Basic Etiquette
It would be a lie to say Dazai offered to go to dinner because he was in a good mood. He's never in a good mood. Generosity is often a trap with him and people are right to be suspicious of his gifts. In this case, however, he can honestly say that when he extended the invitation to visit a nearby izakaya, he didn't have any ulterior motives.
"Food?" Chuuya had asked. He was rinsing blood off his arms using a public water fountain. Dazai felt bad for the next Yokohama citizen to use it. "Are you serious? No tricks?"
"None that I'm aware of."
"And it isn't a long walk?"
Dazai briefly consulted his phone. "Ten minutes away."
"Then yeah, I'm in. Lead the way, crappy Dazai."
It was a quiet walk; Chuuya winding down from the adrenaline of a successful mission, Dazai lost in his own thoughts and not particularly eager to talk to the boy next to him. They stop in a nearby alleyway to discard their outer layers, which are far too stained by questionable liquids to enter a civilian establishment with them. It's just dinner. A bowl of noodles to recover before they have to report to Mori. It can be done in complete silence.
But this is Chuuya.
He is aggressively stirring his noodles as he vents.
Dazai can hear the thick sloshing sound of Chuuya mixing everything around. It is incredibly unappetising. He tries to ignore it, taking small bites of his soba and letting his partner yap on. Dogs are dogs, after all. It doesn't matter if you ask them to be quiet or act like a person or spontaneously change into a much calmer animal, maybe a cat or something—at the end of the day, it is still a dog. You can't change the nature of someone. Especially if they're naturally irritating.
"—kind of shit gets on my nerves, I have no idea how I haven't strangled you by now," Miraculously, Chuuya has yet to stop talking. Dazai sighs loudly over his bowl and nearly gets his eye poked out for it. "Shut up, you have no right to be annoyed. I'm annoyed. We're partners, you shithead, you have to let me in on whatever is happening inside your head otherwise people die—" He uses one hand to hold his chopsticks in a grip that actually makes Dazai do a double-take: it's the kind of grip you would expect to see on a child. "Like, do you understand that, or care? Hello?"
Dazai blinks slowly, watching Chuuya out of the corner of his eye. "Why should I care about people I don't know?" He answers tonelessly.
Chuuya's scoff of disgust comes from somewhere deep in his chest. "I don't know what I expected from you."
The chopsticks spin around in his fingers with none of the coordination of someone doing it on purpose; Chuuya would have lost one to his broth if his reflexes weren't as polished. Dazai observes the first sign of frustration on Chuuya's face in the crease of his brow. He takes a second, longer look at Chuuya's bowl, suspicions hovering in his mind.
The bowl looks touched. Chuuya has mixed his noodles and toppings together which gives it the appearance of being eaten. But the broth licks at the edges of the bowl and Dazai can count three pork strips in there. Chuuya hasn't taken a single bite.
"You should know better," Dazai says absent-mindedly. He can't risk turning to face Chuuya fully because that will cause the red head to shut down. Even this subtle peripheral surveillance can't last forever. He keeps his voice uninterested in hopes that it will delay the reveal. "Plus, your argument is flawed. All the reasons you provided make it more likely that I will sabotage our missions. I don't like you, you know? I wonder if I'll experience joy when you die. If you're not careful I might get curious enough to test that."
Dazai can't tell you if his sentiment is sincere or not. It's true that Chuuya's life and well-being are subject to Dazai's whims—but this is a realistic threat for everyone who encounters Dazai, and of everyone he's met, to be honest Chuuya is at the least risk of serious harm purely because he's notoriously hard to kill. For that reason, Dazai settles for making him miserable: it's easier and more entertaining. He is tempted to claim that he doesn't believe any factor of Chuuya's existence (even his theoretical non-existence) could inspire a worthwhile emotion, but even that's not the whole story. Really, it's that Dazai hasn't felt the need to think about it. Chuuya isn't that important.
And because Chuuya likewise believes that Dazai isn't a real danger to him, he throws his head back and starts laughing. "Oh, that's a good one! Like you could land a hit on me!"
"I have plans in place. It's possible."
"It's not." He settles down, an amused grin splitting his face. "I'd kick your ass before you could enact your precious plan."
