nothing clean left to taint

by spawnxx

Summary:

Dazai learns that there is a higher high than chasing death.

It is the flicker of want in Chuuya’s irises.

 

OR: Chuuya and Dazai hurt throughout the years but they are destined to lick at each other's wounds.

Chapter 1: fifteen

It’s been a slow week — no pressing missions, no international trips, nothing worth stressing over.  

Chuuya has occupied most of his free time catching up on the neverending paperwork (his, sure , but mostly Dazai’s), sprawled out on his recently purchased leather couch with the Food Network humming in the background. 

It’s been raining a lot lately. 

It’s good napping weather. 

He hasn’t been napping. 

He hasn’t been sleeping at all. 

The bags under his eyes are turning a sickly plum color.

The weight of his exhaustion has been slowing his steps and Dazai’s whispered “slug” rings loud and true in his ears with each passing night that sleep evades him. 

The pen in his hand loosens and his mind begins to wander. The numbers on the page start to blur and he rubs at his eyes trying to get them into focus again. It’s a futile effort. 

He sets down the pen and turns his attention to the raindrops trickling down the glass window, the city’s lights reflecting on the smooth surface. 

This is a nostalgic time of the year for him. He misses the Sheep. The steady rainfall pattering against his windows reminds him of the times he spent outside in the cold and wet with them only six months ago. 

His birthday is just around the corner and he feels reminiscent of the good ol’ days. 

He spent his last birthday with the Sheep. They threw him a surprise party. They’d all gathered in one of Suribachi City’s vast abandoned warehouses and danced the night away to a backdrop of cheesy pop songs and teenage recklessness. At the end of the night, a chocolate cake lit up with a disarray of candles had been brought out. It had been left sitting out for an undisclosed amount of time and made everyone sick later, though that could have partly been due to the dairy mixing with the copious amount of alcohol already in their stomachs by the time they cut into it. They’d all fought over the single broken toilet on the bottom level of the warehouse. 

By the time they left, the pungent stench of adolescence had imprinted itself into his brain so deeply that sometimes, he thinks he can still smell the sweat and mirth. 

Chuuya lets out a breathy chuckle at the memory. 

He laces his fingers together, listens as the joints pop and crack as he stretches them out. 

Thinking of the Sheep, he can’t help but think of Dazai; not with how things played out in the end. 

It’s been months now since he was stabbed in the back, literally , but the wound is still tender and leaves him feeling raw when he acknowledges it. 

Seeing Dazai on an almost daily basis hasn’t exactly made the healing process easier. 

Chuuya thinks he finally understands why they say that Hell is a place on Earth. He finds remnants of it everywhere – primarily in the faded corners where Dazai’s crooked fingers have managed to sow themselves into the fabric of mundanity: Chuuya’s closet where the clothes have been stained with questionable substances, the kitchen where his favorite mug never seems to be where he left it, the bathroom where his shampoo is replaced with something much too pungent to be what the label claims. 

Dazai’s presence has become a constant reminder of the emptiness in him in which he’d previously carved out a burrow for the Sheep to sleep in. 

Now, it sits in him like an empty guestroom in an overly cluttered house. 

He sets the paperwork aside on the disarrayed coffee table. His mind is too rampant right now to focus on the bureaucracy of it all anyway. 

He glances at the glow of the television screen but all he can see is distorted hues and the vibrancy of motions as the images cut from one scene to the next. 

There is a saying in the Port Mafia: the biggest misfortune for Dazai’s enemies is that they are Dazai’s enemies. No one warned Chuuya that the same principle applies to his acquaintances, his not-quite friends, his unwilling partners. 

Dazai’s acid-covered talons disintegrate through sod and soil, turning any semblance of vitality into pungent rot, and Chuuya’s life has been no exception. 

Though, he supposes a warning wouldn’t have changed anything. He would not have been spared. Like so many others before him, his greatest misfortune is ever having met Dazai. 

Call it wrong place, wrong time.

A glance at the clock reveals it’s after midnight already, an early night by Mafia standards, but his drowsiness makes him want to give himself a night off from the files scattered across the mahogany table by the couch. It’s not like there’s anything that needs to get done that can’t wait. It’s not like he’s able to effectively work on it all anyway. 

He flattens his back across the cushions and covers his eyes with the crook of his elbow. 

He’s almost managed to doze off when he hears the telling click of his front door being unlocked. He doesn’t need to look at the doorway to know whose soft footsteps are ambling along his carpeted hallway, cautiously approaching the living room.

Dazai probably expects to be met with flying utensils and profanities for breaking in again. Chuuya is too tired to give in to the temptation to succumb to the fiery emotion in his lower abdomen. 

Rage, surely. 

He keeps his eyes covered by his arm. 

When he is sure Dazai is in hearing range, he greets his partner. “What the fuck are you doing here, lazy ass?” his voice is hoarse with exhaustion. 

The couch dips by Chuuya’s feet and Dazai’s overly exaggerated sigh sours the air. 

“Wakey, wakey slug-bug,” Dazai croons mockingly as he shifts himself into a comfortable position. “At this rate, you’re going to make us late.”

Chuuya moves his feet to avoid his toes getting crushed by Dazai’s boney ass as he adjusts himself. “I ain’t late for shit,” he mimics Dazai’s tone. “We don’t have anything scheduled for tonight.”

Dazai responds with a noncommittal hum.  

Chuuya peeks out from under his elbow at the other, and searches his face for a hint of deception, but finds none. He’s fairly certain there’s nothing on the agenda but looking at Dazai, a speckle of doubt trickles in. 

Dazai is looking at him, head cocked to the side, a ghost of a smile lighting up his features. 

And oh .

Chuuya finds himself momentarily transfixed, his usual irritation halting as his eyes take in the way Dazai's dusky, chestnut-colored hair frames his face, drawing attention to his aristocratic bone structure. His half-lidded eye is twinkling with amusement and mystery. His pale, almost porcelain-like complexion gives him a nearly haunting quality. 

Chuuya adjusts his elbow over his eyes again and closes them to stop himself from staring.

While it's easy for him to get caught up in the constant banter and murky dynamic between them, he can't help but admit the allure of Dazai's soft slopes and equally sharp edges in the dimmed light. Sometimes he forgets that by conventional standards, Dazai is what one would consider easy on the eyes. 

He swallows around the lump forming in his throat and pushed it back, effectively stopping that train of thought. 

He must be more exhausted than he gave himself credit for. 

“I’ll bite, I guess,” he says, mostly to distract himself. “What are we late for?”

“That is on a need-to-know basis,” Dazai says lightly. He sounds playful. That’s never a good sign. Chuuya can feel a headache coming on. 

“Right, of course, how silly of me to ask why you’re disrupting my peace,” is his sarcastic reply. 

“There is no peace in the mafia,” Dazai easily replies, but his voice takes on an uncharacteristic apprehension that makes the room suddenly feel colder. 

The hairs on the back of Chuuya’s neck rise. 

The rapid shift in Dazai’s mood is a living, breathing beast, and Chuuya is too worn out tonight to go into battle. 

“Fuck it, alright,” he concedes, if only to steer them towards amicability. 

He sits up and stretches his arms over his head, groaning as the tightness in his muscles loosens. White spots flicker behind his eyelids and he hastily blinks them away. 

“Wonderful!” Dazai loudly claps his hands. He gets up from the couch and makes his way to the front door. His shoes are still on. Chuuya scowls at the muddy tracks on his floor but doesn’t comment as he follows him. 

“Leave your phone behind,” Dazai calls over his shoulder as he reaches the still-open front door. 

Chuuya swallows his displeasure but does as he’s told. 

The thing with Dazai is, he’s learning the importance of picking his battles. 

Fighting him on every little thing is not only a futile effort, it’s exhausting. They’ve been in each other’s trajectory long enough now for him to know when to stand his ground, and right now, his curiosity is peaked if only a little. 

He’s still trying to figure out if this unexpected and certainly unwelcome visit is another one of Dazai’s games or if in his sleep deprivation, he actually managed to forget about a job. 

Unlikely, but not impossible. 

He sets the phone down on the foyer table and slips into his tattered sneakers. He’s upgraded his wardrobe since he started receiving his boastful salary as an official mafia member but still, he can’t bring himself to throw away the scattered fragments of his past – the snug fit and comfort of frayed fabric in the form of old shoes and faded t-shirts tucked into the deepest corners of his closet. The scent of nostalgia and melancholy has been washed out by now, but it’s the visual cues that caress Chuuya’s memories and kindle a warmth in his chest at the sight. 

When they step out onto the sidewalk, the downpour has subsided to a lazy drizzle. The drops are falling softly to the ground, enough to get their feet wet, but not enough to let them drown in the idyllic camaraderie that they both know won’t last – an alien version of them that sends a shiver down Chuuya’s spine. 

He expects a car to be waiting for them, but the street is empty. 

Dazai pulls out a single umbrella seemingly out of thin air and tells Chuuya, “It’s not a far walk.” 

Cryptic and mysterious as ever. 

Chuuya rolls his eyes. 

Dazai keeps the umbrella for himself, using the canopy to keep dry. Chuuya is unfazed by his partner’s selfishness. 

He uses his ability to deflect the drops as he walks alongside him.

They’re about three blocks into their walk when Dazai suddenly leans into Chuuya’s personal space and brushes his cool fingers against the skin of Chuuya’s neck. Before Chuuya can react, Dazai tilts the umbrella and a pool of accumulated water waterfalls into his hair. 

“What the fuck!” Chuuya shouts as he attempts to pull away from Dazai’s touch. 

He’s fast, but in his shock, Dazai is faster. 

Dazai moves his hand from Chuuya’s neck to firmly grab his wrist and uses his other hand to move his umbrella to face the street, just as a truck passes along the main roadway. It drives through a deeply stagnant puddle, splashing water violently, drenching Chuuya head to toe in its route. 

“What the fuck!” Chuuya repeats, louder the second time around. 

Dazai laughs as he adjusts his shield over his head again. 

“I fucking hate you,” Chuuya hisses as he rips out of Dazai’s hold. 

Dazai laughs harder. 

“I thought dogs like water?” Dazai questions innocently when his laughter starts to taper off. “Besides, you were due for a bath. You stink,” he scrunches his nose up for effect. 

“Has anyone ever told you, you’re the absolute worst?” Chuuya grumbles as he wrings out the bottom of his shirt, keeping step with Dazai as they round a corner. 

He keeps a safe distance between them. The sneak attack won’t work again if he has any say in it. 

“Hm?” Dazai scratches his chin. “Maybe once or twice.” 

“Well, in case you didn’t hear it today, you are the fucking worst,” Chuuya emphasizes.

Dazai's smile stretches wide across his face, revealing a row of pearly white teeth gleaming mischievously under the scant moonlight. 

“Is there an award ceremony I need to attend to claim a trophy for this great honor?” he chirps.

“So fucking annoying too,” Chuuya grumbles to himself, though he has no doubt Dazai hears him. 

“Ah, don’t be so crabby, Chuuya,” Dazai rolls the name on his tongue, each syllable an Olympic-worthy gymnastics routine. Chuuya suppresses a shudder. “We’re here.”

Chuuya looks up, surprised. They’ve only been walking for about ten minutes.  

In front of them is a plain brick building with a sign plastered across the courtyard, the bulbs flickering in and out. 

They’re at a high school. 

The students and staff will be on break this time of the year, but still, they keep their feet featherlight as they approach. 

“Dazai?” Chuuya questions as he chances a glance at his partner. 

Dazai’s eyes meet his, and his smile widens, almost splitting his face in a macabre show of satisfaction. Chuuya sucks in a deep breath. He ignores the palpitations vibrating against his ribcage. 

“We need to find an item of utmost importance tonight,” he says. 

“And the item is?” 

“On a need-to-know basis.”

“Fuck’s sake,” Chuuya lets out an annoyed huff. 

He follows Dazai as they hop over the towering metal fence, landing quietly in the dimly lit courtyard below. 

The cool night air nips at Chuuya's damp skin as they crouch low, surveying their surroundings. 

The shadows cast by the distant streetlights provide cover as they make their way across the open space, footsteps muffled against the pavement. 

Chuuya follows Dazai until they reach the gymnasium. 

They pause to listen for any signs of activity within. Hearing nothing, Dazai pulls the door handle and slowly slides it open. Inside, they find themselves in the open space of the empty gym, the only illumination coming from the soft glow of the exit signs high above. 

Dazai’s fingers wrap around Chuuya’s wrist again and Chuuya considers ripping away from him immediately. 

He’s not sure why he doesn’t. 

In the almost absolute darkness, Chuuya finds relief in the contact. 

He’s not scared of the dark – he holds too much power in his tendons to be afraid – but the touch is oddly grounding.  

“This way,” Dazai whispers as he tugs Chuuya towards a door connected to the far end of the wall. 

They push through and are greeted by the school’s indoor swimming pool. 

The vastness is a sight to behold. 

Chuuya’s breath hitches. 

He’s seen the ocean and the sea, but something about this makes him pause. 

He’s never seen an enclosed pool of water of this magnitude. 

He’s never been inside a school before. 

He’s reminded of two years ago when the Sheep had made him watch the Olympics with them. 

He’s reminded of their laughter, the softness in their vocal cords as they recited already-told-before jokes, the air circulating in the mold-infested room they designated as the living room. 

He’s reminded of his first taste of bread. 

He’s reminded of the countless nights Yuan stayed up with him until dawn, watching over him as he taught himself numbers and letters in a desperate attempt to prove to himself that he wasn’t a lost cause, that he could function in society as a normal human being. That he wasn’t stupid. 

There is prickling in his eyes and he shuts them as a wave of emotion washes over him. 

“Okay, Chuuya,” Dazai says, breaking the silence. “Time to look for that lost sense of humor of yours!”

