Double Black

cloud 9

Chuuya had truly had a long day of meetings and mission reports. Apparently, some duds had been sent to clear up one of Port Mafia's warehouses the previous day, and they had fucked up big time. Not only had the idiots failed to clear their warehouse, they had also managed to get captured by a local gang and had been forced to give them Mafia information. 

How incapable does a Mafia member have to be in order to fuck up this bad? How do you be in the Mafia and get shown up by some measly local gang? The higher ups was pissed. One of the five Mafia executives had demanded that the group who got captured must be killed. Chuuya, who always somehow managed to play peacemaker at these meetings, once again had tried to work out a compromise. It hadn't really worked out the way he was hoping for, but it was definitely better than nothing.

Ace, another annoying executive, demanded that the incident be hidden from other mafia members, so as to not encourage mistakes. They also didn't want the others to think that the higher ups forgave such fatal mistakes so easily. It was a whole thing and Chuuya didn't want to think about anymore. It was finally evening, he was done with all stupid meetings, and he could go home in an hour or so once he was done finalizing a few reports. Being an executive was truly hard work.

He was expecting his office to greet him in silence and comforting peace. He would take off his outer flowy coat, loosen up his choker, take off his hat and then get comfortable in the long couch to get back to work. He was expecting peace, damn it. What he wasn't expecting was a six feet tall beanpole occupying his favourite long couch.

Dazai Osamu, traitor to the Port Mafia, was spread over Chuuya's couch, his tan coat hung up on the headrest, his shirt unbuttoned a quarter way, his shoes lying messily on the floor, and his eyes firmly shut. The bastard was actually asleep. 

Chuuya walked over to him and poked him in the stomach, "Shitty Dazai, wake up. What the fuck are you doing here? You know you can't just waltz in here anymore, right?"

The detective's eyes opened almost immediately; he was a light sleeper after all. He mumbled, bleary-eyed, "I made you coffee."

The executive turned to look at his desk, and sure enough there was a cup of coffee on top of it. When he went to actually examine said cup of coffee, he could tell that the coffee was still somewhat warm. He took a sip and made a face; it was unbelievably salty. His idiot had put in salt instead of sugar.

Chuuya sighed as he walked back over to the bandaged mummy on couch, "How long have you been here?"

Dazai blinked, "Half an hour maybe? I don't know."

Chuuya sat down on the floor next to the couch, so his face was on the same level as Dazai's body. He checked the other's forehead for fever, "You're hot."

His shitty husband managed a grin, "I know, Chuuya~"

Chuuya snorted as he started loosening his choker and taking off his hat, "Idiot, you're sick. Bad day?"

Dazai tried to shrug, "I guess. I floated in the river for a few hours or so, I think. Then it rained. I was too tired to get shelter."

The redhead frowned, "You were drenched for hours. Of course you're sick."

Dazai hummed, "I've been sick."

Chuuya sighed, "Sick or depressed, shitty Dazai?"

The detective tried to grin, "Both."

Chuuya pressed a kiss to the other's hair, "Could've told me." He wasn't trying to make Dazai tell him every time he got a depressive episode. He just wanted him to know that it was an option. Of course, it was a given, considering they were married and all. But Dazai had never had it easy with opening about his feelings and stuff, even to the people he cared about. His partner had always known that, though.