuuya’s presence, his voice— and his scent, his stupidly pungent scent.
But that was only the craving of a solitary alpha, a stupid daydream.
Ango sighed. "Sure. Because you're so interested in poetry, right?"
Dazai glanced at Chuuya's friends at the counter before pouting. "Excuse you; I'm a professional. I'm very interested."
"Dazai-kun, we want to make sure you won’t do anything inappropriate," Odasaku said, only slightly more patient.
Dazai scowled, though he knew how much he could push his luck around his oldest friends; he didn't have many people he trusted, but that only meant he knew the ones he had like the back of his hand. He knew, just like he’d been informed plenty of times that Kunikida-san was tired of organizing press conferences to save Dazai’s — and Fukuzawa’s entire literary agency’s — face.
He knew, and yet he shrugged it away as if it didn’t mean anything. As if he didn’t care.
"It's not my fault the world adores talking about me."
"The world thinks you're a shameless womanizer," Ango said.
"But—"
"And," the man interrupted him, pushing his glasses over the bridge of his nose. "And they say you have no regard for omega or women's rights, a statement that your literary agency has given up fighting. Please reflect upon that."
"Ango, that's mean!"
It's also truer than you like to admit, a voice chimed in Dazai's brain.
You thought that, with Michiko, things had improved?
She could only heal your festering wounds up to a point, and now she’s dead and you’re a bastard without a cover-up.
He shoved it to the side, with no need for boring consciences telling him what to do. He also tried his best to ignore Odasaku's tart silence.
Jeez, for once that he really didn’t lay a finger on the thing he craved. In a world where the things he wanted were already gone — either stolen or dead —, Dazai had discovered he didn’t mind just indulging in his own demise before the inevitable end.
Chuuya was different, though.
Dazai brushed away that idea, too, annoyed at how quickly it bloomed in his mind. He reminded himself that the last thing he needed after an unpleasant divorce and a departed wife was to get obsessed over a wannabe poet he’d known for five minutes.
Nakahara Chuuya was indeed one of a kind, and good for him, but Dazai had no time to waste running after some handsome wannabe Orpheus's tail, a Polyhymnia with blue eyes and the faintest trace of sacredness on his freckled-kissed skin.
He knew poets, they always meant trouble.
He used to drink with them, and worked with them, and never allowed himself to love one of them. Certainly, he had no intention of starting now.