And with that, a steady palm connects with Chuuya’s back, square centered between his shoulder blades. The force is as unexpected as vigil, and Chuuya stumbles and loses his footing as he’s shoved into the frigid depth of the pool's deep end. His instincts kick in before he can fully process that the soles of his feet are touching the concrete floor below, and he kicks, up sputtering and coughing as he gasps for air when his head manages to get above water. 

He coughs as he reaches for the edge for support and pulls himself up further.

As he coughs out excess liquid from his lungs, gasping for air, he almost doesn’t register Dazai’s laughter – not mocking or mean, but desperately genuine. 

He lifts his head and as his eyes meet Dazai’s, his already straining lungs lose all capacity to do their job. 

Dazai looks… like a teenager. 

Sometimes Chuuya forgets that he is . 

That they both are. 

It is a moment of clarity – or rather, a moment of blissful amnesia. 

Suddenly, the blood on his hands is washed clean, the embers of despair in his core dim out and the smoke in his head is replaced with a mirage of what-ifs. 

He sees his life in an alternate universe: school life, adolescence in all its hormone-induced glory, joy . He sees himself studying for exams instead of hunching over stacks of paperwork that no fifteen-year-old should be subjected to. He sees himself going to school dances instead of shootouts. He sees himself freed of the shackles of responsibility and morbid complications. 

He sees a life in which he can just be a kid. And while that may not be his reality, for a split second, it feels like it is, and the momentary relief is monumental. 

Chuuya’s lips curve up and Dazai, who’s been studying his face since his head broke the water’s surface, grins back at him. 

“Find it?”

“Sure did.”

“Hm, doubt it. You were only under for a second,” Dazai says as his grin spreads wider. 

“You calling me a liar?” Chuuya raises his brows in challenge. 

“The only reason your pants aren’t on fire right now is cause of the water,” Dazai says. 

Every conversation with Dazai is ridiculous but this one is just plain nonsensical. 

Chuuya laughs and says, “Alright then, help me look.”

In this moment there is an unspoken understanding charging the protons of civility between them that can’t last but they both seem intent on making the most of it. 

In this moment, Dazai is just… Dazai. Not the demon prodigy. Not the bane of his existence. Not anything except a cheeky kid, looking so utterly pleased with himself at getting the upper hand in a game Chuuya never even agreed to participate in, that it’s comical. 

Chuuya can’t help the low chuckle that slips past his intermittent coughing.

Dazai keeps his eyes glued to Chuuya’s even as he steps over the ledge and submerges himself in the chlorine-laden water, clothes and all. 

It’s a ridiculous sight that warms Chuuya’s chest. He can’t tame the grin stretching across his face, pulling at the skin in an almost forgotten but not entirely unpleasant fashion. He shakes his head, drops of water splattering against the ripples around him. 

Dazai resurfaces a moment later and laughs. The sound is contagious. Chuuya splashes water at his face as he lets their mingled laughter wash over him. The sound smooths out his muscles and renews his depleted energy levels. 

It makes him feel alive. 

It makes him feel human. 

The moment feels cathartic; Dazai’s orchestrated baptism – a feeble attempt at preserving their shared, charcoaled innocence. And for maybe the first time since they’ve met, Chuuya does not see his archnemesis in front of him. Rather, he sees an ally, shackled and weighed down by their shared destiny. 

They both live in this house made of paper, built on quicksand, steadily pulling them to the oxygen-deprived depth of Mafia Black. 

“Oi, don’t be lazy now,” he drawls as his fingers root themselves into Dazai’s shaggy locks. Dazai’s hair is surprisingly soft against his pruning skin. He ignores the breathy sound that escapes Dazai’s lips at the contact. 

“Help me look,” he laughs as he pulls down roughly. 

He drags Dazai’s head down and when he’s fully submerged again, he kicks his legs against the concrete wall and jumps into the depth after him. 

Beneath the shimmering surface, their limbs dance and twirl around each other – always in sync, always in each other’s orbit, never straying far from the other’s pull. 

They are two magnets caught in a neverending game of push and pull. 

Chuuya’s movements are graceful and carefree. Dazai matches him in his strokes as they swim along the bottom. Bubbles swirl around them as they chase each other in playful bursts of speed. 

Chuuya is faster, but Dazai never does play fair, so as always, the game lasts longer than it should and in the end, there’s no clear winner. 

Eventually, they both break the surface and swallow gluttonous mouthfuls of air. 

Chuuya’s lungs are on fire and he imagines Dazai’s are too, but for once Dazai isn’t complaining and the languid silence is almost euphoric.  

When his lungs are sufficiently augmented, Chuuya glances at Dazai and kicks his feet, pushing his body up to float along the staggering ripples. 

Dazai accepts the unspoken invitation and matches him, stroke for stroke, breath for breath. 

They slow to a leisurely pace, simply floating on their backs, gazing at the ceiling for a while, then at one another. 

Dazai’s visible eye is sparkling in the dim light and Chuuya wants to point out that surely Dazai must have a soul; how else can his eyes shine so bright? 

He bites his tongue, not wanting to ruin the moment with even a speck of vulnerability. 

There is an effortless rhythm to their movements and not for the first time, Chuuya feels like they are performing an elegant, synchronized ballet. 

Their mirrored smiles speak volumes, conveying a sense of unbridled contentment that Chuuya wants to bottle up and save for later. 

They are cast under a spell, but the clock will soon strike midnight, and with the blink of an eye, the fairy godmother serenading him will become the evil stepmother that smothers him with a pillow as he sleeps. 

The moment can’t last. 

He knows that. 

He knows that and yet…

For now, the spell has been cast and they are both swimming in the currents of enchantment. 

For now, there is a rainbow-colored mist in Chuuya’s chest that, though he knows it will fade the minute he steps back into reality and the water evaporates from his skin, feels unbound by scientific law. 

For now, this is enough. 

It has to be. 

They pull themselves out of the water eventually. 

Chuuya’s fingers are pruney and wrinkled as he strips off his soaking clothes and wrings them out as best as he can before laying them flat on the metal bleachers lined along the far wall. 

He keeps his boxers on. 

Dazai doesn’t strip down as many layers and with the wet bandages sticking to his skin, Chuuya wonders what is even the point of removing his pants and jacket. 

Then again, his clothes probably won’t be dry anytime soon either. 

He settles himself on the edge of the pool gain, his feet dipping into the water and creating circles of ripples as he makes lazy patterns with his submerged toes. Dazai joins him. He sits close enough that the droplets falling from his shirt land on Chuuya’s palms. 

“Well, it’s no use, I give up,” Dazai says as he leans back on his elbows. “I guess Chuuya is just destined to not be funny. Just another item to add to the list of grievances.” 

Chuuya raises his brows. 

He lays his back flat against the floor and turns his head to watch Dazai. “You have a list of grievances about me?”

“Well, it’s more of a book, really,” says Dazai. 

“A book? Really?” Chuuya scoffs but there is no malice in it. He laces his hands behind his head. 

“And pray tell, what are these grievances of yours?”

Dazai quirks up a brow and smirks. “Item numero uno: Chuuya is not funny.”

“That’s repetitive.” 

“Chuuya doesn’t laugh at my jokes.”

“That’s redundant,” says Chuuya.

“Chuuya’s been sulking all week,” Dazai says and Chuuya pauses at that. 

Pauses at the implication behind the words. 

Dazai is the one to break eye contact. 

He turns away and coughs into his elbow, facing away from Chuuya. He pulls his feet out of the water and hugs his knees to his chest. Chuuya raises himself to lean on his elbows and stares at Dazai’s back. 

“You…,” Chuuya starts. 

Dazai’s body tenses, but he doesn’t turn around, doesn’t say anything else. 

And Chuuya finds that he can’t finish his own sentence. 

What is he supposed to say? 

You sound worried about me. 

You sound like you care. 

You sound like someone I’d want to call a friend. 

You sound like I matter to you. 

No. He won’t be saying any of that. 

He’s probably reading too much into it anyway. This must be his exhaustion playing tricks on his mind. 

“Never mind,” he mumbles as he pulls himself to his feet and walks over to the bleachers. 

His clothes are still wet but he puts them on anyway. It’s not too far back to his apartment and he’ll draw himself a hot bath after this. He needs to warm up and get rid of the stench of chlorine clinging to his skin. 

Dazai doesn’t move to follow him. 

Chuuya can’t be sure why he feels disappointed by that. 

He steps into the night alone.

The rain has picked back up, the atmosphere muggy and fat with perspiration. 

Exhaustion weighs on him heavily as he winds his way along familiar streets, heavier as he showers and slips under the plush duvet. 

Still, it’s hours before sleep claims him. 

 

Chapter 2: sixteen

Summary:

pre-stormbringer

Dazai blinks as the dense fog in his mind slowly starts to clear. 

The rapid beating of his heart seems to fan away the hazy obscurity that has enveloped his thoughts, like a strong wind cutting through a thick mist on a crisp Autumn morning. 

There is a reassuring weight pressed against his shoulders, grounding him.

There is something soft pressing against his lips.

Oh. 

It’s Chuuya kissing him. 

He blinks again.  

Chuuya’s lips are on his. 

Chuuya is kissing him. 

Chuuya’s palms are resting on his shoulders, a steady and comforting pressure on his body. Chuuya’s knees are caging him to the floor, his back against the wall and Chuuya an inch away from straddling him. Their chests are not quite close enough to touch, but they are close enough that he feels the heat radiating from the redhead.

Now, Dazai is no virgin but he has prided himself in managing to keep this single chaste act unsoiled. 

Of all the things that have been taken from him, of all the things he’s given up in the interest of self-preservation and scheming and manipulating situations, he’s kept the sanctity of his first kiss for himself. 

And now, Chuuya’s lips will forever stain his own. 

The feel of his warmth against him will undoubtedly plague his mind. 

The ghost of his breath against his skin will haunt him infinitely. 

He gasps and pulls his head back, simultaneously shoving at Chuuya’s shoulders, separating their bodies, and knocking Chuuya off balance. Chuuya stumbles back and glares at him as he lands roughly on the hard ground. 

“What the hell, Dazai?” Chuuya raises his voice out of habit. 

He recoils as the volume penetrates the rapidly thickening air between them as Dazai slowly comes to. 

Chuuya settles himself on the balls of his feet a good distance away from Dazai and takes a moment to collect himself. He clears his throat and holds his fist over his mouth. 

His voice is uncharacteristically soft when he speaks again. “You with me now?”

Dazai notes the pink flush of his cheeks, the beads of sweat glistening along his temple. His usually pristine shirt is rumpled and scrunched, the fabric wrinkled as if it had desperately been clutched at. 

Dazai looks away from the softness and concern veiled behind ocean irises. 

This is a look that Chuuya reserves for the people he cares about, for his friends and subordinates, and for the people he feels responsible for. It’s never been directed at Dazai before. It’s unsettling. 

“Dazai?” Chuuya says, louder this time as if it’s possible not to hear him. 

Dazai sighs. “Yes, Chuuya?” 

The name tastes bittersweet on his tongue. 

His mind is still too foggy for a snarky response. It’s distracted, still trying to connect the dots in the chain of events that led to Chuuya stealing his first kiss. 

Though, ‘steal’ is a bit inaccurate. 

It’s not like Dazai hasn’t thought about gifting it to his partner before. His only innocence, reserved for Chuuya’s taking. His vulnerability, laid bare and exposed. 

Except, the parasites that live in his mind always silenced him. The maggots showtime Chuuya’s cruel laughter cutting through him like shards of glass, bleeding him dry, making a mockery of the proposition. They whisper reminders that Chuuya doesn’t share his sentiments and that when Chuuya tells him to go kill himself, he means it. 

And so he’d buried that desire deep within himself, left untouched and gathering dust with each unspoken word and passed-over glance. 

But now it’s happened anyway. 

He looks back at Chuuya. His eyes are trained on his face, studying him. The concern in his eyes lingers but the familiarity of annoyance starts to seep into his scrutinizing gaze. 

Dazai swallows. 

His throat feels raw. 

They stare at each other in silence for a moment. The prolonged eye contact feels almost as intimate as their shared kiss. 

Dazai forces his heart steady as his eyes rake over Chuuya’s sharp cheekbones and sun-kissed skin. 

“Alright, mackerel,” Chuuya eventually says as he stands up and stretches his arms over his head. His shirt hikes up and Dazai looks away from the peeking flesh of his toned stomach. “Let’s go.”

“Hm?” he tries to keep his eyes on the far wall of the shipping container he calls home, but they are drawn to the boy in front of him, a moth to a flame. “Does my dog need to go on a walk? I have a leash around here somewhere,” he motions absentmindedly at the pile of clutter next to the dirty mattress on the floor. 

Chuuya scoffs and rolls his eyes, but still, he reaches out his hand without hesitation and exhibits unrestrained patience as he waits for Dazai to reach out and take it. 

Dazai considers slapping his hand away just to get them back into their usual repertoire, just so they can move on from the strangeness of the moment, the intimacy of Chuuya’s comfort (because surely, it can’t be that he cares ), but the depth of his desire for skin-on-skin contact with Chuuya is too much and he finds himself reaching for the hand being offered. 

He lets it pull him up to his feet. 

He allows their fingers to stay intertwined a few seconds longer than necessary. 

Chuuya doesn’t comment on it. 

It’s only after he finds balance on his wobbly feet that he notices the pungent stench of vomit in the confines of the container. As he follows Chuuya into the night’s brisk air, he notices a disgusting film coating the inside of his mouth. 

Ah. 

Right. The pills. 

He glances at Chuuya as they walk side by side, weaving through the metallic graveyard and toward the city’s luminous sidewalks. 

Chuuya keeps his eyes straight ahead and doesn’t say anything again until they arrive on a busy street corner where a black car is waiting for them. 

“Get in.”

Dazai doesn’t protest. 

They get to Chuuya’s apartment ten minutes later. 

“Alright, first things first,” Chuuya mumbles to himself as he strips off his jacket and shoes. He glances at Dazai and raises a brow in less question, more in silent command. 