"I have contingencies in place for that as well," Dazai admits without shame. "I have a theory that you can't defend against multiple snipers."
"I can stop bullets though?" Dismissively, he turns back to his bowl. His chopsticks go back in and rearrange some noodles. His fingers move as if he is operating the lacquered wood in the appropriate mechanical motion, even if his grip is atrocious.
And yet, when the chopsticks emerge again—no noodles.
Dazai speaks automatically: "Hear me out. You use your ability to cancel out the velocity of the bullet after it touches you. There's a millisecond between the bullet touching you and your ability activating where the velocity of the bullet still belongs to a sniper shot. You'd be injured by that."
"Huh? I guess, sure, but not by much."
There aren't many reasons that come to mind that would explain why Chuuya isn't eating, or why he wants to give the impression that he's busy with his food when he hasn't taken a bite. Dazai knows for a fact that the other ability user isn't picky about his food; while sometimes a bizarre food item gives him pause, he never turns down a meal and has yet to meet a dish he hasn't devoured. When you take into account their recently completed mission, Chuuya has surely worked up an appetite.
"I'd have to set-up a lot of snipers so you would obtain many small injuries. You can't defend against non-mass abilities either, there are plenty of ability users in the mafia's roster who could defend against your gravity manipulation."
Has Chuuya done this before? What's different about tonight?
Chuuya twists around in his seat to give his full attention. His eyes are suspicious and wary, which makes sense given that Dazai is explaining in detail how he would assassinate his unofficial mission partner. But he doesn't look surprised. So that's something. Chuuya places his chopsticks on the hoshioki and scrunches his nose. Flatly, he asks, "What's wrong with you?"
Feeling that he has permission, Dazai moves his body to face Chuuya too. His mind, bored, has latched onto Chuuya's strange behaviour. He casts his memory back, trying to visualize what Chuuya has done during every shared meal between them. "I'm taking your advice and honestly communicating with you."
"For what?"
"Huh?"
Chuuya loves street food, pastries, and foreign cuisine. He takes breakfast in the form of konbini bread or croissants from his favourite pretentious cafe. When he's working he subsides mostly on caffeinated drinks that he buys from train station vending machines. If he has to sit down and eat at a restaurant, usually in a meeting with a mafia contact or his fence, he is too tense to consume any of the food. If he dares, he will get it in a takeaway container for later, but that's rare to see because Chuuya, much like any street kid, struggles to control himself when there is a plate of food before him.
"What do you get out of being honest?" Chuuya clarifies.
Dazai doesn't miss a beat in his reply, even though his mind is faraway. He tries on a confused expression. "I thought it would bother you, of course. Chuuya should be aware of how much he isn't wanted."
It's not that he doesn't want to eat—he keeps trying, and he really is starting to get frustrated, so why isn't he?
Chuuya looks unconvinced. "There's no way you're being honest for such a worthless reason. Now I'm gonna train specifically to cover the weaknesses you've pointed out and it's gonna be inconvenient for you. I'm not buying it."
What's the connection? What are the foods that Chuuya avoids eating in public?
"So now I'm in trouble for helping you?"
"You're in trouble," Chuuya reuses his words mockingly, "because you're a shit liar."
That draws Dazai out of his own head enough for him to roll his eyes. He's a magnificent liar. What is he if not a miserable pile of lies stacked underneath a black coat. "Maybe Chuuya is just paranoid?"
"I am fucking not!" Chuuya snatches his chopsticks from their hoshioki and jabs them in Dazai's face in a threatening manner. The brunette forgets to flinch; Chuuya's cussed out elderly people in public because they were walking too slow, this is hardly the most audacious faux paus he's made. "I know you're up to something! You're talking way too much! What, was there a secret agenda during the mission? Do you have blackmail on me? Spit it out!"
There are servers milling about the izakaya and two chefs behind in the kitchen preparing the noodles. Where Dazai and Chuuya are sitting is directly in front of the kitchen, at the counter where they are closest to the food and the exit. It's because they're so close to the chefs that Dazai, out of habit of watching the room around him, catches their appalled reaction at Chuuya's manners.
