Chapter Text
0.5
The first time Chuuya learned about his soulmate, he was four years old. It had been a hot summer day, and the neighborhood kids had gone to their local park to pass the day away. His older siblings — Verlaine and Kouyou — had been left in charge of everyone.
They — Chuuya, Shirase, and Yuan — were playing tag when it happened. He’d been on the upper portion of the playground to corner Shirase. The white haired boy had just slipped past him down the slide and Chuuya had immediately pursued. He’d overestimated his speed.
A tumble into the wood chips and a few seconds later found him on his hands, elbows, and knees, pricks of blood coming to the surface of his skin where the wood had dug in too far. Disoriented, it took him a second to gather his bearings.
And when he did — he didn’t feel any of the scratches at all, too distracted by the sight before him.
His attention had been stuck on his thigh, unscathed by the fall, and yet an angry welt was blooming in the middle of it. Even as a child, it hadn’t made sense to him for it to be there. He’d landed on his knees and hands so why was his leg injured?
Verlaine had found him then as he stared at his mystery wound, distress written across his face as bright as day. He’d witnessed Chuuya’s failed attempt to land, and once the older of the two saw the bruise, he’d scooped Chuuya up and hauled him away to get bandaged up.
Chuuya remembers being asked if it hurt. Upon saying no, Kouyou — sadistic from a young age — had poked it in the center. Still, no pain was gained from it. So she kept poking in different areas of it, and soon Chuuya had had enough, shoving her hands away. In the process, he had grazed the bruise with his own hands—
His breath had caught.
A pain like no other had shot up his spine, a lightning bolt so pinpoint that it immediately brought tears to his young eyes. He’d hunched over right away and, scared to touch the bruise directly, had grabbed under his thigh with his newly bandaged hands to try to make it stop.
The ache of a bruise, with the sting of what felt like a thousand bees, centered itself only in the area of the welt. It was a pain like no other, down to his bone and radiating up toward the surface of his skin, a lava set on burning through everything it touched.
He distantly remembers the voices of his siblings asking him questions — what’s wrong, where does it hurt, are you okay — in frightened voices as their baby brother cried. He thinks he remembers screaming until his throat ached.
He’s sure he blanked at some point, the agony the only thing his tiny mind could handle, but the pain ended barely a minute later, according to Verlaine when he asked about the event somewhere down the road.
He hadn’t understood what it meant back then. He couldn’t process any thoughts besides the information his body was yelling at him, a clear warning of pain, pain, and more pain. And once the strange pain subsided, he’d wondered why it had happened only when he had touched it.
Kouyou had asked if he faked it afterward, though the tears still streaming down his face told her otherwise. They’d gone home after that, Chuuya promising to play with Shirase and Yuan another day once they were each dropped off at their own houses, and the incident was shortly forgotten as him and his siblings quickly got into an argument on their way home.
That was, until Chuuya grazed the outermost edge of the bruise during dinner and he felt the prickling start again. Scared to feel the pain repeat, he’d stiffened and choked, alerting his family, whose faces morphed into concern between one bite and another of their own.
A coughing session and a glass of water later had him claiming to have “felt it again.” His parents, properly confused, had turned to his siblings then for an explanation.
Chuuya doesn’t blame his family for not knowing what to do. It was an odd situation, after all; having the four year old in your house claim they could only feel the pain when they touched it? Strange, indeed. And it’s not like Verlaine, aged ten at the time, and Kouyou, aged eight, would’ve known what to do.
So his parents waited it out. The bruise took a couple weeks to heal, to which they applied soothing ointment and gave Chuuya the instructions to not touch it (though they really didn’t need to tell him that).
From there, he didn’t get any other injuries that acted differently — just the usual ‘if anyone touches it, it hurts’ ones.
It hadn’t been until a month later when he received another one of these odd wounds. After this new one, a cut on his rib that took forever to stop bleeding, his parents took him to a doctor.