Always so needy. It’s endearing, if not a little annoying. 

Still, there is a lingering lightness in Dazai’s mind. It’s not exactly silent up there, but it’s lacking its usual roaring. 

He’s in an amicable mood. 

He removes his shoes and follows Chuuya into the bedroom, then into the bathroom. It smells like bleach. He must have cleaned recently. 

“Alright, strip,” Chuuya commands. 

Dazai blinks. 

“Isn’t that bestiality?” 

“What?”

There is a visible twitch in Chuuya’s left eye. 

“I don’t fuck dogs,” Dazai replies calmly. 

“You fucking piece of–!” 

With a frustrated huff, Chuuya roughly grabs Dazai by the arm, yanking him forward and practically shoving him into the empty tub. 

"You stink, you idiot," Chuuya snaps, his features twisting into a deep scowl. "When was the last time you washed yourself, huh? Damned if I left you stink up the apartment after I just cleaned.”

He paces across the room to pull out a sealed toothbrush from one of the sink cabinets. He throws it at Dazai, just barely missing his face. It hits the wall next to Dazai’s head and bounces into the empty tub. 

“Now, either strip yourself or I’ll get rough with you.”

Dazai raises his eyebrows as he picks up the toothbrush and watches in amusement as Chuuya registers the innuendo behind his words and flushes. 

He stomps out of the room before Dazai can comment further. 

Once the door clicks shut and he’s left alone, only his breaths penetrating his eardrums, he feels the heaviness in his metallic skeletal system pressing against his scarred skin. 

He feels rusted. 

He feels like a machine. 

His flesh suit feels tight against his ribcage. 

His motions are robotic as he pulls himself out of the tub and takes his clothes off. The bandages are grimy and stained so he foregoes those too as he turns on the tap and plugs the drain. 

He can’t be sure how long he sits there, staring at the gushing water, knees drawn to his chest. 

The seconds stretch on endlessly, blurring together. 

He feels himself slipping into an alternate plane of existence as his body stiffens with motionlessness and his mind drifts into a strange, disjoined realm of consciousness. 

He always seems to end up in this place. 

It’s Chuuya’s voice that brings him back. 

Always, Chuuya with his big eyes and an even bigger heart. 

Chuuya with his softness and his lips – kisses or insults, it’s all the same as long as they’re directed at Dazai. 

“I’m coming in,” Chuuya hollers as the door opens and cold air seeps into the room. 

Gooseflesh rises on Dazai’s arms. 

“What the–!” 

He sprints inside as soon as the door cracks open wide enough for him to spot the mess inside. He rushes in, almost tripping over himself, and turns off the tap. Dazai blinks and registers the puddle accumulated on the tiled floor, the water overflowing feverishly. 

He thinks he should apologize but he can’t bring himself to form the lie on his tongue. 

Chuuya must not expect him to. 

He sighs and lays out a towel by the tub to absorb the excess liquid without further reprimand. 

“You can’t keep doing this,” Chuuya says a few minutes later as he settles himself on the edge behind Dazai, towels scattered against the floor like grains of sand on a beachy shore. 

Dazai isn’t sure if he’s talking about the mess he’s made of the bathroom or the too many pills chased with whiskey. 

It doesn’t really matter. 

He hums. 

They both know he can, and he will. 

“You still stink,” Chuuya comments as he reaches for a bottle of expensive-looking shampoo. 

The scent of eucalyptus caresses Dazai’s nostrils. 

His eyes close of their own accord. 

Chuuya’s fingers mold sculptures of makeshift divinity as they tangle themselves into damp locks and gently massage his scalp, foaming the hair product into a rich lather. 

And here it is again, that scorching tenderness burning itself into Dazai’s tissue matter. 

He wonders if he would combust if he were to step out of the water. He wonders if his flesh would melt and blister under Chuuya’s palms. 

He shudders. 

The cool caress of the water feels like the only thing keeping him from being consumed and utterly annihilated by the intensity of the momentary contentment. 

He feels far away from himself. 

“Careful Chuuya,” Dazai says. “You’re almost touching me like you care.”

He’s touching him like he’s human – fragile and breakable.

“You wish, dumbass,” Chuuya replies but it’s the lack of his usual bite that makes Dazai’s heart palpitate. 

“I do,” he whispers into the bathwater as he ducks his head away from Chuuya’s solid fingers gripping his hair. 

He suddenly feels exposed by his honesty. 

He’s losing his footing in a fraudulent tenderness. 

It feels like the shock that comes with being suddenly observed. 

It’s reminiscent of sitting in your car, reading a love letter, or watching porn, only to have a co-worker or priest, or worse, the object of your affection knock on the window. 

There is something voluptuous about taking a moment to contemplate a secret emotion and to be caught out in its horror. 

And here Dazai is, giving himself away so easily. 

It must be a lingering side-effect of his dance with the reaper. It must be the poison still coursing through his veins. 

He goes under and can distantly hear Chuuya’s cursing as his body dispositions the water and more of it waterfalls onto the bathroom floor. 

Let them both feel dread. 

Let them both get drenched in the night’s quiet revelations. 

When he comes back up, Chuuya is no longer sitting on the edge of the porcelain. Instead, he’s towering over him, glaring daggers, arms crossed over his chest. “You’re cleaning this shit up,” he all but growls. 

It’s a familiarity that makes Dazai’s lips curve up. 

Chuuya turns on his heel and as he’s stepping through the doorway he pauses. 

“There’s a fresh roll of bandages under the sink,” he calls back as an afterthought. “Come to the kitchen when you’re done. I’ll make tea.” 

He pauses and adds, “And for the love of all that is good and pure in this world, brush your damn teeth.”

Such eloquence from such a short man. 

Dazai can’t stop the snort that accompanies the sound of the door clicking shut. 

He wraps the bandages around himself absentmindedly and shrugs on a fresh set of clothes that Chuuya had managed to dig out of his closet. Dazai recognizes it as something he’d worn a few weeks ago and discarded on a dusty safehouse floor. He is a little shocked to see that Chuuya had not only collected the tee-short and sweats but also washed them and folded them up, tucked them into his closet.  

He stares at the toothbrush. 

He wants to open it. He wants to please Chuuya and for once, do as he’s told. 

But that would mean erasing Chuuya’s fingers lodged in his throat; it would mean erasing Chuuya’s lips from his own. 

He doesn’t think he’ll ever get to experience that again. 

Well, the fingers, sure. It’s likely not the last time Chuuya finds him on the outskirts of an overdose and steps in. 

But that kiss . 

Dazai wonders what it meant.

He wonders if it meant anything. 

He wonders if he should bring it up. 

And he’s never doubted himself, not when it comes to his observations and calculations, but since having met Chuuya, he finds himself more and more addled by the redhead. 

He finds himself feeling human in his confusion and languish. 

Such trivial emotions don’t suit him but he relishes them as they crash into him. 

He unwraps the toothbrush with steady fingers and runs it under the tap before lining the top with the toothpaste Chuuya had left out on the counter. 

He plucks it into his mouth and shies away from the mirror. 

He can’t bear to see his own reflection. 

All he’ll see is a fraud. All he’ll see is eyes that don’t belong to him. A fabricated face seamlessly sewn onto a remote-controlled body, wielder unknown. 

But still, when he eventually exits the bathroom and drags his feet into the kitchen to find Chuuya sitting on his counter, warming his hands with a large red mug still steaming, he feels accomplished. 

He feels like he did something worth doing. 

And the smile that tugs at the corners of Chuuya’s lips at the sight of him in the doorway tells him he’s okay, if only for the moment. 

He feels just a little bit more like himself at that. Whoever that is. 

He pulls himself up on the counter next to his partner, only the fabric of their clothes separating them. 

Chuuya silently hands him a cup of green tea. Dazai doesn’t care much for tea, but he accepts it anyway. 

They sit in silence for a while, nothing but the sound of quiet slurping filling the vastness of the room. 

It’s almost content. 

It’s almost sirenic.  Dazai can’t stand it. 

“Chuuya’s a thief,” he mutters into his dwindling drink when the silence becomes too much. 

He watches his reflection in the liquid as he lowers the cup from his lips and settles it in his lap. 

“Chuuya is sick and tired of you talking about me in the third person,” he says, but there’s a lingering softness in his tone that raises gooseflesh along Dazai’s forearms. 

He fights to suppress a whole-body shiver. 

He wants to push and probe and fight and claw and draw blood. He wants to wield Chuuya like a knife and plunge him into the most defenseless parts of himself. 

He wants to remind himself why the bottle of pills had been a good idea only a few hours ago. 

Instead, he finds himself saying, “Why did you come?”

Chuuya tilts his head and looks at him. 

“You called,” he answers without hesitation. 

Like it’s such an obvious thing. 

Like it makes sense. 

Like Dazai is the dumb one out of the duo. 

And maybe Dazai is because for the life of him, he can’t remember calling Chuuya – doesn’t see any reason why he would . Don’t see why Chuuya would answer. Doesn’t see why Chuuya would come. 

But glancing at him from the corner of his eye, all he sees is earnestness in Chuuya’s furrowed brow and down-sloped lips. All he sees is genuine kindness directed at him – undeserved and unprompted. 

Dazai opens his mouth – he’s not sure what he wants to say – maybe don’t pick up next time or maybe thank you . Maybe something in between. 

But Chuuya beats him to it. 

“What did I steal, ‘Samu?” he says. 

And his name slips so casually from those lush lips that Dazai feels dizzy from it. 

He’s reminded of the times when he’d cut into his flesh and the moment before his vision went completely dark, everything was hazy and warm and quiet. 

He’s been chasing that euphoria for years. 

He wants to drown in it. 

“I–”

He wants to drown in Chuuya. 

His throat closes up and he feels heat rising to his cheeks. 

“Nevermind, shitty Dazai,” Chuuya laughs when the silence stretches too long, Dazai opening and closing his mouth as he tries to gather his thoughts, tries to come up with some kind of response. 

He lightly punches Dazai’s shoulder and sets his mug down on the counter.

“It’s been a long night. Let’s watch one of those shitty princess movies you love so much,” he says as he jumps off the counter and takes Dazai’s mug from his hands. 

He sets both in the sink before trotting into the living room, not checking to see if Dazai follows. 

Dazai does. 

They sit on the couch, thighs pressed close, and Dazai wonders why honesty evades him almost as diligently as death itself. 

He can’t bring himself to question the warmth of Chuuya’s lips against his own. 

He doesn’t dare acknowledge the coldness that’s been left in their stead. 

He settles himself next to Chuuya and spends the duration of the film stealing glimpses at the lips that feel more addicting than heroin. 

If Chuuya notices, he doesn’t say anything. 

Dazai can’t be sure if he’s grateful for that or not. 

 

Chapter 3: seventeen

Chuuya doesn’t bat an eye at the grime-covered duffle bag perched against the side of his couch when he walks into his living room three weeks after the resolution of the Verlaine incident – if you can call it that. 

Calling it resolution hardly seems appropriate. 

All of his friends are dead and his brother – Chuuya cringes at the term – is a maniac with a deep-rooted bloodlust that spans across years of loneliness and misunderstanding. 

It’d be sad if not for the corpses permanently etched into the back of his eyelids, taunting him with his own failure to protect them when he dares to close them. 

“I’m moving in,” Dazai announces from the couch when he spots Chuuya in the doorway. He is wearing an oversized hoodie with a ridiculously bright cartoon character that Chuuya doesn’t recognize and sweatpants that are too loose on his scrawny legs and too-thin hips.  

Chuuya scoffs and ignores the perky tone and glimmer in his eye. 

He recognizes the duffle bag as the one Dazai had bought four months ago on a mission they had in Italy. The black fabric and protruding woven stitches in the varying shapes of pasta noodles are unmistakable.

That mission feels like a lifetime ago. 

The Chuuya that had agreed to go window-shopping with Dazai back then and had somehow gotten roped into purchasing a matching set of luggage ( it’s all about the image of Double Black, Chuuya, you just wouldn’t get it ) no longer exists. He’s been replaced with a 3-D printed copy that doesn’t match the original in any of the ways that truly matter.

He is but a cheap replica. 

That stupid bag is more authentic than he is these days. 

He feels like a copy that doesn’t have the capacity for breath or coherent thought. 

He is a copy – one that doesn’t shower for days and sleeps even less.  

He aggressively kicks the bag on his way into the kitchen. Dazai blinks up at him from his spot on the couch but doesn’t say anything, his smile unfaltering. 

He looks too content for Chuuya’s liking. 

If there is a black hole in Dazai’s chest instead of a heart, how Chuuya wishes he could dump his own industrial-sized dumpster full of trauma into him to have it compacted and crushed into oblivion. 

Alas, he is not naive enough to think that he will ever get what he really wants in this world; especially, not as a result of Dazai. 

His liberation of pain won’t come from Dazai’s indifference. Dazai will not be his salvation. Dazai can’t be. 

He bites his bottom lip and tastes iron. 

He is just getting back from his short trip to the convenience store on the corner of his block. He had gone to stock up on instant noodles and chips and the bags in his hands feel heavy. 

The gravitational force of the world seems to be out of whack these days. 

Or maybe that’s just him. 

He hasn’t cooked an actual meal in weeks. It seems pointless when all he does is move the bits of food around his plate until he feels overwhelmingly nauseated by the sight of greens and grains, and in the end, each meal gets thrown out untouched. 

It’s a waste of produce and the original Chuuya wouldn’t stand for it. 

He tries to mimic the person he used to be, as best as he can, in a pathetic attempt at regaining a sense of control over himself. 

He knows he can’t erase the aftershocks of loss. 

He knows he can’t sweep the grief under a rug and act like it doesn’t affect him. 

But it feels like too much, too suddenly. 

In the turmoil of the conflict, he hadn’t given himself a chance to properly process the fact that the people he considered friends, family, had looked at him through the same lens of love and affection. They cared for him enough to go behind Mori’s back and risk their lives for his sake and now… now they’re gone. 