It's no secret that Chuuya lacks the education in etiquette that is considered essential to the proper upbringing of a child. Dazai is not someone who qualifies as ordinary or human, but even he knows how he should behave in public. If his childhood hadn't ensured that, Mori would have filled in the gaps himself. The way Chuuya is behaving draws attention and ire. Dazai is bluffing his way through social interactions as it is: he needs to make the best impression possible, if only to compensate for the horrifying experiences he will soon put people through by virtue of knowing him. It's not something he needs to think about anymore.
An inkling of a clue forms in Dazai's mind. Half of him hopes he's wrong, annoyed that it took him this long to realise. The other half wants it to be true purely for the blackmail it will produce. Instead of addressing Chuuya's (correct) accusations, he nods his head towards the chefs. They've turned back to their stations already, but Dazai is reading their lips and they are rather offended by Chuuya. No doubt they'll moan about the values of this generation for a few moments before moving on.
"Hey, hey," Dazai says in a low voice, "I know you're a brute, but mind your manners, will you? We're not in mafia territory right now."
Chuuya blinks in surprise. He checks over his shoulder in the direction Dazai is indicating. It's very fortunate timing that he turns around at the same time the chefs are rolling their eyes behind his back—he catches their disapproval front-on. Dazai can't see the face he makes but it must be fierce: the chefs freeze, turn pale, and hurriedly return to their boiling pots. Chuuya turns back around with a huff, wearing a truly sour grimace. "I wasn't that loud, was I?" He mutters darkly.
Haha, wow. Is it possible he doesn't have a clue?
"You were being rude," Dazai says. "Most kids know better than to talk with their chopsticks."
"... Talk with my what?" He shakes his head slowly. "You're fucking with me, aren't you?"
"You don't know," Dazai confirms out-loud. It satisfies him to witness the effect his words have on Chuuya, who becomes equal parts humiliated and furious at the mere implication that he's missing out on something obvious.
He's learned his lesson though. He slams the chopsticks down on the hoshioki, leaning in so he can get a fistful of Dazai's dress shirt. It takes one fierce yank to draw the two of them almost nose-to-nose. Chuuya is growling, "I'm getting tired of your shit tonight, you bandaged bitch."
"That's probably because you're hangry," Dazai murmurs to him. Holding back his smirk is worthless at this point; he's already pissed Chuuya off, he may as well be smug about it. "I noticed you haven't touched your food. You aren't going to eat?"
Chuuya's lip curls back. "Being around you puts me off my appetite."
"And you have the nerve to call me a bad liar."
"So I'm not hungry. What does this have to do with you being a shady bastard?"
Dazai's bandaged eye obscures his peripheral vision of their food. He reaches out to grab a pair of chopsticks, sure that he remembers exactly where they are. His fingers close around the wood without a moment of fumbling. "Chuuya," He cooes patronisingly. He moves his arm backwards and blindly picks a topping out of Chuuya's bowl. It's closer, fuller, and it requires less movement from Dazai's shoulder. He can feel through the chopsticks when he's secured a grip on something. "Open up, okay?"
Chuuya's stupid, so he instinctively replies: "Why the hell would I do that?"
Dazai shoves a piece of—it looks like menma—it's food anyway, he shoves food into Chuuya's big mouth. He chomps on it with the bite reflex of a shark and the grip of a mutt. Dazai tries to pull the chopsticks back but they're sure stuck in there. Out of suspicion Chuuya doesn't seem to want to let go, but in doing so he further proves how utterly feral he is. Only the rising muttering of those disapproving chefs, which drifts over to them over the chaos of a busy Saturday night, convinces Chuuya to unlock his jaw. But he looks pissed about it.
Dazai uses his distraction to lean back. He presents his hand for viewing. The chopsticks are held neatly and properly in his fingers. He prefaces his explanation with: "Hey, don't bite it, you might have rabies."
A tremble of rage ripples down Chuuya's spine. "Go fuck yourself," He hisses.
"Hardly constructive, chibi. Why don't you look and learn for once in your life? I'm trying to help you out here. See, this," Dazai dexterously spins the utensils, "is how you're supposed to hold chopsticks."