After a thorough examination, and the tortuous assignment of touching the wound himself — for which he had to be bribed with the reward of candy after the appointment — Chuuya and his family were put on standby. The doctor requested extra time to research other cases as he had a hypothesis, however he wished to confirm it, and had reaffirmed to them that it was not something to be worried about.
In that brief time, Chuuya, in his four year old intelligence, had requested to wear long sleeved clothing in the middle of summer to avoid accidentally touching any injuries should they pop up. His parents had tried to comply, eager to please their youngest, but after Chuuya had asked for a third popsicle before noon to cool down, they found a different solution.
It came in the form of a thin pair of gloves. He remembers that day well. He was given two things that changed his life.
First, there were the gloves, a cool black set that he can still vividly remember to this day despite growing out of them a year later. And the second one came via a phone call from the doctor.
Extremely rare but not quite extinct, the old concept of having a fated one wasn’t a myth. Only a dozen or so cases had been observed in the last century, each unique in their own way and considered very special. And Chuuya was one of them.
Chuuya had a soulmate.
— — — —
1.
Ever since Nakahara Chuuya learned that he had a soulmate, life was never the same for him. In the beginning, people asked questions, a lot of questions, ranging from general “do you know them?” to semi-intrusive “do you have a mark?” to intrusive (in Chuuya’s humble opinion) “are you gonna marry them?!”
The answers were always the same: “no,” “sometimes,” and “ew, I have no idea.” For the longest time, his favorite was always the ‘mark’ question thanks to people’s reactions. The answer ranged from day to day when he was young. A bruise here, a tiny cut there. Nothing too bad.
Until he got older. Then the cuts started and didn’t stop. His arms, his thighs, even one around his neck that he has to cover now with a choker, they were neverending. The bruises got worse too. They would only appear one at a time, two on a bad day, but then they were showing up in clusters, a collage of blacks and blues all around his pale skin. The cuts usually corresponded to how much bruising there was.
He… guessed from a young age what was happening. The injuries he receives are what his soulmate is actually receiving, just reflected on Chuuya’s body. He suspects it likely works vice versa as well.
Once he’d put that knowledge together, he’d gone on a campaign of sorts, one of rage, to find the culprit who was abusing his soulmate. How dare someone hurt his soulmate like that? Who could do something like that to a kid?
He hadn’t found them. Between school, activities, and a kid with no drivers license and overprotective parents, he hadn’t gotten much of a chance to really search. So he paid attention.
Every new wound he got, he’d memorize it, the type, location, design. Every person he met, he would sneak glances at the parts of them that he could see to figure out if any parts of their skin matched his. It was hard to do, especially in winter.
By the time he turned eighteen, he’d started losing hope. He’d gotten his license as soon as he could and began exploring every part of the city that was usually busy with people whenever he got the chance.
But two years later and no soulmate left him defeated. The only good thing that came out of it were the bruises stopping. He figures his soulmate had moved out of whatever situation they were in, and Chuuya was beyond relieved. No one deserved to be put through that abuse, let alone for at least fourteen years.
So life went on. People had mostly forgotten Chuuya has a soulmate, save for the times when he had to wear short sleeves to avoid heatstroke, bearing the cuts on his arms that he kept wrapped. But all he usually had to say was “it’s not me” and people would leave him alone. After all, it might be easy to forget Chuuya has a soulmate, but it’s not hard to remember with a little nudge.
For Chuuya, though, wearing the wounds out, even if he really didn’t want to reveal his soulmate’s privacy like that, was never embarrassing for him. He was proud to have a soulmate, whoever that may be, and he was proud of all the parts of them, the good and the bad.
At some point, he graduated high school, and before he knew it, he was in college, studying physics. With a new environment, he attempted to check others for the same wounds. But by this time, the bruises were no more and the cuts were kept in places easily covered by clothes at most times of the year. So his case had gone cold, and he’d ended up mostly focusing on his studies as a distraction when he wasn’t doing something else.
It’s the summer now, between his sophomore and junior years. A flower shop near campus was hiring for good money so’d applied for the heck of it and ended up getting the job.
That’s how he’s found himself here, employee of Fukuzawa Flowers.