The weight of it all hit him after, and somehow the delay made the effects more pronounced.

The delay added a layer of guilt to his grief that he hopes is unfounded but keeps him at night regardless – cruel whispers of you weren’t present at the funerals and they would be alive if they hadn’t cared about you that have him tossing and turning until dawn, his sandpaper eyes too numb to feel the unbridled mass of his exhaustion. 

He feels like his mind is overwhelmingly consuming him, one speckle of sanity at a time. 

These days he feels envious of Dazai’s apathetic nature. 

The weight of his emotion has turned him into a walking shell, infecting his bloodstream with each pitying glance from his subordinates, with each check-up text from Kouyou, with each night spent in his apartment where the white walls scream failure failure failure. 

He sets the groceries down on the counter and turns to wash his hands in the sink. It’s a habit he picked up after he joined the Port Mafia – one of the few good ones. It almost cancels out the cigarettes and bloodshed. 

He received a housewarming gift from Kouyou when he moved into this apartment – a thick stack of varying cookbooks ranging from traditional Japanese cuisine to tapas and borscht – and decided that he wanted to utilize the kitchen to develop a skill set that did not rely on gravity manipulation and violence. 

Funny, how at one point he wanted to be better. 

Funny, how the water can’t seem to wash the stains of red from his flesh. 

Sometimes he wonders if he subconsciously started wearing his gloves to hide the crimson hue of his palms from himself in a sorry attempt to convince himself that he was one of the good guys. 

Whatever the fuck that even means. 

He lets out a low chuckle at the thought. 

The tap starts to clear and the water gradually turns warm, then hot, then hotter still, until it feels scorching. Searing pressure against his flesh occupies his mind. 

He watches the magma water dissipate into steam and float up into the air. A thin mist coats his cheeks. They feel warm and wet. He wonders if this is what a womb feels like. 

He wonders if he’d ever been in one. 

Dazai is certain he’s human. 

He likes to think Dazai is right about that, seeing as he tends to be right about the things that matter. But the implication here is that Dazai sees his humanity as something valuable , so in the end, he can’t be too sure. He wouldn’t put it past Dazai to convince him of his own humanity in some kind of twisted play at stripping that single comfort from his fingers for an arbitrary game move that will never be revealed to him. 

There is a reason he is known as the Demon Prodigy. 

Sometimes, it’s easy for Chuuya to forget that. 

Sometimes he gets caught up in Dazai’s faux tenderness towards him. 

Partnership means something to him, and he likes to pretend that it means something to Dazai too. 

Sometimes he needs to remind himself that he is but a piece on a chessboard, a disposable piece of plastic shaped like whatever pawn is needed in the grand scheme of things. 

(Sometimes he can’t escape the fact that it’s his fault his friends are dead). 

He lets out another chuckle. 

It sounds more like a stifled sob. 

The skin around his knuckles is rapidly reddening and forming blisters under the scalding cascade. He watches with a morbid kind of fascination as angry welts begin to form. 

He can’t feel a damn thing. It doesn’t compare to the numbing pain residing beneath his breastbone. 

He lets out a shaky breath and pulls his hands away from the water. 

“I thought it was my job to be Mr. Depresso.”

Chuuya jumps at the sound of Dazai’s voice. He’s leaning against the doorframe, his left leg supporting his weight as the right casually crosses over it. His arms are crossed over his chest and there is a playfulness in his lips that Chuuya wants to eradicate. 

“You have the night off,” Chuuya mumbles as he looks away, and turns the tap off. 

“Ah, Chuuya!” Dazai exclaims. “You are such a wonderful partner, picking up my slack.”

And what is usually the opening to their bickering and banter falls flat when only one of them is willing to partake in it. 

Chuuya shrugs and doesn’t offer any kind of verbal response. 

His throat feels raw. He feels like he’s been screaming for days, but in reality, he’s been silently watching the shadows of his ceiling shift as the Earth orbits around the sun. He’s been watching the passage of time in a distant haze, an unwilling participant in it. 

He turns to the bags on the counter and moves to open them to start unpacking.

Dazai stops him. 

As he’s reaching over, Dazai’s fingers gently grab his wrists and he reflexively shifts his body to face him. Dazai looks at his hands, his brow furrowed ever so slightly. He doesn’t say anything, but when he looks at Chuuya, he feels something akin to shame wash over him.

The original Chuuya wouldn’t maim himself like this, even if the shallow wounds are easily healed by his ability. 

The original Chuuya doesn’t have these bullshit masochistic tendencies. 

He takes in a shaky breath and gnaws at his bottom lip. It feels tender. 

He averts his gaze from Dazai, from their linked hands. From the attention Dazai gives to his rapidly bruising lip. 

He jerks his wrists out of Dazai’s grasp. 

“Quit giving me that look, asshole,” he mutters without any heat. “I’m fine.”

“I didn’t ask,” Dazai counters easily. Chuuya would believe the nonchalance if not for the tension in Dazai’s fingers as he lets Chuuya pull away from his grasp. 

“I’m fine,” Chuuya repeats. 

He’s not sure if he’s trying to convince himself or Dazai. 

Dazai doesn’t reply and moves to unpack the shopping bags. 

Chuuya takes the opportunity to slip into his bedroom and lock the door behind him. 

He lays on his mattress for the next four hours, watching the shadows dance along the walls. 

He doesn’t come out or respond when Dazai knocks on the door later that night. 

But he does get up to take a piss at one point and however pathetic that sounds, it feels like an accomplishment.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dazai tells Mori he will be accompanying Hirotsu on his trip to Kobe to expand their shifting supply chain in the narcotics business. Cocaine is a hell of a drug, and there is money to be made. 

It’s not a request – more of a declaration. 

“I can’t stand the sight of this town,” he offers as his reason, though Mori never asked. 

It’s the most honest he’s been with the man in years and it’s still only a half-truth. 

But he won’t voice the fact that he can’t bear to look into Chuuya’s eyes and see the sparkle of the city lights suddenly dull and dim. 

He really can’t stand the sight. 

“Have a safe trip,” Mori offers without resistance. 

Dazai feels heavy. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Crime doesn’t sleep, especially not on weekends, so it’s more than a little odd that Chuuya finds himself with a night off on a Friday. 

It probably has something to do with Dazai’s sudden disappearance and the sticky note taped to his fridge – a very poorly drawn stick figure animal (he thinks it’s a dog but maybe a donkey or a horse? It’s hard to tell) with the barely legible caption of ciao, written in all caps in a messy and familiar handwriting.  

Still, all he can do is speculate since Mori dodged his questions when he’d brought it up during the call he received letting him know that his presence was not required at the docks, and Dazai left him on delivered two days ago when he texted him. Typical. 

Still, Chuuya will take it. 

He needs to get his shit together. He knows he does. He’s been knowing. 

His apartment is a mess. 

The air is stale and the musty odor clinging to the walls reeks of depression. 

His floors are littered with not-quite-empty takeout containers, crumbs, and dirty dishes. For how little he’s been eating lately, he’s somehow managed to soil just about every surface of his kitchen and living room with food stains and more commonly, wine spills. 

The ashtray on his coffee table is overflowing, adding to the stench. He doesn’t usually smoke inside, he hates the lingering taint of smoke in his walls, but lately walking over to the balcony has seemed like such a trek that he hasn’t bothered. 

Looking at the state of his living space, he feels ashamed that he’s allowed it to get to this point. 

He sighs, pulls his hair into a tight bun, and rolls up the sleeves of the pullover sweater he’s been wearing for the past four days. 

He gets a whiff of himself as he’s tying off the bun and his eyes burn. 

Jesus, he stinks. 

He’ll clean up and do laundry. 

He’ll wash his sheets and take a long bath before bed. Crawling into clean sheets after a nice soak should help ease the loneliness that’s settled in his bones. 

After opening all of the windows to air out, he starts the process of decluttering. Trash bags fill up one by one as he systematically tackles the built-up chaos.

It’s tedious and somewhat mindless but he’s filled with a growing sense of satisfaction as the space begins to resemble something akin to livable conditions. 

After nearly an hour of effort, he steps back to admire his handiwork. 

Much better already. 

The four bulging trash bags are a testament to the progress he's made in getting some semblance of cleanliness and order.

When all of the big items have been discarded and the trash bags are thrown down the chute in the main hallway, he makes note of the crumbs and stain spots along his hardwood floors. He looks at the soles of his feet and cringes at the color of his once-white socks. 

“Mop it is,” he mumbles to himself. 

He opens up the utility closet by the front door and pulls out the bucket and mop, but as he’s shutting the door, something catches his eye and he pauses. 

He blinks and squints his eyes, making sure he’s seeing what he’s seeing. 

He takes out his phone and dials the number he memorized ions ago. The line picks up on the first ring. 

“Hey, slu–”

“Why is there a life-sized Elvis cutout in my closet?” he interrupts. 

And why the fuck is this man so tall , he doesn’t say.

There’s a brief pause on the other end before Dazai’s breathy laughter rings clear in his ear. 

“Well, hello to you too,” Dazai says, his voice playful and light. 

“Don’t make me ask again,” Chuuya threatens, though there’s not much heat behind it. 

He holds the phone against his shoulder and pulls at the cardboard. He takes it out and sets it against the wall, closing the closet door with his heel. 

“Someone has to keep an eye on you when I’m not around,” Dazai answers. After a short pause, he adds, “I figured I would be able to trust the king of rock-and-roll to keep the king of the sheep in line and out of trouble.”

Chuuya rolls his eyes. 

“You’re an idiot,” Chuuya says and ends the call without waiting for a response. 

He pockets the device and runs his tongue over his upper teeth, debating on whether he should break the cardboard down and throw it out with the rest of his trash. 

Elvis stares at him while he deliberates. 

“Ah, fuck, alright, you can stay,” he tells him with a heavy sigh after a prolonged and tense silence. “But I don’t want to hear it about the mess. I’m working on it, alright?”

Elvis doesn’t say anything. 

Of course, he doesn’t. 

It’s fucking cardboard. 

He’s talking to cardboard. 

This is a new low. 

Thank God Dazai isn’t here right now. He would never hear the end of it. 

He pulls Elvis into the living room and lays him flat on the couch while he works on sweeping and mopping. 

He props himself up on the kitchen counter once he’s done and waits for the floors to dry. 

He pulls his phone out of his pocket and goes into his Spotify app. 

“Alright, let’s see what you got,” he calls out. 

You’re the devil in disguise, oh yes, you are. 

He swings his feet and bobs his head as he watches the floors dry and lets the serenade soothe his crippled nerves.

Elvis sings to him, his voice a blanket of comfort against plum-colored pain lining Chuuya’s skinsuit. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You ain't nothing but a hound dog, crying all the time. 

Chuuya looks at Elvis and raises his brows. 

“You wanna bet dipshit will make some kind of joke linking me to this fucking song?” he asks. 

Elvis stares back but doesn’t offer an answer.  

The last of the laundry is tumbling in the dryer and Chuuya’s hair is still damp from the shower he took. He was so grimy that a bath alone just wouldn’t cut it. 

He’s sitting on the couch, legs crisscross apple sauce, and Elvis is perched against the wall opposite him. 

There are two wine glasses on the coffee table, one full and untouched, and one dwindling on empty. The wine bottle between them sits half gone. 

Chuuya is tipsy to the point that he can entertain the idea of talking to Elvis Presley, all six feet of him, without shame or self-reprimand. 

He won’t admit it out loud, and surely this was not Dazai’s intention, but it’s nice to have an almost-body occupying the space with him. It’s nice to see a stoic smile and soft eyes and pretend that there is a soul behind the two-dimensional irises. 

It’s even nicer to know that anything he says will stay between the two of them. 

It’s almost like writing in a journal and burning the pages after the ink dries, secrets and emotions ashen to the wind. 

It’s a relieving catharsis that has him not quite happy, but bordering on tranquility. 

He’s not sure if the relief he feels is part of Dazai’s unwavering calculations or a byproduct of a joke he was meant to be the butt of. 

He’s not sure if the distinction matters. 

“You’re pretty damn talented, by the way,” he says as he lifts his glass to his lips and swallows the remainder of his drink in one big gulp. Some liquid slips past his lips and drips down his chin and he uses the sleeve of his oversized hoodie to wipe at it, the sleeves staining red. 

He pours more wine into the empty glass and glances at his companion. 

Elvis meets his eyes but doesn’t say anything.

He clinks his glass against the untouched one sitting on the mahogany table and winks at him. “You know,” he tells him as he lifts the drink to his lips, “ I, too, have a friend that dabbles in the arts. His name is Lippman, and he’s a hoot. You’d love him.”

He can’t bring himself to use the past tense when talking about the Flags. Not yet, anyway. 

It's been weeks but he can still hear their voices. He can still feel the warmth of their care for him.

They’re gone but they’re not. 

He wonders if they will live beneath his ​​ musculoskeletal system eternally, permanent fixtures of his humanity, echoing against the flesh of the person he strives to become and the person he once was. 

They were buried in the hardness of the Earth’s soil, and he will forever visit them there, but truthfully, he thinks their tombstones are inscribed into the fabric of his being.

He will carry their remains inside of himself until the end of the passage of time. 

To him, they are eternal. 

To him, they are infinite. 

“I miss him,” he whispers into his glass, swirling the liquid absentmindedly. “I miss all of them.”

He thinks of the Flags and the Sheep and the immensity of their absence. 

He lets out a laugh. It sounds broken against his ears. 

It sounds sad. 

And he is sad. 

There is no denying it. Not with Elvis’s knowing eyes staring at him, peering into the depth of his melancholy. 

He refills his glass and takes another gluttonous sip. 

His mind is foggy and his lips feel loose.

His heart feels clogged up and dense.  

“I miss a lot of people,” he admits as he sets the glass down on the table. “I feel like I’ve lost anyone that’s ever mattered to me.”