"I—I know how to hold chopsticks!" He takes them right from Dazai's hand and shuffles them around. He shows off his work. The utensils cross over each other in that unsteady, trembling grip. Yeah, Chuuya isn't picking up anything like that. Dazai rolls his eyes. He'll be lucky if he doesn't cramp up his whole hand. "You're trying to distract me again, you—!"
"I was distracting you. I wanted to figure out why you weren't eating."
Turning purple, Chuuya splutters his poor defense.
Compelled by the need to prove himself better than him, Dazai leans his elbow on the counter. He uses his outside arm to turn Chuuya back to their food and says, "Haven't you heard that you're supposed to hold the bottom chopstick still? You should only move the top one."
"I haven't heard that," Chuuya spits. His hand tenses and he lets his chopsticks clatter to the table. Cramped, no doubt. Told you. "I've—I didn't use them much when I was with the Sheep, alright? Food was hard enough to get…"
"So why waste time on utensils?" Dazai finishes. "Disposable chopsticks are available at every stall, and they're free too."
"It wasn't a priority," He repeats staunchly. "We didn't need them."
His insistence gives it away. It's likely they never had enough food to justify the use of utensils. Dazai can imagine the street rats plucking out clumps of old rice from a shared bowl with their bare fingers. They would be fortunate if every kid ended up with a mouthful of food at the end of the day, but even taking into consideration the Sheep's rising infamy in Suribachi it is still not possible. People would have missed out. Probably the older members. As their leader and the only reason their gang wasn't erased from existence earlier, Chuuya should be guaranteed a meal. He needed his strength. Yet, Dazai is certain the red head gave up his portions.
How desperate he is to be needed. To be relied upon. Without the help and validation of others, Chuuya can't in good conscience justify his existence. That's the main point of contrast between them. Chuuya uses his friends and coworkers as a template for his humanity, copying their habits, style, and mannerisms in hopes that he will fit in. For Dazai, he suspects he'd be much more content if he'd never met another human; maybe that way he would have never known how truly despicable he is compared to the standard.
Chuuya is looking at his full bowl with a dissatisfied slant to his mouth. He says, "Most places give you plastic forks anyway these days. Too many tourists around not to."
Dazai supposes that's fair enough. "But Chuuya isn't a tourist. He was born here." He remarks. Chuuya's eyes shoot towards him, startled. "Aren't you embarrassed?"
"...Of course it's embarrassing. I don't even eat lunch with Ane-san. I keep telling her that I ate before I visited and we end up drinking tea together."
Ah. That does explain that. "She would help you."
"Nah. It's too much to get into. I'd rather," he scowls at his bowl, "just avoid foods that I can't fucking eat."
Even if he said it with a tone slightly less sullen, Dazai would not believe him.
He takes a deep breath. "Well, have you thought about me? I don't like to be seen with someone who is less coordinated with his chopsticks than a toddler. It lowers my value in the eyes of others. I won't accept it."
"Your value is already at rock-fucking-bottom."
"I'm not the one getting filthy glances from the chefs, Chuuya."
His blush deepens into a painful-looking red. "Listen—"
"You first!" Dazai picks up his discarded chopsticks. He holds them up for example. When Chuuya fails to read Dazai's intentions directly from his mind, he picks up Chuuya's pair using his own and deposits them directly into his hands. 'See, look how qualified I am to teach you?' or something like that. Dazai smiles thinly. "I guess this is entertaining for me, who knew?"
Darkly, Chuuya responds, "What's entertaining?"
"I've never taught a dog how to use chopsticks before!"
Chuuya is seconds away from dumping lukewarm noodles over his head. Dazai quickly distracts him by nudging his fingers. They're thicker than Dazai's, appearing particularly clunky due to his poor technique. "Hurry up, hold it like a pencil. Just the one, chibi, obviously you can't hold both like that…"
It takes a beat for him to move. But he follows directions well, this dog, and soon he's doing exactly as Dazai asks. It's not dissimilar to instructing a foreigner how to do it (he's built a repertoire with such clients over company dinners by jokingly showing them what to do with their utensils). In the end, it's about dexterity and conditioning certain muscles in your hand. Unlike western utensils that are taken, hamfisted, and stabbed around like an ungodly weapon, the simpler and neater chopsticks will take time to master.
"I can't hold the top one like you do," he mutters.