He enjoys it, honestly. Like a lot. It’s never too busy, and even when it is, it’s sweet old ladies who just want to chat. He gets to smell the flowers all day long and keep them hydrated throughout the day as the sun beats down. Fukuzawa, the owner, lets him organize the flowers however he pleases — by meaning, mind you — and he even gets to make the signs for the flowers’ symbols.
Quite a nice summer job, for sure.
It’s a Tuesday in the middle of one of Yokohama’s hottest weeks when Chuuya’s whole world is turned upside down.
He’s at the counter behind the register, arranging and rearranging a new bouquet of yellows, oranges, and pinks when the chime above the door jingles.
It’s only early afternoon, one of the slower times of the day, so he calls out a “Welcome in!” without looking up. Customers are usually too busy admiring the flowers to notice if he makes eye contact or not. He picks up another alstroemeria, an orange one, and sticks it into the side of the vase where the pinks and yellows have begun to clump together too much. He adds a couple more there, spreading them out to blend into the other colors.
It’s all a balancing game, creating the perfect collage through effort and retries, a calming thing for his mind when it comes to tasks like these.
The fan placed on the counter to swivel back and forth blows right in his face as he moves forward, shoving his bangs into his face and obscuring his vision. With the first brush of his hand, he gets his bangs out of the way, and with the second brush, he wipes the sweat that was beginning to gather on his forehead.
Even with the air conditioner running at full blast, the shop is still getting too close to the zone of ‘uncomfy warm’ in this blasted heat. He’s not a fan at all.
Deciding he’s spent enough time waiting, he glances up to gauge where the customer is in their picking process.
His breath stills, caught in his lungs so fast he almost chokes.
There, along the window of red and pink camellias, looking up towards the highest shelf of them as if in awe, is hte most gorgeous stranger Chuuya has ever seen. The rays of light peeking in from the glass door entrance and surrounding windows highlight the man’s hair so lovely. A brunet, golden brown strands framing his face perfectly, a wave to them that Chuuya can’t tell if it’s natural or from the humidity. They look so soft, Chuuya would reach out and touch if he could.
The man, tall even with distance between then, is dressed in a thin tan trench coat, He wonders how the man isn’t seeming as if he’s about to melt; but the coat hugs his frame well, highlighting his physique — which Chuuya is not oblivious to — thin but hearty, broad shoulders and a small waist — a very fine combo in Chuuya’s book.
At this angle, a side profile, Chuuya can tell the man has high cheekbones. They don’t seem fully filled in, a testament to his thinness, though it’s not to the point of concern, so Chuuya wouldn’t be surprised if the brunet has a defined jawline.
Chuuya’s eyes travel down.
Bandages.
There’s bandages along his neck, barely peeking out between his hair and coat, but there nonetheless.
Different, but Chuuya has no room to judge.
He goes lower and there, on his lower arms, more bandages peek out from his shirt sleeves.
Huh…
The man turns to him then and-
Oh.
He’s handsome. Very handsome.
The most beautiful eyes Chuuya has ever gazed at land on him, a myriad of golds and browns and even reds. A galaxy worthy blend of coffee swirls and stars. Chuuya wants to see those eyes in the sun, when the horizon is just sinking and shining directly on them to showcase all their intricacies.
It’s breathtaking. They’re breathtaking. He’s breathtaking.
But despite their beauty, there’s something in them, an emotion Chuuya is having a hard time placing. It’s like this stranger is in the midst of longing; for a loved one or a lost one or both, Chuuya does not know. But he does recognize the sadness that comes from it, as if permeating off the man. It’s in the way his smile doesn’t reach his eyes and how, despite standing tall, it’s as if he’s almost demure about it.
But that just makes him more beautiful, in Chuuya’s eyes. It’s fitting that he stands amidst the camellias, as if drawn in by his emotions and their symbol, two sides of a coin reaching out to one another. Chuuya wants to get to know this new person.
The man’s lips move, a quirk coming onto them before he speaks, “Oh, something catch your eye?”