He buries his face in his hands and although there are no tears in his eyes, his vocal cords erupt in reflection of his whispered agony. 

“I miss them,” Chuuya whimpers into the flesh of his calloused palms. His shoulders shake under the force of the confession. 

Elvis remains silent. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s almost four in the morning when Dazai walks through the front door of Chuuya’s apartment.

He's been gone for five days. 

It feels longer.  

The glow of the TV provides enough illumination for him to easily see Chuuya curled up on the couch in the living room, his hands wrapped around a throw pillow, and a fleece blanket loosely pooled at his feet. 

The Elvis cutout is on the floor by the couch, a salad bowl full of popcorn resting between its head and the legs of the coffee table. The head of it looks stained, and if Dazai had to guess, he’d say it’s butter. 

He can’t control the upslope of his lips at the sight. 

The place looks a lot better. A lot more put together. Smells a lot better too, but he can keep that comment to himself. 

He feels like a coward for leaving when he did but he can’t bring himself to feel guilty over it. He doesn’t think his presence brought any semblance of comfort to his partner. 

He can’t imagine there being a single bone in his body capable of bringing relief to others. 

“Chuuya,” he whispers into his partner’s ear as he crouches down by the couch. 

He’s careful to avoid stepping on Presley. The fact that Chuuya hasn’t thrown him out or set him on fire means that he’s found some relief in the impulsive gift. Dazai won’t ever bring it up, but he is thankful for it. He wasn’t sure how Chuuya would react. He figured, worst case, it would fuel some anger in the fiery mafioso and offer a brief respite from the turbulent grief gnawing at Chuuya’s pretty palms and prettier lips. But that would have only been a fleeting relief, and the fact that Elvis is still here must mean Chuuya’s been able to find something a little more lasting in its therapeutic effect. 

“Mmmm,” Chuuya swats his hand at nothing in particular at the disruption. 

“Bedtime, baby,” Dazai chuckles into his ear, his fingertips lightly tracing the curve of Chuuya’s jawbone. He ignores the slip of his tongue and the term of endearment. He ignores how easily the affection slips past his lips in light of Chuuya’s drowsy softness. 

“Five more minutes,” Chuuya mumbles as he shifts his body and tries to press further into the cushions. 

Dazai presses his lips together in a tight line to keep himself from chuckling. 

“C’mon, sleeping beauty,” he mumbles against Chuuya’s skin as he presses closer, their skin barely touching. “It’s bedtime.”

Chuuya lazily swats at him and tries to shift his body away from the disturbance. 

It’s an endearing sight.

“You gonna make me carry you?” he whispers into the crook between Chuuya’s shoulder and neck. 

That seems to jolt him into a semi-wakefulness. Chuuya opens one eye and peeks into the darkness of the room. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust and his brain to register Dazai, but once he does, his shoulders relax. 

“You’re back,” he mumbles, his voice hoarse with sleep, as he shifts to lay flat on his back. 

“I am,” Dazai agrees.

“What time is it?”

“Late,” Dazai answers. “It’s time for bed.”

Chuuya yawns and rubs at his eyes. 

“Fuck,” he groans. “Yeah, okay.” 

He shifts up and stretches, his joints popping.

“You taking the couch?”

“Is there another option?” Dazai teases. 

He doesn’t expect Chuuya to pause. He doesn’t expect a sudden alertness to take over him as he deliberates his answer, as he considers an alternative to a playful jab that was meant to be a sweet nothing, eradicated with the morning’s light. 

It takes a moment but eventually, Chuuya turns to him and studies his face. 

He must find whatever it is he’s looking for in their unwavering eye contact.

“It’s fine,” he says, a faint trembling in his voice, as he throws his legs over the couch and slowly gets up. “Bed’s big enough for two.”

He stretches and Dazai avoids looking at the flesh peeking from underneath his shirt.

The palms of his hands itch. He balls them into tight fists and keeps them pointedly at his side. 

“C’mon,” Chuuya says as he drags his feet into the pitch-black bedroom. 

Dazai follows. 

Between the two of them, he is the dog. He won’t ever admit it to Chuuya (or anyone, for that matter), but he's been projecting since the day they met. 

Chuuya may be cursed with his loyalty, but Dazai is cursed with his addiction to Chuuya. 

Between the two of them, it is Dazai who is tethered to a leash. It is Dazai who can't escape its steady pull no matter how hard he tries to free himself. 

Still, as they lay down on the plush mattress of the king-sized bed, when Chuuya presses his back into Dazai’s chest, he can’t resist wrapping his arms around Chuuya’s stomach and pulling him closer. 

He can’t be sure if the lack of resistance to the proximity is a side effect of Chuuya’s drowsiness or something else, but he doesn’t question it. 

The heat of his body sets ablaze every nerve ending in his skin until he passes out from the intensity of it. It doesn’t take long at all for him to lose consciousness.

 

 

 

 

 

 

When Dazai wakes up in the morning, he follows the sweet smell of cinnamon into the kitchen.

Chuuya is flipping a piece of French toast when he walks in, the Elvis cutout perched against the wall next to him. 

I can’t help falling in love with you, is softly playing through Chuuya’s phone speakers, and Dazai can’t help but think, yeah, same here, as he stares at the soft locks cascading down Chuuya’s sun-kissed and toned shoulders. 

In the morning’s light, Dazai can see that he looks much better than he did a week ago. The dark blue hues underneath his eyes have returned to a natural shade. His hair isn’t matted and greasy. He’s wearing unstained clothes and he looks like he’s showered in the last hour or two, the tips of his locks still damp. 

“Hungry?” Chuuya calls when he spots him in the doorway. 

“Ravished,” Dazai answers, and for once, he is nothing but honest. 

Chapter 4: eighteen

The first time it happens, as most things with them always seem to, it leads to violence. 

But it’s a different kind of aggression, one that leaves deep scratch marks littered along Dazai’s back and deep blue bruises along Chuuya’s neck that will take weeks to heal. 

It’s not romantic, and Dazai would hardly call it intimate. 

It’s animalistic and feral, a fight for power that in the end, they both lose. 

And there is momentary satisfaction, sure, but it leads to Chuuya scrubbing at his skin until it turns scarlet, and slamming the door shut on his way back into the bedroom with so much force that Dazai thinks it’ll snap from the hinges. 

It leads to Chuuya actively avoiding him until, finally, the marks on his skin smooth over and he can bring himself to meet Dazai’s eyes again, weeks later. 

It’s a mistake. 

Dazai sees the evidence in black and blue. 

He tells himself it will never happen again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

It does. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The second time, it’s Chuuya stoking the fire, blind with desire for distraction after a particularly brutal mission. 

They’re heavily intoxicated when Chuuya leans in close, their lips a breath apart. 

Dazai falls into the invitation like a starved man stumbling upon an all-you-can-eat buffet. 

It’s messy and Dazai can’t remember most of it the next morning, but Chuuya doesn’t avoid eye contact over breakfast, and he doesn’t destroy his kitchen cabinetry in a fit of rage and disgust. 

He doesn’t make Dazai feel dirty and stained. 

Instead, when he gets tired of picking at the food on his plate, he tells Dazai to take a shower and joins him under the scorching spray. 

Dazai learns that there is a higher high than chasing death. 

It is the flicker of want in Chuuya’s irises. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It happens two more times before Chuuya roughly shoves a manilla envelope into his grasp, the contents revealing a carefully laid out nondisclosure agreement. 

Of course, Dazai is not surprised that Chuuya doesn’t want to acknowledge who’s been warming his bed. He is not surprised that he is a dirty little secret that Chuuya wants to sweep under the woven rug in his foyer. 

He signs on the dotted line without hesitation or reluctance.

If there’s a tightness in his throat, it’s easily ignored. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dazai loses all coherent thought in Chuuya’s apartment well after three in the morning on a random Tuesday night.

He’s always thought of this space as Chuuya’s – never theirs, never conjugal despite the shallow assurances slipping past Chuuya’s kiss-swollen lips; despite his toothbrush in the bathroom and his clothes hanging in the closet, his shoes by the front door –  just like how Chuuya has never been his . 

He wants to delude himself but he knows too well that they are nothing, sealed and stamped by the contract presented to him months ago. 

Not that he cares much for legal repercussions. 

But he can’t deny that he cares about Chuuya, grumpy and pretty, never his , Chuuya. 

He sucks in a breath through his nose as Chuuya’s lips swallow the moan he’s managed to coax out of him. 

Their lips are desperate and messy. It’s a kiss that can only be described as passionate. 

Dazai’s head is spinning. He needs more. 

Chuuya grips the back of his head, his back pressed against the solid wood of the door while his hands tug in sync with his pulsing waist. 

Dazai lurches his hips, grinding his rapidly growing erection against the sturdy leather of Chuuya’s belt, desperate for friction. 

Chuuya reaches one hand down to caress his own steadily increasing hardness, keeping the other hand firmly tangled in Dazai’s hair. 

Dazai pulls at Chuuya’s bottom lip with his teeth and sucks. Chuuya moans into his mouth, the sound getting swallowed by his desperate lips. His tongue darts out from his mouth and licks into Chuuyas parted lips. 

Chuuya moans, and he rolls his hips into Chuuya, deserate for more contact, more pressure, more pleasure. 

The apartment is quiet aside from their heavy panting and the rhythmic dance of lips meeting and parting. 

Dazai hastily fumbles with Chuuya’s belt, keeping a steady intrusion of his tongue in his mouth.  Chuuya places both hands on Dazai’s chest, ushering him to take a step back. 

He obliges and shifts his attention to Chuuya’s delicate fingers. These fingers hold such power – over gravity, over life and death, over him. He watches them work to unbuckle the belt around his waist. 

He feels molten under the touch. 

Chuuya fumbles with the belt, steadily breathing through his nose, skin hot and hair messy.  

He looks beautiful like this. 

Dazai is feverish with desire. 

Their lips meet again. 

Chuuya suddenly pulls away from the kiss and Dazai has to stop himself from whining, from chasing after the contact. He watches, dazed, as Chuuya licks his bottom lip. His lustful, lids heavy and pupils dilated, eyes watch Dazai. 

The sight goes straight to his groin. 

Chuuya sashays past Dazai, taking a moment to wrap his hand loosely around Dazai’s neck as he passes. Dazai watches him intently, noting the way Chuuya’s pants hang loosely around his tone frame, just barely draping from his exposed hip bone. 

Dim light emanates in Chuuya’s bedroom, lighting the path to the bed. Though, they've done this enough times by now that they could find their way even in complete darkness. Still, the dim light offers a lens of sensuality to the experience. 

Dazai is grateful that Chuuya doesn’t mind the soft lighting when they fuck (and that’s what this is; what is has been – fucking). Under the cover of moonlight, he can almost pretend that Chuuya enjoys him as much as he enjoys Chuuya. In actuality though, Chuuya’s just horny and he’s the most feasible option for getting his dick wet, given their matching work schedules and mutual understanding of one another. Given their mutual understanding that this means nothing. It's nothing but a physical release. Dazai found that being able to read each other’s body language is helpful in battle but euphoric in bed. He’s sure Chuuya’s presumption of this is the same.

Still, it’s nice to pretend that this is more than it is; that it’s in the realm of possibility that they can be more. 

Chuuya hooks his fingers under the loose waist of his pants, eyes boring into Dazai’s as he shimmies the fabric down his legs until it pools at his feet. 

He steps out slowly, eye contact never faltering. 

Dazai feels saliva pooling in the back of his throat at the sight of Chuuya’s exposed skin. 

He begins to fumble with his own pants button, eyes latched into the sight of Chuuya’s toned abdomen, the faint trail of red hairs pronounced against his pale skin. 

Free from his constraints, Chuuya slowly brings his knees to the floor. 

Dazai lets out an amorous sigh and bites at his bottom lip to stop the groan threatening to betray his composure.  

He desperately clings to every intimate encounter with Chuuya like it’s the last. 

He savors each time like it’s the first time. 

He is a junkie for Chuuya – his flesh and his touch, sure, but more than that, him in his entirety. 

Dazai wants to devour him in every sense of the word. 

Chuuya slowly kneels on the floor, hands positioned orderly over his knees as he watches Dazai approach him, eyes dark and unwavering. 

Dazai moves to stand in front of him, reaching down to cup his cheek in his palm. Chuuya leans into the touch, closing his eyes. Dazai notes the gentle flush of Chuuya’s skin, the delicate lashes contrasting against his brightening cheeks. 

The moment is almost tender. 

He caresses his thumb over Chuuya’s moistened mouth, gingerly prying open his plump, pink lips until Chuuya’s tongue is stroking his calloused fingertip

Dazai releases his grip momentarily, an approving hum penetrating the air, before shoving his thumb back into Chuuya’s mouth, deep, almost enough to cause Chuuya to gag. He doesn’t, but Dazai can make out accumulating condensation in the corners of his eyes at the intrusion. 

Chuuya’s hand abandons his knee, moving instead to grip Dazai’s hip as he opens his mouth fully. He gazes up through thick lashes and glossy pupils as Dazai pushes his finger further in. A line of drool dribbles down his chin as Dazai’s thumb pumps in and out, slow and steady. 

Chuuya’s heavy-lidded eyes meet Dazai’s through unconcentrated brows. 

God, he looks so good like this, on his knees for him. 

Dazai’s cock is tight against the fabric of his confinement, desperate for release. 

He bites back a groan. 

He removes his thumb and hastily finishes unbuttoning his pants, sliding them down his legs. 

With no hesitation, Chuuya leans forward and runs his tongue along Dazai’s bulge through the fabric of his boxers. Dazai jolts at the sudden contact. Chuuya smirks, and just as suddenly as he’d provided the friction, he takes it away. He leans back on the balls of his feet as he tucks his fingers into the waistband of Dazai’s boxers, slowly tugging them down his legs, eyes locked into Dazai’s anticipatory gaze. 