"That shouldn't surprise you, I have used chopsticks since I was a child." Dazai returns. "Just copy me. Chuuya excels at physical trials, doesn't he? This should be a piece of cake."
Chuuya just drops them again. His lips are pursed like he's sucking on a lemon. "...Right. S-Show me again."
He does him one better. Dazai demonstrates them in action by continuing to eat his soba. Chuuya cringes when he slurps his soggy-by-now noodles. He doesn't like the noise. Quietly he tries to replicate Dazai's moves. The egg noodles are beyond him, which he smartly acknowledges without losing his temper.
"Go for the pork," Dazai, after swallowing, rests his cheek on his hand and gives the show his attention. "It has more texture to it."
"I was already going to do that," Chuuya says under his breath. "It's just—ugh—" He swiftly readjusts the chopsticks into a more comfortable grip, apparently without thinking. Dazai hums disapprovingly and Chuuya blinks rapidly. He looks at his hands like he's shocked and swears, "Fucking shit, I didn't even realise. You're gonna have to—"
Dazai manually corrects his grip. It is a job that requires both hands, one to manipulate Chuuya into the right spot and the other to place the chopsticks exactly where they need to be. He lingers to make sure Chuuya has a grip on them, saying, "Chibi, are you even focusing?"
It's hard to tell when he stares blankly like that.
Chuuya sits up straight. He secures the chopsticks in his fingers. "Uh, thanks. I got it. You can back off."
"Ah, sure~"
He returns to his food with renewed determination. He is definitely pretending that Dazai isn't watching him. Power to him, it seems to be working in his favour. After a dozen fruitless clacks and some truly acrobatic but ultimately pointless rotations of his wrist, Chuuya finally fishes out a strip of pork from his ramen bowl. It is pale and soaked through from the broth, it probably doesn't even taste like meat anymore, but from the way Chuuya's eyes light up it's unlikely he cares. He's undoubtedly eaten worse.
"Aha! I did it! I fucking—" A cursory glance to their surroundings. Chuuya leans in and lowers his voice. "Take that, you prick, how is that for an embarrassing show? Huh?"
"You've advanced to the level of a four year old. Congratulations."
"Four? Could a four year old do this!" Chuuya then proceeds to feed himself. Or he tries. For the record, that is something a four year old is absolutely and undeniably capable of doing. Dazai would say as much but Chuuya does something truly amusing.
He drops his precious pork.
Chuuya gasps like he's taken an actual bullet. "No!"
Having expected this much, Dazai kept his chopsticks ready in his hand, his arm laying in wait across the counter. He swiftly catches the pork before it can hit a surface and he pops it right into Chuuya's open mouth. A treat to reward a dog, right? Dazai smirks at the gobsmacked teen. "I take it back. You're more around the level of a two year old."
"..."
"You have to close your mouth to chew, you know."
"..."
"Hehe. Chew-ya."
There are times where Chuuya can surprise him. He hesitates to call it 'outsmarting' because it's clear that Chuuya isn't much of a thinker. He's an instinctive person and there are times, rare as they may be, where Chuuya's instincts are more accurate and faster to manifest than Dazai's brain can think of and verbalise a plan. More than that, Chuuya can just be hard to understand. This is one of those situations.
Chuuya blushes from the roots of his head. His ears are molten and glowing. It's a softer red than the light of his ability but still very much visible and volatile. He doesn't chew his pork at all. He tips his head to the side and spits it straight back into his bowl.
Dazai is… lost.
"What are you doing?"
Chuuya leaps to his feet. His trembling hands are shoved into his pockets and he kicks his stool under the counter. "I'm outta here!"
"Are you mad?" Dazai asks, incredulous. He gets a nervous laugh. Okay, maybe not anger. Hysterical seems fitting too.
"I'm not—It's nothing! You didn't do anything!" His voice is oddly reassuring. As soon as Chuuya realises what tone he is taking he backpedals hard. "Actually, this is all your fault. Stay away from me! Unless we have missions but outside of work… We shouldn't talk!"
"We already do that, chibi."
"Then what's this?!"
"Obviously it is still work." They are both in their uniforms after all.
"You call that—! " Chuuya splutters. "No, whatever, I'm leaving. I'm not hungry. The pork was gross and I didn't want to eat it."