Wow. As if he couldn’t get any better, he has the hottest voice Chuuya’s ever heard? Wo—
The words catch up to him. He blinks, immediately feeling a flush trying to creep up his cheeks.
“Just the morning light.”
He mentally facepalms. Sue him for not being able to flirt. He’s already marking this as one of those moments that his anxiety will remind him about at 3am for the rest of his life.
The brunet blinks back at him, bringing a hand up to cover up a light chuckle. “Well, it wouldn’t be hard with those eyes of yours.”
Shit, as if his face isn’t red enough.
The man smiles at him, and Chuuya really needs to learn to respond faster. He does what he does best when he receives a compliment — diverts.
”Is there anything I can help you with today, sir?” So Chuuya can’t take a compliment to save his life, so what? He watches as the brunet’s eyebrow twitches slightly, a gleam in his eyes that wasn’t there before.
“I was wondering if you have any recommendations on what ladies like.” Boo. Chuuya tries to not make a face in disappointment.
The brunet starts walking up to the counter, hands in his pockets as he lazily sways along to the jazz playing overhead.
“I might. Do you know her favorite color?” Chuuya puts on an easy smile, ignoring the way his heart starts beating faster with every step the man takes. He reaches the counter and, oh, he really is tall.
”Ah, violet.” He says, leaning an arm against the counter to prop his chin on. “Violet for a violent woman.”
Chuuya smiles, stepping out from around the counter. ”I believe you’ve answered your own question.”
He walks towards the section with sovereignty where strongly colored violets reside. He doesn’t turn back to see if the stranger is following him.
”May I ask what this occasion is for,” Chuuya calls over his shoulder.
”A med school graduation,” comes from somewhere behind him, to his left.
That makes it even easier. From there, he picks out a four bunches of violets, separating them using his fingers, and moves over to the youth section.
There, he grabs two handfuls of purple primroses, adjusting them to be in between the violets. Finally, he walks over to the lilacs to steal two stalks and returns to the counter.
He can feel the brunet’s gaze on him the whole time.
He gets to work fast. Gently lying his finds on the counter, he looks to the side at their bookcase of vases that’s nearly overflowing. He takes a simple one, round with a sturdy, flat bottom, bringing it to the sink on the other side of the counter to fill it with water before setting it aside.
Now, the fun part. Arranging and rearranging the three types of flowers is like child’s play. He’s done in under a minute, the flowers spread out in a beautiful fashion, if he does say so himself. Underneath the counter, he reaches for a magenta ribbon, unraveling it enough before snipping it. He ties it around the neck of the vase, topping it off with a subtle bow.
“There, all done,” he says, turning the vase around for the stranger to see. The man blinks once, twice, before seeming to realize that he’s ready to check out.
”Oh! Thank you so much—“ he looks at Chuuya’s chest.
”Chuuya.” He forgot to put his name tag on earlier, a habit of his that Fukuzawa doesn’t particularly care about. Most of the regulars know his name already.
”—Chuuya!” The man grins bright at him. “How much do I owe you?”
”3000 yen, Mr…”
”You can call me Dazai,” Dazai says as he gives a little bow, “and no need for the honorific.”
”Then it’ll be 3000 yen for you, Dazai.” Chuuya waits for Dazai’s form of payment. “So your friend. Does she understand flower language?”
”Oh yeah, she’s known this stuff since high school.” Dazai tries to hand him three 1000-yen bills but Chuuya holds up a hand.
”Does she know their double meanings?”
”Probably. I don’t know much myself, so I couldn’t really tell you.” Dazai looks at him innocently, obviously waiting to give him his money, but Chuuya doesn’t know how to ask the question he’s trying to ask.
Well, honesty is the best policy, right?
”Would she be offended if the violets can also be a symbol for lesbians?” Chuuya speaks fast, cringing from embarrassment at the bluntness of the question. It’s definitely not something one gets asked just any day.
Dazai, for his part, laughs, a full cackle that’s honestly music to Chuuya’s ears. “Considering she— she is one, I think she’d take full offense just so she can get mad at me!”