“Such a tease,” Dazai exhales, meeting Chuuya’s intense gaze peering up at him, cheeks flushed, hair disheveled, shirt hanging off one shoulder. 

Dazai gently massages the exposed flesh of his collarbone as Chuuya grips his cock, licking his lips in preparation.

Chuuya’s grip is firm and confident. 

He pulls Dazai’s foreskin back and licks the swollen tip once, twice. He keeps his eyes locked on Dazai’s expression, mouth hanging slightly agape, eyebrows furrowed with lust. He takes the tip into his mouth, wrapping his lips over the skin and slowly massaging his tongue against the tip – an ocean wave curling against a cliff. Truly, a sight of voluptuous magnificence. 

Dazai grips the back of Chuuya’s head, red hair tangled in between impatient fingers, and guides Chuuya’s head forward until his cock touches the soft tissue in the back of his throat. 

He groans into the quiet of the room. 

Chuuya clenches his eyes shut, and shifts his focus to breathing in and out of his nose. Dazai keeps his open. He needs this moment, this exact image, to brand his memory.  

Chuuya twitches his tongue, rubbing faintly against Dazai’s shaft. He releases a low groan and flexes his hips to drive his cock further down the warm heat. 

Chuuya gags involuntarily but makes no motion to stop or slow down, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. 

Dazai keeps his eyes fixed on the flushed, not-quite-pained expression on Chuuya’s face, feeling heat pool into his lower abdomen with unbridled desire. He sets a steady pace with his hips, slowly plunging deep into Chuuya’s throat, then, just as slowly, back out. 

Chuuya grips his hips, fingernails digging into exposed skin, almost enough to puncture the flesh.

Dazai watches in satisfaction as Chuuya desperately grasps to maintain his own composure. 

Knowing he’s the one that got Chuuya to this point of undone is thrilling. Knowing he hasn’t even touched Chuuya’s aching cock yet, and he looks this messy and fucked-out is beyond comprehension. 

Slobber leaks from his mouth, silky and smooth against Dazai’s rigid shaft, and he lets out a deep moan, the sound vibrating against Dazai’s tip. 

“Good boy,” Dazai exhales, tightening his grip on Chuuya’s locks. Chuuya moans and the sound vibrates against his cock. 

His grip on Chuuya’s hair tightens, and Chuuya moans again. 

Fuck. 

He quickens his pace steadily, fucking into Chuuya’s mouth until he presses his palms flat against his waist, an unspoken command that Dazai doesn’t dare disobey. He loosens his grip on Chuuya’s hair and he pulls away, gasping for air, mouth vacant and breath steadily returning. 

Dazai lets out a deep chuckle. 

He crouches to plant a sloppy kiss against Chuuay’s swollen lips before gripping his underarms and launching his body onto the bed in one fluid motion. 

Chuuya lands with a stifles yelp, his back pressed into the silk sheets and stares wide-eyed at his partner, a playful smile tugging the corners of his lips up. 

His hands slowly move to his own cock as their eyes lock, stroking slowly as Dazai crawls onto the bed and cages him between his limbs, towering over him. Dazai reaches down to replace Chuuya’s self-induced friction, taking over the slow, teasing strokes. 

He watches as Chuuya bites his bottom lip, brows furrowed in pleasure, his lips parted and pretty and pink.

“You like that?” Dazai whispers into his ear. He leans down and grazes his teeth against the sensitive skin of Chuuya’s neck, just below his ear. He feels the shiver run through him and he can’t but smirk against the delicate flesh of his neck. 

He wants to sink his teeth into his carotid and bathe in the warmth of Chuuya’s passion. 

Chuuya extends his free hand, savagely grasping for any skin he can touch. His fingers settle over the flat, sturdy muscle below Dazai’s naval. He twirls his fingers absentmindedly through the trail of hairs, still occupied by the steady stroking of Dazai’s hand wrapped around his cock.

Chuuya grounds his focus, finally registering the sultry moans that have been slipping past his lips. 

He nites his lip to stifle the sounds slipping past his lips. 

No, that’s just won’t do. 

Dazai is greedy; he in insatiable. 

He applies extra pressure, just a little, and bites down at the soft junction between Chuuya’s neck and shoulder. 

Chuuya throws his head back in pleasure and moans, his legs circling around Dazai’s waist, pulling him closer, their bodies molding into the climax of a well-crafted Greek tragedy. Dazai takes the opportunity to lean down and run his tongue against the salty skin of Chuuya’s collarbone. 

He savors the taste. Chuuya shivers beneath him.

Restless, Dazai begins to suck on the tender skin of his neck, hands running across the freshly formed goosebumps developing on Chuuya’s forearms. 

Chuuya claws at Dazai’s shoulders, digging his fingers into the skin with a needy desperation.

Dazai keeps his mouth around Chuuya’s skin, hips now leisurely bucking against Chuuya, a steady friction that’s slowly causing both of them to waver towards a heated mindlessness. 

Dazai delights in the sound of Chuuya’s pleasure, relishing the sensual feeling of rubbing against Chuyaa’s slick, oozing cock. 

Pulling his bottom lip between his own teeth, Chuuya reaches between his legs to rub the pad of his thumb over Dazai’s tip. Dazai tongues his neck with approval, the hot steam of his breath coaxing a sensual purr from Chuuya’s throat. 

Chuuya arches his back, shoulder blades digging into the mattress below, and reaches his hand further. 

His fingers gently wrap around Dazai’s balls. He releases a breathless moan at the contact; he bites down on the sensitive bruises peppering Chuuya’s neck, stifling his vocal cords. The sudden nip makes Chuuya’s fingers flex, tightening around Dazai. 

Dazai bucks into Chuuya’s palm, their leaking cocks rubbing against each other with explosive sensation. 

Fuck. 

He grips Chuuya’s wrist suddenly, lifting his head from the crook of his neck to look fixedly into lust-filled eyes. 

He presses the back of Chuuya’s hand to his lips, hovering for a moment before guiding his wrist above his head. His fingers wrap around the iron bar in wordless compliance, his other hand following suit and gripping the metal with no further instruction necessary. 

Dazai grins, pleased with the receptive participation, and begins to caress his bare ribs. 

Chuuya twitches under the touch and bites his lip to keep from yelping. 

Yearning hands stroke his torso, lingering on the bare skin above Chuuya’s navel, then his hip and the softness of his skin, before finally settling in between Chuuya’s thighs. Chuuya watches Dazai’s hands in their travels, wide-eyed and anticipating. 

Dazai notes the rise and fall of his chest quickening. 

The sight almost makes him groan. 

His long, slender fingers rub gentle circles over the tender skin of Chuuya’s thigh, leisurely working their way down to the main course. 

He glances up to smirk at Chuuya and the desperation oozing from him, his body reacting perfectly to his touch, and watches Chuuya’s knuckles whiten as he tightens his grip on the bars of his headboard. 

“Fuck,” Chuuya groans, “Dazai, please.”  

He arches his back to encourage better access. 

Dazai pauses. 

As his eyes rake up and down Chuuya’s naked, sweating body, he considers prolonging the build-up. He contemplates all the parts he can touch, lick, and rub before Chuuya begins to bark at him to go faster and harder. 

He wants to drag this out. He wants this to last an eternity. 

He doesn’t have much self-restraint in his own needs.

Chuuya releases his grip on the headboard with one hand and reaches out to cup Dazai’s cheek. Their eyes lock, and the heat in Chuuya’s eyes silently begs for release. Dazai accepts the plea and leans down to kiss him. Though he would have done so with or without prompt (not that Chuuya needs to know that). 

The brushing of lips, is gentle,  an unprecedented transfer of affection from one body to another. 

The softness feels alien juxtaposed to their usual desperation. It feels intimate. It feels like more than just sex. 

Dazai pushes the thought to the back of his mind. It’s something he can dissect and obsess over later. 

He guides Chuuya’s wrist above his head, wrapping his hand over Chuuya’s fingers as they grip the metal bars again. 

With his other hand, he wets his middle finger between his own lips and reaches down to circle Chuuya’s entrance.

Chuuya bucks beneath him, desperate for more friction. 

Dazai breaches the opening rashly, driving his middle finger to the furthest knuckle in one motion. 

Chuuya lurches, yelling out in pain – no, pleasure. A mix of both, probably.

Dazai watches, eyes narrow and attentive, searching for signs of discomfort. 

Chuuya’s mouth hangs open in a perpetual ‘o’ as Dazai starts to pump gently a few times before picking up his pace. 

A gradual buildup settles on a relentless pace that leaves Chuuya breathless and struggling to keep air in his lungs. 

Dazai pauses to lean down and spit on the opening, before adding a second finger and continuing his unabated probing.

Chuuya squirms beneath him, his back arching but fingers staying wrapped faithfully around the iron bars of the headboard. 

His moans are no longer reserved qw they fill the room. 

Dazai feels his cock twitch beneath him. 

“Fuck,” Chuuya moans into his ear. 

Dazai has to pause – not for Chuuya’s sake; for his own. 

He’s barely holding on. The auditory and visual cues alone are enough for him to cum untouched. 

Chuuya bends his legs at the knee, positioning his feet to rest on Dazai’s shoulders as he tilts his head to lock eyes with him. 

Dazai pauses his movement, suddenly feeling a restriction of airflow in his lungs. 

Fuck, he thinks. Chuuya will be the death of him. 

“I’m ready. Put it in,” Chuuya whispers, his face flushed. What can only be described as eagerness twinkles in his eyes.

There is no hesitation as Dazai adjusts his hips to line up with Chuuya’s entrance, his legs still splayed over his shoulders. 

He can almost hear the coexisting pounding of their hearts, their lungs expanding in sync. 

They’ve done this before, but suddenly, the eye contact, the proximity, the breathlessness, it all feels intimate. 

He pushes in before he can give the thought more candor than it deserves. 

As his tip penetrates Chuuya, he feels their heat, their skin, their bodies combining into one entity.

“Fuck,” he groans. His heart begins to flutter with new-found nervous tension, and he’s suddenly focused on maintaining an unabashed expression. 

Chuuya lets out a breath, a weak whimper, nothing more than a bodily rection to the pleasure, but it almost sounds like Osamu.  

Dazai savors the sensation around his cock as he delves deeper. He is mindful not to go too deep, too quickly. He leans down to prop his weight on his elbows, capturing Chuuya’s lips on his way down. 

He sets a slow pace, feels as Chuuya adjusts and relaxes around him. 

He keeps his lips close to Chuuya’s – an unspoken invitation. 

Chuuya accepts it as his hips continue to lazily thrust in and out. He moans into his mouth, sensually rolling his tongue against Dazai’s. His fingers grip Dazai’s shoulders, pulling him closer.

“More,” Chuuya whispers against his lips. 

Dazai’s hips pick up their pace. 

His shoulder blades flex under Chuuya’s fingers, moist with sweat. 

Chuuya turns his head from Dazai’s kiss, latching onto the crook of his neck so he can suck at the exposed skin.  

Dazai’s pace quickens. 

His cock delves in and out, igniting a savory sensation in his gut. He buries his face into Chuuya’s neck, savoring the scent of him, the rapture of their connection.

“Fuck,” Chuuya whimpers into his ear when he hits his prostate. 

He sees Chuuya’s dick twitching hard against his stomach. It’s red and dripping and Dazai craves the feel of Chuuya’s pleasure. 

He drive back into him again, pressing hard against his prostate. Chuuya shakes under him.

He can feel his impeding orgams building. He won’t last much longer. Not with how fucked-out Chuuya looks underneath him. Not with the sounds he’s producing. 

Chuuya makes a sound that might be Dazai’s name. He pants, open-mouthed, as Dazai lifts up, nearly pulling out completely, and sinks back down again harshly against his prostate. 

“Fuck!” Chuuya’s grip tightens and his thighs shake. He’s close, Dazai can tell. He is too. He slows down and works him deep again, rolls his hips in a steady pace, making sure to hit his sweet spot with every thrust. 

It only takes a few more motions before Chuuya is clenching around him as his orgasm hits him. 

“Osamu,” he groans into his neck as he cums. “Fu–Fucking love you,” he groans, his voice breaking under the waves of pleasure. 

His hands detach from the headboard and his fingers find the softness of Dazai’s locks. He grips his hair and pulls, an unforgiving pressure against his scalp. 

That’s all it takes to send Dazai over the edge of his own pleasure. 

The words, the scent of sex, the feel of Chuuya. 

He never stood a chance. 

He buries himself in the heat as he struggles for the air. He makes a broken sound and dives into the deepest parts of Chuuya as he cums. 

If it sounds like Chuuya, he can easily play it off. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There are so many exquisitely cruel ways to hurt someone, and Dazai has never balked at any of them. But as he quietly steals away from Chuuya’s bed, the sun slowly caressing the ocean’s edges outside the bedroom window, he is surprised that he feels compelled to write a note – a jumbled attempt to explain himself. 

It’s an unfamiliar feeling. 

It’s less than Chuuya deserves.

It’s the most that he can bring himself to offer.

He silently creeps into the kitchen and stands in front of the magnetic whiteboard latched onto the fridge door. 

His fingers are unsteady as he picks up the marker and unscrews the cap. 

Where to even begin? 

What can he even say that will soften this particular assault? 

Here he is, leaving the scene of the crime, as usual, except Chuuya has been caught in the crossfire of his inhumanity. 

How many other beds has he stolen away from after he drenched the sheets in sweat and moaned out empty promises of tomorrow? How many others have felt the effects of his baseness?

Of course, this time is different. 

All things in the course of his relationship with Chuuya have been different. 

He watches his fingers tighten around the black marker clenched in his hand. 

Even as he untangled himself from Chuuya’s warmth, leaving the other shivering against the rapidly cooling bed sheets, alone, he felt horror at the thought of Chuuya hating him. 

It’s like unwrapping gauze, not knowing what macabre sight awaits underneath.   