"So you're humiliated because you can't use chopsticks? Is that what this is?"
"Shut up, no it isn't. I don't have to explain myself to you." Chuuya fumbles with something in his pocket but ends up too flustered to grab it out. He hastily starts for the doors. "I'll give the report to boss okay don't worry about it I don't wanna fucking see you there! DO NOT FOLLOW ME. Bye!"
Just like that, he's gone.
And it… it's annoying how quickly it happens. Not what is going on with Chuuya. Who cares about that. He's an odd person so odd behaviour is to be expected.
But without the midget around to pull in his undivided attention, the ever-present blackhole inside Dazai widens its starving mouth.
The sound of the izakaya grows impossibly louder in his ears. So many drunk patrons are here. Dazai stares at the entrance: the curtains are still fluttering from Chuuya's mad exit. The laughter is repulsive. The soba is rather abruptly leaving a salty aftertaste in his mouth. His bad feelings escalate, stacking on top of each other with active malice.
Ah, why did he eat so much tonight? He's going to be sick…
An unfamiliar voice pipes up hesitantly, "Sir, do you need the bill?" It's one of the chefs.
Dazai's plummeting mood hits rock bottom with a sense of finality. He plasters a smile on his face. "I'm sorry, I seem to have misplaced my wallet. Is there a way I can start a tab here?"
The chef is openly sympathetic. He must have watched Chuuya's explosion and assumed Dazai's been unfairly left with the bill. Quite right. "It isn't a policy of this izakaya to accept late payments, sir."
"I see."
There's always his gun.
"If you… I can talk to the owner and see if we can—"
"No need," Dazai murmurs. He can just lift one from someone, half the patrons are blind drunk and wouldn't notice. "Let me check if I dropped it outside."
"If you can't find it, please come back and we can discuss what options you have… I…" The cook's eyes widen over his shoulder, then narrow. He straightens up and says in a loud voice, "You again? After witnessing your manners I have half a mind to ban you from coming back!"
That makes it obvious who it is. An arm comes over Dazai's shoulder. In that fist is a couple thousand yen, more than enough to cover the bill and still leave behind a hefty tip.
"What?" Chuuya drops the crumbled bills next to their bowls. His tone gives the impression that he's curling his lip. He thinks it makes him look cooler. "Who the fuck are you?"
"Why—!"
Such a delinquent. Dazai tilts his head back. Chuuya's chin is right there. He's the same height standing as Dazai is sitting, so they really are far too close at the moment. Dazai blandly speaks, "Hm, is there supposed to be someone behind me? They're so small I can't see a thing…"
Chuuya doesn't look at him. He's still red. "Shut your mouth," He hisses. "I couldn't find my wallet so I checked your coat in the alleyway and there it fucking was. I hate you, when did you take it? Don't answer. In fact don't talk to me starting now."
"Chibi is really childish."
Persistent, too. He seals his lips and disappears out the front curtains again.
Dazai breathes out slowly. He faces the cook. He rifles through Chuuya's money and picks out enough to cover their meals and not a yen more. What would have amounted to their more than decent tip is tucked away into Dazai's pocket. He does this blatantly in front of the cook, who at first seems confused by his behaviour then quickly enraged at his shamelessness. "Sorry for the commotion," Dazai bows politely. "I'm taking away your tip because I was not completely satisfied with the service. You shouldn't yell at dogs, you know. It's not nice."
"Dog?"
"Yeah. Anyway, thanks for the food. We won't be back."
That Chuuya must be brain-dead.
Of course he intends to talk to Chuuya as soon as possible. He'll go to headquarters immediately and make his first in-person report in months just to make Chuuya suffer. He won't leave Chuuya alone. He can't leave him alone. In Dazai's hopeless situation, if he meets a person who experiences humanity to such a heightened extent that even a portion of that powerful emotion is passed onto the people around them, how could he walk away? Chuuya irradiates everything unsightly and irrational and terrible about life and as wretched as it is to look upon, this is the closest Dazai has ever felt to humanity.
In this dull world there really is no one else like him.
Authors Note:
Hey all, I am moving my BSD fics over. Just take it. Also I used the word "chopstick 27 times in this one.