Chuuya can only stare. Should he laugh too, or?
The brunet settles down, a last giggle escaping him before he asks, “But wait, you picked these flowers based on their meaning? Not just their color?”
”Well, yeah? It’s kinda my job.”
”That’s so cool! So what do each flower mean?” Dazai’s eyes shine as he makes eye contact with Chuuya.
Chuuya points to each flowe as he talks. “The violets symbolize sovereignty. Anybody who can graduate med school is royalty in my eyes, plus she’s a queen in my book based off what you said so far. These are also your lesbian flower. The primroses represent new beginnings and youth, youth being a callout to her still being young, I’m assuming, so she should enjoy life before the hospital sucks it out of her. And lilacs also mean renewal, so along that new beginnings kind of idea. There’s no specific flower for congratulating someone, so we kinda just throw together different meanings based on the person’s favorite color and the occasion.”
”I see… What would Chuuya do for my funeral?”
”Excuse me?!” Chuuya knows his mouth is agape right now, but holy shit, he was not expecting that sort of question. Dazai keeps staring at him. “Are you being serious…? I guess white chrysanthemums?”
”That’s boring! Everyone has those.” Dazai sticks out his tongue, crossing his arms in a (cute) pout.
”That’s ‘cause they mean grief here,” Chuuya deadpans. “What about forget-me-nots?”
”Oh, which one is that one?” Dazai asks.
Chuuya points to the love section. “Those tiny blue ones over there.”
”Kinda like Chuuya.”
”Hah?!” Chuuya whips around so fast, only to be met with a shit-eating grin.
”They’re itty-bitty, just like Chuuya,” Dazai says, bringing his forefinger and thumb up to his eye as if to make Chuuya smaller in his vision.
Chuuya’s speechless. He’s never met a more insane person. Or a more insanely beautiful person, but still. He ignores the way his heart is pitter-pattering a little too fast.
”Forget it, I’ll just get you orange lilies.” Chuuya crosses his arms, giving Dazai a bored look.
”Ooh, what do those mean?” Dazai clasps his hands together and leans forward.
”Hatred.”
”Whaaaat?! Chuuya, how could you?! I thought we were friends,” Dazai whines.
“Friends don’t call their other friends short.”
”That’s a lie, and you know it,” Dazai pouts. Chuuya cracks a smile.
”Maybe.”
”Anyway, here,” Dazai places the cash on the counter, picking up the vase, careful to balance it and not crush any petals. “I’m already ten minutes late to the get together and Kunikida-kun’s gonna kick my ass. See ya, chibi!”
He smiles as he says this, this dopey grin that tells Chuuya he’s not serious. Or if he is, it’ll only be a light reprimanding. Chuuya has a feeling this is a normal occurrence for Dazai.
Chuuya scowls at the name and counts the bills. It doesn’t add up.
”Wait, your chan—“
But Dazai is already out the door by the time Chuuya looks up, long gone down the street highlighted by the setting sun. Chuuya lowers his hand.
Dazai gave him four 1000-yen bills, though Chuuya swears earlier that he’d only had three in his hand the first time he tried to give him the money. So how?
He doesn’t have much time to think about it though, another customer stepping into the store right then.
He greets them as he puts the cash in the register. Something in his gut tells him to pocket the extra 1000 yen. Perhaps he’ll see Dazai sometime soon around town and can return the extra cash.
It’s only later when he’s closed the shop and gone home that he realizes two things.
One, he never checked Dazai further for any identical wounds outside the bandages. Two, the wounds he’s known for the better part of a week now have been tingling, unknownst to him from the adrenaline pumping through his veins upon meeting Dazai.
That’s never happened before, unless he’d almost touched them. But this isn’t a bad sensation. It’s a pleasant one, like a pair of loving hands have come down and caressed each injury. He likes it.
But there’s not much else he can do besides try to get a good night’s sleep with the hope that a certain brunet will walk into his store tomorrow again and the feeling of warmth and safety on his skin.