How can he write out an apology without being hypocritical and patronizing? How can he relay the depth of his feelings without giving away too much? How can he offer comfort when he is holding the knife plunging into Chuuya’s back?

All the others must have hated him in the morning. He doesn’t usually think of them. 

They were two-dimensional to him. 

How could he be blamed for hurting the flat outline of a surface? They were no more real than the Elvis Presley cutout tucked away in Chuuya’s guest-room closet. 

But Chuuya has always been three-dimensional. Chuuya has always had enough mass and density to fill the void in his blackened and withered heart. Chuuya, curled up against the maroon silk sheets, matted hair cascaded down his shoulders. Dazai, elevated to a plane of emotion unknown at the sight. 

His fingers are vaguely hesitant as he presses the tip of the marker against the board, the juxtaposed contrast of black and white a nearly identical reflection of his inner turmoil.

He knows he owes it to Chuuya to give him at least this farewell. 

But more than that, he owes it to Chuuya to leave so he can finally find happiness. God knows he’s too loyal to be the one to put his own needs first and tell Dazai to fuck off (and actually mean it). 

And Dazai wants him to be happy. 

Dazai needs him to be happy. He doesn’t know the meaning of that word, not truly, but Chuuya does and he can’t taint that for him. 

And even if the smile that lights up the world is no longer directed at him, he needs to know that it exists. 

Happiness cannot exist in the endless darkness that consumes Dazai. He cannot escape the parasites; they breed in his marrow and the infection spreads one lie at a time.

All he can do is falter their spread. 

The biggest lie he has ever told was one he tried to convince himself of, first and foremost: that he wasn’t utterly and devastatingly in love with Nakahara Chuuya. 

He is. 

He knows he is. 

He’s always known. 

Even when it felt like the admission would be a worse fate than living to be an eighty-year-old man on his deathbed, it was still true. 

And this – whatever he has – (had, he corrects himself as he glances at the shut bedroom door) – with Chuuya is the definition of unscrupulous. 

They engulf each other in flames and play games in the smoke. 

It’s suffocating and while Dazai seeks the comfort of death, he can’t bring himself to continue to drag Chuuya into its molten river of lava. 

Chuuya cannot come out of this unscathed. His scars already run deeper than Dazai had ever meant for them to. 

He cannot blemish his skin further.

He cannot watch the light in his eyes dim with each new wound scabbing over on his own pale wrists, with each broken promise whispered half-heartedly under the cover of night, with each apology followed by the repetitive cycle of his self-destruction and Chuuya’s unwavering dedication.

Chuuya is pure molten gold; Dazai isn’t even breaching on copper. 

His leaving is a mercy for them both. 

This act is his methadone. 

This act is his kindness. 

He watches, transfixed, as the black ink glides along the board and letters form, then words, then finally, a plea.

Trust me, this is for the best. 

He thinks Chuuya will understand. 

He thinks maybe this time he won’t find it in himself to forgive another betrayal. 

Not one of this magnitude. 

He stares at the words, lets them settle in his vision, lets the finality of them carry him into the street and around the corner towards the sanctuary that can only be found at the bottom of a whiskey bottle.

Lupin should be open, even at this ungodly hour.  

When he gets there, the clock on the wall alerts him that Chuuya’s flight is departing in four hours. He’s going on an overseas mission for the next few months. 

His alarm would have gone off ten minutes ago. Dazai’s disappearance has been noted by now, but still, there are no new notifications on his phone. 

He orders himself a shot, followed closely by a second.

He shakes hands with his vices as the liquid warms his blood. The storm in his mind is loudly juxtaposed with the serenity a night with Chuuya always seems to bring. 

There must be a deep-rooted heaviness in his gaze because when he orders his third shot of whiskey, the bartender sets the bottle down next to him and leaves him to his woes. 

By the time Chuuya’s flight is scheduled to depart, he’s three sheets to the wind. 

By the time Chuuya’s flight lands, he isn’t the only one in Yokohama pulling off a disappearing act. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chuuya lies in the stillness of the dark room, his eyes watching the narrow line of light peeking through the crack beneath the door. 

He can’t be sure how long his eyes are transfixed on the soft hues, but eventually, they dim out, replaced by the lonely darkness of an unspoken farewell, and Chuuya hears the telling click of the front door shutting. 

He knows he has been left behind. 

He knows he is alone now. 

He knows Dazai is gone. 

He can’t bring himself to give chase to someone he was never meant to keep, though.  

Someone has to leave first. 

This is a tale as old as time. 

There was never an alternate ending to Double Black. 

The desertion echoes against the bedroom walls; it would be deafening if it wasn’t so expected. He turns on his back and watches the shadows dance along his ceiling until his alarm rings. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A week later, Oda Sakunosuke is dead. 

Osamu Dazai becomes a ghost not only to Chuuya but to the world. 

Notes:

first time writing smut so if it was sub-par, please excuse my innocence.

Chapter 5: twenty two

The sultry heat of early August has soaked through everything, seeping in through the sliding shoji door panels and into the room Chuuya’s been occupying for the past two weeks. 

Shadows of cherry blossom tree branches dance over the mats lining the floor. 

A calm wind floats over the hot springs and stone pathways outside, carrying with it the sound of laughter and the calming melody of a koto being played a few rooms down by the old man he’d met on his first night here.  

When he got here, he thought he would only stay a few days, certain that his restlessness would compel him to call Mori and tell him he couldn’t just take time off – that wasn’t something an executive did, that wasn’t something he did. 

But it’s been two weeks and he hasn’t felt any discontentment or homesickness. 

He drinks warm sake out of porcelain cups, soaks in the private bath outside his room, and lounges on the futon tucked into the corner of the room, watching the light dance along the water outside and reflect along the bare ivory walls of his room. 

For the past three days, he hasn’t even put on a pair of pants, making use of the yukata provided by the inn. 

It’s been peaceful. It’s been a nice juxtaposition to his usually hectic routine. 

He’s absentmindedly picking at the bowl of rice in front of him. 

Spread out on the low dining table is an assortment of small dishes consisting of all manner of meats and vegetables. It looks and smells delicious, but he feels too hot and sweaty to truly enjoy the meal in front of him. 

The only complaint that he’s had thus far in his stay here has been the lack of an air conditioning unit. Still, the evenings cool down significantly and he can sleep comfortably most nights, so it hasn’t been too much of an issue. 

The chorus of crickets and cicadas chirping throughout the surrounding pine forest have become his favorite backdrop lullaby. 

He sets his chopsticks down on the table and pours himself a serving of sake, pulls out his crumbled pack of cigarettes, and flips one out to hold between his teeth. He leans over and uses the flame of the centerpiece candle on his table to light the cherry. 

Smoke wafts over the table and weaves its way into his lungs. He savors it as he lifts the sake glass to his lips and takes a sip. 

He’s due back in Yokohama in a few days. 

He was actually due back today, but there’s a fireworks show being held along the riverbank tonight, and it’s a Friday night anyway, so it didn’t take much effort on his part to convince Mori to extend his trip until Sunday. 

It’s not like two extra days matter in the grand scheme of things. 

Not after he took down a fucking dragon and saved the whole city. 

The least he deserves is this. 

As the sun outside his window dwells down and begins its caress of the horizon, Chuuya stretches his limbs and puts on a fresh yukata before stepping out into the bustling street. 

The ryokan he’s been staying at is in a centralized location, so it doesn’t take him long to reach the densely packed shoreline of the Toyohira River.

The display is set to take place along the river’s banks, with hundreds of fireworks blossoming across the summer sky, reflecting along the sparkling waters flowing through the city of Sapporo. 

The scent of crepes and other varieties of fried dough sweeten the air as he walks along the bustling street lined with vendors and children.

He orders taiyaki from one of the street carts and as he walks along the busy sidewalk, he focuses on passing the hot cake from one hand to the other to avoid burning himself. 

He left his gloves behind tonight. He decided to forego his usual hat and choker too. 

He feels bare and exposed but oddly invigorated. 

His eyes scan for a good place to settle himself in anticipation of the show. It should be starting any minute now. 

His eyes are still scanning the shoreline when he feels a prickling in his neck run through him, the feeling of eyes boring into his back. 

His muscles tense and he scours for the source. 

It doesn’t take long to spot the too-familiar honeyed irises that would haunt his dreams, were he to dream. 

Dazai is sitting on the grassy hill not twenty meters away, the setting sun haloing around his for-once-tamed locks. He’s wearing an oversized tee shirt and black shorts and he looks so casual that Chuuya almost wonders if his eyes are playing tricks on him. 

But no, those honeyed irises are embedded into his memory, forever staining the lining of his brain matter. 

He’s watching Chuuya with the same intensity that he’s reserved for him since their reunion in the Port Mafia dungeon all those months ago. 

They’ve watched each other with curiosity and an undercurrent of discord since then.

It’s almost like they can fall back into their old ways but not quite. 

Time has worn down their sharp edges and they are no longer who they once were, weapons disguised by the flimsy cover of human flesh. They no longer fit together seamlessly. Though, in retrospect, Chuuya supposes they never really did. Not in any way that mattered.  

Still, though, Chuuya has had a lot of time to move past all of that. 

For months, behind his eyelids lived the vestiges of summer and those too-distant skies, those too-fragile moments of featherlight caresses under the sway of the moon, of round Autumn clouds fattening as winter crept up in flurries of placate snow. There lived the wilting petals of flowers that had bloomed in his chest cavity and spread to his lungs, making it difficult to breathe. There lived the memories of tenderness, of late-night confessions, and almost loving reassurances. 

But as time passed, the beast in him that yearned for Dazai weakened with malnourishment, withering with each passing day until eventually, it ceased to covet. He tucked away that rotting corpse of want into the vacant guestroom in himself that he’d almost managed to forget about. 

Dazai leaving was something he’d always planned for. It was always just a matter of when. And sure, he can admit to himself now that even though the knowledge of the inevitable didn’t lessen the blow and it hurt despite his initial denial and unwillingness to deal with the emotional turmoil that followed, seeing Dazai chained up in that dungeon had eased a lot of the apprehension he’d associated with Dazai’s defection. 

He doesn’t want to call it relief, but that’s the only word close enough to describe the warm pool in his stomach. 

You were always meant to leave , Chuuya thinks as their eyes lock across the familiar expanse of recognition. The anomaly of it is that you came back. 

Dazai watches his approach with his usual mask of boredom tightly fastened over his face, but Chuuya doesn’t miss the way his shoulders relax the closer he gets. He doesn’t skip over the way Dazai is sprawled out in a way that leaves room for him to readjust himself and have another body comfortably perched on his side. 

“Did your frontal lobe develop or something?” Chuuya says as he kicks Dazai’s leg to the side and nestles himself into the soft grass beside him. 

He’s not sure why he says that of all things. He’s not even sure what exactly he means by it. 

Something flashes in Dazai’s eyes at the comment and he smirks before saying, “Are you still getting dumped via white-erase boards?”

“You’re still an asshole, I see,” Chuuya scoffs. “That was a low blow even for you, by the way.”

He thinks he does a good job of hiding his surprise at the fact that Dazai is the one to address the elephant in the room, and so early in the interaction, too. 

They’ve worked on a few jobs together following the truce between their respective agencies but the topic of their non-relationship and their non-breakup has not been breached by either of them thus far. 

Chuuya knows honesty and regret are foreign concepts to Dazai and he’s not keen on hurting his own feelings by bringing it up, so he’s kept his lips shut tight on the subject. 

“Low enough for the truth to be eye level with such a short man,” Dazai smiles but there is no joy in his expression. 

“Oh, is that what this is? Honesty hour?” Chuuya raises his brows. 

Dazai doesn’t respond, just watches him intently. 

Chuuya sighs and continues, “And by the way, I didn’t get dumped. We never dated as far as I’m concerned.” 

“I seem to recall countless dates,” Dazai counters easily.

“Name one,” Chuuya snorts, bordering more on amusement than irritation. 

“Well, let's see,” Dazai holds his fisted palm up and lifts his index finger. “There was the missions when–”

“Work isn’t a date,” Chuuya interrupts. 

Dazai briefly narrows his eyes and huffs for dramatic effect but doesn’t put his finger down. “Breaking into that pool to party–”

“Two people hardly constitute a party,” Chuuya interrupts again. 

“Unaligned semantics.”

“Right,” Chuuya rolls his eyes. 

“All the late nights we stayed up and patched each other up–”

“Jesus, ‘Samu,” Chuuya laughs. It’s not a happy sound. 

Dazai’s eyes flicker a hint of surprise but it’s so fleeting that Chuuya thinks there’s a good chance he imagined it. 

“Just stop talking. I can’t listen to any more of your horseshit,” Chuuya sighs. “That’s your idea of romance? Blood and gore with a sprinkle of breaking and entering?”

“Who said anything about romance?” Dazai quirks his brows in something akin to amusement, but to Chuuya he just looks patronizing. 

He can’t help the heat threatening to creep into his cheeks. 

He blames the sake. He blames the summer heat. He blames the intensity of Dazai’s gaze. 

He’s not even sure why he’s getting flustered by such an idiotic response. 

He averts his eyes. 

“Why are you here, Dazai?” he says after a brief pause. His voice comes out steady and stoic. 

The first of the fireworks whistles into the sky, cutting off Dazai’s response, assuming he had one. Assuming the question wasn’t destined to be deflected. 

The scent of gunpowder and cypress trees fills the air. 

The sound of delight and laughter pounds against his eardrums. 

Chuuya sucks in a deep breath through his nose, the skin of his cheeks peeling back as his lips stretch back in an unrestrained grin. 

The sight of the night sky coming alive with a fountain of color and pure light, flickering like candlelight against a dark canvas, washes over Chuuya with a sense of wonder and awe. 

His eyes focus on the sight and he thinks there are no words yet invented to describe the beauty of the scene before him. 

“Holy shit,” he whispers. 

He watches the trail of smoke and listens to the applause waver before another whistle blows and the sky is illuminated once more. 

Vibrant hues of reds, greens, and blues burst forth – dancing and weaving across the vast night sky, the stars paling in comparison to the display.

Under the cascade of manmade comets, the crowd along the river band release school of paper lanterns, most of which lazily sail downstream, aimless along the stagnant currents of the steady river beneath. 

Chuuya is transfixed by the beauty of it all. His lungs feel ashen and hot. He forces them to work as he sucks in air through his nostrils. 

“Holy shit,” he murmurs again as he lets his delight animate the breathiness pushing against his vocal cords.

His lips are stretched wide, pulling his cheeks back in a display of unrestrained joy. 

It's as if the heavens themselves have been set alight, the stars no longer mere pinpricks of distant illumination but rather the ignited fuses of piercing brightness. 

He feels ethereal. 

His toes prickle with delight. 

His flesh is buzzing, a steady current of lightness tickling his nerves. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chuuya doesn’t notice Dazai watching him with the same sort of amazement flickering in his eyes. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The streets have cleared somewhat. 

A chunk of the crowd retired after the final fireworks faded from the sky, but even so, the festival remains lively as Dazai follows Chuuya along the bustling Sapporo streets. 

“So,” Chuuya starts as they round a corner, the crowd a little more scattered on this particular stretch of asphalt. “Was it the L-Word or NDA that did it?” 

“Neither,” Dazai shrugs. 

Then, after a pause, he adds, “Both.”

Chuuya chuckles, the sound a piercing warmth against Dazai’s skin in the rapidly cooling air.  

“You know, after you left I had a lot of time to reflect,” Chuuya says lightly. 

Dazai doesn’t offer a response, waiting for Chuuya to continue. He keeps his eyes steadily ahead as they push through the dwindling crowd of young lovers and exhausted parents trying to coax their children into the trek back home.

“I realized that we’d been playing a three-year game of hide and seek,” Chuuya chuckles. There is no anger or disappointment in the breathy sound, only a reserved acceptance and sense of understanding that makes the rotten muscle in Dazai’s chest ache. “Except we both suck, and we were both hiding.” 

Chuuya speaks of their past in such an unbothered way that Dazai falters in his step. 

He came here with the intent of acknowledging the unspoken words burning holes into the flatness of his tongue, but he suddenly feels invalid in controlling his facial muscles and the unreserved twitch in his lips, the steady pulldown of gravity itself. The irony of it leaves a metallic film coating the inside of his cheeks. 

Chuuya walks ahead, his gait perpetual to Dazai’s wavering footsteps. 

He continues on, and Dazai suddenly feels stuck, rooted to the gravel beneath his feet. He finds himself unable to take his eyes off Chuuya’s fluid grace as he wanders over to a vendor, his posture relaxed and steps featherlight against the pavement. 

Dazai can’t hear the words exchanged between him and the old man mending the stall, but then Chuuya laughs. 

The sound washes over Dazai, even from this distance, and he is able to uproot himself from his spot on the ground. He steps to Chuuya’s side as the old man hands him a bubble tea and change to the crumbled bill he’d handed him earlier. 

“Thank you,” Chuuya says kindly as he turns on his heel and continues on his way. 

He doesn’t look back to check if Dazai is following him. Dazai wonders if it’s because he knows that he is, or if it’s because it makes no difference to him one way or the other. 

Dazai came here with a plan. He came here knowing what he was going to say. He came here thinking his affection would be reciprocated. Maybe not in its entirety, but surely, partially at least. 

But this – Chuuya’s indifference, his lack of warmth – has him second-guessing himself. 

Maybe he misunderstood. 

Maybe… maybe he miscalculated. 

He thought Chuuya pulling him from the clutches of that blissful darkness meant something. Not in the sense of morality, but in the sense of devotion. 

To him, it was reminiscent of forgiveness of past transgressions. 

To him, it was reminiscent of second chances. 

Sitting in Yokohama’s thick fog with Chuuya’s skin pressed against the cloth of his pants, his fingers treading light circles on his cheek as he slept, the warmth in his chest had burned.

He can’t imagine Chuuya being immune to the scorching heat of that, of them.  

But this is all wrong. This isn’t how he pictured this evening in his head. 

Him, tongue tied and nervous; Chuuya, uncaring. 

They walk in silence for a while. 

Chuuya sips on his drink but doesn’t offer to share. 

A layer of sweat coats Dazai’s palms as the quiet stretches on. 

Chuuya seems unbothered by their lul in conversation and Dazai wonders if it’s coming from a place of contentment or apathy. 

Dazai opens his mouth to break the silence but finds that the words – he’s not even sure what he wants to say at this point – die in his throat. 

He closes his mouth. 

They walk on. 

“How long are you here for?” Chuuya breaks the silence as they round a corner into a residential area. The ryokan where Chuuya is staying is just up ahead.

“Depends,” Dazai answers, vaguely gesturing to nothing in particular. 

He flew in only a few hours ago. He doesn’t have any accommodations reserved. He figured he wouldn’t need them when he’d bought his plane ticket. He’d either end the night flying back to Yokohama or end up in Chuuya’s bed. 

Now he wishes he had planned for an escape route from the anxiety festering in his veins. He wishes he could crawl under the comforting weight of a blanket and think. 

He doesn’t know what to make of the evening. He doesn’t know if he wants to open himself up, expose himself in his entirety to the one person who has never balked at the ugliness of him, or if he wants to tuck his tail between his legs and go home. Forget the whole thing ever happened. Forget ever having laid eyes on Chuuya all those years ago. Forget the understanding, the trust, the touches and the laughs. 

Forget the way they fell into each other back then. 

Forget the way they fell into each other again, despite the mountain of circumstances separating them now. 

He doesn’t think he would ever be able to wipe Chuuya from his mind, even if he tried. 

He thinks even a lobotomy wouldn’t erase Chuuya from his mind. 

Hell, he was dead, and even that hadn’t kept them apart.

No, he can't simply give up now. 

He needs to try, to push through the discomfort and vulnerability and convey the depth of his emotion. 

This is a pivotal night, a make-or-break chance to lay his heart on the line and reveal the profound feelings shallowly buried in him. 

He is not the same man that walked out of Chuuya’s apartment all those years ago. 

He is not the same coward. 

His skin has shed, and his cells have died off and been replaced in their entirety. His mind has acclimated to an altered perception of existence, of what it means to live, not just be alive. 

How can he attempt to live in light if he tries to filter out and avoid the brightest part of his reality?

He grabs Chuuya’s wrist gently, and tugs. 

Chuuya stops and turns to face him, his eyes curious, his mouth wholly relaxed. He looks almost expectant of something. Of what, Dazai can’t be sure. 

There are no clouds in the sky this evening. The moonlight provides enough illumination for Dazai to see a gentle dusting of pink on Chuuya’s cheekbones as he glances at where their skin connects. 

“Dance with me,” Dazai lets go of Chuuya’s wrist and holds out his palm. 

“Huh?” Chuuya furrows his brows lightly in confusion. “There’s no music.”

“Does there need to be?”

“There does,” Chuuya confirms. “That’s the whole point, isn’t it? The systematic connection of body and sound?”

Dazai can’t help but smile as he says, “Chuuya is full of poetics tonight.”

Chuuya rolls his eyes but doesn’t offer a rebuttal. 

He gently places his hand into Dazai’s and steps closer, his eyes shining with what Dazai thinks is anticipation. 

“Alright, then,” Dazai whispers into the dwindling space between them. 

He pulls Chuuya against his chest in one fluid motion and wraps his hand around his waist, the other lacing their fingers together with a confident pressure that Chuuya matches. 

Dazai softly hums, pleased, the vibrations in his chest ricocheting off the vertebrae of Chuuya’s spine. He feels a shiver run through him. 

The melody Dazai settles on is familiar but he can’t quite place it. He thinks Chuuya does, in the way his breath hitches as they slowly sway back and forth. 

Their bodies fit together seamlessly as they rock back and forth on an empty street under the starry glow, their bodies moving in sync with the rhythm of the quiet tune vibrating in Dazai’s throat. It is a dance of trust and partnership, of two people who have become so attuned to one another that their bodies now fit together as naturally as two puzzle pieces. 

“Has anyone ever told you, you’re the absolute worst?” Chuuya mutters into his neck. Dazai can feel Chuuya’s smile pressed against his neck, where the bandages have come loose. 

Maybe once, or twice, he wants to say, a fragment of a memory on the tip of his tongue. 

“Only you,” he breathes out instead. 

He can’t help himself as a tender familiarity settles into the micro-space between them. He needs them to be closer. He needs more. 

He leans down, his lips ghosting over Chuuya’s. 

He savors his breath against his lips, the warm puffs of air tickling his flesh. 

He doesn’t close the distance between them. He waits.  

It’s an invitation. It’s its own confession. 

Chuuya doesn’t hesitate as he leans up to meet him. Their lips connect for only a second, the briefest contact before Chuuya pulls away, creating distance between them. 

The separation opens up space for the night’s chill to caress Dazai’s skin as Chuuya takes a step back. 

Dazai watches as Chuuya’s eyes study his face, as he bites his bottom lip in contemplation of the implications of this kiss. 

He watches the flush of his cheeks, his neck. He watches as he furrows his brows. He watches as he clenches his jaw. He can practically see the cogs turning in his brain.   

“You asked what I’m doing here,” Dazai opts for honesty here. “Maybe instead of hiding, I’m seeking.”

Chuuya snorts and folds his arms over his chest. 

He’s still close enough that Dazai could feel his skin underneath his fingertips were he to reach out, but it feels like with each second passing, the distance grows exponentially. 

He needs to close it. 

He needs to pull Chuuya to him, to never let him go again. 

He takes in a shaky breath. 

Chuuya’s eyes dart up and meet his. 

The atmosphere feels heavy between them. Perfect for a hearty confession. 

The scent of gunpowder lingers in the air.

With trembling lips and a pounding heart, Dazai opens his mouth. 

“Your fingertips left smudge marks on the cracking pieces of my soul,” he says, his voice only slightly uneven. “Only after I had wiped them off, did I realize that I missed your touch and the obstruction of the world it provides.” 

He reaches to tuck a strand of hair behind Chuuya’s ear. Chuuya doesn’t shy away. He doesn’t move at all. He doesn’t seem to be breathing. 

“Only after I had tried to wipe them off did I realize the world was unlivable without the distortion of your skin pressed against mine,” Dazai says, the words spill out in a quiet shakiness, a torrent of emotions that have been dammed up for far too long. Each word comes out more resolute and certain than the previous one. 

Chuuya sucks in a breath through his teeth. 

“I was under the impression you don’t want to live.” His voice is quiet. Uncertain. Cautious.

“I don’t, but,” Dazai chuckles. His fingers trace the curve of Chuuya’s jaw. Chuuya lets him. Dazai takes a step forward and whispers against Chuuya’s lips, “Being alive is more than bearable with you by my side.”

He closes the distance between them without waiting for a reply. 

He kisses Chuuya like their first time – the epitome of chastity and comfort. 

It’s closed-mouthed and there’s an undercurrent of fondness and affection in the soft pressure. It tastes of longing and greed. 

When Chuuya leans into the kiss, Dazai thinks it tastes like sin. He feels gluttonous. 

Chuuya tilts his head up and stands on his tiptoes. He reaches up and tangles his fingers into Dazai’s hair at the nape of his neck. 

It’s sweeter than any words could ever be. Dazai feels drunk on the taste. He’s been an addict since the first time; he hadn’t registered his withdrawal symptoms for what they were. 

The kiss is slow and languid until it's not. 

It’s innocent until it’s feverish. 

It happens quickly, the shift. 

Dazai makes a noise in the back of his throat and Chuuya opens his mouth to swallow it. 

Dazai’s fingers grip Chuuya’s waist tightly. Chuuya steps closer to him, and pulls at his hair to adjust the angle so they can each get more. He licks at the seams of his mouth and darts his tongue in, teasing and playful. 

Dazai registers a moaning sound, but he can’t be sure if it came from him or Chuuya. It doesn’t really matter. 

He pulls away just enough to speak against the softness of Chuuya’s lips. He’s not sure what he wants to say. The phantom words get lodged in his chest as he catches Chuuya’s lidded eyes looking up at him. 

Chuuya's amorous gaze feels like an aphrodisiac pulsating through Dazai’s bloodstream.

He runs his hand over Chuuya’s bottom lip, tugs it down. He licks his own lips at the sight. 

Chuuya’s eyes dart down, follow the motion. 

He feels hot. He shouldn’t be. It’s getting cold outside. The ryokan is close by. They should probably take this somewhere more private. 

Chuuya seems to read his train of thought. 

His flush deepens and he lets out a low chuckle, takes a small step back. “Where did you say you’re staying?” Chuuya’s voice sounds hoarse and needy. 

“I didn’t.” Dazai doesn’t sound any better. 

Chuuya hums. 

He untangles his fingers from Dazai’s hair and slowly runs his hands down his chest, stopping at the waistline of his shorts. 

The knot on Chuuya’s yukata is loose. The fabric has slipped down. It drapes over one shoulder. Dazai wants to bite into the flesh there and mark it as his own. 

“How long are you here for?” Chuuya repeats his question from earlier. His eyes watch him intently.

It no longer depends. 

“As long as you’ll have me,” Dazai answers. 

It’s the most honest he’s ever been. 

A smile tugs at the corners of Chuuya’s lips. “My bed’s big enough for two.”

Dazai takes a step closer and intertwines their fingers, giving a light squeeze. “Perfect,” he breathes as he leans down again to meet Chuuya’s warmth.

Notes:

This is it!

Thank you to everyone who has made it to this point for reading. Hopefully it was a ride worth taking.

Also HUGE thank you to my wonderful beta reader for her love & support. This took me waaay too long to finish but thank you for sticking my side u.u <3